He looks you up and down, mouth a bracketed line; hands frozen on keys, fingers drawn up at the knuckles, pointed like needles. Hunched over his husktop, there's a slight sickly glow cast across his face from the screen, and somehow he is less attractive than you would have imagined but only in the ways that don't matter. There are bags under his eyes--he looks in desperate need of sleep. At least, more and better than he's getting as is. You hold your tongue.
"Hey," he says, eventually, and his voice is like versed in a language of sighs. 'Hello' you say, quietly, the tone of talking to a small beast, and together then you settle back into uncomfortable silence. His video glitches, a little: the yellow of his eyes spills out in miniscule squares. M/JADEBLOOD/EIGHT SWEEPS, the ad had said, A GROSS FUCKING MESS. His shoulders are hunched and his nails are bitten down to the quick (and yet still marked, a sheening green): he looks so on-edge you could probably scrape your skin on every one of his joints. DIAMONDS ONLY, NON-NEGOTIABLE. "Fuck, you know, I've never--"
Without thinking you run your fingers along the top of your husktop. You immediately feel ridiculous. "-- never done this before. I swear." He looks at you very earnestly, digs his teeth into his lower lip, and your chest burns, something like a sinking feeling.
"It wouldn't matter if you had," you say; you try to sound comforting and it comes so quickly to you it is in some way alarming, perhaps. "There is nothing wrong with -- with wanting somebody." You forcibly shelve the curiosity of to whom this justification is aimed. (Pale Intentions Only, in a granite, anonymous grey. Everyone has their vulnerabilities, you tell yourself, everyone, for something.)
His hands slacken, laying palms-flat against the keyboard, and you can see better now the bones of his wrists jutting out behind his skin. You can picture with such clarity his ribs, his back, all of him angular; you can picture your hands on his hair. His face against your shoulder.
He looks like he has nothing at all to say that would not suffocate him. For a moment he stares at you, so unsure of himself, so lost, before his shoulders drops, his everything unravels. "Yeah," he says, "I guess not."
FILL: TEAM ARADIA<3JADE
"Hey," he says, eventually, and his voice is like versed in a language of sighs. 'Hello' you say, quietly, the tone of talking to a small beast, and together then you settle back into uncomfortable silence. His video glitches, a little: the yellow of his eyes spills out in miniscule squares. M/JADEBLOOD/EIGHT SWEEPS, the ad had said, A GROSS FUCKING MESS. His shoulders are hunched and his nails are bitten down to the quick (and yet still marked, a sheening green): he looks so on-edge you could probably scrape your skin on every one of his joints. DIAMONDS ONLY, NON-NEGOTIABLE. "Fuck, you know, I've never--"
Without thinking you run your fingers along the top of your husktop. You immediately feel ridiculous. "-- never done this before. I swear." He looks at you very earnestly, digs his teeth into his lower lip, and your chest burns, something like a sinking feeling.
"It wouldn't matter if you had," you say; you try to sound comforting and it comes so quickly to you it is in some way alarming, perhaps. "There is nothing wrong with -- with wanting somebody." You forcibly shelve the curiosity of to whom this justification is aimed. (Pale Intentions Only, in a granite, anonymous grey. Everyone has their vulnerabilities, you tell yourself, everyone, for something.)
His hands slacken, laying palms-flat against the keyboard, and you can see better now the bones of his wrists jutting out behind his skin. You can picture with such clarity his ribs, his back, all of him angular; you can picture your hands on his hair. His face against your shoulder.
He looks like he has nothing at all to say that would not suffocate him. For a moment he stares at you, so unsure of himself, so lost, before his shoulders drops, his everything unravels. "Yeah," he says, "I guess not."