[ The altar places Matt at more of an advantage than he would otherwise have, in terms of height. Still, as Marazhai draws near, it's clear that he dwarfs him regardless. Matt's head tips slightly to watch him. Though his laughter fades, bright smile dimming to a look of curiosity as his gaze skims over the stranger's face (his scars, the pointed tips of his ears), there's still no sense of fear. Not exactly. ]
I guess threats get the blood pumping, [ Matt muses. Gently, and without looking away from Marazhai, he sets the blossoms to one side--with two exceptions. He tucks the cowslip behind one ear, and he holds the blackened rose gently, gently, between finger and thumb. ] But no. I was thinking more ...
[ He asked about flowers a moment ago. And Matt alluded to a complicated answer, which he now gives one small piece of. He brushes the rose to the stranger's cheek, along the shell of his ear. Its petals are soft, despite its decayed coloring, its scent fragrant; underneath, there's a smokier, spicier smell, this one clinging to Matt's skin. Matt's other hand lifts to take the rose by the sepals, looping the long stem around Marazhai's neck. He tugs downward and inward, letting slender, spiking thorns dig into skin.
Does some instinct tell him the stranger will like this? Or is it just a thing he wants to do? A thing he needs to do, coaxing blood onto the altar's parched stone? Either way, Matt cranes up as he urges Marazhai down. If he doesn't stop him, he'll brush a tender kiss to his mouth. ]
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I guess threats get the blood pumping, [ Matt muses. Gently, and without looking away from Marazhai, he sets the blossoms to one side--with two exceptions. He tucks the cowslip behind one ear, and he holds the blackened rose gently, gently, between finger and thumb. ] But no. I was thinking more ...
[ He asked about flowers a moment ago. And Matt alluded to a complicated answer, which he now gives one small piece of. He brushes the rose to the stranger's cheek, along the shell of his ear. Its petals are soft, despite its decayed coloring, its scent fragrant; underneath, there's a smokier, spicier smell, this one clinging to Matt's skin. Matt's other hand lifts to take the rose by the sepals, looping the long stem around Marazhai's neck. He tugs downward and inward, letting slender, spiking thorns dig into skin.
Does some instinct tell him the stranger will like this? Or is it just a thing he wants to do? A thing he needs to do, coaxing blood onto the altar's parched stone? Either way, Matt cranes up as he urges Marazhai down. If he doesn't stop him, he'll brush a tender kiss to his mouth. ]