After Party

Denver blushes hot pink, causing his pale blue eyes to stand out glassily against his slender face, too embarrassed to admit that he likes being curled up in Pixy's arms, his head situated just under her chin. However, despite himself, he turns slightly to bury his face in her neck, and then jerkily, hesitantly, brings his thin arms around her body, and pulls himself in closer, able to feel her breath blossoming in her chest and the way her body begins to shake as she starts to laugh, and he immediately whips back, face now much redder, flustered and mad.

"What?!" he snaps, dark eyebrows knitting together, his flush deepening and spreading down his neck and across the tips of his large ears, perfectly embodying the feeling of being offended right down to the way his upper lip draws back in a scowl, but his lower lip quivers.

"Nothing," Pixy says warmly, a loving chuckle still vibrating in the back of her throat, though she tries to stifle it, causing the gentlest of lilts in her words "You're just cute. It's nice, when you're letting yourself enjoy something. Or, at least trying."

Denver's exaggerated look of disgust and anger softens after quietly mulling over what she said, and Pixy realizes how sad he looks when he's not forcing an air of disdain. Very reluctantly, some form of stress causing his limbs to overexert and quiver, Denver lowers himself back against her, this time pushed up against her chest as he pouts, trembling like a leaf.

"I'm not cute," Denver’s words are spat like poison, but he clings to her like honey, clearly trying to maintain his fearsome reputation and yet also take advantage of the little affection tossed his way.

"Sure you are," Pixy purrs, and before Denver can bristle again, she begins to run her fingers through his short black hair, which settles him before he can manage to argue.

"Whatever," he whispers, snuggling into her chest defeatedly, nuzzling his pointed nose against her shirt and soft, warm body, and draws in a deep, calming breath, before pressing his cheek against her and finally settling in, still mad as a tossed hive of bees, but unwilling to fight about it.

Pixy continues to comb through Denver's hair, situated in the comfortable dark of his living room, lying lengthwise on the couch with him atop her, paying close attention to the rise and fall of his chest and the subtle whistle of air that comes as he exhales through his nose. Seeming to think no one else can tell or care, Denver slowly relaxes, his usually huffy breath slowing and quieting, quite sleeplike.

Denver is clearly a different person when he feels no one is there to observe him. Slowly, in Pixy's lap, he seems to become smaller, and less harsh, his body gradually easing into hers, as he unpostures his shoulders and lets himself settle, no longer making a show of his aggression in the rigid way he feels the need to exist, or the constant reminders he is pissed that he struggles to drop now as it has become second nature. She wonders if he is like this, alone in bed. Silent, and somewhat sad, and very fragile in nature. When Denver does not seem angry, he seems lonely.

"When's the last time you did this with someone?" Pixy asks softly, and remembering he has an audience, Denver becomes hard again, and shrugs moodily.

"It's been a while," there is a grim concession to be totally honest in this sentence, allowed despite the nasal, strangled way he speaks, always trying to make his voice sound deeper and less pitchy than it actually is, his true tone very rarely allowed in the open "It's been a really. Really. Long time."

Self consciously, bearing down like a hedgehog coiling in to protect itself, he draws one of his legs closer to his body.

"I'm glad I'm here with you," Pixy's hand slips down to the nape of Denver's neck, and she methodically begins to massage Denver's turgid muscles, which are so dense and strained they feel twisted, as though he's kept them clenched since he turned thirteen.

He lets out a sudden, gasping groan in response, and then in a rushed, flustered gesture, seeks to hide his face in her chest out of a sweaty mix of shame and embarrassment, and makes a low, muffled squeak as she persists in trying to work out the deep knots of his neck.

“Y-You can’t just do that,” his complaints are just a whiney gust, coming out a little higher and more desperate as he begins to squirm a little, but makes no effort to stop her, and as he whimpers again he clamps his bony hand down over his mouth, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Though Pixy smirks, her deep brown eyes glitter with a sort of warmth no one has wasted on Denver before, aided by the bemusement of seeing the roiling ball of insecurities and anger splayed out in her lap like a kitten, flinching and turning progressively pinker every time another accidental mewl manages to escape him, as Pixy refuses to let up touching him so kindly. He is, at this point, panting just a little behind the slipping hand cupping his mouth, not from any form of exertion but from the act of desperately struggling to hold himself together, Denver’s brow so furrowed now with embarrassment that his face reads more pain than pleasure.

It’s just odd. Any affection Denver receives seems to nauseate him, but he has been seeking it out from Pixy, apologetically, over and over again, and each time he receives it he responds more pained and needy than the last, seeming to be worsening like an allergic reaction. The first time Pixy ever rubbed his back, Denver sat there like a cold lump of clay, and hardly moved or spoke at all, even several hours after. Which, in itself raises several concerns for his well being, but is a far cry from the breathy, blushing mess trying to hold back begging for the mere joy of being held and caressed.

“You should get used to this,” Pixy’s usually brash voice is very compassionate and low, though her hands mean business as she moves down to his shoulders, firmly rolling her palms against the supple wave of Denver’s sore muscles, and Denver sucks in air between his teeth and tries to quiet himself.

“W-What?” the rare stutter Denver gets when he’s most vulnerable and upset still hitches pronouncedly, but he is once again trying to get his voice to drop to rugged, manly levels, only drawing out his nasal qualities more when it breaks “What are you talking about?”

“You act like you’re never going to get this again. This kind of thing; being cuddled, or loved on. I know this might sound rude, but it’s silly,” Pixy herself sometimes struggles to put intimate matters into words, and this feels like her most clumsy attempt yet, but she doesn’t rescind it.

Though normally offended by any insinuation that he is desperate for attention, as he knows it too intimately to be true, and resents that anyone else might be privy to that knowledge, Denver is able to brush this off, though he still takes on an intense, stern look unbecoming of someone who was just rolling around like a puppy.

“It’s not silly. I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Even if I did… why would that be silly?” clearly cross, but trying to hold back his usual edge, Denver squeezes Pixy tighter to draw a sense of comfort from her closeness despite his agitation, seemingly knowing despite a complete inability to ever express it, that Pixy would never do or say anything she thought would truly hurt his feelings.

“I’m not going to just ‘give up on you.’ Because I’m a very selfish person, and I think that’s a great thing about me. Maybe this is rude, but I’m not doing this for you. You aren’t a charity case,” she holds Denver to her tenderly with her strong, dense arms, and though he listens intensely with his usual prickle, he feels a surge of softness over her words that he finds almost dizzying - completely unfamiliar with his own infatuation he directs at her “I just happen to like you. And like I said. I’m selfish. So… I don’t know. Get used to me. I’m your problem now.”