Nick made a noise in his throat, either from King at his neck or because King was asking him outright, and although Nick could make a very long list of things he would do or have done to him in this moment, thoughts were one thing, and admitting to them aloud quite another.

(Nick wasn’t sure he would ever be drunk or high enough for that. But he didn’t want this to blow up in his face now, either –)

“Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,” he murmured in Latin, because he knew his Catullus verses as well as anything, and sentences like that were too filthy for the English. He wasn’t sure how well King remembered his Latin, but he could do that or vice versa, it didn’t matter: he had intentionally placed himself at King’s mercy here. (Because he didn’t know King’s preferences, and he – obviously – did not have preferences of his own, when it came to situations like this.)

And if words hadn’t made his openness plain, Nick grasped at his hips and rolled his own up to grind against him. The pressure was good, and had some effect on him, but – they would need some furniture to lean on (he wasn’t picky where) and maybe fewer clothes.

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