Denis wants Narcisse's love, affection, tenderness, anything left in a soul bounded in scar tissue.
But gentle hands never make his blood pound in his ears in the same desperate, breathless way as a rougher, wilder insistence. He wants to say, "Just push me down and fuck me hard," but he would choke on the words, and Narcisse is not thoughtlessly selfish anymore.
He aches to be on his knees, abandoned to pleasure, but he treasures the soft words more than the half-remembered debauchery, and he doesn't believe he may have both; that is more subtlety than Narcisse can master.
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