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The key to the Venatori cipher is probably somewhere in Ashur's mess of a closet, wedged in between pieces of Viper suits and the rest of his Viper paraphernalia. Tarquin rummages around in the piles of loose armor and worn-in, teal-trimmed leather, searching for the scroll case he vaguely remembers seeing once.
He didn't need Ashur's reference sheet at the height of the cult's activity, when he was going through dozens of intercepted missives a week. But he's out of practice with the Venatori dormant again; there have been no messages for months. While he's got no complaints about being fucked stupid on the daily by his best friend cum fellow rebel—they're not labeling themselves, but heavy emphasis on the cum—it does mean that there's now precious little of use in his head.
The message that Ashur handed to him the day before might not be important. It might even be old, but he has to be able to read it to know for certain.
He spots the shine of the brass scroll case on one of the high shelves. Finally. Tarquin grasps the attached strap and tugs. He meets resistance; the case is caught on something back there. Getting a stool is too much effort so Tarquin just yanks at it, harder. Something loosens, something else shifts on the shelf, and then the scroll case is released. With it comes a box that launches itself out of the closet and strikes him in the face in an explosion of bright purple tissue.
"Shit," he curses.
The box lies upturned on the wooden floor. Black fabric and the corner of a gold-edged card peek out from under crumpled purple tissue.
Tarquin hooks a finger around the silken mass and holds it up to the light. It's a diaphanous web of lace, made from threads as ethereal as a whisper, stitched together by an expert hand. The piece is so delicate, Tarquin is certain he can gather it entirely in one fist. He shakes it out and examines it, trying to match its shape to the taxonomies in his head. Panels of lace, attached to trailing black ribbon. Two straps.
Oh. An apron. A remarkably impractical one.
A breath of musky perfume tickles his nose as he flips the card over and reads:
Have fun playing house.
XOXO, the Archon
The window out in the hall slides open. Perfect timing.
Tarquin ambushes the Viper as he comes in.
"Who's playing house?"
Ashur straightens, boots half-unbuckled, and stares at the man with the lace apron dangling from the fingers of one hand and the perfumed card pinched in the other.
"Oh," Ashur says. He shrugs off his cloak and hangs it up on a hook. The hat follows, and then the mask. "You know Dorian. He thinks he's funny."
Ashur pulls one boot off, then braces himself against a doorway, grips the sole of the other and attempts to free his foot from its confines. "He sent that when he found out you moved in."
"Once again, I didn't move in. This is temporary."
Ashur rolls his eyes and kicks his boots into a corner. "Nine months, seventeen days temporary?"
"You counted?"
Ashur drifts close, his gaze raking over Tarquin from top to toe.
"Barefoot and shirtless temporary?" He curls a hand over the waistband of Tarquin's breeches and reels him in.
"I like being comfortable. It's stuffy."
"I believe you," Ashur murmurs. He leans in for a kiss, and gets a faceful of lace instead.
"Why haven't I seen you in this?"
Ashur catches the apron as it slides off his nose. "It was a joke."
"And we're missing the punchline. Put it on."
Ashur sighs and pulls the straps over his head. The lace hangs over his leathers.
"Not like that," Tarquin groans, shoving Ashur into the bedroom. "I can't even see the cute snake detail. Take the Viper off, then put it on."
A sudden stroke of inspiration. Tarquin reaches for the mask hanging on the hook. "Maybe take all of the Viper off, except this bit." He tosses the mask at Ashur, who snatches it out of the air.
Ashur sighs again, more deeply this time. His shoulders droop. "Really?"
"Tea? I'll make tea," Tarquin says, shutting the door on Ashur.
He puts on the copper kettle, and sits at the little kitchen table to examine the Venatori cipher. He glares at the place settings for two, and the antique silverware Lorelei found for them.
The kettle boils when Tarquin's about halfway through the simple substitution. He pours hot water over the fragrant tea leaves in Ashur's favorite teapot and sets out the two mugs they got from Bren. One has World's Biggest Grump painted on it. The other's got Pussy Power.
He continues working on the message while the tea steeps. Time passes and Tarquin starts to wonder if Ashur's somehow gotten tangled in the lace. He's pouring himself some tea when he hears a step behind him and senses Ashur's heat and presence.
He turns around and says, "Tea's ready."
"So am I," Ashur replies.
The exposed skin above the Viper's mask is ruddy. The blush continues down his neck and blooms across his chest. Rosy, glistening nipples peek out from either side of the front lace panel. The apron's skirt sways elegantly between his muscular thighs and tents slightly over his dick. The airy weave leaves very little to the imagination.
The teapot clatters back onto the table as Tarquin loses his grip on the handle. Scalding tea sloshes over the Venatori message and spills onto his knee.
"Fuck me," he gasps, jumping to his feet.
"Sure," Ashur says coolly, as Tarquin holds the steaming fabric away from his skin.
"No, I mean..." stammers Tarquin. "Fuck, you've got the veiny gravy-maker out and everything."
"Can we... please not call it that." Ashur's ears are so pink they're almost incandescent.
"Sorry, yeah, I just... I mean... shit. Fuckfuckfuck. Fuck."
Tarquin circles Ashur slowly. The straps of the apron are crossed over his wide, muscular back. He's tied the ribbons in a bow around his waist and their loose ends dangle teasingly over his rounded buttocks. One has nestled itself in the cleft between his cheeks. Ashur flexes the taut muscle and Tarquin stares.
"I take it you like the look," Ashur says, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
Tarquin gives Ashur a swift smack on the bottom with the flat of his palm. Ashur gasps in surprise. Tarquin does it again, delighting in the juicy bounce. The apron's front panel billows outward as Ashur's dick twitches beneath it.
"Yeah, I like the look," Tarquin says, low. "Seems you do too."
"I like the attention it gets me."
"Do you now?" Tarquin drags his hand up Ashur's waist, up and over his ribs to circle a nipple with a grazing touch. He pulls Ashur to him, presses his chest against Ashur's back and lays a kiss on the side of his neck. "Want more of it?"
A quick pinch of the nipple, and his hand rustles across the lace all the way down between Ashur's legs to stroke his dick through the sheer fabric. Ashur grabs his wrist, directs his fingers and grinds up against them. Tarquin can feel the wetness seeping through the lace.
"You do love being on display," whispers Tarquin.
He doesn't know what he's done to deserve Ashur squirming the way he does at his touch. Ashur's pliant and responsive, always ready for whatever Tarquin wants, as frequently as he wants it; taking or giving, Ashur's into it all.
Tarquin takes a desperate breath against Ashur's neck, inhaling Ashur's warm scent and the musky trace of the perfume left on the lace apron. He drags a palm down across Ashur's back, thumbs the dimples above his ass and then grabs himself a handful of butt. Ashur yelps softly as Tarquin's fingers dig in.
It's like there are embers burning under Tarquin's skin. He wants to sink his teeth into Ashur; breathe in the hazy scent of his pleasure; tongue the sweet salt in the creases of his skin; leave half-moon indents on his arm and mottled scratches down his back.
He bucks against the hard jut of Ashur's hip, dragging the seam of his breeches against his own throbbing flesh. Ashur makes a small noise of dismay when Tarquin steps back and gets swatted sharply across the butt. And then Tarquin takes him—each cheek to a hand—and steers him toward the kitchen table by the ass.
Tarquin bends him over and shoves him into the sturdy surface. Ashur's splayed out over the Venatori message, face mere inches away from the Pussy Power mug, ass bare and glowing with the marks left by Tarquin's hand.
Ashur grunts when Tarquin kicks his feet apart. His dick hangs heavy between his legs, pressed down against the edge of the table and into the lace of the apron and the embroidered linen tablecloth that was an unexpected gift from Maevaris.
He reaches between Ashur's legs and massages his fingers into the spot behind his balls, and Ashur responds with a ragged groan. Encouraged, Tarquin presses in harder. Ashur moans again, and pops his hip back, thrusting himself into Tarquin's fingers. Tarquin feels his own dick twitch and he ruts against the swell of Ashur's perfect butt cheek—the only evidence of a Maker, as far as Tarquin's concerned.
He squeezes Ashur's balls, and gives his dick a playful little tug before taking his hand away. His fingers fumble at the buttons of his breeches. He pulls the front open and thrusts a hand between his legs. He's dripping like the rain-swollen gutters of Minrathous.
"Remember how you fucked me last night?" Tarquin asks, dragging his fingers through his own wetness.
Ashur nods his head against the table, putting wrinkles in Mae's gift.
"Buried in my guts, my dick between your fingers. Had me leaking all over the damned place. Made me forget my own name."
"You're welcome," Ashur mumbles. Always so polite; Tarquin loves soiling that mouth.
"How about I return the favor, hm?" Tarquin pulls Ashur's butt cheek aside and slides the edge of his hand down Ashur's crack until his finger, coated with his own slick, finds Ashur's hole. He rubs the twitching ring until Ashur whimpers and back up into him.
"Go on," Tarquin urges. "Beg."
"Please," Ashur whines.
Tarquin pops his finger past the tight entrance and Ashur hisses. Hot flesh pulses against his knuckles and he slowly turns his palm downward, crooking his finger and prying Ashur open. Ashur gasps and scrabbles at the table, rucking up the linen and sending silverware crashing to the floor.
And now the ceramic butter dish is inching toward to the edge. Orange kitten on the white ceramic cover. A gift from Marisa for no discernible reason.
The thought crosses his mind briefly. Is butter safe? No, better not.
He tries to clear his throat discreetly and takes the opportunity to spit onto his fingers when he leaves Ashur briefly so he can safely relocate the butter dish and kitten.
Ashur receives him eagerly when he returns, drawing him back into the rippling warmth, and Tarquin slips another finger in alongside the first. He presses in, laboriously slow, until Ashur moans and clutches reflexively at the tablecloth. Another fork goes flying.
The apron's strings are tied in a sweet bow that rests in the valley of Ashur's spine. Tarquin grips that silken knot and holds Ashur down, leaving bloodless circles where knuckles dig into the meaty back. His skin is damp and their bodies cling together in the sticky heat where they touch. The small kitchen echoes with Ashur's dark moans. Tarquin ignores the cramping in his fingers and the deep ache between his legs as he drags sob after sob from the man beneath him.
Ashur ruts against the table, then pushes back into Tarquin's fingers. Back and forth, with Tarquin fucking him hard and steady until he's dripping. The lace apron catches most of it; the tablecloth gets the rest. Ashur reaches back and clamps his fingers onto Tarquin's thigh. He squeezes hard as his groans get rougher and louder. All of him is coiled tight, tension peaking. The lace apron creases wetly around Ashur's dick as he squirms. When he comes, it's with a long low cry, and he clenches hard around Tarquin's fingers and soaks the front of the apron. Tarquin fucks him through his climax and Ashur gulps for air like a drowning man, until at last he finally quiets and collapses in on himself with all the wind gone out of him.
Tarquin gently removes his fingers, stumbles back, and sits right down on the floor.
Ashur takes a few heaving breaths and pushes himself into an upright position. He sways on his feet and has to steady himself on the nearest chair. He is gorgeously flushed, almost from head to toe. The lace apron has picked up a few small rips. Sticky with issue, it clings to his dick when Ashur tries to peel it off.
"You're trying to kill me, looking like that," Tarquin mumbles, watching his fucked-out pretty boy. He crawls to the table, retrieves the Venatori message that's fallen under it, and takes a sip of tea from World's Biggest Grump.
Oh. They're housewarming gifts.
Tarquin lays back down on the floor and stares at the brass lamp hanging from the ceiling.
"Fine. I guess I live here now."