[His mouth (stained at its leftmost corner from supper wine) is already open to fire off a wry-yet-vulnerable appeal in the first few seconds while those fingers work, strong knuckles pushing inadvertently into his skin (his pulse slipping with every glance, making the whole thing a sort of joint-measure exercise): where for every knot come loose or every slid centimeter his heartrate resets a little more. And a little more. Distracted but not lost, he sucks in one shallow sip of air by the time that work is done, poised to exhale in the next beat— wrapping figurative thread around the needle of a confession designed to dredge up connectivity. Empathy. A fed passeri weeping from its perch about misery in Hesperides.
It dies when the shadow at his back levels its stare his way.
His shirt slips free and he barely feels it. Cold air takes the place of those knuckles. Thin cloth. Sheer linen. A shiver runs up his spine, and it's luck that nothing of it shows. Caught in the vicelock press of words like mind me, behave as I do, be good— caught in the medusine fix of those unblinking emerald eyes—
Everything else is just frosting.]
....hm.
[Ah, there's his belated exhale.
(Light.
Airy.
Smooth as the tip of a dagger pushed to tender skin.)
Treacherous mouth curling upwards at its edges well before he turns, leaving the both of them face to face instead.]
A babysitter with a spine.
[Be good, his brand new toy-that-isn't-one insists— but does he mean good as in the daylit definition? Or....perhaps he craves something more suited to the shadows where they stand....?
For a boy who's taken meals from two different sets of tables, he opts to frame that question in the way his own arched fingertips slide into leather beltloops, tugging once to bring them closer. Mirror cold against his naked spine— his thigh hooked rapidly between still-clothed legs, pushing them both into a sinful junction while his hands work to keep them anchored fast. Surprisingly athletic for his station.
no subject
It dies when the shadow at his back levels its stare his way.
His shirt slips free and he barely feels it. Cold air takes the place of those knuckles. Thin cloth. Sheer linen. A shiver runs up his spine, and it's luck that nothing of it shows. Caught in the vicelock press of words like mind me, behave as I do, be good— caught in the medusine fix of those unblinking emerald eyes—
Everything else is just frosting.]
....hm.
[Ah, there's his belated exhale.
(Light.
Airy.
Smooth as the tip of a dagger pushed to tender skin.)
Treacherous mouth curling upwards at its edges well before he turns, leaving the both of them face to face instead.]
A babysitter with a spine.
[Be good, his brand new toy-that-isn't-one insists— but does he mean good as in the daylit definition? Or....perhaps he craves something more suited to the shadows where they stand....?
For a boy who's taken meals from two different sets of tables, he opts to frame that question in the way his own arched fingertips slide into leather beltloops, tugging once to bring them closer. Mirror cold against his naked spine— his thigh hooked rapidly between still-clothed legs, pushing them both into a sinful junction while his hands work to keep them anchored fast. Surprisingly athletic for his station.
(Oh, trouble, by any name.)]
How rigid would he like me, exactly....?