Cloud no. 9
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first comment, like a real prompt, and commenting on that with your fill.)
3) Try not to get too srs business. ( Read more... )
They'd not even kissed. They'd patted each other in a friendly way, carefully not crossing a line, nothing that couldn't be waved away. They'd not missed a beat of each other's intent all evening; George immaculate, every movement of his hands charged with meaning, the unravelling of his bow-tie a clear signal that Peter was to take the plunge. Now or never.
They ended up on the Embankment, coats on in the cold. George had looked around, seeing no-one, and Peter had followed automatically, seeing dark alleys and bins and doorways and places he didn't really think he wanted to be anymore.
"I want to kiss you, but this isn't the place," George had said, and on seeing the look on Peter's face, added, "Sorry."
Then he'd taken Peter's hand into his own, and they'd walked off together.
***
He'd kissed him at home though. Once through the door with half-an-hour of hand-holding behind them, three months of serious fencing and hedging, years, really, of wondering and weighing and lusting and wanting - then he'd kissed him. Slowly and intensely, memorably. Not up against a wall, not demanding he get his arse into bed, no litany of the abuse that was about to be performed upon him, just murmurs of desire and regard for his response.
In the end, it'd been Peter who'd suggested they take themselves off to bed.
In the morning, George had said it wasn't his house and it wasn't his bed so it wasn't his invitation to give.
Peter wondered if he'd meant 'instruction'.
***
He hadn't given instructions in bed either and that'd been a bit of a surprise. Hadn't tied him up, hadn't threatened him, hadn't even slapped his arse to get him to budge up.
"Got yourself a Tory boy who's fucking useless in bed," Ali would've sneered. But that wasn't the case either. George'd been careful at the start, attentive to his needs, remarkably unquestioning of his scars. They'd been kissed and not a word said; noted and accepted.
"How do you like it?" he'd asked.
"Slow and measured at the start, a bit rougher at the end," George had said, somewhat sheepish.
"No, I meant ..." He'd suddenly felt a bit abashed in the face of the good manners, but George had grinned at him and said "However you like, I don't mind."
So he'd made George top. Best to find out how rough he liked it, then he could work out what he wanted to do about it.
He'd never been fucked as courteously as he was at the start, politely but not apologetically. In the end it hadn't been polite at all; it'd been fierce and hard and loud. George on all fours above him, wringing every ounce out of his weight advantage, bellowing like a wounded buffalo when he came. But afterwards he cuddled up without a thought and they lay in bed telling funny stories about things they'd seen and heard recently.
He'd laughed. They'd both laughed. If George had been surprised by this, he'd said nothing.
***
In the morning he'd returned the favour, or done his best to. George didn't seem to like lying back doing nothing and the mischievous thought crossed Peter's mind that he was the perfect candidate to tie to the bed. When he'd taken his courage in both hands and said so, George had laughed and agreed.
"Next time," he'd said. He'd got a kiss for that. And a proper seeing-to.
They'd made it out of bed some time later and were in the kitchen; George feeding the toaster and Peter trying to find coffee beans for the machine he'd never used before. There was a nervousness in the air, they glanced at each other, trying to work out what the other was thinking, not wanting to ask. This was the time when he usually said the wrong thing, setting the other person off, spending the rest of the day on his own, hurt and miserable.
George set a warm hand on his own. "I was thinking dinner on Tuesday," he said. "Is that all right with you?"
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I, er, would hate to seem greedy, but I don't suppose you would consider writing any more?
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Don't want to use own words rn. Would spoil moment. Will use yours instead.
In the morning, George had said it wasn't his house and it wasn't his bed so it wasn't his invitation to give.
Peter wondered if he'd meant 'instruction'.
*copies whole fic into iPhone notes* And I never intend to delete it.
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SO sweet
Shagtastic
Kinky and mutual
And grown-up
And IC
And still fluffy enough to take home and cuddle indefinitely. And then out for dinner and home for a good seeing-to, in between times.
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They'd been kissed and not a word said; noted and accepted. - I thought, perhaps a bit like Peter, that I would want long drawn-out attention given to the scars. But then you knew better didn't you? Because this is so subtle and delicate and poignant; it speaks of love in a way that nothing else can.
Just beautiful, thank you so much for this!
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He put the new spare keys in the rarely-used utensil drawer and refused to think about their potential new owner. Or the psychological block that had kept him from getting the job done earlier - they were hardly going to let themselves in to apologise to him, not now, not for any of it, and any notion that they'd like to seek out his company again shouldn't have been allowed to maintain a presence until he had a new knight to vanquish it - he was heaping too much on George, from whom he'd heard not a peep since he'd left the day before.
He told himself not to be ridiculous but stayed at work long into the evening.
George texted him on Tuesday morning after he'd had a lousy night's sleep. "Thai or Indian?"
Peter laughed out loud in his empty house.
***
He ended up in Seven Dials at lunchtime and saw them on a stall. Not just buds either, but bigger blooms, the finished product. The cream-edged-with-pink were gorgeous and a welcome contrast to the wintry fog and gloom surrounding him, but really, he didn't think he could pass up the red. Neither did the seller, who asked if they were for a new bloke. He started to give a politician's answer, but in the end just said yes, he hoped so, and couldn't stop a smile breaking out.
The appointed hour found him, a dozen red roses in hand, at George's door, the sensation dawning on him that he was possibly the world's biggest fool.
George's eyes had opened wide, and then his arms, and Peter had been dragged in and soundly kissed. "I've never been bought flowers before," he said, looking deliciously ruffled and woolly-jumpery in the hallway. "But you'll have to try a little harder to convert me, Peter..."
"I shall do my best," said Peter, returning to the important work of cuddling George for the cause. "I shall take you to bed and festoon you with rose petals." The boy had returned to him the ability to speak without thinking; the roses were utterly inadequate payment. "If you don't mind, that is," he added pointlessly.
George grinned at him. "Is this as well as, or instead of, being tied up?" he asked, hands burrowing for bare skin below a coat and jacket.
Peter hugged him with unconfined glee.
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He'd wondered about George and his natural habitat; would his house be a wallpaper salesman's wet dream, an entirely familial selection of hundred-quid-a-roll, hand-painted-by-the-oppressed ghastliness, but no - the boy had painted throughout. A cheery shade of yellow with modern art hung on the walls and decent lighting. Not that he'd had much time to notice, as their gentle, affirming cuddle had turned into a snarling beast of desire.
"I know," he replied, kissing the least-likely koala on the forehead. George's idea for seeing off the immediate urge was sixty-nine on top of a huge, comfortable bed and he'd heartily approved the motion. "There's eating too," he added, lightly - the phone call hadn't been to disturb anyone's peace or brief a journalist, it had been to place an order - 'two of my usual' no less, in a somewhat peremptory fashion.
"Nothing but the best for you," said George.
They snuggled silently for a few minutes, Peter taking stock of George's last few words. He'd never seen anyone ordering for him as anything but gross presumption and he'd had quite enough of that.
"I mean, not that I'm saying that's what I am," George'd added, the sudden modesty rather a shock to Peter. Perhaps this was post-coital Toryism, he just wasn't experienced in that field. "Actually, I think I'm way out of my depth here, and I don't really know what to do about it."
"Whatever do you mean?" Anxiety seeped through Peter; a self-deprecating George was strange enough, but an uncertain George was beyond his comprehension.
George looked up at him. "I thought a lot about this, before we took the plunge - the politics, the upcoming election, all that guff. I worked out what issues I thought we'd face. I just never thought the sex was going to be a problem."
"But it isn't," Peter insisted, hugging him close. "It couldn't be less of a problem." George had been transfixed when he came and Peter would have put money on him not having done so since they'd last had sex. "Didn't you like it?"
"I liked it, a lot," said George, with the look of a chap mustering his courage about him. "But I just don't want to be a disappointment to you." He closed his eyes and cuddled closer but Peter could hear a deep breath being taken. "I'm just not kinky enough. There are things I could never do to you, to anyone, things that you'll want at some point. I'm just not up to the job, really, I -"
"It's all right," Peter comforted him. "It's all right." George had thought he'd have to inflict pain on him? The last revenge of the bastards, to fuck up his future on every fucking front. George had obviously been worrying over the matter since Saturday, despite appearing totally relaxed about it at the time; perhaps that was why he hadn't called again until this morning.
"I don't really know how to put this," he said, squashing his paranoia. "But less kinky will be just fine with me."
George looked up at him, not in complete disbelief, but with some scepticism; Peter framed his face with his hands. "I don't imagine you're as pure as the driven snow, George. I'm afraid I find that rather attractive." George was staring now and Peter hoped he'd not committed a major faux-pas. "Or perhaps I'm making assumptions now," he admitted.
"You don't want to believe everything you read in the papers," said George, dryly. "But if you were to make good on your word earlier, I'd not object." He smirked and Peter tumbled him onto his back and eyed him up. Ripeness was all.
The doorbell rang. Thwarted by a bhaji. George wriggled out from under, whispered 'later' to him and left him with his own thoughts. He could dwell on the past - the receding horrors that he tried to blank out, the injustice of a career derailed - or he could get up and get on with it. George would be as likely to ask for details as he was to offer them.
He reached for his underpants and put them on his head.
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&hearts &hearts &hearts
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Captcha: Opening out. Well, well...
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Really nice and sweet follow-up :)
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