Roman’s not backing off and it has Cael on edge. There’s nowhere to go but backwards, and he can’t do anything but let himself be cornered. His mind is racing to assess the situation and the options available to him, most of which involve fighting dirty. He’s not above it if it will get him out of a tight spot, but he’d still prefer to outwit someone than resort to desperate measures.
It’s difficult to try and figure his way out of this, because the closer Roman gets, the more he’s talking about sucking cock. Sucking his cock, and it’s not an invitation but that doesn’t stop Cael’s mind from following those words right to the inevitable mental image; Roman, with all his self-righteousness, on his knees at his feet, lips made for sucking cock wrapped around him.
The real edge of fear is the only thing that manages to keep him from getting an immediate erection. Roman’s strong hands pressing him into the lockers and how he’s invading his space in a way that’s not as arousing as the image of him on his knees and vulnerable. Cael is pushing him off, or trying, and they’re grappling in the moments between Roman’s insistent questioning, what are you? and the hard kiss that comes on the tail of faggot.
It’s completely unexpected, and it stills the fighting, stops him, his hands bunched in the fabric of Roman’s navy jacket, but he’s not pushing him away anymore. He’s not pulling him close, either, he’s just frozen.
There’s an element of shock. He can’t quite believe this was happening, that after days of Roman fixating on him that when he finally gets his hands on him, this is what he does. The reactionless shock only lasts a moment or two before he pushes back, because he likes hard, but he’s not going to let Roman have the control here.
He’s pushing at Roman’s shoulder, trying to dislodge his grasp. He wants to turn them, wants to slam the taller boy into the lockers and crack that hard shell of dominance to get at what’s underneath. That’s all it is, just a fragile shell to conceal a soft broken core that needs. Cael can see through it, feel through it; it’s something harder, sharper than the display of dominance, it’s a kind of silent desperation, a plea to be broken.
And maybe in that moment, Roman can tell more, too. Like Cael can tell that control isn’t what Roman wants to have, maybe Roman can tell that drug dealer isn’t the truth he’s covering up, that it’s traveler, it’s gypsy that he’s hiding behind rich fuck. It’s hard to pinpoint just what gives him away. Maybe it’s how he knows himself, knows how to use his body despite Roman having half a foot on him, how he manages to gain an edge on him and turn them, struggling to push Roman into the lockers, but gaining every second. It’s more than that, though; it’s how rough his hands are, it’s the scent of earth on him like even though he’s trying to sell the lie he can’t keep himself from laying in the grass at night to look at the sky.
no subject
It’s difficult to try and figure his way out of this, because the closer Roman gets, the more he’s talking about sucking cock. Sucking his cock, and it’s not an invitation but that doesn’t stop Cael’s mind from following those words right to the inevitable mental image; Roman, with all his self-righteousness, on his knees at his feet, lips made for sucking cock wrapped around him.
The real edge of fear is the only thing that manages to keep him from getting an immediate erection. Roman’s strong hands pressing him into the lockers and how he’s invading his space in a way that’s not as arousing as the image of him on his knees and vulnerable. Cael is pushing him off, or trying, and they’re grappling in the moments between Roman’s insistent questioning, what are you? and the hard kiss that comes on the tail of faggot.
It’s completely unexpected, and it stills the fighting, stops him, his hands bunched in the fabric of Roman’s navy jacket, but he’s not pushing him away anymore. He’s not pulling him close, either, he’s just frozen.
There’s an element of shock. He can’t quite believe this was happening, that after days of Roman fixating on him that when he finally gets his hands on him, this is what he does. The reactionless shock only lasts a moment or two before he pushes back, because he likes hard, but he’s not going to let Roman have the control here.
He’s pushing at Roman’s shoulder, trying to dislodge his grasp. He wants to turn them, wants to slam the taller boy into the lockers and crack that hard shell of dominance to get at what’s underneath. That’s all it is, just a fragile shell to conceal a soft broken core that needs. Cael can see through it, feel through it; it’s something harder, sharper than the display of dominance, it’s a kind of silent desperation, a plea to be broken.
And maybe in that moment, Roman can tell more, too. Like Cael can tell that control isn’t what Roman wants to have, maybe Roman can tell that drug dealer isn’t the truth he’s covering up, that it’s traveler, it’s gypsy that he’s hiding behind rich fuck. It’s hard to pinpoint just what gives him away. Maybe it’s how he knows himself, knows how to use his body despite Roman having half a foot on him, how he manages to gain an edge on him and turn them, struggling to push Roman into the lockers, but gaining every second. It’s more than that, though; it’s how rough his hands are, it’s the scent of earth on him like even though he’s trying to sell the lie he can’t keep himself from laying in the grass at night to look at the sky.