eglantine_br (eglantine_br) wrote,

Danger in Words

Title: Danger in Words

Author Eglantine_br

Rating R for sex

Word Count 871

Kit Marlowe and T. Walsingham

Danger in Words

“Please, let me stay,” Thomas
Walsingham said.

His voice was low and ragged, but his
touch was soft. And he took Kit's empty hands and kissed the palms
of both.

“When you are married--”

Kit began to speak but he had said it
all already, and the anger was going now. It had buoyed him for some
time, but it was slipping away, there was only the cold sea of
forever ahead, and he could not clutch it back.

Walsingham placed a gentle hand over
his mouth. The hand was warm, against Kit's open lips.

“Not married yet.”

The light in the room was meager, he
had slept and dreamed from dusk to night. But Walsingham had brought
a candle with him, fine and pale, in a silver rack meant for three.
The room smelled of beeswax and sleep. The light wavered, and new
shadows swam on the walls. Still, Kit could see he could see the
pale skin, and the swoop of brow and eyes. And he could see what he
wanted-- what they both wanted. His own breath was coming short now.

Walsingham's nightshirt was open at the
neck, it moved with his breath toward and away from his skin beneath.
This was was linen so fine that the light shone through it. There
had been a laughing day once, a day when they had tussled and
giggled, and Kit had said this is no good as a nightshirt at all, as
you can see right through it. Walsingham had preened and teased, and
Kit had pounced, and tickled they had laughed in that bed until
their sides ached. He pressed his head to the same linen now, to hide
his face.

The warm arms came around him again,
taking him close. Walsingam kissed his eyelids so he had to shut
them, and he did not mind, he was too close to see, all was feeling
now, and feeling was bigger than seeing ever could be. Kisses to his
eyes, his nose, his mouth, brief and shallow. The other heart was
racing against his own.

“Honey sweet, oh Kit--”

Hands in his hair now, stroking his
neck. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat. The action made
him gasp. Walsingham drew him down. Kit could feel the flat heave of
each breath in the bellies of them, asynchronous, and quick. He had
fallen asleep in his clothes, not meaning to sleep at all. The
nightmare had left him flushed and sticky with fear sweat.

Walsingham had never mocked his dreams,
never asked more about them than Kit wanted to say. Sometimes Kit
told a little, tonight he would not.

Now he held Kit astride him, against
the delicious pressure and promise there, and he untucked and
unbuttoned with his free hand. The cool air was a caress of itself.
Kit sighed a little, and shivered as the hand found the bare arch of
his back.

It was the work of a moment to slide
back and rid himself of the last of his clothing. Walsingham had the
nightshirt off as quickly.

“There now,”

Thomas Walsingham was was flushed pink,
all down the thin skin of his neck and chest. It took him this way,
every time. He was pink to Kit's gold. His eyes were black in blue.

Kit was licking at the collar bone,
mouthing it, pushing close. His own hands gripped now, on the working
muscles of the other man's back. He had a sudden memory of lying, as
a boy on the ground, with his nose in the weeds, watching tiny
insects about their lives. Just this way, he had wanted it forever,
Walsingham smelled of life and the good earth.

“Strawberries,” Kit murmured.

“What?” The clear voice was a
growl now.

“Nothing, it-- that, oh.”


“Thou knowest well, this.”

Kit was moving now, because he could
not be still. He was kissing frantically, and speaking into the kiss,
because he could not be quiet.

“ To know, and, and --”

The last word was not really a word at
all. Kit had moved to the place beyond words, his mouth was open
only to gasp and groan. They were rocking and pushing, advancing by
jointed halves, better and better.

The shattering was close now, only a
few breaths away, and the air burned in his throat. Now Kit could
feel the movement change out beyond his own aching. Walsingham's
shudders were loosening, he gave his own wordless whine, and Kit felt
felt him bloom with sudden heat.

“There now, there.” Walsingham out
the other side, had him safe, and he let it all go.

It was some moments before Kit's
breathing slowed. Walsingham had his hands, kissing the palms, the
fingers, the wrists, with single minded focus, as if kissing would
save something, somehow.

“I do love thee,” He said. His
voice was his own again. Kit had his back too, though he had liked
the quiet better.

“Hush.” Kit said. And he moved to
kiss again. Better this, than the danger in words.

Tags: fiction, kit marlowe

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