[That “nerd” comment earns Cyram a scoff of mock affront. But when the man makes his request, Stiles only hesitates a moment before offering up his hands for inspection. Almost immediately, he regrets agreeing; his hands have always been particularly sensitive, empty vessels starved for physical intimacy and all too hungry to have their fill. While he knows Cy doesn’t intend anything by the touch, it isn’t exactly clinical—and, after all these long, lonely weeks, proves to be more sensual than Stiles can bear with a semi-active suit. He swallows, throat clicking noisily.]
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.
no subject
Uh.
[Stiles, a living embarrassment since the day he learned to walk, has become fairly inured to this kind of abashment. He doesn’t flush. But this small, basic interaction is having an impact on him—and the signs are there. The thick hairs on his arms, peeking out from where his proffered hands have escaped hoodie sleeve cuffs, are standing on end, quietly trying to mask the pebbling of skin beneath. His pupils have dilated, snuffing out the honey browns with voracious appetite. And there’s the hint of a pink tongue, wetting his lips as he struggles to answer the question, to find his footing.
A glutton for punishment, he does not retract his hands when it is sensible to do so.]
Not in the name of music, huh? [His voice is roughened, caught between a playful mischief and a syrupy kind of intoxication.] Sounds like a missed opportunity to really get someone to sing.