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raptureofthemoonI prompted myself the word "drunk" a while back.
_________
Martin gets him drunk. It doesn’t take much. As Royal Protector, Corvo didn’t tend to partake, except at state functions, to maintain appearances, and even then, he usually left his glasses half full.
One glass of whiskey is enough tot take the tension out of his shoulders. Two and he knows he’s downright affable. Three and he allows the Overseer to help him to his room. Martin’s shoulders are solid and steady beneath his arm.
“Not unlike the barracks,” Martin says, looking around the room, as he lets Corvo slide from his grasp and onto the bed.
Corvo fumbles with the buttons on his coat; this coat is slimmer than the one he wore as Royal Protector, the buttons and button holes smaller.
Martin’s hands push his out of the way, make quick work of opening the coat. As he goes to slide it off Corvo’s shoulders, they both pause. Corvo sees Martin realize how close they are, the possibilities of that closeness, here, in this private space.
Martin moves first. He doesn’t, as Corvo might have thought, come for Corvo’s mouth or even the long vulnerable column of his throat, but the hand that Corvo has tangled in Martin’s shirt sleeve. The hand with the slick black mark shining like a fresh tattoo in the dim light. Martin raises that hand to his mouth and laves his tongue across the mark.
The heat and wetness makes Corvo’s belly twitch and somewhere, he thinks he can hear a snarl that sounds vaguely human accompanied by the crash of waves and the low mournful cry of whales.
_________
Martin gets him drunk. It doesn’t take much. As Royal Protector, Corvo didn’t tend to partake, except at state functions, to maintain appearances, and even then, he usually left his glasses half full.
One glass of whiskey is enough tot take the tension out of his shoulders. Two and he knows he’s downright affable. Three and he allows the Overseer to help him to his room. Martin’s shoulders are solid and steady beneath his arm.
“Not unlike the barracks,” Martin says, looking around the room, as he lets Corvo slide from his grasp and onto the bed.
Corvo fumbles with the buttons on his coat; this coat is slimmer than the one he wore as Royal Protector, the buttons and button holes smaller.
Martin’s hands push his out of the way, make quick work of opening the coat. As he goes to slide it off Corvo’s shoulders, they both pause. Corvo sees Martin realize how close they are, the possibilities of that closeness, here, in this private space.
Martin moves first. He doesn’t, as Corvo might have thought, come for Corvo’s mouth or even the long vulnerable column of his throat, but the hand that Corvo has tangled in Martin’s shirt sleeve. The hand with the slick black mark shining like a fresh tattoo in the dim light. Martin raises that hand to his mouth and laves his tongue across the mark.
The heat and wetness makes Corvo’s belly twitch and somewhere, he thinks he can hear a snarl that sounds vaguely human accompanied by the crash of waves and the low mournful cry of whales.