It was intoxicating, that look. Hazy, glassy blue peeking out beneath the fringe of Albus's lashes, the striking whites of his eyes. Gellert found his hand tightening even harder in Albus's hair as if of its own accord, his breath coming tighter and shallower.
Albus's come was slicing a path down the inside of Gellert's thigh. He bit back the smirk that threatened to overtake his lips and instead met Albus's gaze, raised a blond, expectant brow.
He did not speak. His answer was obvious. Of course he wanted Albus to beg. He wanted Albus to practically grovel for the pleasure of servicing him, much as he doubted that might happen. He wanted Albus breathless, constantly hard for him, images of Gellert emblazoned across the backs of his eyelids from now until the day he died.
The brush of one of Gellert's thumbs across Albus's cheek was soft, almost a caress. Almost, but not quite.