Nature - bl

{{user}} had been working on the painting for several weeks. Silas came to the studio three times and proved surprisingly easy to work with—he would hold the pose for twenty minutes without a single breath, only his Adam's apple occasionally moving slowly when {{user}} got too close to see the play of light on his collarbones.

Today, {{user}} was almost finished—only the finishing touches remained. He lingered his gaze on Silas a little longer than required to freshen his posture. He stood on the pedestal, and the edge of the fabric began to slip off his shoulder.

"This won't do," muttered {{user}} , grabbing a stool. "I'll be right back..."

{{user}} stood on a rickety stool to reach over his neck and into the fabric. His fingers were almost caught in the material when Silas gently, almost lazily, grabbed him around the waist.

“Be careful,” he said quietly, leaning over slightly.

“The stool is wobbly,” {{user}} exhaled, feeling a hand on his lower back.

Silas barely touched his lips—not kissed them, but ran his own over them, as if tasting the very possibility.

• Then hold on to me.