Chapter Text
Prompt 10. Gray and Tom Make Out... Three Times.
“Like this,” Thomains whispered into the other’s mouth, his hands drawing Grayson up to meet his lips by the curls at the nape of his neck. Sunlight spilled through the windows of A’nhabi’s living room, down across the ivory couch and the pair seated upon it. Grayson was pressed back into the padded arm, as Thomains straddled him, taupe hair curtaining the light from their eyes.
“This?” Grayson answered the bard’s instruction with a firm hand at his waist, drawing their bodies more tightly together.
Thomains sighed his approval as he received the other’s kisses, and he raked his hands more fully through steel gray curls. “Yes.” He could feel the other’s every movement, the tensing of his muscles beneath his thighs, the breath that escaped the Rava’s lips as it hastened with the intrusion of the bard’s tongue.
Thomains’ fingers tightened as he felt another arm wind its way around his waist, and Grayson’s tongue chased after his in his exploration, bringing them closer still.
It was only when the bard’s fingers unwound themselves in search of the Rava’s shirt buttons, that the sound of approaching footsteps beyond A’nhabi’s door piqued Thomains’ ears. He hoped that Grayson’s poor hearing would be to his benefit for once and the stranger would go unnoticed, but the rap on the door startled the mage into releasing the man on his lap.
“Ignore it,” Thomains growled, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
Grayson frowned, nudging the bard off of him, “We’re here to intercept her parcel.”
“Ignore it.”
The two exchanged stern looks, but by the second knock, Grayson had gone to the door and retrieved the paper box from the postman. It was covered in stamps from Othard and tied with a simple red and white string. Even beneath the wrapping, its contents smelled of distant soil.
“She said to plant them straight away,” Grayson mused, removing his glove to untie the string. He fit a nail beneath the tape and pulled forth the contents. Three bulbs fell into his palm, and Thomains pushed himself up off the couch with a long sigh.
“Well come on then.”
Earlier that day they had prepared a small planter box for the seedlings, as per A’nhabi’s instructions, and so the planting itself was a swift task. With his gloves in his back pocket, the mage sculpted the warm soil around the bulbs, tamping it down with his palms, and watering deeply with a small tin can.
Thomains watched Grayson work, enjoying the sunlight on his cheeks and ears, before fixing the other with a mischievous look. “Róman, you’ve something… just, here.” The bard sank to his knees beside his companion, one finger tracing the line of Grayson’s jaw, before his lips replaced the pad of his finger.
He could feel Grayson pull away slightly, feel the disturbance of the air above his ears as they swiveled in search of those who might see them.
Thomains’ finger returned, this time brushing over the Rava’s cheek to swipe away imaginary soil. “And here.”
Grayson scoffed then, understanding the game, before Thomains’ finger dragged down his bottom lip and his protest was muffled by the other’s mouth. “Here too.” A teasing nip was quickly forfeited for a rush of need, as the bard sought to pressure Grayson backwards into the grass and soil of the garden.
“Need I remind, this is a housing ward, not my boat,” Grayson protested, halfheartedly seeking to move the other off of him, one hand rising to brush back the hair that fell into the bard’s eyes. “There is no magic here to hide us from prying eyes.”
“Looking to hide me from all your other paramours?” Thomains teased, pressing kisses down his neck and nosing his way as far as Grayson’s shirt would allow.
The Rava scoffed again, “You’ve the appetite of ten paramours. What need do I have for another?” A sound of surprise and pleasure escaped him, as the bard pressed a hand between his legs and he shook his head. “Insatiable shit.”
He could push Thomains away, but he would be upon him again in a moment’s time, his passions only stirred further by the mage’s rejection. And though propriety was first in his mind, Grayson could not deny that he wanted him.
Thomains’ brows rose and he blinked as Grayson forced him backwards, only to slip his arms under his ass and pull them both up from their seat on the ground. The bard wrapped his legs around Grayson’s waist, and laughed in delight, as the other carried him back through A’nhabi’s front door.
“Proper old man,” the bard quipped back, but his words were silenced by Grayson’s mouth on his, as they fell back together over the arm of the couch.
“Proper,” Grayson grumbled, though it was his hands that worked the belt free of the other’s pants and began to ease the gauzy tunic up and over his head.
“To a fault,” Thomains instigated, raising his arms as he slipped free of it.
“We’ll see just how proper I am.” He met Thomains’ challenge with a steady gaze, their lips a breath away from touching, before his mouth slipped down his jaw, and his tongue ran the length of the bard’s neck, nipped at his collar bone, and came to hover just above a pert nipple.
Thomains’ skin rose with gooseflesh in anticipation of the touch, and he rolled his hips despite himself, color flushing his face a deep red.
The sound of footsteps leading up to the door and another knock had the bard’s eyes widening, and he shook his head– nearly pleading. “Don’t get the door.”
The other looked up at him, his lips nearly touching– just nearly.
Thomains held his breath.
Grayson smiled wickedly.