“Maltravers?” Blenkinsop asks in a low, stunned voice when they’re a few minutes from the bar – their pace finally slowing and his hand finally starting to unclench from around Blenkinsop’s bony wrist.
…Poor Blenkinsop’s bony wrist.
He slows further, further. Finally grinds to a halt in the middle of the dirt road and turns to face Blenkinsop with a hopefully apologetic expression writ upon his face, “sorry, old chum.”
Blenkinsop only continues to stare, expression so absolutely befuddled that he quite wants to cuddle it and kiss it better and take it home for some nice warm chocolate (or something a lot warmer, wrapped in a bed instead of comfortable on that ratty old settee) “…Maltravers?”
…He resists the urge, just barely, “are you alright, Blenkers?”
Another long pause, Blenkinsop simply continues to stare “…Maltravers. Why were you there, Maltravers?”
…Ah.
“John…” He looks down at his feet, finally releases Blenkinsop’s wrist (and it must hurt by now, why didn’t he think more before flying off the handle like a right buffoon?) and clearing his throat awkwardly as he does so, “do you know why available men often go to that bar?”
Please, please…
“Yes,” Blenkinsop says, in a very small voice.
…Ah.
Ah.
He keeps looking down at his feet, draws in breath after breath of cold air through his nose and desperately tries to resist the urge to shudder (because this is where it all falls down, and this is when he loses everything in such a helpless way) “…I’ve been going there for years, John. Every time that I went out at night without you I was there, or going home with chaps who I found there.”
He hears Blenkinsop breathe in sharply through his nose, squeezes his eyes shut because he knows that he deserves it.
“Does that mean…?” Blenkinsop’s voice is slow when it comes. Slow and shocked and with just a hint of anger.
He’s never heard anger from Blenkinsop before.
It makes him squeeze his eyes tighter shut, and bite his lip ever so hard, and maybe feel like his heart is shattering quite horridly inside “…I’ve slept with several men from that bar, yes.”
There’s a long pause.
And then, in one jerky movement, Blenkinsop starts forwards – and kisses him so hard that he has no option but to be tilted back and hold on as hard as he can.
FILL: Pining For Your Face, Blenkinsop/Maltravers, Eventually NC-17 [4B/4]
…Poor Blenkinsop’s bony wrist.
He slows further, further. Finally grinds to a halt in the middle of the dirt road and turns to face Blenkinsop with a hopefully apologetic expression writ upon his face, “sorry, old chum.”
Blenkinsop only continues to stare, expression so absolutely befuddled that he quite wants to cuddle it and kiss it better and take it home for some nice warm chocolate (or something a lot warmer, wrapped in a bed instead of comfortable on that ratty old settee) “…Maltravers?”
…He resists the urge, just barely, “are you alright, Blenkers?”
Another long pause, Blenkinsop simply continues to stare “…Maltravers. Why were you there, Maltravers?”
…Ah.
“John…” He looks down at his feet, finally releases Blenkinsop’s wrist (and it must hurt by now, why didn’t he think more before flying off the handle like a right buffoon?) and clearing his throat awkwardly as he does so, “do you know why available men often go to that bar?”
Please, please…
“Yes,” Blenkinsop says, in a very small voice.
…Ah.
Ah.
He keeps looking down at his feet, draws in breath after breath of cold air through his nose and desperately tries to resist the urge to shudder (because this is where it all falls down, and this is when he loses everything in such a helpless way) “…I’ve been going there for years, John. Every time that I went out at night without you I was there, or going home with chaps who I found there.”
He hears Blenkinsop breathe in sharply through his nose, squeezes his eyes shut because he knows that he deserves it.
“Does that mean…?” Blenkinsop’s voice is slow when it comes. Slow and shocked and with just a hint of anger.
He’s never heard anger from Blenkinsop before.
It makes him squeeze his eyes tighter shut, and bite his lip ever so hard, and maybe feel like his heart is shattering quite horridly inside “…I’ve slept with several men from that bar, yes.”
There’s a long pause.
And then, in one jerky movement, Blenkinsop starts forwards – and kisses him so hard that he has no option but to be tilted back and hold on as hard as he can.