Till I Break
by Marginalia

He stands in the center of the floor, warm wood smooth beneath bare feet (chipped polish and long toes). His hands are crossed at the (too thin) wrists, held at the small of his back. Bordered, not bound, he clings to the edge. He is well trained.

The room is humming, song and nerves, and he ducks his head and closes his eyes as his world twines in on itself. He thinks it's pretty much time, yeah, and he shifts slightly, slim hips slipping in low slung slacks. He is rewarded, soft yet firm, voice like honey: "Still yourself, boy."