[ Every time that phrase slips out, every time he catches Taylor giving him that look, it does something. Curls warm and deep. One day, maybe Taylor will tire of that awe, or Locus will become accustomed to it, but he hasn't. Not quite yet.
And then it's followed by what comes damn close to worship, the way he curls his tongue and strokes, the reverence with which he works him open and slides inside, and it is filthy, and wrong, and perfect.
Locus rests his head against folded arms and lets his legs spread further with a barely audible groan. ]
no subject
And then it's followed by what comes damn close to worship, the way he curls his tongue and strokes, the reverence with which he works him open and slides inside, and it is filthy, and wrong, and perfect.
Locus rests his head against folded arms and lets his legs spread further with a barely audible groan. ]