Of Muscles and Misery
Deep within the forest glade, bathed in the last glimmers of firefly light, Onorfin stood stiffly against a mossy tree, jaw clenched, and every inch of him taut with frustration.
“Do you want to implode from sexual tension?” Percy asked from his perch, one wing outstretched dramatically. “Because I swear, your cheekbones just flexed.”
“I am not sexually tense,” Onorfin hissed, clutching the front of his robe like it was all that kept his composure intact.
Percy gave him a long, slow look. “Your body just shivered when I said his name earlier.”
“I had a draft,” the Elf snapped.
“In your trousers, perhaps,” Percy chirped. “Was it a DP-draft? The kind that sneaks under your emotional defenses and fills your brain with impure thoughts and rugged jawlines?”
Onorfin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why is he always there? Looming. Flexing. Smirking like he knows things.”
Percy tilted his head. “To be fair, he does know things. Like how to lean on a doorframe while oozing sin, or how to wear black leather so tight it violates three peace treaties.”
Onorfin groaned loudly. “I’m an Elf! I was not built for this level of thirst!”
“Oh please,” Percy snorted. “You were hand-carved by fate to be flustered. Your eyelashes flutter when he says your name. Your ears twitch when he growls. And let’s not forget last night when he stretched in front of the fire and you dropped your goblet.”
“That was because it was slippery!”
“It was because his shirt rode up and you saw abdominal definition, you sweet dramatic twat!”
Onorfin buried his face in his hands. “He smells like forests and danger. And, The Valar preserve me, he winked at me while licking caramel off his thumb. Who does that?”
“A man who wants to be eaten or worshipped,” Percy said proudly. “And honestly? Either would be character growth for you.”
The Elf peeked between his fingers. “What if he knows I’m attracted to him?”
Percy gave him a very dry look. “Darling. The man marked a tree in front of you. Marked. A. Tree. That wasn’t territorial. That was flirtation with pelvic intent.”
Onorfin looked utterly horrified. “You think he wants to...”
“Absolutely. He wants to defile you politely, with consent and maybe candlelight.”
The Elf groaned again, dragging his fingers down his face. “I need help.”
“You poor, pointy-eared disaster,” Percy cooed mockingly, nipping affectionately at his silver hair. “Just admit you want to climb him like a fucking tree.”
The Elf turned away, crossing his arms and muttering something about dignity and restraint.
“No,” Percy said smugly, fluffing his feathers. “You need a cold bath and possibly a support group for sexually repressed Elves who fall for chaotic muscle daddies.”
“Do you want to implode from sexual tension?” Percy asked from his perch, one wing outstretched dramatically. “Because I swear, your cheekbones just flexed.”
“I am not sexually tense,” Onorfin hissed, clutching the front of his robe like it was all that kept his composure intact.
Percy gave him a long, slow look. “Your body just shivered when I said his name earlier.”
“I had a draft,” the Elf snapped.
“In your trousers, perhaps,” Percy chirped. “Was it a DP-draft? The kind that sneaks under your emotional defenses and fills your brain with impure thoughts and rugged jawlines?”
Onorfin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why is he always there? Looming. Flexing. Smirking like he knows things.”
Percy tilted his head. “To be fair, he does know things. Like how to lean on a doorframe while oozing sin, or how to wear black leather so tight it violates three peace treaties.”
Onorfin groaned loudly. “I’m an Elf! I was not built for this level of thirst!”
“Oh please,” Percy snorted. “You were hand-carved by fate to be flustered. Your eyelashes flutter when he says your name. Your ears twitch when he growls. And let’s not forget last night when he stretched in front of the fire and you dropped your goblet.”
“That was because it was slippery!”
“It was because his shirt rode up and you saw abdominal definition, you sweet dramatic twat!”
Onorfin buried his face in his hands. “He smells like forests and danger. And, The Valar preserve me, he winked at me while licking caramel off his thumb. Who does that?”
“A man who wants to be eaten or worshipped,” Percy said proudly. “And honestly? Either would be character growth for you.”
The Elf peeked between his fingers. “What if he knows I’m attracted to him?”
Percy gave him a very dry look. “Darling. The man marked a tree in front of you. Marked. A. Tree. That wasn’t territorial. That was flirtation with pelvic intent.”
Onorfin looked utterly horrified. “You think he wants to...”
“Absolutely. He wants to defile you politely, with consent and maybe candlelight.”
The Elf groaned again, dragging his fingers down his face. “I need help.”
“You poor, pointy-eared disaster,” Percy cooed mockingly, nipping affectionately at his silver hair. “Just admit you want to climb him like a fucking tree.”
The Elf turned away, crossing his arms and muttering something about dignity and restraint.
“No,” Percy said smugly, fluffing his feathers. “You need a cold bath and possibly a support group for sexually repressed Elves who fall for chaotic muscle daddies.”
