[Hedged between White's words, Arthur actually curses. ]
White, - what're you even... fucking fuck this isn't -
[ It's not only because of White's clear lack of normal mentality (whatever serves as it day to day) but for the way his body seems to have gotten the better of him, an upperhand all metaphorical since neither of his hands are doing any good.
White presses forward and Arthur couldn't push further back into the wall unless he suddenly attained the ability to walk through it; it doesn't happen. Instead he spreads his legs as if accommodating the other man, and he's flashing back and forth from interest (which makes no sense except that the strange growl in White's voice reminds him maybe of a rumble that only feels right through a different skin and form) to rejection. I won't like it he thinks, annoyed but not at White so much as himself, because he's hard, impossible to miss how close they are but no one's been able to get his interest in years, so now makes no sense.
He doesn't want to want anyone else.
But the body says different, says he went abruptly back to nothing and it's showing now.
If it was possible, he'd claim mental whiplash. Might still.
Right now his hands fist, crushed between their torsos in a way that's not going to let him get good hit in at all. When he swallows, he sucks in a breath that's sharp and smoky, seems to crowd against the roof of his mouth, confuse his thoughts more than they already are and the one clear thing besides embarrassing arousal is how cold White is. Everything but the mouth on Arthur's throat and that maybe only by comparison, the spike of his own temperature. ]
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White, - what're you even... fucking fuck this isn't -
[ It's not only because of White's clear lack of normal mentality (whatever serves as it day to day) but for the way his body seems to have gotten the better of him, an upperhand all metaphorical since neither of his hands are doing any good.
White presses forward and Arthur couldn't push further back into the wall unless he suddenly attained the ability to walk through it; it doesn't happen. Instead he spreads his legs as if accommodating the other man, and he's flashing back and forth from interest (which makes no sense except that the strange growl in White's voice reminds him maybe of a rumble that only feels right through a different skin and form) to rejection. I won't like it he thinks, annoyed but not at White so much as himself, because he's hard, impossible to miss how close they are but no one's been able to get his interest in years, so now makes no sense.
He doesn't want to want anyone else.
But the body says different, says he went abruptly back to nothing and it's showing now.
If it was possible, he'd claim mental whiplash. Might still.
Right now his hands fist, crushed between their torsos in a way that's not going to let him get good hit in at all. When he swallows, he sucks in a breath that's sharp and smoky, seems to crowd against the roof of his mouth, confuse his thoughts more than they already are and the one clear thing besides embarrassing arousal is how cold White is. Everything but the mouth on Arthur's throat and that maybe only by comparison, the spike of his own temperature. ]