... lawrence considers the throat. feathered sinew threaded with the lavender - touch of veins, the attention seeking pulse laying itself bare beneath lawrence’s grip ( the juxtaposition, framed by breaths that fall too heavy and too eager : his hands eclipse this throat as the waning moon dims out the sun ). his grip closes. a circuit of thrumming energy as his fingers brush against each other, meeting as a necklace of thorned ingenuity at the back of will’s throat. he grip tightens, the world becoming little more than hands and throat, the struggle of breath ( this is how they do this : a give, a take, the reward of nothingness ). ‘ look at me. look at me when i talk to you, william. ’
his thumb stretches to catch beneath jaw, forcing the other’s head up so their eyes can catch in their barbed - wire ferociousness ( there is no trust to be spared here, no belief that the other will listen : every demand must be followed with action ). ‘ good. ’ unworthy praise for the unworthy disciple ... his hands tighten, tighten, the holy noose around the heretic’s gentle throat ( the sight is one of fervid magnitude, lamb - bled fevour, his healing hands desperate to pull horrid noises from this crushed throat ). ‘ are you going to be quiet? ’ the vague squeeze of his palm against trembling skin, tighter than he’d use with anyone else : brutality encompassed. ‘ or should i take your consciousness from you? ’
@schenks ... ❛ choke . intimately wrap your hands around my muse’s throat . fuck you
