Someone sweet and kind, who has no baggage, no drama, no darkness. All Ethan has is himself and his little corner of the world to offer -- and an exceptionally long life. He can give you so, so much, if you open your heart to him and let him in.
He scoots a little closer, eyes fixed on those green eyes, gently squeezing the hand he holds in his own.
Magic swirls around them, thick but soft, hanging in the air like a lovers perfume. It's not pressing and all consuming, like Raleigh's, no -- Ethan's is light and sweet, like a summers breeze.
"I'd let you," he says honestly, before their lips touch, gentle, warm. He isn't sure how Francis feels about what he'll inevitably taste on Ethan's lips, but he figures the man knows what he's in for with the kiss, so he leans into it, groping to set his glass down in favor of gently cupping Francis's face, the kiss still gentle, chaste - but definitely returned.
He'd let you, Francis. When did Raleigh ever cave in and let you truly spoil him?
In all those many lives. In all those many decades. There was always a shim between them. Always another heart. Another want. and Raleigh's stubborn, infuriating inability to accept any grand showering of affection.
Well you know what. He doesn't need the posthumous approval or acceptance or love. He has someone new. Someone wonderful.
Who's kiss is just for him, he hopes. Who's willing and open and shows such promise. Raleigh was just... too... powerful. Too big. Too full of darkness. It was toxic. It always is.
Maybe it's finally time for Francis to stop punishing himself.
The kiss is tinged with blood but he doesn't mind. It can be nice, but he doesn't find the idea of drinking glasses of it alluring. As a part of his meal? Fine. On the lips of his husband? Nothing new. Given the choice between blood and wine he chooses wine. It's simply that.
Given the choice between bloody kisses and longing looks, he chooses the kiss. Then once more, then once more again. Strangers getting to know each other. Breathing in each other's scent. Tasting each other's tongues. Oh Ethan, what he can do with his tongue.
"Do you mean that?" Breathy between kisses, wine set aside to slide his free hand up into the other's short hair.
His kisses are all for you. Everything he is, all of it can be for you, Francis. You are old and all consuming, overbearing, needy, desperate - and the man on the couch with you will easily succumb and happily give you everything that he is.
"Uh huh," he says, letting Francis breathe, because Ethan doesn't need to. He could kiss Francis to death, taste him every second as he gasped for air. He scoots in a little closer, brushing his thumb over his husbands cheek.
He's all of those things, it is true, but he can also be an unending wealth of love. Fierce protector. Blindly loyal companion. A hopeless romantic under all his jaded armor.
"Please," also breathy. Foreheads touching. That's all he could really ever hope for. To be loved with the same fullness in which he loves. With complete focus. Just him, no sharing.
He's so easy, really. Say a few nice things to him. Listen to him. Kiss him. And he lets you right under his scales. It is a miracle that Francis is still alive.
Lucky for Francis, he's found himself an equally hopeless romantic, another fiercely loyal partner. Ethan loves and he loves hard and he will be so, so good to you.
"You got it," Ethan murmurs, smoothing his hand over Francis's cheek, slowly moving in, shifting to carefully slide into his lap. He doesn't need anything more than this - he doesn't want either of them to spook, but he wants contact and touch so badly it hurts.
He slides his hands right into soft hair and pulls him in again for another kiss, tracing his tongue over plush lips, teasing his way back into his mouth.
Its wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. When Ethan moves to his lap Francis shifts a bit to make it more comfortable for the both of them, pressing his back flat into the back of the sofa.
One hand stays in Ethan's hair, the other skimming down his husband's arm and then side before finally finding it's home on his hip where he squeezes ever so gently. Maybe a daring move but it is their wedding night after all. And he is so very grateful that they've recovered from what was an unpleasant but needed conversation.
Ethan will find that Francis doesn't talk simply to spin a tale and wind him up, there's a purpose to everything he says. Sometimes misguided but mostly an attempt to connect or help or impart knowledge. Raleigh found it terribly overbearing. It's just how he is.
Desperately lonely and touch starved, curling together like the new lovers they are and kissing like eager teenagers. It makes Francis feel young again, it really does. Pulse quick, pheromones thick, lips lapping and his tongue- goodness you might think it were forked the way he moves it.
He can hear his husbands heartbeat - it's strong, solid. Unyielding as it pumps blood through his veins, and between that and the pheromones in the air, Ethan is a lost cause. He wouldn't be able to wiggle out of the snare even if he wanted to - and he very much does not.
He pulls back occasionally to let Francis breath, noses brushing, straddled in his lap comfortably, leaning into the embrace.
"Do you, um," he starts, a little hesitant, cheeks red with color, lips plush, "want me to stay here tonight..?"
"Oh yeah?" he teases, brushing noses. "A lump on the floor, shedding tears or sorrow?" He laughs at himself, giddy like a schoolgirl, arms draped around Francis's neck, fingers playing with his hair.
Well then. Ally-oop. He might not look strong but looks are deceiving. Because he just.. picks Ethan up and stands, adjusting only to carry him bridal style out of his study-lounge and upstairs to his bedroom, which is just as adorned as downstairs and feels somewhere between beatnik poet, treasure hoard, and library. High ceilings and enormous four-poster bed complete with heavy, blackout curtains.
“Oh my God-!” He yelps, laughing as he clutches at Francis. He can walk, but hell this amazing and he won’t turn it down. He feels like a fucking princess. He drapes an arm around Francis’s neck, tipping his head back as he takes more of the home in as he’s carried. It’s all so beautiful, so ornate and lovely.
He's laughing, he can't help it. Young love blooming in his heart.
"Why thank you. I'm rather house proud."
Francis grins and deposits Ethan down onto the bed before sitting to remote his shoes. Shiny leather brogues. He unbuttons his waistcoat and carefully slips his pocket watch from it's fastening with the aim of sitting it back into it's cradle on the bedside table.
“Yes dear,” he murmurs, kicking them onto the floor. He doesn’t like shoes in his bed either.
“I’m pretty sure you were sending me to the moon with those kisses of yours.” He reaches to cup the back of his head and pull him in for more, eager to taste again, to feel the press of him, the heat and warmth and touch.
It makes him laugh. He hasn't laughed so easily in a while. Giddy, even. Ethan makes him giddy.
"Yes dear," murmuring back against his lips.
He isn't expecting sex, they are strangers after all and it seems like an unrealistic expectation but if Ethan wants to he also won't say no.
This is enough, though. Kissing and exploring is perfect. Pressing against him, nimble fingers looking to rid them of their shirts. At least get them open so they can touch.
Their lips touch again and it’s electric, jolting through, sending little shocks of need and want and hope down his spine, looking in his belly. It makes his cock twitch.
He drops his hands to fumble with Francis’s shirt, fingers plucking at the buttons, easing it off over his shoulders. This is a good idea, he wants to feel you.
“I’m cold,” he warns, a little hesitant. Francis probably knows, but it’s polite to warn. Some people don’t like fucking someone who’s ice cold. Granted, he’s a little warmer now because of all he’s had to drink, but he’s still cold to the touch, skin like marble.
He's quite used to it, in fact. Francis himself is cold blooded and so he would be better suited to a warm creature like a wolf, but he has ways of overcoming this.
Which reminds him.
"I have a marvelous invention that will sort that," as he pulls back to remove his cufflinks, bendoing over the side of the bed to click a little switch and come back. Cofflinks out. Shirt off and neatly folded before setting to the side.
It will take a moment but the bed will begin to warm. An electric mattress cover. Oh yes.
He watches him fold the shirt in amusement, because it’s all very meticulous and cute.
“You’ve thought of everything, huh,” he says. His shirt is just... tossed on the floor by his shoes but he’s wondering if he should get up and fold it.
Yeah maybe he should. Don’t just throw your shit Ethan, you savage.
"I'm cold blooded," Francis answers simply, no, no don't get up where- oh.
Well isn't that sweet. And terribly amusing.
You are a very quick study, aren't you darling. He'll have you trained in no time at all. And you wil spend your life in such bliss by his side. He promises you that.
That earns Francis a curious look from where Ethan is standing and folding his shirt, because... what are you?
He doesn’t push it, though. Francis declined to answer and that’s that. Subject dropped. You look human enough and taste amazing and kiss him senseless, it’s all good.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah-“
He drops his hands to fumble with his belt, pull it free and wind it up. See how fast he learns? His slacks come off next and he folds them just as carefully and sets all of his stuff in a nest little pile. Now he’s just left in red silk boxers and socks, which he looks at, hesitant because fucking with socks on is usually frowned on, right?
After a quick internal deliberation, he’ll lean over and take those off, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He scoots a little closer, eyes fixed on those green eyes, gently squeezing the hand he holds in his own.
"I would, too. A lot."
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Their eyes locked as they drift closer. Words near meaningless now, soft and muted under the air so thick between them.
"I would give you everything, Ethan Crowne."
Francis closes the space between them, lips brushing softly. Chaste but inviting. Testing.
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"I'd let you," he says honestly, before their lips touch, gentle, warm. He isn't sure how Francis feels about what he'll inevitably taste on Ethan's lips, but he figures the man knows what he's in for with the kiss, so he leans into it, groping to set his glass down in favor of gently cupping Francis's face, the kiss still gentle, chaste - but definitely returned.
He'd let you, Francis. When did Raleigh ever cave in and let you truly spoil him?
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In all those many lives. In all those many decades. There was always a shim between them. Always another heart. Another want. and Raleigh's stubborn, infuriating inability to accept any grand showering of affection.
Well you know what. He doesn't need the posthumous approval or acceptance or love. He has someone new. Someone wonderful.
Who's kiss is just for him, he hopes. Who's willing and open and shows such promise. Raleigh was just... too... powerful. Too big. Too full of darkness. It was toxic. It always is.
Maybe it's finally time for Francis to stop punishing himself.
The kiss is tinged with blood but he doesn't mind. It can be nice, but he doesn't find the idea of drinking glasses of it alluring. As a part of his meal? Fine. On the lips of his husband? Nothing new. Given the choice between blood and wine he chooses wine. It's simply that.
Given the choice between bloody kisses and longing looks, he chooses the kiss. Then once more, then once more again. Strangers getting to know each other. Breathing in each other's scent. Tasting each other's tongues. Oh Ethan, what he can do with his tongue.
"Do you mean that?" Breathy between kisses, wine set aside to slide his free hand up into the other's short hair.
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"Uh huh," he says, letting Francis breathe, because Ethan doesn't need to. He could kiss Francis to death, taste him every second as he gasped for air. He scoots in a little closer, brushing his thumb over his husbands cheek.
"'s long as you let me give you the same."
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"Please," also breathy. Foreheads touching. That's all he could really ever hope for. To be loved with the same fullness in which he loves. With complete focus. Just him, no sharing.
He's so easy, really. Say a few nice things to him. Listen to him. Kiss him. And he lets you right under his scales. It is a miracle that Francis is still alive.
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"You got it," Ethan murmurs, smoothing his hand over Francis's cheek, slowly moving in, shifting to carefully slide into his lap. He doesn't need anything more than this - he doesn't want either of them to spook, but he wants contact and touch so badly it hurts.
He slides his hands right into soft hair and pulls him in again for another kiss, tracing his tongue over plush lips, teasing his way back into his mouth.
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One hand stays in Ethan's hair, the other skimming down his husband's arm and then side before finally finding it's home on his hip where he squeezes ever so gently. Maybe a daring move but it is their wedding night after all. And he is so very grateful that they've recovered from what was an unpleasant but needed conversation.
Ethan will find that Francis doesn't talk simply to spin a tale and wind him up, there's a purpose to everything he says. Sometimes misguided but mostly an attempt to connect or help or impart knowledge. Raleigh found it terribly overbearing. It's just how he is.
Desperately lonely and touch starved, curling together like the new lovers they are and kissing like eager teenagers. It makes Francis feel young again, it really does. Pulse quick, pheromones thick, lips lapping and his tongue- goodness you might think it were forked the way he moves it.
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He pulls back occasionally to let Francis breath, noses brushing, straddled in his lap comfortably, leaning into the embrace.
"Do you, um," he starts, a little hesitant, cheeks red with color, lips plush, "want me to stay here tonight..?"
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"I would be beside myself with grief if you left."
Not to be dramatic, but he would.
"May I take you to bed?"
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"Fuck yeah."
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“Oh my God-!” He yelps, laughing as he clutches at Francis. He can walk, but hell this amazing and he won’t turn it down. He feels like a fucking princess. He drapes an arm around Francis’s neck, tipping his head back as he takes more of the home in as he’s carried. It’s all so beautiful, so ornate and lovely.
“This is a gorgeous room.”
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"Why thank you. I'm rather house proud."
Francis grins and deposits Ethan down onto the bed before sitting to remote his shoes. Shiny leather brogues. He unbuttons his waistcoat and carefully slips his pocket watch from it's fastening with the aim of sitting it back into it's cradle on the bedside table.
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He leans back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, watching Francis with a laugh as he goes his shoes off.
“You should be.” This bed is amaaaazing
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He spends quite a lot of time in the bed. It's important for him to enjoy it.
Francis sets the watch down and then sets himself down onto the bed, shifting to get over Ethan.
"No shoes on the bed please. Now where were we?"
Ah yes. Kisses. Lots of them.
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“Yes dear,” he murmurs, kicking them onto the floor. He doesn’t like shoes in his bed either.
“I’m pretty sure you were sending me to the moon with those kisses of yours.” He reaches to cup the back of his head and pull him in for more, eager to taste again, to feel the press of him, the heat and warmth and touch.
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"Yes dear," murmuring back against his lips.
He isn't expecting sex, they are strangers after all and it seems like an unrealistic expectation but if Ethan wants to he also won't say no.
This is enough, though. Kissing and exploring is perfect. Pressing against him, nimble fingers looking to rid them of their shirts. At least get them open so they can touch.
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Their lips touch again and it’s electric, jolting through, sending little shocks of need and want and hope down his spine, looking in his belly. It makes his cock twitch.
He drops his hands to fumble with Francis’s shirt, fingers plucking at the buttons, easing it off over his shoulders. This is a good idea, he wants to feel you.
“I’m cold,” he warns, a little hesitant. Francis probably knows, but it’s polite to warn. Some people don’t like fucking someone who’s ice cold. Granted, he’s a little warmer now because of all he’s had to drink, but he’s still cold to the touch, skin like marble.
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He's quite used to it, in fact. Francis himself is cold blooded and so he would be better suited to a warm creature like a wolf, but he has ways of overcoming this.
Which reminds him.
"I have a marvelous invention that will sort that," as he pulls back to remove his cufflinks, bendoing over the side of the bed to click a little switch and come back. Cofflinks out. Shirt off and neatly folded before setting to the side.
It will take a moment but the bed will begin to warm. An electric mattress cover. Oh yes.
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He watches him fold the shirt in amusement, because it’s all very meticulous and cute.
“You’ve thought of everything, huh,” he says. His shirt is just... tossed on the floor by his shoes but he’s wondering if he should get up and fold it.
Yeah maybe he should. Don’t just throw your shit Ethan, you savage.
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Well isn't that sweet. And terribly amusing.
You are a very quick study, aren't you darling. He'll have you trained in no time at all. And you wil spend your life in such bliss by his side. He promises you that.
"Trousers?"
Or is that too daring?
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That earns Francis a curious look from where Ethan is standing and folding his shirt, because... what are you?
He doesn’t push it, though. Francis declined to answer and that’s that. Subject dropped. You look human enough and taste amazing and kiss him senseless, it’s all good.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah-“
He drops his hands to fumble with his belt, pull it free and wind it up. See how fast he learns? His slacks come off next and he folds them just as carefully and sets all of his stuff in a nest little pile. Now he’s just left in red silk boxers and socks, which he looks at, hesitant because fucking with socks on is usually frowned on, right?
After a quick internal deliberation, he’ll lean over and take those off, too.
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Franny isn't, he's stripping and watching Ethan do the same and enjoying every damn moment of it.
He appraises his husband for a moment, warm and dreamy, and then reaches out for him. Francis in his own soft, black border briefs.
Take his hand. Be guided into a little twirl.
"You are exquisite."
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He laughs, a little self conscious as he moves, guided by warm hands.
“I dunno about all that. But thanks. You’re pretty hot yourself.”
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