littletonoidea | IC Inbox

"I'm riffing," he protests. He didn't misquote by accident, his memory is better than that.

Jedao nuzzles a little into his hand, almost by reflex. "Naw. I was - frustrated. I wanted to make you pay attention, and I just. Went on instinct? I didn't realize til after."

"Well, I did. In all sorts of places."

He stays for a moment like that against Jedao, one leg sliding gently off the couch, and when he dimly realises that he stands up again, putting his drink down a bit too hard on the nearby table and definitely spilling some.

Eiffel likes Jedao. Like, a lot. And he thinks about that kiss Jedao gave him also a lot. And so when he looks down at Jedao, looking very nice and cute and just sitting there being very kissable--

Well, if he was sober, he probably could have ignored it. But right now, between the black-out buzz and the weird happy bugs, there's no chance.

He pitches forward, catching himself clumsily but intentionally on the back of the couch on either side of Jedao's head. "I- really wanna kiss you."

Eiffel is lucky that for Jedao, keeping quiet about his more graphic moment-to-moment sexual fantasies is less an act of restraint and more automatic habit, because for the entire period of time that Eiffel is standing, Jedao is contemplating a self-indulgent vision of what would happen if Jedao just leaned forward and rubbed his face against Eiffel's dick through his pants. And then blew him in front of god and the shark and everybody.

The only sign of this is a dopey grin and an admittedly slightly incriminating eyeline, but fortunately for Jedao, Eiffel is too drunk to notice.

Then Eiffel leans over him, arms right there, all bright eyes and lovely familiar face, and after a second for the words to percolate, Jedao honest to goodness whimpers.

"Please."

He is, indeed, incredibly drunk. But that whimper reaches some part of his conscious brain regardless, and he leans down, arms already straining with the effort of his own weight and too alcohol-numbed to notice, to kiss Jedao.

And immediately moans into his mouth, because Jedao is soft and warm and nice, and he starts kissing harder right away, gently pushing Jedao into the couch with his enthusiasm.

Jedao kisses back with gasping eagerness, mouth opening easily the moment Eiffel kisses him more deeply, whimpering more into his mouth. Jedao isn't drunk but he feels safe and glad and easy and he wants this so badly; Eiffel tastes like the whiskey and Jedao likes it. Jedao's hands creep and stroke up Eiffel's back until he finally, finally gets to bury them in those glorious curls.

Eiffel can't use his hands like this when he's leaning on them and he's mad about it, so without breaking contact with Jedao's face, letting those hands tug in his hair and hold him in place, he gently moves closer, finding the couch on either side of Jedao's legs with his knees so he can kneel in his lap, one hand now draped loosely on the back of the couch while his left hand strokes clumsy lines of nails up Jedao's scalp and scrapes through his short hair.

Jedao whines so loud it's almost a yell muffled into the kiss. Eiffel's long legs are around him, Eiffel's body covering over him. It's not quite the full-body weight of being fucked but it makes him feel warm and held and precious and good, melting-liquid-gold-good, and completely unprepared for the electric jolt that is Eiffel's nails scraping his scalp.

He wants to say harder and he wants to never stop kissing. He's abruptly, desperately hard, twenty and quite literally made for it, and if it weren't for the katydos he'd be terrified of Eiffel realizing and running off again - but he isn't, so he gets to just enjoy the heady hungry delight of the moment.

Eiffel's not necessarily a good kisser but he's certainly enthusiastic, and vocal to boot; he moans readily when Jedao's hands scrabble in his hair. He's a tall guy but it's all in his legs, so when he sits properly into the squat on Jedao's lap he doesn't realise how it grinds down on Jedao - Eiffel's certainly not hard, far too far gone for that - and he uses both hands to grip Jedao's head and push it back, firm but not unkind as he moves to start kissing down Jedao's neck.

Jedao has only ever kissed four people in his life, not counting mistletoe, and he wants more than anything to be wanted. Enthusiasm is fine by him, and he very much has a manhandling kink; when Eiffel starts pushing and tilting his head, Jedao shudders in his whole body, moans shockingly loud.

Eiffel can't help a giggle at the extra volume in that moan, but it's a sound of pure affection, and he grins into Jedao's neck.

"Youuuu're a squeaky li'l fox," he slurs fondly, pushing another kiss there, all teeth and his broad smile, and he can feel his body relaxing into the affection. He doesn't know what he was so nervous about, kissing Jedao is so good and he'll happily spend hours doing it. Fuck the police.

Without any real conscious thought, his left hand coasts down Jedao's side, to grip his waist and shift to press their torsos together as he leaves a wet trail up Jedao's neck as his tongue finds the sensitive muscle there.

Gonou likes it when he makes noise; he is, at this point, well-trained.

"Feels good," Jedao murmurs, hands stroking and petting through Eiffel's hair, occasionally scratching Eiffel's scalp in long idle scrapes of his own. "Like your hands. Like your teeth."

The patting is incredibly nice, and the part of Eiffel that is terminally starved for affection tilts his head back into it, lifting his mouth from Jedao completely to lean into those long fingers. "Like your hands. God. Y're amazing."

The echoing memory of Eiffel saying Jedao's forceful grip on his jaw was hooooot hot overcomes more reticence than the Katydos do; Jedao gets a good grip near the roots of Eiffel's hair and drags his head back to where it was a few moments ago.

"Like this?" he murmurs, in as sexy a voice as he can manage, but listening for any uncertainty just the same.

Eiffel lets the tug draw him back in, and his pupils are fully blown when he meets Jedao's eyes (or at least tries to), just a thin sliver of blue left around them.

"Oh yeah," he murmurs, and he doesn't even finish the words because he's already leaning in to press another desperate kiss on Jedao.

Jedao tips his head back, fully baring his throat for bites and kisses, panting softly even though he doesn't technically need to breathe.

"Love your hair. Wanna touch it all the time. It's so pretty."

"You're pretty," comes muttered against the muscle held light between Eiffel's teeth, as he nuzzles his way up to push teeth and tongue hard into the sensitive spot where ear and jaw meet. "Y're like... first guy I've ever done this with."

"Gonou said that too," Jedao muses, a little tickled at the coincidence and overwhelmingly fond of both of them. He returns to stroking and petting and playing with Eiffel's hair.

"I don't think it's as different as y'all think." Not that he has any comparison.

The hands in his hair feels nice, and he gets distracted from his mouth work again with another soft hum.

"Well, 's'not like..." He frowns, trying to make the words work. "I haven't not been thinkin' 'bout it. Yer mouth 'n... and stuff."

Wonderfully articulate, ten out of ten Eiffel. His clumsy fingers find Jedao's collar and pull it back to bite at the base of his neck, humming into his shoulder.

Eiffel is still winning, as far as being articulate goes. Jedao is spared the dubious indignity of confessing how much he thinks about his mouth on Eiffel via the more indisputable indignity of a long, loud, messy moan. Jedao loves being bitten, and he whines and whimpers, hands clenching and unclenching in Eiffel's hair, hips rocking in tiny, hungry jerks.

He's fully distracted by making his mouth work, the taste of sweat and stubble on his tongue and Jedao's moans rolling down his spine, hands in his hair, to notice the bucking hips beneath him.

"Hey," comes out as a mumbled slur, as he pulls away from Jedao's neck for a moment - but whatever thought might have been trying to develop dies immediately when he sits up a bit, enough to make his head spin before he remembers to breathe, and he stares at Jedao blearily for a moment.

He's. Pretty sure he's staring at Jedao. He feels like he is. He's definitely warm beneath him.

"I am," he declares, bright and apropos of nothing. "So drunk." And then he leans in to kiss Jedao on the lips again, forceful and eager.

Jedao - weak, always - kisses back, sweet and lazy and open. Jedao doesn't mind being drunk. But Eiffel does, he knows - Eiffel was so worried that morning of Jedao's first hangover.

Jedao doesn't panic. But he's more clear-headed than Eiffel, calm and content but mind working just fine, and he gets one firm grip in Eiffel's hair and another on his shoulder, pulling him back once the kiss starts to break and slide into the next.

"Don't do anything you'll regret," Jedao tells him, eyes huge and dark. Maybe too late, for all Eiffel's enthusiasm. Jedao is still hard, but he knows himself. "Don't regret me. I'll break."

It's not a fear, not right now. It's just a fact.

He lets himself be pulled back, moaning at the tug forcing his head back, and he sits upright in Jedao's lap when he's moved; the way he shifts against Jedao's hand for support suggests he'd definitely be wobbling if Jedao let go.

"Noooope," he drawls, bringing his hands up to cup Jedao's face and squish his cheeks with his palms. "Party Doug's got zero regrets. Those are for-" he swallows back a rancid burp. "Those're for c'munications officer Eiffel. He would've regretted those first, uhh..."

He pulls a hand off Jedao's face to tick off on his fingers, and it takes a worringly long time, during which he makes multiple fists as he tallies. "The first sixteen drinks. But I'm fine!"

"Okay, Doug," Jedao says indulgently. He does some kind of sober aikido that gently shifts Eiffel off of himself and back on the couch next to him. "I care about both of you, though."

Eiffel offers absolutely no resistance to being rolled onto the couch and goes fairly boneless when he's dumped into it, but he still goes to reach up and grab Jedao's face - in doing so he very nearly pokes Jedao in the eye.

"I don't," he whines, his hand falling to cling to Jedao's shirt instead. "Lemme kiss youuuu..."

Jedao catches Eiffel's hand, then presses the back of it against his cheek, the gesture both startlingly affectionate and an effective way of keeping the hand pinned down.

"You can kiss me as much as you want. Whenever you want. I think about kissing you every day. But only if you both mean it."

It's a powerfully strange feeling, heartbreak without pain. Eiffel will regret it, Jedao knows with the blind certainty of old, formative tragedy. Jedao has probably already let it go too far, has made the same unforgivable mistakes all over again. He knows, with the distant certainty that medieval merry-makers knew death would someday come for them, that Communications Officer Eiffel will hate him, probably.

But he doesn't worry about it. He's just - happy he got to be Eiffel's friend for this long. Happy his hand feels so warm against Jedao's cheek, the intimate divots of his metacarpals, the notes of his knuckles.

"Lie down and let me pet your hair some more," Jedao tells him.

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it's not that I lied it's just that I failed

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