In the absence of sunlight, the Diplomat’s eye seems to shine. It’s difficult to look away.
“Hope I haven’t given you reason to,” Daud says gruffly. He drains half the glass and sets it on the bedside table. “Can’t imagine what kind of convincing I’d need to do.”
Truthfully, he’s afraid of how obvious it is: the way he looks at them, the way he turns toward them, how his touch becomes gentle with them. They must know what effect they have.
He reaches out to cup their face, thumb stroking the scar that stretches over their cheekbone. “You offered to show me the rest,” he says. “So show me.”
The Diplomat’s smile blooms slow, and wide, and warm, and they tilt into his hand even as their arms reach for him. Their eyes glitter hungrily, like they’re trying to decide what part of him to devour first.
One hand settles on his jaw and tilts his head down with easy authority, letting them press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth (still so stern and unsmiling, even in this).
It’s easy, moving to straddle Daud’s lap, pulling him in for a kiss, then another, relishing the warmth of his body against theirs. He’s so pliant under their direction, willing to move where they want him, it almost makes them worry just how far he’d let them push. They’re not well known for their restraint; they don’t want him to let them hurt him.
An unbearable fondness settles in their chest like a weight.
Their touch is very gentle when they take his hands and guide them to the top button of their button-up, but their breath is hot against his skin, voice low and dark like a promise.
“Undress me, and I’ll show you whatever you want.”
dededos
stormborns
kaledo-art
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
2087
