Bonus Scenes for Irisbleufic!
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go_exchangeTitle: Castles in the Sand: Epilogue 1
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
irisbleufic
Author:miscellanny
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R
A/N: (Finally the smut you asked for!)
Notes: "He's gone," he said, and the very absurdity, the impossibility of it caught in his throat and sent back a snort that almost choked him, coughing sputters that turned into helpless laughter.
Crowley had never known if it was embarrassment or selective memory-loss, or whether the entire incident had been carefully sponged out of history; he had never known precisely how much power Adam had. But the iron-filings feeling that had intensified thereafter had tied him directly into their networks, into Adam's, into Below's, and since then it had been like a radio mistuned in the back of his head. It was a constant anti-noise, an undeniable awareness that there was something else there and watching, and the sudden and huge and gaping lack of it sent him groping for the arm of the sofa, trying desperately to hold himself upright.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, obviously worried.
Crowley supposed he looked a sight, pale and wobbly and probably shaking, and he flipped his sunglasses onto the top of his head and rubbed at his eyes with unsteady hands.
"He's gone," he said, and the very absurdity, the impossibility of it caught in his throat and sent back a snort that almost choked him, coughing sputters that turned into helpless laughter.
"Who's gone?" Aziraphale asked, deliberately brusque, doing something with the sideboard that sent a drawer slamming closed with a decisive bang.
"Adam," Crowley said, the pitch of his voice all over the place, "and Below, too. He's given the powers back." A couple more unsteady, laughing breaths. "Seems like for now I'm off the hook."
There was a gentle pattering and Crowley looked over, confused, only to watch the quiet but decisive thump as the last of the crumbs and the remains of a prehistoric jam sandwich hit the floor. Aziraphale gave the paper bag in his hands a few quick shakes and then balled it up and came over to hold it to Crowley's face.
"Here," he said. "You'll feel better."
"What are you - " Crowley slapped futilely at Aziraphale's hands, at the crumpled paper that was shoved uncomfortably up against his nose. It smelled oddly of ages and dust, fossils and petrified wood, because of course nothing of the angel's would do anything so undignified as rot. "Stop it!"
"You'll feel better," Aziraphale insisted. "My dear, I fear you're hysterical."
"You have to stop treating me like I'm human!" Crowley said, feeling like he was coming apart a little at the seams.
"I will when you stop acting like it," Aziraphale snapped, and it was weirdly and inexplicably the best thing he could have possibly said, and the giddy reality that all of a sudden the possibility of consequences didn't roost so close tugged him forward. He pushed Aziraphale's ancient lunch-bag out of the way, curled a hand around the back of the angel's neck, and pulled their mouths together.
It was a moment of perfection. It was a moment that Crowley had locked into his strongest mental safe as soon as it was imagined, barred and bolted and never admitted to for eight years, for far, far longer than that. It was ended abruptly with the taste of wet brown paper, and Crowley shoved at Aziraphale's hands.
"I am not hysterical!" he said.
Aziraphale stepped back and watched him warily. Crowley lowered his hands - the expansive gestures probably weren't the most convincing - and shoved them into his pockets, cleared his throat.
"Angel, I'm fine," he said, and this time he almost sounded it.
"Of course you are," Aziraphale said, still with that note of caution. "Come on, then."
Crowley found himself tugged - by the no-mans-land of his jacket sleeve, and wasn't that a weight in the base of his stomach? - to sit on the sofa. Aziraphale knelt at his feet and carefully tugged off his shoes, pairing them neatly and incredibly out of place under the occasional table by the stairs. The sofa cushion sank next to him and he was tugged again, carefully, until he could tuck his feet up against the arm of the sofa and rest his cheek on the angel's awful, ugly and sinfully comfortable corduroys.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale hushed him and tugged his sunglasses off the top of his head, folding them neatly and putting them - somewhere. Crowley couldn't quite follow the movement.
Demons don't actually need sleep, even though Crowley had cultivated it as a hobby, but there were things that require a little processing time, and when Crowley opened his eyes again, rolled onto his back, the angel's face was lit by lamplight. He'd secured a book from somewhere that was probably down the back or the side of the sofa - judging by the odd uncomfortable spot that was under the cushions, under Crowley's arse - and was peering at it through ridiculous half-moon glasses that it was impossible for him to have ever needed. The angle of his neck against the back of the sofa looked torturous but he hadn't once shifted, or twitched, or done anything that would cause him to move under Crowley.
Crowley was uncomfortably certain that he could name the feeling in his chest, if he tried. That it would be a relatively simple matter to put words to the spun-glass fragility that he was worried might shatter him if he looked at it wrong. Instead he rolled onto his side again, reached up to hook his fingers over Aziraphale's waistband, knuckles pressing into the the angel's squashy stomach and wrist resting against - oh.
"Making an effort, angel?" he asked, the slow sly tone of these words far easier than framing any others would have been.
Aziraphale closed his book with a snap, placing it carefully on the arm of the sofa and folding his glasses on top.
"I find it's difficult not to, with you," he said simply.
It wasn't quite what Crowley meant - or at least, it was wrapped up within it. But there was something amazing about the way Aziraphale's hands didn't move as he tugged Aziraphale's shirt from his trousers and undid the lowest few buttons, running his fingers gently over the angel's lightly furred stomach. How his fingers just twitched and clawed a little into the give of the sofa cushions when Crowley turned his attention to his trousers, the creak of stiff fabric easing over the button and the gentle click of the teeth on his fly.
"Yes?" Crowley asked.
"Crowley - " Aziraphale said, and it wasn't entirely a means of getting his way, and it wasn't entirely a reaction to the tone of his voice that had Crowley shuffling forward to breathe hotly against flushed skin. Aziraphale whimpered. "Yes," he said, "yes, of course, always."
He had to stretch his mouth wider than he'd expected, than he'd remembered from others before. He relished the almost-instant slight ache in his jaw. This was something so undeniably, awkwardly, embarrassingly human; he'd forgotten how much spit was involved, but it slicked his palm when he wrapped his hand around the base, moved it in counterpoint to his head. This wasn't quite what he meant but it was everything he needed, reducing the angel to half-swallowed noises and fragments of words, his vocabulary stolen by the curl of Crowley's tongue.
Crowley would have happily stayed there forever. It was painful to say it, even safely inside his head, and he was worried he'd have some sort of allergic reaction to the sappiness, but nothing had ever really felt more true. It was almost a disappointment when the angel tangled painful fingers in Crowley's hair and pushed up against him, when he whined in the back of his throat and Crowley's mouth filled with salty bitterness, leaked around the edges and over his knuckles.
Almost.
"I'm basking!" he protested when Aziraphale hauled him upright, when he slid off the sofa and dropped to his knees with a rug-muffled thud and started fumbling at the button of Crowley's trousers with still-shaking fingers. Crowley steadied them and then held them still so he could wrap the angel's hand in his.
"It's okay," he said, a note in his voice he wasn't sure he'd ever heard before. "I'm fine, it doesn't have to be about that." He swallowed hard. "Angel, I - it's not just about that. You do know - ?"
"Yes," said Aziraphale, a riotous flush still painting his cheeks, and slapped at Crowley's hands. "But could it be, please?"
Crowley's mouth dropped open and Aziraphale snorted out a breathless laugh then leaned forward a little on his knees so he could cup Crowley's cheek in his palm.
"It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," he said, low and intimate. "It's not that I don't return it, only Crowley, I've been waiting." He leaned in to brush his lips against Crowley's gently, chaste at first. He pulled away slightly and Crowley groaned and pulled him back in, the kiss long and tender and so very deep that he barely noticed Aziraphale's fingers working at the waistband of his trousers until the angel had grabbed the back of them and pulled them off in three sharp, impatient tugs.
"Oh," breathed Crowley, a smile slowly spreading across his face, "oh this is going to be fun."
"Trust me, my dear," said Aziraphale, gentle and demure and with the light pouring in from the kitchen to form a halo behind his head, "you haven't the faintest idea."
Title: Castles in the Sand: Epilogue 2
Recipient:irisbleufic
Author: A Secret!
Pairing: Brian/Wensleydale
Rating: PG
Notes: So far Wensleydale had managed to hold hands with Brian three times precisely (horribly self-conscious about the dampness of his palms throughout each), and their lips had yet to touch at all.
There were things it was difficult to get around to when there were four of you to a Morris Traveller, a hotel room, a technically two-man tent. So far Wensleydale had managed to hold hands with Brian three times precisely (horribly self-conscious about the dampness of his palms throughout each), and their lips had yet to touch at all. It wasn't as though Adam and Pepper would mind, exactly, that wasn't it. It was far worse than that, actually. They were likely to be horribly fascinated, encouraging, make it awkward and embarrassing in ways Wensley wasn't sure he'd make it out of alive. So instead it was a warm, pink-hazed, middle-school sort of an affair, with sly sideways glances and embarrassed bitten lips, the outsides of little fingers just touching on the back seat between them.
Wensleydale wasn't sure he'd ever been so frustrated in his life.
To make it worse, there were the times when things went all of a sudden to the other extreme. When Brian suddenly forgot to be embarrassed and sprawled all over Wensley, draped over him from behind and breathing hot against his shoulder, or pressing their knees together under the table in whatever fast-food restaurant they happened to be. The worst time, the absolute pinnacle of humiliating awfulness had been the time Brian had pushed and tugged and squashed him into place against the door in the back seat of the Traveller and then leaned back against his chest, the whole length of him folded up between Wensley's legs. He hadn't stayed still, either, picking restlessly at the hole that was forming in the knee of Wensley's jeans (just the barest scraping touches of skin against skin), contantly turning his head to talk to Pepper, in the front, so his hair was always just teasing at Wensleydale's neck. And it had been a long time for Wensleydale, and it - it was Brian, he couldn't help it, the evidence of how much he was affected horribly obvious against the base of Brian's back. So when they'd stopped for petrol he'd squirmed backwards, humiliated, as soon as the others had jumped out of the car, only for Brian to wrap warm fingers around his thigh.
"Don't," he'd said, barely audible. "I like it."
The next motorway services they'd come to he'd raced to the nearest bathroom, face flaming, and locked himself into a stall. The toothmarks in his finger hadn't faded for hours.
Paycheques were scarce in their business - whatever you might call it - and the majority of them just now went to pay for boarding for Dog; he'd been bitten by a possible were-rabbit, and had had to be quarantined until after the full moon. The rest went on food and petrol and supplies, with the occasional night in a hotel when they were feeling particularly flush. So it was an indulgence they probably couldn't afford, getting two seperate rooms, but a scratch-card win from Pepper and the tiny smirk on Adam's face had left Wensleydale feeling reckless and heated and dizzy as a wossname. Proverbial.
He locked the door behind him. The sorts of places they could afford to stay generally had two locks at least, sometimes a chain, and paper-thin walls; it was always best to ignore any noises in the night. Brian flicked on the tiny lamp on the night-stand by the bed, the room slowly coming into focus as the energy-saving lightbulb struggled into luminescence, and Wensleydale pulled his t-shirt off before he could think twice about it. He turned around and Brian was studying him curiously, the length of him sprawled out untidily on the mattress but his shoulders resting against the headboard, which was padded in an unfortunate shade of brown.
"Oh," he said softly. "Really?"
It wasn't the most encouraging of starts. Wensleydale shrugged, walking over to stand beside the bed and feeling the slow tide of blotchy pink self-consciousness starting to slide up the skin of his stomach.
"I thought - since we're alone - "
"Yeah," said Brian, "no, of course. I just meant, what d'you want to - " he sat up a little more and didn't meet Wensleydale's eyes, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I mean, what've you done?"
A tidal wave of bright red embarrassment crashed into Wensleydale's face and then withdrew, leaving the pit of his stomach empty and hollow and with plenty of room for humiliated anger to take its place. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and then shifted them, lower across his stomach, where they might have a chance of hiding how the stubborn remnants of puppy-fat squashed a little over the top of his jeans.
"Loads," he said, too loud. "Plenty. Just because I don't look like - " he waved a quick frustrated gesture to indicate Brian's stupid long limbs, his mouth that always held the potential for the best smile Wensleydale had ever seen, the carelessly tousled brown hair that Brian was currently staring out at him from under. "Lots of people have wanted to," he said, stubborn and awful and feeling a little bit sick.
He wasn't expecting the heart-stopping grin.
"Oh thank god," said Brian. "That's a relief."
Wensleydale sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed.
"...what?"
Brian scrambled over to sit next to him, a long line of heat pressed against Wensleydale's side, and took a moment to carefully weave their fingers together.
"I haven't," he said, and his smile was practically unbearable this close. "Never really particularly wanted to."
"Oh," said Wensleydale blankly. "Right. You don't want - "
There was a quick movement and Brian bit him gently, precisely, on the small patch of skin just under his ear. The noise Wensleydale made was completely involuntary.
"Didn't," said Brian, firmly. "I've always wanted to do things with you."
"Ah," said Wensleydale. He flexed his fingers slightly againt Brian's, and there was something weird and reassuring and a little bit amazing about how damp Brian's palm was, against his. He cleared his throat. "Like what?"
"I want to stick my little finger in your tummy button," Brian said promptly, and echoed it immediately when Wensleydale snorted out a startled laugh. "I do! And I want to see if the backs of your knees are as ticklish as mine."
"Romantic," Wensleydale said, his voice still all tangled up with laughter.
Brian leaned a little closer and buried his nose just behind Wenselydale's ear.
"I want to steal your shampoo," he said, softly, his lips stirring the curls there. "I want to make you laugh forever. And I want to know what the back of your neck tastes like in the morning when it's almost too hot for covers."
"Oh," Wensleydale breathed out, barely audible.
"Mostly, though," Brian said thoughtfully, "for starters, I'd like to put my tongue in your mouth."
"Right," Wensleydale said, and shuffled himself round on the bed, practically going cross-eyed with how close Brian was but able to see he matched him, enormous grin for grin. "Right, well, I suppose that's a good place to start."
Enjoy,irisbleufic!
Recipient:
irisbleuficAuthor:
miscellannyPairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R
A/N: (Finally the smut you asked for!)
Notes: "He's gone," he said, and the very absurdity, the impossibility of it caught in his throat and sent back a snort that almost choked him, coughing sputters that turned into helpless laughter.
Crowley had never known if it was embarrassment or selective memory-loss, or whether the entire incident had been carefully sponged out of history; he had never known precisely how much power Adam had. But the iron-filings feeling that had intensified thereafter had tied him directly into their networks, into Adam's, into Below's, and since then it had been like a radio mistuned in the back of his head. It was a constant anti-noise, an undeniable awareness that there was something else there and watching, and the sudden and huge and gaping lack of it sent him groping for the arm of the sofa, trying desperately to hold himself upright.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, obviously worried.
Crowley supposed he looked a sight, pale and wobbly and probably shaking, and he flipped his sunglasses onto the top of his head and rubbed at his eyes with unsteady hands.
"He's gone," he said, and the very absurdity, the impossibility of it caught in his throat and sent back a snort that almost choked him, coughing sputters that turned into helpless laughter.
"Who's gone?" Aziraphale asked, deliberately brusque, doing something with the sideboard that sent a drawer slamming closed with a decisive bang.
"Adam," Crowley said, the pitch of his voice all over the place, "and Below, too. He's given the powers back." A couple more unsteady, laughing breaths. "Seems like for now I'm off the hook."
There was a gentle pattering and Crowley looked over, confused, only to watch the quiet but decisive thump as the last of the crumbs and the remains of a prehistoric jam sandwich hit the floor. Aziraphale gave the paper bag in his hands a few quick shakes and then balled it up and came over to hold it to Crowley's face.
"Here," he said. "You'll feel better."
"What are you - " Crowley slapped futilely at Aziraphale's hands, at the crumpled paper that was shoved uncomfortably up against his nose. It smelled oddly of ages and dust, fossils and petrified wood, because of course nothing of the angel's would do anything so undignified as rot. "Stop it!"
"You'll feel better," Aziraphale insisted. "My dear, I fear you're hysterical."
"You have to stop treating me like I'm human!" Crowley said, feeling like he was coming apart a little at the seams.
"I will when you stop acting like it," Aziraphale snapped, and it was weirdly and inexplicably the best thing he could have possibly said, and the giddy reality that all of a sudden the possibility of consequences didn't roost so close tugged him forward. He pushed Aziraphale's ancient lunch-bag out of the way, curled a hand around the back of the angel's neck, and pulled their mouths together.
It was a moment of perfection. It was a moment that Crowley had locked into his strongest mental safe as soon as it was imagined, barred and bolted and never admitted to for eight years, for far, far longer than that. It was ended abruptly with the taste of wet brown paper, and Crowley shoved at Aziraphale's hands.
"I am not hysterical!" he said.
Aziraphale stepped back and watched him warily. Crowley lowered his hands - the expansive gestures probably weren't the most convincing - and shoved them into his pockets, cleared his throat.
"Angel, I'm fine," he said, and this time he almost sounded it.
"Of course you are," Aziraphale said, still with that note of caution. "Come on, then."
Crowley found himself tugged - by the no-mans-land of his jacket sleeve, and wasn't that a weight in the base of his stomach? - to sit on the sofa. Aziraphale knelt at his feet and carefully tugged off his shoes, pairing them neatly and incredibly out of place under the occasional table by the stairs. The sofa cushion sank next to him and he was tugged again, carefully, until he could tuck his feet up against the arm of the sofa and rest his cheek on the angel's awful, ugly and sinfully comfortable corduroys.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale hushed him and tugged his sunglasses off the top of his head, folding them neatly and putting them - somewhere. Crowley couldn't quite follow the movement.
Demons don't actually need sleep, even though Crowley had cultivated it as a hobby, but there were things that require a little processing time, and when Crowley opened his eyes again, rolled onto his back, the angel's face was lit by lamplight. He'd secured a book from somewhere that was probably down the back or the side of the sofa - judging by the odd uncomfortable spot that was under the cushions, under Crowley's arse - and was peering at it through ridiculous half-moon glasses that it was impossible for him to have ever needed. The angle of his neck against the back of the sofa looked torturous but he hadn't once shifted, or twitched, or done anything that would cause him to move under Crowley.
Crowley was uncomfortably certain that he could name the feeling in his chest, if he tried. That it would be a relatively simple matter to put words to the spun-glass fragility that he was worried might shatter him if he looked at it wrong. Instead he rolled onto his side again, reached up to hook his fingers over Aziraphale's waistband, knuckles pressing into the the angel's squashy stomach and wrist resting against - oh.
"Making an effort, angel?" he asked, the slow sly tone of these words far easier than framing any others would have been.
Aziraphale closed his book with a snap, placing it carefully on the arm of the sofa and folding his glasses on top.
"I find it's difficult not to, with you," he said simply.
It wasn't quite what Crowley meant - or at least, it was wrapped up within it. But there was something amazing about the way Aziraphale's hands didn't move as he tugged Aziraphale's shirt from his trousers and undid the lowest few buttons, running his fingers gently over the angel's lightly furred stomach. How his fingers just twitched and clawed a little into the give of the sofa cushions when Crowley turned his attention to his trousers, the creak of stiff fabric easing over the button and the gentle click of the teeth on his fly.
"Yes?" Crowley asked.
"Crowley - " Aziraphale said, and it wasn't entirely a means of getting his way, and it wasn't entirely a reaction to the tone of his voice that had Crowley shuffling forward to breathe hotly against flushed skin. Aziraphale whimpered. "Yes," he said, "yes, of course, always."
He had to stretch his mouth wider than he'd expected, than he'd remembered from others before. He relished the almost-instant slight ache in his jaw. This was something so undeniably, awkwardly, embarrassingly human; he'd forgotten how much spit was involved, but it slicked his palm when he wrapped his hand around the base, moved it in counterpoint to his head. This wasn't quite what he meant but it was everything he needed, reducing the angel to half-swallowed noises and fragments of words, his vocabulary stolen by the curl of Crowley's tongue.
Crowley would have happily stayed there forever. It was painful to say it, even safely inside his head, and he was worried he'd have some sort of allergic reaction to the sappiness, but nothing had ever really felt more true. It was almost a disappointment when the angel tangled painful fingers in Crowley's hair and pushed up against him, when he whined in the back of his throat and Crowley's mouth filled with salty bitterness, leaked around the edges and over his knuckles.
Almost.
"I'm basking!" he protested when Aziraphale hauled him upright, when he slid off the sofa and dropped to his knees with a rug-muffled thud and started fumbling at the button of Crowley's trousers with still-shaking fingers. Crowley steadied them and then held them still so he could wrap the angel's hand in his.
"It's okay," he said, a note in his voice he wasn't sure he'd ever heard before. "I'm fine, it doesn't have to be about that." He swallowed hard. "Angel, I - it's not just about that. You do know - ?"
"Yes," said Aziraphale, a riotous flush still painting his cheeks, and slapped at Crowley's hands. "But could it be, please?"
Crowley's mouth dropped open and Aziraphale snorted out a breathless laugh then leaned forward a little on his knees so he could cup Crowley's cheek in his palm.
"It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment," he said, low and intimate. "It's not that I don't return it, only Crowley, I've been waiting." He leaned in to brush his lips against Crowley's gently, chaste at first. He pulled away slightly and Crowley groaned and pulled him back in, the kiss long and tender and so very deep that he barely noticed Aziraphale's fingers working at the waistband of his trousers until the angel had grabbed the back of them and pulled them off in three sharp, impatient tugs.
"Oh," breathed Crowley, a smile slowly spreading across his face, "oh this is going to be fun."
"Trust me, my dear," said Aziraphale, gentle and demure and with the light pouring in from the kitchen to form a halo behind his head, "you haven't the faintest idea."
Title: Castles in the Sand: Epilogue 2
Recipient:
irisbleuficAuthor: A Secret!
Pairing: Brian/Wensleydale
Rating: PG
Notes: So far Wensleydale had managed to hold hands with Brian three times precisely (horribly self-conscious about the dampness of his palms throughout each), and their lips had yet to touch at all.
There were things it was difficult to get around to when there were four of you to a Morris Traveller, a hotel room, a technically two-man tent. So far Wensleydale had managed to hold hands with Brian three times precisely (horribly self-conscious about the dampness of his palms throughout each), and their lips had yet to touch at all. It wasn't as though Adam and Pepper would mind, exactly, that wasn't it. It was far worse than that, actually. They were likely to be horribly fascinated, encouraging, make it awkward and embarrassing in ways Wensley wasn't sure he'd make it out of alive. So instead it was a warm, pink-hazed, middle-school sort of an affair, with sly sideways glances and embarrassed bitten lips, the outsides of little fingers just touching on the back seat between them.
Wensleydale wasn't sure he'd ever been so frustrated in his life.
To make it worse, there were the times when things went all of a sudden to the other extreme. When Brian suddenly forgot to be embarrassed and sprawled all over Wensley, draped over him from behind and breathing hot against his shoulder, or pressing their knees together under the table in whatever fast-food restaurant they happened to be. The worst time, the absolute pinnacle of humiliating awfulness had been the time Brian had pushed and tugged and squashed him into place against the door in the back seat of the Traveller and then leaned back against his chest, the whole length of him folded up between Wensley's legs. He hadn't stayed still, either, picking restlessly at the hole that was forming in the knee of Wensley's jeans (just the barest scraping touches of skin against skin), contantly turning his head to talk to Pepper, in the front, so his hair was always just teasing at Wensleydale's neck. And it had been a long time for Wensleydale, and it - it was Brian, he couldn't help it, the evidence of how much he was affected horribly obvious against the base of Brian's back. So when they'd stopped for petrol he'd squirmed backwards, humiliated, as soon as the others had jumped out of the car, only for Brian to wrap warm fingers around his thigh.
"Don't," he'd said, barely audible. "I like it."
The next motorway services they'd come to he'd raced to the nearest bathroom, face flaming, and locked himself into a stall. The toothmarks in his finger hadn't faded for hours.
Paycheques were scarce in their business - whatever you might call it - and the majority of them just now went to pay for boarding for Dog; he'd been bitten by a possible were-rabbit, and had had to be quarantined until after the full moon. The rest went on food and petrol and supplies, with the occasional night in a hotel when they were feeling particularly flush. So it was an indulgence they probably couldn't afford, getting two seperate rooms, but a scratch-card win from Pepper and the tiny smirk on Adam's face had left Wensleydale feeling reckless and heated and dizzy as a wossname. Proverbial.
He locked the door behind him. The sorts of places they could afford to stay generally had two locks at least, sometimes a chain, and paper-thin walls; it was always best to ignore any noises in the night. Brian flicked on the tiny lamp on the night-stand by the bed, the room slowly coming into focus as the energy-saving lightbulb struggled into luminescence, and Wensleydale pulled his t-shirt off before he could think twice about it. He turned around and Brian was studying him curiously, the length of him sprawled out untidily on the mattress but his shoulders resting against the headboard, which was padded in an unfortunate shade of brown.
"Oh," he said softly. "Really?"
It wasn't the most encouraging of starts. Wensleydale shrugged, walking over to stand beside the bed and feeling the slow tide of blotchy pink self-consciousness starting to slide up the skin of his stomach.
"I thought - since we're alone - "
"Yeah," said Brian, "no, of course. I just meant, what d'you want to - " he sat up a little more and didn't meet Wensleydale's eyes, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I mean, what've you done?"
A tidal wave of bright red embarrassment crashed into Wensleydale's face and then withdrew, leaving the pit of his stomach empty and hollow and with plenty of room for humiliated anger to take its place. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and then shifted them, lower across his stomach, where they might have a chance of hiding how the stubborn remnants of puppy-fat squashed a little over the top of his jeans.
"Loads," he said, too loud. "Plenty. Just because I don't look like - " he waved a quick frustrated gesture to indicate Brian's stupid long limbs, his mouth that always held the potential for the best smile Wensleydale had ever seen, the carelessly tousled brown hair that Brian was currently staring out at him from under. "Lots of people have wanted to," he said, stubborn and awful and feeling a little bit sick.
He wasn't expecting the heart-stopping grin.
"Oh thank god," said Brian. "That's a relief."
Wensleydale sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed.
"...what?"
Brian scrambled over to sit next to him, a long line of heat pressed against Wensleydale's side, and took a moment to carefully weave their fingers together.
"I haven't," he said, and his smile was practically unbearable this close. "Never really particularly wanted to."
"Oh," said Wensleydale blankly. "Right. You don't want - "
There was a quick movement and Brian bit him gently, precisely, on the small patch of skin just under his ear. The noise Wensleydale made was completely involuntary.
"Didn't," said Brian, firmly. "I've always wanted to do things with you."
"Ah," said Wensleydale. He flexed his fingers slightly againt Brian's, and there was something weird and reassuring and a little bit amazing about how damp Brian's palm was, against his. He cleared his throat. "Like what?"
"I want to stick my little finger in your tummy button," Brian said promptly, and echoed it immediately when Wensleydale snorted out a startled laugh. "I do! And I want to see if the backs of your knees are as ticklish as mine."
"Romantic," Wensleydale said, his voice still all tangled up with laughter.
Brian leaned a little closer and buried his nose just behind Wenselydale's ear.
"I want to steal your shampoo," he said, softly, his lips stirring the curls there. "I want to make you laugh forever. And I want to know what the back of your neck tastes like in the morning when it's almost too hot for covers."
"Oh," Wensleydale breathed out, barely audible.
"Mostly, though," Brian said thoughtfully, "for starters, I'd like to put my tongue in your mouth."
"Right," Wensleydale said, and shuffled himself round on the bed, practically going cross-eyed with how close Brian was but able to see he matched him, enormous grin for grin. "Right, well, I suppose that's a good place to start."
Enjoy,
irisbleufic!
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