In the mystical realm of Rivenholm, where dark enchantments and treacherous intrigue rule, a young half-blood thief known as Mirk lives a life of cunning and survival on the shadowy streets. His nimble fingers have never failed him, and he's stolen...
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It had taken him awhile to come out of the warm cocoon of contentment that Razaël's hand in his hair had lulled him into. It was mainly his knees that had started aching.
At first, he had tried sighing, hoping it would give the Fae enough signals that screamed, Hello, I'm still here!
It hadn't worked.
To his annoyance, the hand that had played with his hair was long gone. It felt as though he had been kneeling there for days, even when the shadows of the sun had barely moved.
His knees did ache, but he wouldn't lean forward. He didn't like touching others, and he had high pain tolerance. Vaguely, Mirk could sense Razaël's attention on him.
"Tell me your name, brat, and I'll let you up," Razaël murmured, now looking down at him. Mirk refrained from crossing his arms.
"What? It is my n–" Air left his lungs as the same hand that had been so soothing before shot out towards his hair, gripping the thick curly strands at his nape and tugging so that he was forced to tilt his chin up.
Razaël leaned down, silver eyes narrowed. His familiar scent washed over Mirk again, reminding him of the first time they had met, when the Fae had come to his home uninvited.
"Do not lie to me," he said lowly, bending down even lower, "I can smell it when you do."
Mirk didn't answer. The grip on his hair got even tighter, and he knew Razaël meant business. He was too close, too domineering. There was a certain presence that came from the Fae with that action, it was as if he was reminding Mirk that it was him who held the power over the other.
"Mirk." he spluttered out, eyes wide with fear. Razaël's pupils dilated for a moment, the corners of his eyes relaxing as a small, pleased smile crossed his face. The grip loosened, and he skimmed his fingers through Mirk's hair, the soothing motion immediately relaxing his body.
He didn't understand it.
"Mirk." Razaël tried out his name, and oddly enough... Mirk liked the way it sounded coming from him.
"Thank you for telling me." He pulled his hand back and shoved half of the things on his desk to the other side before pushing away from the male still kneeling on the ground.
A sombre mood washed over him, annoyed at himself for having yielded so easily. Razaël didn't give him any time to fester in his aggravated mood.
"Come on, up you get." he held out his hand, but didn't touch Mirk this time, giving him the choice.
Mirk leaned against the desk, grunting as he pushed himself off the floor with some difficulty. His knees were numb.
"Can I help you up the desk?"
"What?" he forgot about his anger as uncertainty washed over him.
"You do not like touch much, so I'm asking you, can I touch you?" he rephrased his question, still holding out his hands.
