last laugh protocol

With a habit of pushing things too far, there's a reason that Matija's skin is nicked and scarred if you bother to look beneath his coat. Just as plush and warm, though it hangs closer to his body-- soaking wet and sprawled in the sand. Smoky, grinning, high on all the finer things in life. Victory. Destruction. Alive with it. They'd pulled things off. They'd pulled things off, they were here, and they had a life to start free of everything that previously held them back.

Free men. A glimmer in his gaze, resisting to being pinned. Though he weighed less, he wasn't going to make things easy. Writing, nails on a hind foot raking down Idris's leg. Grinning. Relishing in what came next, it's all a game. A delicate game, one they know all too well. Matija comes alive, pulse racing, head spinning-- breath slowing, though his head swims. A thrill through his system, though his eyes slip upwards.

"We're too good looking for the thug routine, remember?" The words are harsh, labored, but they're worth it. Rakish grin falling over his face, the fight in him a little too hard to be playful, a little too meek to be genuine.