[ It's only now that Heathcliff even registers that Ishmael is not wearing trousers. He looks down, then looks up, like directly at the ceiling, because even if Ishmael doesn't have her mace, he does not want to get smacked, thank you.
(Heathcliff, for his part, has his boxer briefs on, but isn't wearing a shirt. Holy scarred up tits ahoy.) ]
I'll be honest, I was thinkin' about us buggerin' other people...
[ But that's mostly because, until just now, he wasn't living in a world where Ishmael would ever consider fucking him. Why should she? He's just Heathcliff, world-class failure. ]
... You? With me? Why? Ain't you, like...
[ He makes kind of a vague gesture with his arm, still looking stubbornly at the ceiling. Well, he saw Queequeg. A strapping woman about the size of Mephistopheles, sure, but he's Not Queequeg. Not by a mile.
... He risks a look out the corner of his eye at Ishmael. Sunrise, huh. He can see that. Not that he has many sunrises to compare it to — the Heights did indeed Wuther — but it seems. Soft. Like sunrises ought to be. ]
no subject
(Heathcliff, for his part, has his boxer briefs on, but isn't wearing a shirt. Holy scarred up tits ahoy.) ]
I'll be honest, I was thinkin' about us buggerin' other people...
[ But that's mostly because, until just now, he wasn't living in a world where Ishmael would ever consider fucking him. Why should she? He's just Heathcliff, world-class failure. ]
... You? With me? Why? Ain't you, like...
[ He makes kind of a vague gesture with his arm, still looking stubbornly at the ceiling. Well, he saw Queequeg. A strapping woman about the size of Mephistopheles, sure, but he's Not Queequeg. Not by a mile.
... He risks a look out the corner of his eye at Ishmael. Sunrise, huh. He can see that. Not that he has many sunrises to compare it to — the Heights did indeed Wuther — but it seems. Soft. Like sunrises ought to be. ]