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Oh, Anthony Crowley was fucked.
The absolute angel of a man that was Asa Fell was adorable, positively sloshed and gesturing with an excitement Anthony had yet to see from him.
Their first date at the pub had gone so well, but they’d both stayed fairly sober, more intent on conversation and the simple questions of a first meeting. The little jaunt to the flea market for their second date had been similar, only marked by a rest for mint tea and blueberry tarts from one of the stalls. This third one, though, a posher dinner at a bistro, had gotten them both pleasantly buzzed and chased them both to Asa’s cozy flat for more wine set to a soundtrack of Great British Bake Off reruns.
Anthony himself was sprawled loosely on the couch, but Asa had abandoned his cardigan, rolled up his sleeves, and undone the knot on his bowtie, revealing new skin so different from his usual prim attire. The soft but so strong curvature of his forearms, the soft grey wisps of chest hair peaking up above his unbuttoned collar— Anthony had never been one to really crave much, especially not this early into a relationship, but Asa seemed tailor-made from him from his wildest dreams.
Asa was caught up in some rant about clumpy ganache, shouting some merlot-slurred nonsense at Paul Hollywood, but the red stained wetness of his lips as he licked them reflexively had Anthony near drooling. It must have been his own bourbon talking, but he wanted to lunge forward and just kiss that drunk pout of Asa’s face, to lick into him and taste the grapes and blackberries and tannins and vanilla from his mouth, glasses be damned.
That’s it— Anthony Crowley would do anything for the honor of kissing this man.