[ Drawing reactions out of Irving isn't a particularly hard thing to do, but Jack's got the advantage of having an actual excuse for talking dirty to him, his words quickly making Irving's already-alcohol-flushed-face color even more deeply and surprising a sharp intake of breath from him as he sits there frozen, deer in headlights-style.
Irving's not so far gone on booze yet that he can't still tell Jack knows exactly what he's doing by teasing him this way, goading him yet again into speaking aloud things that make him break out into a cold sweat just to think of, but how is he possibly supposed to answer that question, what does he want?
The worst part is that he doesn't think he even knows the answer yet-- that he might want any of those things that Jack's describing, might want all of them.
(Definitely not none of them, owing to his own body's reaction -- thankfully hidden beneath the table -- to each suggestion.)
His fingers continue drumming the tabletop -- an anxious compromise against biting or picking at his already fairly savaged fingernails -- body so tight with tension he could almost be a cartoon radiating flopsweat, before he finally manages a small, twitchy shake of his head: either that he doesn't know, truly has no idea of what he wants, or he simply can't bring himself to say it. ]
The... one of... [ A flicker of panic crosses his face, hands fidgeting and shaking like he wants to hide behind them, but he perseveres: ] M-maybe one of those... last, which you mentioned, but... anything would--
[ He stops short, but has no solution for salvaging that hastily aborted admission, just clears his throat and shifts gears, whispering: ]
You don't mean "toys" like one of those [ a pause to remember the word, ] plahss-tic tentacles I've seen around, do you? Those are horrible.
no subject
Irving's not so far gone on booze yet that he can't still tell Jack knows exactly what he's doing by teasing him this way, goading him yet again into speaking aloud things that make him break out into a cold sweat just to think of, but how is he possibly supposed to answer that question, what does he want?
The worst part is that he doesn't think he even knows the answer yet-- that he might want any of those things that Jack's describing, might want all of them.
(Definitely not none of them, owing to his own body's reaction -- thankfully hidden beneath the table -- to each suggestion.)
His fingers continue drumming the tabletop -- an anxious compromise against biting or picking at his already fairly savaged fingernails -- body so tight with tension he could almost be a cartoon radiating flopsweat, before he finally manages a small, twitchy shake of his head: either that he doesn't know, truly has no idea of what he wants, or he simply can't bring himself to say it. ]
The... one of... [ A flicker of panic crosses his face, hands fidgeting and shaking like he wants to hide behind them, but he perseveres: ] M-maybe one of those... last, which you mentioned, but... anything would--
[ He stops short, but has no solution for salvaging that hastily aborted admission, just clears his throat and shifts gears, whispering: ]
You don't mean "toys" like one of those [ a pause to remember the word, ] plahss-tic tentacles I've seen around, do you? Those are horrible.