[ On an aesthetic level, Matt can admit that he finds something compelling in the welling up of blood, the push and penetrate as something sharp pierces flesh. On its own, it doesn't move him. But when viewed through the lens of someone else's pleasure--the steam of a sigh, the heavy fringe of lashes as they flutter--it becomes a very different matter. It's something molten, then, something sacred.
Matt would normally let somebody else's assumptions roll off him. (He'd try to, at least.) In the event he found himself compelled to prove them wrong, he'd at least attempt to be playful about it. Now, he finds his spine straightening, his jaw lifting with haughtiness of his own. Matt's hands drift nearer to each other, a prayerful gesture that turns the loop of the rose stem into something closer to a spiked collar. ]
You have no idea, [ he says--still in that warm murmur, though a hint of steel has come into his tone, ] what I understand.
[ With a jerk, Matt shifts his grip on the rose to one hand. The soft petals fill his palm, while its thorns bite deeper into the flesh of Marazhai's neck. Not that Matt escapes completely unscathed; another thorn nips its bee-sting sharpness into his fingers, making his breath catch. He lifts his other hand, now empty, and his breathing changes, falling into a quick, ordered pattern. ]
To all these fires be this oblation offered, [ he breathes, ] the all-devouring God whom men call Kāma. [ It's nothing he's done before, but it's the same principle as summoning a column of flame to his palm. All he needs is a shield, glove-like, for his hands; then the fire. Matt's cheeks, already flushed from the kiss and the bite, turn a bit pinker. The tips of his fingers heat until they glow golden-white. ] Is this the kind of ecstasy you want?
[ Matt's hand lifts towards Marazhai's ear, heat blazing off his fingertips in palpable waves. But he doesn't touch down. He seems to be waiting for affirmation--a yes, or perhaps please. ]
wait a minute, cw: blood, burns, all that sadomasochistic goodness
Matt would normally let somebody else's assumptions roll off him. (He'd try to, at least.) In the event he found himself compelled to prove them wrong, he'd at least attempt to be playful about it. Now, he finds his spine straightening, his jaw lifting with haughtiness of his own. Matt's hands drift nearer to each other, a prayerful gesture that turns the loop of the rose stem into something closer to a spiked collar. ]
You have no idea, [ he says--still in that warm murmur, though a hint of steel has come into his tone, ] what I understand.
[ With a jerk, Matt shifts his grip on the rose to one hand. The soft petals fill his palm, while its thorns bite deeper into the flesh of Marazhai's neck. Not that Matt escapes completely unscathed; another thorn nips its bee-sting sharpness into his fingers, making his breath catch. He lifts his other hand, now empty, and his breathing changes, falling into a quick, ordered pattern. ]
To all these fires be this oblation offered, [ he breathes, ] the all-devouring God whom men call Kāma. [ It's nothing he's done before, but it's the same principle as summoning a column of flame to his palm. All he needs is a shield, glove-like, for his hands; then the fire. Matt's cheeks, already flushed from the kiss and the bite, turn a bit pinker. The tips of his fingers heat until they glow golden-white. ] Is this the kind of ecstasy you want?
[ Matt's hand lifts towards Marazhai's ear, heat blazing off his fingertips in palpable waves. But he doesn't touch down. He seems to be waiting for affirmation--a yes, or perhaps please. ]