[It is not the first time he's witnessed that mercurial change like a whiplash, although only in its absence — as if Cy has shed a guise and stripped himself down to barer, truer parts. This isn't the same, but it chills him comparably at the tilt into cold and cruel, as he's efficiently forced down onto his stomach in mirrored image of earlier that night. Only the context has altered; he can feel it, the electric spark of change in the air between them as his arm is jerked into a sharp angle and pinned hard.
The arousal is a roar in his blood, almost smothering in its consumptive rush — Cy's harsh words send a shiver up his back that is sealed by the brand of teeth. That spot on his shoulder aches. A noisy breath bursts from him, but his jaw quickly grits down over it as if even this is a show of submission that must be extorted and not handed over willingly.]
You're all talk. [And he does struggle, less for his pride than for the promise of bruises, pulling at the silk around his wrist, not to the point of dislodging the joint of his shoulder but enough to edge close to that blister of pain. His legs, too, clench tight together, hips attempting to buck Cy's weight off of him.] I don't believe you'll do what you say.
[There's — something in his own voice, roughened and rasping, far less contained than Cy's own as he turns to look over his shoulder. Mismatched eyes are dark, wide, a little wild.]
so happy for them
The arousal is a roar in his blood, almost smothering in its consumptive rush — Cy's harsh words send a shiver up his back that is sealed by the brand of teeth. That spot on his shoulder aches. A noisy breath bursts from him, but his jaw quickly grits down over it as if even this is a show of submission that must be extorted and not handed over willingly.]
You're all talk. [And he does struggle, less for his pride than for the promise of bruises, pulling at the silk around his wrist, not to the point of dislodging the joint of his shoulder but enough to edge close to that blister of pain. His legs, too, clench tight together, hips attempting to buck Cy's weight off of him.] I don't believe you'll do what you say.
[There's — something in his own voice, roughened and rasping, far less contained than Cy's own as he turns to look over his shoulder. Mismatched eyes are dark, wide, a little wild.]
You haven't won yet.