[ anna your tag is so beautiful but i cannot write that many words in one go to give back to you
The fingers at the nape of his neck, the lips brushing lightly against his skin, the heady scent of anise and leather that fill his nostrils and his mind....together they form a scene so startlingly intimate that it takes everything in him to remember that this is nothing more than an impersonal transaction agreed upon by two men no more than acquaintences. It feels like sinking into a bed of silk sheets, a prelude to tangled limbs and whispered words intended for the ear of only a single recipient.
He has just enough time to whisper a sincere apology in the most sacred, tucked away corners of his heart before it hits him, the sensual fantasy eclipsed by a euphoric reality, every nerve ending awash in such pleasure that it's a miracle his knees don't give way. (Or maybe they do and D has just been kindly supporting him this entire time, what a gentleman.) It's enough of a blindside that he doesn't fight the man who sweeps into his mind nor the scene that unfolds afterwards, terrible and all-encompassing. There's a part of him that recognizes it for what it is - not a memory of his own, an elaborate occurrence unfolding only in the confines of his mind - even while the larger part of him can't help but react appropriately, as if every single tube attached to him and every single noise assaulting his ears is real and true. Discomfort radiates off him, mingling with fear and anxiety, and every muscle in his body - in both reality and this memory - tenses.
It's so many things that leave him exhausted by the time the last of the laughter fades and enough of his own consciousness returns to him for him to groggily open his eyes. How long has it been? Surely no more than a handful of minutes, and yet it feels like it's been an eternity. He can still feel his heartbeat pounding too loud in his ears and the lingering caress of unequaled bliss heavy in his limbs. Maybe it should be a little concerning that he doesn't answer right away, still too preoccupied with steadying his breathing and trying to make sense of the flashback seared into his mind.
Does he remember his own name? A good question. It's really unfortunate he doesn't answer it, countering instead with a haggard question of his own. ]
What was that?
[ But maybe the question is reassuring in its own way, a reflection of the personality he's solidified over the last twenty years of a man preferring to forge his own path ahead without regard to the consideration of others. At least the core of who he is is still there, intact and whole despite the mental onslaught he'd just taken. ]
no subject
The fingers at the nape of his neck, the lips brushing lightly against his skin, the heady scent of anise and leather that fill his nostrils and his mind....together they form a scene so startlingly intimate that it takes everything in him to remember that this is nothing more than an impersonal transaction agreed upon by two men no more than acquaintences. It feels like sinking into a bed of silk sheets, a prelude to tangled limbs and whispered words intended for the ear of only a single recipient.
He has just enough time to whisper a sincere apology in the most sacred, tucked away corners of his heart before it hits him, the sensual fantasy eclipsed by a euphoric reality, every nerve ending awash in such pleasure that it's a miracle his knees don't give way. (Or maybe they do and D has just been kindly supporting him this entire time, what a gentleman.) It's enough of a blindside that he doesn't fight the man who sweeps into his mind nor the scene that unfolds afterwards, terrible and all-encompassing. There's a part of him that recognizes it for what it is - not a memory of his own, an elaborate occurrence unfolding only in the confines of his mind - even while the larger part of him can't help but react appropriately, as if every single tube attached to him and every single noise assaulting his ears is real and true. Discomfort radiates off him, mingling with fear and anxiety, and every muscle in his body - in both reality and this memory - tenses.
It's so many things that leave him exhausted by the time the last of the laughter fades and enough of his own consciousness returns to him for him to groggily open his eyes. How long has it been? Surely no more than a handful of minutes, and yet it feels like it's been an eternity. He can still feel his heartbeat pounding too loud in his ears and the lingering caress of unequaled bliss heavy in his limbs. Maybe it should be a little concerning that he doesn't answer right away, still too preoccupied with steadying his breathing and trying to make sense of the flashback seared into his mind.
Does he remember his own name? A good question. It's really unfortunate he doesn't answer it, countering instead with a haggard question of his own. ]
What was that?
[ But maybe the question is reassuring in its own way, a reflection of the personality he's solidified over the last twenty years of a man preferring to forge his own path ahead without regard to the consideration of others. At least the core of who he is is still there, intact and whole despite the mental onslaught he'd just taken. ]