[It's never just talk, no. Not even drunk. Not even at the edges of himself, submerged beneath hours upon upended hours of hot sips of bitter wine. Fragrant ale. The latter brooking so much lateral movement that he feels voyeuristic in this moment, gazing down at the pretty thing between his legs— a tertiary factor in a vulgar scene that'd go on no matter what they think, because there's only one thing roaring harsh inside their skulls. Only one desire when the rest have been devoured— swallowed whole— pretty things made ugly in just the right way, too palatable to resist, now. Like: words a buckish thing would never groan otherwise beyond this shuttered closet. Like: the smothered smear of consonants humming before they pop beneath the glaze of well-spent spittle mixed with precome. Like: the profane act of submission intertangled with demand— not a question of give me this with a knifesharp edge and a cruel candor, but the negotiation that comes crawling in split-lipped and hungry. Give me this, and I'll give you more than anyone will ever know save us.]
Mmnh.
[It's not an answer so much as an assent, the groan that crawls its way out of the hollow of his throat in the second that he lifts his heel, easing off. Ebbing for a moment into coarser shadows that obscure what he can't feel, nudging with the raised toe of his boot to slide tattooed fingers back into their place; letting himself card lower then, under the unlatched map of opened slacks— spurring his companion on towards the wicked work of touch alone.
no subject
Mmnh.
[It's not an answer so much as an assent, the groan that crawls its way out of the hollow of his throat in the second that he lifts his heel, easing off. Ebbing for a moment into coarser shadows that obscure what he can't feel, nudging with the raised toe of his boot to slide tattooed fingers back into their place; letting himself card lower then, under the unlatched map of opened slacks— spurring his companion on towards the wicked work of touch alone.
....and taste.]