[ That appreciative once-over gets another grin out of Mace, more open this time — but it fades away with Ian’s next words, taking in the implications of leaving. Ian’s right, of course. Staying here isn’t feasible, despite whatever must be awaiting them out in the fog; he vaguely remembers the compromise he’d asked of Ian two days ago, to stay here until he'd healed somewhat.
In that time, he’d also nearly fucking strangled him.
What were the chances of that happening again? They’d been allowed a day’s reprieve — enough time for them to feel safe together, but long enough to also ensure that they were emotionally compromised in a far worse way than before. Maybe that had been the point; he doesn’t think their captors were banking on the two of them fucking, exactly, but … developing a deeper bond meant a possible psychological weakness to exploit.
It had been one thing to come to lucidity with his hands around Ian’s throat when their interactions had been more or less platonic. And if he were to do it now? Knowing the taste of Ian's mouth, the sounds he made when he came, how it felt to hold him in his arms?
Guilt is a bitter tang in his mouth as his eyes drop to Ian’s throat, briefly. Again that surge of protectiveness that he can't identify as being wholly organic, this time shot through with a strange pain. Then he’s nodding, downing the rest of his soup in two more gulps. ]
No time like the present. We can get packing after breakfast, start making tracks by noon.
[ And something of what he's feeling shows up in his face as he looks back up at Ian, a bit like he's been thwapped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. ]
no subject
In that time, he’d also nearly fucking strangled him.
What were the chances of that happening again? They’d been allowed a day’s reprieve — enough time for them to feel safe together, but long enough to also ensure that they were emotionally compromised in a far worse way than before. Maybe that had been the point; he doesn’t think their captors were banking on the two of them fucking, exactly, but … developing a deeper bond meant a possible psychological weakness to exploit.
It had been one thing to come to lucidity with his hands around Ian’s throat when their interactions had been more or less platonic. And if he were to do it now? Knowing the taste of Ian's mouth, the sounds he made when he came, how it felt to hold him in his arms?
Guilt is a bitter tang in his mouth as his eyes drop to Ian’s throat, briefly. Again that surge of protectiveness that he can't identify as being wholly organic, this time shot through with a strange pain. Then he’s nodding, downing the rest of his soup in two more gulps. ]
No time like the present. We can get packing after breakfast, start making tracks by noon.
[ And something of what he's feeling shows up in his face as he looks back up at Ian, a bit like he's been thwapped on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. ]
How's your wound?