Deflecting honesty, as abrupt as Markus has it in him to be while he's knuckle-deep in Simon's upturned, open mouth. Evidence speaks louder than words— and it's evidence that punctuates itself in the way Markus's breathing cycles stutter (briefly) when Simon's tongue flexes smoothly. Intentionally. The freckles spattered across Markus's cheeks twitching alongside the angle of his nose, manufactured musculature turning him into an open book. Again.
Surfeit.
He slides the printless pad of his index finger over the tip of one of those fangs, letting it gracefully unhook where it's leveraged. Absorbing the narrow click click click of its connecting mechanisms, stretching them as far out of place as anatomy allows, against its own natural carriage until resistance becomes a full, unmoving stop. It reduces him, on some level. Funnels the span of his own complex processes down into the sick, glinting sheen of that needle splayed harmlessly over his fingertip, attention pooling.
Jericho is so quiet some part of markus worries they'll be uncovered.
It doesn't stop him. Doesn't impress any real amount of preventative caution like it probably should. Simon looks so calm, and Markus can't imagine what he looks like in contrast. Ring finger pressing against his middle, moving across the artful line of Simon's lower lip and the rosy sheen it's artificially been programmed to project, peeking out from beneath viscous, fading blue. Shifting from manipulating the PL600's fangs as Simon's tongue buries itself at the intersection of his fingers, curling. Needle-tip rolled harmlessly across his knuckles, hand leveling where he lends his own pressure to that contact. Experimental. All of it. Recklessly and blindly but he—
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
—touches the tip of his middle finger to the compressed back of Simon's tongue, where it empties out into the hollow of his throat. Near that supplemental tangle of connective cording, no longer visible.
no subject
Deflecting honesty, as abrupt as Markus has it in him to be while he's knuckle-deep in Simon's upturned, open mouth. Evidence speaks louder than words— and it's evidence that punctuates itself in the way Markus's breathing cycles stutter (briefly) when Simon's tongue flexes smoothly. Intentionally. The freckles spattered across Markus's cheeks twitching alongside the angle of his nose, manufactured musculature turning him into an open book. Again.
Surfeit.
He slides the printless pad of his index finger over the tip of one of those fangs, letting it gracefully unhook where it's leveraged. Absorbing the narrow click click click of its connecting mechanisms, stretching them as far out of place as anatomy allows, against its own natural carriage until resistance becomes a full, unmoving stop. It reduces him, on some level. Funnels the span of his own complex processes down into the sick, glinting sheen of that needle splayed harmlessly over his fingertip, attention pooling.
Jericho is so quiet some part of markus worries they'll be uncovered.
It doesn't stop him. Doesn't impress any real amount of preventative caution like it probably should. Simon looks so calm, and Markus can't imagine what he looks like in contrast. Ring finger pressing against his middle, moving across the artful line of Simon's lower lip and the rosy sheen it's artificially been programmed to project, peeking out from beneath viscous, fading blue. Shifting from manipulating the PL600's fangs as Simon's tongue buries itself at the intersection of his fingers, curling. Needle-tip rolled harmlessly across his knuckles, hand leveling where he lends his own pressure to that contact. Experimental. All of it. Recklessly and blindly but he—
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
—touches the tip of his middle finger to the compressed back of Simon's tongue, where it empties out into the hollow of his throat. Near that supplemental tangle of connective cording, no longer visible.
Does anyone else know? Lucy?