Affronts landed as punches to the gut, sinister southpaws unexpected in flash action combos so quick there wasn't time to properly perry with Robb in full-on scrap-flailing mode. Gangly arms seeking bits of purchase anywhere except his partner, left alone to nervously finger copper and suede latchings his corner of the bed.
"I'm not kicking up a fuss now, either,” Jon warbled towards the ceiling in complete disbelief.
For a bleeding intuitive you can be fucking daft as a Bristol chav’s baby-mama. Swear to Christ, Robb, if I wasn’t in love with you, I’d pummel the freckles off your face this very instant.
Unfriendliest part of double mattress the space separating lovers began to cool as each lad stewed quietly for a span. Robb with his huffing and Jon at his own bit of lip chewing, unable to extend cuffed wrist in peace offering for all the occasions beast on a taut rope had nipped at outstretched fingers. After all, a bloke only had ten. How many times did Robb realistically expect him to admit fault - Sodding begged him for help, I did! - only to be completely dejected? Before pouty lips finally sealed up for good?
"I'm still very keen-" Said as fucking much. “- I just don’t see how an Instagram account or a new piece of naughty kit will help me communicate to you what I want and need.”
Are you there yet, Robb?
Jon ventured a glance from the dark and twisty side of pinched eyebrows. His boyfriend still assumed the posture of a dying queen, dramatic aura barely a shade lighter than queerly cocked wrist to forehead agony. No doubt retracing every step of carefully laid plans in faint hope of finding lost trail.