` ` Being the Reason He Softens ` `

Freckled fingers trace a soft line down the expanse of the Machiavelli's collar, tan against black. The texture of silk intertwines with rougher, white embroidery in a way that's pleasing to Isaiah's senses, eliciting a soft hum of approval that has a smile breaking out over the brunette settled over her right now.

Machiavelli shifts, resettling himself where he is in Isaiah's lap, legs wrapped around her hips comfortably. He's above her in this position, something that already had him ridiculously giddy, this grin having been worming its way over his face already. He's overeager and knows it- and also knows Isaiah does not mind a bit. It's evidenced by the softness he can see in their eyes, an expression he's memorized from this angle many times.

It's addicting, being the reason he softens.

"Found something interesting there?" Machiavelli hums, glancing down at the teasing way Isaiah traces the fabric. The man shrugs.

"Not particularly." Their nail eases down the 'v' of the collar, to the skin that Machiavelli always lets show. "I'm more interested in what's underneath, really."

"Oh?"

"Wipe that smile off your face first," There's that spark in Isaiah's eye- the one Machiavelli is terribly fond of. He just grins a bit wider, all teeth, before pressing the weight of himself a bit further into Isaiah's thighs. "I can't stand it."

"What? Can a guy not just smile?" He leans in a bit more, making sure Isaiah gets a face-full because he likes to be a little annoying sometimes. It earns him one of those darling looks Isaiah gets: fond, poorly masked by annoyance. To be a little extra (read: a loser), he wriggles a bit more in her grip, a subtle grind as he adds with a wink, "I can't help that you make me happy, doll."

It earns the desired reaction: Isaiah breathes in through his nose, a deep breath, pausing-

Before the loveliest red tints their cheeks.

"I can't stand you," They grumble, biting words their only defense. A chuckle rumbles through Machiavelli, shaking his shoulders a bit as Isaiah makes a fist in the collar of his shirt.

"Yeah?"

"You're horrible. Terrible." They're already picking open the buttons of Vel's shirt, sending another laugh bubbling through Vel. He lets her yank it open though, scarred skin on display as her other hand snakes around his waist, tugging him closer. To hang on, he settles his hands on their shoulders, unable to stop his amusement.

"You wound me." He feigns a whine, just earning him another scoff and more muttering as Isaiah hurries to rid him of his clothes. "Such hurtful words for someone so eager- mm-"

His mouth is quickly occupied by eager lips, the taste of Isaiah spreading over him as he feels himself being shifted: Isaiah's hand finds his lower back and eases him down, the softness of the mattress flat against his back as he is laid down. When the kiss breaks, he finds himself looking up now, Isaiah over him, flushed with the loveliest frown.

Beautiful.

"Shut up," She rasps, their other hand moving up to rest behind Vel's head, threading through his hair. Machiavelli's eyes trail over his face from here, soaking in the shine of her eyes, the spread of freckles that dust over their nose and cheeks like stars. The way the brunette's lips curl now is softer, less amused and more... awed.

It still astounds him that he gets to have this.

"Make me." He hums, voice impossibly soft for such a quip. Isaiah's eyes squint, mouth parting just a tad in the most tantalizing way.

"I hate you." It falls from her in a whisper. Machiavelli isn't hurt anymore- he knows what it means. Can hear the hidden syllables, ones that have his heart fluttering before he sighs, leaning up, catching Isaiah's lips once more, breathing in the feeling of her unique love.

"Love you too, doll." He whispers against her when they part again, faces inches apart.

...She does make him shut up after that.

His lips ache after a while in the most pleasant way, sore from how long they have been open beneath Isaiah's own: they made good on their promise to keep his mouth too occupied to let any more words spill out for now. The only thing he can offer is a soft whine as he feels a knee pressing into his thigh, Isaiah beginning to truly settle in his position atop Machiavelli.

The little sound earns him a pleased one from the raven-haired man, something that has Vel easing his hips up a tad more, a silent request.

Isaiah parts from him then, their voice breathy as they murmur, "Now who's the eager one?"

"Still you."

"Still you," Isaiah grumbles; there's a soft touch on the tender skin of his hips now, fingers dancing along his waistband before slipping beneath his belt. He can tell there's an attempt to regain the slow teasing from earlier, Isaiah always pulling towards something familiar, but... Vel likes him like this.

He likes pushing Isaiah to be more open. More... Isaiah, when they do this. That's who he came here for after all, right?

So he waggles his eyebrows a little, a stupid look coming over his face as he presses his hips a bit more into Isaiah's hands.

"Oh? How forward. If you insist~"

Isaiah rolls their eyes in a motion that says shut up before their lips even can, sending a laugh bubbling through Machiavelli's chest as the button to his jeans is popped open. A small shudder runs through him after that at the motion, soon spurred on by the way Isaiah deftly yanks them down; Machiavelli can feel the need in it, something that has his chest swelling, prideful.

But... as he feels a tug at the waistband of his boxers, he reaches down and halts her path, taking Isaiah's hand in his own until their fingers are intertwined.

Her palms feel warm... He gives it a squeeze, thumb briefly rubbing over the calloused surface, worn from years of work he can only guess the origins of. His eyes trace over the freckles, thumb tracing her neatly trimmed nails.

Isaiah stares for a long moment, breath slightly hitched at the gentleness... before Machiavelli puts on the biggest pout he can muster.

"Isaiah," The brunette whines, his non preoccupied hand reaching to tug at the buttons of Isaiah's own collared shirt. The soft look atop him morphs, scrunching, a groan escaping them in an aggravated tone as Machiavelli cannot help but giggle again. "I don't wanna be the only one-"

"Come on, Vel-"

"Let me see you," Machiavelli shimmies himself up the bed a bit more, enough he can get his elbows behind him to sit up. He knows how silly he looks and fully embraces it, enjoying the looks Isaiah gives him for the effort. He even bats his eyelashes, the bastard. "Pretty please?"

Isaiah scowls, but there isn't any real heat to it. Well, there isn't any heat behind the expression- there sure is heat along his cheeks right now though. "Never say that again."

"Okay, okay," Machiavelli 'relents'. He leans closer, settling his cheek onto Isaiah's shoulder, barely suppressing a shining grin. "How about per favore? Or, oh please my goddess, let me get just a peek at your lovely b-"

"Shut up."

"You sure love tellin' me that." He noses into her neck a bit, enjoying the shudder he gets out of it. Gloved fingers pick at the second button of Isaiah's shirt, rolling the little sphere in between his fingers as his hair tickles the other man's chin.

Mm... He cannot help but bury himself a bit closer, vanilla hitting his senses. His Isaiah was always some lovely mix of that and some fresher scent, something that reminded him of mint the few times he'd experienced it. His grin softens as he takes a deeper breath in, soaking in it.

There was always something nice about just laying with him... Just soaking in the way Isaiah filled his senses. The softness of their skin, the feeling of their curls tickling against his cheeks: it makes something in his chest swell impossibly large, somehow avoiding all the aching parts inside him and letting him fully enjoy the having.

And there's no punishment for that wanting, here. Not here.

It's hard not to just... embrace that.

"Mmm," Machiavelli hums on his exhale, fingers tapping lightly against the buttons of Isaiah's shirt now. "You're so lovely..."

He savors the hitch he feels in Isaiah's throat.

"Come on," He murmurs again, voice a bit softer now as he catches their eye. There's something much more reverent in his tone now; he's asking to see something beautiful. Something treasurable. Not just a body. "You don't mind, right..?"

Isaiah's eyes run over him for a silent moment, voice caught as they take in the sight of him. He's pressed right up against him, comfortably settled in her collarbone, absolutely warm in her arms. Machiavelli has always been smaller than them, a perfect holding size, and the brunette knows it and uses it to his advantage in times like this.

Then he turns those damn doe eyes onto her. Soft, brown pupils the color of wood, something solid, something that gleams with such an intense... intense admiring that it leaves his heart thumping audibly in her chest, something vulnerable spreading through their gut.

How is she supposed to not give in, when he looks at her like she's the stars, the planet, everything he's ever wanted all wrapped up into one?

"No..." They whisper to him, voice barely present behind the lump that has formed in their throat. "No, I don't mind."

Oh, how Vel loves flattering her.

"Thank you," He hums, entirely genuine.

... Isaiah really can't stand him.

A moment later, she feels the gentle pop of her collar coming undone, Machiavelli's fingers deft as they make quick work of the buttons. His eyes trail over her, entirely focused, his brows furrowing just a tad as he works: Isaiah would be tempted to kiss the little wrinkle away, if they weren't so focused on the shudder working through them at the feeling of Vel's gloves brushing against the bare skin of their chest slowly being revealed.

Soon enough, Vel finishes, leaving the button-down open and hanging loosely from her shoulders. Familiar heat crawls from her bosom up her neck and into her face as Machiavelli takes a moment to just admire her, eyes soaking in the curves of her body he can see through the semi translucent fabric of her undergarment.

The humor is forgotten for now as he just appreciates the sight, eyes alight with reverence.

Beautiful.

Then, slowly, he brings his hand back to her chest; he holds it there, close enough to touch, his fingers hovering just above the soft silk that hides sensitive skin beneath.

"Can I?" He whispers.

Isaiah swallows.

Then nods.

There's a certain deftness that Machiavelli works in: he knows what he is doing, but he still holds this gentleness in his actions, as if he truly were trying to be careful with some sort of precious ruby; he does not bother to remove his gloves, just letting leather glide against sensitivities.

A finger tugs the edge of Isaiah's silk undershirt forward. Slow enough to garner a soft sound of anticipation from Isaiah, he dips behind the fabric, his index followed by his ring, then the third and fourth. The brunette is focused now: his hand gently slips down over Isaiah's chest as his other hand reaches up to guide down the straps of the top over Isaiah's shoulders, a soft smile curling at his lips as he feels the man begin to squirm just a tad.

"Just like that..." Machiavelli whispers under his breath, fingers dipping further to catch the weight of Isaiah's chest. She really cannot stop the shudder that runs through her now, spurred on by leather rubbing his skin, now spreading the rest of their chest as Vel's other hand follows the first's path.

Soon enough, he's cupped both in his palms, a pleasant hum escaping him at the way the weights fit perfectly in his hands; beautifully palm-sized.

Machiavelli spends far too long for Isaiah's liking just holding them, thumbs gently rubbing around the curve, a stupid, soft smile tugging at his lips. Isaiah feels the itch to squirm, to writhe a bit under the reverent touch, until this waiting game has gone on long enough he's about ready to kill Vel.

"Are you just going to stare at them the whole time?" They bite, red still staining her cheeks: it's already started creeping down his neck.

"I'm admiring them."

Isaiah lets out a sound of disbelief. "Admiring-"

"They're nice!"

"You're a pervert."

"Your pervert," His grin turns toothy as he leans down, settling his chin on them, making Isaiah reach over and tug his ponytail in revenge. He responds by planting soft kisses along the small swell of her chest, stubble scratching along the delicate surface. It has Isaiah stumbling over his next retort, their breath catching in a way that makes Machiavelli let out a satisfied hum.

He doesn't lay off after that: the need to squirm increases as Isaiah feels smooth leather begin to creep up the curve of her breast before reaching the center, black grazing over soft pink; it makes him suck in a shaky breath, the texture alighting sparks within her as Machiavelli's thumb rolls the tender peaks in gentle, practiced circles.

He presses and tugs at the seams of her senses for a long moment, stupidly satisfied at the way the stimulation is making Isaiah wriggle.

It makes it all the more delightful when he looks up to see the fruits of his actions: Isaiah is staring at him, eyes wide, an almost owlish expression composed of some mix of anhelation and veneration. Vel's eyes sparkle in silent reply.

With that, Machiavelli leans in, taking Isaiah's lips once more in his own. His hand escapes back to their chin, cupping Isaiah's cheek and tilting her face upward as he pulls himself up straight again for a better angle: for just the moment, he abandons Isaiah's chest, choosing to tug off the remainder of the white button-up pooled around Isaiah's wrists. It crumples beneath her as Vel lifts the bottom of the undertop, breaking the kiss for just long enough to tug it up and over her head before he is diving back in, holding them tighter against him.

Frizzy curls cascade down around his hand and Isaiah's shoulders as he tugs Isaiah closer, closer, closer. Their fronts are pressed together now, moreso as Isaiah's thoughts finally spark into working order, causing him to snake his hands around Machiavelli's waist and grip.

Machiavelli is leaning back then, tugging Isaiah along, who willingly retakes her position atop him: a knee plants on both sides of him, followed by a wave of black curls that tickle his cheeks and neck. Isaiah's hands are moving up to grip Machiavelli's jaw now, leaving him to let his wander back down her body, running over the smooth expanse of her back and the bit of hip that creeps out from their jeans.

Desire burns through his gut, spurred on by the wanting sound that Isaiah releases into his mouth. It has him shifting and lifting his hips again, eager- but Isaiah simply presses a knee into his thigh, pinning it back down.

At that, a laugh bubbles out of Vel against the corner of Isaiah's lips, easing into a snort as they squint at Machiavelli in return. Isaiah simply rolls his eyes after that, deft fingers already creeping down his torso to their designated spot at his waist. They slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, tugging insistently until...

Machiavelli kicks the garment off as Isaiah tugs, cold air touching him in a way that makes a shiver run through him. He reaches then, fingers popping open the button to Isaiah's own jeans- but Isaiah's hand settles on Vel's, stopping the curious things.

Machiavelli raises an eyebrow, picking up on the satisfied- and heated - look Isaiah is giving him. It makes him roll his own eyes, amusement colliding with desire.

"Now who's taking forever?"

Her finger traces along his pelvis, sparking stimulation along its path. "Maybe I want to admire you for a bit."

...It's embarrassing, how that still makes Machiavelli's face warm.

A smaller smile tugs at his lips this time, something shyer. "Yeah?"

"Mmhm."

She wants to take her time, to some extent. It isn't often she gets to just sit by and admire what's his... Her eyes look over the darker skin, soaking in the color, the rise and fall of Vel's stomach, the light shudders and movements that ripple through him. Proof he is alive, here in Isaiah's palm.

Her finger continues its trail along the sharp bone, up over softer skin, over the rougher, pinker patch of scar tissue along his left side, just enjoying the firmness of the brunette's smaller waist before his palm settles along Machiavelli's side, cupping it as fire begins to burn in her own chest. He has always been particularly enamored by these parts of Vel- it's genuinely unfair how tantalizing they are, handlebars meant to be gripped and tugged and held. God, they're too perfect for holding. He traces the bone, thumb rubbing against it as their other brushes over the small trail of hair starting below Vel's navel, fine wisps tickling her freckled skin.

It's so hard not to love every inch of it.

The fire in her chest eases lower, into her own gut and farther- a sign to keep going. So, Isaiah grips the innominates carved just for him with both hands, steady, before looking up-

To see Machiavelli leaned back, hands crossed behind his head in faux relaxation, making some kind of stupid face at him.

Isaiah pauses, before squinting in a way that causes snickers to escape Vel, his body shaking a bit with the effort. "What."

"Well, I figured if you were gonna 'admire', I might as well look the part."

Isaiah stares at him.

Machiavelli is trying not to snort. He shifts a little to his side, making his hip stick out a bit more, pursing his lips in a way similar to models Isaiah would sometimes see in posters for... certain subjects. The realization has her face burning, amusement and fond annoyance warring in them as Machiavelli grins knowingly at her. Stupid bastard, always trying to make her laugh.

"What? Okay, okay, if you don't like that one, I can try another-"

Isaiah grabs a nearby pillow and whacks him with it.

Machiavelli yelps, moving to shield his face. Despite knowing fully well why, he says, "OW- What the hell-?"

"Can you be normal." Isaiah deadpans.

He can't keep the shit-eating grin off his face. "I don't know what you mean."

"Vel."