[His vision is filled with the sight of that cold glare.
An exhale— and his lips crack open without breath, silver eyes shivering as their pupils constrict into beaded little pinpricks, the byproduct of terror bred ages ago into his forebearers: alertness meant for unwalled places. Rigidity to counter prey drive, but it doesn't work as well when his own jeweled fingertips lay tight against tanned skin. Everything he provoked through carelessness (the kind he still can't track in hindsight) hunched over him in a corded array of knotwork muscle. His ribcage— that narrow network of threading marrow— made narrower by the steady lock of an arm that feels like steel around his body, keeping him from sucking in full gasps of deadened air.
And those fingerpads....]
I—
[His curls part under pressure. He thinks his legs might, too, though as his cock jerks hot against his thigh it's only his own toes that curl, scrubbing at silk sheets.
He could come from this.
He—
—click— or maybe it's a wetter sound when his tongue unhooks itself from the roof of his mouth, the act of swallowing too noisy to ignore. Tender throat bobbing only once.]
....whatever you want.
[It's not a line. The words have to crawl from his throat to leave his mouth in roughcut shambles, registered like dry silt to his ears. And with the implication of anything his left leg inches higher, nudging in a less-dazed invitation that's as reflexive as a buckled spine or lowered, motionless dedition. The subtle scuff of their trousers pinching round their knees leading into that slight shift in balance. Adding pressure to the notion of surrender through open thighs....and the ensuing rush that drives two pale hands up to fist however they can in white hair set to match. The same breed of boldness as sweat-lined palms locked tight around the grip of a borrowed gun.
He's a fawn. A yearling with velvet on his pallid antlers. A soft-bellied beast laid back— no one's master.
no subject
An exhale— and his lips crack open without breath, silver eyes shivering as their pupils constrict into beaded little pinpricks, the byproduct of terror bred ages ago into his forebearers: alertness meant for unwalled places. Rigidity to counter prey drive, but it doesn't work as well when his own jeweled fingertips lay tight against tanned skin. Everything he provoked through carelessness (the kind he still can't track in hindsight) hunched over him in a corded array of knotwork muscle. His ribcage— that narrow network of threading marrow— made narrower by the steady lock of an arm that feels like steel around his body, keeping him from sucking in full gasps of deadened air.
And those fingerpads....]
I—
[His curls part under pressure. He thinks his legs might, too, though as his cock jerks hot against his thigh it's only his own toes that curl, scrubbing at silk sheets.
He could come from this.
He—
—click— or maybe it's a wetter sound when his tongue unhooks itself from the roof of his mouth, the act of swallowing too noisy to ignore. Tender throat bobbing only once.]
....whatever you want.
[It's not a line. The words have to crawl from his throat to leave his mouth in roughcut shambles, registered like dry silt to his ears. And with the implication of anything his left leg inches higher, nudging in a less-dazed invitation that's as reflexive as a buckled spine or lowered, motionless dedition. The subtle scuff of their trousers pinching round their knees leading into that slight shift in balance. Adding pressure to the notion of surrender through open thighs....and the ensuing rush that drives two pale hands up to fist however they can in white hair set to match. The same breed of boldness as sweat-lined palms locked tight around the grip of a borrowed gun.
He's a fawn. A yearling with velvet on his pallid antlers. A soft-bellied beast laid back— no one's master.
And Fenris is no slave.]