The Soiree (part one)
@whumptober No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”
cw: alcohol/forced intoxication, dehumanization, adult language
Masterlist ///// next
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Alexei Wilder didn't used to hate parties. He wasn't much of an extrovert, and the majority of the events he'd attended had been in pursuit of a target, but even so, parties had a certain charm. There was something about being surrounded by people, united for the common purpose of celebration, and happily distracted enough to not pay him any mind.
There lay the root of his issue with Uriah's parties. Here, he was the distraction.
It wasn't too bad at first. Fox dressed Lex in suit pants and a black silk shirt and kept him at his side as he made the rounds, greeting guests. At dinner, he knelt on the floor beside the CEO's chair, a debasing position that Lex was actually grateful for. Here, the eyes weren't lingering on him. Here, they wouldn't touch him, at least for a little while. Uriah had even been gracious enough to let Lex keep his cybernetics for the party, though the threat of having them taken away for good if he tried anything was still being held over his head.
But that wasn't bad. If anything, that was normal. Until—
"You're a terrible host, Fox." A meticulously groomed brunette across the table was leaning past his cocktails and hoeur d'oeuvres, addressing Uriah though his eyes were heavy on Lex. Before the Tower, Lex would've stared back, pouring threats into his gaze until the other man backed down. Now, it felt safer to drop his head and hope he lost interest.
"Oh?" came Fox's response.
"You haven't let anyone play with your new toy."
(Ploy, alloy, coy.) Pretentious dickhead. Alexei had learned pretty quickly that the city's wealthy had a glitzy, roundabout way of speaking, especially to each other. It made him want to puke.
But under the thick layer of disgust, there was still the fear of this guest's—all the guests'—intentions, as well as the hope that Uriah would prove to be his usual controlling self and shut the request down. Instead—
"Of course. Where are my manners?"
(Planners, banners.) Lex's stomach dropped. He'd beg Uriah to take it back if it would change anything, but that would only show weakness—fear—to the guests.
Under the table, he saw the brunette man's hand move, tapping his knee.
"Here, boy."
Are you fucking kidding me?
He didn't say it. Somehow, he didn't say it. That would only give them something to punish, only make things that much worse.
One stern look from Uriah, and Lex was crawling under the table to a chorus of amused laughter. He prayed that at the very least, none of them knew who he was, who he used to be, but Uriah wasn't the type to hold his tongue when there was bragging to be done.
He tried to retreat from his body, placating his mind with fantasies of setting the tablecloth on fire and beating the shit out of the man who was now sitting above him, tracing his cheekbone with a finger, hunger in his gaze.
This new enemy tilted his chin up and pressed a glass to his lips. When Lex caught the sharp smell of alcohol inside, he drank without protest, grateful that he could at least be moderately numb to the humiliation.
But the man didn't stop, and drink after drink was poured down Lex's throat until the room was spinning and he was no longer sure if this was a kindness or a curse.
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