“... So… you don’t know the language of rats…”

See, he’d rather keep talking about this specific subject-- it was far easier than conjuring up a lie about everything else. Possibly more interesting for him too, could it be learnt, this language of animals (Asher seemed serious, maybe the lamb was not out of his damned mind)... how entertaining, one could whisper to beasts before they were slaughtered and morbidly glean their every emotion. The paranoia of death or the nonchalance of acceptance… Rois spares the other a pained wheeze as a hand curls about the cup in a manner most awkward, like arm muscles were made of rock that had to be somehow rigidly stretched in order to carry the motion, and uses the pause of drinking to ponder the next words carefully.

“... It’s delicious.” Rois gives a satisfied sigh at the earthen brew in all its bitter glory, the taste was strong enough to burn the hair off an asses ass; preferable to the piss of elsewhere, in all honesty! And this is stalling, sitting there with half lidded eyes staring at the wall and uneven breaths, surpassed by the hot liquid against his tongue is the icy touch within, cruel jolts of jagged frozen water shaken free from cave ceilings to clash against him over and over-- and the nudge beneath the table is a tad misunderstood, is it meant to be a motion of encouragement? Rois taps the other back stiffly, it is a little less gentle than Asher’s movement and is surrounded by an air of general confusion, were they playing a game of sorts? The butcher begins to bounce that leg erratically in a fidget just pondering how the next moments were about to unfurl, the sort of thing people do when anxiety takes over, the kind of behaviour carried out when someone is about to lie, it goes hand in hand with the lack of eye contact--

“Oh……… well, see, I…”

Oh God. Someone who lacks any sort of imagination trying to conjure up a story was bound to veer southwards. The warm drink musters up some courage spurned by the lingering agony of momentary transformation, but it does not give the man the smarts to bring to the table any kind of believable lie-- and so, here comes the nonsense.

“Ha… ha, well,” Bounce, bounce, the smile that appears upon lips pressed against the curve of the cup is weak, fangs dancing around steam, “... Something really strange… happened outside. I thought I was imagining it, so I wasn’t going to bring it up at all…”

This stunted attempt at nonchalance was pitiful, it was akin to watching a tweaker jacked up on drugs trying to stay calm about the most minute of things, the liquid left in the mans cup jostled erratically at quivering fingers as Rois attempts to smooth out the horror of unmitigated pain by streeeetching an arm up high…

“I’m… just a little in shock, thats all.” Yes, yes, it’s all just shock, words slip lazily from his mouth, “I… think I just watched… a giant slug come out of the mud and take all the bodies. A slug… a homeless snail, made of mud-- it was there one moment… and gone the next.”

Bounce bounce, a breath in as an attempt to fake an ‘I’m startled!’ expression, but when worn upon a face like his it is as dour as it is lackluster. Some small part of the butcher believes Asher is stupid enough to fall for this pitiful routine however, because there are no beats of humour in his voice as Rois continues carefully,

“Very… strange. But at least all the evidence of your crimes are gone, right…? So, it isn’t a bad thing.”

Cup to lip, mumbling against the wash of heated liquid,

“Are slugs occult…y?”
 
This particular lie that Rois wove was so ridiculous, surely it had to be some kind of joke.

Giant slugs did exist in the Grenns. They were about the length of one’s forearm, and mostly ate mushrooms and fallen leaves. And, like many other things of a slimy and legless nature, their inclination was to move from place to place very slowly.

"...and this all happened in a matter of minutes." Asher took a sip of his own coffee. Glanced out the window, which gleaned him no information, since it was shielded with a pair of painted white shutters. "Must have been a very fast slug."

That was a joke, but one would need to be in a jovial mood to notice, since Asher’s demeanor did not change.

The floor shook with the bounce of restless foot. Merciless, he let Rois squirm for a moment longer.

It would have been better to go outside and see for himself. The kinds of writing Asher could actually read - tracks on the ground, objects out of place, little changes in the air - would have told the story easy as the morning breeze. But he didn’t want to get up just yet. His coffee would get cold and turn sour to drink.

“Are slugs occult…y?”​

“I don’t know.” Pale, clear eyes looked to Rois. It was easy enough to keep the mischievousness off his face, since not much of anything ever got to the surface. “Want me to ask the bird? Might put your mind at ease.”
 
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“... Slugs can be fast. Their lack of home… makes them fast.”

…

Ridiculous. Utterly nonsensical, and though Asher was as deadpan as he always was the little quips that the other man made could not be listened to with any real seriousness; he did not need the upturning of his lips or the crinkling of moody-sky eyes to deliver the humour across, Rois found it funny regardless. It starts with a little snuffling against the back of a hastily raised hand in an attempt at restraint before rolling into a shoulder shaking snicker, ksh-ksh-ksh, the butcher squeezes eyes shut and finds the rising laughter too painful to keep swallowing it down. Cackling comes like a sick dog barking, the sound is mirthful but it’s so off-kilter it matches the red-heads personal brand of weirdness brilliantly, fangs touching skin, the hand is barely an obstacle--!

“L-Lamb! I did not know you possessed a sense of humour!” Half-growled out words follow a pitched whine, ow, the motion did something to his ribs that caused the larger man to jump a little-- but internal hurt would not detract from any shared glee,

“If I told you the truth you would not believe it either…! I do think it is funnier to keep you in the dark.”

The opposite to Asher’s stony-faced facade, Rois wears mischievousness very much like a prowling animal, all narrow eyes and poked tongue pointing out-down between gleaming teeth in sly childishness. The expression is only broken when he performs an action very befitting of a monster that spurs the heat in favour for its own hellish sizzling and unceremoniously dumps the coffee into a gaping maw to chug it as if it was water, steam caught amidst red curls and exhaled through his nose with a satisfied sign as the cup (not too gently) finds itself against the table again,

“How is your shoulder doing, by the way. Any infection set in, yet?” Weirdo.
 
Asher watches with tender attention as the other man unfurls from restraint. A cackling which can not be contained, grin so wide every pointed tooth is accounted for. And he does take tally of all of them, and the bounce of curls, and the crackle of red eyes which now have a different kind of warmth in them.

"Hm," the hum in response to the concession that he could be funny is all the warmth which escapes Asher's own throat. And he is watching still with a curious tilt to his head and something crooked like a smile on his lips, as the coffee is disappeared and there is a gulping ripple of long, lovely throat.

The cup clatters down too harshly, but that is alright. The porcelain has already been moved down to the third most valuable thing that Asher has. That rowdy laugh which Rois has just given him has taken second place, and he finds it more important to maintain. He doesn't even mind when Rois admits to hiding the truth. The wince of pain is noticed, too, and Asher thinks this is probably part of the truth which should not be pressed. So he does not press.

"If it gets you laughing like that, I supposed I can endure a little mystery."

The thought is not dwelled on. In fact, Asher is barely aware that he's said it aloud at all. The chair scoots back as he stands. One-handed, he takes the empty cup and walks it over to the stove, which has plenty of heat left in it. The old grounds in the pot are emptied and fresh scoops doled out. He mulls over the obvious are-you-dead-yet question as the coffee rolls up to a foam once more.

"Won't be able to work for another week, at least." And three or four weeks more before he was in decent fighting condition. "Lot of time to lose. But, I've got an idea of how to make it up."

The steaming new cup of coffee is set down in front of Rois.

"So no, I'm not out of the running yet."
 

“No, no-- no giving up easily. Now it’s a game; I want you to guess.”

And Asher was watching him.

He’d never been so… attentive before (not that the red-head had noticed, at least), it was the sort of careful consideration that usually marked two things within his mind; whenever he cast his gaze upon someone intensely, it was because he was either anticipating something (an aggressive move, an opening to attack), or because something in particular caught the butchers eye. Lamb was so pointedly numb in that misty blank stare (but that scarcest hint of a smile...!) that Rois does not figure the same youth fetching him coffee and catching him meals is nervous enough to keep stock-still in the aged seat, waiting for black claws to ensnare his injured form with violence in every inch of the motion. So, it had to be something else.

There is this solitary moment… of silence between them.

Two men, just staring at each other from across the table.

Rois is reminiscing about the lithe males reaction in the bed before; the ease at which his pinning of Asher’s form had been accepted, first it seemed like it was merely subjected to the lengthy list of things that could be written beneath the header, ‘brain damage caused him to act that way!’. But it could not all be brain damage, could it now, if it gets you laughing like that, a statement foreign to hints of real joy but still intriguing at its heart, did Lamb… like the sound? Did he find things enjoyable about the butcher that would cause him to stare, had the lack of complaints about the sharing of a bed with another half dressed male mean something more, a little twinkle of mischievousness haunts the cannibals returned stare.

He was starting to believe that Asher… could be a homosexual.

And maybe he did not know it-- the mask was all he had-- had he forgotten such a pivotal part of himself in the midst of whatever happened to rend the youngers head flesh so savagely?! No, no, the guessing game was only part of a grander game now that was conjured up within a likewise damaged skull, how far could Lamb be pushed in order to gain evidence to reinforce this ludicrous notion, gentle shaking, or a rough shove? Rois was not adept in the art of subtle-- sadly for his little companion across the way-- and decides with childish glee that what was about to happen… was a kindness. A gesture in good faith, why, the butcher was just aiding a stranger in some others body come to terms with himself! To learn a little more about who he was! The pain of moving would be worth it--

“Oh… that is a shame.”

Plus… it’d be both funny and entertaining.

The moment Lamb’s hand leaves the new cup it is grasped by an outstretched one capturing his calloused fingers by dark, just as rough ones in turn, marble against sand, heat flaring betwixt the contact. Poor Asher has lost full mobility of his handsomely toned arm as it is dragged gently across the way, careful not to tug the other harshly against the little tables harsh edges, the back of the hunters hand finds itself resting against a humid cheek kissed gently by the texture of stretched bandages-- Rois’s lips curl upwards. Words are rolled, the growl is no threat, it carries a depth that can be felt against fine bones as nails scrape red curls coming to dance about digits happily,

“If you’re not working… who is going to make me coffee?” A falsely downcast sigh… breath heated by delicious coffee and a naturally blazing temperature flushes the underside plane of Asher’s arm a docile pink, “I should just eat you now… maybe you’ll be more useful that way…”
 
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It is with a startled inhale that Asher is pulled closer in. Such is the angle of their engagement that not leaning into Rois is the more unbalanced option. He braces himself with a knee between long legs, pressed against the edge of the seat. With a creak and a groan, the rickety old chair complains about the extra weight.

Well, here they are again. Staring into each other's eyes, Asher's hand on the other man's face.

Except the last time they were here, intentions had been painfully clear. This time, something else is obscured in the rumbling sound, something other than the base desire to consume. Asher feels it in all the little bones of his wrist, but does not understand it. Actions do not match the words spoken. Is this another game? But the rules have not been given. It feels as dangerous as a snare left in the middle of a sunlit path.

A thought lingers in the back of his mind: does he want to be ensnared?

"This isn't right," Asher says. A little more weight into that knee as he shifts. "You're lying, and you're in pain, I don't—"

Creak, creak, and snap! A support in the middle of the chair gives way. They are careening over backwards, and Rois is going to take the brunt of it–! Asher wraps his hand deeper into red hair and cushions the fall. Elbow and knuckle bones take most of the impact, smarting something fierce. Getting untangled is a slow affair, with only one usable arm.

He winks out a wince, trying to figure out which damage to assess first.

"Are you okay?"
 

Something about the insecurity of the situation swirling about in the other man’s eyes cause Rois to rapidly lose the sharpness of his own features in surprise--

“I’m not being serious, Lam--”

But before the scoff of amusement could be given in response to the others little proclamation that this situation ‘wasn’t right’ (what wasn’t right? The heated affection? The fact that they were men? Were the signs misread, was Asher homophobic instead?) the snapping of wicker pierces like a gun shot through the bewildering atmosphere to send the two crashing to earth-- fingers against his skull, as they tumble in slow motion Rois smarts, a jolt of awareness, not there--

The attempt at somehow softening the blow against scratched stone is failed, and the two end up pitifully upon their sides with bodies awash with pain anew by the not so comfortable landing. Fuck. Fuck, that hurt, the red-head gives a rattling breath in with his own hands seeking his skull, not caring about the way their legs were twisted together--

“B-Be careful… not there.” A muddy groan, no touching the head, the statement was not even addressing the fall. For the smallest moment, for a brisk second, Ashers fingers had slipped just a finger-tips breadth against the furl of bandages around a head that really did not need to be either smacked against the ground to bring forth the sickness or relieved of its wards. It was just enough… just enough for red eyes to flicker in a summoned glow, the heart of a hearth’s embers as dull torches in the downcast shadow of the table, the effect lingers for a few seconds and then vanishes into the either just as the sudden dread had in the half-hour prior. Such crimson hues ensnare Lamb’s bandaged form in a heavy stare,

“... We are kind of pathetic at the moment.” Some humour remains still; he’s pathetic because he’s a hot mess of needle-pricks coming against worn muscles, and the other is pathetic for not putting up the obvious flirting that had been laid down. Both injured, both seemingly speaking different languages half the time, “Ehhh… I’m as good as it gets. And you?”

A pitiable roll onto his back, Rois fluidly (yet slowly) relieves the other from the threat of his leg and makes no attempt to get up. A blunt statement finished from before the fall to shed a little clarity on poor Asher’s tattered noggin’,

“I was saying… I wasn’t being serious about eating you now, Lamb. I was being playful. Flirtatious.”

Sometimes things just had to be spoken without frills.
 
A sorry mumbles out of Asher as he lets his arm go slack and untangles fingers from hair. And he, too, rolls in harsh, stilted movements onto his back. It feels good to let out some of the pain with a grumbling breath. Rois calls the both of them pathetic and he's inclined to agree, but even so it could have turned out worse.

"I don't mind it."

Odd phrasing for a simple check-in, but Asher's already caught up thinking about other things. The ceiling of the little kitchen must have been plaster white at some point. It has long since been tarnished yellow by smoke and grease stains. He looks up at the waves of soot. Whatever persona that had come over Rois before has disappeared with the fall. The other man's speaking plainly again, and Asher is glad for it. Though he wishes for a different topic.

“...I was being playful. Flirtatious.”​

"Yes, that much I put together." Reaching underneath his back, Asher fishes out a bit of broken chair, and tosses it to the side. "Just having a hard time with the why."

Had it occurred to Asher that, if he possessed a certain affection for men, then of course others could feel the same way? No, not really. He assumed this part of him was the result of being put back together in the wrong order, like how pain was duller now or how fear got mixed up with curiosity. Early on, he figured out not to trouble anyone with these particulars, in case they realized what he is: a repurposed cadaver with strange symmetry.

Then again, Rois is something similar, isn't he? Maybe its alright to say it out loud.

"Even on the off chance that you're... like me," the hesitation might be shame, but more likely Asher simply doesn't have the right words. "We don't know each other, not really."

He props himself up on his side with his good arm, facing Rois. What does he see, there? A bare chest rising and falling in shallow, but steady, rhythms. Pupils which glint at such odd angles that he cannot read them. Clammy sheen of sweat laying over muscles twitching with overexertion. More than that.

"... I would like to. Get to know you, I mean."
 

‘... I would like to. Get to know you, I mean.’​

A rough snort is produced; it reminded him back in ye olde days where shy newcomers to brothels would sit fidgety upon the end of the old bed and remark the same out loud, they needed some sort of emotional connection to get the job done. Some sort of purchase on the other person, sex with strangers brought them enough shame to feel detached and flighty of the idea but not enough to turn them away from the brightly coloured door entirely… such innate desire was too ravenous for that. Clearly Asher was feeling something in the way he kept those haunted eyes dragged back to his sprawled form upon the floor, Rois raises both arms with a breathed whinny of numb muscles stretched sore to put both hands behind his head as a makeshift pillow,

“The ‘why’ is simple; I’m curious to see if you’re a homosexual or not. You yourself don’t even know.” So blunt. So… so blunt, eyes capturing the same ceiling Lamb had once gazed upon but lacking in the effort for examining detail, “I have nothing else to do, I’m waiting for my team to locate me so we can continue on travelling. Why not make things at least entertaining?”

Such an impersonal answer in return, no, he does not need to know people, the only motivation was ‘I’m going to get bored so lets discover things!’. Sex-- not that he was ever planning on fucking Asher, the poor lad-- was not something that need be practised with emotion. Most engaged out of roiling desire, kicked-up emotions so savage they consume the mind, but asexual he had first known the most basest of pleasures out of want for money. When money was no longer needed it was an act of manipulation, to goad out the favours of traders so that deals could be evermore in the butchers favour, and if it was not that then it was entertainment. People caught amidst lust were interesting to watch. Strange expressions and noises and actions, sometimes suffering was thrown into the mix, sometimes amusement in the form of odd scenarios. Like a scientist watching animals through binoculars Rois studied them intensely to add to a little compendium in his head, the weirder the interaction the better, wow, people could really be like this?

In Asher’s case it was a favour repaid. Maybe he wouldn’t have to fork over money for the fish (yes, Lamb had denied the want for coin, but it was still a due debt to him), if that specific trade could be settled in a different manner…

“If it helps, there is no ‘off-chance’, we are similar.” Feeling the floor against his spine was conjuring up tension, the larger male sits up with askew hair flying in every direction and makes sure to keep those slitted pupils directly trained upon the others own. No reaction here should be missed.

“You said that wasn’t your body, you died and came back without memories, no?” Furrowed brows, an almost pout, “This isn’t halfly my body; when I died, I was resurrected by a literal demon who then decided to alter me physically… hence the… everything. I used to look very different.”

Pitch black nails raised to indicate eyes and teeth and hair with a disgruntled expression settling like snow upon stern features. Asher wasn’t going to sadly play his little guessing game, so there was no longer a need to hide the truth! And maybe this is a cop-out. Maybe he turns the attention onto the obvious to hide anything else about himself, it was better to stay distant, to stay emotionally disconnected,

“You’re not going to find many other people in this world that have to force themselves to accept the stranger they see in the mirror.”
 
Asher did not know what the word homosexual meant, and what Rois said left him no hints. They were talking about different things again, he was sure of it. The other man spoke so fast, and used such complicated words... if only Asher's Common was better, he might be able to keep up.

As it was, he spent most of his efforts piecing together the words, leaving very little left to respond with. Dee-mon, was something he had heard of before, but there was no connection to it. There were no demons in the Wend. There were spirits, and corruption, and the Blight, and if one spoke to the Etjveri who came down from the North there were tales of the faerie-folk, who danced and danced until their mortal partners were old and sickly.

None of those things seemed to fit Rois. He was himself, and not, as Asher was. Of that, at least, they could agree on.

“You’re not going to find many other people in this world that have to force themselves to accept the stranger they see in the mirror.”​

A light flickers to life in Asher's dark mind. One isolated thought connected to another into a little spark of color. It was an orange shade of annoyance.

"Most people have got to do that, I think." A singular look up and down where gesture was made, a subdued feeling therein despite his contradiction, wide eyes meeting the squint of a sulk. "Maybe minus the teeth and claws. But when you see a man, he's fighting with himself."

With mirrored movement, Asher rolled onto his heels. He didn't need to use his damaged arm to get his feet flat onto the ground, because his body, when left to its own devices, knew what it was doing.

"I'm drinking your coffee." He was still half-squatted on the floor when he reached past Rois to grab the tiny porcelain cup off the edge of the table. "You're letting it get cold."
 

“You think? You don’t know, but I do; no, most people do not wake up in the morning looking completely different from the night prior.”

No response.

The other gives him absolutely nothing when the word ‘homosexual’ is mentioned. Some men, when such a term is openly tossed in their direction, either give sly smiles or flickering eyes of mirth, yes, how did you know…? Or the complete opposite occurs, indignant anger stemming from usually unfounded beliefs, Rois himself fell into this category; do you want to fight?! Of course I’m not gay!! The word came coloured with the accusation of softness, of the tender-heartedness that women usually possessed, all frills and pitched voices, Gods no, he wasn’t a homosexual. Not like that. Blood-red eyes drag themselves about Asher in a clinical way, analyzing the other man’s distinct manner of skirting around the topic not as ‘I don’t know’ -- it had to be the secret third thing, denial. Confusion wrapped in reluctance wrapped in a unwillingness to submit to the idea that hey, men might be hot. The butcher himself had been there in the virile days of a blighted youth, slowly eased into the concept by older men who promised far more pay then women spread dead-like upon a bed cawwing like crows for insertion, their rough hands had dragged him out of the closet.

Asher was probably so deep in the closet he was blind.

That was all right, though. That wasn’t anything that couldn’t be rectified by a large, sizzling hot ‘alpha male’ taking the lead as all rugged men did with their unsure charges, just another virgin on a bed, using coffee as a distraction from what he’d call the obvious. 'Normal', straight men did not stare at other men for lengths of time, this Rois knew, the marked behaviour of a homosexual caught amongst the claws of longing…! They did not share beds! They did not touch so much! And if Lamb was so lamb-like as to shy away in his pasture from the stud ram pawing the ground before him, then all it would take was a lure, a flame to draw him in, to ignite no doubt icy-passion within his stiff, bandaged body…

And so, Rois does not let Asher’s hand make it to the cup.

Ensnared by the wrist, the squatting male is treated as a doll without autonomy, the red-head attempts to not allow the flickering of mischief to make glimmering rubies out of an otherwise flat stare as, straight mouthed, he brings Asher’s palm against his chest. They’ve touched before-- multiple times-- but this time there is that once-again unspoken intent that baffled Asher so… words were not working. It was the time for action, heated, direct action, tanned skin does not come to burn the other this time as a cool palm comes flat against the curve of a bare, taught breast--

“Do you… feel anything?”

Low words, murmured, flirting again, he is not talking about the hard thudding of his strong heartbeat beneath muscle-bound ribs against Asher’s reluctant touch but rather something… inwards. A stirring. A want. Wants to see if something sparks in the injured youths dead-eyes, something like desire brought about by the telltale ache that occupied most peoples lower halves in times of passion, a slowww drag lower… hotter, above fever-pitch, it does not scald but the furnace behind the hard ridges of Rois’s belly makes the contact a tad uncomfortable as the youths fingers fall into the groves of deep, prominent abdominal muscles. The hold there is shorter than before. The bastard knows the fire there is insufferable for lengths of time due to experience, and so there was only one more tour stop for the rough hunters pads to visit, callouses born from the roughness of Lamb’s working life scrape against jutting veins like lightning forked from the hem of his pants, the flushed planes of the half-beasts lower abdomen are more tolerable. Sweat begins to lick at Asher’s pale hands, they are splayed preciously between the stark V of thick hips but they aren’t taken any lower to somewhere far more blatant--

“... Or now?”

Surely?!
 
Do you feel anything?

There is a great, still pool of black water underneath and above the world which contains every thought anyone has ever had. Each word spoken rolls down Asher's spine like mineral water off a stalactite and drips into that pool. They become like every other drop in the body -- dissolved, formless, observable only by the ripples made. If there is an effect, it is infinitesimally small.

But Asher is earnest in everything he does, and he wants to answer. He traces the afterimage of those ripples, trying to see the shape of what he feels before it disappears.

First of all, he is off-balance on the balls of his feet, because he only has one hand, and it is being tugged in an unexpected direction. The skin his fingers are guided over is like sand on the beach, warmed by the sun, too hot in places. The eyes, the eyes are hard to read because he is not used to the slit of pupil, but he has been looking at them awhile now and this time he catches the glimmer.

Do you feel anything?

"Of course I do."

He takes the weight off his feet and goes onto his knees. Between and against, however it lands around the other man's splayed legs. It gets them closer. It gets Asher looking up at stifled-smile, tossled-hair Rois and it slides his hand a fraction of finger-width down, down...

"I feel whatever I touch. I see what the light falls on. When I dive into the water, I hear the current mixing with my heartbeat. And right now, I..."

Pupils are as placid as that dark lake. They don't shift with the light or mood any longer. Heart beats evenly in slow thuds. Asher's fingertips are heating up, but that is probably because he is touching something warm, and his face has a flush to it, but the little room is very humid now with all the steam.

"...I think you're messing with me."

Closer, still, he leans in enough to feel tobacco-tinged breath on his cheeks. The tendons in his hand go slack as his fingers turn to fluid movement. They curl around curve of hip, thumb pressed into the crease of that V. What Asher says and what he feels are not so mismatched as to make either untrue: but clearly his body has different priorities.

"I don't know what a demon is and I don't care what someone else made you into. Here is my guess: you are yeyur atlin, like the crows. All you do is eat carrion and cause mischief."

Well, Asher did not become carrion today, so that only left one other thing.
 

Talking to Asher is like sticking your nose amidst the haughty words of some scholar somewhere begging for a being of rationale to come glimpse between the sentences, where ‘true meaning’ can be ferreted out amongst the noise of barely wedged together thoughts; why did it have to be like that? It did not suit Lamb, Rois thinks, this ruffled up appearance halfly smeared with dried blood, a man who found work in the mud of forests and wielded a sword like an extension of his body, traits of far simpler people who worked and worked and never got any wiser for it. A weird disconnect. An unknown wisdom. It seemed so natural for him to dance around what he actually wanted… or was it that still, the other man did not realize?

And to top it all off… it infuriates the half-beast that the other remains so calm.

Those dead eyes piss him off (alas, what poor souls dared to remain impervious to his charm!?), they are as hard to read as his own critically small black lines, though for the briefest moment something like surprise crosses them like a falling star-- that hand… holding… him? A body enthralled by the possibility of something unspoken paired with dull words that are comprised of no real emotion, facts, statements, as still as the grey-water of a ice-kissed lake--

“Don’t compare me to a bird…” Rois’s voice quivers with minor annoyance, lips splitting in a devilish smile regardless of the thrum of agitation, oh, mischief is correct, “You think I’m toying with you… maybe. The reality is that I’m just a restless dog who is exceedingly bored of life… I’m always eager to find something fresh and interesting to chew on.”

Words as a whisper ghost the pink shell of Asher’s ear.

“And I’m on the brink of a new discovery.”

Oh--

The poor lad suddenly finds himself forced backwards-- but the aggressiveness of the out-of-nowhere shove does not end in dramatic action. No slamming of the spine against the ground, no quaking of younger bones, Rois pushes Asher down against the stone tiles with the others no-doubt natural resistance serving as a way to stop him simply tumbling over like a shoved mannequin. It is careful. Calculated, but not so slow that it gave the poor youth the opportunity for freedom as one hand comes to squish his chest in a bulky press that makes once-easy breathing a little staggered against the weight the other leans upon him; heavier and heavier, down, down, following the lull of the smaller males lungs… black claw-tips against the delves of the hunters ribs, the other hand is sliding roughly against the hem of Lamb’s pants greedy in the way they breach the woolen barrier to meet warmer skin below, threatening to ensnare the others manhood-- but it is just a threat. The rough, playful grab never actually comes, hesitation, there needs to be a look-see, a wait for Lamb’s reaction before the situation veers dangerously off a cliff into unwanted territory.

Upon his knees now Rois stoops himself low with a downwardly arched spine (and a minor attempt not to shiver in latent anguish at aging pangs of pain) and lends snapping fangs half an inch away from the others throat, heat claims the length of Asher’s neck like a flame risen, the prick of pointed teeth skirt marble tones turning redder by the second with blood-flush,

“Let me see you feel things then…!” Fingers below curl, the threat worsens with nail-tips scraping against sensitive skin, “I want to see…!”

Wagging tail, dog to ball, the broad flat of a feverishly balmy, slickened tongue captures the cartilage of his prey’s throat with a jaw that quivers with restraint-- don’t bite it out, don’t bite it out-- teeth shift against pulse-point, furls of red engulf the hunters chin, the weight, the weight--
 
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This is how you catch a catfish: waggle your fingers a bit, and let it bite...

Asher doesn't resist at all. The ease of the fall is a fluid play of strength which leads down against cooling kitchen tile. Somehow he knows to keep one of his feet flat on the ground, the contact to the earth preserving his balance, even as searching hands bear weight down on every other part of him. Even as air gets squished out of lungs and ribs struggle to rise. Does he notice the vibrant red seeping out from under bandages, wound too fresh to be strained so? Can he feel the dull ache of shoulder turn sharp? No, there are other things on his mind.

Asher swallows. He wants teeth and tongue there to catch on the tremble of throat.

Every word that Rois speaks and each breath that comes with it sets the hairs on the back of Asher's neck to prickle. A chill rolls down a path of nerves and settles in his core, but as it settles he realizes it is not a chill at all, nor warmth. Instead it is some electric in-between feeling which startles him alive and then relaxes and flows and builds. The prickle of nails against skin only sparks the static further. It is difficult to keep from following the feeling, hips wanting to pulse with the waves. But he does not, because he has figured out the rules of the game. He can hold his breath for a little longer; it is not yet time yet to pull up into the shallows.

A tight grin splits across Asher's face, or maybe its a grimace from holding against the weight. Either way he is glad for the spilling over of red hair — which smells of smoke and oils and blood and is not so acrid in his nose any longer — because it hides the expression from the other man.

He can't help the gruff in his voice, though, fueled by a shallow inhale, all the air he can manage to grasp.

"Then do something I can feel."
 

He notices the running of red against the harsh lines of Asher’s chest, after all the lovely liquid comes to colour the edges of his fingers in a slow drip, the smell of iron makes him shiver with want of another kind; the splitting of skin to lend jagged teeth to soft flesh plucked up harshly by the curves, no, no, it isn’t the time for sadism of a gluttenous kind. Not when the young ram is captured by innate urge, the ever so subtle not-bucking of lithe hips is cute--! Little lamb discovering the burning of testosterone in his veins and not knowing quite what to do with it, Rois imagines the other male mounted upon a pillow exasperated and breathless and messy and tries not to let a fit of giggles destroy the sexual energy now thickly coursing through the air, then do something I can feel,

“... All right.”

The others wish is obeyed as fang-tip draws a fiery red line against the youngers restained swallowings in its departure from a shifting adams apple, a bead of blood swells and comes to rest at the hollow of the hunters throat, and off too comes the hand constricting ribs (plus the devious one below)… Rois wants Asher to move as much as he pleases. Wants him to have both hands and legs free to see if he writhes upon the ground, to see what fingers grab, to see if legs clamp, sitting up a little there is very little delicacy in the way the butcher drags pants over twitching hips to spring free the stirring of arousal awaiting him there. There had been no resistance as of yet. That meant there needn’t be hesitation, no matter how dense the other male seemed that quivering body seemed to know exactly what it wanted, this activity does not need fanfare. It does not need the coddling of a soul new to such pleasures. The best way to learn to swim was to jump bravely into the deep end and let emotion burst forth, I want to live, with a mirrored grin of his own Rois’s eyes squint in happiness, let’s bring life to those dead eyes.

A little shuffle backwards, a deep, downward arch regardless of how his massive body complains about it. No verbal forewarning, no attempt to let poor Asher down into the lake of erotism slowly, tongue-flat abruptly heats the underside of his companions swelling cock with pointed teeth dragging the upper tightening skin, their tips catch on pumping veins, the pressure of a sturdy jaw never allows them to draw blood but they do pin the hunter in place-- move too much? Keep up your failing attempts to stifle bucking? And they’d scrape; so no, do not move those hips as much as you please. With half of the flushed member in his mouth he’s free to rhythmically flex and roll a fever-warm tongue, raises it high at the back of his throat to harshly press the textured muscle against a salted slit to split it wider by force, lets the pointed tip of the dancing muscle flick back and forth against the under-grooves of an eager head. It’s hot. Hot enough to send shivers down Asher’s spine, goosebumps against the flesh of his arms, gooey saliva gathers and softens tooth-grip against the swelling just a little; it forces the half-beast to swallow slowly with a guttural murmur. The noise is a heady, deep vibration that the hunter feels all the way at the base… a devilish tremor that repeats with the cocky, barely stifled laughter rising in his chest.

Liquid gently spills from the corner of dark, rounded lips, slobber, it rolls slow and clings to a taut sack in heated rows, hunger. The presence of flesh in that trap of a mouth always causes the over production of heated drool, the sensation is a glorious wetness that threatens the crux of Asher’s thighs with the syrupy grace of above-tepid, sticky moisture…
 
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