Though it might be surprising for some to learn it, Kurt doesn't always find it easy to allow himself to be appreciated. A consummate showman he might be, but it's a part of himself he can, at least, control. The costumes, the poses, the artifice of the act are things he learned as a child to disguise himself against uncaring eyes, and the compulsion to fall back on them is strong. The mask of the player may allow him to walk the stage, but it's a mask nonetheless. To allow himself to be seen and touched, nothing except air between his body and another person, still causes a small thrill of fear, like insense smoke, to rise up inside him. That small part of him that was born in Jardine's cage and on the wet cobbles of Willendorf will always be waiting for the flinch of disgust, the hand that stops exploring and pulls away. Over time, through experiences of loving and being loved, it's become easier to ignore that voice. But it remains, and so Kurt takes a breath to steady himself as Wrench lowers himself over his body, grateful once more that the tall man seems to want no excuse to stop.

Trust and gratitude. The mingled song of both rises and falls between Kurt's heartbeats like a mantra, or a prayer.

Kurt lies back on the sheets and lets himself ease into that refrain, letting himself relax as Wrench's fingertips brush channels through his fur. His breath catches as Wrench's hand dips lower, his tail winding around to allow the tip to dance down Wrench's back, the space between heartbeats becoming too close for meditations.

Eyes heavy-lidded and glowing like pumpkin candles, he reaches out to run his fingers through Wrench's curls, lifting his hips a little in encouragement. He's already hard enough to round out the front of the flannel pyjama pants, aching to feel the heat of Wrench's breath and tongue beneath them.

Please, he signs, fingers brushing lazily through the fur on his chest.