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undevotion, undevout

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Will had boundaries.

Self-drawn, ever-changing, the shifting tides - but boundaries, nonetheless. Especially when it came to Zeke. 

In time, they would blur into one, stripping away the harsh lines he had curled around them both (they existed now as merely Will and Zeke, separate entities, but the future loomed with ripe fruit: a strawberry could always suffer another growth, couldn’t it?). Will would fix upon him like the unshaven edge of a misgrown fruit, like a fly upon rotting offal. 

There would be nothing between them but nothing itself. 

Now, however, he had to establish limits. Boring, horrid limits. No breaking into Zeke’s home, no bothering his wife (that issue had, thankfully, sorted itself out), and certainly no lingering stares. Some touches were allowed. Brief. A hand spread across a shoulder, his fingers seeking out the summer-span of a wrist. Always warm, always welcoming, calling for more: did Zeke know the extent of his desire? 

The shirt…might have been crossing a few boundaries.

No, no, merely an establishing of new boundaries - Will shifted Zeke’s placement on his scale, rearranged their comfort to suit himself (stealing from his house would’ve been bad, of course, but this had been taken from a open locker in the changing rooms, the sleeve hanging out with its brutal siren call). 

Unwashed, he’s sure, which would have been disgusting, had it not been Zeke’s.

Instead, it was pleasant; familiar, almost, in the way that all desired things must be (and what is Zeke if not throbbing, violent desire made manifest?). He buried his nose into the fabric and gleaned all he could from it, inhale after inhale: the only breaths he had ever taken that were not wasted, because they contained only Zeke. Not even air, just pure scent. 

Sure, it didn’t smell good. Dried sweat and dusty paperwork and the faint underlay of cheap cologne. Even so, the moan pulled free from him was deep and sated, mouth opened to soak in more of the scent. He sought out the armpit, tongue touching lightly there, consuming whatever had been left in Zeke’s wake. He would devour the other’s skin if he thought it would bring them closer (this is just a faulty recreation of cannibalism: Will wanted to unhinge his jaw and taste every inch). 

Even the scraps. Even the leftovers. 

A sigh, stolen from him, releasing too much of Zeke. He longed to hold his breath and keep it all inside, replace the air in his lungs with whatever the other would give him; as in the common cliche, warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach. A calling card left behind by a man who had no idea of his influence - soon

Pressing insistently against his jeans, the vague bump of his arousal told a truth beyond salvation: whatever else he told himself about divine morality and ethical payback, there was darker blood than that between them. Desire, a deadly repercussion. Will meant partner in every sticky-sweet definition of the word. The heel of his palm dug against the bulge, whining against the shirt. Open mouth dragged along the fabric, ruining his tongue with the taste (there would be nothing else that could compare). 

Pesky issue. It would have to be taken care of, unless he wanted to face some unfortunate situations when he saw Zeke (a few hours, now - he was already counting down in his head). Shirt was scrunched up in his hand as he collapsed against the bed, his own shirt shrugged off. Pants were undone with another quick motion of his hand, palming at his boxer-clad cock until it was hard against his hand. 

How would Zeke do this? 

He dragged his palm roughly against his clothed cock, too much pressure, insistent - Zeke would mix a little pain into this, wouldn’t he? His hand grabbed for the shirt, pressing it against his nose: perfection drank from the holy cup. 

There would be no ‘taking their time’, he knows this (wants this). He imagined Zeke as pent up, desperate, aching, looming over him - the divorce proceedings and all that, with Will suppressing his smugness at the knowledge that Zeke was already stained as entirely his, would have left him with a certain… aggression. 

And who was Will to deny him the pleasure of release? 

He hurried to slip on the other’s shirt, feeling the soft fabric press against his skin. An all-consuming force, threatening to devour him (there he laid, eager to be devoured, missing a vital component of his fantasy). It was more intimate like this, wrapping himself up in Zeke’s shirt. It was like arms encompassing him, all feeling, nothing but touch and scent. Will writhed. 

Would Zeke kiss him? Not on the lips, he couldn’t imagine that. Didn’t want to waste the image in his imagination, at least - the idea of it was not something that should be worn down. Cherished, saved for better moments than this. His hand closed around his cock, quick pumps that had his hips jerking into the touch. No, Zeke wouldn’t kiss him on the lips.

But elsewhere, yes, yes. Rough kisses trailed along his chest, Zeke’s open mouth catching on a dusty pink nipple. A tongue sneaking out to usher it into hardness, guiding Will’s body into whatever mess Zeke wanted to make of it. His own hand pinched at his chest, marking the skin around his nipples with pain, pretending it was Zeke’s open mouth sinking teeth into his skin. 

Zeke would bite. Here, his chest, his thighs, his neck: there would not be a part of him that wasn’t blurred with purples, marked and owned. His hips jutted into his hand, smearing precome messily over his cock. What else, what else? 

Zeke would kiss over the marks on his thighs, soothe over the horror he’d made of Will. Hook his fingers into Will’s mouth to get them just wet enough (yeah, yeah, they’d need lube, he knows, but he’s eager and verging right against the edge - he lets his mind pretend). Will pressed his fingers between his lips, sucking noisily on the digits, forcing them back far enough to gag himself a little. 

Is that good? Zeke would ask: cocky, self assured, seeking out praise. He’d want Will to be needy.

“So good,” Will breathed out against his fingers, tongue lapping desperately at the pads. His thumb caught over the head of his cock, the slap-slap-slap of flesh echoing across the room. 

Will slipped his hand down his body, foot pressing against the bed to arch himself up a little. Enough to press his fingers, slick now, against his hole. The fantasy had to come quicker, harder, this wouldn’t be Zeke’s fingers - his blunt cock, Zeke’s hands spreading his thighs, opening up. Maybe a compliment or two.

You look so fucking hot like this. Breathed right against his ear, framed by teeth against the lobe, rough and dirty. Zeke would be sheathed inside him with a single thrust. Will drove his fingers home, knuckle-deep with a push that verged on painful, slamming into himself as his hand shook around his cock. He’d take it, all of this, every brutality that Zeke needed to unleash over his body. 

His fingers twisted, opening himself wider, eyes falling shut as his breathing grew deep and unsteady. Zeke would fold his legs to his chest, just enough leverage to thrust himself deeper (it wouldn’t be enough for them, even like this, even buried to the hilt and finally joined so thoroughly - they’d seek out each other’s insides with horrid intent, made to be one body). 

It was a horror to be a soulmate, to be split. They’d be joined soon.

“Zeke, Zeke, Zeke,” Will spluttered out. His fingers crooked until they reached his sweet spot, body jerking with a cut-off gasp. His other hand scrambled away from his cock, catching on the edge of the shirt. The fabric was just long enough for him to wrap it around his length, sullying them both with the action. Zeke’s shirt, marked with precome. Will’s body, marked with Zeke. 

You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had, Zeke would promise, faster now, deeper. He’d lift a hand against Will’s throat, pressing there until his moans turned light and airy (maybe he wouldn’t be so compliment heavy, but this was Will’s fantasy: he was allowed a little creative liberty). His cock would press relentlessly against his prostate, as easily as his own fingers, big enough that Will wasn’t sure he’d walk right tomorrow. You’re such a good boy for me. 

With a final jerk of his body, breathless and pulled taunt, he came into Zeke’s shirt. 

What boundaries could they have from each other, after all?