#thread: rhys

rhaego targaryen is kind of the talent that comes once a generation. he’s heard it said for years: in magazine articles greedily devoured back when they were worlds apart, in instagram comment sections scrolled at midnight, knowing better. a bright light in a stagnant field. a visionary. an artist. the irony of man like that finding a man like him has never escaped him, not even once. not since that night — lifetimes ago — where he saw rhaego in the flickering lights of a party in full swing and felt his heart speed past a beat. he’d been too beautiful, too well kept and perfectly styled, even then. and now? with years of experience sharpening his eye?

the man in question seems to feel this line of thought. that, or he senses the point of focus aimed at the back of his neck, dextrous fingers at the clasp of a diamond choker. rhys — perfectly groomed by those expert hands — stands so as not to wrinkle his suit, and he isn’t quite quick enough to glance away before their gazes snag and catch. fuck. he’s too old for stammering words and telltale blushes; this doesn’t seem to stop the warmth as it blooms across high cheeks, suffusing heat into his tan.

from across the room, rhaego is watching. the stare is a palpable press to his skin, the downy hairs at the back of his neck raising under phantom fingers. they have to be downstairs, soon. they’re dressed for the first day of festivities in milan; they can’t do anything right now. that knowledge is both blessing and curse, but he holds to it as rhaego crosses the room, his polished shoes the only sound that dares to break the silence now.

“do you like what you see?”

rhaego loves to do this: ask questions that have no business being voiced to begin with. he knows the answer. they both know he knows. what he’s really waiting for is to see how well rhys will voice this — will it pass muster? or will rhaego demand he say it again?

“yes,” he says, but that won’t be enough, sincerity be damned. rhys lifts his eyes. forces himself to meet rhaego’s at last, and the heat — the intensity twisting in those depths has him sucking in a breath. does he know the power he wields? does he know the effect he has?

(yes.)

“you —— look beautiful.” stupid. he’s so stupid, with his simple words that always feel painfully lacking. rhaego is more than beautiful, but how can he relay that to him? how can he voice the way his stomach churns just to be so close to him?

his chin dips, gaze falling away — and rhaego’s hand is there, viper quick, to force his eyes back up. soft fingers slide past the stubble of his jaw. the grip settles comfortably around his throat, and he swallows hard against the weight. his cock twitches. rhaego smiles like he fucking senses it. maybe he does. maybe that’s why he pulls rhys down, fingers tightening their hold, to catch his mouth in a hot, wet kiss. he can’t help it; rhys moans against those lips, soft and demanding at once, at the teeth that graze his lower lip. already, the festivities are forgotten. he’s got a hand at rhaego’s hip and is pulling him closer, other hand lifted towards that dark, gleaming hair, half hard against the zipper of his pants —

— and rhaego catches the wrist neatly. he steps back, unruffled and poised, leaving rhys panting in his absence.

“you’ll ruin my hair,” he chides. a brief glance downwards, clocking rhys’s physical need and, just as quickly, dismissing it. he runs a thumb below his bottom lip, as if checking that his lip balm hadn’t smudged there. gives rhys a grin. “well? let’s go, then.”

he’s actually gonna throw up.

the threat of it happens pretty often, but he thinks it’s genuinely possible this time: that acrid tang rising up the back of his throat is a pretty good warning. he wonders if rhaego would notice if he hung back for a second and ducked into an alley to hurl up his guts, and immediately knows that he would. the other has been looking over to check on him since the car came to school to pick them up. rhys tries not to meet his eyes. that’s how rhaego finds out things: he stares into your eyes and reads you like a fucking scroll, and there’s nowhere for your thoughts to hide.