[ Lyney may use words like cards to stack higher and higher, but actions mean quite a bit to him as well. Perhaps that's the difference between a grifter and a magician. One makes sweet promises and the other... makes magic. Sparks between their lips prick at the budding arousal in his chest. Flushed in ways no fire from his hands or arrows could compare.
Care was the name of the game, but Lyney was terribly impatient. He leans inwards, body giving when Wriothesley takes hold so slightly to him. Teeth graze and a sly tongue finds comfort in the difference in texture of scars and smooth flesh. Knowing better than to leave marks Wriothesley can't cover, Lyney ups to keep moving south. Slow, dangerously over that throat to the top of his collarbone.
He imagined this so vividly alone. Strong hands, a body to brace to and that cologne he can't quite pinpoint. Lyney hates it, in a way, that he just can't shake the man and this curiosity for more. ...But, admittedly, it's a welcomed change. Lyney wants this, not out of obligation but out of his own attraction.
Rarely does he get to pursue that. ]
I'll live, I'm not made of glass. [ Lyney's ribs were sore, tight – but each second Wriothesley was touching him throws concern out of the window. ] You wouldn't hurt me.
[ And that is exactly why he's pawing downward, forcing his hand to rest at his belt line with diving fingers pushing under it. There's trust now, where there wasn't before. More than just the potential lay and passions, but because Wriothesley is showing a side that feels... safe. Different than the care Father offered.
Those eyes look up curiously, chin prepping right at Wriothesley's collarbone with a small smirk, lips sticky with spit and catching the light beautifully. ]
Keep touching me. I know I'll be doing the same, Your Grace.
[ He teases, snickering under a husk of his breath and adding that mischief back to an otherwise tense situation. ]
no subject
Care was the name of the game, but Lyney was terribly impatient. He leans inwards, body giving when Wriothesley takes hold so slightly to him. Teeth graze and a sly tongue finds comfort in the difference in texture of scars and smooth flesh. Knowing better than to leave marks Wriothesley can't cover, Lyney ups to keep moving south. Slow, dangerously over that throat to the top of his collarbone.
He imagined this so vividly alone. Strong hands, a body to brace to and that cologne he can't quite pinpoint. Lyney hates it, in a way, that he just can't shake the man and this curiosity for more. ...But, admittedly, it's a welcomed change. Lyney wants this, not out of obligation but out of his own attraction.
Rarely does he get to pursue that. ]
I'll live, I'm not made of glass. [ Lyney's ribs were sore, tight – but each second Wriothesley was touching him throws concern out of the window. ] You wouldn't hurt me.
[ And that is exactly why he's pawing downward, forcing his hand to rest at his belt line with diving fingers pushing under it. There's trust now, where there wasn't before. More than just the potential lay and passions, but because Wriothesley is showing a side that feels... safe. Different than the care Father offered.
Those eyes look up curiously, chin prepping right at Wriothesley's collarbone with a small smirk, lips sticky with spit and catching the light beautifully. ]
Keep touching me. I know I'll be doing the same, Your Grace.
[ He teases, snickering under a husk of his breath and adding that mischief back to an otherwise tense situation. ]