Instigator that he is, he drank first. He had to for the joke (he would have anyway; that bottle was in his hands the second that the others saw him, and it wasn't as if they didn't all drink, too). His heartbeat thick between his ribs, sloshing with every movement.]
What, nothing— nothing for me?
[Laughing vestigially. Lovesick enough that his eyes shine and his lips are wet; he'd only just gotten to that party— and still his clothes and hair reek of perfumed clove-smoke, his breath immersed in wine. He can't wrench himself free (like a thing hooked), he stumbles on fawnish legs, but with his head ducked downwards in that grip he sees (—carpet, wood, boots, streets—) the loosened hang of leather laces, and his fingers itch just to pull.
They're close enough.
Sloughing chuckle let out when the world spins at first— everything blurring together in ways that only reassure his initial motivation: peripheral amusement, the whip of approving voices, (how many nobles leave those parties in the arms of someone else? How many of them can say their own name, let alone think by then?) the smeared sound of a guard he recognizes letting out a low whistle before making a bet to one of the others on how long he'll last. That harmless jocularity grown rougher the further into darkness that they tread.]
You won't make it home—
[Is he talking to Fenris or himself?]
—it's not made for us to enjoy and then leave— [The aphrodisiac, he means. The kinds laced into the pipes, the bottles— even the cups that they'd all knowingly indulged from when they arrived: strong only by the standards of a young buck who never had a master to come crawling to on wounded knees. The city's stench— a mixture of wet pavement and summer heat— finally registering in his nostrils. Those laces still dangling in his eyeline.
They should've stayed at the party.
(His own cock's already rammed hot against the inseam of his trousers and it howls with thick constriction at the end of every fumbled step; his lips cherry red for being bitten, his eyes glassier by the second. But Fenris won't let him look at him. The grip on his neck's too rough, and he's already dreaming about feeling out the bruises that punishment will leave behind come morning, too greedy not to drool for more than anything he's given past the borders of pretense.
—gods, they should've stayed at the party.)
This would've been easier.]
Let me help you—
[His grip is cupping when it comes. Serpentine and deceptively deft, it folds around the heavy underside of Fenris' prick through leather without warning, pushed hard between his legs under the drag of harsh proximity. Knowing that if his other arm were free, he'd be working at himself with all the same ferocity of an itch he just can't scratch— abstract and needy and insistently consumed. Smelling of smoke. Tasting of wine.
Echoing like laughter.
That he can ignore the fact that there are people watching them (on occasion) as they go, passing faces smoking on side streets or walking through midnight alleyways, it's through virtue of just not giving a damn.]
no subject
Instigator that he is, he drank first. He had to for the joke (he would have anyway; that bottle was in his hands the second that the others saw him, and it wasn't as if they didn't all drink, too). His heartbeat thick between his ribs, sloshing with every movement.]
What, nothing— nothing for me?
[Laughing vestigially. Lovesick enough that his eyes shine and his lips are wet; he'd only just gotten to that party— and still his clothes and hair reek of perfumed clove-smoke, his breath immersed in wine. He can't wrench himself free (like a thing hooked), he stumbles on fawnish legs, but with his head ducked downwards in that grip he sees (—carpet, wood, boots, streets—) the loosened hang of leather laces, and his fingers itch just to pull.
They're close enough.
Sloughing chuckle let out when the world spins at first— everything blurring together in ways that only reassure his initial motivation: peripheral amusement, the whip of approving voices, (how many nobles leave those parties in the arms of someone else? How many of them can say their own name, let alone think by then?) the smeared sound of a guard he recognizes letting out a low whistle before making a bet to one of the others on how long he'll last. That harmless jocularity grown rougher the further into darkness that they tread.]
You won't make it home—
[Is he talking to Fenris or himself?]
—it's not made for us to enjoy and then leave— [The aphrodisiac, he means. The kinds laced into the pipes, the bottles— even the cups that they'd all knowingly indulged from when they arrived: strong only by the standards of a young buck who never had a master to come crawling to on wounded knees. The city's stench— a mixture of wet pavement and summer heat— finally registering in his nostrils. Those laces still dangling in his eyeline.
They should've stayed at the party.
(His own cock's already rammed hot against the inseam of his trousers and it howls with thick constriction at the end of every fumbled step; his lips cherry red for being bitten, his eyes glassier by the second. But Fenris won't let him look at him. The grip on his neck's too rough, and he's already dreaming about feeling out the bruises that punishment will leave behind come morning, too greedy not to drool for more than anything he's given past the borders of pretense.
—gods, they should've stayed at the party.)
This would've been easier.]
Let me help you—
[His grip is cupping when it comes. Serpentine and deceptively deft, it folds around the heavy underside of Fenris' prick through leather without warning, pushed hard between his legs under the drag of harsh proximity. Knowing that if his other arm were free, he'd be working at himself with all the same ferocity of an itch he just can't scratch— abstract and needy and insistently consumed. Smelling of smoke. Tasting of wine.
Echoing like laughter.
That he can ignore the fact that there are people watching them (on occasion) as they go, passing faces smoking on side streets or walking through midnight alleyways, it's through virtue of just not giving a damn.]