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wellownedbkupTitle: Breathe
Pairing: Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart./ Lord Anthony Dewhurst (The Scarlet Pimpernel)
Notes/Warnings: Gratuitous use of French. Based mostly on the 1982 CBS film starring Anthony Andrews, Jane Seymour and Ian McKellan.
Rating: R
The only sound he can hear is his own breath shuddering out into the damp castle walls. Mont St. Pierre is impossibly hushed in the half-light of dawn; the monks' silence a blessing and a curse in times such as these. The Dauphin is fast asleep in the care of these silent sentinels of God's mercy, and all Tony can hear is the sound of his own gasps and stifled moans.
Blunt fingers, callused and rough from this double life, rasp over shoulders and catch against hidden, smooth skin on Tony's torso. His breath huffs out on a sigh of his lover's name, muffled between bitten lips even as his hands grasp the broad shoulders, the dark mane. Everywhere those fingers touch is suddenly alight, skin heated and yearning for something more.
Sharp teeth bite bruises into every kiss, both helping and hindering the quieted groans rumbling deep in both of their chests. He only wants to touch, to reciprocate and bring an end to this torture. He wants to tell Percy this, to grasp that all-knowing head and make him stop teasing or find some way to make this yearning stop.
“Patience,” Percy whispers in Tony’s ear, hearing the way his breath is hitching in his throat, the way he arches toward every touch like a man starved for it. “Easy, my dear fellow.” His hand is gentle, firm and implacable as it presses him back toward the too-narrow bed of some poor apprentice monk, currently sharing the bed of another whilst the aristocrats take his. Tony can hardly think in the haze of lust Percy inspires in him without even trying.
“Please, Percy,” he whimpers, his hands fluttering before reaching down to twist in the bedclothes below him, trying to ground himself and calm himself. All his efforts are almost for nothing as he finds himself choking back a whine as Percy takes him in hand, a slow drag up his cock to rub his palm against the head.
“Breathe, m’dear,” Percy chuckles, dragging the pleasure out and slowly torturing Tony. The smirk, softened only a little by the affection he has for Tony, doesn’t leave his lips until Tony snaps bowstring tight and softly groans his release. They gasp and catch their breath, collapsing into each other with slick bodies and the chill of night settling around them.
“You know you’re leading yourself into a trap, old chap,” Tony whispers, one hand reaching up to tangle in the loose hairs of Percy’s queue.
Percy presses a soft kiss to the crown of Tony’s head. “I know, m’dear fellow. I know. Noblesse oblige.” He chuckles softly. “Marguerite would never forgive me for allowing Armand to be harmed. Who says I don’t know the meaning of love?”
Pairing: Sir Percival Blakeney, Bart./ Lord Anthony Dewhurst (The Scarlet Pimpernel)
Notes/Warnings: Gratuitous use of French. Based mostly on the 1982 CBS film starring Anthony Andrews, Jane Seymour and Ian McKellan.
Rating: R
The only sound he can hear is his own breath shuddering out into the damp castle walls. Mont St. Pierre is impossibly hushed in the half-light of dawn; the monks' silence a blessing and a curse in times such as these. The Dauphin is fast asleep in the care of these silent sentinels of God's mercy, and all Tony can hear is the sound of his own gasps and stifled moans.
Blunt fingers, callused and rough from this double life, rasp over shoulders and catch against hidden, smooth skin on Tony's torso. His breath huffs out on a sigh of his lover's name, muffled between bitten lips even as his hands grasp the broad shoulders, the dark mane. Everywhere those fingers touch is suddenly alight, skin heated and yearning for something more.
Sharp teeth bite bruises into every kiss, both helping and hindering the quieted groans rumbling deep in both of their chests. He only wants to touch, to reciprocate and bring an end to this torture. He wants to tell Percy this, to grasp that all-knowing head and make him stop teasing or find some way to make this yearning stop.
“Patience,” Percy whispers in Tony’s ear, hearing the way his breath is hitching in his throat, the way he arches toward every touch like a man starved for it. “Easy, my dear fellow.” His hand is gentle, firm and implacable as it presses him back toward the too-narrow bed of some poor apprentice monk, currently sharing the bed of another whilst the aristocrats take his. Tony can hardly think in the haze of lust Percy inspires in him without even trying.
“Please, Percy,” he whimpers, his hands fluttering before reaching down to twist in the bedclothes below him, trying to ground himself and calm himself. All his efforts are almost for nothing as he finds himself choking back a whine as Percy takes him in hand, a slow drag up his cock to rub his palm against the head.
“Breathe, m’dear,” Percy chuckles, dragging the pleasure out and slowly torturing Tony. The smirk, softened only a little by the affection he has for Tony, doesn’t leave his lips until Tony snaps bowstring tight and softly groans his release. They gasp and catch their breath, collapsing into each other with slick bodies and the chill of night settling around them.
“You know you’re leading yourself into a trap, old chap,” Tony whispers, one hand reaching up to tangle in the loose hairs of Percy’s queue.
Percy presses a soft kiss to the crown of Tony’s head. “I know, m’dear fellow. I know. Noblesse oblige.” He chuckles softly. “Marguerite would never forgive me for allowing Armand to be harmed. Who says I don’t know the meaning of love?”
