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Tarquin sits at his usual desk in the Shop, penning correspondence by candlelight. The safehouse is usually quiet on weeknights, fostering a studious atmosphere for paperwork and planning. Depressingly, it’s become a highlight of Tarquin’s daily routine; sitting at this desk after dinner, working side-by-side with Ashur as they exchange papers, and strategy, and conversation. But tonight, Ashur is out on the docks, following a lead, and in his absence a group of young mages have staked a claim in the adjoining room where they are drinking and smoking and laughing. Loudly.
Call him a bitter old man but safehouses are not freehouses. Tarquin’s no bore – he’ll have a drink after work, or play cards to pass the time, or have a smoke from the hookah after a successful mission – but it’s approaching midnight on a random Tuesday evening and there is absolutely no reason why these cunts can’t fuck off to their own hightown estates to conduct their boisterous courting rituals instead of lounging about the safehouse.
Tarquin’s correspondence with their allies requires careful concentration – it’s crucial that he crafts the right language, the right tone, and the right request at the right time – but Tarquin has only managed to pen a single coherent sentence to their contact in the Threads before loud irksome laughter disrupts his thought process once more.
Tarquin grits his teeth and firms his grip on the pen. He knows that damn laugh. Viktor Taurus is the little shit’s name – the youngest child of Magister Taurus, and the Shadow Dragon’s latest recruit. The kid’s a pretentious twat like most mages in this shithole but with the unfortunate addition of youthful naivety and the cocky confidence of the newly transitioned. He’s happy. Annoyingly so. Viktor’s barely twenty for fuck’s sake and seems to have been handed everything he wants on a silver platter, just like everything else the damn highbloods please. And now he frolics about on a weekday evening with a handful of other young pretty things, laughing, and flirting, and radiating happiness in a way that makes Tarquin want to punch his lights out. What is Taurus contributing to the cause, right now, other than giving Tarquin a goddamn headache?!
Tarquin’s jaw clenches in anger as he scratches out yet another errant word on the parchment before him. He would have thrown Viktor and his ilk out the door hours ago if it weren’t for Dorian’s insistence that he be “a little less prickly” towards the mage.
Tarquin knows he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Magisterium itself when it comes to recruits like Viktor Taurus but he can’t help it. Tarquin is Soporati. Every inch of his life has been hard fought for, which is something these privileged fucks just can’t understand. So many of these mages swan in here with their delusions of grandeur and dreams of heroism expecting the world to bend to their whim like it always does. And then they discover how deep the Imperium’s corruption runs, how little their efforts impact change, how much they risk to gain even an inch of ground, how easy it is to lose – how often they lose… The illusion shatters. Some of them run back to their life of luxury with their tails between their legs. Some of them hover on the periphery, sending occasional word or coin from their safe perch in the upper city. Some are idiots who risk exposing everything they’ve worked for in a last ditch attempt to matter. It’s only the rare few who decide to stay in the trenches and fight alongside the sops and the slaves and the liberati. The rare few like Ashur.
Anyway. Tarquin knows they can’t afford to turn away mages that wish to aid the cause (however misguided) but getting through those first few months is always excruciatingly painful and Tarquin doesn’t have the patience to play babysitter with every single one of them, especially when they’re as young and cocky as Viktor Fucking Taurus.
The kid laughs again – that same grating joyful tone – and a familiar shadow falls over his papers just as Tarquin is contemplating murder.
Tarquin looks up to see Ashur standing before him. The man’s in his full Viper get-up, cutting a large and imposing figure in the safehouse. It’s a sight that probably makes Venatori quake in their little booties but seemingly has the opposite effect on Tarquin – calming him in ways he can’t quite explain; smoothing all the sharp edges inside him. Only a sliver of Ashur’s expression can be glimpsed between his mask and wide-brim hat as he looks between Tarquin and the party next door with a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
Tarquin shakes his head with disbelief. He’s worked with Ashur for years now and can read every expression that crosses his face, even when it’s as obscured as it is, so he knows that Ashur has understood the situation at hand and has decided to find it funny. That prick.
“Viktor’s here,” Ashur surmises. “And he’s still breathing. Are you well?”
Tarquin huffs a laugh but it’s more irritated than amused. “Dorian told me to play nice.” He gestures at the lack of bloodshed around them. “I’m playing nice.”
Ashur chuckles and shakes his head with fond amusement.
Tarquin’s heart constricts at the sight but before he can discipline himself for the errant reaction, Ashur is squeezing his shoulder and causing an entire flurry of feverish butterflies to follow suit. Damn crush.
“I’ll handle it,” Ashur murmurs in a low and soothing voice that does nothing for Tarquin’s flustered condition.
Tarquin’s cheeks stay stubbornly flushed as Ashur strides towards the open doorway. He watches with fascination as the Viper comes into play, ordering the youths to retire without making it sound like an order at all. He laughs with the young mages, deftly builds their egos while reminding them of the cause, permits Viktor’s flattery while subtly discouraging relations… and all of this conversational manipulation seems effortless to him. Ashur is just like that, Tarquin supposes. He can wear any mask to fit into any environment, and as much as it makes him a good leader (and presumably also a good Divine) it always leaves a sour taste in Tarquin’s mouth. He likes to think that he sees the real Ashur when they’re alone – that the gentle voice and shy laughter he bestows Tarquin when it’s the wrong side of midnight is genuine – but who’s to say it’s not just another mask? Perhaps Ashur indulges the lonely and bitter templar in his pathetic fantasies just to make him work harder for the cause.
Maker, he really is in a shitty mood tonight.
Tarquin dispels the thought and returns to his letters, trying to recall what they need to request from what criminal enterprise but before he can so much as put pen to paper, Viktor laughs again and sends his thoughts skittering.
Tarquin growls under his breath and raises his head to see Viktor slinking sultrily in the doorway, clearly very happy with his new, flatter, chest as he leans seductively towards their leader –
The pen snaps in Tarquin’s hand.
Tarquin curses up a storm as ink spurts messily across his fingers and the letter and the long sleeves of his tunic. He tosses the useless quill aside and reaches for his handkerchief to start dabbing at the spill but it’s no use – the black ink has seeped into everything, as permanent as it’s intended to be. He hears snickering from the young mages and raises his head to glower at them only to find Ashur already ushering them out the door. Tarquin’s cheeks are flushed red for an entirely different reason now as he tosses the splotched handkerchief onto the carnage before him with a sigh of resignation. He’s humiliated.
He hears Ashur stride back towards the desk in the main hall – his footsteps loud and echoing in the suddenly empty shop – but Tarquin is much too cowardly to watch his approach. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “Lost my temper. Sorry.”
Ashur snorts a laugh, and Tarquin does look up at that because the last thing he expected was for Ashur to be amused by the situation. It’s a fancy fucking pen he broke – an enchanted one that magicks the ink inside the quill somehow without need for an ink pot. It was a gift from Ashur three years ago when he caught Tarquin grumbling about going home with ink-stained fingers. Ashur’s always giving him stupidly thoughtful gifts but this one was the first one. It meant something. And now he’s gone and fucked it up like everything else he touches.
“You broke a pen,” Ashur says, still chuckling. “I think the Shadow Dragons will live another day.”
Tarquin shakes his head, too ashamed by his impulsive anger to accept Ashur’s ready forgiveness. “Yeah, well... I shouldn’t need you to reprimand recruits for me. I’m a grown man for fuck’s sake. I should be able to handle kids like Taurus. He just… gets under my skin.”
Ashur hums consideringly, and Tarquin feels himself grow flustered under the scrutiny.
“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “I should clear this up… then bugger off before I do any further damage.”
Tarquin reaches for the ink-stained stacks of paper only to be stopped by the gentle, gauntleted hands of the Viper. “Allow me,” he murmurs.
Tarquin looks across at him with confusion but Ashur is already working; spreading his wide hand across the spoiled letter and twitching his fingers with intense concentration until ink stain after ink stain has been carefully removed.
“Nice trick,” Tarquin whispers, resenting how quiet and cracked his voice has become. He’s a templar for fuck’s sake – a little magic trick shouldn’t charm him – but it’s a little harder to dismiss the thoughtful gesture behind it. Ashur could have just ordered Tarquin to rewrite the letters but instead he spent a little of his time and energy so Tarquin wouldn’t have to expend his. It was disgustingly thoughtful.
Tarquin’s heart is still feeling a little tender when Ashur tucks two fingers underneath Tarquin’s sleeve, cleaning the ink from his tunic in the same thoughtful manner. Ashur is careful not to touch him but Tarquin feels the ghost of his touch all the same as the delicate skin of his inner wrist is warmed by Ashur’s gentle thrum of magic. Tarquin has barely recovered from the intimate touch before Ashur moves those two fingers down to rest against Tarquin’s ink-stained hand. Ashur looks across at him with a question in his eyes, and Tarquin just nods dumbly – Ashur is holding his hand; he’d probably agree to getting stabbed right now if it meant he could keep him close for a little longer.
Ashur’s mask twitches as if he’s smiling and then his other hand comes to cup the back of Tarquin’s wrist, holding him steady as the spell works its magic once more. Ashur’s fingers twitch with power just a hair’s breadth from his tingling palm as stain after stain disappear. The moment is achingly intimate, and it aches all the more because of how little it means. Ashur may be kind enough to indulge Tarquin in these little moments of closeness but Tarquin’s never been fool enough to assume any sort of feeling is returned. He’s a Soporati templar. Ashur is the Divine. The only time they’re even in the same realm of existence is when they’re both standing in this safehouse.
Tarquin averts his heartfelt gaze as Ashur drops his hand. Tarquin lets his hand fall to his side and tells himself that the tingling sensation across his palm is residual magic, nothing more.
He clears his throat and meets Ashur’s gaze only when he’s certain it won’t give him away. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Ashur says in a deep voice. “Anytime.”
“So, uh, your lead…? Any luck?”
Ashur blinks across at him, as if he, too, has forgotten the purpose of his visit. He glances around the Shop, and finding it otherwise empty, removes his hat and unclasps his mask before collapsing in the chair next to the desk. Tarquin follows suit, and just like that, it’s like every other night – the two of them sitting at the desk, discussing their next steps, quiet and peaceful.
Until, an hour later, when he feels Ashur’s gaze linger a little too long.
“What?” Tarquin snaps.
And maybe he was a little too sharp, a little too defensive, because Ashur immediately straightens like he’s been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “I…”
Tarquin raises an eyebrow. “Seriously, what? I still got ink on my face or something?”
Ashur shakes his head, and bites his lip in a rare display of nerves. Tarquin is so used to reading his expressions through the thin slit of his disguise that it feels indulgent, almost, to look upon every inch of exposed skin. “Viktor Taurus –”
Tarquin grimaces and turns away, cursing under his breath. He knew Ashur dropped the matter too easily. He was probably just formulating the perfect line of inquiry… waiting to catch Tarquin off-guard like his reptilian namesake.
“What is it about him that has you unsettled?”
“Oh, fuck off –”
“Quin, if you have a history with the Taurus family, or desire him in some way, or –”
“Desire him?!” Tarquin splutters, absolutely disgusted with the idea. “Taurus is twenty-one! He’s practically a child!”
Ashur snorts a laugh, something he only does when taken by surprise. The rare sight is far more endearing than it has any right to be, especially when Tarquin is doing his best to be mad at the bastard. Ashur smiles and raises his hands in defence. “No offence intended. I’m just trying to understand the disconnect.”
Tarquin sighs in resignation. Ashur is always so earnest. It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he refuses to get riled by Tarquin’s ire. “Why?” Tarquin asks quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why’s it matter why we don’t rub shoulders? He’s a recruit. I’m his superior. I can put aside personal matters when it comes down to it.”
Ashur sidles closer on the bench until the fabric of his coat brushes against the sleeves of Tarquin’s tunic. “I don’t doubt your ability to put aside your animosity for the cause. The others may think you ill-tempered –”
Tarquin snorts. “I’m a grouchy old git,” he amends. “Crass and common and cantankerous.”
Ashur smiles. He normally appreciates clever wordplay but today his smile looks sad, like he doesn’t find Tarquin’s alliteration amusing at all. “Others may think that,” he allows. “But I know you. This isn’t your usual disdain for the highborn, or mistrust of new recruits, or impatience with the youth –”
“Maker, I really am a miserable git, aren’t I?”
Ashur smiles and reaches out to place a bare palm on his thigh. “Quin. What’s going on?”
Tarquin doesn’t know if it’s the late hour, or his friend’s earnest concern, or the comforting warmth that spreads through him at the single point of contact between them, but he finds that he wants to share his burden. He looks across to his only friend and wonders if his Most Holy would understand an emotion as common as jealousy.
Tarquin licks his lips in contemplation. Tarquin’s everyday reality is so far removed from Ashur’s life of privilege that he knows the only way his friend will understand is if he paints him a really detailed, and really bleak, picture.
“I’m thirty-nine years old and I live in a bedsit in Dock Town,” Tarquin starts. “There’s five of us sandwiched in that flat above the fishmonger. I got a room of my own but there’s a single privy and a wash basin shared between all five of us. Only one hearth too. The place always smells like fish guts, ‘specially in summer. The stench gets into everything you own – you’ve no idea, even your breeches stink of fish by the start of Summerday.”
Tarquin risks a glance across to Ashur – there’s a frown in his brow, as if wrinkled in confusion or concentration, but he’s listening, and his hand stays steady on Tarquin’s thigh.
Tarquin sighs and lowers his gaze. It’s easier, somehow, to confess the ugly truth away from that beautiful face. “The pay’s alright as a templar archivist. There’s another guy in the archives who lives alone, and another with his wife and child… so the pay must be alright, I guess. Maybe if I didn’t need to spend my paycheck on herbs every month then I could get a nicer place. But I need the herbs. So it’s not worth thinking about. You get me?”
He hears an intake of breath, like Ashur, in all his little richboy naivety, has finally put two and two together.
Tarquin’s still too cowardly to look at his face though; afraid to see pity staring back at him. “I spent every penny I had when I was younger to fix my chest. I knew it would be hard for me to get work unless I looked like a man. I wanted it too, ‘course, but that’s how I justified the expense when I could barely scrape two coins together. I found someone cheap… probably too cheap. The scars are… well, they are what they are. One got infected after surgery. I spent more money that I didn’t have to fix the fever. Got into a bit of debt… It’s fine –” he hurriedly assures Ashur because he swears he hears the prick open his mouth to offer him money. “It’s paid off. It’s ancient history. But I learned my lesson, and I put the thought of further work far outta mind. I accepted that this is my lot in life. And I’m fine with that. Most of the time, I’m fine with that, until rich tossers like Viktor Fucking Taurus at age twenty-fucking-one come swanning in here flaunting their magical fucking transformation all over the place like it’s that fucking easy. Because it’s not that easy. Not for everyone. Not for… not for me.”
Tarquin’s voice is small and broken by the end of his confession. He angrily blinks back the tears in his eyes, refusing to let them fall over something so inconsequential. They’re here, fighting for slaves to be free, fighting to put an end to blood magic, fighting an important fucking fight, and here Tarquin is, feeling sorry for himself because his body doesn’t match his mind. It ought to be small fry. But it’s not.
Tarquin shakes his head, and swallows his damn self-pity, turning back to Ashur with what he hopes is a neutral expression. “That’s why the kid pisses me off,” he concludes steadily. “It’s not about him at all. Not really. Just… what he represents. Now, are we done talking about this?”
Ashur looks back at him – annoyingly steady, annoyingly unreadable – like a fucking rock facing down a tidal wave. Then, his tongue darts over his lips and he nods in thought, like he always does when he’s settled on a plan of action. “I apologise.”
“What the fuck for?” Tarquin splutters. “Last I checked, Taurus was no relation of yours.”
Ashur shakes his head with a laugh. “No, not for Viktor – although, I’m sorry his presence vexes you. No, I apologise because I did not realise you were unsatisfied. You are my friend, and I… I ought to have noticed. I ought to have offered –”
“What?” Tarquin interrupts, snorting an indignant laugh. “To buy me a dick?” He barks a laugh. “It’s not a fucking pen, Ashur, you can’t just –”
“Add two more letters and it is.”
Pen. Penis. That’s a dick joke. Tarquin’s jaw drops as his mind comprehends the absurd reality of the Imperial Divine making a dick joke.
Ashur’s responding smile is something that Tarquin’s never seen before – self-satisfied, and shy, and a little crooked – Tarquin’s more than a little in love with the expression. Before he can commit it to memory, however, the smile fades into sincerity, as it always does with Ashur. “Money is no obstacle for me, and it would please me to see you happy. Anything you need. Always.”
Tarquin ducks his head, unable to withstand the intensity of Ashur’s earnest gaze. Ashur’s hand is still pressed against his thigh, burning in its potential. Ashur always speaks like they are something more than they are. Tarquin resents how much he wishes it were true. He takes a shuddering breath, blinks back the prickling heat in his eyes, and decisively turns away, causing Ashur’s outstretched hand to fall by the wayside.
He hears Ashur’s sharp inhale as if he’s about to speak, but then, instead, there is the sound of a wine goblet being filled, and the feeling of the cool vessel being pressed against his fingers. He’d rather have Ashur’s hand but he’ll take what he can get.
“Thanks,” he mutters, both for the wine, and the ridiculous offer that he is absolutely going to refuse. “Just… please never tell that Taurus prick that I’m jealous of him. I’d never live it down.”
Ashur laughs.
“I suppose good Vesperian boys like you don’t get jealous,” Tarquin muses over his goblet of wine.
He half-expects Ashur to say something suitably snobbish to confirm his suspicions but he’s more curious when Ashur doesn’t say anything at all. Tarquin turns to look at him and tilts his head in a silent question. Altus mages have everything that can ever dream of, surely?
Ashur keeps his eyes averted from Tarquin’s scrutiny. He takes a deep drink and returns the half-empty goblet to the table. “Jealousy is not a righteous emotion,” he states. “But I would be lying if I said it was a foreign concept to me. I…” Ashur grimaces and shakes his head; fingers absently twisting the stem of the goblet in his hands. “Never mind. Perhaps I best not burden you with such trifling matters.”
Tarquin reaches out and practically digs his fingers into the meat of Ashur’s thigh, anchoring him to this conversation before he scarpers away from genuine connection like he always fucking does. Ashur rarely shows any kind of vulnerability but the more Tarquin sees of the insecure boy beneath the mask, the more he wants to see. “Tell me,” he implores. “It’s no burden. And knowing you, it’s probably not ‘trifling’ either.”
Ashur hides an amused huff in his goblet. Tarquin’s never seen him drink so much so fast.
“Very well,” he says, still not meeting his eyes. “I admit I have often fantasised of a simple life; of the freedom of choice that so many have. Even as a child, I was raised to be the Divine. I had no say in the matter. There have always been expectations put upon my shoulders... and certain desires that have to be suppressed in order to fulfil those expectations. If there are things that I want, people that I desire…” He glances at Tarquin and then clears his throat, downing the rest of his wine. “Well. Needless to say, there are compromises that have been made. And I wonder, sometimes, what it would feel like to be free from such trappings.”
“What would you do?” Tarquin whispers, caught up in Ashur’s fairytale fantasy. “If you weren’t Divine? If you were just some bloke I’d met in a bar?”
Ashur licks his lips. His eyes linger on Tarquin. Then he reaches for the wine bottle and refills his goblet. “I try not to think about what is not possible. It only makes the yearning more potent.”
Tarquin huffs a laugh and drinks a considerable portion of his own wine. “You get it then.”
“Hmm?”
Tarquin waves a hand over his body that yearns for a change of its own.
“Ah,” Ashur says, looking away again; his cheeks now flushed with alcohol. It’s a stupidly pretty sight. “Yes, I suppose I do understand what it’s like to yearn for more... except, in your case, your desire may not be entirely futile.”
“What d’you mean?”
Ashur sighs and tiredly rubs his eyes. He frowns in concentration, seemingly lost in contemplation, before he nods to himself, and turns back to Tarquin with steely determination. “I have deep regard for you, Tarquin,” he states; slow and with purpose, like he really wants Tarquin to listen. “A regard, which, in my societal position, is not… is not feasible. But be that as it may, I still long to make you happy. And if I can support you in any small way – whether that be coin, or friendship, or the name of a specialist transitionary healer in the Spire… it’s yours. Everything I can possibly give you, is yours.”
Tarquin pauses, goblet halfway to his mouth, as he realises what Ashur’s trying to say. Deep regard. That’s even more unbelievable than the dick joke, quite frankly.
“No,” Tarquin says firmly, still floundering around the love confession like a fish out of water. “No. I don’t want your money.”
“I know,” Ashur says, placing a hand over Tarquin’s which is… still on Ashur’s thigh. Fuck. He hadn’t realised. “But it’s all I can offer you. Please –”
Tarquin yanks his hand away. He feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind.
Deep regard.
Fuck.
Tarquin rubs his hands over his face, digging his palms into his eyes in the hopes he’ll see the situation clearer when he’s out the other side. Yeah. Okay. Maybe it’s best just to blow over this whole love confession for now. “You said that there’s people you want? Certain expectations…?”
“Yes.”
“Are you gay?”
Ashur inhales sharply, and Tarquin wonders if he’s ever even heard the word out loud before. “Yes,” Ashur confirms. “I enjoy the company of men. An inconvenient facet of my personality that the Imperial Chantry, and Tevinter as whole, would like to disregard.”
Tarquin shakes his head, his fist clenching uselessly by his side. He’ll never understand why society gives a shit about who you spend your time with, not when all that scrutiny only serves to make people miserable. So what if the Divine’s bent? Ashur shouldn’t have to hide who he is just to appease a few Magisters. Maker, Tarquin wishes he could punch every single one of those highblooded cunts in the face.
“So… you’re gay,” Tarquin concludes. “And you…?” He flounders at the love confession again, gesturing between them with a flailing hand and precarious goblet of wine. “Me?”
Ashur nods, bowing his head. He looks ashamed. “I apologise for the inconvenience of my infatuation. I’m aware my interest is likely unreturned, but I hope you can accept what I am offering you nonetheless. I want to support you, in any way I can. I don’t wish to burden you with –”
“Would you stop fucking saying that?!” Tarquin exclaims; his rage finally breaking through his shock. The wine does spill over the rim of his goblet that time. “Whoever the fuck told you you’re a burden needs a fucking dagger between their ribs. We’re mates, Ashur. We’re meant to tell each other stuff. I just… need a fucking minute, alright? I had no idea you felt that way. Or… any way, for that matter. You never said you wanted more.”
“Neither did you,” Ashur murmurs.
Tarquin rolls his eyes and finishes his wine as decisively as Ashur had finished his before turning back to him. “Fine. So you can’t be yourself out there,” he says with a vague gesture towards the Spire and beyond. “But you’re not the Divine the whole time. You’re not always the Viper, either. When we’re behind closed doors… it’s just us, Ashur. It’s just you and me. And I swear there’s never any expectations. No judgments. No rules. You can be your true self, with me, if you… If you want. Carve out a little happiness for yourself amid all that dreadful compromise. I swear, you can dance like a commoner, or wear a pretty pink frock, or snog me silly for hours, and I won’t tattle to the Magisterium. You’re safe with me.”
Ashur blinks, like he hadn’t considered that an option; like he hadn’t considered Tarquin an option. “I… You would want to spend time with me? Like that?”
Tarquin laughs with disbelief. He’s fancied Ashur for so long it’s ridiculous. He coulda sworn it’d been obvious enough for Ashur to pick up on it but maybe not ‘cos Ashur seems to be genuinely surprised to hear that Tarquin is interested. “Would I want to… kiss you?” Tarquin teases with only mild derision. “Yeah. I don’t think I’d mind at all. Only one way to find out for sure though.”
Ashur halts Tarquin’s flirtations with a firm hand on his chest. “Don’t…”
Tarquin pulls back with a frown and more than a little heartache.
“If you’re doing this out of pity, or obligation –”
“For fuck’s sake,” Tarquin mutters under his breath before yanking Ashur in by the collar of his ridiculously oversized overcoat. “I don’t pity you. I fancy you, you dumb fuck. You’re an absolute cunt for buying me pretty little trinkets for the last three years thinking that that’s the only thing you could give me. I don’t want your money or your influence or a shiny new quill. I want you.”
“You have me,” Ashur whispers, eyes wide and imploring. “As much of myself as I can give you. And anything else that you desire. You need only name it.”
Tarquin smirks and with the courage that only wine can give him, climbs fully into Ashur’s lap. Ashur exhales a laugh and it feels so good to feel that laugh reverberate through his body, almost as good as it feels to have Ashur’s arms wrap around him. Tarquin hadn’t let himself think about Ashur as anything more than an idle fantasy. He was meant to be impossible. But he should have known: nothing’s ever impossible to highbloods.
Tarquin loops his arms around Ashur’s broad shoulders and grins at him like a cat that caught the canary. “I want you to kiss me,” Tarquin whispers into his ear.
Ashur pulls back to look at him, his eager eyes sparkling with candlelight. There’s a soft, hopeful, smile on his face. “I can arrange that.”
Ashur cups Tarquin’s face in his hands and kisses him with the excited trepidation of a man who has dreamed of this kiss a thousand times. It’s a good kiss, despite his evident nerves; slow and exploratory and fucking reverent. Tarquin didn’t quite believe it before. The whole ‘deep regard’ thing. But this is a reality he can’t deny. Ashur’s bare fingers slipping through his hair, their breaths intermingling between kisses, the sweet caresses down his side, Ashur’s growing interest behind his breeches…
Tarquin breaks away with a frustrated groan and rests his head against Ashur’s. He’d nearly forgotten what brought them to this revelation in the first place but the undeniable feeling of a hard cock pressing against his thigh only brings about a different kind of yearning.
“Fine,” Tarquin grunts. “Buy me a cock. But make it a good one; I wanna fuck you with it.”
Ashur inhales sharply. His fingers dig into the meat of Tarquin’s thigh. “Quin…”
Tarquin puts a finger against his lips, silencing him. “Yeah. Later. Alright? I got some other desires to satisfy for now.”
Ashur presses a delicate kiss against Tarquin’s fingertip, looking up at him with an indulgent smile, and Tarquin knows, somehow, that he’s going to satisfy every single one of his desires.