Another Study of Wutain
There was something about languages. Vincent didn't understand many, but he had his reasons for that. Reasons that he never told anyone, reasons that knotted their hands in his hair and breathed his name.
It always started in Midgirian, but that was the language that they both knew. That was the language that tugged at his hair and forced him to hold it down until he had finished. That language hissed and cursed words he knew, but it wasn't his favorite.
Costa was one that wasn't big; it was a tone where even pleadings could sound like commands. He was fumbling in that tongue, but his tongue was more than enough for these matters. Costa was a language of fighters, and it wasn't his favorite.
The last language was one he never wanted to learn. Wutain was soft, sensual and when his name was peppered within the sayings, it made him feel needed. Orders or curses lost their edge in that language, commands like hands on his hips and ankles over his own weren't soft. They weren't hard either, to understand or to feel, that language was his favorite.
Fin