‘Howaaaaaaard. Howard. Howard? Howard. Howaaaaaard, c’mon, Howard? That thing is like six inches thick, it can’t be that interesting.’
‘What!?’ Howard finally looks up from the massive tome he’s been squinting at. Vince knows that expression; Howard pulls it like he suspects there’s a camera on him and he wants to look impressive and intellectual for the benefit of an imaginary audience. It also means he’s not actually enjoying what he’s reading half as much as he thinks he should, and that, as far as Vince is concerned, means it’s his solemn duty to help Howard have a better time.
That, and he’s gagging for a shag.
Howard looks over at him with exasperation. ‘Can I help you with something?’
Vince tongues his teeth through a grin, and pokes Howard in the leg with his toes. ‘Reckon I could help you.’
‘I’m trying to enrich my mind, here, Vince.’
‘That’s not enriching your mind!’ Vince laughs. ‘More like mummifying it! How long’s that thing been collecting dust in some sad cellar somewhere?’
Howard sighs, long and demonstrative. ‘It came from the shelf over there, as well you know.’
’Yeah, but the dust and depression just, like, bleed right outta the words, don’t they, give it that vibe. ‘S a metamorphical cellar.’
’I think you mean metaphorical, Vince, and that’s quite enough; I see what you’re doing, trying to distract me.’
And having so said, the matter felt settled, Howard goes back to his book, brow working itself back into its furrow. Vince watches him for a few moments, chewing on the corner of his lip, before clambering over the back of the settee to settle himself behind Howard, who very pointedly pretends not to notice.
’Howaaaaaaaaaaard.’ He croons it into the back of Howard’s head, hand sneaking around to pet up the length of his neck above his stupid collar, and there is a moment where Howard could do something, push Vince away or snap at him to leave him be-- but he doesn’t. He just harrumphs and squares his shoulders and turns even more emphatically to his book.
Vince grins into Howard’s hair.
His neck is right there, under the draggly curls of Howard’s hair, giving Vince come-hither eyes and flashing its knickers (metamorphically-- metaphorically, that is. It’d be well weird if it wasn’t), and Vince obliges it by leaning down and kissing, softly, just behind Howard’s ear. Little kisses, dragging brushes of his mouth so that his damp lower lip catches just slightly on the skin, the humid heat of his breath and faint, teasing touches of his tongue. Part of him wants to brag to Howard that see, he is capable of restraint, but that would spoil the game. He does the same to the other side of his neck once he feels like he’s given the one side enough love, all teasingly, goadingly light touches.
Howard’s skin just tastes of… skin, really, but he smells amazing, and Vince happily buries his face in that scent, making little appreciative noises as the kisses get… slightly less restrained. There’s suction involved now, and little scrapes of teeth, Vince pressing with his tongue as he sucks and tugs, making delightfully obscene, wet noises. They’re quiet, but the room’s quiet, and Howard is trying his best to stay silent, and somehow that just makes it better.
It’s only while Vince is gently scraping a nailtip over the blotchy red hickey he’s left behind Howard’s ear, that Howard finally makes a noise. His breath catches halfway through an inhale and chokes itself into something like a whimper, and Vince grins again, and presses a chaste little kiss, a positively cute little smooch, to Howard’s neck, like saying, Gotcha. Howard had already been flushed quite pink, but now it flames to actual red, heating the tips of his ears (Vince plays with one with the tip of his finger, giving it a conspiratorial little look, like they’re in this together). He harrumphs, and clenches his jaw, staring down at his book like he’s trying to set fire to it with his mind.
Vince chuckles. Leaning down over Howard’s shoulder, he unbuttons the top few buttons of his hideous shirt (he always buttons them all the way up, like that would convince people he’s respectable) and slides a hand into the faintly humid warmth that exists in the layer just between skin and clothes. Howard’s chest is soft, and Vince gives one of his little tits a squeeze, somewhere between fond and pervy. And then he gives it a few more squeezes-- really, being honest, a full-on grope, because Vince likes Howard’s tits, and they are, he’s grown to learn, incredibly sensitive. Howard is sometimes embarrassed by this; Vince thinks it’s great.
By the time he lets his fingertips brush over a nipple, it’s hard, the skin around it all wrinkled up and taut. Howard’s chest lifts and swells with breath, pushing up into the touch: more, please, yes, even if he’s still determinedly glowering at the book and trying his best to pretend he’s entirely unaffected.
It’s fucking hot.
He gives Howard’s neck more little kisses as he moves his finger in the barest tiny circles, teasing the peak of Howard’s nipple until the flush has spread all the way down his neck, and he’s shifting a little, helplessly, on the spot. Vince spreads his hand out for another grope, feeling Howard’s nipple all hard and pressing into his palm, and when he brings his fingers back together, he gives it a gentle tug, teasing and twisting.
’Fuck’, Howard breathes, unable to keep it in any longer, and Vince lets out a breath, his hips pressing a little against the back of the settee.
But Howard doesn’t say anything else. He’s blotchily flushed from his hairline all the way down his chest, and his eyes are starting to go dark and glassy, but he’s still glaring mulishly at the book. It’s a big book, so Vince can’t see Howard’s lap, but he just bets there’s a ridiculous big stiffy under there.
He hums another appreciative little noise, and slips his other hand down to the other side of Howard’s chest, finding his nipple without any preamble this time and rolling it between fingers and thumb. Hanging over his shoulders like that, Vince plays with both nipples, kissing his neck, scraping teeth lightly along Howard’s jaw until he is squirming, his breath heavy and shallow, a ragged collection of stifled moans and whimpers. Vince is subtly humping the back of the settee, for at least a little stimulation.
‘You still enriching your mind?’ he asks after a while of that.
‘Yes, in fact, I am.’ Howard’s voice is thin, caught tight between his teeth like he’s trying as hard as he can to keep any other noises from slipping out. ‘Not all of us are so easily distracted by a shiny object, Vince. Intellectual pursuits--’
The words strangle and squeak when Vince bends to suck a sloppy kiss to Howard’s neck, moaning a little for effect while he does, exaggerated in Howard’s ear, kissing up to scrape his teeth over the shell. ‘Then read to me.’ He can’t help grinning, irrepressibly delighted with himself, and gives Howard’s ear a little lick, breathing the words right into it to make him shudder. ‘You know how much I like it when you read to me, Howard. Ain’t fair of you to keep all your fancy learning to yourself; g’on, if you’re still all focussed on your dull Russian literature, read me some.’
For a moment, Howard’s eyes go as wide and terrified as if Vince had asked him to wrestle a hippopotamus.
And then he clears his throat.
’In terms’, he starts, firm as he can, as Vince sucks on his earlobe, ‘of a direct reworking of, of, um, major themes bequeathed by the-- the Slavopiles, I mean, that’s not a, um, the Slavophiles, that’s, yeah--’
’Yeah?’ Vince murmurs, pinching a nipple hard and then brushing over it with the pad of his thumb, unbearable teasing disguised as soothing. ‘What’re the major themes?’ He hasn’t got a clue what Howard’s talking about, but that couldn’t be further from the point. Howard takes a shuddering breath while Vince’s other hand strokes down his sternum to his belly.
’They’re, um-- wholeness, the religious significance of the relationship between-- Christy-- East and, and West--’ Howard lifts the book up to peer harder at it, like that would help him concentrate better on the words, which might have worked, except for how it reveals the insistent erection straining obscenely against his trousers. Vince moans a little into his ear, provokingly, and now that he can, smears his hand down to cup, thumb pressing along the length of it.
’And’, Howard continues on wobblingly, ‘reinterpreted by, ah, Dostoyevsky.’ His voice is desperately strained, and his vowels are suddenly starting to slew much more Northern than they ordinarily do, and Vince is practically grinding against the settee, now, in time with his hand on Howard’s cock.
’Mm-hmm?’ Vince prompts, kneading Howard’s cock and twisting his nipple and breathing against his neck. ‘G’on.’
Howard’s breath shudders; he shakes his head, trying to orientate himself, to keep going, stubborn it out though there’s scarcely any point in pretending anymore. ‘The-- the feminine principle, Godman...hood and the centrality of Christ, apocalypse, and, thingy, Antichrist, I don’t, fuck, hhhah--! The, um, most important figure to succeed Dostoevsky was... undoubtedly Vladimir Solov’ev, I-- Vince--!’
And then Vince is tumbling over the back of the settee, half into Howard’s lap, and Howard is moaning and twisting and pleading for Vince to just fucking touch him, looking about as wild as Vince has ever seen him. Vince laughs and groans both at once, and then he’s got Howard’s cock out, and he gives him maybe half a dozen firm jerks, and then Howard’s bucking up with his eyes squeezed shut, a few hard, helpless thrusts, and coming all over his incomprehensible Russian theory book.
’You little titbox’, he says, when he has the breath for it, looking down at the soiled pages.
Vince, who’s still achingly turned on, and far too delighted with himself to feel anything like chagrin, just giggles. ‘Whoops?’
Howard is flushed and rumpled and looks utterly debauched; his tits are half hanging out of his shirt, nipples bright pink from the mauling Vince had given them, eyes dark and hazy, neck shiny with spit and decorated with a number of darkening hickeys. ‘Fuck, Howard, you look proper hot like that’, Vince breathes. He’s exercised enough restraint for the day, apparently, and now his mouth is just going to do what it wants.
Howard licks his lips, and shakes his head, and then lurches to the side to pin Vince to the settee, groping him firmly through his jeans, and Vince’s giggles and shrieks echo all the way down the stairs. It is perfectly adequate payback.