Like a hound is drawn to a curious scent, Vilkas drew near. Enough mead passed his lips and pickled his mind to where he saw no shame in sitting closer. And the elf noticed: He was the flame, and Vilkas his light-thirsty moth. Ale made his flutes taste sweeter, his stories rowdier. He heard Farkas' joyful laugh when Torvar asked if he'd ever bedded a Khajiit whore.
“Ka'jiti? Y'ffre no, for my back would be clawed to ribbons.” He drunkenly laughed. Vilkas never noticed how his canines ended in noticeable points until now, predatory and carnivorous like the Bosmer have been perceived to be in their homeland. The wolf inside him stirred uncomfortably, made him warm under his armor- and no help from the mead, which he had another.
Torvar had gone past the point of his usual inebriation, and the circle saw the nord whelp wrap an arm around the newest male. And the now-drunk bosmer was leaning back into him, hearing praises of him being called “a real panty-dropper” and “a breath of fresh air” but that wasn't what the slighter twin felt.
He suddenly felt stuffy and irritated at the sight of the blonde's gentle prodding, plying the poet with drink after drink, touching his hair. The wild glinting smile on the elf, the way his tattooed eyes crinkled so slightly when he laughed.
Many moments passed, mugs and empty bottles lined the floor next to their chairs and Vilkas found himself one of the last few by the fire until there was 3. Farkas stood and went to the welp's side, shaking his shoulder sturdily “Try not to pass out upstairs, you.” maybe he was drunk too, but only the Dragonborn saw when he aimed for the stairs. He glanced at Vilkas, and back to him with a subtle wink.
“Goodnight, my friend!” The bosmer sang, his voice slurred yet satisfied. “And don't pine for the morn', for ale is a lover now, and a heartache tomorrow”
That left them alone. Things suddenly seemed to change then, well at least for Vilkas. He became dark and withdrawn, eyes clouded with haze seeing the Bosmer's tan skin alight by the fire, staring at him an arm's breadth away. He simply mused over what he would say next, or if he should say anything at all- he was quite content to cast his black eyes over his dark figure,
“I'd like to hear a little history” he purred. Vilkas met his eyes “Your history, Vilkas.” The way he spoke his name sounded exotic.
“What do you want to know?”
“Does the beast inside you yearn for freedom on nights like these?” He leaned back in his chair and propped sturdy legs upon another, his arms up and cradling his head.
Vilkas couldn't find a way to bitch his way out of this one. Darkly, he sighed “Yes.” The elf couldn't tear away from the wolfish blue of his eyes. His mind couldn't grasp for words right now, not in this state.
“Unbridled, I'm sure it is a force to be reckoned with.” Vilkas leaned in, firelight catching the planes in his face and making him look beastly, imposing. “Tell me more.”
And Vilkas did, or at least tried. The mer listened to the lilts and dips in his voice, the way he spoke inebriated revealed a passionate man, maybe even a poet. His eyes dropped, drinking in the beautiful armor, his handsomely long legs and parted thighs and he bit his own lip. It was hard holding back lust when it's thrown right in front of you this way.
He could imagine them entwined, making a shame of themselves drunkenly on his fur bed. He wondered what a wolf man would sound like moaning and growling in a heated rut-
“We need to get you to bed” Vilkas said suddenly as if trying to end the conversation. He was hot and uneasy, alone with someone he didn't let himself know. He got up and waited flatly for the Bosmer to stumble his way up, instrument pouch strung along his back and a dumb grin on his face.
He stayed behind, just a pace, wondering at how lovely that ass must be hidden under the fur kilt. He hummed and staggered, unthinking of waking the sleeping companions as Vilkas opened the door for him to the quarters. “Thank you, milord” he said. Vilkas frowned.
Frowned because the elf followed him, past the whelps room. Vilkas itched every footstep he heard behind him until “Aren't you going to say goodnight?” He felt a hand tug at his arm, Vilkas' world spinning for a brief moment before turning back.
Re: Muses and Mead 8 (Vilkas M/M)
“Ka'jiti? Y'ffre no, for my back would be clawed to ribbons.” He drunkenly laughed. Vilkas never noticed how his canines ended in noticeable points until now, predatory and carnivorous like the Bosmer have been perceived to be in their homeland. The wolf inside him stirred uncomfortably, made him warm under his armor- and no help from the mead, which he had another.
Torvar had gone past the point of his usual inebriation, and the circle saw the nord whelp wrap an arm around the newest male. And the now-drunk bosmer was leaning back into him, hearing praises of him being called “a real panty-dropper” and “a breath of fresh air” but that wasn't what the slighter twin felt.
He suddenly felt stuffy and irritated at the sight of the blonde's gentle prodding, plying the poet with drink after drink, touching his hair. The wild glinting smile on the elf, the way his tattooed eyes crinkled so slightly when he laughed.
Many moments passed, mugs and empty bottles lined the floor next to their chairs and Vilkas found himself one of the last few by the fire until there was 3. Farkas stood and went to the welp's side, shaking his shoulder sturdily “Try not to pass out upstairs, you.” maybe he was drunk too, but only the Dragonborn saw when he aimed for the stairs. He glanced at Vilkas, and back to him with a subtle wink.
“Goodnight, my friend!” The bosmer sang, his voice slurred yet satisfied. “And don't pine for the morn', for ale is a lover now, and a heartache tomorrow”
That left them alone. Things suddenly seemed to change then, well at least for Vilkas. He became dark and withdrawn, eyes clouded with haze seeing the Bosmer's tan skin alight by the fire, staring at him an arm's breadth away. He simply mused over what he would say next, or if he should say anything at all- he was quite content to cast his black eyes over his dark figure,
“I'd like to hear a little history” he purred. Vilkas met his eyes “Your history, Vilkas.” The way he spoke his name sounded exotic.
“What do you want to know?”
“Does the beast inside you yearn for freedom on nights like these?” He leaned back in his chair and propped sturdy legs upon another, his arms up and cradling his head.
Vilkas couldn't find a way to bitch his way out of this one. Darkly, he sighed “Yes.” The elf couldn't tear away from the wolfish blue of his eyes. His mind couldn't grasp for words right now, not in this state.
“Unbridled, I'm sure it is a force to be reckoned with.” Vilkas leaned in, firelight catching the planes in his face and making him look beastly, imposing. “Tell me more.”
And Vilkas did, or at least tried. The mer listened to the lilts and dips in his voice, the way he spoke inebriated revealed a passionate man, maybe even a poet. His eyes dropped, drinking in the beautiful armor, his handsomely long legs and parted thighs and he bit his own lip. It was hard holding back lust when it's thrown right in front of you this way.
He could imagine them entwined, making a shame of themselves drunkenly on his fur bed. He wondered what a wolf man would sound like moaning and growling in a heated rut-
“We need to get you to bed” Vilkas said suddenly as if trying to end the conversation. He was hot and uneasy, alone with someone he didn't let himself know. He got up and waited flatly for the Bosmer to stumble his way up, instrument pouch strung along his back and a dumb grin on his face.
He stayed behind, just a pace, wondering at how lovely that ass must be hidden under the fur kilt. He hummed and staggered, unthinking of waking the sleeping companions as Vilkas opened the door for him to the quarters. “Thank you, milord” he said. Vilkas frowned.
Frowned because the elf followed him, past the whelps room. Vilkas itched every footstep he heard behind him until “Aren't you going to say goodnight?” He felt a hand tug at his arm, Vilkas' world spinning for a brief moment before turning back.