Truths only sound conceited because we're told to hide what we're good at. [ There's a ripple of bitter scoffing in Will's tone. ] Especially if it makes us happy. [ In case his opinions on your honest self-confidence were in any doubt at all, Ambrose, take comfort in this reassurance.
Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]
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Ambrose then drapes himself against Will's shoulders more decisively, and there's no hanging off his wrists against the bump of Will's shoulders - he rests his full hands there. Cool thumbpads touch the bare skin at the top of Will's neck, right under his hair. It's only been about a week since his last cut - it's short and prickly still, and Will feels it raise like gooseflesh at the stimulus.
And then Ambrose backs away, still holding on with the lightest of touches. This, the careful holding, is more reliable of a grip than it Ambrose were demanding with the full extent of his supernatural strength. The showing off is clear, if subtle. And here, in Ambrose's bedroom, in this island of routine they've kept safe for themselves, it's a personal showing. A vie for his attention.
Will's cheeks flushed at the mentioning of Ambrose feeding, but now, Will's throat feels warm. The tips of his ears burn with some newly-adolescent sense of self-consciousness, like he's afraid to be found out for liking something flaunted nearby.
What had Ambrose said just a moment ago, expression coy, a smile hiding at the corners of his mouth? 'I have a dress in the closet, though...'
Will listens to the rest, and it's tender, but the tenderness just makes a softer field for this guilty intrigue to bloom in. ] I think I'm— both not sure on all my feelings about this yet, and I'm not sure which ones I can share. But I know this is...
[ Will lets go first, in the end, although it's just his right hand, and it's to gesture at Ambrose. At the softness of him, which always existed, but that's been put in a new light. His form is the same as it's always been while nude and draped in clothing too large for him - Will's flannels and nothing else, a bathrobe built for a man but so uni-sized as to be humorous on Ambrose's body - but the carry of himself, the context of it, is so different. Will swallows and his mouth feels excitingly dry.
His expression pinches with sudden doubt. ] Can I— Can I say that you look...beautiful? Like this? Or is that not...what this is for? [ He finds it in himself to stare back up at Ambrose, earnest while uncertain. ]