someone to bruise and leave behind

[pylades_drunk]

[mature | tw for misadventures of a consensual nature, but both violent and drunk.]

continued from here, dated to Apr 18/19

Grantaire lets himself be tugged into place, the growl sending a shiver down his spine. He doesn't know what they're doing, and there's something amazing and unfettered about it.

He gasps a little at the sharp shock of teeth on skin, muscles tensing, but he's already opening his mouth to the insistent press of the man's tongue anyway, and when he's shoved back he's panting. Erebus has his eyes locked on him, expectant, a challenge.

R swears softly in French, shoving the young man backwards from him a little. Playful or curious or maybe just a glutton for punishment. Mostly fascinated. He licks the inside of his lip, tasting iron.

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[thedreamthief]

Ronan may not know French, but he gets the meaning of the man's quiet exhalation all the same, a slow grin tugging his lips. There's a shove, a grapple of hands and, laughing, Ronan lets go of the man's shirt to grab his wrist instead, holding him in place.

The man's bottom lip is puffy, spit-slick and swollen. I did that, Ronan thinks, and feels a pump of adrenaline through his veins, prideful.

"Bark and bite," he says in Latin, snapping his jaw, then grinning wide and sharp. He tightens his hold on the man's wrist, twisting on the bench to better face him. The Frenchman looks flushed in the glow of the streetlights, his hair still damp with whiskey, curling against his forehead. He wraps his other hand around the man's calf, locking him in place. "You don't taste as good as the whiskey."

[pylades_drunk]

They grapple, briefly, and Grantaire enjoys the laugh it surprises from the young man, both for causing a reaction and it being something less than posed.

He goes a little still at the hand on his wrist, and doesn't interrogate that too much or the sense memory it provokes, just curls his fingers into the wood of the bench, feeling the grain of it under their tips.

He'd have gotten into sexually charged scraps more often if they had known there were puns in Latin. "Were you raised by wolves?" he asks back in the language, a smirk tugging at his lips. He's captured at the calf, then, and he takes a long breath. Instinctively, he considers his position. One hand's free, one leg; he knows enough that he could free himself using mostly his knees if he wanted to.

He doesn't, quite. There's something that soothes the noise in his head about being held still, and more than that he wants to see where he's going.

He's a brat, though, and he reaches his free hand to run a thumb over the boy's mouth while his hands are too occupied to guard it. "I don't know, you seemed to want seconds," he teases, flickering a raised eyebrow.

[thedreamthief]

Fuck, does everyone in this town speak Latin? Ronan has the feeling Gansey would either see it as some kind of clue or, in the very least, make it a point to find out why, see if there's some underlying reasoning behind why people from wildly different places and times all speak and understand a common language. A language that's been dead for centuries.

To Ronan, it feels like a threat, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. "Ravens," he answers in their shared tongue, his tone cold and serious.

The man touches him, a light brush of a thumb across Ronan's bottom lip, Ronan's dulled reflexes hindering him from pulling away quick enough. It sparks a flame in his abdomen, an angry mix of indignation and want, and he moves quickly, capturing the man's thumb between his teeth. It's not a gentle bite. The tang of salt and dirt rushes over his tongue and Ronan snarls at the taste, tongue flat and broad against the whorls of the tip before he pulls back.

Everything feels slow and rushed at the same time, his muscles heavy and mind whirling as he releases the man's calf to reach up, grabbing him by the back of the neck instead and roughly pulling him down into another crushing kiss. It's all fight, a violent twist of mouths, noses smashed to cheeks, and a raging, unsatisfied hunger.

[pylades_drunk]

He doesn't know what that means and the other man doesn't give it away, so he takes it at face value. Erebus. Ravens. Sure.

Grantaire always knew some Latin: you don't escape Pater noster, qui es in caelis... where he's from, not at least a few times a year as a child. But he knows what was being said for all those years mostly because he's a student of the humanities (no matter how poor) and that's what happens when you study those things. R doesn't think of it as odd, except that he would know, if he thought about it, that no one in the other man's time is made to study it. But he's not thinking right now.

R doesn't pull away in time to avoid being bitten for the touch, and sucks in a breath that swallows down hotly when he thinks about crescent-shaped imprints on his skin. The young man's tongue presses warm and taunting against Grantaire's fingertips and he stares fixedly at him, darkeyed and wanting and a little defiant against that.

He's caught off guard by the kiss, pulled forward over his center by it, and he scrabbles for purchase at the curve of the young man's neck, nails digging into his shoulder. It's a collision of teeth and tongue and breath; he can feel his pulse racing against the other man's fingers, or his against Grantaire's neck, or-- Calf freed, he throws himself into the pull, pushing himself over the man, not especially careful as knees hit bench, one hand still on the back of it, pushing him back with hips and mouth. Filthy and public and hungry.

[thedreamthief]

The edge of the bench digs at Ronan's back, biting into his spine through his shirt and jacket. He leans into it, arching as the man drops on top of him. It's clumsy and violent, every point of contact bruising. Ronan feels completely untethered, completely free in a way he hasn't been since he got stuck here. For once, he isn't thinking. He isn't aching. He isn't tearing himself up over visions of Gansey finding the Pig missing or Matthew slumped into a coma or Adam disappointed and unsurprised.

For now, all he's doing is this: He's grabbing the man's hip with one hand, and a fistful of curls with the other. He's pressing up when the man shoves down, feeling a hard length to mask his own. He's laughing, bright and dangerous into a wet and warm mouth, surprised in his ability to get hard at all given how much he's had to drink. He's pulling the man's head back, growling and dragging his teeth along soft skin, tasting a delicious mix of sweat and lingering whiskey on this tongue.

The flash of headlights from a passing car reminds him of their location and heat swells heavy in his gut, has him biting down. It's not gentle, nothing about this is gentle, but he manages to not pierce skin, stopping to rest his forehead to the man's collarbone instead, watching hazily as he moves his hand from the man's hip to the front of his jeans, clumsy fingers working at the small metal button.

[pylades_drunk]

R is half made of electricity, all impulse and no resistance. There's something crazy about this, dangerous, capricious: all the qualities that people generally say in dismissive tones about him or to him. They can go ahead: that's what he is. That's all he is. He doesn't want to slow down, to consider consequence, to be rational. The future is a goddamn lie; the past is a trap. Safety is just a sweet story to tell your children.

Right now there are only a few things he knows: tilting his head back toward fingers tangled in his hair, biting at lips and grinning at the feel of the man under him arcing up. Their hips a collision: Grantaire rocks forward, pressing them together.

He pulls R's head back sharply and R groans softly, bares his throat to teeth and tongue. Grantaire swears, fighting the impulse to close his eyes to try and watch him, finding the hollow of his hip with his thumb and gripping. When the headlights hit, he goes still for a second, flooded with sudden adrenaline, only heightened by the man biting down.

That's going to leave a mark. Claimed by the darkness. It's almost funny.

There's something incredibly young, though, about the way he rests his head on Grantaire's collarbone. He is young, and drunk, and -- fuck. R licks his lower lip and watches him, wanting. "You --" You're sure, you don't have to --, it flickers through his head but he's pretty sure, for one thing, that he'd get bitten (again) for implying that this Erebus had ever thought he had to do anything.

He traces the tattoo on his neck with the nails of one hand. It looks different, he thinks, up close.

[thedreamthief]

There are fingers at his neck and a warm breath against his shaven head, a whispered word, infuriatingly uncertain. Or maybe just questioning. Either way, Ronan doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to decipher meaning, doesn't want to think. The man -- Winecask or whatever the fuck his actual name is -- isn't pulling away at all, isn't shoving or swearing, isn't doing anything but meeting every press of Ronan's body with his own.

"Fuck," Ronan growls, fingers fumbling with the button before he finally yanks it free along with the one just below it. He's not at all careful when he pushes aside denim, his pulse hammering through his veins, nearly all he can hear.

This isn't entirely new. This isn't the first cock that he's touched. But the last time, though furtive and desperate and driven by adrenaline, hadn't felt nearly so imperative.

There's still a layer of fabric beneath Ronan's palm, at least for now, and Ronan wraps his fingers around as much as he can with the weird position. He keeps his head ducked can see just enough to appreciate how deliciously lewd this is. It's too dark to see much, but he can feel, the hard press against his skin making him feel powerful and reckless and hungry.

Ronan spend so much of his life not knowing what he wants but right now, right in this moment, he wants this.

[pylades_drunk]

Any fleeting concerns Grantaire may have fade at the feeling of the fingers insistent around him. He arches forward unthinking, breath harsh and bitten quiet.

He catches the other man at the back of the neck to tip him into a kiss, penetrating and desirous, sliding his hand down between them to palm over the length of him. They're at a weird angle, though, and he swears at it, trying to maneuver then both vaguely into some semblance of a better position.

[thedreamthief]

Ronan's head is tipped back and warm lips fall on his again, a heated tongue pushing through. It's not as combative this time, some of the fury tempered, though it's still far from gentle. He fights a groan, something in the threat of that verbalization feeling like surrender and instead bites down on the man's jaw again and runs the pad of his thumb over the tip of his cock, the fabric faintly damp.

Above him, the man moves clumsily, knees knocking into Ronan's hips, breath heavy and humid. A hand falls to the front of his jeans and Ronan bucks, fisting his free hand in the front of the man's shirt. "Don't fuckin' touch me," he snaps, punctuating the statement with a squeeze of the man's cock.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire growls a little bit at the squeeze. It's he who's pushed too far in this delicate balance of power-grappling and pleasure-giving (as if they're not much the same) and he raises his hand away, eyes sweeping over him. There are commands he'd play with, push at, but that's not one. He's no one to judge anyone else's pursuit of pleasure and what that entails, especially right now enjoying the marks left on his neck.

Besides, negotiating homosexual diversions in 1830s Paris has inured Grantaire to a lot of snapping by people who don't want to be inverts.

If the other man was someone he knew better, cared more about, if this were all about loosing pleasure and not just not thinking, he'd have more of an apology. As it is he's reminded of a stray tomcat he used to share food with that would never be petted but would occasionally allow Grantaire to be the subject of a play-attack. Sometimes his antagonism would earn a real hiss or snap, and then he just had to wait until the cat decided he trusted him enough to let him close while he gnawed on him.

So he watches his eyes, shifts himself back to a better position: he's in a more vulnerable position than he'd totally like. "You can feel free to touch and not be touched," he says, words his defense. "I won't stop you."

[thedreamthief]

It's not the reaction Ronan's expecting and he doesn't know whether to be angry or not. Doesn't have the energy to decide at the moment either, not when all of it is focused on clearing his head, on feeling only this needed release. The indecision unsettles him, throws him off, and he reacts with another snarl, one hand shoving past the waistband of the man's underwear while he curls the other around the back of the man's neck, roughly holding him in place, pressed forehead to forehead.

"Shut up," he growls, baring teeth.

The man's cock is hot in his hand and Ronan's touch is just on the right side of brutal. Though it isn't Ronan's first time, he doesn't exactly have extensive experience. What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in single-minded focus, jerking the man like he would himself though the positioning is uncomfortable. He's aching in his own jeans, adrenaline rushing through every vein, drawing him tight.

[pylades_drunk]

The tug closer, their heads leaned in, is at once almost too intimate and settling, the hand on the back of R's neck. It's only been a couple of weeks alone but the lack of touch is maddening.

He wants to push against being told to shut up, but the man's hand is already on him, relentless. He huffs a desperate exhale, arches forward against him, shoves a little at his clothes. It's not teasing, or in any aspect gentle: more like how he'd touch himself, efficient and sole-minded.

It pulls the thoughts from his head in a beg of nerves for more. That's what he wants.

[thedreamthief]

It's far from comfortable, the bench digging into Ronan's back and ass under the weight of both of them. It's uncomfortable and it's ungentle and just exactly what Ronan needs right now.

The man stays obediently quiet save for a grunt here and there, a sharp exhale or muffled gasp as Ronan continues jerking him. There are hands on him, shoving at his clothes, but not stripping him and Ronan allows it, lets himself enjoy being touched, however carelessly, for the time being.

Tipping his head up, Ronan scrapes his teeth along the man's jaw, feeling stubble against his lips before he bites down. There's the faintest hint of whiskey on him now and Ronan laughs a little at the memory of how it got there, vaguely considers dousing every man he fucks in liquor beforehand.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire drags his hand up the man's back, curls his arm across his shoulders in an attempt at stability, gripping.

Teeth against his throat startle a groan from him, the focus of the bite bright against the steady pressure of the man's hand. He catches him at the back of the neck to kiss harshly, lick whiskey and sweat and urgency from his mouth, breaks away to swear in French.

It's likely as close to a warning as the man's going to get.

[thedreamthief]

The taste of whiskey is quickly replaced by a warm, wet tongue and Ronan growls into the kiss, sucking in air when the man pulls away, cursing.

Grinning, Ronan ducks into the man's neck again, gaze focused between them to where he can barely make out the tip of the man's cock with every down stroke. The sight makes him hungry, makes the flare in him burn bright hot and he doubles his efforts, his other hand tangled in the fabric of the man's shirt at his back, holding him close.

"Do it," he growls, and there's no question to what he's referring, his tone somewhere between pleased and angry. "Fuckin' do it."

[pylades_drunk]

It's not as though Grantaire has too much choice in the matter, nor the other man either, not the way his hand is moving fast and insistent against him, the heat of his body tucked in against him and the flash of a satisfied grin. But the growled command sends a shiver through him, and he lets himself go, spilling over hot into his hand.

He bites down on the man's shoulder in a groan, hand clawed against his back as he finishes; for a moment nothing else is in his head, nothing further than this moment, not even how much of a mess they've made of themselves, and it's exactly what he's needed.

[thedreamthief]

Ronan can feel muscles coiling beneath his touch, can sense that the man is just about to topple over the edge. This might be his favorite part, he thinks. The right-before. All the anticipation, all that sharp, mind-melting pleasure in one stretch of time.

And there are teeth at his shoulder and spunk all over his hand. Pressed as close as they are now, he can't see the entire mess, but there's doubtlessly traces all over his shirt. He'll be sure to act pissed about it later. But right now, the man is still shivering atop him, still groaning as the waves roll through, his breath heavy through fabric. Delicious.

His own jeans are still tight, and Ronan relishes it, holds tight to that bit of lingering excitement that he know will fade all too quickly.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire catches his breath, hand relaxing to rest at the back of the man's neck. As rough and careless and regardless of consequence as this is, he's still a little grateful that he doesn't immediately pull away when R's finished. He could: could be disgusted, or just impatient with any contact less than purely necessary. Grantaire's experiences with men have run the gamut; in Paris most of them were brief and to the point. He finds himself a little hungry for touch as much as he wants to not think.

"Fuck," he exhales, grinning a little as adrenaline settles into something heavier. He can feel the other man's lingering arousal, pressed close as they've been, but he's been firmly told not to take dealing with that into his own hands. As it were.

He shifts his weight up, sitting back to untangle a little.

[thedreamthief]

There's still an electricity in the air, a vein of unfinished business even as the man shifts back a little, creating more space between them. Instinctively, Ronan glances downward, just enough light out to see the mess across his shirt, his left hand still sticky with it.

Still riding his own dangerous edge, Ronan smooths his hand up the man's shirt, slick fingers brushing the warm skin of the man's lower belly briefly, soaking in the touch as much as wiping his hand clean. He unbuttons the front of his own jeans with his other hand, rough and hurried, tipping his head back to watch the man's face, see if he'll pull away now that he's gotten his finish.

"I'm assuming you've done this before," he says, biting back a groan of relief as he pulls himself free of his boxer briefs.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire's eyes flicker downward to watch his hands; touch warm and fingers flicking the button free on his own jeans. There's something especially satisfying about the movement, having been warned away before -- even if it's just to get off, it's an invitation that's been opened, and R makes very little secret about watching him pull himself free.

Light hits them from the road, some passerby in a car, a flash of gold over the man's skin. It prompts a surge of adrenaline, and something else, something insouciant and free. He leans forward, still up on his knees, wrapping an artist's hand around his length to stroke, taunting and slow, drag a thumb over the head of him, watch his reaction.

"Never," he answers dryly, chewing on his lip. "Pure as the driven snow." He leans to nip at his exposed throat, his wrist working a little less gently.

[thedreamthief]

"Fuck," Ronan breathes, halfway between a groan and a laugh as he tips his head back, swallowing as the man's lips glide along the skin of his throat. He blinks up at the dark, night sky.

The man's hand has replaced his own, long fingers wrapped around him, jerking slowly, slower than Ronan would've chosen, but no less good. It hasn't escaped Ronan that they're doing this in public, that though it's night, there are still cars on the road. It seems to excite Winecask as much as it does Ronan though and he grits his teeth a moment later, arches his hips up to fuck into the tight circle of the man's fist.

"Faster," he growls, one hand still buried beneath the man's shirt, holding onto bare skin as he lifts his head. "Fuck, just make me come."

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire grins, catlike, at the exhaled swear, the arch of his hips, enjoying watching him want, the accompanying thrill of it.

He catches at the back of his neck, holding him still in stark contrast to the press of his cock into R's hand, or the reverse. He lifts his head to bite at his lower lip, suck over the spot. "Patience, Erebus," he tells him with a grin in the Latin they'd been playing with, head still close, but he jerks him faster, hand still firm, relentless and noticing what makes his muscles tense. "That's the plan." He leans into the fingers splayed against his stomach.

[thedreamthief]

Pleasure licks up Ronan's spine, coils tight in the pit of his stomach. He pants against the man's mouth, his hips still moving, driving up relentlessly even as the man keeps him in place with a firm hand at the back of Ronan's neck.

"Your patience can go to hell," he growls in the second tongue they share. But he's grinning as he says it, exhilarated and teetering on the edge, fingers curling into a tighter grip around the man's side. Despite the tease in the man's words, he obeys Ronan's demand and then it's only seconds before Ronan is coming, shuddering with a low groan, spilling hot all over the man's hand and adding to the mess on his stomach.

[pylades_drunk]

There's something intoxicating about that desperation, being able to satisfy it. The curl of his fingers against R's skin, the cant of his hips.

He keeps his eyes on him, as the other man finishes, hot and wet all over his hands, keeps his hand on him till he's spent. Grantaire laughs softly under his breath, wiping his hand off on his own shirt and pulling it over his head one handed.

"You were saying?"

[thedreamthief]

The euphoria is sadly short-lived, though the buzz under Ronan's skin remains, his heart pounding as sweat starts to cool. Above him the man pulls off his shirt and Ronan stares, angered by the fact that he isn't sure how to react. Neither of the other times he's done this have involved any kind of nudity.

His lips curl into a sneer at the man's taunting. "Go to hell," he answers, words amended, but there's a lack of real malice in the tone. Possibly due to the orgasm.

He keeps his hand firmly wrapped around the man's bare side, his own cock still out, spent and sticky. "I think we're already there."

[pylades_drunk]

The bared skin is less out of any need for more intimacy and more practicality: they're both sweaty and sticky and the shirt's more useful as a towel than it is a piece of clothing. If he knew the other a little better, he'd probably feel a little selfconscious: he's nothing beautiful, just an expanse of muscles hiding under fat and always a few bruises he doesn't know how he got, some old scars. But he's a stranger and right now the scratches he's clawed into his side are R's doing, and that feels good, and so does the air cooling on him.

He sort of expects Erebus to shove him away now that he's finished, but he holds on instead, and R can't say he doesn't like it, smirking at the young man's tone. "I bet you say that to all the boys," he snorts, but he blinks a little at what he says after.

R knows the feeling, too well. That betrayed, lost anger at being somewhere he didn't choose, some mysterious unmapped place under stars that shouldn't exist, with no ending. And yet, he has nothing to go home to. He might blame this place for being alone, but if he were on the island, he'd have lost the same people, just with their house there to remind him. Hell isn't a place. It's a feeling.

"At home," he says, stretching his hand out against his companion's skin, "I'd be dead, so perhaps you're right." He raises an eyebrow. "Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.*"

[*'It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery' - from Marlowe's Dr. Faustus]

[thedreamthief]

There's a mystery in Winecask's words, a question Ronan feels he should ask. He already has one dead friend and there's not much of a mystery there other than him being less corporeal at times. This man is perfectly tangible, however, alive and warm and real in a way Noah hasn't been ever since Ronan's known him. Then again, Ronan never touched Noah the way he's touching this man now so maybe he's wrong.

Something about that train of thought makes Ronan feel suddenly guilty. And empty.

He wants to argue, to snarl and throw the man's pretentious words back at him. It's a quote, he can tell that much. Gansey would probably know where it's from. Adam, too. All Ronan knows is that it hits too close to the truth.

"Back home, I'm a demon," he says instead, more threat than commiseration, his teeth still bared. A demon or a devil or, in the very least, in league with both. His smile turns slightly pained then, a grimace as he cocks his head, scratches blunt nails up the man's sides. "Here I'm a husk."