After a couple of seconds of silence, Huaisang drops his hands to his lap, but he looks aside, waiting patiently for Hands to think it all over. His cheeks are still blazing, embarrassed to have asked for such a thing, but he doesn't feel any regret or doubt, only embarrassment for asking so much, for something so absurd, for asking to be intentionally treated like that.
"Probably both," Huaisang says, soft and resigned. It's a wild scheme that he came up with in the car ride over. As he marinates in his embarrassment, he reflects that it's probably a fantasy more than an actual plan. It's what he wants: someone to protect him, to make his decisions for him, to treat him as desirable.
"I'll be able to fulfill my part of the performance without difficulty, so you don't need to worry about that." He keeps his eyes averted, something very submissive in the way he keeps his spine elegantly straight but his eyes lowered, waiting to be told what to do. "I find you attractive. You're my type."
He'd flirted with Hands before, though never for more than a moment. They'd never been alone before, never had a real conversation. His flirtations had only ever been a flash of impishness showing through his usual shy reserve, a playful smirk paired with the comment that Hands' wife (now ex-wife) was lucky. The dichotomy of his personality, flipping from shy to shameless in an instant.
He knew, also, that Hands was probably thinking about Huaisang's reputation. He showed up frequently in the tabloids because of his romantic life, openly bisexual and with deeply questionable taste in partners, a tendency to go for bad boys but also an apparent willingness to date anyone who would have him, anyone who desired him and gave him attention. It would be fair, he knew, if Hands scorned him for the comment about his type. Who wasn't his type? He was a slut, and desperate for attention and validation.
"I've come to you for protection and guidance," Huaisang says at last, still quiet, still with his eyes submissively lowered. "I'll trust in whatever you advise. Tell me how to handle this, and I'll obey."
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"Probably both," Huaisang says, soft and resigned. It's a wild scheme that he came up with in the car ride over. As he marinates in his embarrassment, he reflects that it's probably a fantasy more than an actual plan. It's what he wants: someone to protect him, to make his decisions for him, to treat him as desirable.
"I'll be able to fulfill my part of the performance without difficulty, so you don't need to worry about that." He keeps his eyes averted, something very submissive in the way he keeps his spine elegantly straight but his eyes lowered, waiting to be told what to do. "I find you attractive. You're my type."
He'd flirted with Hands before, though never for more than a moment. They'd never been alone before, never had a real conversation. His flirtations had only ever been a flash of impishness showing through his usual shy reserve, a playful smirk paired with the comment that Hands' wife (now ex-wife) was lucky. The dichotomy of his personality, flipping from shy to shameless in an instant.
He knew, also, that Hands was probably thinking about Huaisang's reputation. He showed up frequently in the tabloids because of his romantic life, openly bisexual and with deeply questionable taste in partners, a tendency to go for bad boys but also an apparent willingness to date anyone who would have him, anyone who desired him and gave him attention. It would be fair, he knew, if Hands scorned him for the comment about his type. Who wasn't his type? He was a slut, and desperate for attention and validation.
"I've come to you for protection and guidance," Huaisang says at last, still quiet, still with his eyes submissively lowered. "I'll trust in whatever you advise. Tell me how to handle this, and I'll obey."