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You Speak My Language

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Light shapes the breeze in the curtains as Konzen Douji sits in the middle of a dragon king's bed, combing out hair as long as Goujun's and finer. The sheets are a tumbled mess all around them, but Konzen doesn't seem to notice. Konzen's eyes have already turned inward, and Goujun swallows a sigh and sits up behind the kami, reaching out carefully with his clawed hands to halt the motion of comb and combing fingers.

Konzen's hands still under his, but smoothly, without resistance. There's no hurry, then. If Konzen had needed to be somewhere else right now, he wouldn't have stayed the night in the first place, or he'd be jerking away, rising to collect his clothes with stiff-spined irritation. When he lets Goujun take the comb from him, it's simple permission, invitation.

"Do you mind?" Goujun almost asks regardless, but though he draws breath to speak, he presses parted lips to the back of Konzen's shoulder instead, lapping the salty traces of sweat from pale skin. If Konzen were a dragon, he'd be white-gold, a whipcord thing of lightning and swiftness; he already has the jewel-bright eyes, out of place even in Heaven.

When Goujun runs the comb through the straight, silken mass of Konzen's hair, the kami's head tips back, a faint sigh drifting like smoke from Konzen's chest.

It takes very little time to work the tangles from Konzen's hair, despite its length. Goujun has the excuse of his claws for how slowly he works, but in truth he enjoys the feel of it in his hands, heavy and smooth. It tickles his chest when Konzen rides him, leaning forward with blunt-nailed human hands braced on Goujun's shoulders, shields the kami's neck from Goujun's bite when the dragon king forgets himself.

Konzen is drowsy-eyed with contentment by the time Goujun drops the comb and folds his claws against his palms, carding his knuckles through Konzen's hair. All pretense that he's doing this to help has been discarded already. He wants to ask whether Konzen needs to leave today at all--Tenpou will ask no questions if Goujun doesn't make it in--but they don', he and Konzen. They've gone so long without talking that Goujun has become oddly superstitious about it, convinced that the day they actually speak will be an ending of sorts.

Instead he lets his hands speak for him, rolling his knuckles against the tension that gathers at the base of Konzen's skull. For someone who wears careless boredom like a cloak, Konzen is often pulled bowstring tight, almost thrumming in Goujun's hands. Soothing away those knots leaves him boneless and malleable, leaves Goujun wanting to twine around him and keep him that way, where no one else can see him. In those moments Konzen is his.

"Hn," Konzen breathes, tilting his head to the side, but before Goujun can fasten his mouth to the tempting arch of Konzen's neck, the kami reaches back, grasps one of Goujun's hands, and tugs.

Gojun holds his breath, unable to resist that wordless demand though the kami can't possibly know what it does to him. He expects to feel kisses dropped on his knuckles, the softness of lips against his palm--so close but not nearly enough--and feels himself tense uncontrollably when he feels Konzen's tongue instead, dragging down the back of one finger to lick cautiously, thoughtfully, at one of his claws.

He can't-- But Konzen does it again, lapping, tongue flicking, closing his lips over the first joint of Goujun's smallest finger and the rounded top of the talon bedded there. Goujun can feel the light nibble of teeth, watches Konzen's cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks, and groans helplessly, burying his face in Konzen's hair. His lover is preening his talons, and it's all he can do not to free his hand from Konzen's grip and lift the man into his lap, to bury himself in Konzen again.

Konzen is actually smiling when the kami lifts his head and looks back at him, and for one strange, strained moment Goujun thinks the silence will be broken at last.

The moment stretches, goes on too long and passes when Konzen's eyes lose their brief shine of openness, regaining their more familiar hunger. There's still something strange about that look, and Goujun thinks with a shiver that Konzen is learning to see him--Goujun, not the man but the dragon--as Konzen leans back against him, tilts his head just so, and drags his tongue up the long, tapered line of Goujun's ear.

He can't help growling, but he doesn't try to modulate it this time, suspecting it won't be misinterpreted. Not when he ducks his head helplessly, hopefully, and feels Konzen nuzzle the base of his horns. He's undone, defenseless, and he doesn't care if Kanzeon Bosatsu hirself is waiting for Konzen to attend hir; Konzen won't be leaving this bed unmarked.

He almost hesitates when he closes his hands around Konzen's hips and sees a look of concentration surface on the kami's face, but the sound Konzen makes reassures him even as it puts an ache of need in the pit of his stomach.

Konzen has learned to purr for him.

Words, he decides, are completely useless next to that.