[This may have been a problem. He can't say what Wolfwood expected but he's certainly handling the change in position in stride. Even through the fabric of his thermal — his own jacket also discarded — each digit feels like a brand against his skin. A low noise is barely choked back and warped into a tight laugh before he can make too much of a scene.
And that, of course, is to say nothing of the angle this vantage point provides. Wolfwood's shirt, or lack thereof, provides little to the imagination. It's a difficult battle, resisting the urge to scrape his nails down that span of muscle and warm brown skin. He settles, instead, for draping both arms over his shoulders, settling in such a way that he can push his shirt all the more open.]
What makes you say that?
[He leans down, so that their foreheads are just barely brushing. He angles his nose to just glance over the tip of Wolfwood's, before shifting so that they share the same breath.]
no subject
And that, of course, is to say nothing of the angle this vantage point provides. Wolfwood's shirt, or lack thereof, provides little to the imagination. It's a difficult battle, resisting the urge to scrape his nails down that span of muscle and warm brown skin. He settles, instead, for draping both arms over his shoulders, settling in such a way that he can push his shirt all the more open.]
What makes you say that?
[He leans down, so that their foreheads are just barely brushing. He angles his nose to just glance over the tip of Wolfwood's, before shifting so that they share the same breath.]
Am I givin' you the wrong idea or somethin'?