[ The whiskey sits in his chest, warm and bright, alongside the affection Darius showers on him.
It's different from how things were before. The one week that was supposed to be only one week, he'd often trailed after Darius like a lost dog (Puppy). Their interactions in public were lit with predatory smiles and possessive holds, their conversations shot through with insinuation. He'd had to fight for every casual affection. A held hand. A kiss. A photo. A seat beside Darius's.
There were times he thinks Daddy might have been intentionally ignoring him. Or trying very hard to do so. (That hadn't lasted long.)
He'd definitely been trying very hard to tamp down, hide this thing growing between them, inescapable and unfamiliar. Behind those stupid sunglasses, or an offhand air, or a crude remark, or a shitty text to Sen, or whatever else he got it in his squirrelly brain to do.
Darius called him my adoration in the sacred privacy of their suite, but never where others could hear.
It's worlds different, now. This is real. This is fearless, settled, assured that no amount of affection, no amount of romance, will make Enri forget his role - or worse, afflict fatal harm on Darius. (And, likewise, no amount of playing Daddy and Puppy will take away the boyfriend, the lover, the friend. They can have all of it. They can be all of it.) (And fuck, it feels good to be all of it.)
He tastes love and faint pain laced with honey and moans almost inaudibly, shifts for more, but Darius is leaning back, cuddling against him, and Enri thinks of a video he saw once of a Holi celebration, black and white footage bursting into technicolor as clouds of colored pigment flew up from the hands of a crowd. The music had burst at the same moment.
That's it, he thinks. That's the feeling around his heart and lungs. Colorburst from monochrome. Joy from silence.
There's not enough honey in the world that can do for Enri what's done by the repetition of those two low-pitched words. He mouths them back, his smile softening with all the warmth 'my love' carries.
(He'd thought it was so silly, the first time. Romantic, sure, but old-fashioned. But 'my love' feels like it can contain everything Darius is to him - all the titles, all the things that don't have words comfortably applied. He doesn't feel right when kneeling and looking up into the face of his god, thinking boyfriend. He doesn't feel right thinking of Darius as Daddy (much) when they're lounging together on a sofa, in bed, driving in the car, just talking. But my love -
Yeah. Darius is his love, no matter what they're doing together.)
His arm has slipped from the back of the sofa and wound almost casually around Darius's shoulders, his fingertips strumming along his bicep, his shoulder, rhythmically caressing. He thinks my love between kisses, thinks it through each kiss, thinks it as he inclines his head to the touch along his throat. (Thinks of honey, of the moon casting its light onto Daddy's shoulders, how it caught in his hair and shimmered, and how he's lucky. He's so lucky to be loved like this.)
Darius calls him Puppy (my Puppy, which falls under the vast umbrella of my love, because there were no other Puppies that were Darius's, the way Enri is) and he glows with pleasure.
He's still smiling, daft, overjoyed, when he leans his forehead against Darius's and nudges gently - a small butt, affectionate and cute - then considers his glass. Since Darius left the specifics pretty loose, he's got a lot of options here. He could take a sip and offer a kiss, long and deep, and holy shit he'd like to try that. But it might be something better done at home (someone's got to keep their public play a little in check, and he doubts it'll be Daddy.) (Daddy might do it, himself, anyway.)
He could take a sip and then offer the glass. That's sharing.
But the rules - all unwritten, and most of them concocted as they go along - probably suggest Puppy shouldn't drink before Daddy in this very specific situation.
He could hand over the glass like a good Puppy.
That's boring. ]
Nothing to share. What's mine is Daddy's.
[ He speaks with a curling smirk, then proffers the glass just below Darius's mouth, tilting gently if he drinks. Careful. Watchful and enthralled. Before his hand withdraws, he strokes the back of his forefinger along Darius's jaw.
He takes another drink, himself, feeling a flood of warmth his his chest again and spread outward through his limbs. Over the rim of the glass, he raises his brows and hums. ]
Too bad we're out. I'm pretty good for body shots. That's like sharing.
[ Maybe he shouldn't have said that?
He'd never done anything intimate with people before Darius, true, but he did earn some fast cash at bachelorette parties by letting blonde, squealing twenty-somethings in pink tiaras lick salt off his chest and drink tequila out of his navel.
...Well. Whatever. Darius loves him. He won't mind. (God damn, this drink's good.) (The fuck's in it besides honey? He doesn't know the flavor.) Maybe he'll let Darius do lines off his abs sometime. (He's going to hang on to that idea for when Daddy's mad at him. ('Mad'.) (He never gets in real trouble.) (Singsong in his own head: Daddy loves me.)) ]
no subject
It's different from how things were before. The one week that was supposed to be only one week, he'd often trailed after Darius like a lost dog (Puppy). Their interactions in public were lit with predatory smiles and possessive holds, their conversations shot through with insinuation. He'd had to fight for every casual affection. A held hand. A kiss. A photo. A seat beside Darius's.
There were times he thinks Daddy might have been intentionally ignoring him. Or trying very hard to do so. (That hadn't lasted long.)
He'd definitely been trying very hard to tamp down, hide this thing growing between them, inescapable and unfamiliar. Behind those stupid sunglasses, or an offhand air, or a crude remark, or a shitty text to Sen, or whatever else he got it in his squirrelly brain to do.
Darius called him my adoration in the sacred privacy of their suite, but never where others could hear.
It's worlds different, now. This is real. This is fearless, settled, assured that no amount of affection, no amount of romance, will make Enri forget his role - or worse, afflict fatal harm on Darius. (And, likewise, no amount of playing Daddy and Puppy will take away the boyfriend, the lover, the friend. They can have all of it. They can be all of it.) (And fuck, it feels good to be all of it.)
He tastes love and faint pain laced with honey and moans almost inaudibly, shifts for more, but Darius is leaning back, cuddling against him, and Enri thinks of a video he saw once of a Holi celebration, black and white footage bursting into technicolor as clouds of colored pigment flew up from the hands of a crowd. The music had burst at the same moment.
That's it, he thinks. That's the feeling around his heart and lungs. Colorburst from monochrome. Joy from silence.
There's not enough honey in the world that can do for Enri what's done by the repetition of those two low-pitched words. He mouths them back, his smile softening with all the warmth 'my love' carries.
(He'd thought it was so silly, the first time. Romantic, sure, but old-fashioned. But 'my love' feels like it can contain everything Darius is to him - all the titles, all the things that don't have words comfortably applied. He doesn't feel right when kneeling and looking up into the face of his god, thinking boyfriend. He doesn't feel right thinking of Darius as Daddy (much) when they're lounging together on a sofa, in bed, driving in the car, just talking. But my love -
Yeah. Darius is his love, no matter what they're doing together.)
His arm has slipped from the back of the sofa and wound almost casually around Darius's shoulders, his fingertips strumming along his bicep, his shoulder, rhythmically caressing. He thinks my love between kisses, thinks it through each kiss, thinks it as he inclines his head to the touch along his throat. (Thinks of honey, of the moon casting its light onto Daddy's shoulders, how it caught in his hair and shimmered, and how he's lucky. He's so lucky to be loved like this.)
Darius calls him Puppy (my Puppy, which falls under the vast umbrella of my love, because there were no other Puppies that were Darius's, the way Enri is) and he glows with pleasure.
He's still smiling, daft, overjoyed, when he leans his forehead against Darius's and nudges gently - a small butt, affectionate and cute - then considers his glass. Since Darius left the specifics pretty loose, he's got a lot of options here. He could take a sip and offer a kiss, long and deep, and holy shit he'd like to try that. But it might be something better done at home (someone's got to keep their public play a little in check, and he doubts it'll be Daddy.) (Daddy might do it, himself, anyway.)
He could take a sip and then offer the glass. That's sharing.
But the rules - all unwritten, and most of them concocted as they go along - probably suggest Puppy shouldn't drink before Daddy in this very specific situation.
He could hand over the glass like a good Puppy.
That's boring. ]
Nothing to share. What's mine is Daddy's.
[ He speaks with a curling smirk, then proffers the glass just below Darius's mouth, tilting gently if he drinks. Careful. Watchful and enthralled. Before his hand withdraws, he strokes the back of his forefinger along Darius's jaw.
He takes another drink, himself, feeling a flood of warmth his his chest again and spread outward through his limbs. Over the rim of the glass, he raises his brows and hums. ]
Too bad we're out. I'm pretty good for body shots. That's like sharing.
[ Maybe he shouldn't have said that?
He'd never done anything intimate with people before Darius, true, but he did earn some fast cash at bachelorette parties by letting blonde, squealing twenty-somethings in pink tiaras lick salt off his chest and drink tequila out of his navel.
...Well. Whatever. Darius loves him. He won't mind. (God damn, this drink's good.) (The fuck's in it besides honey? He doesn't know the flavor.) Maybe he'll let Darius do lines off his abs sometime. (He's going to hang on to that idea for when Daddy's mad at him. ('Mad'.) (He never gets in real trouble.) (Singsong in his own head: Daddy loves me.)) ]
Shit, what's in this?