„Your gluttony will be the ruin of you yet."
Ivan said, shifting his shoulders so he rested more comfortably on the mountain of throw pillows, and threw a critical look at Alfred, who was completely engrossed in arranging an impressive array of edible items on the already overburdened bedstand. The latter looked up as he was addressed, and smiled behind his vaguely clouded glasses.
„I prefer to refer to myself as indulgent," he replied,"and occasionally, as I will admit, somewhat greedy. And I suppose far other things will, if anything, be the ruin of me."
He made a point of looking at Ivan with an intensity that clearly suggested he was the aforementioned thing likely to bring about Alfred's ruin. Normally, in this new era of scabbed-over animosity and the first hints of healing in a relationship strained almost beyond repair, Ivan would have been only too glad to lay ruin to, well...
To lay ruin not to Alfred himself, but to his composure, his calm, his ability to form a clear sentence not punctuated and interrupted by moans and gasps. It was a play-version of ruining, a sweetened version, one that he thoroughly enjoyed. Normally.
Tonight, however, Alfred had somehow convinced him to take on the passive part. Ivan tugged at the bands that secured him to the bedframe. They were theatrical but flimsy, a purely symbolic restraint.
It was really quite pleasant to settle back into a heap of cushions and let someone else take charge for a little while.
Alfred had selected a bottle of chocolate syrup from the massive collection of edibles, things like whipped cream, strawberries, honey and even some sprinkles that all screamed "I am going to put this on my lover tonight."
Ivan suppressed a laugh as he imagined the looks on the faces of the vendors. It was as ridiculous, sweet and overdone as Alfred himself.
The latter had unscrewed the chocolate syrup, and squeezed a sizeable portion of it on Ivan's torso, cold and sticky against his bare skin. The older nation squinted at what Alfred was doing, and realized he was attempting to write something. How typical.
After some exerted upside-down examination of the sticky mess, he realized Alfred had just scrawled "Commie" all over his chest.
Ivan writhed in his entirely inadequate bonds, which somehow refused to give despite being utterly flimsy.
"That's inaccurate! And cold!"
Alfred either hadn't heard him, or, more likely, pretended so, because he didn't pause in his work of decorating the very much obsolete slur with several handfuls of sprinkles.
Red sprinkles, no doubt also owing to Alfred's – inaccurate and obsolete – sense of humor, if not his addiction to all things strawberry-flavoured.
Ivan would have been severely put out about the indirect insults applied directly to his skin in form of chocolate syrup of all things. He didn't get very far in that train of thought, however, as it was promptly derailed by a warm, wet, and by now delightfully familiar tongue running all the way from his navel to his collarbone, making his skin tingle and ridding it of some of the sticky-sweet liquid. Alfred had seemingly opted for removing his graffiti again.
Ivan tried in vain not to squirm as Alfred ate up more and more of the syrup, employing his lips and tongue, and occasionally even his teeth. He only stopped when his former adversary's skin was entirely free of chocolate, and his eyes had slipped shut in a surrender to both the sensations and their cause.
He started, fully alert again, when he felt a new assault of cold, viscous liquid on his overheated skin. Alfred was clutching a glass of honey in one hand, and using two fingers of the other to apply a trail from Ivan's chin down to his ribs.
"I am feeling like overindulging tonight." he mumbled, more to himself. Ivan wanted to reply something (he wasn't sure what), but was silenced by two honey-coated fingers slipping into his mouth. He sucked on them, pleased by the accelerated breathing that seemed to effectuate, and then bit down playfully. That made Alfred withdraw his fingers hastily, only to shove them back so forcefully it was probably intended to cause discomfort. However, it rather caused the opposite.
From the corner of his eye, Ivan could see Alfred had picked up a strawberry, and then he felt the fruit run all over his skin, like a cold, damp tongue, leaving behind a trail of sweet red juice.
Alfred leaned down for a kiss that more than proved his gluttonous nature.
Eat me, drink me, Ivan thought, I'm your sin.