With a bit more shifting, shifting that Blenkinsop picks up with thankful ease, they get into the proper position against the wall. With a few more shifts, and Blenkinsop is as helpful as he expected again, he trousers and underwear are sliding slowly down his legs and Blenkinsop’s are soon following – leaving them both almost naked (and together) in the middle of nowhere with nobody to see.
…It’s a pity that it’s too dark to admire Blenkinsop properly, but he does hope that there’ll be another day.
For now, though, there are more practical matters to focus upon – and the tube clutched in his hand, the one just rescued from his falling trousers, plays a major part in them. He reaches awkwardly back over his shoulder, feels Blenkinsop timidly take the offering from him and swiftly falls back to bracing against the wall, “slick your fingers with it, okay?”
“…Um.”
“Blenkers?”
“How many…?”
“Three of them should do fine for now, old chap,” he smiles affectionately at nothing in particular, shifts up on the wall as he hears Blenkinsop carefully obeying behind him, “Now, press them into me.”
“Into-?”
He gestures behind him, hopes against hope that it makes vague sense and he won’t have to try and go into more depth…
Ah.
…And is glad, splendidly glad, when it does. When Blenkinsop nervously, gloriously, slides one finger inside him and, as he gets more confident, adds another in a way that makes his back arch and a slightly embarrassing groan slip out into the dark night.
“Peter…?”
“John,” he gasps in return, briefly screwing his eyes shut and trying to regain some sort of composure “…Try to wriggle them around a bit, alright, Old Chap?”
And-
Ah.
Ah.
Ah!
By the time that Blenkinsop deems him well prepared enough, and that should be well prepared enough, he is shaking against the wall. The slow, steady slide out of those fingers draws yet another groan and the slow realization that he is tremendously hard – in a helpless, helpless way that feels as glorious as anything he’s ever known “…Old Bean?”
“Um,” he grunts… And remembers, just briefly, that he does have some composure and should probably regain it at some point, “coat yourself in the stuff too, dear Blenkers?”
And Blenkinsop obeys yet again, as he knew the sensible chap would.
“Now,” leaving him to only close his eyes, and brace himself afresh with fingers digging into the cold stone, “you should be ready to come in.”
Blenkinsop hesitates for only a moment…
And then positions himself, so gloriously that he has to beam, and slowly presses in – so perfectly that the world could be tumbling down around them and he wouldn’t care a single bit.
There is a shaky moment, as Blenkinsop pauses as if getting used to the heat.
And then the man, the best man on this world or any other, starts to thrust - and all words and thoughts and outside distractions rather tumble away at how truly perfect those brilliant movements feel.
When he comes, and it does not take long, he howls his release so loudly over the fields that he’s sure several delightfully trembling ghost stories will spring up around the sound. Luckily Blenkinsop follows a few moments after, a bit quieter but only because he muffles the desperate sob into the readily presented neck before him and clenches his teeth so hard that he can feel it.
They tremble together for a second, skin warm on skin, Blenkinsop still panting happily against him.
…And then a kiss is pressed to his shoulder. And he decides, as Blenkinsop slowly pulls out and he spins around for a proper meeting of the lips, that he is never going to one of those bars ever again.
FILL: Pining For Your Face, Blenkinsop/Maltravers, NC-17 [4E/4]
…It’s a pity that it’s too dark to admire Blenkinsop properly, but he does hope that there’ll be another day.
For now, though, there are more practical matters to focus upon – and the tube clutched in his hand, the one just rescued from his falling trousers, plays a major part in them. He reaches awkwardly back over his shoulder, feels Blenkinsop timidly take the offering from him and swiftly falls back to bracing against the wall, “slick your fingers with it, okay?”
“…Um.”
“Blenkers?”
“How many…?”
“Three of them should do fine for now, old chap,” he smiles affectionately at nothing in particular, shifts up on the wall as he hears Blenkinsop carefully obeying behind him, “Now, press them into me.”
“Into-?”
He gestures behind him, hopes against hope that it makes vague sense and he won’t have to try and go into more depth…
Ah.
…And is glad, splendidly glad, when it does. When Blenkinsop nervously, gloriously, slides one finger inside him and, as he gets more confident, adds another in a way that makes his back arch and a slightly embarrassing groan slip out into the dark night.
“Peter…?”
“John,” he gasps in return, briefly screwing his eyes shut and trying to regain some sort of composure “…Try to wriggle them around a bit, alright, Old Chap?”
And-
Ah.
Ah.
Ah!
By the time that Blenkinsop deems him well prepared enough, and that should be well prepared enough, he is shaking against the wall. The slow, steady slide out of those fingers draws yet another groan and the slow realization that he is tremendously hard – in a helpless, helpless way that feels as glorious as anything he’s ever known “…Old Bean?”
“Um,” he grunts… And remembers, just briefly, that he does have some composure and should probably regain it at some point, “coat yourself in the stuff too, dear Blenkers?”
And Blenkinsop obeys yet again, as he knew the sensible chap would.
“Now,” leaving him to only close his eyes, and brace himself afresh with fingers digging into the cold stone, “you should be ready to come in.”
Blenkinsop hesitates for only a moment…
And then positions himself, so gloriously that he has to beam, and slowly presses in – so perfectly that the world could be tumbling down around them and he wouldn’t care a single bit.
There is a shaky moment, as Blenkinsop pauses as if getting used to the heat.
And then the man, the best man on this world or any other, starts to thrust - and all words and thoughts and outside distractions rather tumble away at how truly perfect those brilliant movements feel.
When he comes, and it does not take long, he howls his release so loudly over the fields that he’s sure several delightfully trembling ghost stories will spring up around the sound. Luckily Blenkinsop follows a few moments after, a bit quieter but only because he muffles the desperate sob into the readily presented neck before him and clenches his teeth so hard that he can feel it.
They tremble together for a second, skin warm on skin, Blenkinsop still panting happily against him.
…And then a kiss is pressed to his shoulder. And he decides, as Blenkinsop slowly pulls out and he spins around for a proper meeting of the lips, that he is never going to one of those bars ever again.