2: Sound
He's always had an affinity for sound. For music. Whether it be crafted by his own hands or someone else's, Strider was very sensitive and aware of sound. Sound could send shivers up his spine, raise goose bumps on his skin, make his breath hitch and heart race.
So, unironically, he held an affinity for all sounds.
He liked to talk yes, but he also loved to listen. Gentle breezes stirred up enough sounds for him to fall into and be cocooned in. When wind chimes tinked, leaves batted against one another, grass petted at his shoes, and water twisted along rock he listened closely, ears pert.
He loved the sound of branches lifting in a hot summer wind, the sound of birds taking off, the sound of dirt cut by shovels.
He loved the sounds of the city as well: sounds of cars rushing down asphalt, of basketballs ringing on tar, of sneakers slapping the sidewalk.
The sounds of his own creation made his fingers twitch. The click of a switch, the grind of gears, blast of bass, whirr of instrument and voice running together on the same track. Music enthralled him.
Sounds enthralled him.
Certain sounds stuck with him longer than others. More specifically, the sounds she made. He could play every sound she'd ever made on an album in his mind, running favorite tracks over and over until his heart was slamming on his sternum.
The sound of her laugh made the corners of his mouth tilt involuntarily, the bubbling and twittering of her voice caressing his ears long after she left. The shift of her clothes when she went to sit up, lay down, or come closer was like a chorus that taunted his painfully alert hearing. But there were certain sounds that absolutely tortured him until he swore he would collapse under the pressure of his aching heart and closing throat.
Her sighs.
Her whines.
Her moans.
Little sounds, not even created in the context his mind would set them in, she produced nearly set his ears aflame.
A moan of frustration trying to reach a jar became a moan of surprise when he was alone. A sigh of dismay about a missed rifle target sent shivers down his limbs as he pictured the same sound tumbling from her lips as he kissed them in his dreams.
His ears played the agonizing soundtrack when his mind wandered. Whines heard weeks before rooted themselves in his memory as his fingers traced a ghost, dipping into hip bones so hotly desired. Her sighs turned to panting when his lips followed the invisible lines of bones that clung to her smooth skin. He couldn't help but add tracks of his own to the album, groaning and gasping as his brain played one moan of hers over and over and over.
It would send his brain into an absolute frenzy even when his mind tried to wipe itself clean of such an album in her presence. Then she'd shift just so, stretch one too many limbs with a quick gasp and his ears would yank the sound inside him forever.
No matter how deeply riveting the memory-made soundtrack was, Strider wanted more. He wanted harmonies of moans, yelps, mewls, groans, hisses, gasps, whines, screams they could both create. He wanted the background noise of sheets ruffling, of bed frames bending, of skin rushing along skin.
It took everything in him not to force that on her.
So he played his basic tracks, writhing under her yelp as he bit into phantom skin.