branka doesn't let go of his hands until they arrive at the stage doors. hosszú swallows as unease settles in his bones—he has never been here, they would never let him in here. branka must've sensed his uncertainty because she bursts out laughing, pulling him closer by their invined fingers; silly, my silly boy, have no worry, she sings, kissing hosszú's temple, we have an arrangement. they reserved us a baignoire, she tells him with excitement, her smile shining brighter than the streetlights around them.
alright, hosszú says, alright, and he lets out a heavy sigh as branka pushes the wooden door open. when they greet the lodge-keeper she trots out a piece of paper from her overcoat's inner pocket and exultantly shows it to the old man behind the counter. have a ball, the porter waves, tired and unimpressed, letting them go.
as they step into the mildly lit corridors hosszú notices that they're still holding hands—it makes him feel safe and warm. branka's enthusiasm taints him too. (...)
he doesn't find the house at first—hosszú is surprised to see that they live in the same district. illustrious figures, like an actor, would reside a somewhat more opulent place, he supposes, but well, he doesn't know much. he's never seen ficsúr around, he muses as he roams up and down the street—no sight of the hidden gateway still.
it's cold outside and he's sweating, the chilly breeze burns his eyes and he just wants to run away. dawn is upon him—the streetlights are litten, tiny balls of light glowing through the mist and fog that's been blanketing the borough. hosszú sighs.
and as he turns in his heels to flee in shame—he sees a little girl slip through the ivy-mantled walls at the corner. (...)
and then ficsúr's lips are on his, warm and gentle like the hands holding him close, oh so close and hosszú kisses them back, eager. he opens his mouth and lets his tongue feel along their cherry sweet lips before being granted admittance—ficsúr moans between them, their grip tightening on hosszú's shirt. they taste like wine, saccharine and intoxicating.
he slowly takes a step forward, softly maneuvering them in the direction of the salon's wall—a faint thud, a low sigh of pleasure. ficsúr's palms travel down his spine and arrive at his ass the same time their back hits the side. hosszú kisses them again and again, savouring the little sounds escaping ficsúr's mouth, and when the two break away for air they're both panting and breathless.
they have done this before, will do it again and he knows it, but being so intimate and tender with someone makes his heart beat faster and looking down on ficsúr's flustered cheeks and kiss-swollen lips hosszú can't help but smile and hunch over for another peck on the mouth. ficsúr giggles and grinds up against him, sending a jolt of pleasure through him—with a sharp inhale and moment of gazing in ficsúr's eyes full of bliss, hosszú slowly drops to his knees in front of them.
may i, he asks, voice hoarse and ficsúr shudders as they guide his hands to their waist to untie the laces of their pants. yes, you may.
when he takes them in his mouth and sucks gently, hosszú can see ficsúr's world explode—it's their arching back, their lust filled, half lidded eyes, it's their thin fingers tangling themselves in hosszú's dark curls and the soft gasps escaping their lips that make him want more and more. so he takes them deeper and deeper, relishing in the heat and the way ficsúr's legs shake, the way they cry out when he moans around their length. it's beautiful, truly.
slow down, dearest, ficsúr breathes, their warm palms on each side of hosszú's flushed red cheeks, enough, it's okay, they say, voice tight with desire, i want to take you, i want– and their eyes are fixated on hosszú, on his freckle plastered, crooked nose, on his dark, clumsily chopped waves that stick to his sweat covered forehead, on his pink and shiny lips and on the saliva dripping down his chin and hosszú knows he could come from this alone—from ficsúr's undivided love and attention they shower him with.
swallowing hard he rises to his feet—he feels dizzy and drunk and he craves more. ficsúr smirks at him, their features mirroring hosszú's arousal and excitement and he ducks down to kiss them again with barely controlled need. it's a sloppy dance of lips, warm and tender and then ficsúr moves against him, unhurried, leaving his body burning up in hot flames. come now, they breathe into hosszú's mouth, let's go, and that's all he needs to hear.
(...) ficsúr goes down easily when he gently pushes them onto their back and straddles their hips. they moan softly at the contact but it's not enough—with shaking hands hosszú helps them get out of their pants. impatient, huh, ficsúr asks cheekily as they hook their fingers under the waistband of his trousers and start yanking it down. who's talking, he says between peppering kisses to their lips, cheeks, neck and any place he can reach while he blindly fumbles with ficsúr's shirt buttons. they both gasp in union when hosszú sits back and rolls down his hips—the skin to skin contact is making him crazy.
ficsúr runs their hands up his thighs, settling their warm palms just below his abdomen and they look at him with eyes filled with so much love as if he had hung the stars in the sky. you're beautiful, they whisper, voice raspy and hosszú smiles down at them as he gingerly entwines his fingers in their disheveled hair, you ain't look bad yourself, beloved.
(...) there's–there's oil in the top drawer, they breathe and hosszú kisses the spot where their neck and collarbone collide, i know. he hunches over ficsúr and the bed to get the lubricant. they hold their arm out and intvine their hand with his over the small bottle, alright if i just watch? he sheepishly smiles, yeah, enjoy the show, he wants to say but ficsúr's other hand sneaks up his inner thigh, and his words die on his tongue in a loud moan. maintaining eye contact he dips his fingers in the oil and reaches behind himself, slowly pushing a digit in. he wants to keep his gaze on ficsúr's bliss painted expression but his eyes flutter shut as he moves his hand in further—the heat pooling in his belly is burning up his entire body now and ficsúr's palms on his side feel like they're made of ice, cold against his hot skin.
while he keeps opening himself up at a growing pace, ficsúr moves to tenderly wrap a hand around his dick—hosszú's head falls back and his mouth parts in a high pitched groan; he gets more and more desperate by the minute, adding another finger and picking up speed. he rolls his hips into their touch and he feels like the sounds his movements drag out of ficsúr could make him finish without an effort.
exhaling sharply he draws his hand back and wipes it on the sheets—he knows ficsúr will have a few words about it later but he doesn't really care—then bracing himself on ficsúr's chest he slowly sinks down on them. the tingling sensation melts his insides and he's sure he can see stars; and by the look of ficsúr's tilted back head and parted lips, the feeling is mutual. they're both panting softly as hosszú seats himself, and after a beat he finally starts moving.
pleasure fills his veins and his blood flows south and he reaches a shaky, sweaty hand down to lock fingers with ficsúr on the beddings. fu–fuck, they moan and thrust up to meet his movements and hosszú can't help but cry out. perhaps he should keep his voice down a bit, to not disturb the neighbours and all, but ficsúr doesn't seem to mind—love it when you're vocal, they told him once, kissing the corner of his mouth, angel boy—hosszú feels encouraged. he dips down and attaches his mouth to theirs, gently sucking on ficsúr's bottom lip. they free their hands and put them around his waist, helping him go down as far as possible, baby, i'm going to switch our positions, is that alright, they murmur into his mouth and when he breaks away to catch some air ficsúr tips them over—having ficsúr look down at him with hunger burning in their eyes, his head is spinning and he wants to scream, mo–move, beloved, he manages to get out and then ficsúr tightens their hold on his hips and begins to fuck him hard into the cushions.
hosszú's back arches from the bed and his whines blanket the two of them as ficsúr thrusts into him, you're perfect, honey, ah, they hum and let go of his waist in favor of taking hold of his length and he is eliciting sounds he didn't know he could make.
his entire body is trembling now and he's so close, so goddamn close, and it takes one last squeeze of ficsúr's warm palm for him to come between them with a silent scream on his open mouth. they fuck him through it, rough and tender at the same time and it's so overwhelming yet welcome and he almost doesn't realize that ficsúr has finished too.
time seems suspended and the two of them lay there breathing quietly—he moves to tangle a hand in ficsúr's messy hair, caressing the back of their neck comfortingly. they look at him, eyes bright and filled with so much love it makes hosszú forget to exhale and they duck down to kiss him lazily and it feels so good, so perfect—he wishes he could live in this moment forever.