[ a flinch of razored muscles is all that touch brings. it's strange, how he can feel it, as if on his skin and yet echoed through each facet of the sharp jewel's refracture until it nestles into his own muscle. teasing and temptation are not things Guanshan holds up well against. ]
[ russet-tipped eyelashes go low. considering, maybe. apologizing, perhaps. compartmentalizing. people's minds do all sorts of things when they go against their own morality; he would know better than most. when he looks back, it's almost doe-eyed and beguiling, but not so much as his mouth parting open, willing and pliant, for that first big gulp. it may as well be his legs spreading open for all the invitation it holds. ]
[ delicate guiding fingers at Cain's elbow help — but he lets it be a clumsy, messy, raw thing, his lips parted around the glass and his adams apple bobbing with the drink, but not in any time or hurry that saves amber from running down his chin, his swallowing throat, the freckled and unmarred expanse of his ever-rosying chest. nor do his eyes leave Cain's, dark and charcoaled-in, just like a devilish memory that sometimes comes to warm his bedside. ]
[ when he's relinquished, he chases the flavor with his tongue to openly showing his appreciation, the breath and pulse of the lamb quickened in the presence of the wolf. ]
Shouldn't touch me, either.
[ there's no denying that light little tone — it's coy. ]
[Eyes fall to that long, pale throat like a snap of teeth, admiring tracks of honey-colored liquid, gleaming pulsepoint beneath the knot of cartilage and freckled skin made slick on its way down. The open parting of Guanshan’s lips briefly reveal that dark interior behind teeth, wet and red as lips latch onto the bottle’s rim with benign obedience—and every thirsty swallow a jump of elastic in that working throat. Cain wants to put his hand around it. He barely suppresses the urge, muscles tightly corded by impatience, focus of a dark gaze dropping to the pretty green blink of that embedded gem.
Lucky for him, he thinks. Some divination of fate has placed this gift directly into his greedy palms. Cain takes the bottle back, savoring the brush of contact at his elbow before he reaches around and plants the mead over the tub’s rim, onto slats of wood. He does this while bringing himself into closer proximity, water lapping at sides, almost grazing contact.]
Guess we’re already breaking rules. [The small offer of drink is the gateway drug before he asks for a little more, and a little more.] What’s another? Your secret’s mine, promise.
[Unbarred now, no hesitation prevents one strong, knuckled-scarred hand from coming up to cradle that sharp and angular jaw. He uses the hold to turn Guanshan’s head toward him, eyes aligned, mouths millimeters apart to share breath in the almost-kiss. The other hand sinks south to caress his flank, thumb purposefully rubbing across that sharp little gem like he’s fingering a bruise, or some more intimate spot. Synchrony doesn’t even occur to him in the moment.]
Fuck, you’re too pretty for some asshole to get you all to themselves.
[ with the volume of everything turned up, it's so much more. Cain drawing closer brings the body heat of a black sun, his touch like the smooth slither of a snake's belly, eyes as bright and hot as the searchlights in hell. the forbidden promise of trust between besmircher and besmirched is another drug, another drink to him; he can taste honey-mead breath on his mouth and pivots forward with the urge to taste it more only to grapple with the ropes at the last moment. ]
[ the brush is brief, velvety, just a graze on the fullest points of both their lips. Guanshan shivers with the tension the way a hung body jerks, exhales harshly as the yearning twists just a little tighter. he won't let himself have it yet, isn't finished relishing in the suspense — will they, won't they? more importantly, "will he or will I?" when giving in and not giving in both mean victory and reward, playing the long game only elongates the fun. ]
[ because for as long as this lasts, he already belongs to the man encircling him. the (unabashed, uncontrolled, unconsidered) quiet burn of synchrony has writ as much. it projects a single note: desire. this, all as he lowers his eyes and wishes for this body so close against him. ]
Mm'supposed to be quiet... no matter what happens.
[ spindly fingers emerge from beneath the water, dripping points pattering softly back into the bath, and then onto Cain's skin, and then the water connects them as he oh so gently pets his way up his breathing sternum. an excuse to be completely unbidden... among the promises that need to be kept. he's never heard himself called "pretty" (it almost makes him laugh), but he does know most of the honeypots he'd fall into traps for — and it's not especially difficult to stoke a hotblooded man's imagination. ]
But I don't think anyone will hear us here, d'you?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ russet-tipped eyelashes go low. considering, maybe. apologizing, perhaps. compartmentalizing. people's minds do all sorts of things when they go against their own morality; he would know better than most. when he looks back, it's almost doe-eyed and beguiling, but not so much as his mouth parting open, willing and pliant, for that first big gulp. it may as well be his legs spreading open for all the invitation it holds. ]
[ delicate guiding fingers at Cain's elbow help — but he lets it be a clumsy, messy, raw thing, his lips parted around the glass and his adams apple bobbing with the drink, but not in any time or hurry that saves amber from running down his chin, his swallowing throat, the freckled and unmarred expanse of his ever-rosying chest. nor do his eyes leave Cain's, dark and charcoaled-in, just like a devilish memory that sometimes comes to warm his bedside. ]
[ when he's relinquished, he chases the flavor with his tongue to openly showing his appreciation, the breath and pulse of the lamb quickened in the presence of the wolf. ]
Shouldn't touch me, either.
[ there's no denying that light little tone — it's coy. ]
no subject
Lucky for him, he thinks. Some divination of fate has placed this gift directly into his greedy palms. Cain takes the bottle back, savoring the brush of contact at his elbow before he reaches around and plants the mead over the tub’s rim, onto slats of wood. He does this while bringing himself into closer proximity, water lapping at sides, almost grazing contact.]
Guess we’re already breaking rules. [The small offer of drink is the gateway drug before he asks for a little more, and a little more.] What’s another? Your secret’s mine, promise.
[Unbarred now, no hesitation prevents one strong, knuckled-scarred hand from coming up to cradle that sharp and angular jaw. He uses the hold to turn Guanshan’s head toward him, eyes aligned, mouths millimeters apart to share breath in the almost-kiss. The other hand sinks south to caress his flank, thumb purposefully rubbing across that sharp little gem like he’s fingering a bruise, or some more intimate spot. Synchrony doesn’t even occur to him in the moment.]
Fuck, you’re too pretty for some asshole to get you all to themselves.
no subject
[ the brush is brief, velvety, just a graze on the fullest points of both their lips. Guanshan shivers with the tension the way a hung body jerks, exhales harshly as the yearning twists just a little tighter. he won't let himself have it yet, isn't finished relishing in the suspense — will they, won't they? more importantly, "will he or will I?" when giving in and not giving in both mean victory and reward, playing the long game only elongates the fun. ]
[ because for as long as this lasts, he already belongs to the man encircling him. the (unabashed, uncontrolled, unconsidered) quiet burn of synchrony has writ as much. it projects a single note: desire. this, all as he lowers his eyes and wishes for this body so close against him. ]
Mm'supposed to be quiet... no matter what happens.
[ spindly fingers emerge from beneath the water, dripping points pattering softly back into the bath, and then onto Cain's skin, and then the water connects them as he oh so gently pets his way up his breathing sternum. an excuse to be completely unbidden... among the promises that need to be kept. he's never heard himself called "pretty" (it almost makes him laugh), but he does know most of the honeypots he'd fall into traps for — and it's not especially difficult to stoke a hotblooded man's imagination. ]
But I don't think anyone will hear us here, d'you?