They were drunk on sweet bourbon and Digweed's hand was fairly short of subtle as he slipped it onto Wield's thigh and leaned in for a kiss. The alcohol was making him sluggish, there was no way he was going to be able to get it up at this rate, but Edgar's response was enthusiastic and he groaned when that hand slipped to cup his crotch. His hand tightened in response against the nape of Edwin's neck, holding him into the tight kiss. He began to massage over the fabric of his trousers, heart tripping with pleasure at the slightly dazed, nakedly aroused look he was getting from Wield's normally stoic face. So pulling himself away reluctantly he slid off the couch onto the floor and pulled himself around his partner's knee, fingers expertly twisting the belt undone and then the button and fly. Fingers slid into his hair, brushing it back and almost petting, and he let his eyes fall shut as he extracted Edgar's eager phallus from his boxers.
"I haven't done this in a while, you know," he mused out loud, before ducking his head down to lick up the underside of the penis. Wield's abs tensed under his hand and his fingers twitched in his hair, but he made no other encouraging or discouraging movements.
"You don't have to," he replies in a rush as if it hurts to say it, and it probably does with Digweed's mouth wrapped around his head. Rather than reply, for once he put his mouth to other uses.
Every day in their relationship is a revelation, this no less than finding out that Edwin is almost afraid of cats though he won't admit it. He, in turn, isn't surprised by how infinitely patient the ugly man is, never a twitch of his hips upwards, but enjoys the small signals of pleasure he does get. The heavy, slightly shaky breathing, the fingers digging into his shoulder and neck, the clenching in his thighs and stomach when he pulls something especially right. Wield's voice is low and rough like gravel when he warns he's close, and the thrill and pleasure settles low in his stomach though his cock shows only a partial interest. A little frustrating, old age, when all he wants to do is fuck this man into the couch until he's screaming for it, but the slower sex is made up for by the care the knowledge that in the morning no one would be disappearing anywhere any time soon.
So he swallows it all, under Edgar's dry cursing, shaking only a little under Edwin's patient mouth. When he finally gives it a final lick and pulls back, swallowing against the raw feeling in the back of his throat and the taste in his mouth over the liquor the other man looks dazed and languid, but still draws up the older man from between his legs to kiss him, wrapping an arm around his waist, tasting in a way that seemed to say that he didn't find his own semen a turn-on, but Edwin certainly was. With Edwin crawling up they fell to the side with him on top and after some long kissing and petting that he never would have thought possible with this partner - always full of surprises, was Edgar Wield - he felt a hand cup him gently between the legs.
"Should I...?" Wield asked, frowning.
"No," Edwin replied, smiling and then turning his head to hide his smile into Edgar's neck so that he didn't take it the wrong way. "I am quite fine like this, here, thank you."
He knew that Edgar wouldn't believe him, but half undressed with a few empty bottles on the coffee table they dozed off anyways, cuddling like newlyweds on the sofa.