[ Ear wings. Everyone at the party is so dressed up that he had assumed that those were accessories, like earrings or some sort of hair pin. But there’s no questioning it when they seemingly flicker on their own. Genya’s expression remains stoic despite his surprise—between demons and this cummy sex resort, it isn’t absurdly shocking—nodding once in confirmation. Immediately, his tactic changes from treating Sunday like one of his siblings to caring for a small, trembling animal. ]
Tell me if I do something you don’t like.
[ His voice lowers, gentler and kinder, like when he’s coaxing the giant rabbits in the conservatory.
Despite the roughness of those hands, they are exceedingly gentle. Scratched up knuckles nudge a portion of silky hair aside and slide along the man’s nape. Fingers curl, leading a lock upward and through their seams; pale hair flows as smoothly as water. ]
Close your eyes, [ he murmurs as he adjusts the comb in his free hand, ] and trust me.
[ If there’s anything he’s learned while being in this resort, it’s that dominance and submission do not necessarily have to be rough or even sexual at all. Care is a means of asserting dominance. To have someone give up a part of themselves. Vulnerability. Difficult when they’re strangers, but like this, he thinks, maybe it will work.
The comb glides through that lock of hair. Its teeth lightly scrape over Sunday’s scalp before cording through his hair, gently working out any stray snags or knots. Genya is patient and serious, steady hands tickling at the back Sunday’s head whenever he raises the comb or smooths down an errant strand.
His knee presses against Sunday’s shoulder when he leans forward and guides the man’s head to tilt back. Just as gently, he fingers through those thick bangs to smooth them away from the man’s pale forehead. Man… he’s so pretty. A delicate beauty, like a spider’s web dampened by dew and caught in morning sunlight. ]
no subject
[ Ear wings. Everyone at the party is so dressed up that he had assumed that those were accessories, like earrings or some sort of hair pin. But there’s no questioning it when they seemingly flicker on their own. Genya’s expression remains stoic despite his surprise—between demons and this cummy sex resort, it isn’t absurdly shocking—nodding once in confirmation. Immediately, his tactic changes from treating Sunday like one of his siblings to caring for a small, trembling animal. ]
Tell me if I do something you don’t like.
[ His voice lowers, gentler and kinder, like when he’s coaxing the giant rabbits in the conservatory.
Despite the roughness of those hands, they are exceedingly gentle. Scratched up knuckles nudge a portion of silky hair aside and slide along the man’s nape. Fingers curl, leading a lock upward and through their seams; pale hair flows as smoothly as water. ]
Close your eyes, [ he murmurs as he adjusts the comb in his free hand, ] and trust me.
[ If there’s anything he’s learned while being in this resort, it’s that dominance and submission do not necessarily have to be rough or even sexual at all. Care is a means of asserting dominance. To have someone give up a part of themselves. Vulnerability. Difficult when they’re strangers, but like this, he thinks, maybe it will work.
The comb glides through that lock of hair. Its teeth lightly scrape over Sunday’s scalp before cording through his hair, gently working out any stray snags or knots. Genya is patient and serious, steady hands tickling at the back Sunday’s head whenever he raises the comb or smooths down an errant strand.
His knee presses against Sunday’s shoulder when he leans forward and guides the man’s head to tilt back. Just as gently, he fingers through those thick bangs to smooth them away from the man’s pale forehead. Man… he’s so pretty. A delicate beauty, like a spider’s web dampened by dew and caught in morning sunlight. ]
Is this okay?