[ Whoever can resist an invitation such as that? Especially when Bastien looks so comely, all dark eyes and large features and genuine smiles. He's not sure what his favorite part of Bastien is - whether it's that heavy nose, or those dark brows that give him the air of serious thought even when he's grinning, or maybe it's the ridiculous teeth. Maybe the teeth. Regardless, Bastien is a fucking bounty, a peasanty cornucopia that's so utterly unlike Alexandrie's refined delicacy and if there is proof that the Maker is unjust it's that a scoundrel like him could wind up getting this.
He winds himself around Bastien on that couch, sliding in and tugging at him to slot himself against the man's back, wrapping him into an embrace. He leans his cheek against Bastien's, and rests his chin on his shoulder, and just tries to experience as much of him as he possibly can. ]
I actually rather like it this way. Knowing where we stand. 'Ah,' I used to say, 'no need for labels. We all understand what we're about.'
[ His tone aspires to sound like a skeptical dare. But Bastien was cooperative during Byerly's tugging and arranging—if a touch bemused, more used to holding than being held—and now he's boneless. Quieter than normal. Content. He holds loosely onto one of Byerly's wrapped arms, and he looks at him just as much as he can without disrupting the cheek-leaning. Odd peripheral slivers of nose and mouth and chin. It's very hard to hold onto that remaining knot of uncertainty, like this. Or at least very hard to feel like it matters even a little.
He recovers his neck bones long enough to turn his head. Not very much. Only one side of his mouth actually makes it onto Byerly's cheek, for a dab of a kiss. ]
I like it, too. And I'm sorry. I think I should have said yes when you first asked.
[ Bastien's face scrunches and his mouth opens with the beginning of a protest, but then he decides against it. He's feeling too comfortable and petted to say it was all very selfishly motivated actually, or to do an inventory of the times he asked Byerly to please just have sex with him already. Instead his face smooths out and he sighs, cheerfully resigned: ]
You're right. I'm perfect.
[ And he wiggles, as if getting more comfortable on a mattress, except the mattress is Byerly's thin chest and Bastien is poking his shoulder blades into it quite on purpose. At least they aren't the overly pointy kind. ]
Finally a worthwhile use for our collective acting skills.
[ He turns Byerly's hand in his, considers his elegant fingers, verges close to feeling overwhelmed by the whole of it, and then digs his thumb into Byerly's palm to massage in systematic circles, hunting for tension. ]
How was your day? Before I interrupted, I mean. It better be a good day now.
Annoyed! [ Bastien twists his head to look at him, as well as he's able without dislodging him. ] What could possibly be annoying about living in this beautiful, friendly city and overseeing this group of well-behaved and agreeable people?
[ He twists a little further, pausing the hand massage, because he can't not kiss a pout. That's what pouts are for. Quickly, though. It's not quite a peck—warm and a little lingering—but content to stay short and simple and not segue into face-sucking. ]
And don't call this a grand romantic gesture. That is an insult to grand gestures. It is a humble romantic fidget.
[ A laugh ruins the kiss a bit, since it's dreadfully hard to kiss back when you're grinning. ]
Sorry, sorry. Well, I'd suggest getting food, but I also don't want to move. Why are we both so bloody destitute? This is the precise moment a servant would be useful.
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He winds himself around Bastien on that couch, sliding in and tugging at him to slot himself against the man's back, wrapping him into an embrace. He leans his cheek against Bastien's, and rests his chin on his shoulder, and just tries to experience as much of him as he possibly can. ]
I actually rather like it this way. Knowing where we stand. 'Ah,' I used to say, 'no need for labels. We all understand what we're about.'
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[ His tone aspires to sound like a skeptical dare. But Bastien was cooperative during Byerly's tugging and arranging—if a touch bemused, more used to holding than being held—and now he's boneless. Quieter than normal. Content. He holds loosely onto one of Byerly's wrapped arms, and he looks at him just as much as he can without disrupting the cheek-leaning. Odd peripheral slivers of nose and mouth and chin. It's very hard to hold onto that remaining knot of uncertainty, like this. Or at least very hard to feel like it matters even a little.
He recovers his neck bones long enough to turn his head. Not very much. Only one side of his mouth actually makes it onto Byerly's cheek, for a dab of a kiss. ]
I like it, too. And I'm sorry. I think I should have said yes when you first asked.
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[ By reaches up to rearrange Bastien's charmingly floppy hair. ]
It would have been a disaster, agreeing straightaway. You did just right.
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You're right. I'm perfect.
[ And he wiggles, as if getting more comfortable on a mattress, except the mattress is Byerly's thin chest and Bastien is poking his shoulder blades into it quite on purpose. At least they aren't the overly pointy kind. ]
I've never made a mistake in my life.
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[ By laughs as those shoulderblades poke at him, and he slaps Bastien's chest playfully. ]
Demon. Stop that.
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This might be more scandalous than fucking on your desk. I should have locked the door.
[ He could now, but the door is over there, and he's over here. So. ]
Whiskey, lock the door.
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[ He looks very fondly at his non-mabari. ]
And I don't feel like getting up. So if someone walks in, start moaning like we're screwing with our clothes on.
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[ He turns Byerly's hand in his, considers his elegant fingers, verges close to feeling overwhelmed by the whole of it, and then digs his thumb into Byerly's palm to massage in systematic circles, hunting for tension. ]
How was your day? Before I interrupted, I mean. It better be a good day now.
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[ His fingers curl up to caress the back of Bastien's hand - long enough and agile enough that they can do that, even as Bastien massages him. ]
I think I was annoyed.
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Are you sure you were not just hungry?
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[ He pouts pensively. ]
Why? Did you bring snacks along with you for this grand romantic gesture?
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[ He twists a little further, pausing the hand massage, because he can't not kiss a pout. That's what pouts are for. Quickly, though. It's not quite a peck—warm and a little lingering—but content to stay short and simple and not segue into face-sucking. ]
And don't call this a grand romantic gesture. That is an insult to grand gestures. It is a humble romantic fidget.
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Sorry, sorry. Well, I'd suggest getting food, but I also don't want to move. Why are we both so bloody destitute? This is the precise moment a servant would be useful.
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Don’t you have an assistant?
[ Not serious. ]
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