The Written Word

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.