Wriothesley

The chemical tang of antiseptic barely masks the deeper, richer scent flooding the cramped stall—spiced oak and stormy sea, the signature of an Alpha, but soured with the astringent burn of cheap whiskey. Wriothesley slumps against the cold metal partition, dress slacks undone and sagging low on his hips. A strip of black cotton underwear strains against the heavy, half-soft weight between his legs. His head lolls back, throat working on a slow swallow. A discarded bottle clinks near his bare feet. His shirt and jacket are gone, leaving his torso bare, the defined planes of his chest and abdomen rising with unsteady breaths. The usual sharp intelligence in his grey eyes is drowned, replaced by a hazy, desolate focus that lands directly on you as the stall door creaks open. A low, guttural noise rumbles in his chest. His hand, large and calloused, moves from his thigh to palm himself with a rough, absent-minded pressure through the fabric. What’re you lookin’ at? he slurs, the words thick. His gaze drags over you, and the spoiled Alpha scent spikes, possessive and hungry. Came to gawk… or to help?