Here we go again with another short and frustrating snippet for Six Sentence Sunday.
Six Sunday is a weekly blog hop where close to 200 authors post bits of published stories or WIPs as tasters. A few brave souls are even writing stories six sentences at a time! Go here for the linky list. It’s really good fun to see all the different styles and genres and awesome to contemplate the sheer amount of effort and talent boiling away there providing new works for the reading public.
Anyhow, if you’re here you aren’t here to hear me blether.
Last Six Sunday, or near equivalent, I asked whether I should post banter, battle, or UST this week, and had a resounding vote of one for UST! If you’re not sure what UST is, it stands for Unresolved Sexual Tension – those moments when both parties are beginning to know what they want but for some perfectly valid reason are unable to commit to doing anything about it.
To get to the UST I’ve had to miss out a heck of a lot of banter and a battle. Moried challenges Gwion and they fight. Cyfal is asked to see Gwion safely home, where he offers to see if his ribs are broken.
He pressed the bruised ribs firmly with the ball of his thumb, listening for the tell tale grate of breakage, but all he heard was a soft indrawn breath from Gwion that didn’t, quite, sound like a gasp of pain. Cynfal leaned a little closer until his breath warmed the cold flesh, and stroked with his thumb again. Gwion stood still but Cynfal felt the quiver that ran through him.
He had one brief glimpse of the swell at the front of Gwion’s breeks before he flinched away, dropping the shirt’s hem back to mid thigh, and reached for his belt.
Cynfal got up and kept his voice light as he said, “Not much harm done, I don’t think.”
Gwion didn’t answer — he was fastening his belt with sharp angry gestures — so Cynfal went to the door to wait for the rest of his bothy to arrive.