[Challenged not once, but twice in the same night—
It's invigorating.
Though sensing courted danger means comprehending it first. And while his mind is screaming here— here here here, stay here— anywhere but home, there's nothing but elation to be found even before momentum catches him off guard: dropped back between cold brick and cool air, but not his captive guard.
Tch.
He really thought he'd had him that time. Something about the blackness in green eyes whenever his tongue would slip out just between the edges of his teeth. The hollow darkness there, just begging for release. There's such a loveliness about it, that hollow-eyed, sleepless, handsomely gaunted face— so unlike any of the Upper City's nobility or guardsmen or merchants, wearing nicks and hunger from real battle, maybe, and smelling of split air before a storm— he wanted to see what it looked like on its knees. Flush. Dizzy. Tanned cheek pushed high over the span of his still clothed thigh for just a taste of what lies inches from his mouth. Led to water; yet to drink.
But he's had too much drink of his own to dwell on that without moving, though.
Smile— drunk and stupid, lost under a heavy curtain of displaced curls— stretched across his lips in the moment he reaches back again with one arm, fingertips splayed wide as if there was still a gloved grip clutching at his wrist. His other hand slipped deep inside his open waistband, tugging slow in masked obscurity. Again. And again. And again. The movement is what kills (and sates); pumped from shoulder to elbow to shuttling forearm, promising that out of sight is nothing close to out of mind right now.]
Whatever you want, Fenris.
[Pronunciation slurred, oh yes, he'd paid attention to how his family first beckoned him by name. Fenris, he repeats, letting his head turn to one side and his focus leave him in heavy rhythms. Fenris....Fenris.... ]
....how old are you....?
[He asks, panting so hard for every stroke that his voice is halting. Head tilted down, attention hung low and harsh between impatient fingers; it's only by virtue of habit that this scene is so compulsively lurid. (He wants to get off just as much as Fenris wants to save face and find closed doors. Desperation pretty in a squalid little alley. )
One stubborn wrench thrown into simple plans deserves another, after all.]
When was— ah— [Ah— and he twists right where he stands, throat raised while his chin lifts skyward, gasping for a dangerous pang of satisfaction.] —when was the last time you even touched yourself....?
no subject
It's invigorating.
Though sensing courted danger means comprehending it first. And while his mind is screaming here— here here here, stay here— anywhere but home, there's nothing but elation to be found even before momentum catches him off guard: dropped back between cold brick and cool air, but not his captive guard.
Tch.
He really thought he'd had him that time. Something about the blackness in green eyes whenever his tongue would slip out just between the edges of his teeth. The hollow darkness there, just begging for release. There's such a loveliness about it, that hollow-eyed, sleepless, handsomely gaunted face— so unlike any of the Upper City's nobility or guardsmen or merchants, wearing nicks and hunger from real battle, maybe, and smelling of split air before a storm— he wanted to see what it looked like on its knees. Flush. Dizzy. Tanned cheek pushed high over the span of his still clothed thigh for just a taste of what lies inches from his mouth. Led to water; yet to drink.
But he's had too much drink of his own to dwell on that without moving, though.
Smile— drunk and stupid, lost under a heavy curtain of displaced curls— stretched across his lips in the moment he reaches back again with one arm, fingertips splayed wide as if there was still a gloved grip clutching at his wrist. His other hand slipped deep inside his open waistband, tugging slow in masked obscurity. Again. And again. And again. The movement is what kills (and sates); pumped from shoulder to elbow to shuttling forearm, promising that out of sight is nothing close to out of mind right now.]
Whatever you want, Fenris.
[Pronunciation slurred, oh yes, he'd paid attention to how his family first beckoned him by name. Fenris, he repeats, letting his head turn to one side and his focus leave him in heavy rhythms. Fenris....Fenris.... ]
....how old are you....?
[He asks, panting so hard for every stroke that his voice is halting. Head tilted down, attention hung low and harsh between impatient fingers; it's only by virtue of habit that this scene is so compulsively lurid. (He wants to get off just as much as Fenris wants to save face and find closed doors. Desperation pretty in a squalid little alley. )
One stubborn wrench thrown into simple plans deserves another, after all.]
When was— ah— [Ah— and he twists right where he stands, throat raised while his chin lifts skyward, gasping for a dangerous pang of satisfaction.] —when was the last time you even touched yourself....?
[....or someone else.]