But the Party Don't Stop, No [3/?]
anonymous
November 4 2009, 22:18:08 UTC
He smiles at the attendant - a man with clear blue eyes and a blond ponytail. He motions for a drink, first extending a finger and then sweeping his hand across the expanse of the back wall before handing Blond Ponytail his pay card. Decadence, he hears Alfred purr in his head, and shivers.
If Alfred wants to insist on excess, Francis might as well take advantage of it.
He takes that time to admire Blond Ponytail as he mixes a drink that looks potent and strong. Alfred chose a good place, with a mix of soft-looking and stronger men, all terribly easy on the eyes. He smiles and accepts the drink held out to him, and he discovers that Blond Ponytail is as soft as he looks when their fingers brush.
But as lovely as he is, he is not why Francis is here tonight. He breaks their gaze and turns back to the dance floor, sipping his drink and watching the thrum and pulse of people.
He is not even here for them, he thinks, and tips back his head to take a swig from the glass. The ice feels cool against his lips, a perfect contrast to the way the drink warms a thick, straight line down his tongue and throat.
When he looks up again, his eyes go straight to the bathroom door just as Alfred is stepping out.
His fingertips go senseless; the glass in his hands slips and shatters on the ground, soundless against the bass.
Alfred’s outfit is completely changed. He’s traded in his modest sleeveless t-shirt for a long-sleeved mesh top over a tight, black spandex sleeveless - and nothing else underneath. His jeans have become tight, low leather - so low, Francis thinks, that there’s no way Alfred could wear them without shaving his -
Francis shivers and looks at Alfred’s face, regretting it when he sees the flickering lights glint off moist lips, and a smattering of something glittering on his eyelids. The silver and the glint bring out those vibrant blue eyes, made even darker without his glasses.
When a bright flash of orange flickers over Alfred, Francis feels his breath catch when he sees the glint of studs around Alfred’s neck, the shine of a collar buckle.
Alfred lifts his head, and even through the shadows and the obscure lighting Francis knows that Alfred is watching him, meeting his hunger and his lust.
Flash of blue over Alfred’s body; illumination of muscle, of face and blue, blue eyes.
Alfred grins at him, eyes half-mast and seductive. Stay there, they say. I’ll come to you.
Francis cannot move, anyway; can only watch as Alfred slips with practiced ease into the ebb and flow of human platelets. Can only watch as Alfred slides into the arms of the first single dancer he finds, front flush against front as they start to grind.
Francis feels his nostrils flare as Alfred’s arms hook over the stranger’s neck, as hands come to nest in the small of Alfred’s back. Mine, his body growls. Mine to touch and feel and fuck.
Francis later finds it fortunate that he chose to wait, decided to take a closer look at the cant and rhythm of Alfred’s body. Because he sees in that moment the relaxed, practiced roll of those hips, the way his entire body seems loose and easy as he moves in the man’s arms.
And he realizes that Alfred is doing this on purpose. Teasing him, and having a bit of fun while he’s at it.
“Patience,” he mouths into the boom of trance music, even as he moves his foot so that Blond Ponytail can clean the glass before someone makes a bigger mess.
So he is patient; patient as Alfred twists and moves from that stranger into the arms of another, waiting one. He sees something like a line beginning to form, people breaking off, dancing as they wait to see if the gilded boy will glide into their arms.
Alfred passes up the next two, but lets his hand glide into one outstretched towards his, twirls into the man’s body.
Francis swallows and brings his knuckles to his lips as Alfred turns in the man’s arms, rubbing that delectable ass against him as he molds his back to the man’s chest, hips, thighs, and shins. One of Alfred’s arms comes up to grab the back of his partner’s neck, while the other comes to rest on the hand that hooks up to splay across his chest.
If Alfred wants to insist on excess, Francis might as well take advantage of it.
He takes that time to admire Blond Ponytail as he mixes a drink that looks potent and strong. Alfred chose a good place, with a mix of soft-looking and stronger men, all terribly easy on the eyes. He smiles and accepts the drink held out to him, and he discovers that Blond Ponytail is as soft as he looks when their fingers brush.
But as lovely as he is, he is not why Francis is here tonight. He breaks their gaze and turns back to the dance floor, sipping his drink and watching the thrum and pulse of people.
He is not even here for them, he thinks, and tips back his head to take a swig from the glass. The ice feels cool against his lips, a perfect contrast to the way the drink warms a thick, straight line down his tongue and throat.
When he looks up again, his eyes go straight to the bathroom door just as Alfred is stepping out.
His fingertips go senseless; the glass in his hands slips and shatters on the ground, soundless against the bass.
Alfred’s outfit is completely changed. He’s traded in his modest sleeveless t-shirt for a long-sleeved mesh top over a tight, black spandex sleeveless - and nothing else underneath. His jeans have become tight, low leather - so low, Francis thinks, that there’s no way Alfred could wear them without shaving his -
Francis shivers and looks at Alfred’s face, regretting it when he sees the flickering lights glint off moist lips, and a smattering of something glittering on his eyelids. The silver and the glint bring out those vibrant blue eyes, made even darker without his glasses.
When a bright flash of orange flickers over Alfred, Francis feels his breath catch when he sees the glint of studs around Alfred’s neck, the shine of a collar buckle.
Alfred lifts his head, and even through the shadows and the obscure lighting Francis knows that Alfred is watching him, meeting his hunger and his lust.
Flash of blue over Alfred’s body; illumination of muscle, of face and blue, blue eyes.
Alfred grins at him, eyes half-mast and seductive. Stay there, they say. I’ll come to you.
Francis cannot move, anyway; can only watch as Alfred slips with practiced ease into the ebb and flow of human platelets. Can only watch as Alfred slides into the arms of the first single dancer he finds, front flush against front as they start to grind.
Francis feels his nostrils flare as Alfred’s arms hook over the stranger’s neck, as hands come to nest in the small of Alfred’s back. Mine, his body growls. Mine to touch and feel and fuck.
Francis later finds it fortunate that he chose to wait, decided to take a closer look at the cant and rhythm of Alfred’s body. Because he sees in that moment the relaxed, practiced roll of those hips, the way his entire body seems loose and easy as he moves in the man’s arms.
And he realizes that Alfred is doing this on purpose. Teasing him, and having a bit of fun while he’s at it.
“Patience,” he mouths into the boom of trance music, even as he moves his foot so that Blond Ponytail can clean the glass before someone makes a bigger mess.
So he is patient; patient as Alfred twists and moves from that stranger into the arms of another, waiting one. He sees something like a line beginning to form, people breaking off, dancing as they wait to see if the gilded boy will glide into their arms.
Alfred passes up the next two, but lets his hand glide into one outstretched towards his, twirls into the man’s body.
Francis swallows and brings his knuckles to his lips as Alfred turns in the man’s arms, rubbing that delectable ass against him as he molds his back to the man’s chest, hips, thighs, and shins. One of Alfred’s arms comes up to grab the back of his partner’s neck, while the other comes to rest on the hand that hooks up to splay across his chest.
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Oh, Francis. We want that for you too. Soso much.
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*groan*
*slooooow breath*
Fuck. *goes get tissues*
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