May 3rd, 1891 — Macnair's Residence, London

Ford was coming directly from his weekly conversation with Cash, which he felt more than a little weird about. He'd been distracted all evening, obviously, and he was worried Lestrange might have noticed, though he hadn't said anything about it. On half a dozen occasions Ford had hesitated during a natural pause in the conversation, wondering if he ought to say something about his plans for the rest of the evening. Lestrange and Macnair were related; he might have been able to give Ford some clue as to what to expect (then again — maybe not, given the hints Macnair had been dropping in his letters — not the sort of thing a cousin was likely to have any experience with). Ultimately, though, he'd decided against it. If he even hinted at where he was heading, there was a chance Lestrange might say something to talk him out of it (intentionally or not), and — well. He wasn't sure he wanted to be talked out of it. He'd come this far, sending letters with lines he regretted immediately after the owl left his window, and now it was… it was inevitable, wasn't it? As inevitable as it had been the first week of April, when they'd been holding each other's gaze in the club and Macnair had said he wasn't afraid of anything.

Ford felt conspicuous going to the floo at Black's instead of out the front door into Hogsmeade, and even more so giving an address that obviously wasn't his. He had a suitable cover story if anyone asked — Macnair needed assistance with something. Not that Ford would be able to say anything more than that. He hadn't asked what Macnair needed assistance with (because wasn't it obvious?) but perhaps he should have, just in case someone did ask. A note for next time.

(Next time?)

If he hesitated any more he was going to lose his nerve. No one was around to notice. He checked his watch — three minutes past eight — and stepped into the green flames.

---

He'd needed a house. It was one of the things that was done when one got engaged. He couldn't envision staying in the family home with Tatiana—not when his mother, father, and two younger brothers still lived under the roof. They could have gotten a nearby manor, and maybe in time they would, but for now the easiest thing to do was to set up a London home for the social scene. That was done.

Valerian did have an excuse for needing Greengrass there, but he hadn't wanted to specify in-letter until Greengrass asked. Of course, his excuse was just that—an excuse—but it would be a much easier visit with one instead of inviting the other man with the expectation that things would fall into place as easily as he'd been hoping all those weeks ago. The London house had been purchased but it had yet to be fully furnished; there were some couches and some chairs, but there were also plenty of boxes which remained covered by sheets, making the house feel much emptier than it was. The only thing that was completely furnished was his bedroom—for obvious reasons.

But there was one thing about the house that was conveniently relevant for the purposes of getting Greengrass in: there was a ghost. He'd seen it twice since being in the home, but it had never really bothered him. He had asked the neighbor (one of the perks of living in a London townhome where the walls connected) if the ghost was much of a nuisance, at which point he'd been informed that the ghost had a tendency to float through all the townhomes in the row, as he'd died prior to the complex's construction and during a time when the land had been a field hospital which... was good to know but maybe a bit too much history to process in his state of mind.

That was all beside the point, though. Greengrass was coming, he had the ghost story (but the ghost wasn't here—he'd made sure of that), and he'd taken the time to dress as nicely as possible without making it so undressing would be overly complicated if it came to that. Work had ended three hours prior, and as he'd bathed back in Inverness-shire it was all he could do to keep images of Greengrass out of his mind. But he was here now, and it was only a matter of time before the months-long wait came to an end.

And, soon enough, there he was.

"Forgive the mess," he said immediately, because it was what he'd planned to say from the moment he realized what a mess the sitting room actually looked like. A pause followed while he took in the whole of Greengrass—what he wore, the state of his curls, the way he stood. "I'm glad you could make it." He stood still, his hand on the back of the armchair that sat a good ten feet from the fireplace, and he watched, eyes slightly narrowed, curiously, and mouth tipped up into a smile, waiting for any indication of Greengrass' current mindset.

---

Ford was surprised at the space he stepped into, and might have wondered if he'd mistaken the address if it wasn't for Macnair there to greet him. There was nothing here, though. The scattered furniture and the occasional boxes were nothing to the lavish estate Macnair had received him in last time he'd visited. Ford's lips parted slightly and a shiver ran through his spine. They were alone — that was what this meant, with all the emptiness and the disarray. This wasn't a mansion with half of the third floor dedicated to housing an ever-present collection of servants. They were really, entirely alone.

He locked eyes with Macnair and found his throat was already dry — not an ideal start. Macnair seemed so casual about this, with his I'm glad you could make it, and so confident, as always. Did he know that this moment was the only thing Ford had been thinking about all day? Would he have cared if he did?

"Of course," he managed. As though he could have said no.

---

Apart from their words, all was silent. Almost too silent, as there was no ambience to fill the air when neither of them spoke, making it very difficult to forget the reason he'd summoned Greengrass here. He felt the anticipation on his skin in the form of goosebumps; he could hear his own breath, steady but heavy as he tried to decide what was he best move to make. It would have been easier if Greengrass had moved forward—it would have given him the time to gauge his comfort level, to figure out what steps it would take to ease him into the idea of following him to his bedroom. Maybe he should have taken the time to furnish this room; it would have made it all feel more natural for him.

Finally Valerian decided to move forward, abandoning the armchair and stepping out into the empty room. There wasn't even as much as a portrait on the wall to distract him, but for that he was grateful: he wanted to see Greengrass and only Greengrass.

"I know it's not much," he said, his smile sliding onto his face much easier this time, feeling a bit empowered by the way Greengrass' eyes stayed locked on his as the seconds ticked past, "but it's been a process. I like to focus on the areas that mean the most. It helps everything else come together." His words were empty and devoid of real meaning, but they served a purpose: filling the air as he stepped closer and closer, inching towards Greengrass until he was only two feet in front of him.

His blue eyes were still locked on Greengrass' when he came to a halt, his gaze was more intense—he was looking, searching, for any indication of weakness or want or nervousness. the corner of his lip twitched playfully. "No boggarts this time, though. I checked."

---

Macnair was closing the distance between them, and Ford's whole body seemed to light up with anticipation. It was hard to focus on his words and even harder to make sense of them. What was a bit of a process? Oh, were they still talking about the house? This had to just be idle banter, rather than Macnair actually trying to explain. It wasn't as though he needed to make excuses to Ford about the lack of furnishing in his second (third? fourth?) house. He must have known that, too, even if he didn't know much about Ford or his family or their relative social standing, compared to families like the Lestranges or Macnairs. He must have known that after their last conversation, he could have told Ford to meet him literally anywhere and Ford would have done it.

Macnair stopped approaching. He was within arm's reach, which was both far too close for anything like comfort but also much farther away than Ford had anticipated he would be when he started walking across the room. When Macnair had been pacing steadily towards him Ford couldn't help but picture him advancing all the way, putting a hand on Ford's shoulder and pushing him back — pinned up against the mantle, perhaps, and —

Ford swallowed and tried to concentrate, because Macnair was speaking to him and he didn't want to look as though he wasn't paying attention; he wanted to hang on his every syllable, it was just that all of the pressure that had built up in his body since they'd started exchanging letters was making it difficult.

"You checked?" he responded, eyebrow raised slightly. "How did you do that? Did you go room to room, waiting for something to scare you?"

---

Greengrass' response brought out a new emotion, but he couldn't quite pin it down, yet. Greengrass had challenged him, something he hadn't really done before now, or at least not last time. It was more entertaining that way, he thought; there was no fun in getting what he wanted all the time, at least not with no resistance at all, and the unimportant banter helped build up the anticipation the most thrilling way.

"In a big empty house there's only so many places you can hide," he said, raising a sly brow in return. He had checked for boggarts, truly, but not so thoroughly that he could say that there was, without a doubt, no boggarts in his home. He'd glanced through the mostly-empty trunks and boxes that had been left behind by the previous owner, which contained mostly tablecloths and other decorative items that matched the house's current sets. But that was unimportant, wasn't it? That's not what this was about. This was a back-and-forth, a tug of war. "But like I said last time," he said, dropping his voice a notch, all while inching closer, "I'm not afraid of anything anymore."

---

Ford hadn't really been sure why he'd said it as the words had left his mouth, except that it was something to say and he needed to respond somehow. When Macnair responded, though, Ford knew that was what he'd wanted. One of those things Macnair could say in such a cavalier manner, as though it were nothing, but which would send a jolt of excitement down his spine and raise goosebumps on his arms. In a big empty house like this, there's only so many places you can hide.

Ford wet his lower lip and took a half-step closer. Macnair had edged in, too. Ford's eyes flickered from the other man's eyes to his lips to the last bit of skin visible above his collar, then back again.

"I remember you saying that," he said in a low tone. This time he knew what he was doing: trying to get Macnair to give him another line, because these loaded declarations were intoxicating. "But everyone's afraid of something."

---

It was a tug of war, and Valerian was winning. He'd taken a step closer, and Greengrass had mirrored him, inching closer with his eyes fixated on his own. He liked feeling like this—like he was in control of the situation. He'd never been the type to exert control over other people (what was the fun in that?), but there was something alluring about the control being handed over willingly. And Greengrass was handing it over, and Valerian wasn't even sure if he was aware of it in the moment. It was all he could do to stop himself from leaning forward, cupping the other man's face, and pulling him against him. He wanted to. He would, too, if Greengrass allowed it. But this was a tug of war, he reminded himself again—he had to earn it.

He inched forward forward again, and this time he could feel Greengrass' breath on his own. It had struck him the last time in Inverness-shire, and it struck him here, too: Greengrass had a whole inch on him, and though it was hardly noticeable from a distance or from their seats at the club, he found himself looking up just slightly. He shifted his hand, reaching out just enough to where his fingertips brushed over the back of Greengrass' hand, his fingernails gently tracing his knuckles.

"I can’t imagine what I would have to be afraid of," he breathed. This wasn’t working. The anticipation was too much; his fingers were tingling where they’d brushed across Greengrass’ skin, and his heart leapt, trying to escape his chest.

---

Oh, oh, oh, Macnair was touching him. Of course Ford had anticipated that he would, but he hadn't expected this specifically. It startled him, and his hand twitched back without thinking about it, outside the range of Macnair's fingers. Ford flushed and hurriedly used that hand to rub the back of his neck, though he didn't think Macnair would be fooled into thinking that was why he'd moved it. Ford didn't even know why he'd moved it, but he was concerned the message it would send to Macnair might be that he was reluctant, which… was he? Ford wasn't sure. It was difficult to recognize his own feelings, smothered as they were beneath this blanket of whatever it was he felt when Macnair was looking at him like that.

He'd said in his letter that he was eager to see how he could be of assistance, which was the opposite of whatever impulse had caused him to pull his hand away. He'd also spent at least an hour after sending that letter internally lamenting his use of the word eager. Had it bothered him so much because it was the wrong word to describe what he was going through, or only because he wasn't sure how Macnair would take it?

He couldn't think properly with the other man this close to him, and with their eyes still locked together. Ford broke eye contact (he hadn't believed it was possible for him to break eye contact with Macnair, and not the other way around, until that moment) and took half a step back, then turned and crossed towards the nearest sofa. He was too hot, all of the sudden, so moving away from both Macnair and the fireplace was a good first step to trying to think through this. The time to think through this had probably been earlier, before he'd responded to that first letter, but there had been too much of Macnair's personality that came across even in two lines on parchment. One may have been worded as a question, but Ford had interpreted it as a command; he had not ever considered until after he sent the letter that it was even possible to refuse. The first response he'd written had been Of course; just tell me when and where, but thankfully he'd remembered himself enough before sending it to recall that he did actually have a number of schedule conflicts. Macnair had written busy, busy like he was making fun of Ford, but Ford was busy.

That had been the genesis of the word eager in his response, Ford realized now. He'd felt guilty about having to tell Macnair even the softest of noes by responding with such a restrictive schedule, because his instinct had been to say that he would rearrange everything else in his life to be at Macnair's beck and call — that Macnair could command him as he pleased. The last line of Ford's letter had been included as a reassurance; despite how the first paragraph might read, he knew his place in this power dynamic. It didn't matter whether it was an accurate representation of how Ford felt (he still had not worked through things enough to know if it was), because he hadn't included it as a sentiment for his own sake, but rather because he thought it would please Macnair.

And he did want to please Macnair. Whatever else he did or didn't want, the idea of seeing a satisfied smirk of Macnair's face sent a rush through him. He had come here tonight to earn it. He would have done anything to earn it.

"No boggarts," he repeated. He was facing the sofa, not Macnair, and had started slowly and deliberately unbuttoning his jacket, since it was too hot for him to keep it on. "And you wouldn't be afraid of anything, anyway." The jacket was off and he folded it once before loosely tossing it over the arm of the sofa, then started unbuttoning his shirt sleeves at the cuffs so that he could roll them up a few inches, as though he actually expected to work. Glancing over his shoulder at Macnair, he asked with one raised eyebrow, "So what was it you needed my assistance for?"

---

And just like that, then, the initial anticipation was broken. He watched as Greengrass withdrew his hand into a gesture of embarrassment, not a definite expression of rejection but in the moment it felt like that. His eyes fixated on Greengrass' chest in a glazed over stare, not really looking but rather... considering. His hand was still tingling, but for a different reason: the reminder that this sort of thing was dangerous. Messing around with men who were eager participants was one thing, because there was no line of defense for them if they ever divulged his secrets, but someone such as Greengrass—Valerian's gaze slowly followed him as he made his escape towards the sofa—might have been inexperienced and uncertain. Nothing like Valerian's first experience, where he'd known what he wanted and had not allowed anything get in the way of it. He would have to reevaluate his approach, if not scrap it altogether.

Of course, it would have been easier to do if Greengrass hadn't been standing there, faced away from him, unbuttoning his jacket. Valerian couldn't tell if he'd made the point to face away out of embarrassment like a moment before or to tease him. Valerian had never liked being teased; he didn't have the patience for it, and he never liked to play beggar. Whatever his intention, watching Greengrass roll up his shirt sleeves sent his heart thrumming, and he could only imagine what it would be like to unbutton those buttons, trail his hand down to his belt, and then...

"There's a ghost," he said, remembering how Greengrass on their first meeting had admitted to being enthusiastic about spirits. (Valerian wished he was so enthusiastic about other things, but patience. He needed to find patience.) He began undoing his own coat, which he'd initially dressed in anticipation of Greengrass being the one to take it off, but it seemed like that was yet another thing he would need to reevaluate. He threw it on top of an empty and rolled up his sleeves, eyes periodically peeking up to see how Greengrass was reacting to any of it. The ghost. His coat. His cuffs. He needed some sort of sign.

"But he doesn't live under just one roof. The neighbors say he'll go in and out between the home on this end of the complex—that because he died prior to its instruction he doesn't feel constrained to one house." He was walking towards Greengrass again, but his steps were much more casual and much less deliberate. He didn't want to scare him off. Fear was never healthy in situations like this. "... Which, I'm sure you can imagine, makes him difficult to negotiate with." Valerian had tried once, but only the first time he'd seen him; offended by his requests, though, the ghost had simply vanished through his bedroom wall and into the next house over.

---

Macnair was taking his jacket off, too, and Ford's eyes followed the man's hands as they moved through the buttons. His mouth was dry and there was a buzzing feeling creeping through the back of his neck — anticipation, trepidation, excitement, or maybe some strange mix of the three. He was waiting for Macnair to walk towards him again — it seemed inevitable. What Macnair said, however, caught him off guard. Ford's eyebrows raised, his expression one of obvious surprise. A ghost? Macnair had an actual spirit- related problem he wanted assistance with? Ford had assumed that was just a cover — hence why he hadn't ever asked what Macnair needed help with. Now he was caught off-guard, wondering if he'd misread this entire situation.

But if there was an actual ghost that Macnair needed help with, why not say that in the letter? And why — why take his jacket off? Why brush his fingers against Ford's hand a moment ago?

This couldn't be real. This had to be a cover story Macnair had made up on the spot, probably to cover himself in the event that Ford tried to back out. Understandable, given how he'd just reacted to Macnair's touch, but…

Ford wasn't going to back out, was he? He'd come this far. He was alone with Macnair in an empty house. No one was expecting him back home any time soon. There was no reason to back out except his own hesitation, and… Ford didn't know. He hadn't expected to have the option, honestly. He'd expected that Macnair would know exactly what he wanted and would take it without stopping to ask permission first, but now the other man was offering him an out, and… Ford didn't know what to do. He wet his lower lip and let his eyes trail over Macnair's face and chest again.

This was the sort of thing that could ruin Ford, and destroy his family's chances at surviving in society. But if Macnair wanted to ruin him, he could do it either way; he had more than enough material already, and if it came down to it he had all the power. No one was going to choose to believe Ford over the heir to one of the most powerful families in wizarding England. So what was the risk, really? If he was damned either way…

Ford bit his bottom lip and took one slow step towards Macnair. This put him too close for casual conversation; too close to keep up the pretext that Macnair had called him here to deal with something work related. Ford didn't know what to do with his hands, because he certainly didn't have the nerve to start touching Macnair. He fiddled with one sleeve, straightening out the fold where he'd rolled it. His attention wasn't on his sleeve, though; his eyes found Macnair's, his expression hesitant but clearly willing.

---

Valerian had given him an out, an excuse, and yet Greengrass did not seem as eager to take it as he'd been eager to flee from in front of him a moment ago. His head tilted a few degrees, and his brows twitched, the inner corners knitting together for a fraction of a second before he resumed his calm, neutral expression. Greengrass' brows had raised in surprise, but unlike last time when he'd told him about the boggart and Greengrass had been enthusiastic about the prospect, this time no words left his mouth. Greengrass remained silent, and in that moment Valerian would have given all the money in the world to know what he was thinking. Perhaps he'd been wrong to doubt himself—he should have been. Valerian rarely made miscalculations with those sort of thing nowadays; he'd been through his share of hookups and subtle rejections to know what signs to look for, and everything leading up this meeting—and even in the first few minutes of this meeting—had suggested that his time with Greengrass would not end in a panicked rejection. Maybe he should just...

All thoughts of the inconsequential ghosts and neighbors and empty rooms went out of his mind when Greengrass took a step closer. Greengrass' brown eyes—Merlin he'd always had a thing for brown eyes, since the very beginning—were watching his own, wide and hesitant and little gold flecks reflecting off of the light from the lamps in the room, and Valerian knew that any self-control he'd been hanging onto was waning quicker than he could get a grip of it. He wanted to look down at his sleeve, where out of the corner of his eyes he could see Greengrass playing with it, but it was Valerian's turn to be transfixed by the details of Greengrass' face: the way his eyebrows turned just slightly, the streak of moisture on his bottom lip where he'd licked his lip a moment ago, the sound of his breath, so close yet altogether too far away.

Something clicked in his mind, and if Greengrass had decided he didn't want to do this, Valerian thought he'd done a poor job of making it known. He stepped forward, one foot positioning itself between Greengrass' and his hands coming up to rest on the other man's chest as he pushed his lips hungrily against his.

---

For one soul-crushing second Macnair didn't seem to respond to how Ford had moved or the way he was looking at him, and Ford wondered if he had miscalculated this. Was this not a clear enough indication of what he'd come here tonight to do? Was this invitation going to be ignored? The idea of having to move from this into a pointless conversation about a ghost whom he was certain didn't exist was painful. The idea of having disappointed Macnair was even worse — and it would have been a disappointment, because Ford was sure he hadn't misread the signs from their last conversation or the letters or the beginning of their interaction tonight. Ford knew what Macnair wanted; if he didn't take it now, when Ford had essentially offered himself to the other man, it would only be because Macnair had decided he wasn't worth the trouble. That would have killed him, he suspected, having to muddle through a conversation about a fake ghost while wrestling with the knowledge that Macnair had, in essence, discarded him.

But he hadn't miscalculated. Macnair stepped into him and his hands were on Ford's chest and his lips were on his. Ford let out an immediate and involuntary noise that could best be described as midway between a whimper and a moan, though maybe closer to the former. He returned the kiss, matching the slightly frantic energy of it. Macnair's tongue was in his mouth already and Ford had a brief flash of panic as he tried to remember whether he was supposed to do anything with it or just let Macnair explore him. He had so little experience with this, and the one time it had happened before it wasn't as though he’d stopped to take notes after. He hoped very desperately that it wasn't obvious to Macnair how inexperienced he was, though, so he decided to run the edge of Macnair's tongue with his own and hope that was — the sort of thing people did, in these situations.

He let go of his sleeve and inched his body closer to Macnair's, until their hips were touching. Ford let one hand slide into Macnair's hip, because that felt natural, and then frantically tried to remember what Fisk had been doing with his hands last time Ford had been kissed so that he could think of something logical to do with the other one. He couldn't think, though — Macnair's hands were on him and his hips were up against Ford's and his tongue was in Ford's mouth, and trying to think of anything else was impossible.

---

It got very intense, very fast.

He liked it that way—liked when the wave of sensations came crashing down all at once, when the desire and need and urges were at a high. There were times where a slower, more intentional buildup was preferable, but the anticipation had been eating away at him for an entire month, and it was all he could do not to claw at Greengrass' clothes until they fell away to the floor.

Greengrass' little moan sent him into a frenzy, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, the feeling of Greengrass' tongue sliding against his own doing nothing to help slow him down. His hands were all over the place: first on his chest, where he'd up the fabric of Greengrass' shirt in his hands, and then up the planes of his chest to his shoulders. While one hand stayed there, gripping at his shoulder as if he was afraid Greengrass might pull back any moment, his other hand slid down the length of Greengrass' arm until he found the man's hand on his hip. He encircled Greengrass' wrist and pulled his hand around his backside and stepped closer, pushing their hips together in a very intentional way, desperately seeking any way to close every little gap of space between them.

Valerian had always assumed Greengrass was inexperienced with this sort of thing. It was good practice to assume most men were, because assuming that they were as experienced as him might lower his inhibitions in a way that ought not to be done in situations as delicate as this. Greengrass was kissing him back, and he'd put his hands somewhere and that was probably the best he could have hoped for, but it didn't matter; he'd never turned away the chance to lead.

It was his turn to moan into Greengrass' mouth, less a testament to his loss of self-control but more as a way for Greengrass to know he approved. He pulled away, not even long enough to look the other man in the eye, before he dragged his lips down across Greengrass' jaw, drawing a path of open-mouthed kisses down his throat and to his pulse point.

"Tell me what you like," he demanded, just loud enough for Greengrass to hear him as he pulled back just slightly before leaning in to press another kiss to his neck.

---

Macnair moved his hand and Ford’s head spun. This was exactly what he wanted, although he hadn’t known it until this moment and certainly wouldn’t have been able to ask for it. The feeling of the other man’s hand around his wrist sent a rush of adrenaline through him. The knowledge that Macnair was directing him, taking control in even so minor a matter as where Ford put his hand, drove him wild. He’d already had the very beginnings of an erection growing beneath his trousers but now he swelled considerably knowing that Macnair was driving this interaction. It made him worry a little less about coming across as so inexperienced, too (though he still didn’t want it to be too obvious), because if he did something wrong Macnair would just correct him. He’d decided that Ford was worth the effort after all, and perhaps there would be missteps along the way, but Ford was nothing if not eager to please.

There were too many other things going on for Ford to even consciously register them, though his body was reacting to each and every one. Macnair’s hands became the least interesting thing about this for at least a moment. Ford’s hand was on Macnair’s backside, and he’d never touched another person there but was finding that he enjoyed it immensely. He wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of a soft, squishy body part beneath his fingers as he squeezed or how immediately this drew them closer to each other; it was a more powerful way to hold on than just having his hand on Macnair’s hip, and Ford thought maybe if he pulled he could force that movement that Macnair had done just a second ago with his hips, that thrust that had knocked all of the breath out of Ford’s body with how unexpected and pleasurable it had been. And then there was the noise, which made Ford feel briefly light headed. Knowing that Macnair was enjoying this was an even bigger rush than the feeling of the kiss itself.

Oh, his neck! This was the thing Fisk had done right at the end, the thing that had sent Ford nearly past the point of no return, and it made Ford shiver with pleasure in a way that he was sure Macnair could feel, close as they were. “This,” he answered immediately, not even needing to think about it. It was a good thing that Macnair had just started in on his neck before he’d asked, because otherwise a question like that might have had Ford paralyzed with anxiety — it was not something he’d given any great degree of thought to — but now it seemed as simple a question to answer as what color his hair was, or some other obvious and immutable fact of his life. Ford’s free hand went to the other half of Macnair’s backside and he pulled the other man towards him as he bucked his hips forward, grinding against him. He was breathing heavily and only just had the presence of mind to duck his head enough to kiss Macnair’s neck in turn, trying not to get lost in just his own sensations. “I like this.”

---

They weren't going to make it to the bedroom, were they? It was a shame; he'd put an effort into preparing that one room for this exact purpose, but now his face was buried in Greengrass' neck and Greengrass' arm was wrapped around him, and Valerian could not even imagine extracting himself from their current position to do something as trivial and time-consuming as take Greengrass up to the bedroom. It was a waste of energy. It was a waste of time he wasn't sure he could spare, because the more Greengrass loosened up and allowed his hands to travel Valerian was becoming more aware of his own impatience.

He practically purred against Greengrass' neck at the feeling of the bulge in his trousers pressed up against his hips. It was a natural response—and Valerian could feel his own body responding in the same way as their hips pressed together—but it didn't make knowing that he had this sort of effect over Greengrass any less satisfying. The desperation and desire to aimlessly explore Greengrass' body faded, replaced by a new but equally intense need to be intentional in his every movement, to elicit specific noises and specific movements from Greengrass, whose every move seemed a direct response to his own.

Valerian rewarded Greengrass' gentle squeeze of his backside by rolling his hips in response, the words I like this as much of an invitation as he needed to redirect his attention from the feeling of Greengrass' skin under his lips to another matter: Greengrass' clothes. He tilted his head backwards, allowing Greengrass as much room as he moved his lips over his throat, a quiet, "Just like that," slipping from his lips before he could think of anything else. His hands found Greengrass' waist, and he reminded himself of his mission: the clothes.

He began plucking at the buttons, starting in the middle and working his way up or down depending on which way felt more natural at the moment, his fingers dipping in-between the gaps in the buttons to stroke the skin underneath. He continued undoing his shirt, something that became increasingly more difficult to focus on when the feeling of Greengrass' lips on his neck forced a moan through his lips and sent his eyes fluttering shut.

---