[SO MUCH HAPPENS SO QUICKLY. LUCAS WAS JUST MINDING HIS OWN BUSINESS!!!! He truly didn't expect the soft, barely-there brush of his own gentle near-affection to be met with anything, which is his own damn fault for being a fool after a solid week of lobster pot time. Forehead to forehead like this, with Scien's mouth so close that he can feel his breath against his lips, his heart skips a beat and then jackrabbits into a faster clip, eyes wide and startled and staring at the striking color of Scien's. At the vivid blue, the marker of Relivers.
Scien encourages him to take what he wants, and his breath hitches.]
I...
[...What could he want from Scien Brofiise that he hasn't already been given? Is he somehow hungry for even more? A veritable god has already deigned to grant his every unspoken wish, to caress his hands and face with gentle fingers and lips, and even though he'd grown accustomed to it - expects it now, even - his affections are slow to bud when they have so much mud to push through. This is perhaps the first time that he's been made consciously aware of the pull inside of himself, of those selfish hands within him that want to reach out for more, and it's a frightening thing.
He stays there, frozen still, so terribly close to the man he's called a devil for years, who paved his way to salvation. Rather than words, new wants come to mind in vivid little what-if flashes; a mouth against his own, the hands that had so expertly sewn his wounds shut ghosting over them. He can feel his heart in his throat, tying up his words. The poison he's still interwoven with so tightly thinks I want to take your life. His hands twitch. One heavy moment passes. Two. The temptation is there, like the single red apple on a gently bowed branch, demanding to be bitten into.
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Scien encourages him to take what he wants, and his breath hitches.]
I...
[...What could he want from Scien Brofiise that he hasn't already been given? Is he somehow hungry for even more? A veritable god has already deigned to grant his every unspoken wish, to caress his hands and face with gentle fingers and lips, and even though he'd grown accustomed to it - expects it now, even - his affections are slow to bud when they have so much mud to push through. This is perhaps the first time that he's been made consciously aware of the pull inside of himself, of those selfish hands within him that want to reach out for more, and it's a frightening thing.
He stays there, frozen still, so terribly close to the man he's called a devil for years, who paved his way to salvation. Rather than words, new wants come to mind in vivid little what-if flashes; a mouth against his own, the hands that had so expertly sewn his wounds shut ghosting over them. He can feel his heart in his throat, tying up his words. The poison he's still interwoven with so tightly thinks I want to take your life. His hands twitch. One heavy moment passes. Two. The temptation is there, like the single red apple on a gently bowed branch, demanding to be bitten into.
Scien begins to pull back, and he...]