Uncle Oscar had not been lying about the drinks he had brought with him that night.
Drifting above the coral-pink wine had been a splash of orange juice, probably there to conceal the real ingredients for the ones who had inexperience with alcohol, and Oz feels a little sorry for the people who had not suspected anything odd about their drinks like the presently and severely intoxicated Alice and Gilbert.
He places his nose on the rim of his pint glass, sniffing twice. The white merlot wine— though having a bittery grapefruit aftertaste— has a twinge of what he assumes is a caramel scent to it. How strange.
Oz wrinkles his nose somewhat. At the very least it has a smoother taste then the nasty concoction of Russian vodka and several other spirits from the front den Uncle Oscar tricked him into trying once the evening of his Coming-of-Age Ceremony.
His tall, sober companion beside him pokes his own empty and cracked glass.
"Not very fun now that everyone else has passed out," Break sighs, staring thoughtfully over his shoulder at the rest of the unconscious partygoers hanging in various lewd positions over love-couches and arm-chairs. "A bomb exploding isn't capable of waking them." He sighs again loudly, as if disappointed, as if all the fun had been sucked clean from the setting around him.
A bit put out by the likelihood that he was keeping poor company, Oz hmms, picking up the upright wine bottle by his boots. "Do you want anymore?" He asks, shaking the purple container at the silvery-haired man.
When Break waves him off, Oz takes eight large, burning mouthfuls. The man raises an eyebrow at him curiously as Oz gasps between them, color climbing high up the green-eyed teen's features.
"You hope that earnestly to push your limits?"
Oz holds up the bottle to him again, this time smiling brightly, "Feeling up to it?"
Intrigued and not considering being elusive about it, Break matches his record. After going through the remaining contents of the bottle (and perhaps a little more liquor in the cabinets of the sitting room circa. SomethingMuchMuchOlder), Oz's limbs finally are starting to grow much more relaxed and floaty.
The teenager's brain does not bother to process the time lapse to how they wind up on the balcony stone-floor surrounded by the drained bottles from the cabinet— not that it matters much in his drunken stupor that he is eagle spread on his back, half hanging out of his coat, arms folded neatly to his chest, as the stars fuzz and dance dizzily overhead. Or that Break appears a moment later, about as gone as he is— settling to prop up on his elbows, gloveless fists under his chin, flat on his stomach, and leaning over Oz's face to giggle.
"How much do…you think it…would take to make us forget?" The silver-haired man asks softly. Oz's green eyes watch as the tip of Break's tongue touches his lower lip.
"Don't know what you are…talking about…don't care…" Oz replies, with the unexplained desire to see that red wet tongue again. With the aid of Break's floppy canary-yellow neckerchief, he manages to pull his friend's upside down mouth to his, prying it open in search for that foreign and delightful muscle.
Alice's sealing kiss had been dry and quick, uninvited— even if rather satisfying. This summons a separate element entirely— as both males probe each other with teeth and fingers and lips, fumbling to wretch free the tails of collar shirts; manly; hot.
A fragment of Oz knows what he and Break are doing goes against his logical understanding— that he doesn't find men attractive, that nothing could be more beautiful then the sweet young flowers with their long, dark eyelashes, and poised, lady-like gestures— but unconvinced, it remains squelched by alcohol, and enthrallment.
And the teenager is too far gone with his flaming face buried to the insides of his arms, moaning, panting at every movement; on his exposed manhood weeping on Break's jerking hand not holding Oz up from the cold balcony surface, as the man sinks deeper into him at the next breathless thrust; on his prostate as Break accidentally hits it and Oz bites the skin on his palm to draw blood, to keep from screaming anymore, and the lightning-rockets of swelling pleasure cover him; and Oz knows he is sobering up when his body comes violently on Break's hands and the balcony's stones.
It is enough to make him hard again when Break presses his face and hair heavily between his bare shoulders at that last flushing thrust. And even when it hurts, when strings of warm semen trail down Oz's thighs and legs, the teen appreciates the brush of long, dark eyelashes that murmur against the sweaty nape of his neck.
Requested by bloody attraction who gives me graphic yaoi manga and finds Oz adorable. And I'm sure everyone else couldn't agree with you more! I have this horrible fear that every time I attempt a new M-rated with a couple in my opinion that is sexy that I wont be able write them well. T.T Hnnn. But you can tell me honestly what I did wrong or right. That's what the review systems are for, right!? Ignore my low self-esteem levels... Oh, and for the sake of "accurate" story telling, I had a glass of my Mom's favorite wine to get down the flavor. ;D And realized I am strictly a rum girl.
Requested by bloody attraction who gives me graphic yaoi manga and finds Oz adorable. And I'm sure everyone else couldn't agree with you more! I have this horrible fear that every time I attempt a new M-rated with a couple in my opinion that is sexy that I wont be able write them well. T.T Hnnn. But you can tell me honestly what I did wrong or right. That's what the review systems are for, right!? Ignore my low self-esteem levels...
Oh, and for the sake of "accurate" story telling, I had a glass of my Mom's favorite wine to get down the flavor. ;D And realized I am strictly a rum girl.