murderbased:

     Just as the stranger pulls away, Aspen reaches out to snare his raised hand, calloused fingers wrapping around a bony wrist with a gentleness so uncharacteristic of his usual mannerisms that he almost catches himself off guard. His thumb sweeps across the smooth skin of the boy’s palm, quite the opposite of his rough, cracked own, his smile shifting from cocky to amused. Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong here — probably overheard the uproar and followed the noise in search of its source, hoping for entertainment. Everything from his clothes, to his expression, to his blown pupils and flushed cheeks, all set him apart from the throng surrounding him like a sore thumb; if Aspen hadn’t approached him when he did, someone else would’ve seized the opportunity, cornered the out of place newcomer with far worse intentions.

     “Why don’t you see to it for me?” he drawls, winking, the Brooklyn component of his accent heavier than normal as it drapes itself over each word like syrup. Reluctantly, he releases the hand trapped within his own, though not without first pressing closer, lessening the already minimal space between them by another inch or so. Aspen doesn’t mean to overwhelm him, but the fact of the matter remains that he tends to carry with him an intimidating sort of presence that either entrances those in his immediate area, or sends them running for the hills. More often than not, however, people fall into his orbit mindlessly, bewitched by his practiced charm and the mystery of all that is Aspen Blake — or, rather, the perfectly cultivated persona he projects to those around him. He presses the back of his hand to his forehead, allowing the gauze encasing his palm to intercept the steady stream of blood and effectively halt the flow at the source: a gash on his hairline from a kick to the head he took earlier in the night. Brine from the sweat-soaked wrapping immediately seeps into the wound, and Aspen winces, yanking his fist away from the stinging cut in favor of wiping the excess bodily fluids from both eyes, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “Unless you don’t like ‘em beaten and bloodied. But I don’t know why you’d be here if y’didn’t.”

     The crowd behind them begins to thicken, almost imperceptibly, but he’s spent more than a sufficient amount of nights here to notice when it happens, even when the surge of bodies only increases in multiples of two and three. Within seconds, he has no doubt, yet another flood of eager onlookers will pour through the door, waving betting slips and plastic cups filled to overflowing with watered-down beer, and Aspen doesn’t fancy being here when they arrive. At best, he gives himself ten minutes before the rowdy mob frightens off the object of his interest — ten minutes to either close the deal or accept defeat, and losing isn’t in his vocabulary.

     Aspen leans into him by half an inch, fingers dropping to fiddle idly with one of the few latched buttons on the placket of his shirt, and it’s by no accident that his thumb gingerly skims the soft swell of the boy’s stomach, nudging the fabric aside in a pointed — and, ultimately successful — effort to knock his v-neck open further, tongue peeking out from between his teeth. “What’s your name, carino?” he purrs, giving the pink material another subtle tug. It requires every shred of willpower contained within all five-foot-nine of his frame not to pop open the last few clasps holding his top together, and he huffs out an impatient breath, biting down on his lower lip as he wrestles internally with the urge to slip his hand deftly beneath the other’s waistband. “—Walk with me, eh? Tell me how you wandered in here.”

         He wonders, for a moment, why he feels so safe when he’s surrounded by an environment and people that scream danger – but when the man’s hand wraps around his wrist, Elwood feels somewhat grounded. There’s a glint in his eyes that beams with curiosity, the wonder of what may happen should he press even closer, close the space between them completely. In the end, Elwood doesn’t need to wonder - the man answers his question for him and soon enough, the pretty pink of Elwood’s shirt is matching the stain on his cheeks. Innocent he may be, but do not mistake this for ignorance - curious or not, should the stranger not have found him, Elwood would have made a swift retreat. There’s no saying what the other men this place would do to someone like him, someone so obviously lost and out of place, but he would not have stuck around to find out.

          At the boy’s words, Elwood offers a momentarily blank stare. He’s trying to figure him out, you see - work out what his intentions are, what he wants from him, if there’s an ulterior motive to the kindness that seeps from the man’s body language, faux or not. As the man steps closer, Elwood doesn’t shift, but rather there’s a hint of a smile forming at his lips - and that’s something he didn’t expect. His gaze flickers up to the man’s bloody forehead, and he watches his wince in silence, only his eyes expressing his inherent sympathy that remains ever present when confronted with those in pain. He doesn’t know why he does it, and he’d never be able to tell you why, but hesitantly trembling fingers reach out - his thumb gingerly swiping at the blood escaping the wound. Elwood regards his thumb with mild curiosity for a moment, before his gaze flickers back to the man’s and, without breaking eye contact, he raises his thumb to his mouth – sucking the digit between pretty pink lips, swallowing down the metallic bite without so much as a wince. The taste isn’t particularly pleasant, but Elwood thinks it’ll be worth it.  ❛  … You gonna wince when I get my hands on it, too?  ❜

          Perhaps he’s working on autopilot, or maybe it’s a subconscious desire, but Elwood finds himself stepping further into the stranger’s space upon taking note of the thickening crowd. They’re almost chest to chest, the space between them minimal, and Elwood has never been one for crowds but he’s suddenly in no hurry to leave. His lips are bloody but the blood isn’t his own, staining once petal pink lips into a much darker crimson, the dim lights of the room reflecting against the shine. There’s a playful undertone to the smirk he offers because, confidence or not, Elwood makes no attempt to hide that he’s messing with something much bigger than him – still, he does not know what it is he’s getting himself caught up in, but with one look up at the man, he finds he simply doesn’t care.

          If there was any confusion that Elwood definitely doesn’t have the upper hand here the man quickly clears things up with his actions. His gaze tilts downward, watching fingers fiddle with his buttons, and when he registers the touch to his stomach Elwood sucks in a breath, sucking his tummy in instinctively. His blush darkens, his breathing shallows and he soon finds himself overwhelmed, sucking his lip between his teeth and this time he does wince at he bitter sting of metallic, nose scrunching almost cutely.  ❛  M’name’s Elwood…  ❜  It’s spoken on an exhale, the endearment having him squirming almost instantly. On an impulse, Elwood cranes his neck a little, pressing bloodied lips to the skin just shy of the other’s ear, his own fingers resting against his bare chest.   ❛  Are you sure talking is what you want to do right now?   ❜