text ↪ un: torontonian

[hallowing]

important q


if u were a dnd character


what class would u be



if u dont know wat dnd is (wow sorry for ur life) a class will be assigned for u randomly. no i dont make the rules.

Comments

[hallowing]

（ purpose is always the same, and you learn to recognize it. sometimes even before the people themselves do. certain things are coded into microexpressions and motions and people are often way more predictable than they're willing to accept about themselves.

(a few thousand years' experience helps, too.)

so cy's not exactly surprised when the kid does an about-face and hauls him in. he's more intrigued, pleasantly amused, and of course he kisses back, one hand lifted up to let his thumb catch at the edge of his jaw, fingers fanned against his neck. cy lets him to be the one to call the shots not out of any especial dislike or inability for doing it himself, but because hey — he's the injured one, he knows his own limits and what he's after. the kiss, therefore, is exactly as slow and languid as cain wants it to be. cy tastes like cheap beer and whatever candy he's been eating apace, and the cigarette he's still holding in one hand. ）

[blyat]

[Cain's hand remains twisted in the front of a shirt long enough to take what he wants from the kiss, which is not slow or languid. That isn't how he kisses strangers. It's hard pressure, tight lips, daring edge of teeth and brief, wet slide of tongue. It's hot and combative, and if it didn't hurt to move, he'd be pushing Cy up against the wall by the door. It's pleasant. More than pleasant—an interruption to the furious, churning thoughts in his mind, removing him from the moment by the warm press of a mouth and the physical proximity of another body. No expectations. He doesn't know Cy, and Cy doesn't know him. So why does it feel like he's doing something wrong?

After a few slippery seconds of that, he backs off with a lingering, evaluative look. He rubs his tongue against the inner line of his own teeth, tasting smoke and beer and something sweet. Apple?]

Thanks. [A word punctuated when fingers steals Cy's cigarette and perch it between his own lips; he turns away.] I can get to the kitchen from here on my own, big guy.

[hallowing]

（ he laughs, and gives the guy a bit of a jaunty little bow, like a ballet dancer. amusement is writ plain in his expression as he straightens up afterwards, and he doesn't even make any obvious lamentation about the loss of that cigarette. he does, however, smooth down his shirt where it wrinkled up into the guy's closed fist.

he knows the type — and he isn't going to push. the guy wants to crash into his boundaries full tilt and bolt like a spooked cat, that's fine by him. ）

Yeah, yeah. Don't be a stranger. Hasta mañana.

（ and off he goes, casually as you please. whistling, off-key. ）