Work Text:
We didn't arrive back at the Folly until well after midnight. It took us a while to fish the dead nix from the water, and to oversee that all the victims were carried off properly in ambulances. Some sped off with sirens blaring. Some, unfortunately, were quietly driven right into the morgue.
I'd planned to just hobble back to the Folly and mess about with disinfectant and some nice big band-aids, but Nightingale noticed me favouring my left leg and realised I'd been running about with a bite wound on my thigh. He gave me a right proper bollocking for it too, which I wrote off as him being overprotective and dreadful at expressing his affection and concern in any other way, and insisted I rode along to the hospital in one of the ambulances.
Once there, Dr Walid took a quick glance at my leg, announced it an innocent flesh wound and my due punishment for not coming in for a check-up after nearly drowning two days before, and left me in the hands of a nervous-looking intern for stitches and a tetanus shot.
Nightingale picked me up at the hospital in the Jag. By then most of the mud that had been caked to our respective persons had dried and crumbled off, leaving us looking decidedly gross but a lot less prone to leaving bum-shaped stains on the leather seats. Despite this he was still decidedly unhappy about the both of us sitting in the Jag all mucked-up, and once home he walked into the Folly almost gingerly.
"I suggest heading straight to the bathroom first and undressing there," he said, "lest we leave mud all over and give Molly cause to serve us cold tea for a week."
"Yours or mine?" I said, and I grinned.
He looked confused for just a second, before heading straight into exasperated. "Peter," he said, "We're covered in mud, and you have fresh stitches in your leg. Do you really think it a good idea to share a bath under those circumstances?"
“Yes,” I simply said, still wearing that grin, cause it’s about the best feature I have and I might as well employ it.
“No,” was his equally simple answer. He inclined his head, the cocky bastard, and set off up the stairs at a brisk pace.
“At least tell me you’re going to come to my room later?” I called after him, my voice entirely too desperate for my own liking.
He stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at me, a smirk on his face. Even dotted in mud, and arguably the most dishevelled I’d ever seen him, he was still damn gorgeous standing on those fancy stairs, in that fancy atrium, with an absolute look of mischief plastered across his fancy mug.
“I was intending to, actually,” he said, “if you’d have me.”
“Fuck, yes,” I said in an awed exhale. He chuckled, turned back, and continued on his merry prick-teasing way. That man was going to be the death of me, and a messy, agonising death it would be.
I dragged myself up the stairs, and slunk to the nearest bath in silence. I did as I was asked and disrobed in the bathroom. I was glad for it, too, cause flecks of dried mud and what I assumed were bits of waterweed rained from the folds in my clothing. I wasn’t even able to bathe properly, having to keep my stitches as dry as possible, and such I spent a stupidly long time dicking about sponging myself off sitting on the edge of the tub.
I was curled up in my bed, trying to read the new Neil Gaiman and convincing myself it was absolutely no big deal that Nightingale all but promised me he was coming to me later on, when he knocked politely on my door. I tried for my best seductive sprawl, but that’s a bit hard to pull off when you’re wearing worn jammies and a pair of gym socks.
It occurred to me only then I hadn’t quite thought that outfit through, especially not when he entered my room once again wearing that nice cashmere robe and a post-bath glow to his cheeks.
His hair was still damp, already combed into a side parting, and he smiled at me as he backed up against the door to shut it.
“Good book?” he asked.
I stared at the book, now down in my lap, and realised I wouldn’t for the life of me be able to tell him what it was about. “Probably?”
He smiled, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Peter,” he said. “We’ve had an odd and strenuous day. If you’re tired and would rather just get some rest... it’s all right. There’s more nights after this one.”
“Don’t you even dare,” I said, sitting up. “Yeah, we’ve had an odd and strenuous day. And that is rather exactly why I need you here. With me. Right now, actually.”
He looked up again, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Fuck me, yes I’m sure.”
He smiled, loosened his robe and let if fall to the floor. That thing must have cost easily 400 quid and he dropped it like an old towel, and wasn’t wearing a thing underneath.
I’ll admit I went a bit slack jawed. He stood there stark bollock naked, smirking at me, then slowly advanced like some kind of seductive, stalking panther. He climbed onto my bed, sitting up high on his knees, and looked down at poor old me who was staring up at him like he was this luscious, pale, elder god and I but a lowly mortal hoping to touch some of that divinity.
Touch. Yes. I could touch. So I did exactly that, placing my hands lightly on his hips and sliding them up, over his impossibly trim waist, across his chest, to his deceptively strong shoulders. I pulled him in, and he crashed down into me and was still smiling even as I kissed him.
I eased him down onto the bed and draped myself over him, kissing him deeply. He smelled of soap, and sex, and magic, and his skin was so much softer than I’d thought it would be.
A man’s body, it turned out, was sharp angles and flat planes. I felt so aware of him, of the muscles shifting under his skin, the bones making up his core. He was so real. He just lay there, smiling as I touched him, marvelled over him, ran my hands down his stomach, his thighs.
I kissed the scar on the front of his shoulder – so small, the entry wound to accompany the large, frayed exit wound on his back. I kissed his nipples, the centre of his solar plexus, I kissed just above his belly button and I kissed just below it.
I kissed his prick. That was new, and exciting, and extraordinarily titillating. I loved going down on girls, so to my practical brain it made sense I’d love to do the same on blokes, really. He was half-hard when I got to him, but grew fully erect under my lips and tongue, and that was about one of the greatest turn-ons I’d experienced in my lifetime.
He responded dutifully by gasping and writhing and doing all those lovely cliché things, anyway, even if he did them with a big grin on his face.
“You’ve not done this before, have you?” he asked.
“Not really. Is it that obvious?”
“I won’t say obvious,” he said, “Just... an observation. You’ve a talented mouth for a beginner, though.”
I grinned. “Why thank you, sir. Thomas. Damn.”
He laughed at that, a genuine, open laugh that came out a bit hoarse and a lot happy. He didn’t laugh like that often, and I didn’t realise I’d never heard it before until there it was. It did something funny to my insides, took my breath away, and I felt a bit funny going back to sucking him off while feeling like that so I opted to sit up and kiss his beautiful, laughing mouth for it instead.
He wrapped grateful arms around my shoulders and kept me in the kiss, giving me a lot of tongue and teeth and exuberance.
“You don’t usually take men into your bed, though?” he asked, his breath dancing across my jaw as he spoke. He seemed to be looking for some kind of confirmation, so I gave it to him.
“Not usually. But not never, either. Although this is the first time I’ve had one quite as unapologetically naked as you.”
Okay, so maybe my experience with guys had been limited to a handful of determined fumbles in the shadowy corners of clubs, but I didn’t quite want to break that to Nightingale. I’d had to explain the existence of mochaccinos to the man, I honestly didn’t think I could get him to understand so modern a concept as ‘hetero-flexible’.
He laughed at that, anyway, and pushed himself up. “Now that you mention that,” he said, “those pyjamas are dreadful. Take them off.”
He tugged my shirt over my head, and made equal short work of my pyjama bottoms. He even took my socks off, probably just to get me every bit as naked as he was. He kissed me everywhere, slid his hands across every inch of skin he could manage, pausing at my battered right thigh.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, tentative fingertips inches from the stitches.
“Not really,” I said. “Not with you to distract me, anyway.”
That just earned me another grin, and a long lick up the inside of my thigh, before he slipped my cock into his mouth and showed me how it’s really done. I struggled to keep my eyes on him, to take in that look of bliss and contentment on his face, his cheeks hollowed and lips shining with saliva, but it was bloody hard.
All I wanted to do was throw my head back and curl my toes and just give into it, and just get entirely lost in a reality where Thomas fucking Nightingale was sucking my cock like it was a contest he was determined to win.
He let me slip from his mouth, allowing me to drag wetly across his cheek. “Do you want to come like this?” he asked. His voice was husky and deep, and he could honestly ask me to sell him my soul in that tone of voice and I’d agree to in a heartbeat.
“What’re my other options?” I managed to ask, and he smiled and crawled up my body on all fours, to press one of those lingering kisses on my mouth. His lips were unbelievably warm.
“You can come inside of me. If you want to,” he said, and I found myself wondering if I’d died back in that murky old pond after all because there was no way this could be actual reality.
“You mean…?” I asked, feeling stupid and innocent.
He had the gall to look a bit flustered. “I must admit,” he said, pausing to lick at the corner of my mouth, “that it’s an activity I am quite fond of, and it’s been a dreadfully long time since I’ve gotten to indulge in it.”
“Christ’s sake,” I choked out. “If you want me to fuck you, all you have to do is ask.”
That earned me another one of those beautiful, no-holds-barred laughs, so I flipped him onto his back and kissed him until we were both out of breath.
I had condoms. He had lubricant, stashed conveniently in the pocket of his bathrobe with the kind of foresight I planned to tease him extensively about in the near future. I didn’t have much of an idea how to work all of this, but he had absolutely no problems steering me around the curves.
Okay, I’ll admit it was dead exciting to have him talk me through it, especially as he started getting more and more unravelled as we got on with it. Eventually I had him grinding down wantonly onto my fingers, completely unable to string a proper sentence together any longer and holding onto the brass bars of my bed so tightly I worried he was going to tear them right off.
I took it to mean I was a good student, and was having the time of my life.
Eventually he all but shot up, pushed me back so I was sitting on my bed, and gave me a wild, brilliant smile. He ripped the condom packet open effortlessly and rolled it onto my prick, and positioned himself.
“Tell me if this hurts your leg,” he said breathlessly, “we can do this some other way.”
I wasn’t even thinking about my bloody leg. It could’ve fallen off halfway through for all I cared.
He sank down slowly, eyes closed and holding his breath, one of his hands between us to guide me into him. It was overwhelming, and brilliant, and when he’d managed to push me all the way in he paused, his hand on my chest wordlessly urging me to wait for him to adjust.
His eyes opened and he stared at me, mouth ajar in a quiet gasp. Then he kissed me, both arms wrapping around my neck, and I held him close and he started rocking his hips and the whole thing was so perfect I could’ve cried.
I may have told him I loved him. I’m not even fucking sure, I was babbling a lot of nonsense and a reluctant truth or two might have slipped out. If I did he allowed it, let it slide, pressing his face into my neck and riding me slowly. He was both frail and strong in my arms like that, and I could feel his prick rubbing against my abdomen with each wonderful thrust.
Not able to stay upright I slowly let myself fall back onto the bed, holding him close, and he writhed on top of me as I lay back and let it all wash over me. He was brilliant. Fuck, I was brilliant. This whole thing was brilliant. He sat up and started jacking himself off as he made these little gyrating movements with his hips and I swear to God I saw stars.
He came as loudly as he’d done the night before. He cried out, came undone in a series of deep moans, and his semen landed in hot spurts across my belly. I watched him, transfixed, and he came down and all but crashed on top of me.
I held him, but for just a few seconds, because I was still so hard and so deep inside of him and I had to, I had to come.
I rolled him over, wincing sharply as that motion did, actually, tug firmly on my stitches and hurt like a bitch, and once I had him underneath me with those long legs wrapped around my pelvis I started thrusting maybe a bit harder than I should have. If it was uncomfortable for him he didn’t let on in the slightest, simply kept his arms wrapped around my neck and whispered encouragingly into my ear.
I orgasmed violently, grunting into the hollow of his throat, and came down from it with a series of exhausted sobs. He was caressing the back of my neck and shoulders, panting against my skin. I could feel the muscles in his inner thighs protest, trembling against my hips, and smiled.
“That was brilliant,” I said.
He snorted a laugh right into my ear. “It rather was, wasn’t it?”
I rolled off of him in the most graceless way I possibly could have, and stepped out of my bed on trembling legs to deal with the always delightful clean-up. He watched me from the bed, my duvet pulled up around his shoulders, a small, tired smile playing around his lips.
Crawling back in I was welcomed in a cosy nook full of Thomas Nightingale, ever warm skin and soft hands. He kissed me slowly as he pulled me under the duvet, our legs entangling, my arms finding their way around his middle.
“How’s your leg?” he mumbled.
“Dreadful,” I said. “I think I’ll ask Dr Walid to chop it, in the morning.”
The leg was bloody fine, and if he didn’t stop asking after it I was going to bite him firmly enough to for him to need stitches, too. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I kissed him again, and we lay there just doing that for a while.
Eventually he broke the kiss, looking up at me with dark eyes and giving me a small smile. “We should sleep,” he rumbled. I nodded, feeling fatigue in every inch of my bones.
He turned, his back to me, and burrowed close. I wanted to sit up, and reach for the light switch, but he waved a hand, murmured some forma and the light flicked off on its own.
“Did you just use magic to turn off the light?” I asked.
“Hmm.”
“That was the laziest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
He chuckled softly in the dark, and I curled myself around his back and pulled him closer, both arms around his shoulders and his head resting on my shoulder. He entwined one of his hands with mine, and let out the most contented, bone-melting, delicious sigh.
I fell asleep with my heart beating between his shoulder blades, my lips in his hair, and our hands still entwined.
I slept like a log all through the night, and woke up in the morning with his smiling mouth leaving kisses all over my face.