[No one in the history of the world has ever gone so fast from smugset crowing to running redder than the blood pooled hot beneath his skin.
All right, maybe someone else has, fine, but definitely not anyone inside these walls from his own winding lineage. No one sporting the last name Ancunín. No one descended from the oft mystified elven towers in a city full of mayfly humans. No one that spends his days chasing the lower class like chickens for a laugh, riling them up like a substitute for all the excitement that he lacks inside the stiff cage of his world, his life, his body. He's crushed dreams just to imbibe them. He's broken hearts and mixed them into his drink so that he can have a good story at the end of a long week where he can't bloody stand the looks his family gives him. Truth be told, he's already forgotten that mewling noble from the night before, too. Like there was no one in the room beside them while he groaned out Fenris' name, his memory punches holes all on its own— cutting out the unimportant just to feel the rest in full.
He feels it now.
That thumb pushes into his skin in the half-step to the bed (point scored), and it defies logic for the way it's sunken right through his curled spine, kicking at his rabbiting heart. Jumpstarting it when it's already overrun, and when he sinks into the mattress (pulled close enough to feel warm breath along his cheek), it stays exactly where it was: hovering three steps back in midair and thrumming without gravity.
Fuck.]
You.
[Oh, nope. No, that's not—
His tongue hits the back of his throat in a sort of bob, which— for better or worse— kind of sounds like a hitch when he's run dry from a night of drinking, smoking, orgasming, drooling, trembling....only to wake up and do it all again. In other words, he sounds about as rough-used as he feels, which has the added bonus of you reading more like a stuttered you— as in: it's his body that stops the thought before it gets out. As in: there was something else he wanted to say, even if that's a lie sold through the roughened bite he shoves against the front of Fenris' throat in steep aversion, letting his teeth slide over glassy brands.]
POINTS. AT. YOU.
All right, maybe someone else has, fine, but definitely not anyone inside these walls from his own winding lineage. No one sporting the last name Ancunín. No one descended from the oft mystified elven towers in a city full of mayfly humans. No one that spends his days chasing the lower class like chickens for a laugh, riling them up like a substitute for all the excitement that he lacks inside the stiff cage of his world, his life, his body. He's crushed dreams just to imbibe them. He's broken hearts and mixed them into his drink so that he can have a good story at the end of a long week where he can't bloody stand the looks his family gives him. Truth be told, he's already forgotten that mewling noble from the night before, too. Like there was no one in the room beside them while he groaned out Fenris' name, his memory punches holes all on its own— cutting out the unimportant just to feel the rest in full.
He feels it now.
That thumb pushes into his skin in the half-step to the bed (point scored), and it defies logic for the way it's sunken right through his curled spine, kicking at his rabbiting heart. Jumpstarting it when it's already overrun, and when he sinks into the mattress (pulled close enough to feel warm breath along his cheek), it stays exactly where it was: hovering three steps back in midair and thrumming without gravity.
Fuck.]
You.
[Oh, nope. No, that's not—
His tongue hits the back of his throat in a sort of bob, which— for better or worse— kind of sounds like a hitch when he's run dry from a night of drinking, smoking, orgasming, drooling, trembling....only to wake up and do it all again. In other words, he sounds about as rough-used as he feels, which has the added bonus of you reading more like a stuttered you— as in: it's his body that stops the thought before it gets out. As in: there was something else he wanted to say, even if that's a lie sold through the roughened bite he shoves against the front of Fenris' throat in steep aversion, letting his teeth slide over glassy brands.]