He's surprised - in some positive way he can't articulate. He never thought much about whether someone could say his name right - not anymore, at least - but something about knowing how Barrett said it the first time and how Barrett said it now, such a slim time apart..
It's a sort of care that coils up in his chest funny, constricting around the heart. )
...I didn't want Kabru or anyone to laugh if I did it wrong. So I found someone in my algebra class that's taking French, and they helped me with the sounds in exchange for coffee.
[He hadn't been that motivated over a single non-restaraunt word in a while.]
It's such a simple request, and yet he can feel gooseflesh rise along his arms. There's a hum, then silence, the sound of noises changing and fading on the background with a rush of movement. The sounds of him finding somewhere else to stand, to talk.
When his voice picks back up, it's low and soft - affectionate, careful, the sensuality of it accidental if it happens at all.]
He doesn't know why he asked. He thought it'd just sound nice; and then— it's a little more than that. He feels the shiver first at his neck, and then his face a little warmer. His heart thumps heavy, but it doesn't feel so bad. )
... Barrett...
( He says his name without meaning to, with his exhale; a murmur, tinged with - excitement? fondness? maybe. He hadn't thought much of his name since the accident; told Hani they could have it if they wanted, even. But, for the first time... he feels a little anchored to it. )
[It's like pins and needles to his fingers and arms. Just a name. Just a statement. But he feels the heat come to his face slightly as he tucks his face against his phone, smile breaking the heat of his features unseen on the other side of the screen.]
...It's delicious.
[A drop of the stock that is Morgan.
He chuckles, a low sound deep from his chest.]
Don't jinx me, though, okay? I'd feel bad screwing it up on Saturday.
( ... "Delicious"... Something about that gets his coiled heart feeling funny; not so elegant that you could call it glittering, just - dizzy and stumbling like a silly drunk in his chest.
He slides down on the couch until he's not really sitting, until he can curl up nearly horizontal with the sound of Barrett's voice. He really does like his laugh. )
... Then I'll just have you repeat it until you get it right again. So long as it tastes good, for you.
He couldn't tell you why this is affecting him - he isn't even fully aware that it is. It's just - a creeping warmth working its way up from his chest to his cheeks. Happy, maybe. Is that the word? He shifts a little on the couch.
His lips part a few moments before he manages to find a thing to say. )
... And would you be satisfied with just that? Just my name?
[Would he? Was he ever satisfied in the glancing touches he gave? In his hesitations?
His swallow is thick over the speaker.]
...No.
But if that's all I had time to enjoy, I wouldn't let it go to waste. I take the portions I'm given.
[He's feeling warm. In his chest, his stomach. Increasingly aware he is in a public space, tucked away in a side hall. Unsure of what this conversation has turned into, but somewhat being unwilling to let it stop now that it's started.]
[There's a burn he can feel in his face, behind his eyes and the fingers that tightly hold his phone and a tongue that feels too big for his mouth. They're hardly talking about food anymore. Even he knows that. And he doesn't know if he should entertain the images that drift to him.
That wasn't for him. To eat up Morgan where they sat... that belonged to someone else.
And yet his stomach still rumbles. His heart aches in tune. A sentiment to be shared. No matter what part of Morgan he wanted to share, to present the stock of himself to him.
He didn't want to let it speed by. Whatever it might be.]
Doesn't matter the size. A portion is a portion. I don't waste it.
( Maybe "happy" isn't the exact word for this— This is... it's familiar, in a different context, but it's— he feels warm. His head, his cheeks, and heating up his sweltering chest. He hadn't been thinking too specific - before, but, he can't help but think - wonder, where would he start, where would he drag his tongue? Would he... )
... Would you lick your meal tender and slow, savoring the flavor...?
( He doesn't realize he'd pressed a finger to his ribs, in faint recollection of Barrett's tongue long his arm, and that it'd sailed some few centimetres down, just - a little above the navel. Nothing indecent. But it could've continued further down. He swallows, but his throat feels a little tight. )
... Or would you... take it into your mouth, sinking in your teeth into each piece?
[His mouth starts to ache. Heat churns from his stomach, a slow blossoming through his chest and deep into the pit of his hips.
This is dangerous. He's in public. It's getting hard to hide his face from passersby. But Morgan's voice holds him. Morgan's voice paints a picture of taste and texture, the sound of saliva and breath being caught and swallowed.
...]
I'd find the smallest pieces first. Take them in my lips. Let my teeth work every drop out before I stop to swallow.
I'd let it be rich... and delicious... Let my tongue taste first. My mouth. Bit by bit. Ease it into my teeth when I can feel how much I crave for it. How much I salivate.
[His exhaled is heated against the mic pickup.]
I'd bite. I'd lick. I'd swallow it up. I'd follow every line and curve for every drop...
[Ah. But his mind feels so fuzzy. Shit. He... shouldn't keep this up much longer.]
Edited (Wording, too many big words for beelzeyboy) 2023-09-07 13:18 (UTC)
( It's, the way Barrett says it as much as the things he says, the way he breathes warm and the way he lingers on every word like he's - teething him in real time, starting from the fingers, his broad tongue working his way around his - while he works up along the arm, like he had that day, that picnic...
His eyes are closed, so it's so easy to imagine - his teeth, his tongue, sinking into, )
... I—... would let you have you fill... as many times as you'd like. I'd...
( He swallows finally - his voice wet, his breath a little shaky. There's a heat at the pit of his stomach, his heart beating, tripping over itself. This feeling is... )
... I'll... call you back, ( and then, with a low exhale, sounding indecent when he doesn't mean to be, ) Barrett...
Edited 2023-09-07 19:27 (UTC)
rip for the mods that needed a NSFW warning that we probably should have added like four tags ago, w
[Sparks start to fire rapidly, an excitement he wasn't expecting at how breathy Morgan was starting to sound on the other side of the phone. To let him have his fill... while sounding like this...
He barely catches the request for a call back, stumbled over tight breath and such a low and borderline lewd sound straining the syllables of his name. Not a whisper, but something like a moan--
All those sparks fly south with such force that Barrett immediately feels the effect, an uncomfortable press of unyielding friction as blood starts to rush, pounding in his ears and his teeth and his fingers and the swell that he feels far more than he sees.
Shit. Shit.
There's a tight and breathy hum in response - answering, acknowledgement, but afraid to open his mouth further for what he fears might spill out.]
Y-yeah. Yeah. I think... [A tight exhale from his chest, a strained noise to combat the heat. He can feel his pulse building, evident between his legs.] I-I think we should... um... take a break. From this... m-mn.
[Whatever it was. However exciting it turned out to be. It felt like hunger. But not quite.
He tilts his head down, trying to muffle the tense way his exhale comes. The muffled fuck that echoes from behind what sounds like a palm over his mouth, muting and protecting.]
( Oh. His voice is - different, even more than before, and he feels it the way he feels his fingers tracing down his belly, his breath warm on his lips as his cheeks feel. Barrett seems - stressed - worried? - panicked - but, something else glazes it, something wet and hungry that Mithrun can nearly feel like a great beast's tongue across his torso, a gaping maw - Barrett. If he's here, this must be his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.
Be careful of what, though? His head's too muddled to be sure. )
... I'm... here too. If you're so hungry...
( He shifts on the couch across the line, the phone slipping from his hand, like he thinks he's shut it off, but he hasn't. It's not clear what he's doing, though; there's the sound of shifting, and then a soft, an easy to miss ah, ah - sensual and vulnerable, like game pinned up for roast.
It's still not quite clear what he's doing these next few seconds - his voice muffles into a pillow partly, and, in the split seconds it's not, he barely makes a sound, if at all - but it sure is an illicit sort of tone most aren't privy to from Mithrun, in game or out. Low and needing; confused and sensitive, and taking every sensation as if it were new.
And then, by chance - he finally hangs up, this time on accident - the phone clicks off. )
It's the instinct that crawls up in favor of worry that leads very, very quickly into curiosity, into gulping down that quiet and vulnerable gasp of noise. He's locked where he's seated now, back to the wall, lowered to the ground, curved over himself with a hand firmly pressed to his mouth as though his fingers can stave off the rush of blood that heats his face.
He hears the muffling behind fabric. He hears the break in it, brief and quiet and vibrant, sending a shudder through him with a current of need that he's never, never heard from Morgan's lips.
He can feel a fullness in his throat, his chest, his hips... a heat that grows relenting and speeds up his breathing behind closed, fevered lids, panting behind his palm.
His mind wanders vividly: to scarred skin and a thin but firm frame, strength under his hands, sweat under his tongue, shivering meat between his teeth, a mouth that opened so quietly for breath...
And then the audio cuts.
He's left in the silence, panting heavily. He can't even bear to look at his phone, letting it curl against his chest where his heart hammers, pushing that pulse to so many places that he can hardly concentrate.
That... that was...
...
It takes a minute to get up from his seat. It takes a minute to march with a cloudy, urgent pace to the gym. To throw his items into a shower stall and let the water run cold against the pulse of it, his teeth burying into the meat of his own thumb to mute himself as his other hand frantically works, drowning the tension and the snap and the shuddering and the strangled, muffled moan in the sound of the water.
Drowning, drowning, drowning.
He doesn't call again for the rest of the afternoon. But Morgan will still receive:]
( Mithrun follows the feeling, and every imagined hot trail of Barrett's tongue goes down between his thighs, no matter where his mouth starts. It's a clumsy and instinctive thing; his hand follows his mind, his mind trails down, and - Mithrun hasn't done this since his accident, and barely ever, even, before it. He doesn't recall how, he's fumbling, but he's sensitive and his imagination's vivid - a thing he's never employed before.
He doesn't even fully recognize what he's doing in that moment he's been carried away by the echoes of Barrett's voice in his ear, until much after, the daze worn off - and he doesn't know what to make of it, then.
It's better Barrett texts later, because Mithrun decides to take a shower after anyway. He feels sticky with sweat in the summer heat. )
Yes, I'm fine. Are you?
And yes, I'm going. I ended up joining Faunus's guild. So it's a guild activity, in some way. Will you have the time to come?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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( Teasing, )
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After a whole day of football? Are you sure I'll even remember my uniform number?
Maybe I'll still remember the name of the book. :-)
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Yes?
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Right?
[He doesn't butcher it this time.
Someone has been practicing.]
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He's surprised - in some positive way he can't articulate. He never thought much about whether someone could say his name right - not anymore, at least - but something about knowing how Barrett said it the first time and how Barrett said it now, such a slim time apart..
It's a sort of care that coils up in his chest funny, constricting around the heart. )
... That's right. You practiced?
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Um.
...I didn't want Kabru or anyone to laugh if I did it wrong. So I found someone in my algebra class that's taking French, and they helped me with the sounds in exchange for coffee.
[He hadn't been that motivated over a single non-restaraunt word in a while.]
...
I'm... glad it sounds okay.
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... )
... Would you say it again? My full name.
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It's such a simple request, and yet he can feel gooseflesh rise along his arms. There's a hum, then silence, the sound of noises changing and fading on the background with a rush of movement. The sounds of him finding somewhere else to stand, to talk.
When his voice picks back up, it's low and soft - affectionate, careful, the sensuality of it accidental if it happens at all.]
...Morgan.
Morgan Chatainne.
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He doesn't know why he asked. He thought it'd just sound nice; and then— it's a little more than that. He feels the shiver first at his neck, and then his face a little warmer. His heart thumps heavy, but it doesn't feel so bad. )
... Barrett...
( He says his name without meaning to, with his exhale; a murmur, tinged with - excitement? fondness? maybe. He hadn't thought much of his name since the accident; told Hani they could have it if they wanted, even. But, for the first time... he feels a little anchored to it. )
... I like the way my name sounds on your lips.
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...It's delicious.
[A drop of the stock that is Morgan.
He chuckles, a low sound deep from his chest.]
Don't jinx me, though, okay? I'd feel bad screwing it up on Saturday.
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He slides down on the couch until he's not really sitting, until he can curl up nearly horizontal with the sound of Barrett's voice. He really does like his laugh. )
... Then I'll just have you repeat it until you get it right again. So long as it tastes good, for you.
( And he hopes it - he? - does, every time. )
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[An exhale, humored.]
I'd nibble apart the sound of you until every letter melted into my mouth.
[This is just making him hungry, really. But he doesn't mind.]
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He couldn't tell you why this is affecting him - he isn't even fully aware that it is. It's just - a creeping warmth working its way up from his chest to his cheeks. Happy, maybe. Is that the word? He shifts a little on the couch.
His lips part a few moments before he manages to find a thing to say. )
... And would you be satisfied with just that? Just my name?
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His swallow is thick over the speaker.]
...No.
But if that's all I had time to enjoy, I wouldn't let it go to waste. I take the portions I'm given.
[He's feeling warm. In his chest, his stomach. Increasingly aware he is in a public space, tucked away in a side hall. Unsure of what this conversation has turned into, but somewhat being unwilling to let it stop now that it's started.]
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... I can give you time. You wouldn't need much, to finish the rest.
( The rest of...? He doesn't specify - me, maybe, but... )
... Just one more portion. Maybe less.
( Since you take what you're given. Mithrun doesn't comprise a full plate. )
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Maybe it just means I need to take my time, then.
Lick my plate clean.
[There's a burn he can feel in his face, behind his eyes and the fingers that tightly hold his phone and a tongue that feels too big for his mouth. They're hardly talking about food anymore. Even he knows that. And he doesn't know if he should entertain the images that drift to him.
That wasn't for him. To eat up Morgan where they sat... that belonged to someone else.
And yet his stomach still rumbles. His heart aches in tune. A sentiment to be shared. No matter what part of Morgan he wanted to share, to present the stock of himself to him.
He didn't want to let it speed by. Whatever it might be.]
Doesn't matter the size. A portion is a portion. I don't waste it.
...I don't want to forget the tastes.
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... Would you lick your meal tender and slow, savoring the flavor...?
( He doesn't realize he'd pressed a finger to his ribs, in faint recollection of Barrett's tongue long his arm, and that it'd sailed some few centimetres down, just - a little above the navel. Nothing indecent. But it could've continued further down. He swallows, but his throat feels a little tight. )
... Or would you... take it into your mouth, sinking in your teeth into each piece?
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This is dangerous. He's in public. It's getting hard to hide his face from passersby. But Morgan's voice holds him. Morgan's voice paints a picture of taste and texture, the sound of saliva and breath being caught and swallowed.
...]
I'd find the smallest pieces first. Take them in my lips. Let my teeth work every drop out before I stop to swallow.
I'd let it be rich... and delicious... Let my tongue taste first. My mouth. Bit by bit. Ease it into my teeth when I can feel how much I crave for it. How much I salivate.
[His exhaled is heated against the mic pickup.]
I'd bite. I'd lick. I'd swallow it up. I'd follow every line and curve for every drop...
[Ah. But his mind feels so fuzzy. Shit. He... shouldn't keep this up much longer.]
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His eyes are closed, so it's so easy to imagine - his teeth, his tongue, sinking into, )
... I—... would let you have you fill... as many times as you'd like. I'd...
( He swallows finally - his voice wet, his breath a little shaky. There's a heat at the pit of his stomach, his heart beating, tripping over itself. This feeling is... )
... I'll... call you back, ( and then, with a low exhale, sounding indecent when he doesn't mean to be, ) Barrett...
rip for the mods that needed a NSFW warning that we probably should have added like four tags ago, w
He barely catches the request for a call back, stumbled over tight breath and such a low and borderline lewd sound straining the syllables of his name. Not a whisper, but something like a moan--
All those sparks fly south with such force that Barrett immediately feels the effect, an uncomfortable press of unyielding friction as blood starts to rush, pounding in his ears and his teeth and his fingers and the swell that he feels far more than he sees.
Shit. Shit.
There's a tight and breathy hum in response - answering, acknowledgement, but afraid to open his mouth further for what he fears might spill out.]
Y-yeah. Yeah. I think... [A tight exhale from his chest, a strained noise to combat the heat. He can feel his pulse building, evident between his legs.] I-I think we should... um... take a break. From this... m-mn.
[Whatever it was. However exciting it turned out to be. It felt like hunger. But not quite.
He tilts his head down, trying to muffle the tense way his exhale comes. The muffled fuck that echoes from behind what sounds like a palm over his mouth, muting and protecting.]
...Be careful. I'm here.
we're safe in this post..... for now,
Be careful of what, though? His head's too muddled to be sure. )
... I'm... here too. If you're so hungry...
( He shifts on the couch across the line, the phone slipping from his hand, like he thinks he's shut it off, but he hasn't. It's not clear what he's doing, though; there's the sound of shifting, and then a soft, an easy to miss ah, ah - sensual and vulnerable, like game pinned up for roast.
It's still not quite clear what he's doing these next few seconds - his voice muffles into a pillow partly, and, in the split seconds it's not, he barely makes a sound, if at all - but it sure is an illicit sort of tone most aren't privy to from Mithrun, in game or out. Low and needing; confused and sensitive, and taking every sensation as if it were new.
And then, by chance - he finally hangs up, this time on accident - the phone clicks off. )
are we......
He shouldn't be listening to this.
It's the instinct that crawls up in favor of worry that leads very, very quickly into curiosity, into gulping down that quiet and vulnerable gasp of noise. He's locked where he's seated now, back to the wall, lowered to the ground, curved over himself with a hand firmly pressed to his mouth as though his fingers can stave off the rush of blood that heats his face.
He hears the muffling behind fabric. He hears the break in it, brief and quiet and vibrant, sending a shudder through him with a current of need that he's never, never heard from Morgan's lips.
He can feel a fullness in his throat, his chest, his hips... a heat that grows relenting and speeds up his breathing behind closed, fevered lids, panting behind his palm.
His mind wanders vividly: to scarred skin and a thin but firm frame, strength under his hands, sweat under his tongue, shivering meat between his teeth, a mouth that opened so quietly for breath...
And then the audio cuts.
He's left in the silence, panting heavily. He can't even bear to look at his phone, letting it curl against his chest where his heart hammers, pushing that pulse to so many places that he can hardly concentrate.
That... that was...
...
It takes a minute to get up from his seat. It takes a minute to march with a cloudy, urgent pace to the gym. To throw his items into a shower stall and let the water run cold against the pulse of it, his teeth burying into the meat of his own thumb to mute himself as his other hand frantically works, drowning the tension and the snap and the shuddering and the strangled, muffled moan in the sound of the water.
Drowning, drowning, drowning.
He doesn't call again for the rest of the afternoon. But Morgan will still receive:]
You okay??
Fragment Beach tomorrow? â›±
:)
He doesn't even fully recognize what he's doing in that moment he's been carried away by the echoes of Barrett's voice in his ear, until much after, the daze worn off - and he doesn't know what to make of it, then.
It's better Barrett texts later, because Mithrun decides to take a shower after anyway. He feels sticky with sweat in the summer heat. )
Yes, I'm fine. Are you?
And yes, I'm going. I ended up joining Faunus's guild. So it's a guild activity, in some way. Will you have the time to come?
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