[ His world seems to constrict, diminishing from the vague shadows thrown from the lightbulb, the boundaries of the room, reducing now into some weird little thimble reality that takes up only the space of the chair he is secured to and the too-warm presence of a person sitting in his lap.
The leather at his throat constricts like a hand when its pulled taut. ]
I thought it might be different, [ he gravels out. ] Here. With you. It wasn't. I wasn't.
[ As far as crying goes, this seems more like he's allergic to feelings in place of having them, with tears producing themselves and forming skinny, glistening tracks out from the corners, streaking ear-wards.
Incidentally, he is deeply aware of unglamourous penis pain and associated pressure, just as much as the cut of leather around his throat, and the lovely brown of Sarissa's eyes, the soft shapes of her mouth -- even when she's mad. ]
no subject
The leather at his throat constricts like a hand when its pulled taut. ]
I thought it might be different, [ he gravels out. ] Here. With you. It wasn't. I wasn't.
[ As far as crying goes, this seems more like he's allergic to feelings in place of having them, with tears producing themselves and forming skinny, glistening tracks out from the corners, streaking ear-wards.
Incidentally, he is deeply aware of unglamourous penis pain and associated pressure, just as much as the cut of leather around his throat, and the lovely brown of Sarissa's eyes, the soft shapes of her mouth -- even when she's mad. ]
You're hurting me.