I hide my face in shame. Seriously. More verbosity, now with the added disadvantage of purple prose that R. M. Banks would not allow. But hey... porn. So that makes up for it. Right? (ducks)
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“Jeeves!” Bertie struggled to push the door against the bitter wind.
Jeeves helped – or tried to. He was hampered by the layers of cloth wrapped shawl-like over his greatcoat, extra (if insufficient) protection contra the midnight chill. The unshoveled snow – now turned to filthy ice underfoot – meant that what pull he could provide – burdened as Jeeves was with a double armful of basketry – tended more to set him moving than to affect the door. Working in blackout darkness wasn’t any joy either.
Still, after some extended panting and gasping Bertie managed to get Jeeves – encumbrances included – securely inside the domestic portal and the outer door secured against the world.
“Home!” Jeeves whispered the word as a benediction. His body was shaking, his face white under his black bowler.
“Home.” And Bertram’s answer, murmured into the other man’s dark curls, named his being and not their mutual location.
Their hands locked, fingers twined and palm pressed to palm, burning and singular, the only heat as their breaths rose, twin ghosts of white fog in the barren lobby.
Bertram pulled his man into the alcove.
The doorman used to keep packages there. Morning mail delivery, mostly, when the parcel post came in before the late-rising residents came down. Sometimes bright hatboxes or shirt boxes from the better stores. It was empty now. No early post. No fashion at any time, what with the fierce rationing. No doorman, for that matter. Watching a portal was the opposite of a reserved occupation.
“The gifts…” Dark eyes flicked to the stack, but rested no more than a second before emotion drew them back to Bertie’s burning blue gaze.
“Can wait.”
The words were iron command.
“Yes.” Jeeves shed the top wraps, the damp wool to puddling ignored around their feet. His knit gloves followed, stiff with pressed snow and only a degree more cold than the icy hands that struggled to move the weather-sodden Chesterfield.
Bertie lent a pair of nimble hands, warmer fingers making quick work of the rows of buttons. Snow-drenched overcoat first, as reason would dictate, but after that clear duty the fingers persisted, seeking out deeper fastening. Jacket, then vest, and finally the delicate passage between shirt studs, until only a thin undershirt stood between desire and a delicate nipple.
no subject
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“Jeeves!” Bertie struggled to push the door against the bitter wind.
Jeeves helped – or tried to. He was hampered by the layers of cloth wrapped shawl-like over his greatcoat, extra (if insufficient) protection contra the midnight chill. The unshoveled snow – now turned to filthy ice underfoot – meant that what pull he could provide – burdened as Jeeves was with a double armful of basketry – tended more to set him moving than to affect the door. Working in blackout darkness wasn’t any joy either.
Still, after some extended panting and gasping Bertie managed to get Jeeves – encumbrances included – securely inside the domestic portal and the outer door secured against the world.
“Home!” Jeeves whispered the word as a benediction. His body was shaking, his face white under his black bowler.
“Home.” And Bertram’s answer, murmured into the other man’s dark curls, named his being and not their mutual location.
Their hands locked, fingers twined and palm pressed to palm, burning and singular, the only heat as their breaths rose, twin ghosts of white fog in the barren lobby.
Bertram pulled his man into the alcove.
The doorman used to keep packages there. Morning mail delivery, mostly, when the parcel post came in before the late-rising residents came down. Sometimes bright hatboxes or shirt boxes from the better stores. It was empty now. No early post. No fashion at any time, what with the fierce rationing. No doorman, for that matter. Watching a portal was the opposite of a reserved occupation.
“The gifts…” Dark eyes flicked to the stack, but rested no more than a second before emotion drew them back to Bertie’s burning blue gaze.
“Can wait.”
The words were iron command.
“Yes.” Jeeves shed the top wraps, the damp wool to puddling ignored around their feet. His knit gloves followed, stiff with pressed snow and only a degree more cold than the icy hands that struggled to move the weather-sodden Chesterfield.
Bertie lent a pair of nimble hands, warmer fingers making quick work of the rows of buttons. Snow-drenched overcoat first, as reason would dictate, but after that clear duty the fingers persisted, seeking out deeper fastening. Jacket, then vest, and finally the delicate passage between shirt studs, until only a thin undershirt stood between desire and a delicate nipple.
Jeeves shivered.