Work Text:
When the cigarette is done, Peter dismisses it and steps closer to the rope Phil is braiding, rubbing it like he saw Phil doing.
Phil pauses braiding and watches the boy, holding his breath.
Finally when the boy’s slender fingers get down to where Phil’s hands are, he touches those rough, calloused hands, places his own pure ones over them while Phil braids a bit longer. His hands are steady as he braids, but his breath isn’t.
Then when it comes time to stretch the rope against his hip, Phil drops the rope and grabs Peter by the back of the neck, hauling him closer, the boy tripping over his feet but steadying himself without colliding too hard.
They stare at each other from mere inches apart. When the boy’s gaze drops to Phil’s lips, he hauls him closer and presses their lips together.
Peter whimpers and Phil starts to unbutton that stuck-up prissy white shirt he always wears, the one that drove him crazy from the first time he saw it.
And within a beat he’s walked — neatly shoved — Peter over to the beam holding that barn up, and presses him against it, and presses himself against Peter's lithe body, the boy’s frantic breaths like water to him after a summer’s drought.
He undoes his trousers and pulls his hardening cock out, telling the boy in a rough voice to turn around. Peter does, shivering all over, breaths coming quicker, almost in a panic.
“Take your britches down,” he commands, then spits into his hand and rubs it along his cock, watching his boy follow his order blessedly fast.
“Spread your legs,” he adds, stepping forward, and in one smooth move, he’s pressing his cockstand between the boy’s legs, and traps his legs around the outside of Peter’s, pressing them together, making the space his prick is in tighter. Before he loses his nerve he wraps a hand around to grasp the boy’s erection. His calloused hands catch on Peter’s soft, virginal skin there, eliciting a shiver from the boy, a soft moan which spurs Phil on.
He begins to thrust, letting his hand move back and forth on Peter’s prick, at the same pace as his hips, fucking the lad as hard as he can allow himself and still be quiet about it.
Peter throws his head back and begins to cry out; Phil slaps his bare thigh and admonishes in his ear, “Hush, you’ll cause a stir.”
Peter bites his lip and gets quieter, but not totally silent. Phil can’t spare a hand to shush him, one on his cock and the other on the boy’s hip, holding him in counterweight to his thrusts. He shivers and groans in the back of his throat when the boy begins to spurt, dragging in deep breaths.
He gathers the wetness from the boy's cock and spreads it on his own, shuddering, and presses closer. He can feel his ass clench with every rough thrust, the rhythm coming from somewhere deep inside him, something that hasn’t been loosed to the world in too long. He hasn’t done anything like this in ages, and it's better than it was before and it’s worse, because he misses Henry and the lad pressing against him isn’t his Henry. This is that soft spoken faggot who’s caught his eye, still whimpering and shivering, who’s taking his violent thrusts so well. Phil pulls away and touches his hard prick, presses the tip against the boy’s ass and aims at his prissy little untouched hole and comes.
“Sir,” Peter whimpers, and Phil curses, “God damn,” and presses his come into that pucker with his thumb. His heart is racing. He never felt like this; is this what Henry felt like, doing these things to him all those years ago?
But no; he watches the mess he’s made of the boy, letting it drip down those pure, milky-white thighs. He cursed again under his breath and pulled the blue kerchief from his back pocket. He never did take them off.
He wipes at the seed and deposits the kerchief in his shirt pocket. It needs a wash soon anyway. Perhaps not too soon.