The Written Word

Emboldened by the give and take, Faelyn turned and rested his hips back against the desk to fully face Ruth, the bread being sat back down on the tray to be abandoned. I would very much like to hear them, yes. his words came out in old ehlven, curious to see if this mischief maker could keep him entertained in more ways than one. Or perhaps it was some part of him reaching to find connection, the fill the void and gaps that his heart ached with. 

It wasn't something that Faelyn was conscious of, the way he sought things out. But there was little else that is could be, though is was disguised in the flirtation of it all. I'm equally curious to see what you would start with. There was a soft dare in those light gray eyes, the part of him that said. 'Come try your luck.'

[font=Arial, serif]Eyes followed body language, a talent when one sat and read so much. Eyes did wander and it was easier to observe a variety of behaviours behind the guise of reading the written word. Ruth pushed himself to his feet but soon settled against the desk, half a cheek resting on the edge of the wood. Again the previously picked food found itself tossed into an open mouth. He’d nod, head bobbing a few times as he chewed away, a soft chuckle as ever following after. “Well, for one thing I don’t like being interrupted, so I hope you don’t have any appointments lined up for a while?” Ruth wasn’t pressed for time, but he didn’t want to keep a man from his work either. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]But then he sat in front of an adrenaline junkie, a challenge. Ruth’s grin broadened, barely kept from going manical before eventually settling with a swipe of his tongue darted over his lip. “You know, it’s rare,” voice dipping lower as his body turned, sliding over to lean in closer, “usually this doesn’t go as gently, but that’s another thing I’m happy to explore.” He purposely paused in retreating back, taking in a whiff of the air around catching the telltale and comforting smell of parchment and ink. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Shifting his weight, Ruth posed, half lounged against the desk. Hands supporting him were splayed behind him, but his gaze was fixed on Faeyln’s, the invitation daring, but open to being declined. “I could start with those lips if you like, Red?”
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It hadn't been intentional, leaning closer in turn as Ruth did, finding himself drawn in by the motion alone, clearly someone used to be led instead of doing the leading. His eyes flicked to Ruth's to that so full mouth and back up again, his train of thought already there before the invitation was actually given. No other appointments. came his soft reply, seemingly uncaring about his open door. 

There was the smallest sound, and if one wasn't paying attention it would have been easily missed, such was the way with Faelyn. But it was there, a small, hardly heard needy whimper of a sound as Ruth retreated again, leaving Faelyn to be the one the remained moved. Yes...

[font=Arial, serif][font=Arial, serif]“Good,” his singular nod firm. Open doors were useful though, they made great places to press someone up against, though there was a perfectly good desk in front of them. Unfazed and caring little about the open door, Ruth’s soft retreat came with a shit eating grin. [/font][/font]

[font=Arial, serif][font=Arial, serif]That small whimper was all he’d needed, barely listening to the uttered permission. Reaching out, a hand to Faelyn’s elbow, the other settling across to guide his chin towards his own. “I’ll certainly oblige. Since you asked so nicely,” whispered across lips before Ruth captured them with curious purpose. Time on their side the rascal took his time, eventually  breaking away a short distance to mutter, “Now, I hope those won’t be the only noises I hear, Red? … Might be an idea to move this food too, unless..” a wicked glint flashed in his eyes, “unless you want me to eat it off you, of course?”[/font][/font]

It occurred to him that he was not much one for nicknames, particularly not one that debased him to a physical attribute, but the thought was quickly gone from his head with that praise. It would have taken only that to turn the incredibly learned, intelligent elf to become a malleable, compliant puddle, but that wasn't all that he was given was it? 

Faelyn all but melted into his kiss, a hand raised to slip and settle against the back of Ruth's neck, all the while an eager, if somewhat needy participant. His breath fell out in a soft sigh as they broke away, opening his eyes once more to look at him in the close space. That seems a touch messy... But if you're hungry, there are other things.

[font=Arial, serif]Nicknames were just another way for Ruth to rile up and annoy his companions for the sheer sake of it. The reaction, good or ill, was amusing saiting a part of him that giggled impishly in the dark corners of himself. Faelyn’s were so precious he couldn’t help  but snicker, the high of such meekness melting underneath a mere kiss adorably sweet. Odd. He didn’t usually go for the sweet and meek ones. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Hands moved, shifting from elbow to land on the man’s hip and slowly trailing upwards. The other shifted to cradle Fae’s chin and then to the back of his head as the kiss deepened. A soft chuckle danced across lips, “I’m glad we’re of a similar mind, that kind of things take a little… advance planning.” His grasp loosened, yet Ruth’s kept his eyes trained on Faelyn’s, silently bidding him to remain exactly where he was. “I’ll clear the plates. You, stay there.”[/font]

He was a man parched in the desert, suddenly given water to slack his thirst, the affections, the gentle touch feeding in to some aching, monstrous need that needed tamed. Faelyn gave himself over willingly, happy to be strung along and held as his partner saw fit. 

It occurred to him then that such debauchery, as wonderful as it was, was not the only thing that required planning. That brought the heat back to his face as he watched Ruth clear away their lunch, staying precisely where he'd been left. He wanted to be good after all. Keep the oil.

As if this was his first time, Ruth had to give him a look, “It would be a bold choice, the first time around, if I forgot such a thing.” Though in the right circumstances.. No, best he kept his attention on the docile thing in front of him. Plates cleared, Ruth drew the vial of oil to one side, out of danger of being accidentally knocked off and all they had was spit. He had a good mouth on him, but the oil provided was a much simpler means of getting to where they’d eventually end up.

Returning, Ruth’s hands rested on either side, thumbs tracing lightly. Maybe it was for his amusement, to continue the torment, but as he admired the colour returning into his face, Ruth again grinned. “Now, where were we... that's right, lips, yes?” An arm would sweep behind the archivist and in one motion, Ruth pulled him back, claiming his lips again as hips pressed against Faeyln's.

Faelyn was a creature of comfort, having been so very used to being spoiled in his years as a free man, and the thought of being taken with nothing but spit was not something that was appealing to him. Sure there was the odd night that it had happened, but he enjoyed being taken care of, made to be brought to a shuddering, sighing mess. There was no need for discomfort in that. 

In all logic, Faelyn knew he was the taller one here, even if only by a marginal degree, but the way he leaned made him look up at Ruth, playing into the idea of being small and helpless. His kiss was once more a hungry thing, deepening it in his need. He couldn't help the fact that the beginnings of his excitement was a somewhat noticeable thing, pressed as they were, and the archivist wasn't about to apologize for it. It had been thousands of years after all. 

Arms came to rest on Ruth's shoulders, pulling him just that bit closer, nipping lightly at his lower lip. Enough to be felt but not enough to be pained. He didn't know where the lines were.

Height was only an advantage if people had the stones behind it. Confidence, even a false sense, would always trump the vertically blessed. And for Fealyn, he’d greenlit the fuse on a stupidly cocky elf. Usually Ruth’s impulsivity was helpfully fuelled further by some substance other than alcohol, but today was working out to be oddly sober, and an enjoyable start for once. Another irregularity out with his usual normal. Arlathan was proving to be strangely welcoming. Time would tell if he just continued as he was or entertained the notion of returning regularly. Maybe after he checked out this particular book, he’d gain a clearer idea.

Chuckling against Faelyn’s hunger, Ruth’s tongue slipped in, swiftly reasserting who was going to lead this negotiation. He’d nip the man’s lips gently back, his tongue slipping over before his mouth trailed to find a spot on Fae’s neck. “You can tell me to stop at any time, Red,” came out between small bites, kissed and licked away withdrawing, “but that shirt is a problem.” Hands were already sliding against the belt across his waist and Ruth’s eyes would narrow, taunting Fae. “How about, I start from the bottom and, you work from the top. Make sure I get every one?” The troublesome belt was expertly undone, tossed off somewhere on the floor. He’d help find it later, instead Ruth rolled the last button between a finger and thumb as a hand snaked under the fabric.

Faelyn knew there was precious little of his neck actually exposed, but that did not stop him from tilting his head back, stretching what skin was above his so high collar to allow Ruth all the more access, soaking up every last attention laid there with a soft hitch in his breath. That collar, much like the rest of his clothing, was entirely by design, tailored just so to hide the vast majority of the scars that lay below, only the barest edged peaking our from his collar and cuffs. It was easy to miss if one wasn't paying close attention to the details. 

It wasn't hard to taunt the archivist, to rile him; but then again, once someone was past his walls, he was an easy read. The buckle of his belt clattered against the floor where is landed and little mind was paid to where it had gone, all of Faelyn's attention squarely on Ruth. Team work... interesting. But I can work with tha- this words were cut off with the feel of his hands on his skin, thought process stolen with such an innocent touch. But it wasn't the only thing that had taken his thoughts. Under Ruth's hand was a meshed network of scars that wrapped his body neck to calf, still easily felt. He wasn't sure how Ruth would react, and a million different scenarios played through his head. He'd been spurned before by those who had simply seen them, much less someone who was walking down the path of bedding him. He'd gone a bit still in his fear, hands hovering over the buttons at his neck, frozen.

[font=Arial, serif]He didn’t often praise the old God’s, not when one partly lived within his friend, but Ruth was enjoying this little high. Even if it wasn’t repeated, he would make it count despite the ridiculous amount of fastenings. “Well I’m guessing you’ve more practise with these particular buttons than I. Or, I could use a knife?” Flashing him a wide grin, “I’m quite adept at sewing. It's not that different from surgery.” [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]His hand traced the lines with the barest of touches, mapping their trails briefly. Ruth scoffed a little, the shit head smirk softening some, “You should see my back. I’ve a nice long one, courtesy of a rather angry bear.” Staring into Fae’s doe-eyed orbs, he once again teased the last in the row of buttons to a peak. “Knife and you get to keep me here a little longer… or, we take this one button at a time.”[/font]

There was a decision to make. To be swallowed up by his fears once more, to retreat, and lick his millennia old wounds and continue on in his broody, reclusive way. Or, on the other hand, to trust. There was no true reason not to, this man owed him nothing and still chose to meet him where he was, fingers trailing along scars, and still wanting to walk forward with him. 

Faelyn had to trust.  

If you want to sit here and sew my buttons back on, then get your knife. his words started out just a little bit shaky, gaining confidence again as he spoke. Trusting that Ruth wouldn't turn that knife against his skin. Or, if he did, there wouldn't be any last damage at any rate. Sometimes just a little bit of danger could be fun in the right hands.

[font=Arial, serif]“I think I will, if just to keep you out of it a bit longer,” eyes dipped down his chest and then up the path of buttons in a flash. Pulling back slightly, his hand would reach into the fabric of his own, tugging a cord of leather over his head. A coloured stone and a number of pendants ran between the fingers of one hand until finding what he sought, a little cutting blade. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]A wink was tossed, one hand bundling the end of his shirt taught. “Hold very still,” voice lowering to a velvet whisper as he made the first cut against the top thread, bead dropping and rolling off to land on the ground below. “Granted, I’m going to have to find all of these so..” With an almost practised motion, Ruth’s fingers spread apart the seam, allowing a clean continuous slice of the stone tool. One by one as it journeyed down a cascade of fastenings soon followed. “Go big or go home.” Ruth’s eyes would flicker upwards, drawing back a little as he returned the cord around his neck and peeled off his outer layer. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]“Now I can get at that neck of yours, Red,” teeth flashed and using the abused shirt as leverage, Ruth drew himself back in. Mouth aiming to make good on his word. [/font]

It was a talent of Faelyn's to go so perfectly still, to hold his breath as it hitched at the low gleam of light off of the colored stone edge. There was the briefest of moments as the clatter of buttons rang through the quiet that he wondered that the point of that so pretty stone would feel like pressed against his skin. Not to hurt him, no, not to leave scars, but there was something thrilling about it. But as much as he wanted to lean in, to take that risk and rebel even just a little bit, the archivist stayed stock still, only the faint quiver of his lower lip speaking to the building anticipation. If the cat does not get them, first. it was both a joke, and a mild tease, knowing that Reed was off napping on some windowsill that time of day. 

His patience was rewarded with an eager mouth on his neck once more, his head tilting back to give him the long, slender expanse of his neck to toy and play with. He was not much of a noise maker, Faelyn, though the clues oh his arousal were written out in the little things. In hands that gripped at Ruth's waist, one pulling a bit on the band of his trousers in his greed while the other ran over his abdomen, his side, his back, anything that he could touch and revel in. The skin below this now ruined shirt was just as pale as the rest of him, just as freckled. In-between patches of scars was soft to the touch and sensitive it seemed, though the old scars seemed to rob him of sensation in some areas. A delicate, complex dance to step through.