[ It'd be invisible with any distance, but pressed this close, there's no disguising the single wave of tension through the muscles in Bastien's neck and chest. But it's not because he's tense, exactly. It's just his body gripping around the urge to laugh or choke or exhale a burst of unexpected relief, all so second-nature to suppress that sometimes it fully substitutes for his first nature. It will still bubble out eventually—perhaps in the lazy afterglow of their inevitable king-and-concubine performance. Then he'll be giddy and reverent, surveying his riches, silky hair to keen mind to good heart to beloved smelly feet. He'll leave a love bite on the back of one of By's knees.
For now he only squeezes him in more firmly, and smiles into his hair, and spends several silent seconds letting the warmth of it spread all the way to his toes. And at the end of them, he says, ]
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For now he only squeezes him in more firmly, and smiles into his hair, and spends several silent seconds letting the warmth of it spread all the way to his toes. And at the end of them, he says, ]
Your soul would be a cat.