Elijah knows that when Orlando's fingers push into the flesh of his arms, Orlando's lips latch elsewhere--be it Elijah's mouth or neck or cock--and the slight discomfort from the pressure morphs into something quietly prickling below the surface, kindling something Orlando thinks he's summoning with teeth and tongue.
He feels--Elijah does--that Orlando worships his body in a way akin to Elijah's own enthusiasm for liquor, a personal indulgence which got him in this situation in the first place. Orlando's hands trace needy paths across Elijah's shoulders, down his ribs, around prettily protruding hipbones. Elijah closes his eyes and lets himself be adored the way he knows Orlando does, and rides both the tingle of attention and the tide-like drunkenness ebbing in and out of his head. Accidental moans, torn from his mouth like taffy, increase the eagerness of Orlando's hands.
Elijah likes the way Orlando's chin travels down his chest and the little ovals imprinted on his hips.
* * *
The marks Dominic leaves on him are not so easy to fade. Still Elijah's body rises to meet the harsh contact of Dominic's, drunk on nothing but a reckless cocktail of fear and lust and unheeded we-shouldn'ts.
Elijah's moans do nothing for Dom because Elijah's mouth is gagged, the designer silk of one of his own ties cool and wet between his teeth. His hands are free but unwilling to interrupt, bunching the sheets under them instead of mauling the moving expanses of Dominic's shoulders.
* * *
Elijah's throat hurts from screaming every curse he knows and some he makes up on the spot, but Orlando's fist eventually does land on Dominic's jaw and Dominic's lip does bleed and Dominic does not, as expected if not hoped, fight back. Elijah calls Orlando a fucking wanker, who spits a similar but more explicitly violent invective at Dominic, who huddles brokenly, low on his haunches in the yellow-green light of the pub window like some Tarantino version of a Dickens novel.
Elijah isn't sure the insult isn't meant for him too.
* * *
After. Orlando's hands are harder on him now, scratching and pulling and smothering. For their trouble, Elijah forgets what Dominic felt like.
* * *
Every once in a while, grey eyes slide across Elijah's face, unreadable, hoping to remind. But Elijah is not interested in bruises other than his own and Dominic's bruises--like the one sitting across the bridge of his nose, angry layers of purple and red and pink--are not as pretty as he wishes them, and certainly do not have the effect the lilac blooming on Elijah's throat has on any of them.
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