[ @quantvs ] ↳ rough touch
4. My muse suddenly grips your muse’s hair.
Roughness is pressed into expelled breath, growing uneven with each slowly drawn inhale; anxiousness has built, racking extremity with it’s mild quake. It’s his own fault, really, for becoming such a mess. Anxiety becomes issue the longer he kneels, attempting to catch breath, as single extremity cups near scrunched visage. He wonders where it went wrong, perfectly normal day starting out in typical manner. He waking in early morning to ready himself for work, dressing in designated clothing, and packing duffle bag with clothing to change into once he was off. It was a split schedule, work then dance practice, taking bus to nearest stop around university. He knew it by heart, had traced path several times with his gaze and steps.
Yet, why had it gone so wrong now.
She wants to leave. He’s certain, acquaintance he’s stopped upon street, face he’s seem only few times but never enough to form a true connection other gaining sense of familiarity; one he’s depending on now as he comes down from high of nerves. When petite frame goes to move away he grasp outward reaching into musk air, thick and alerting him that rain was to come any second now, and takes hold for slender shoulder; standing as he does so. Only grasp takes that of soft locks, tangling in a mash of strands and tugging them with a seeming urgency. It’s probably painful, nothing more than a sting, but he still feels apologetic, muttering said apology as warm breath is brushed near shell of female’s ear.
It’s not often he seeks company of opposite sex, at least in form of physical affection, yet, there is a part of him that crave it; sweet scent only provided by female, warmth, and curves that could easily mold into that of his own frame. Something he’s yearned to have close to him since day he’d been pushed away by only female figure in his youth. “please don’t leave..” it’s soft, tone giving away more than needed, alerting her to his growing desperation. He means nothing by it, no desire to keep her dare she rejected him, but for now he relishes warmth provided by his own abrupt embrace; appendage now loosely wrapping around slender waist. It’s disgusting, just how much he aches for physical affection, a sense of security, a place of calm.
Cinnamon is something strands reek of. Thick in his inhale, as nose buries along top of head; grasp along slender waist tightening. Lashes flutter closed, his formed anxiety dying down the longer he forces her to stay close to him. “–I can breath a little easier.” he admits, digit brushing along curve of spine; head dipping from top of female’s to curve of shoulder. She must feel uncomfortable, undoubtedly so, digit tangling once more into locks and tugging as they tangle in deeper, brushed along scalp.
he knows it can’t be provided by one person alone, but, he clings nonetheless.
