[The music seems fitting. The lyrics, mournful enough for Halloween, the guitar with just enough twang for a western tavern-wench. Ravus doesn't have any complaints about the choice.

Ravus approaches, but he doesn't take a seat on the sofa. He kneels between Gladio's legs.]

Later. [Whether that's sitting and drinking or biting, he's not saying.] We're going to play a game. How serious are you about savoring my wine?

[He trails his fingers up a fishnetted calf, past the knee, and upward to muscled thigh, pushing the skirt higher and higher.]

You're going to take a sip, and you're not going to swallow until I do.