George Boleyn/Mark Smeaton.
Seriously. Drabble. Drabble. There is not nearly enough love for these guys :c
-x-
He moved silently, arms sliding around the musician's waist, and it was a tribute to how absorbed Smeaton was in his music that he didn't even falter, his tempo not changing, his music keeping the same ebbing flow that George found, more and more, only served to entrance him further.
"You really must stop sneaking in like this, George," Smeaton murmured even as he lowered the instrument, resting his head against the lord's shoulder. "We could be caught."
"Isn't that half the fun?" George asked wickedly, eyes sparking in the darkness even as he blew gently against the musician's neck, delighting in the way Smeaton shuddered in his arms, his eyes fluttering shut and his breath hitching.
"The things you do, Boleyn."
"Only to you," George returned, deliberately not thinking of his wife, of Jane Parker, or Boleyn, as he guessed she was called now.
Smeaton respond by turning, tangling one hand in the collar of George's shirt, the violin still clutched tightly in one hand. And as the candle burned brightly in the background, George claimed the musician's mouth in a kiss, their secret safe for one more night.