For all their flirting which, in retrospect, may have had too many undertones to truly be relegated to mere jokes that men so closeted they were sitting in powdery Narnian snow buried under the weight of stifling antiquated social expectations and the sheer stubbornness of staunch denial tended to make, they're all talk and laughs until they're clumsily scratching and bruising each other in the dark. He's not exactly the most romantic man in their house, so he can hopefully be forgiven for not taking Raylan somewhere nice to try and abscond with a few stolen touches and kisses. He never takes Raylan anywhere nice.
The weight and the ghost of Raylan's warmth stashed away in his returned jacket settles him, gives him something to cover up the tent in his pants with even though they both know it's there and there's no one else down here to see and call them out on it anyway. He's not embarrassed about what he wants, even if they could have picked a better time and place for such confessions. But it's more than a little distracting from what they should be doing. Running around like headless chickens courting an untimely death down here or... whatever the plan was for getting out.
Tempting as it is to attempt snuggling against Raylan, when he finds his hat patting around the ground groping in the dark for it, he pushes himself a little more upright, sitting up and pulling his hat onto his lap, keeping his desire covered up under his hat where he hides all his other wants and thoughts and emotions. His back hits the wall with a sigh and he keeps his hands on top of his own thighs, swallowing the longing and the craving down his throat and stuffing everything back down into the pit of his stomach where he can easily set everything ablaze with moonshine.
"Since you left your handcuffs in Harlan, do you think Malcolm would notice if we borrowed his sex dungeon?" he asks once he's got his breathing and mended the cracks in his voice back into some semblance of total control, trying to elicit a laugh and unconsciously ease a comfortable transition back into that kind of machismo that they wear like armour that Malcolm would probably not approve of.
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The weight and the ghost of Raylan's warmth stashed away in his returned jacket settles him, gives him something to cover up the tent in his pants with even though they both know it's there and there's no one else down here to see and call them out on it anyway. He's not embarrassed about what he wants, even if they could have picked a better time and place for such confessions. But it's more than a little distracting from what they should be doing. Running around like headless chickens courting an untimely death down here or... whatever the plan was for getting out.
Tempting as it is to attempt snuggling against Raylan, when he finds his hat patting around the ground groping in the dark for it, he pushes himself a little more upright, sitting up and pulling his hat onto his lap, keeping his desire covered up under his hat where he hides all his other wants and thoughts and emotions. His back hits the wall with a sigh and he keeps his hands on top of his own thighs, swallowing the longing and the craving down his throat and stuffing everything back down into the pit of his stomach where he can easily set everything ablaze with moonshine.
"Since you left your handcuffs in Harlan, do you think Malcolm would notice if we borrowed his sex dungeon?" he asks once he's got his breathing and mended the cracks in his voice back into some semblance of total control, trying to elicit a laugh and unconsciously ease a comfortable transition back into that kind of machismo that they wear like armour that Malcolm would probably not approve of.