[ Ozpin has not touched him like this in so very long. Stanford is warm and solid beneath his palm, as he always has been.
This was an astonishingly bad idea, and it is too late now to do anything but submit to gravity.
Stanford pulls him down, and Ozpin goes. He is keenly aware of the rise and fall of Stanford's chest, the weight of a too-broad grip around his slim wrist. Ford parts his lips, and Ozpin is a breath away from kissing him before he remembers himself. He holds himself over the man's lap, instead: a knee on the chaise beside Ford's hip, a hand braced at his lapel, one simple shift from pinning him.
Stanford would let him. At least, he would have, once. Ozpin does not know what he's allowed, now: it is uncharted territory again.
He does what they expect him to do. He slides his free hand up Stanford's nape to tangle in his hair, bends close, lowers lips to throat. The room is narrowing to only warm darkness and distant music, the planes of Stanford's body beneath his hands, the smell of dark blackberries. When Stanford bares his throat, Ozpin exhales a sound against it. He parts his lips, tastes skin and salt, and for one heady moment there is nothing in his mind but sweet anticipation. He puts teeth to throat and sucks, lightly, to raise blood in the skin.
Then he bites, and the bloom of Darkblood in his mouth is perfect. ]
cws start here for blood, biting, nsfw, dubcon via intoxication/altered emotions
This was an astonishingly bad idea, and it is too late now to do anything but submit to gravity.
Stanford pulls him down, and Ozpin goes. He is keenly aware of the rise and fall of Stanford's chest, the weight of a too-broad grip around his slim wrist. Ford parts his lips, and Ozpin is a breath away from kissing him before he remembers himself. He holds himself over the man's lap, instead: a knee on the chaise beside Ford's hip, a hand braced at his lapel, one simple shift from pinning him.
Stanford would let him. At least, he would have, once. Ozpin does not know what he's allowed, now: it is uncharted territory again.
He does what they expect him to do. He slides his free hand up Stanford's nape to tangle in his hair, bends close, lowers lips to throat. The room is narrowing to only warm darkness and distant music, the planes of Stanford's body beneath his hands, the smell of dark blackberries. When Stanford bares his throat, Ozpin exhales a sound against it. He parts his lips, tastes skin and salt, and for one heady moment there is nothing in his mind but sweet anticipation. He puts teeth to throat and sucks, lightly, to raise blood in the skin.
Then he bites, and the bloom of Darkblood in his mouth is perfect. ]