[Adult] hungry like the wolf

[Timothy Anderson]

The rumbling voice, almost felt more than heard, served to deepen Tim's orgasm, prompted the slightest of whimpers in response. What Wilkes said, though, sent an almost orgasmic shiver down his spine and legs. It was, on the face of it, frankly insane. All of this was. It was also an ownership that had never been extended to Tim, and he was wholly unprepared for how it made his stomach clench with the hot, heady rush of it.

Panting, he trembled in Wilkes' grip, unable to swallow back the troika of open-mouthed grunts that were forced out with those final hungry thrusts. Every nerve seemed to be on fire, but that didn't stop his mind from providing that which his body couldn't: An acute, painful awareness of what was happening, of how he was being marked invisibly and irreversibly. The knowledge of it caused his cock to spit one last small blob of come.

Leaning heavily against the wall, his legs seemed as though they could barely support his weight once they were back under himself. Head down, face flushed with fading arousal and growing humiliation, he didn't dare move even as he feared for the state of his body. Yes, the pain had faded – to something tolerable, at least – but he could feel how his ass clenched about something that wasn't there anymore, feel how he was stretched out in a way that the most anxious parts of his mind assured him must be permanent. A fat wet drop began tracing its way down his inner thigh, and he closed his eyes even as nausea came over him in a wave. Blood or worse, he didn't want to know.

It was with his eyes kept shut that he bent, awkwardly, slowly, moving with a stiffness borne of his shame and the sheer physical exhaustion inundating his body. It was still difficult to pull up his trousers, but there was nothing else for it. Even if Wilkes had seemed willing to tend to him after ravishing him, Tim wouldn't be able to stomach the idea of it. It would simply have to wait until he limped his way back to his shithole apartment. Belatedly, he realized the mess he'd made of his front – that too would need tending of some sort, but for now he would simply have to button his coat over it and leave as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

Rosie perched at the head of the bed, thighs spread as he reached for a hand towel from a short stack atop the night stand. As he tended his rapidly slackening cock with a gentle hand, he lifted an inscrutable gaze to the other man where he hunched against the wall in the cold reality of their afterglow.

"Mouse," he said, lips pressed into a frown, and pushed himself up, the ache already settling in his thighs. The scar twisted up the back of his right calf made itself sharply known, and he winced despite himself before tucking his yet-dribbling cock away and fastening the front of his trousers.

"Lay on the fucking bed, you miserable fuck," he grunted, and pointed to the rumpled froth of linens. This had not been part of the plan, but he wasn't a god-damned monster.

[Timothy Anderson]

He flinched at Wilkes' voice; couldn't help it, even as he hated himself for it after. Without the haze of arousal and need, he was left merely aching. It felt like his damned soul had drained out of his body with his spunk, setting a tremor in his hands and legs that wasn't keen to abate. He'd already been violated in a way he could scarcely comprehend, and now he had to fend off God only knew what else Wilkes had planned for him.

"Oh, now the bed?" The sarcastic words were accompanied by a sour laugh. Though he was still gripped by shame and anger, the claw around his throat had slackened. Whatever black magic Ambrose Wilkes had cast upon him, he was still just a man. A vile, homicidal whoremonger, but a man of flesh and blood nonetheless. Tim's lips were drawn into a tight grimace as he finally glanced over to the other man, frustrated all the more to see him already cleaned and looking as though nothing had happened in the minutes prior.

The smart thing would be to leave; to gather his shredded dignity and go home to drink the memory of all of this away. This already greatly complicated things. Trying to think of a way to explain this to Cruickshanks without implicating himself would be difficult enough. "There's a house full of whores if you're still not satisfied," he ground out, giving up the fight and undoing more of his trousers' fasteners to be able to pull it over his sore ass.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

"Would you cease in being a raging cunt for five minutes together and lay on the fucking bed, already?" Rosie snapped back with a sharp, open-palmed motion Mouse's way. "Face down, if you please, and without the trousers so I can get a proper look at you." To say he'd be inspecting for damage seemed a bit much when the other man had been begging to be railed right up until the moment he came, but the implication softened the corners of Rosie's frown.

"I'm not unaware of the size of my own endowments, Mouse," he added with a low sigh, and stepped across the room to the spindly-legged dressing table there, and the chipped porcelain bowl and pitcher waiting alongside jars of rouge and powder. Lifting the pitcher, he was glad to feel the heft of some water left inside, and poured a measure out into the bowl.

[Timothy Anderson]

"I'd like to see you bent over like that and see how merry your mood is after," he answered quickly, far more out of reflex than anything. Not that he could ever imagine Wilkes like that – wanting it, allowing it.

In the end, it was only the fear of an injury that he couldn't remotely fathom explaining to a surgeon that prompted Tim to move to the bed. In spite of his best efforts to hide the pain he felt, he limped slightly as he walked the few steps. Jaw set, spine stiff, he pulled his trousers down once more – carefully this time, privately still mourning the button he would have to replace. If Wilkes had had the decency to fuck off already, he would've searched for the thing; as it was, he wasn't about to scrounge about the floor of a brothel looking for a missing button while the prick watched.

In the process of pushing his pants down, he dared glance towards the mess that had dribbled down his leg. It was more difficult to tell with how the fabric had smeared it, but there was no bright crimson there, and he wasn't sure if his relief was greater – or the miserable disgust at knowing exactly what it was instead.

Laying over the edge of the bed, trousers pushed to just above his knees, Tim folded his arms before him and buried his face in them. His instincts shied from playing so ignorant to the rest of the room, but Wilkes had already visited a far worse fate upon him than a knife in the back. It'd be a mercy at this point, which of course meant it wouldn't be forthcoming. "When did you buy the Goose from Dobbs?" The question was a bit muffled, but at least it was a safe topic... And one that might shed some light on the ever-shifting boundaries of the East End's gangs. If he had to tell anyone about this, at least he wanted some kind of useful information out of it.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

Bowl in hand, Rosie paused just behind the aggravated, arse-up splay of the other man. His mouth opened and then faltered with a shake of his head as he pushed out a scoff.

"Are you always this shit at following directions?" he asked, and set the bowl aside on the nightstand. The mattress dipped with a protesting creak as he sat on its edge again, hip alongside the edge of Mouse's thigh, and he bent forward to tug off his reluctant lover's shoes. They weren't expensive, but well cared-for, and he laid each just under the edge of the bed frame before he began the work of shucking trousers and pants from skinny legs. Only when these were set aside did he turn back to the business of dampening one of the towels.

"This will be cold," he murmured as he turned back, and began by wiping clean the sticky line of spunk that had trailed down the inside of one thigh.

[Timothy Anderson]

It had been easier when he'd been pinned against the wall and had a stupidly large prick shoved up his arse. At least that had an excuse, a reason, an undercurrent (flood, really) of hunger driving it. Now it was just the two of them, tempers cooled, existing together in far too small a space.

Tim's head lifted in confused surprise at the feeling of his shoes being removed, scowl deepening. "Are you always so backwards to take the trousers off after fucking one of your johns?" He retorted. The phrasing was intentional, his tone caustic. He didn't move to help, but likely would've gotten in the way regardless.

The warning didn't stop him from jumping slightly at the touch on the inside of his thigh; his face burned as he endured the touch, trying to think of anything but what was happening, and who was doing it. "You didn't answer the question."

[Ambrose Wilkes]

"You couldn't afford me, Mouse," was Rosie's blithe and unruffled reply as he swallowed back the impulse to smack a damp hand over the swell of that pretty arse. He wouldn't have guessed this man as one for tattoos, and Rosie's mouth tugged back into a faint frown as he skimmed the pad of his thumb over the scales of a serpent that twisted round one pale thigh, a piece of work bigger than most men would endure without a damning reason. His cool gaze lifted to the back of Mouse's dark head, and then dropped again as he pushed the other man's thighs apart.

"Seems unfair, your knowing me and me knowing nothing about you," he said, and palmed one cheek back to inspect the red and swollen ring of muscle he'd been working open only minutes before. No bleeding that he could see, but there'd be pain, possibly for days, and he bit hard against the inside of his mouth in recognition of the mess he'd gladly made of this man. Even with his cock soft and spent in his trousers, it took a herculean effort to not dip a finger back in that heat just to feel the load he'd left inside.

[Timothy Anderson]

"Seems like I don't have to," was the obvious answer, though it led Tim back to those uncomfortable, circuitous thoughts. He hadn't wanted any of this, he told himself firmly. (If he kept thinking it, maybe he'd eventually start believing it.)

The soft touch along his thigh was another confusing ingredient; Wilkes didn't ask about the tattoo, there certainly wasn't anything to clean there, and Tim wasn't sure if it was simply another display of casual ownership or interest, or just that the man was handsy in a shockingly casual manner.

"I don't know anything more about you than you know about me," he groused, the lie given as easily as breathing. For all the jumped emotions in his heart and stomach, Tim was still secure in his own capabilities. He was less secure in the way his stomach twisted to feel his buttocks pulled apart, and grimaced with his face safely hidden to feel how his cock twitched under the gaze he could fairly feel upon him. There was no chance he could get hard again – it was still an uncomfortable shock that he'd managed twice in one night – but that didn't stop his body from trying, nor his bollocks from aching slightly in response.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

There was still a sheen of grease all along the part of Mouse's arse, down to where his balls were pressed between his crotch and the bed, but under the circumstances, that was perhaps best left on chafed and inflamed skin. Rosie sat back, towel still in hand, and used it to wipe between his fingers with casual indifference. What game his little mouse was playing, Rosie couldn't be certain of, but the man chittered a lot of questions despite the state of his deflowered arse.

"You'll live," Rosie announced, and stood, tossing the towel into the woven hamper in the corner. "Don't go bending over for every stiff prick now you've popped your cherry," he added without so much as a backward glance to the body still prone and vulnerable on the bed, and strode toward the door.