[ A low laugh hums in his throat, even as his head tilts back to bare that vulnerability too. It is a shit angle. The accommodating bend of his knee does nothing to help matters, either — but they're not apprentices relegated to balancing acts in awkward alcoves any longer.
A decision is made; a heated murmur near his ear, and a touch sliding greedily round the back of his neck to the midline, to keep Isaac near as he takes a reluctant step back, ] Follow me?
[ Convenient, that there isn't more furniture in this room after all: a destination, and not much to trip over along the way. ]
[ He shoves, playful, frees hand from hand. It's not the convenient grip to relinquish, that one's still hitching Ilias’ step up the side of his leg.
It makes for a strange, hobbled gait: Four feet and two heads of some Imperial chimera; motion entangled and enumerated by each point of contact — five fingers on his neck, eight teeth in Ilias' — the drum of pulse. They aren’t moving quickly, wouldn’t win a race, but tell that to the blood in his head (lower).
Fumbles at a button, caught in momentary indecision, his or his. But fuck, if robes aren’t the worst for this, and he doesn’t know the Nevarran style to wrangle it blind. Shakes his own loose just enough to stumble, lean into it. What good are arms like that if you can't, occasionally, fall into them. ]
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A decision is made; a heated murmur near his ear, and a touch sliding greedily round the back of his neck to the midline, to keep Isaac near as he takes a reluctant step back, ] Follow me?
[ Convenient, that there isn't more furniture in this room after all: a destination, and not much to trip over along the way. ]
no subject
Anywhere.
[ He shoves, playful, frees hand from hand. It's not the convenient grip to relinquish, that one's still hitching Ilias’ step up the side of his leg.
It makes for a strange, hobbled gait: Four feet and two heads of some Imperial chimera; motion entangled and enumerated by each point of contact — five fingers on his neck, eight teeth in Ilias' — the drum of pulse. They aren’t moving quickly, wouldn’t win a race, but tell that to the blood in his head (lower).
Fumbles at a button, caught in momentary indecision, his or his. But fuck, if robes aren’t the worst for this, and he doesn’t know the Nevarran style to wrangle it blind. Shakes his own loose just enough to stumble, lean into it. What good are arms like that if you can't, occasionally, fall into them. ]