There were hands -- the cold of carcass flesh traversing its opposite in tone and texture; warm. Alive. And in the concave between clavicle his finger found its measures, trailing up a trachea, teasing words away with a gentle touch.
His finger came to point, pressed insistently to the unshaven point of Liam's chin. Trystan drew closer, two fluid gestures of a tousled-sheets crawl, pressing close and shattering their separations into shared heat -- syncopated sighs. The words on the inner of his wrist bled truths -- everything they weren't, everything there was lacking in this moment, and in an act of aggression lips parted, pressing violent against Liam's mouth.
A venom tongue flicked forth, teasing away all protest and half-lie. And oh, how greedily he drank from those swallowed sombre sooths, fueling his hands&heartbeats, forcing their body heat to swell -- dangerous and deep with intent to scar.