( it's those touches again, betraying and gentle, that make him look up at esi, dubious, wondering--waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for his mouth to curl up into a cruel grin. he hasn't seen him do it: for as fucking annoying and aggravating as esi is, he's never been outrageously cruel, at least not when it comes to things like this. he's never mocked him for anything, never teased him to the point of it being a pointed dagger, rather than a few idle scratches; he's never given any outward indication that this is all a game, that he's twisting in for something much crueler than a few bloody flowers. even if the sex is just mutually beneficial, he's never been like that.
it's not something that he can allow himself to feel, or allow himself to accept. esi's thumb brushes against his cheek and he hollows himself out against it--doesn't matter how he touches him, how he looks at him, how he kisses him with fervor; this is just sex, and it doesn't matter, anyway. case in point: esi's husky words, breathy against his mouth, saying he wants him, that he's impatient--that much, he can believe. that much, he can lean into.
but there's a glob of something, stuck in his throat, and he can't tell if it's real or not, can't tell if he's just gearing up to vomit or if it's words there, trembling and agitated; his tongue passes over his lips, wetting them, but he can barely feel it. with a soft rumble of a cough, he twists his head, a sopping pile of petals that he hacks up onto the mattress, blood dribbling down his chin, smeared at the corner of his mouth. )
Do you? Too bad. ( the grin he gives is stained pink, blood smeared over his teeth: neither of them care. ) I'm enjoying myself.
( a slight arch of his hips up, pressing them in against esi as he works his hand down between them--there's another panting breath, a firm push of his wrist, and with some effort, he finally winds his arm back, wiping his lube-stained palm all over the sheets next to him. )
no subject
it's not something that he can allow himself to feel, or allow himself to accept. esi's thumb brushes against his cheek and he hollows himself out against it--doesn't matter how he touches him, how he looks at him, how he kisses him with fervor; this is just sex, and it doesn't matter, anyway. case in point: esi's husky words, breathy against his mouth, saying he wants him, that he's impatient--that much, he can believe. that much, he can lean into.
but there's a glob of something, stuck in his throat, and he can't tell if it's real or not, can't tell if he's just gearing up to vomit or if it's words there, trembling and agitated; his tongue passes over his lips, wetting them, but he can barely feel it. with a soft rumble of a cough, he twists his head, a sopping pile of petals that he hacks up onto the mattress, blood dribbling down his chin, smeared at the corner of his mouth. )
Do you? Too bad. ( the grin he gives is stained pink, blood smeared over his teeth: neither of them care. ) I'm enjoying myself.
( a slight arch of his hips up, pressing them in against esi as he works his hand down between them--there's another panting breath, a firm push of his wrist, and with some effort, he finally winds his arm back, wiping his lube-stained palm all over the sheets next to him. )
Fine. Better be good.