His head doesn't move until he hears the guard leave, but he doesn't keep his eyes forward for long -- he wasn't ordered to. And of course when the Dark Urge moves out to his periphery and gets up to...well, threatening activities, but not in the same way.
It's the first time he has seen him fully undressed, and it is nothing he could have imagined. The scars in telling places, not a surprise, asymmetrical lines that interrupted the sculpted symmetry of his shape, pale like the moon and almost glowing. Skin unexpectedly dappled with gray freckles, a sign that at some point, there was almost not an inch of his body that the sun hadn't kissed.
Back in the city above it became very easy to convince himself that much of that bulk must have been armor. But he knew how silently he would move, and how fast he was. His size really seemed that much more impossible in the face of it. Threatening because he had felt that raw power already, in a myriad of ways, held back, but was likely to experience it in more ways, momentarily.
Rather than do the logical thing, which would have triggered a flight response, a need to put as much distance between the two of them as possible, Enver's mind felt irrepressable and incomprehensible heat instead.
As soon as he's silently ordered to his feet he obeys. Once again there is a subtle touch on the edge of the bed as he balances himself. Something in the motion that might betray there is something slightly off but not if someone isn't looking for it. Like the joints of his fingers not quite righting themselves just after he took off the manacles (though using them has clearly helped that since).
The glass bottle is pressed into his palm and a command that threatens to paralyze him. Though long ago, he had prepared other people before, but never himself. Not even for curiosity's sake. (He had never been the sort to engage in any of that sort of thing privately, but then how often was he ever really alone?)
So he at least has a base to work from and then a few logistics to quickly work out in his head -- angle, chiefly. Permitted some freedom to move around, he has the most luck getting the access he needs half on the bed, leaning mostly in that direction but one leg planted firmly on the ground so he does not topple over should his position shift.
He unstoppers the bottle with a thumb with surprising ease, slicking several fingers in the solution and taking half a moment to warm it using his own body heat, letting the tingle sink in, free hand closing the bottle again as he takes a calming breath. His eyes meet the Dark Urge's, rather treacherous of them really, as he works one finger in, then another.
A blush finds his features -- it is only a task, spreading as much as he can inside himself and around his entrance, stretching his inner walls and growing accustomed to some measure of fullness. But his eyes rake over the full vision of the other man reclining, and he realizes he hasn't been breathing.
He commands himself to take air and part of him is utterly mortified at the ripple of pleasure that rushes after it, and that breath is unmistakably a moan.
no subject
It's the first time he has seen him fully undressed, and it is nothing he could have imagined. The scars in telling places, not a surprise, asymmetrical lines that interrupted the sculpted symmetry of his shape, pale like the moon and almost glowing. Skin unexpectedly dappled with gray freckles, a sign that at some point, there was almost not an inch of his body that the sun hadn't kissed.
Back in the city above it became very easy to convince himself that much of that bulk must have been armor. But he knew how silently he would move, and how fast he was. His size really seemed that much more impossible in the face of it. Threatening because he had felt that raw power already, in a myriad of ways, held back, but was likely to experience it in more ways, momentarily.
Rather than do the logical thing, which would have triggered a flight response, a need to put as much distance between the two of them as possible, Enver's mind felt irrepressable and incomprehensible heat instead.
As soon as he's silently ordered to his feet he obeys. Once again there is a subtle touch on the edge of the bed as he balances himself. Something in the motion that might betray there is something slightly off but not if someone isn't looking for it. Like the joints of his fingers not quite righting themselves just after he took off the manacles (though using them has clearly helped that since).
The glass bottle is pressed into his palm and a command that threatens to paralyze him. Though long ago, he had prepared other people before, but never himself. Not even for curiosity's sake. (He had never been the sort to engage in any of that sort of thing privately, but then how often was he ever really alone?)
So he at least has a base to work from and then a few logistics to quickly work out in his head -- angle, chiefly. Permitted some freedom to move around, he has the most luck getting the access he needs half on the bed, leaning mostly in that direction but one leg planted firmly on the ground so he does not topple over should his position shift.
He unstoppers the bottle with a thumb with surprising ease, slicking several fingers in the solution and taking half a moment to warm it using his own body heat, letting the tingle sink in, free hand closing the bottle again as he takes a calming breath. His eyes meet the Dark Urge's, rather treacherous of them really, as he works one finger in, then another.
A blush finds his features -- it is only a task, spreading as much as he can inside himself and around his entrance, stretching his inner walls and growing accustomed to some measure of fullness. But his eyes rake over the full vision of the other man reclining, and he realizes he hasn't been breathing.
He commands himself to take air and part of him is utterly mortified at the ripple of pleasure that rushes after it, and that breath is unmistakably a moan.