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Webster is swaying on his feet, the fat neck of his Heineken clutched in his fist. The fact that he hasn’t toppled onto his face yet is a miracle, but when he goes to take another drink he ends up missing his mouth and spilling his drink all over himself.
As if sensing Liebgott is about to bitch him out, he holds up his other hand and stops swaying to the shitty house music pumping through the walls from Liebgott’s neighbors’ apartment.
”I’m a shark,” Webster says seriously. “I’m a shaaark.”
Dropping his Heineken bottle to the floor, not caring the least that the glass splatters and the last of his beer splashes across the floor, Webster makes his way to Liebgott clumsily. He trips over the coffee table and ends up falling half onto the floor and half into Liebgott’s lap.
Propping himself up clumsily, Webster grins at Liebgott. “Suck my dick,” he continues, his voice lilting and sing-song. “I’m a shaaark.”
At first, Liebgott just stares. He’s used to a lot of bullshit from Webster but this takes the cake. He thinks the fact he hasn’t snapped yet means he should be rewarded, preferably with a fresh bottle of Heineken from the fridge.
”You’re a goddamn pussy,” Liebgott says after a moment, shaking his head and draining the last of his bottle.
Webster just keeps humming along with whatever tune he’s got stuck in his head. He presses against Liebgott’s knees, spreading his legs wider, and Liebgott lets him. Webster curls in closer, nuzzling his cheek against a jean-clad thigh, before he bites down, hard.
”Ow!” Liebgott says, lashing out with his legs against Webster and pushing himself away. “What was that for, you fucking freak?”
”I’m a shaaark,” Webster says again, adamantly. “I’m a shaaark. Rawr.”
Liebgott stares. He stares harder, trying to figure out what the fuck his life has become that Webster on his knees, biting and singing about being a shark isn’t even the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Webster ignores Libegott though in favor of urging his legs apart again gently, trailing light nips up along Liebgott’s inseam until he’s pressing his lips against the front of his jeans. Resting a cheek against Liebgott’s thigh, Webster looks up at him with wide eyes. “Rawr.”
”Sharks don’t rawr, dumbass,” Liebgott says. He touches his fingers to Webster’s face gently, and he isn’t really surprised when Webster nips at them lightly, laving over and between them with broad strokes of his tongue.
”Suck my dick?” Webster tries, nuzzling against Liebgott’s thigh lightly.
Liebgott feels like he should say no on principle, but even with alcohol in his system he very much likes the idea of sex right now. Smirking, he says, “if you suck mine first.”
Webster is piss drunk and clumsy, but he stops with his shark comments in favor of tearing at Liebgott’s belt and jeans, trying to drag them off his hips. Liebgott would object, but it’ll keep Webster quiet for a few minutes and a sloppy blowjob is better than nothing.