“Kim, what are you—” Chay throws his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders with a squeal, laughing as he’s picked up and spun in a circle that ends with his back pressed to the wall and legs locked around Kim’s waist, and Kim’s face inches from his own. “What are you doing?”
“Saying hello,” Kim says, with a beautiful smile lighting up his face. He bumps his nose against Chay’s. “Hi.”
“Hi, you dork.” Chay squeezes his arms and legs around Kim. Looks at his eyes, then his mouth, and back again. Kim doesn’t make him ask—he closes the space between them before Chay gets the chance, meeting him with a soft, sweet kiss.
It’s still new, this thing between them. Only a handful of weeks since agreeing to give it another try, a second chance to make something real out of their fledgling relationship. They’re taking things slow. Between Chay’s inexperience, and Kim’s… everything, really, they agreed to take things one day at a time.
So far, it’s been amazing. They see each other at least once a week—or twice, or thrice, when Kim can find the time, which he usually does—and Kim showers Chay with open affection. He stops trying to hide it. It doesn’t come easy to him; Kim doesn’t know if it ever will, but he makes a point of touching Chay at least half as much as Chay touches him, whether that’s pressing into his shoulder when they sit side by side, or holding his hand when they walk down the street, or this, pinning him to the wall and kissing him silly.
Kim knows how much Chay likes this. Definitely more than the casual brushes and handholding. Chay has an inch or two on him, but Kim is all muscle; it’s nothing to heft Chay up in his arms and hold him against the nearest surface. In this case, letting the wall share his weight, so Kim can focus on running his hand up Chay’s side, around his back, holding him close, barely enough space between them to breathe. Not that Kim needs to breathe when Chay is already filling his lungs.
A little nip to Chay's bottom lip and he pulls away, like he always does, starting to put Chay down and ask, “How was—”
Except Chay doesn’t let him. He tightened his legs, fists his hands in the front of Kim’s shirt and tugs, whining, “Kiiim, don’t stop now.”
And really—there isn’t anything Kim wouldn’t do for Chay.
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It wasn’t something [Crowley] indulged in often - even the word felt strange, to indulge, but as odd as it was, it felt right. It was a strange pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless. Something about the tickling, itching tightness of the skin, the feeling of being marked by the passage of time, of carrying the memory of the day in his body.
He arched his back, feeling like the earth was pressing upwards, holding him aloft, rather than him pressing down against it. Perhaps, he thought, he’d catch the sun a little - a kiss of prickling pink on the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks…
suuuuper quick sketch from @indieninja92’s God May Not Play Games where Crowley is relaxing in the medieval Irish sun and will shortly be joined by a very sweaty angel on horseback
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