[ What months of bickering, teasing and flirting without a physical outlet will do to motherfuckers. ]
So's yours, dumbass. [ These leather pants hide nothing. Vincent once read an entire ode to Silverhand's leather pants where the poet, a SAMURAI ex-roadie, praised their inability to hide the rockerboy's excitement during concerts. Thought it the funniest shit (how narcissistic do you have to be to pop a boner while performing on stage?) but he's starting to get what that gal was putting down...
Current events are better than reading horny posting on ancient SAMURAI BBS, however.
Of course Johnny tastes like tequila and cigarettes. That would be off-putting, if 70% of his brain wasn't parasitized to crave the very man who's throat he's shoving his tongue into. Saucy, bitey minx, isn't he? V groans, the pleasure pain mingling into a similar state as his battle high, that same taste of copper in his mouth. The goal here, however, isn't to pummel Johnny to death.
Not that kind of death, at least. ] We playin' this game? Okay. [ Vincent's fingers dip beneath that SAMURAI tank top—cloth's so thin it's easy for his chromed fingers—and pinch a nipple, pulling off Johnny's mouth to nip and suck at his neck instead. ] I ain't Kerry. Not gonna let you have your way with me. Work for it, Silverhand. [ Biting down at the juncture between neck and shoulder, licking up his way on skin and stubble before landing at Johnny's jugular. Dragging the sharp ends of his teeth over it. ]
And what were you doing at the devil's sacrament, V? 👀
So's yours, dumbass. [ These leather pants hide nothing. Vincent once read an entire ode to Silverhand's leather pants where the poet, a SAMURAI ex-roadie, praised their inability to hide the rockerboy's excitement during concerts. Thought it the funniest shit (how narcissistic do you have to be to pop a boner while performing on stage?) but he's starting to get what that gal was putting down...
Current events are better than reading horny posting on ancient SAMURAI BBS, however.
Of course Johnny tastes like tequila and cigarettes. That would be off-putting, if 70% of his brain wasn't parasitized to crave the very man who's throat he's shoving his tongue into. Saucy, bitey minx, isn't he? V groans, the pleasure pain mingling into a similar state as his battle high, that same taste of copper in his mouth. The goal here, however, isn't to pummel Johnny to death.
Not that kind of death, at least. ] We playin' this game? Okay. [ Vincent's fingers dip beneath that SAMURAI tank top—cloth's so thin it's easy for his chromed fingers—and pinch a nipple, pulling off Johnny's mouth to nip and suck at his neck instead. ] I ain't Kerry. Not gonna let you have your way with me. Work for it, Silverhand. [ Biting down at the juncture between neck and shoulder, licking up his way on skin and stubble before landing at Johnny's jugular. Dragging the sharp ends of his teeth over it. ]