Work Text:
The first time they try it the other way around, Iguazu genuinely thinks he must be doing something wrong. It's that, or that Volta isn't really into him like this, and this is all actually out of some kind of twisted pity and not real affection. This, everything leading up to this -- it's all been a part of some sick joke. Iguazu's the fool for playing along as long as he has been. Otherwise, what the hell was the point of all those quips about how sharp his teeth were, and damn, did he need a chew toy or what?
Did Volta even know what he was doing to Iguazu, saying shit like that? Did he have any idea how badly Iguazu wanted to sink his teeth in? Not even to hurt Volta, but to stake his claim -- to satisfy his own urges, because Iguazu knows it would feel good for himself. He's certain it would be fulfilling, and it's not like Volta has the guts to bite him as hard as he'd like. But he could make an example, if Volta doesn't mind.
If Volta was serious about this -- any of this -- then why does he go stiff like that every time Iguazu grazes his teeth a little too close to the pulse in his neck? Why does he pull away when he's clearly flushing every time, biting his own lip? Why isn't it Iguazu biting Volta's lip, instead? He'd lick away the blood; he'd kiss it swollen like a half-rotted flower petal.
Why, if Volta really means it when he says he'd like to try it both ways, does he get so damn nervous whenever it seems like Iguazu might get a leg up on him for a moment? Why do they both instinctively have to conflate these things, and why can't they just talk about it?
(Well, Iguazu's definitely the fool if he's seriously asking himself why they can't talk. That's never been the easiest thing, for either of them; nor is vocalization the simplest language of affection.)
It's easier to let himself be small, sometimes. But stars above, Iguazu is sick of being the underdog. Every alley of life, he's sick of it. Can't he have this? Just this one thing?
Besides -- he doesn't think it's just for him, not really. He's selfish, but he's not that selfish.
Iguazu sees the softness inside that chitinous shell of Volta's, and he wants to pry it out and devour it like an oyster, wants to sink his teeth into flesh and feel the rush of a pulse which is not his own against his bones, wants to feel it thudding, resonating in his skull.
Wants, for all the cliché metaphor, to roll the pearl around on his tongue and savor it.
But they keep infuriatingly dancing around each other, keep on sticking to the same old formula even when they hint at something new, other, more.
Not that it's a bad arrangement. Leaning into their size and rank differences alike can do a lot to stifle Iguazu's everyday feelings of insecurity and inadequacy -- ramping up the stakes, dragging those emotions all the way out of him, not allowing them to remain stuck, half-actualized, aching in his nerves. Being under Volta is... well, soothing. Tranquil in a way it's hard to explain. It almost softens him. He almost doesn't hate it, if he forgets his usual baggage at the door.
Still, the hints of more drive him mad. The hints that Volta would very much like it the other way around, perhaps even more than Iguazu would -- which is not to minimize how much Iguazu would like it the other way around. For all that the idea of asking for it scares the shit out of him, he would very much like it like that. It took him a while to accept that he could have the capacity for both within himself, but it makes sense in hindsight -- the use of physical vulnerability and the appeal of being on top can exist in tandem. There is a part of Iguazu which delights in such recklessness, indulging in the factored risk of intentionally working against his usual set of behavioral precepts. There is also a part of him which wants to crawl on top and sink its teeth into the taut pulse of Volta's neck. To bite down, hip-snap, hands anywhere and everywhere at once.
It makes his heart beat faster when Volta is soft and unguarded, when he doesn't comment on the subtle distinction between the vibes of Iguazu sitting perched all birdlike in his lap versus straddling his waist, especially when he's lying down. It's a power trip to command his focus in such a way, thighs squeezing him, feeling grounded yet weightless. It's a power trip to be atop a man twice his size, and to think about bending him in half -- and to think, he might let me.
For what it's worth, even if he doesn't say it in so many words, Volta very clearly likes it too -- Iguazu may be full of second thoughts and needless anxieties, but he's not dense enough that he can't read his best friend -- his partner's -- body language like this. What he sees is no less helpful for the fact that he can recognize it clear as day. Volta obviously keeps getting into his own head about it, especially when Iguazu tries to show any sort of dominance. It's infuriating, because there's clearly something deeper but it makes Iguazu wither too damn easily for him to have the confidence to just up and ask. It heats his cheeks, it slicks his palms with sweat, it makes his head race with ridiculous ideas. It's almost like Volta's embarrassed to be under Iguazu, and that makes Iguazu feel shameful. about himself, about his body, about his junk. Oh, the tdick shame is real, and he hates it -- he thinks some part of him would jealously compare himself to Volta no matter what they both had down there, if it were the same or not. Even with dutifully consistent HRT since joining the Redguns, he's still small, because all of him seems cursed to be small forever, but Volta doesn't seem to have any complaints when it comes to Iguazu's physical weakness, nor -- when he's got a hand or two down there, or his own groin pressed flush -- the size of Iguazu's erection.
That doesn't make it any easier to bear, when Iguazu's got a hand hooked around one of Volta's knees, poised to slot their legs fully together, and has found himself wanting terribly to throw the man's incredibly thick thigh over his shoulder, but stricken still by Volta's lack of reaction. Stone cold sobered by it, the lack of -- connection, whatever. They're not in sync. They should be in sync. The crawling sensation that something is wrong. The humiliation of his own creeping thoughts intruding on what should be a guiltless, pleasurable moment. The pulse of shame telling him Volta's out of his league, his tdick is pathetically small, his muscles are pathetically small, the part of him that's still the original, still organic, is pathetically small and shrinking every day. That he's a fool for thinking his scrawny ass could ever get in the cockpit of an AC, let alone be fit enough to serve in any kind of military.
Then again, it wasn't his choice to begin with. He never wanted to touch the stars, not like this.
The claustrophobia starts to close in on him the way it doesn't when he's the one under Volta because when it's like that he feels overwhelmed in almost every way, and that's how he likes the feeling, compounded enough as to be impossible to misidentify or miss. He has to give himself over to it entirely in order to enjoy it properly (and besides, anyone would be lucky to be crushed by Volta, let's be real). Here, now, it's a current against the present moment, and he tries to fight it, instinctively. Thrashing in the whitewater of his own memories, reliving the loops and circuits etched into his mind.
Iguazu is famously bad at talking about his feelings. Volta isn't much better, but he usually takes point when Iguazu is the one to flail. Being the one who is forced to approach the situation assertively, this time, Iguazu decides to take a more familiar route: banter. If he acts like nothing is really unusual about the scenario, maybe it'll help Volta relax?
After all, this is just a very normal extension of their very normal friendship, isn't it? The same way it was normal when the brushes of a hand on a shoulder, an elbow, anywhere, started to linger; normal when they started looking back at each other, returning those too-long glances in the in-between spaces. Normal when they started using those communal shower times to blow off a little steam, each pretending not to notice the other at first before gradually their gazes would drift; normal when their eyes would find each other's eyes glinting in the dim watery light, each other's lips parted and breathing strained, each other's hands moving in similar repetitive strokes between their thighs, silhouettes outlined in contours of shadow and light.
Normal when they'd grind on each other in the locker room, clustered into a single changing stall that they never actually bothered with the modesty of using if they were really only changing. Normal when they'd share a bed and Volta would talk in his sleep, tossing and turning and rolling around, clinging to Iguazu like a stiff plank of a body pillow, mumbling juvenile renditions of his name, mumbling a whole lot of meaningless nonsense and a whole lot of shit like my bug, my bug, my little ant. Which. Well. Iguazu couldn't quite bring himself to call that meaningless, even if he also couldn't quite bring himself to interrogate what it did mean, either.
What's not normal is the way Volta's biting back every other noise out of his mouth. The way he's not quite making eye contact and looks like he might pop a nerve in his forehead if he keeps thinking so hard, ever since Iguazu said how about I take care of you tonight and Iguazu knows he damn well didn't make up the flash of hunger he'd seen in Volta's eyes, before self-conscious thought had overcome him, or else he wouldn't have crawled on top of him so eagerly.
Volta's cute like this, anyways -- sleepy, gone soft, and (if he weren't still holding himself back, the stubborn bastard) full of tiny little noises, the kind that get Iguazu's stomach all fluttery and make his cheeks burn. He'd whined so sweetly when Iguazu's weight dipped the bed beside him, one arm over his face to block out the light, exhaustion radiating out of every cell in his body. He'd still thrown his other arm around Iguazu's shoulders and tugged the smaller man's face into his neck, though. That was an unquestionable comfort for both of them, and Iguazu had been happy to nestle against his side, even with other plans brewing in mind. When he'd finally worked up the energy to speak, his voice had been rough and raspy in the way it got when he was winded, or after a long day.
"'M too tired to fuck you, Iggy... "
Tired enough to not think twice about telling the raw truth, too -- at least, not until after the words are out of his mouth.
After a thoughtful pause, Iguazu gently nudges Volta, warmth pressing flush up against him from hip to shoulder.
"Hey. Hey. What if... " his hand, encroaching, curves over Volta's flank and down to his hip, the sensitive abdominal muscles twitching reflexively beneath his touch. "Just a suggestion, take it or leave it. How about I take care of you, tonight?"
"If... " Volta's hand uncurls from its half-fist over his forehead, shifting to reveal his gaze. His honey-flecked eyes soften in understanding. "Oh. That... that'd be nice." His cheeks flush, freckles like a starfield against the redshifted hue of his blush. His lips purse, like he's eaten something really fuckin' sour, or is holding back an even more incriminating expression, but his eyes are twinkling as he allows Iguazu to push him all the way over and onto his back, going easily. Liquid.
Iguazu slides atop him, reptilian, smooth, hollow-boned. Mouth quick to latch onto the corner of his jaw, almost parasitic, almost symbiotic. Volta's tired arm slips down to cradle the back of Iguazu's head, not pushing, not pulling, not forcing in any particular way. Just holding him, threading fingers lightly through his hair, letting the weight of his hand settle against Iguazu's skullcap.
It is a mutual comfort. There's a hearth crackling in each of his cheeks, and the bloodrush makes him dizzy for a moment despite being almost entirely horizontal. Iguazu does not utter any particularly comforting words -- does not say much of anything at this point, in fact, but makes his usual array of mechanical yet uncannily animalistic noises that indicate a contented focus, so Volta lets it be. Lets him be. Lets his own thumb find the indentations left by staples in Iguazu's scalp, little meteorite craters from an uncanny impact, and oh-so gently, oh-so carefully -- he has practiced this as many times as he has practiced a safe core eject in CANNON HEAD, as many times as he has practiced drifting with the built-in boosters on the BORNEMISSZA, as many times as he has administered an intramuscular injection for Iguazu -- he curves the bed of his thumbnail into one small indentation. His nails are trimmed close; the rough, calloused skin presses into the keloid tissue and Iguazu's breath catches, a shivering fog rolling across Volta's throat where his teeth are nipping enthusiastically now.
Volta, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much that sharpness affects him, bites back the whine that wants to escape him when Iguazu follows the curve of the tracheal muscles and bites, right where they both know Volta can take it, goddamn him for all those times he asked to touch under the guise of learning about muscle groups.
The idiot. He probably jerked off to their anatomy textbooks. Volta should have known better (he shouldn't've; he might've, honestly) -- he never should have entertained Iguazu all of those times, is what it is. But really, he doesn't regret any of it. Even though part of him is absolutely unable to let go of the fact that Iguazu really did pull one over on him, and honestly, it was kind of impressive as far as seduction went.
Not that he had much context for that. He'd never been seduced before Iguazu, and he can't see himself as a likely target for any potential seduction in the near future, most certainly not successfully. As for the far future (after the Redguns?), well...
As long as Iguazu's there with him, he thinks he can take the rest as it comes.
It makes it paradoxically harder to bear, trying not to react to the stimulation. Trying to stay cool because he shouldn't be this worked up just from a little kissing, right?
Right?
Just like he shouldn't be so worked up every other time Iguazu takes over like this, or tries to, or Volta tries to hint that he should. It's not their usual dynamic, and what if he's pushing it too far, wanting more, asking for something outside of the regular lines they draw around themselves, circling and intersecting between them?
Then again, Iguazu offered this tonight. Maybe Volta can let himself have it without guilt. It's easier to feel that way when he's the one taking care of Iguazu, when he feels like he's doing a service, completing a task, when he can get that little bit of pride in himself and in a job well done.
This is... different. Foreign. This is wanting to be so, so terribly self-indulgent, but still he refuses opening the box in his mind that will free him entirely to the feeling.
He tries to focus on the simple things, and it helps a little -- the familiar sensory feedback of Iguazu's mouth on his throat, Iguazu's hands on his hips, Iguazu's heat all around him. The soft noises of focus that he makes, starting low in his voicebox and whispering out between parted lips, as he efficiently melts Volta beneath him with teeth and fingers.
When Volta puts his mind to it like this, he's tenser, less focused. But he's starting to relax a little, thinking maybe he's got the hang of this, has got a handle on the thread of his own arousal, keeping it from wandering too far. Iguazu's being good to him; he won't embarrass himself.
But there's still that little nagging voice in the back of his head that's been there as long as he's known Iguazu, the one that started out real quiet but gradually became more and more present, the one that peers over his shoulder and makes the hair on the back of his neck raise. The one that tells him he shouldn't want this -- any of this, but especially that he shouldn't want it like this -- want Iguazu to have him in this way. That he's sick for harboring these feelings and desires about someone who he should keep a friendly, supportive relationship with. That Iguazu depends on him too much, that it's wrong to make him depend on Volta like this, too -- that Volta would be taking advantage of what should just be the goodwill of friends.
Right?
Who told him he should believe that in the first place, anyway? What's it a holdover from, what vestigial piece of his upbringing? Who or what instilled this into him, and does it even matter?
He tries to ignore the nagging thoughts. tries to muffle his embarrassing noises, tries to push back the tide of guilt that follows each little ripple of clarity. Wondering if Iguazu would rather be under him right now. Wondering if Iguazu has secretly wanted this as much as he has -- if he can bear the mortification of saying so. Volta hopes, self-destructively, that Iguazu won't notice, or, perhaps worse, that he will notice and will simply choose to ignore it.
He doesn't ignore it; he never does. He can't let anything be, it's not in his nature.
But perhaps Volta has tried to let it be for too long, because Iguazu doesn't pause, doesn't just draw back to open his mouth and ask -- something, anything. One moment he's there, the next he's sliding right back off of Volta and, legs still half-slotted together, flopping at his side.
It's only the way Iguazu leaves one thigh haphazardly folded between Volta's own that convinces Volta he hasn't terribly, irreparably fucked this up. The tiny gulf between their bodies is immeasurable, everywhere they aren't touching resonating with a profound emptiness in contrast to the sliver of warmth where their hips still press together.
Volta's tongue weighs as much as the SONGBIRDS and his heart pulses at least half as hard as their recoil, rumbling up his throat and pulverizing any half-formed words lingering there.
Where Iguazu's response to discomfort is to talk more, faster, more animated and aggressive when he loses his conversational footing, Volta's is to hang back and listen. Where Iguazu will spew snappy quips when he's not feeling confident with his words, Volta will elect to say less, or nothing at all. Now, he feels the weight of all they've left unsaid between them, and it sits heavy on his chest. As heavy as Iguazu's weight atop him, maybe heavier -- leaden.
He still misses that weight, even with it right at his side, even with their bodies still touching. Other than that contact, the distance between their skin feels infinite.
Why'd you stop, he wants to say. Instead he finds himself slipping into the thought of every possible response or non-response, paralyzed by hypothetical indecision. For several minutes, time indeterminate, he lays still and silent, throbbing with shame. Like the malicious chime of an unwelcome meditation bell, he wonders in intervals if Iguazu will simply leave, will spare him the guilt and embarrassment.
The gears turn infuriatingly slow in Volta's head tonight. Grinding and catching and rattling, making him want to grit his teeth so the tangible, physical feeling will match the one inside his head. He's confused, disappointed, and a little bit overwhelmed. He wants more, wants Iguazu back on top of him -- that's easy enough to tell from the emptiness left behind in his wake -- but the idea of it makes his head spin, too.
Seconds stretch into uncounted minutes in mutual silence; time is measured only in abstracts, in breaths, in slowly steadied pulse. Volta drifts back to the present, slowly grounding himself, to the sound of Iguazu's breath rattling, the prosthetic valve in his heart clicking softly each time it cycles blood back to the aorta.
Iguazu does not leave. This says more than any words could -- his silent acquiescence to patience.
Volta... hasn't always had the easiest time with his feelings. Even if he understood in theory, past a certain point in his life, that he liked men, the experience of it was -- is -- new. He'd never bothered to think about it until it became necessary to do so, and... well, the reality of it was (is!) a lot more complicated than it sounded on paper.
At the same time, it has always been very simple, in a fundamental way: he felt, he feels, an affinity for masculinity that he cannot put to words. It guides his perception of himself, and it guides his perception of affection -- of what he seeks in the affection of others. There is solace in their sameness, and in their strangeness too.
This affinity has always been deepened by the other solidarity between the two of them, the one that dictates their bodies being described by similar gospels of change and evolution. But at the same time it gives Volta pause -- compels him to evaluate whether his affection is based partly or wholly in that solidarity, that sameness. More importantly -- if it really even matters.
He can't be impartial about it; he knows his own bias like the back of his hand, he knows his heart softens and reaches out, instinctively, for men like him, for creatures with the same shape of soul. At once, the mere presence of that bias informs him that he truly does seek something with someone just like himself. He truly does find comfort in the affinity he shares with Iguazu. If he can be so selfish, he truly does desire it.
The thing that has never changed, not once from the start some seven years ago, all the turbulent winding way up to now, is how Volta clams the fuck up. Gets nervous, and just pushes it back. Sometimes it's a hard thing to even catch himself doing it in the first place.
It's always been like this, is the thing. Even before they were... like this. The thing is, Volta has always been like this. Too aware of how Iguazu looks at him, sometimes. Back then it was subtler -- noticing Iguazu staring for just a moment longer than was ordinary when they were changing in the locker room or sharing a communal shower, thinking too hard about every teasing remark thrown his way, usually about his body. The thing is that it was never exclusively mean comments, it was always just a little bit vague, wording and tone just a little too contradictory.
He never quite knew what to make of it. Was Iguazu jealous? That seemed like it could be part of it, especially in the early days -- before the Coral really sunk into him, before it really dug in its claws -- when he still thought, if he just worked out enough and ate consistently, he could bulk up as much as Volta (or, well, as much as his tiny frame would support).
He'd thought he had Iguazu pegged, then -- had casually agreed when Iguazu had stepped closer, once, hesitant and curious, clearly controlling himself hard enough that Volta felt compelled to pay attention to whatever this strange compulsion of his was. When he'd asked, almost shy, if Volta could, like, properly show him. His body, that is. Nearly stumbling over his words, sharp in his haste to explain he just wanted to learn about muscle groups, that a hands-on demo would help, that he didn't really have much reference because he'd never been big, okay?
And he'd sounded jealous, a little. But his tone had carried just as much admiration as it did envy, and maybe something different, something shaky, something Volta couldn't identify. Maybe he was just compelled by the way Iguazu was bold enough to ask, this being the kind of thing he only seemed confident enough to voice when it was just the two of them, or maybe only in the dark.
It also hadn't been entirely unexpected, which was... perhaps a little bit more than Volta had been willing to interrogate at the time, but he was still plenty willing to go through with giving his 'advice'.
Now, like then, he's found himself inadvertently forcing himself to hide just how interested he was, he is, in that exploration. In the way Iguazu's gaze would linger on him inexplicably. How that predatory stare makes him sweat -- how a non-insignificant part of him perks up at the observation -- wanting to indulge the feeling.
It used to be simple enough -- he'd be nervous, occasionally, for Iguazu to spot him during their workouts together. Not because he didn't think Iguazu was actually strong enough to spot him -- no, that wasn't really a concern -- but because of the way he'd just... look at Volta, sometimes. The odd, piercing, too-focused stare. It was weird. It made him feel like there were eyes on his back, but there was something else under that, too.
Once Volta noticed it, he couldn't stop noticing. Couldn't stop thinking. Couldn't stop making something out of nothing, and even when it turned out it hadn't been nothing, It very much had not been nothing at all, it was an entire something and a half, and then some -- well, he still got stuck in his own head about it. Still was far too aware of how Iguazu's eyes followed him whenever he thought Volta couldn't tell he was watching.
It took far too long for Volta to discern that this is just how Iguazu shows affection -- this is, for lack of a better term, his courtship ritual. His love language. Like some odd bird of paradise dancing, bringing shiny sticks and rocks, like a cat leaving a dead bird at the doorstep, patiently sitting at the threshold waiting for praise. Like a furious little beetle on a log, tossing its head, driving its horns against any opponent. Peculiar customs, but no less effective once Volta recognizes them for what they are.
Volta has come to realize, in the years they've known each other, that Iguazu only knows how to flirt in vaguely mean or backhanded ways, or by being remarkably strange about putting his feelings forward.
He's awful at using his words in this way, and it has taken Volta a long time indeed to figure out that the extent of positive attention from Iguazu is, generally, an uncomfortably piercing stare and emphatic, almost mockingly flirtatious comments on his bulk when he's working out.
It used to make him feel hyped up. A compliment from his friend was nice, even if it always landed somewhere between teasing and genuine. It made him feel good -- like he looked good, like he was strong, like he could be proud of himself. It still does, a little bit -- less so, now that he's bulked up seriously compared to how he looked when he joined the Redguns, and doesn't need the ego boost as much, but the feelings have... evolved, over the years.
These days, he's not always certain how to respond to Iguazu's offhand comments, because he always thinks far too hard about what the hell they actually could mean, deep down. About how they're still just as vague and seem to be hinting at a desire for unexplored avenues, even after they've taken that big plunge. Even after they've settled into a sort of routine, there's still... more.
Maybe he's overthinking it.
It's just that it's started to give him some funny thoughts and feelings, over the years. Some weird impulses. The ones that settle oddly in his stomach and don't allow him to ever totally ignore them. The ones that nag at him at night, that he thinks over and over again about how he could've-should've-would've responded in the moment.
This time, he has a chance to stop that train of thought in its tracks. To actually respond in the moment itself, and not to beat himself up later for his lack of engagement. He's embarrassed to give Iguazu the satisfaction of knowing just how he can affect Volta, especially when they're changing up their routine like this, but at the same time... maybe that embarrassment itself is holding them back? Maybe it's better for Iguazu to be more confident... and when Volta puts it like that, he feels silly, because it makes perfect sense.
Why has Volta been holding them back? Why has he been holding himself back from the true extent of his desires, when all reasonable indicators point to Iguazu sharing his interest? Maybe it's not even his internal worry about Iguazu's desire so much as his self-consciousness about the fact that yes, he very much wants his best friend on top of him, and yes, he wants that wisp of a pilot to fuck him into the mattress. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where the appeal of the big guy overwhelming the small guy lies, but the same can be said of its inverse. Subverting an expectation is always joyous, always devious fun.
That's not weird, that's not wrong. If it'd be wrong for Volta to want it, then it'd be just as wrong for Iguazu to want it, and Volta could never say that he doesn't like the times when Iguazu is wanting for that configuration of their dynamic. Nor the times like this, when Iguazu shows an interest in a different configuration. If voicing that the interest is mutual would make Iguazu more confident... then Volta's duty is to push past his own mortification at being known so intimately. This is just between the two of them, only ever has been, and they owe not even a second thought to the idea of external judgment. They only owe each other anything -- the vulnerability of open hearts, open ears, open hands.
They're both fools, huh? Inexperienced, virginal idiots. They're perfect for each other, in this sense. Oddly, the thought relieves a hint of Volta's stress, though his heart still beats too fast in his chest for every moment he's aware of how Iguazu is not on top of him, and he would very much like him to be again. But he's been thinking for far too long, and Iguazu is waiting, impatient, nervous. He really ought to say something.
Maybe he's been so caught up in how it makes him feel for Iguazu to encourage him, now that he knows how Iguazu makes him feel, generally speaking, that it's made him forget Iguazu, too, needs encouragement.
This is a two-way street, a bidirectional path.
Maybe Iguazu has reservations, but he's clearly capable of stopping if his heart's not in it. There's still the lingering fear of what may remain unsaid, what may get lost in between the messy lines of both of them trying and failing and trying again... but there's also a certainty. That Iguazu knows what he wants just as well as Volta does, maybe even better. That he genuinely likes this, and he isn't just doing it because he's desperate for anything and Volta is there.
There's also a certainty that he'd rather see Iguazu happy. Emotional vulnerability, though it's still scary, and he still doesn't think he's any good at it, nor any closer to figuring out how to be good at it, is a small price to pay for that.
Eventually, Volta is the one to move. realizing that this, however awkwardly, is the opening Iguazu has left for him, the expectation laid before him. If he's to play this role tonight, he must also step forth enough to be clear about it.
He shifts, turning, cupping the back of Iguazu's neck again where he'd previously allowed his hand to slide away, not following Iguazu at his side. Iguazu, as if he has been expecting this, allows Volta to move him, a bit less of a dead weight than usual. His expression is recusant, recalcitrant as always -- resigned, resolved, but there's a flicker of something else unidentifiable beneath. Volta shifts so the two of them are on their sides, curled towards each other like two parentheses, a closed set of brackets, a single clause. He draws Iguazu's head forward, gently pressing their foreheads together. The moment of contact sends a spark through him from head to toe, but the wake of it is like a long, rippling wave on the shore, slow and languid, warm and reassuring. A circuit completed, grounded at last.
"Hey," Volta says, low and rough and raspy. Tumbled gemstones, sharp edges glittering even as they scratch. "Ig. Be straight with me."
Iguazu snorts. "No," he says, mischief glimmering in his eyes. The something else in his gaze grows, flickering, a guttering candlelight, until it is identifiable as mirth. Relief. Hope.
Volta bonks him, lightly. Like two beetles locking horns, drawing his forehead back -- hand cupping the back of Iguazu's head -- then nudging forward again. "You know what I mean, idiot," he says. The word idiot is uttered with such familiarity and softness as to make it sound deeply fond.
Iguazu says nothing, but looks at Volta with begrudging anticipation. He's listening, then.
"Does this make you happy? -- I mean, you're not just doing it 'cause you're horny and I said I was too tired to top you?"
Iguazu looks at him with something like exasperation, now. Finally, finally he touches Volta again, just the teasing brush of fingers over the curve of one shoulder, making him shudder. He almost sounds soft when he speaks again.
"You really think there's a world where I wouldn't be happy to obliterate your ass?" he says, obtuse yet somehow incisive as always. "I mean, sure, that was basically my decision process in the moment. but it's not just... " he sighs, and then makes an indiscernible, mechanical noise that Volta knows to be one of frustration. "It's not just the moment," he mumbles finally. "Like, this time it was convenient. But in my head I'd really like it both ways. I'd also really like the chance to get to find that out for myself."
Volta looks away for a moment, defeated. His pulse pounds guiltily in his ribcage. "Then why'd you stop?" he murmurs. "Why'd you act like I -- " his voice cracks embarrassingly, he swallows, he thanks his lucky stars Iguazu doesn't comment on the slip-up or the pause " -- like I hurt you, or something?"
Iguazu's hand on his cheek isn't rough, but it is sudden. It startles Volta, and at once it sends a shockwave through him from head to toe that leaves him feeling decidedly grounded in the moment, and in Iguazu's steely eyes so close to his own that he can make out the specks of mossy green in them, the way they fade to a desaturated shade of night sky, almost-blue at the edge of the irises, though the color is obscured by the Coral in the limbic rings. This close, that, too, is visible in striking detail, every nerve in his face a dull white, every vein almost glowing beneath his skin, luminescent in the near dark.
"I stopped," Iguazu says sharply, "because you were acting like you aren't allowed to enjoy getting fucked."
Oh. Oh. Just like that, with the insecurity laden in Iguazu's tone, realization comes crashing down on Volta. He was stupid, and he fucked up, but also it's not as bad as he thought. It's really not that bad. It's really actually a very simple solution.
"Well," Volta starts, and swallows, mouth suddenly incredibly dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Each syllable seems like it's worth its weight in gold, or maybe is simply just as heavy; leaden, dead weight dragging his cognition down. He really, really doesn't want to kill the mood, but also they need to talk about this, the conversation is rapidly becoming more and more inevitable with every passing second, and the mood was already half-dead when Volta bit back that first real moan.
"Actually," he tries. "I, uh. Well, it's kind of embarrassing for me to just say it like this."
Iguazu snorts, unsympathetic. "How d'you think I feel? C'mon, you know you were my first -- like, all of them. Every first."
Volta rolls his eyes at that, tilting his chin in acquiescence to Iguazu's protest. Some of the tension is leaving them both, now, at the rhythm of their familiar banter, and (though neither of them would particularly like to make note of it) the reminder that they are equally inexperienced, having only each other as their primary reference point for this sort of intimacy.
Iguazu levels Volta with an intent, piercing gaze, almost pleading, not quite imperative. His voice wavers a bit as he continues speaking, but he doesn't look away. "I'd like you to be this one, too, if you don't mind, I just -- I don't fuckin' know how to read this kind of situation, man. Not any better than I know how to read you. You want something, or you -- you don't -- you gotta tell me, a'right?"
"Okay." Volta's voice is totally not squeaky and high-pitched when he says that, it isn't, he definitely doesn't audibly sound super embarrassed and shaky. "Uh, I do actually really like the idea of being bent in half by a guy half my size. Especially if that guy is you. That work?"
Now it's Iguazu's turn to blush, Coral-tinged and oh-so pretty it makes Volta wish he knew how to draw -- he'd happily spend hours rendering the whorling scarlet hues in Iguazu's cheeks, tinged just a tone unnaturally bright.
"Fuck, man," he says, sounding terribly incensed. Terribly aroused, too -- the confirmation sticks in Volta's brain, warming him from the inside out. His devious little bug wants him like this, really, truly does. Wants the leg up, wants the satisfaction. Isn't just doing it to entertain Volta's whims.
Iguazu closes his eyes, taking a heavy breath like he needs a moment to steady himself. This close, Volta can feel the way his pulse pounds through the hand he has on Iguazu's neck. His own heartrate is still skyrocketing, too, a complement to Volta's. Two drums in staggered synchronicity.
Volta waits, gaze silently tracing the paths laid out by Coral burn-in under Iguazu's skin -- the dull glow of the nerves, the almost rusted hue of the Lichtenberg figures spread all across the left side of his skull, covering his face and neck, down to his shoulder and the junction of that experimental arm. Something pulses within him, something that follows a different beat than that of his own heart. Singing in resonance with a force that neither of them has the capacity to fully comprehend.
Finally, Iguazu's eyes flutter open again, regarding him with a cool, unusually collected focus. He shuffles microscopically closer to Volta, one knee nudging in between his thighs, encroaching properly into his space once more.
Volta's breath catches in his throat, loud enough that he's certain Iguazu hears it, though he doesn't comment, when he slips his fingers up through the trail of hair down Volta's stomach, hand splaying over the rise and fall of his chest. Feeling him breathe, feeling his pulse, just simply feeling that he is alive and there.
Almost reverently, Iguazu traces his fingers back down the expanse of Volta's ribcage. His eyes follow his hands, hungrily drinking in the curves of Volta's scarred chest, the rippling muscle, his thick, soft tummy, the dark hair swirling over the whole of it and in one long trail down to his waist. There, his gaze lingers, as his fingers splay out tantalizingly close to the blooming heat between Volta's thighs, his other hand curving protectively around the leg that's hooked over his shoulder once more. His fingers are utterly dwarfed by Volta's thick calf, but that just makes the feeling even better.
"Just so you know," -- Iguazu's eyes snap back up to Volta's, pupils big, dark, devouring his irises -- "I'm gonna wreck you, dude," he warns, voice breathy, laden with heady intent.
Volta beams up at him. "Promise?" he asks sweetly.
Iguazu rolls his eyes. "Yeah, pinkie promise and all that." He kisses Volta, sloppy and uncoordinated but not without enthusiasm, and Volta cranes his neck to lick up into Iguazu's mouth, pleased to stay like this for an inordinate time even if it means postponing what Iguazu is surely so impatient to get on with.
They keep kissing, even though the position practically has Volta folded in half -- he certainly doesn't mind, and Iguazu seems to be holding up well enough. He eagerly sucks on Volta's lower lip, twisting it between sharp teeth until blood blooms through the skin, licking it greedily away. The sting ignites something in Volta, the momentary sharp pain fading to a satisfying dull ache as Iguazu licks into him with the hunger of animals ripping each other to shreds, and at once a careful restraint. Sure, he misses his mark here and there, and slices Volta's lip in the occasional tiny cut, but he always sucks it until the bruise aches sweetly, licking until no more blood wells from the wound. When he pulls back for a gasping, ragged breath of air, their foreheads still touch, a glistening line of saliva connecting their lips, Iguazu clearly reluctant to part even for the bare necessity of breathing. His eyes are dark, as dark as black holes, the Coral rings like little accretion disks, all fire and cosmic dust, fixated on Volta's kiss-bruised lips. When he dives back in again, there is something softer, gentler, in the way he laves his tongue over the swollen flesh.
The heat of Iguazu's mouth melts away Volta's remaining anxieties, drawing him back into the liminal space of his mind. This time, it is less distant, and more of a passive rumination which exists alongside his focus on the present moment. A thought guided by the rhythm of Iguazu's hands on him, his own hands finding Iguazu's cheeks now, cupping his face, pulling him in closer, both of them hungry like carrion birds.
This time, Volta is still thinking in motion, but he is not out of the moment, nor lost in his own head. Iguazu's lips are curved into an undoubtedly smug grin, but his eyes glitter softly in the dark, and even his touch is somehow wordless encouragement, telling Volta silently that both of them want this, want more.
Volta's cheeks heat at the passing realization that Iguazu will never let him live this down, but somehow he can't find it in himself to be particularly upset with this revelation. After all, they'll surely have plenty of banter about it, plenty of fodder to playfight with. Smug Iguazu lights a fire under Volta's ass, but also makes him intent in a way very little else does -- makes him want to push back, makes him want to tussle. Confident Iguazu pisses him off, in a way, because Iguazu can be an ass sometimes when he's too haughty, too cocky, but also --
But also...
Stars, he's hot like this. Domineering and laser-focused. Knowing what he wants and searching for it. It's worth it. It's so, so worth it, feeling a little bit shy and a little bit of something akin to humiliation, but dampened by the knowledge that it's all a kind of play, at the end of the day (or night, as it were).
It's especially worth it when Iguazu crawls back on top of him, limbs folding like a spider, with that predatory gaze in his eyes again, pincers poised to strike, and this time Volta allows the swirl of heat that rushes through his stomach to take over his senses, to spread throughout his entire body, filling him with a fuzzy feeling almost like he's floating.
When Iguazu spreads his legs just a bit further, and hoists one thigh all the way up and over his shoulder, Volta lets out a noise without restraint. It's just a tiny moan, but it seems to invigorate Iguazu, slotting their hips firmly together, his own thighs squeezing Volta's sides.
His hands wander, thumbing over the scars and freckles that dot Volta's thighs, eyes lighting up when he spots the prominent mole towards the back of one inner thigh, crowning soft, sensitive skin. He rubs his index finger in a small circle around it, then over the bump. The sensation is odd, not easily comparable to much else of anything, but Volta finds he doesn't mind it. It's strange, interesting... Iguazu's canines glint through his droopy, parted lips, and Volta thinks he wants to sink his teeth in, wants to ring the mole with a red bitemark.
He's right -- Iguazu turns, pulling Volta's thigh higher over his shoulder, and dips down, contorting himself to nip at the inside of Volta's knee, first, then higher, higher, leaving red brands all up the swells of muscle and fat. And, of course, he makes certain to bite extra hard around the mole. Maybe the nerves there are pinched, maybe it's just Volta's imagination, but the sting of pain is a little bit different from that of the other bites, and just like how Iguazu touches it with his fingers, Volta finds himself aching, confusedly, for more.
Iguazu makes no move to penetrate Volta with his fingers, still happily groping him in an exploratory manner, but he does tease like he's thinking about it, parting Volta's folds slightly with one hand, reveling in how Volta shivers at the drag of one artificial thumbpad over the swell of his mons pubis. Just being touched so close to his entrance gets him painfully flustered, and he knows they can both tell. He's starting to drip, his arousal mingling with Iguazu's own, and the motion allows Iguazu to nestle himself a little bit further, a little bit deeper into the cradle of Volta's thighs. Finally, finally their tdicks slide together, slippery and wet and gratuitously messy, and Iguazu makes a face like he's been shot when he pushes his hips forward, rolling them down into Volta's. Every part of Volta that is damn near virginal and wildly overstimulated, unused to this kind of touch, this kind of everything-at-once, is singing for more, spinning out. Now he finds himself thoughtless again, but this time he doesn't mind.
It's easy, like this, to find a rhythm. With Iguazu egging him on, encouraging each and every noise out of him, his anxiety softens like the first snowmelt in spring. Something sprouting just under the dense, moist soil. The scent of petrichor, the scent of earth recycled by insects and other scavengers.
Still, when he begins to become overwhelmed by his own burgeoning self-consciousness again, he covers his eyes before he can think twice of it. shielding himself; like this he can simply feel, need not focus on the deluge of his other senses.
Iguazu, of course, does not let him get away with it. Hands over his eyes, embarrassed and hiding his blush, lasts for all of five seconds before Volta's partner is whining at him.
"Hey, hey," and there he goes again, practically folding Volta in half to reach his face, batting lightly at his hands. "Lemme see your face, dumbass."
In retaliation, Volta picks his shin up from Iguazu's upper back and swings it into the side of Iguazu's neck, making him sputter out a laugh as he dodges a foot to the back of his skull.
Still, Volta splays his fingers a little wider, peeking out from between them to meet Iguazu's insistent gaze. When Iguazu's fingers tangle with his own, he allows his partner to draw one hand away from his face. It feels good, grounding, and it's enough that Volta decides on his own to pick up his other hand, settling it on Iguazu's thigh and pulling the other man even more snugly against him.
He's giddy, eager now that he feels confident, their enthusiasm mutual and infectious, a feedback loop in an infinity sign between them as Iguazu settles back again, contented, and shifts his focus entirely to the rhythm of their hips together. There's so much pressure, and the contrasting stiffness of their blood-swollen clits with the softness of the surrounding flesh makes Volta dizzy with need, the sensations overwhelming in the same way as an artisanal delicacy.
Iguazu rocks back and forth atop him, clinging to his leg like a support beam or a tree trunk -- it's thick enough to be one, anyhow. The motion brings Volta with him, body pushed back and forth on the bed, flexible and pliant like a doll. His thighs and voice shake, vaguely aware of how wet he is, too fuzzy in the head to be embarrassed about it anymore. Especially with how Iguazu is rutting against Volta, rapturous noises tumbling from between his lips. He'd be a madman not to get terribly turned on by this, by all of it -- Iguazu's fierce determination, his single-minded focus on achieving his objective. The objective, of course, being to totally wreck Volta.
Iguazu grins all catlike down at him, languid and smug; Volta whines. "You're so fucking full of yourself," he grumbles, though his heart isn't really in the complaint.
Iguazu laughs, a bright, jagged sound like glittering crystal formations, like the lattice of Coral self-replicating on a suitable host surface, a sound that fills Volta's stomach with heat.
"I think you like me like this, though, don't you?" he purrs.
Volta's cheeks are already burning, but they somehow heat even more at the admission. He swears you could forge a blade with that molten lava, but it's true what Iguazu says. His stomach is a fluttery mess of Lepidoptera, and something there always flips and flops like a beached fish when Iguazu speaks to him in that tone, just short of mocking, almost sickly-sweet, yet somehow still mirthful enough to come across as genuinely affectionate.
"You're so fucking... ugh," Iguazu curses. He rolls his hips in a circle, dragging his cunt across Volta's, their slick mixing to make the next motion even smoother. The friction of their hips and thighs is enough at first to keep it from becoming too slippery, keeping them braced against each other even as Iguazu's motions start to become sloppier, faster, slightly losing their rhythm.
"I'm ugh?" Volta teases, though his voice shakes with the strain of it, with how turned on he is right now, arousal rapidly building, tension brimming low and tight in his gut. He needs... needs more, needs release.
"You make me crazy," Iguazu hisses, grip tightening on Volta's thigh. He hopes it'll leave a bruise. Iguazu doesn't slow, and Volta's traitor body doesn't stop leaking his rampant arousal, and the building nexus of pleasure starts to spread itself thin, the wetness becoming almost too much -- the slippery sensations overwhelming, and not enough friction for Iguazu's hips to stay in place. It's so slick, neither of them can find the right place to grind, and while it seems to drive Iguazu as mad as it does Volta, he also seems to prefer the route of using this against Volta. Or, well, for him, but in the moment it feels like it's against him, the incessant teasing slide as Iguazu picks his hips up just enough to rub his hard clit directly against Volta's, each time giving them just a moment of delicious contact before they lose their grounding.
"Ig," he gasps, "c'mon, work with me a little," and from the way Iguazu's eyes flick to his before returning to between his legs, he gets the idea that Iguazu is very intentionally messing with him like this. Which means complaining will just incite him to make Volta's torment last longer.
Oh, well. There are certainly worse punishments.
"Ig," he begs, when Iguazu rubs his hips in a sideways motion instead of forward and back like he's been doing, switching his rhythm for just long enough to make Volta's head spin before he resumes the previous pattern. "Ig, y'got me losin' my mind over here," he tries, and it's a herculean feat to compose even half a full sentence in his current state, but he'll manage. For Iguazu, he could manage almost anything.
"Ask nicely," Iguazu tells him, and Volta groans.
"Please," he spits, before he can think twice about it, "fuck me already, you tease," and he's rewarded with Iguazu picking himself up and then sitting back down heavily in his lap, squishing their tdicks together. This time, Iguazu tugs on his leg, hooking Volta's knee more snugly over his shoulder, and shuffles up so his knees are pressing into Volta's ribs.
Volta takes a heavy, shuddering breath. He feels pinned, trapped, an insect in a shadowbox, taxidermy on a mount. He feels like prey, and he loves it. Heart pounding with excitement, he feels alive like this.
Iguazu rolls his hips in an aborted forward motion, a little tease, a little test. Volta bites back the whimper that wants to escape him, thinking too much for a moment, and Iguazu glares heatedly at him, repeating the movement of his hips.
This time Volta lets the moan spill over, lets it tumble from his lips. Iguazu's beaming, crooked smile is like the guttering warmth of spring's first sunlight hitting his skin. A reward in and of itself, and a very good incentive for him to keep being noisy.
When Iguazu starts moving again, really putting his back into it this time, Volta moves with him, and lets his head fall back onto the pillows. Lets his breath come as loud as it will, as ragged, as intermingled with noises of ecstasy as his body desires. He is nothing but a hollow vessel for the sound, the will within him, and it is burgeoning with need. His body sings with the cosmic rightness of being aligned in this way with Iguazu, body and soul, mind and something else without a name.
"Holy shit," Iguazu gasps, audibly winded, "you're so fucking wet, dude."
Volta manages a vague noise of protest, embarrassed by Iguazu's words even though they're nearly the same ones he frequently inflicts upon Iguazu, teasing him for his body's natural response to arousal because doing so will only make him even more aroused.
"I bet," Iguazu adds, conversational even as he's panting in between every other word, "I could eat you out right now and you'd fuckin' squirt all over my face."
That gets an utterly wrecked, practically mindless sound from Volta; there is absolutely no conscious communication between his brain and mouth, only the instinctive feelings welling up at Iguazu's crude words, and the animal sound his body produces in reply.
Iguazu laughs at him, but it's not a mocking sound. It's the sound of god you're so fucking cute -- even though neither of them would ever be caught dead saying as much out loud, Volta knows every version of Iguazu's cackle, bark, and crowing howl.
He must take pity on Volta, now, or at least decide his job of teasing is well enough done by now, because something glitters decisively in his eyes when he peers down at Volta's face again, like he's surveying a starfield, like he's made up his mind where to go.
Volta makes it very loudly apparent when Iguazu has found the right angle to scissor their legs together, dicks in contact, slick and wet but still with enough friction left that each repeated motion drives the feedback higher, higher, harder, further...
This time Iguazu doesn't tease him -- at least, not much. He pulls back to adjust himself, and seems to drink in the cry Volta lets out at the loss of contact, but then he's pushing forward with redoubled energy, both hands bracing Volta's thighs, keeping them spread just enough to rut between how he pleases, dragging his own pleasure out of Volta's body.
Volta, head spinning, sinks into the mattress, head flopping into the pillows, letting the softness and the weight of his limbs swallow him up. Sinking into the warm, heady vortex of every sensation at once, a swirling tropical storm building in his groin as he happily allows Iguazu to do whatever he wants. Vaguely, he is aware that proceeding like this could mean they won't come at the same time, but he doesn't particularly care whether he finishes before or after Iguazu. Either way, he gets the satisfaction of watching Iguazu use his body to bring himself to completion, and either way, he'll only have superficial complaints if Iguazu does decide to entertain the idea of eating him out after this. The complaints, of course, being that he'll possibly explode and die of overstimulation, but fuck if it won't feel really, really good in the afterglow. He's at Iguazu's mercy, at the beck and call of those hands on him, and there's no place he'd rather be right now.
In the end, they don't wind up making it that far. Even if this isn't mechanically different from how they've fooled around before, it's an entirely different experience, an entirely distinct feeling for Volta, to have their positions reversed like this. The weight of Iguazu, slight but still heavy atop him, quiets some primal howling in his brain, as if he didn't even notice it'd been there the whole time until Iguazu crawled on top of him, soothing the static, quelling the noise.
He gets the feeling that this particular sensation is a mutual one.
Still, it's a lot -- not in a bad way! -- and soon enough Volta's hands are flying up to grip Iguazu's thighs (his gaze flicks hungrily down, for a moment, as if gauging whether the touch will leave bruises -- Volta thinks -- no, knows Iguazu will quietly rejoice if so, knows he'll dig his thumbs in later to feel the dull ache, to make the mark last longer), Volta gasping out an incoherent plea and warning wrapped into one.
"Ig, Iggy, please, I'm gonna -- Ig --"
He knows he's spouting nonsense, but the very small part of his forebrain that is still actively working right now also knows that Iguazu fucking loves it when he gets like this, completely stupid with it, the absolute champion of sounding desperate as anything right when he's clawing his way up to that delicious edge.
"Go ahead," Iguazu says, rocking his hips particularly roughly into Volta's, and the drag of his cock over Volta's shorts a fuse somewhere in Volta's brain, the hood snagging on his own, soft folds of flesh slipping past one another like rolling foothills in an avalanche, a mudslide, a tsunami of pleasure. "Come for me."
He says it so flippantly, so casually, as if he's been waiting this whole time to put on a show just for this one moment, to really rub it in how they're doing this tonight. He also says it with the confidence of a man who knows there's no possible way his order could go totally ignored, even if it's not fulfilled immediately.
There are, in fact, a few fumbling seconds of both of them gasping, pathetically rutting against each other like two dogs in heat, and then Iguazu's nails are digging into Volta's flesh and the ache and the sting and everything is coagulating at once into a single beam of continuous feedback, a sensation he cannot drag his focus away from for one single moment until the pressure reaches its critical point.
It is a single wave cresting its peak, and his mouth open in a silent gasp, then one very long, very loud, garbled scream of a moan. Iguazu's hips stutter against his, and heat spills over both of them where their bodies are joined, and Iguazu doesn't stop even when Volta slumps into the mattress, dead weight, still frantically humping him.
Volta wouldn't dream of stopping him, even though the overstimulation begins to grate at his nerves. He, too, is still stuttering, twitching listlessly, completely out of control of his own body as he rides out the high, Iguazu dutifully rutting against him. All he can do is curl his hands around Iguazu's thighs, holding his partner in place, allowing him to continue taking his pleasure until he, too, is fully sated. All he can do is lie back and watch, drinking in the gorgeous sight of Iguazu convulsing in pleasure atop him, his own brain still half-offline, the vision of Iguazu's arched back over him like some great work of art he was born too late to see in person, glowing and hazy.
He's lucky he manages to catch Iguazu when the smaller man slumps, buckling atop him and flopping down onto his chest with a heavy oomph. Small though he may be, that arm can do some serious damage, and so can all those sharp points and angles, bones too close to the skin.
Iguazu, squirming like a worm, still tries to get more, still shoves his thigh in between Volta's and wrings out a few last desperate half-circles of his hips into Volta's, their slick mingling and mixing and generally making a huge fucking mess of their naked bodies.
It's gross, but in the sort of delightful, indulgent way that is still very much enjoyable, especially with how Iguazu pivots so quickly into being a total lovebug after he finishes -- though he'd never admit it, and he'd kill Volta for saying as much. Volta doesn't think of himself as such, but it's instinctive and thoughtless for him, too, to draw Iguazu's limp, trembling form into his arms, letting the other man lay atop him, nuzzling into his neck.
For a long moment, they are silent, breathing together, hearts beating together, coming down from their mutual high.
"That was so fuckin' good," Iguazu mumbles finally, the sound a soft vibration against Volta's throat. "We should do that again. Like, all the time."
"All the time?" Volta echoes, confused, because he's not firing on all four cylinders right now and the semantics of it bounces off his skull.
Iguazu shifts, molding himself even more tightly to Volta's body. "Y'know what I mean. Should switch it up more often."
Relief blossoms in Volta's chest, though he did, in fact, know what Iguazu meant. It never hurts to ask for clarity.
He tightens his arms around Iguazu's torso, one hand habitually coming up to cup the back of his neck. "Yeah. We should. That was really good." In the afterglow, tiredness is beginning to creep up on him, along with the return of his exhaustion from earlier as the momentary energy surge wears off. He could sleep for a week, like this. Could melt into a puddle with Iguazu and be concerned with nothing else outside of their little bubble.
He can't; they have responsibilities to attend to. But for now they have a few hours, they have time at least to sleep together in a literal sense.
Sleep claims Volta soon, murmuring a slurred "love you," with a messy kiss before he turns his face into the warmth of Iguazu's throat and settles down, not waiting for a response. Iguazu takes a while longer to succumb, but he doesn't mind this arrangement -- certainly doesn't mind Volta snuffling and mumbling sweet nothings in his sleep, leaving Iguazu alone with his thoughts and, however mortifying they may be even to himself, his private feelings. Alone with the truest extent of his affection.
Volta doesn't know this, because he's already peacefully slumbering under the weighted blanket of Iguazu's body, but as Iguazu finds a comfortable position to fall asleep in, he sighs softly into the juncture of Volta's neck and shoulder. Sighs, and lips over a scar there, letting his canines graze the skin oh-so gently. Then presses a proper kiss, for good measure, sucking just enough to see the raised line of the scar tissue meeting unmarred skin cells.
"Love ya too, beetle," he whispers, flicking one of Volta's curls and watching the heavy, buoyant section of hair bounce slightly before it falls back to rest on his shoulder.
He sighs again, not quite disappointed in himself, but not exactly satisfied, either. Still, there's nothing for it. This is their arrangement, isn't it? If Volta expected him to say it back, he'd wait to fall asleep.
Or maybe not. maybe he trusts that Iguazu feels it, that Iguazu means it whether he's brave enough to say it or not -- that, at least, Iguazu accepts it from Volta, even if he doesn't return it -- enough that he's simply comfortable falling asleep without hearing it in return.
That's admirable, if so. And a bit hopeful to boot. Something still feels unfulfilled within Iguazu's little insectoid heart, but it's easier to bear than before; certainly much easier than when he hadn't worked up the courage to ask if he could have Volta like this, let alone if they could fool around at all.
In any case, he knows Volta feels it. And Volta knows that he knows that, knows that he accepts it too. No matter how shyly, he does accept Volta's affection.
Maybe that's enough. If not forever, enough for now.
Enough for Iguazu to settle his head back into the crook of Volta's neck, and to allow the rhythm of his partner's heart lull him to sleep.
He is alive. He is here, although it doesn't particularly matter where here is, just that Volta is there too. He is warm and safe and (even if scared of it!) loved, loved so much he does not even know how to fathom it.
Tonight, it is enough.