I was composing a religious text, this time featuring your fingers. At least one part of you is bearable.

[ That's a Maker-damned lie and they both know it, but it's easier to fall into this habit, the habit of poking and prodding, bantering back and forth. It's nowhere near as sharp as normal, not when he's melting into the blankets, letting out a choked moan when Bull's hands slide slick over the tense muscles in his neck, his whole body tensing and then releasing as he works. ]

Just- there, there.