The Written Word

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.