Oh, The Places You'll Go

Wherever You Go

Notes: Written for oxoniensis's 7th Porn Battle. Prompt - speechless.

Geoffrey follows the strange sounds, moving as silently as he can over the forest floor. He is the hunter and his words are his weapons, he hones them mercilessly as he pushes aside branches and steps over roots, twisted and gnarled with age.

Wat is attempting to sing again. Geoffrey has heard him at it before, but only from a distance when Wat has been out away from camp, gathering firewood. He cannot hold a tune and his voice cracks on the high notes and Geoffrey has decided that it is time for their grand game. He will mock and Wat will fire up, hair leaping like flames from his scalp. If he is in luck, Wat will give chase and the predator will become the prey. Geoffrey knows why this game makes his blood thunder and his heart sing, he hopes Wat knows, too.

Geoffrey hears something else and steps out into a clearing, stopping dead. It was splashing; Wat is bathing. If that fact in itself were not enough to take Geoffrey's speech away, then Wat's pale back, broad shoulders freckled by the sun, the round swell of his buttocks cresting the water would do it.

The taunts he had practiced dissolve into blurs, like ink in the rain. He is struck dumb. Without thought, without decision, Geoffrey finds himself striding forward, pulling off his tunic and hopping out of his britches as he goes. He wades into the water.

Wat turns, mouth open mid-song and stops, gaping. His hair, dark-red, is plastered to his head and he looks so very young. This is Geoffrey's chance to stop, to turn a quick phrase and make a joke, to dunk Wat in the water and dash away before Wat can take his first swing. He does not stop.

Geoffrey closes on Wat in one swift stride, grasping his wet hair with one hand and shutting Wat's mouth with the other. Wat's fist comes up but Geoffrey shakes his head and kisses him. Wat's lips are cool and his skin is slippery and he shifts under Geoffrey's hands. He is not the water nymph Geoffrey has dreamt of in idle moments, but he will do. Iesu! He will more than do.

Wat's hand drops onto Geoffrey's shoulder and his leg twines round the back of Geoffrey's, slides up it and pulls. Geoffrey buckles, hitting the water with a resounding slap. Wat follows him down and they tangle together as sound mutes and the world turns soft and green. Wat's hands find Geoffrey's face and he presses their lips together. Geoffrey cannot tell if he is giving Geoffrey breath and life or stealing it from him.

They break the surface, gasping, and scramble for the bank, arms crooking around necks and waists, half-wrestling, half-supporting. They fall, Wat's chest flush against Geoffrey's side. Geoffrey looks up at him through eyelashes beaded with water. They blur Wat's edges, soften him even as he proves his hardness by pushing against Geoffrey's hip. It's a strange dichotomy and Geoffrey blinks until Wat's features sharpen again, until he can see the fiercely determined set of his chin, Wat's eyes grown dark with want.

He tugs and their bodies slip-slide together, Wat's prick nudging his own, unwilling to be ignored. Chaucer quivers at the contact and cannot but help open his mouth to speak.

"Don't, Geoff," says Wat. "Not yet," and slides his fingers into Geoffrey's mouth as if to bear out his point. Obediently, Geoffrey closes around them and licks them with his silenced tongue. He does not know what he would have said anyway; his words are gone agley.

Wat takes his mouth-dampened fingers and wraps them around Geoffrey's prick and his own both. He strokes up, harder than Geoffrey is used to, and Geoffrey stuffs a fist into his own mouth to prevent his crying out and alerting the others for all the wrong reasons. Wat sets a pace and a rhythm Geoffrey can count to, a dance of a different kind. He is helpless before it. Wat's breath is too loud in his ear, his hip too sharp against Geoffrey's scant flesh but none of this matters, and Geoffrey's hand steals over Wat's, joining them together.

They slow for a moment, learning each other, then speed again, this is no time for lingering glances and heavy sighs. Geoffrey feels the pulsing along Wat's prick and can't help but follow him, biting down on his hand as he spends. Wat flops against him, useless. He'll move soon, Geoffrey knows, and Geoffrey will follow. He cannot do else.

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