pseudowar

OH, HE'S FUCKED. He's only just recovered his bearings, his sensible mind that urged him to remember where he is ⸻ where they both are: at work, in the open hallway, exposed to anyone that may choose to make an unknowingly unfortunate turn around a corner at any moment; but it's nearly gone again, quieted by that look in Trick's eye that weighs on his skin like a physical touch, warm and addicting and so, so very perfect. He'd give almost anything to have Trick look at him like that forever. And if there's the slightest change in his breathing, that's no one's business but his own.

He attempts to mask the pout that follows when Trick pulls away, but it's still there, all the same, if not in the tiniest furrow of his brow, then definitely in the displeased look in his eye. His grip tightens ever so slightly on Trick's forearm. Bold contradiction from a man that's just made a disingenuous attempt at shooing his partner away to do his job. ❝ Never in my life, sir, ❞ he all but whispers. ❝ Would just prefer you not get in trouble because of me. ❞ Sure, Kyle ⸻ is that why you won't let go of him ?

All he can think about is Grandma Owens and her Sunday classes. The teachings of a quiet proper southern woman as she lectured and warned about devils and demons and how they used honeyed tongues to pull people from the proper path. All that came to mind there, in the moment, as they push and pull and breathe in heady air? Was that all the devils in the world couldn't take him from this man - and neither could work.

"Worth it," He breathes the words so hot, so warm, that there's a flush creeping over his cheeks - not from embarrassment, or shame, but want. "I'd take all the troubles in the world long as I got to spend some time with you."