The thunderous purr rumbles through Glacius and into Carlisle, rolling up his spine from their points of contact; the clergyman gasps quietly his partner drags his mandible along his neck, the pale flesh there leaving a red trail as the tine presses into it. As the alien caresses his scars with one hand, Carlisle's own sinks into the furs beneath him, searching for purchase as he closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in sensation. It is a more pragmatic use of making love than Carlisle is sure Glacius would like, but—

Desth, he cannot ever admit aloud how much he missed this, lest the false gods -- or his goddess -- hear him and vow to take such pleasures away. He leans into Glacius, keeping his thoughts to himself; however, his body speaks for him. One hand remains on the furs for support as the other joins Glacius at his abdomen, helping guide his movements.

Though he doesn't know exactly how to use it -- certainly not for communication -- Carlisle can feel the Mote thrum within him, his energies riled along with the rest of his physical frame. There is that desire to be together, that need he has so much trouble putting into words: he feels them so strongly that he doesn't know if such urgent wants belong to himself or his partner.

What he does know is that he must allow them to devour him; he cannot sate them any other way.