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The first time the Little Snail opened as a food stop, it was just Jonathan and Nicky running the show.
Pines Harrow was where they started, setting up a breakfast service for the people that worked the lumber camp outside the village. A menu of eggs, meat, and potatoes provided all the protein and carbs a lumberjack could need to fuel a hard day’s labour, and there was plenty of hot coffee and tea to wash it all down.
The first week went well. The second went even better as people came back for more of Nicky’s cooking and the novelty of visiting the strange steam-powered, tree-bearing wagon that had arrived in their neighbourhood.
In the wake of their success, Nicky and Jonathan were rewarded with a few quiet days where they could afford to keep the food hatch closed. Which mostly meant they spent their time stocking up on supplies and attending to whatever chores needed doing.
It was on the final afternoon that Nicky looked up from scrubbing a stubborn stain out of his whites and commented, “Damn. Looks like rain.”
Jonathan paused in his writing and turned to the porthole above. The grey clouds overhead did look dark.
“Gonna need to get those clothes in,” Nicky added, clearly eyeing the line of laundry that was hung up outside.
Jonathan glanced at the bubbly suds that covered Nicky’s arms to the elbow and set his pen down on his repair manual. “Yes, Chef!”
“Ah, cut that crap out,” Nicky said, but there was no heat in it. “You’re off the clock, and so am I.”
“Alright.” Jonathan smiled. Then he went to save their laundry from the rain.
Jonathan had made sure to call him Nicky when they weren’t in the kitchen after that. He understood the way a title could play on your mind. It didn’t do a person any good to be constantly thinking about how others were depending on them for leadership. That could burn you out fast, and he liked Nicky, however complicated their first meeting had been.
Of course, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t funny to tease him sometimes.
By the time the Little Snail was serving lunch in addition to breakfast, he and Nicky worked together like a well-oiled machine. They’d lived together on the road long enough that they'd learnt one another's foibles and habits, and were more than comfortable in each other’s company. So whenever Nicky got in the zone when they were out shopping for supplies, inspecting produce and declaring what they ought to spend their hard-earned asta on, Jonathan couldn’t pass up the chance to reply with, “Yes, Chef,” to his gruffer declarations. Nicky would scowl and bat him on the arm, but he’d also loosen up. Stop barking orders and get back to discussing things like business partners instead of a boss and his underling.
Eventually, Elena joined them on the Little Snail and a lot of things had changed. The years had cemented Jonathan’s bond with Nicky. Calling him “Chef” had become more than just a sign of respect in the kitchen or a joke between friends. There was a trust imbued in it that ran deep.
And. Well. There was a routine born out of it that had become something special.
Jonathan gathered up the last of the folding tables and chairs that had been left to dry outside and did one last walk around the wagon. The sun was setting behind the trees they’d parked beside and the warm light filtered through the leaves in a cascade of oranges and reds. He enjoyed the scenery as he gathered up discarded napkins and other detritus, and then paused to watch the sun as it slipped below the horizon.
When he looked back to the Little Snail, he could see a lamp burning in Elena’s bedroom window and the shape of her silhouette as she read a book. He hoped she was enjoying a night to herself. She’d earned it after a day of bussing more tables than usual, scurrying to catch up with the windfall of customers that had appeared in the last hour before closing.
Jonathan climbed back inside and then locked up the door.
As he walked by the kitchen he caught sight of Nicky sitting at the table, open notebook in front of him.
He looked tired. And it didn’t look like his usual, angry kind of tired—a fussy performance of frustration after a day of demanding customers and complicated orders, banging objects around and scowling at the world. Instead it looked like the drifting, thinking-too-much kind of tired. Lost in worry.
“Hey,” Jonathan said, leaning into the room. “Everything okay in here?”
Nicky startled at the interruption, and then sunk back in his chair. “Yeah, I’m good.” He sighed.
Jonathan wandered in and peered at the notebook on the table. “There ain’t anything wrong with the books, is there?”
“No, no.” Jonathan was close enough now to see that it wasn’t the account book with its neat columns and rows, but something written in another person's hand. Handwriting all long and loopy where Nicky’s was a tight chicken scratch. “You know I wouldn’t hide that kind of thing. I’m just…reminiscing.”
The way he said it didn’t make it sound like very pleasant reminiscing. “Dangerous occupation for you,” Jonathan joked, but Nicky just grunted in reply.
Jonathan resisted the urge to try and read the notebook upside down, forever curious at the glimpses of Nicky’s past he wasn’t already privy to. Then the temptation was taken away as Nicky closed the notebook and leaned on it, clearing his throat.
“Need any help locking up?” he asked.
Deflecting. He didn’t want to talk. That was fine.
Jonathan shook his head. “Nah, that’s alright. I’ve already brought everything inside.”
Nicky looked disappointed. Jonathan got the feeling he’d been hoping for a distraction. His own plans for the evening weren’t anything more ambitious than tinkering with his old watch and maybe smoking a pipe or two. But that could be changed if Nicky wanted some help keeping his mind from wandering down memory lane.
Honestly, now Jonathan thought about it, how long had it been since they’d both spent a night alone together? Months, surely. They’d been too busy running the restaurant and getting Elena settled into life on the Little Snail. Planning their next route, fixing up the wagon, working out detours when they needed supplies. Spending their evenings sitting outside enjoying the summer weather or in the main room with Elena, talking while they were busy at their own tasks.
“Y’know,” Jonathan continued. “There are some other things I might need help with upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Nicky frowned, sitting up. “Hell, the steering better not be on the fritz again—we just fixed that last week!”
“Aw, no, the wagon’s fine.” Jonathan laughed. The man really did need to unwind if that was his first thought. “That ain’t what I meant. I meant, y’know.” He nodded his head towards the ceiling. “If you’re in need of a pick me up, I’m happy to invite you upstairs.”
Nicky stilled. "Oh." The workshop was Jonathan’s private space and he liked to keep it that way most of the time. But he made exceptions. For particular things. Things he only did with Nicky.
Nicky fell into a thoughtful silence and Jonathan could see the cogs turn as he contemplated the offer.
“Mm. Might be nice,” Nicky finally said and shifted in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He caught Jonathan’s eye.
Jonathan just met his gaze and smiled. “Yeah. I’d say so.”
They held eye contact for a few more seconds, a thrill running through Jonathan at the sudden intensity he found there. Then Nicky looked towards the clock on the wall and studied it.
“Nine o’ clock,” he stated after a moment.
It wasn’t a question, but Jonathan nodded his head anyway. “You got it, Chef.” Half an hour gave him plenty of time to prep.
Nicky gave him a smile and then he got to his feet, looking far more at ease than he had when Jonathan first glanced through the door. He squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder. “See you then,” he said, voice low. Before he stepped out of the kitchen and disappeared up to his room.
Jonathan glanced around the kitchen. There was no use dallying. He headed up to his own room and got to work.
Remaking his cot came first, airing out the sheets and blankets and rearranging the cushions to make a cosy, upright seat. Then he opened the window to let in the cool, evening breeze and moved the clutter off the floor. He shifted one of his work lamps to be nearer the makeshift seat and emptied out his apron pockets and refilled them as needed, checking that all the necessities were in their usual places where he and Nicky would expect them to be.
Then it was just time to wait.
Jonathan squashed down the urge to turn to his workbench and lift the cloth that covered his latest project. His hands would be busy soon enough. Anticipation was part of the experience after all.
The knock at the door came. Jonathan took a breath in. Then let it out again. He got up and opened it.
Nicky stood on the narrow landing, dressed in his boots, slacks, and an old suit jacket that rarely saw the light of day. A relic from another time, repurposed.
“Everything better be in order,” he said brusquely.
“Yes, Chef,” Jonathan replied, and stepped back to let him in.
Nicky walked deliberately across the floor, eyeing the room as Jonathan closed the door behind him. The shelves and cot were all scrutinised, and Nicky pointedly tapped a box that had been left askew with the toe of his boot. He finally finished his appraisal and looked back to Jonathan, nodding, and Jonathan turned the key in the lock. The bolt slid into place with a click.
There was always a weight to the gesture that Jonathan appreciated. A signal that things had officially begun.
He bowed his head slightly as he presented the key to Nicky, who took it and slipped it into his trouser pocket.
Nicky turned away and started to undo the buttons of his jacket and Jonathan approached, easing it from his shoulders like any good valet. He hung it on a hanger so the fabric didn’t crease and then pulled a garment brush from his apron, dusting any lint away with short, practiced strokes. Behind him he could hear the creak of the cot as Nicky settled into his seat and waited.
Once the jacket was sorted and hung up by the door, Jonathan turned to Nicky, unsurprised to find he was being watched.
“Boots,” Nicky demanded, voice quiet but firm.
“Yes, Chef.”
Jonathan pulled up a low cushioned stool he’d left in reach—he wasn’t kneeling for anyone with his old joints—and settled down by Nicky’s feet.
Undoing the laces didn’t take long, but Jonathan was careful to loosen them properly and ease each boot off without tugging. He took the closest of Nicky’s feet in his hands and started massaging from the ankle down, rubbing steadily through his thin socks, hoping his hands weren’t too cold. The attention earned him a pleased grunt, but no other encouragement so he switched to the other foot and pulled his hands away after a minute.
Nicky snapped his fingers. Jonathan got to his feet again. There wasn’t any need for instructions. They had done this plenty of times before.
Jonathan retrieved a familiar bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and opened the velvet lined box that kept his glassware safe from the rattle of the wagon, pouring out a finger of amber liquid into a drinking glass. Behind him, Nicky had pulled a small book from his pocket and was reading by the light of the lamp. Legs outstretched with his ankles crossed in front of him. His eyes flicked coolly to the whiskey as it was served up on the small table next to him, but that was his only acknowledgement.
Drink delivered, Jonathan sat down on the stool next to the boots and pulled out all the appropriate shoe cleaning implements from his apron. Of all the roles he’d played as a precursor to pleasure in his life, following orders had always been what Jonathan liked best. Acts of service he knew would be rewarded as long as he pleased whoever he was pleasing. Maybe some pain and humiliation had thrilled him when he was younger, and he’d certainly enjoyed playing at being the helpless, ravished victim for the rare partners he’d known that had been strong enough to lift and move him about. But these days that kind of punishment wasn’t so fun. His body took longer to heal than it used to, and slow and gentle was more his style now.
Luckily, Nicky’s own preferences suited the softer tastes of his old age.
Jonathan held back a smile as he carefully unthreaded the laces of Nicky’s boots and thought about their first awkward attempt at this. Nicky too uncertain about how far he ought to play the tyrant, and Jonathan too hesitant about how eagerly he should play the grovelling servant. They’d eventually laughed as they’d skewed too far into parody and given up on performing, ending the night with the same regular, no-frills sex they’d fallen into after a year together on the road. Days spent in close proximity, sharing stories and working to keep the Little Snail on its feet. Looking to stave off the boredom of long journeys.
They’d figured out how to spice it up eventually, of course. Nicky clearly got a lot of gratification from having someone obey his orders, and Jonathan enjoyed following orders when the the pay off was worth it. Nicky had a talent for drawing things out and delaying each act in order to sweeten the ending, and it was exactly the kind of thing that got Jonathan hot. There was a reason he’d taken his time checking each individual boot lace for wear and tear, and was now carefully rubbing polish into every crease he could see in the leather. The high standard Nicky set kept Jonathan on his toes, but it also allowed Nicky to control the pace. The script didn’t move along until he was satisfied and Jonathan knew he’d make him repeat a task again and again if what he wanted was for Jonathan to wait.
The smell of boot polish filled the air and Jonathan felt himself sink into the simple monotony of his task. Rubbing the blackened brush over the leather in tight circles and then back and forth across the sides. He checked over each boot one last time, but eventually all he could do was let the polish soak in.
Jonathan raised his head, careful to only glance at Nicky to check that he was still occupied reading his book, and then he got up and headed back to the other side of the workshop.
He rinsed his hands in the corner basin first and opened the cupboard above him. There was a stash of corru nuts somewhere in here. He rummaged in the dim light until he found the bag. Then he grabbed the nutcracker he’d brought up from the kitchen and started the work of breaking the nuts open one by one.
Technically the nutcracker was a gift from Nicky himself when they’d last been near Corru Grove and Jonathan had stocked up on his favourite local snack. Nicky had gotten mad at him when he’d found him bashing the shells open with one of his hammers.
“You’re doing it wrong!” he’d protested. “You’ll damage the nut and lose that good, solid crunch of a whole corru.” He’d looked so offended at the idea that Jonathan had to quickly swallow his laugh. “Here, let me get you the proper tool for the job.”
The man had actually gone into the nearby town and bought a nut cracker for him and they’d spent the evening working their way through the bag until they were all shelled. He couldn’t fault Nicky. The taste was just as good, but he agreed the bite was better when they were un-smashed and whole.
Jonathan was so absorbed in his task that he nearly missed the snap of fingers from the other side of the room.
He quickly picked out the bits of shell that had ended up in the serving bowl and carried it over.
Nicky usually had no trouble keeping his face closed off during a scene, but Jonathan watched his eyes light up as the nuts were set down on the table. It was fun to surprise him.
Nicky took a single nut and rolled it carefully between his fingers, eyeing Jonathan with a hint of amusement. Before he placed it in his mouth and bit down with a loud crunch. He hummed in satisfaction. Then he gave a nod and Jonathan disappeared back to the workbench.
He cracked open a few more nuts, leaving them on a plate for later. Then he filled a small cup with water and brought it back to where the boots were sitting.
This was the finishing touch. He buffed the boots and then reapplied the polish to the toe cap with a wet cloth, reapplying again and again between bouts of spirited rubbing—until eventually the leather began to glisten in the lamplight. Polished to a mirror shine.
He barely had a moment to admire his own handiwork when there was another snap of fingers near his ear.
“Show me,” came the command.
Jonathan turned and held up the boot for Nicky to inspect. He angled it so Nicky could see each side in the light and patiently waited for his verdict.
Nicky grunted and looked back to his book. “Finish the other one.”
“Yes, Chef.”
No comment from Nicky was akin to high praise and Jonathan felt pride light up his chest.
The room was quiet as he started work on the other boot. Just the sound of pages turning and the occasional crunch of a nut. The swish of the cloth in his hands.
Once Nicky had approved of the second shining, Jonathan got to his feet and set the boots down by the door where the jacket was hanging.
When he turned back, Nicky was standing by his chair.
Nicky snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him, and Jonathan hurried over.
“Stand up straight,” Nicky demanded. “No slouching.”
Jonathan quickly pulled his shoulders back, lifting his head.
Nicky began his inspection. He stepped behind Jonathan and touched the edge of his shell, hand moving slowly over each scute as he walked around him. It was a possessive touch. The sensations were muted but Jonathan could feel each finger as it ran across the ridges of his growth rings, tracing the gradations from the newer, darker rings to the older, lighter centres.
It made him think about early on in their travels when they had stopped by a river to take a dip during a hot day. The colours of Jonathan’s shell were always brighter when wet, full of hidden reds and greens and oranges, and he still remembered Nicky’s gasp as he’d stepped into the river behind him.
“Woah. Your shell is beautiful,” Nicky had said, sounding awed.
When Jonathan had turned Nicky had looked embarrassed. Cheeks flushed as he stood there in the water with his shirt still half on, clearly caught off guard by his own words.
“I mean, the patterns are—I guess I haven't seen you—I mean.” He’d stuttered to a halt, looking flustered.
Jonathan had laughed and smiled, accepting the compliment with the appropriate amount of levity to let Nicky off the hook. But it had meant something to him.
He liked Nicky. Maybe a little more than he ought to given the careful parameters of their relationship. Jonathan was aware of how much older he was and he knew his years of experience were far more attractive in the bedroom than his old terrapine body. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he had anything to offer in the looks department to a human in the prime of his life. But Nicky’s open admiration that day still stuck with him.
Anytime he lingered over his shell like this was a pleasant reminder.
Nicky stepped into view, moving his hand from Jonathan’s shell to his chest, running a finger under one of the straps of his apron.
“I want you in good condition.” Nicky’s fingers travelled up towards Jonathan’s shoulder and settled at the back of his neck. He gave a squeeze. “I keep an eye on you. But you don’t always say when you’re in pain, do you?”
Jonathan sucked in a breath. So this was Nicky’s game today.
“You’ll tell me now, though,” Nicky said, voice firm.
“Yes, Chef.”
Nicky pulled his hand away and continued to circle him. “How’s that right shoulder?”
That trouble had cleared up weeks ago. Jonathan gave it a shrug. “Good. No bother, Chef.”
Nicky took Jonathan’s wrist next and raised his arm, turning it so he could see the underside. “And your cut has healed,” he observed.
“Yes, Chef.” An accident with a cutting tool when he was fixing up the steering a couple of weeks back. It hadn’t even left a scar.
Nicky released Jonathan’s wrist and then tucked his hands behind his back. He kept walking. Step by step. “And the knee?”
Jonathan paused. It was funny how hard it was to lie. But there was no avoiding an answer. “It still aches sometimes, Chef,” he admitted.
Nicky stopped and gave him a stern look. His hand went to his pocket and he brought out the key. “Get me warm water and a cloth. Bring it straight up.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Jonathan felt Nicky’s eyes follow him as he took the key and obediently left the room.
Behind the closed door, Jonathan let himself smile. Warm water meant a massage, and certainly something more after that. He eagerly made his way down the ladder to the wagon’s lower floor, only mildly aware of the twinge in his knee as he did.
It always felt strange to step out during the middle of a scene, but it was a necessity sometimes living on the wagon. He went down to the corner cupboard in the main corridor where the boiler tank sat and grabbed a bucket, tucking it under the tap and waiting for it to fill up.
He startled as a door opened behind him.
“Oh. Hey, Jonathan,” Elena said, stepping out from the kitchen.
“Hey!” Jonathan replied, and tried to pretend he hadn’t just jumped out of his skin.
Elena was carrying a mug of milk and an empty bowl in her other hand. She came over and leant a shoulder against the doorframe. “Can I get some water to warm my milk?” she asked.
“Sure you can. Give me a sec.” Jonathan closed the tap, dismissing her protests and moving to let her scoot into the cupboard with her smaller bowl.
When the stove was burnt out at the end of the day, the water stored in the tank was the quickest way to heat things rather than building up a new fire. He and Nicky would fill ceramic bottles in winter to keep their beds cosy, and he'd watched Elena warm her tea that had gone cold with a bowl of hot water plenty of times.
“Thanks,” Elena said as she waited for her bowl to fill. She glanced at Jonathan’s half-filled bucket and the cloths that were draped over his arm. “I heard Nicky climbing the ladder earlier. Is he giving you one of his massages?”
“Oh, uh. Yup.” Jonathan tried to keep his face as straight as he could. “My old knee’s giving me trouble, y’know.”
Elena made a sympathetic face. “At least Nicky can work his magic on you.”
“Yeah. I’ll be right as rain soon enough.” He tried not to think about the specific kinds of ‘magic’ Nicky would be working on him tonight.
The bowl filled up quick thankfully, and Elena didn’t dally any longer, calling a friendly “goodnight” as she disappeared back to her room. Jonathan sighed in relief. It felt silly to be nervous about being caught filling up a bucket, but he wasn’t used to anyone being in the wagon when he and Nicky were, well. About to have sex.
It made him realise they should probably tell Elena about them sooner rather than later. Before she accidentally interrupted them, knocking on his workshop door to ask a question under the innocent assumption that he and Nicky were just hanging out. Privacy wasn’t a guarantee when you lived in such close quarters, and she ought to have some kind of warning before she stumbled into something she didn’t want to see.
Once the bucket was full, Jonathan made the careful journey up the ladder—bucket in one hand and the cloths slung over his shoulder—feeling his heart skip a little with anticipation.
Nicky was sitting on the cot-turned-chair where Jonathan had left him. Except it was hard to miss that the cushions had been rearranged to accommodate someone bigger and a towel had been laid out over the blankets.
Nicky gestured to the floor beside him. “Set that down.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Jonathan placed the bucket carefully on the floor and laid the two cloths over the edge of the table. He paused. And waited where he stood. Confusion slowly crept over Jonathan as the seconds ticked by and there were no further instructions.
He glanced at Nicky. Nicky’s eyes were firmly on the door.
Shit.
Jonathan quickly hurried to fix his error. He turned the key in the lock and then hurried back to drop it into Nicky’s open hand.
His silent disapproval was palpable.
“Sorry, Che–”
“I don’t want apologies,” Nicky snapped. “Get back on task.”
The sharpness of his tone lit Jonathan up from the inside and he stood bolt upright. Arousal pooling between his legs.
Nicky walked behind him. “Apron off,” he demanded. His voice was still tantalisingly edged with anger.
Jonathan’s fingers worked the clasps of his apron loose and he quickly tugged it off, laying it on the chair by the workbench.
“And your sleeves.”
He reached up and loosened the thin tie behind his neck, then unclasped the front. The sleeves fell loosely from his shoulders and he tugged them off and set them on top of the apron. There was nothing sensual about the act, but it made Jonathan’s skin buzz to be watched by Nicky as he undressed, exposing his body at his direction.
“Sit.”
He sat down on the cot. The cushions were stacked firmly enough to support his shell, leaving his legs flat and relaxed in front. Nicky sat down on the stool and drew the bucket closer, dropping in one of the cloths and letting it sit for a minute before he twisted it in his hands and rinsed it out, arm muscles flexing.
Over the course of the last hour Nicky had unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, and the warm glow of the lamp illuminated the salt and pepper hair visible on his chest and along his arms. Body hair was one of those common human traits that Jonathan had always liked. The kind of fuzz he found nice to look at and play with when he was allowed.
There was no touching now. Just being touched as Nicky wrapped the warm, damp cloth around his leg and left it there for the heat to soak in. The warmth was bliss on Jonathan’s knee and he sank back into the cushions.
Meanwhile, Nicky stood and headed to one of the workbench cupboards. He took out a bottle of oil that had been stashed there from a previous evening and came back to remove the damp cloth. Then he oiled his hands and began to massage around Jonathan’s knee with slow, measured movements.
It started out much like the usual massages Nicky offered. Delivered with a brusque professionalism that denied any personal interest. But after a couple of minutes that was gone, sanded down into something more sensual. His motions became slower, his touches lingering. There was a slow confidence in it that appealed to Jonathan and he found it hard to look away as Nicky applied his expert hands to his body. Pinpointing those sweet spots and gradually easing the pain in his tendons and muscles. Unspooling the hidden tension.
When Nicky was done with the right side, he repeated the process on Jonathan’s other leg. Warm cloth, oiled hands, and a steady, luxurious rub down. All the attention was stirring up his arousal from earlier and Jonathan could feel his cock emerging from his cloaca. Just the tip, but there was no hiding it under the fabric of his breeches.
Nicky noticed the bulge. And then pointedly ignored it.
He continued on with the massage, moving down to work on Jonathan’s feet and calves, a pleasant detour—ohh, Jonathan really did forget how much feet were connected to the rest of it all—then back up his leg, above his knee, and then higher.
When Nicky’s hands reached the top of his leg, gliding over the skin and rubbing along the inside of his thigh towards his groin, Jonathan found it hard to hold back. Nicky’s forearm brushed against Jonathan’s crotch on a particularly lingering glide and he let out a strangled noise.
Nicky’s hands stilled. Jonathan clamped his mouth shut.
The pause felt excruciating, the stomach dip thrill of Nicky’s disapproval mixing with his pent up arousal—and then Nicky carried on, switching to Jonathan’s other thigh.
It was torture staying still now. All of Jonathan’s nerves were begging for Nicky to press just a little further, spend just a little longer stroking along his inner thigh where each touch sent spidery shocks of pleasure straight to his pelvis. Teasing and merciful all at once.
Another jolt as a Nicky bumped his crotch, another noise spilled out of him.
Nicky pulled away completely.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Nicky chastised, clicking his tongue. Then he stood, wiping the oil from his hands with one of the cloths as he walked to the other side of the room.
Jonathan felt himself twitch. Laid out on the cot with his legs still spread, longing to be touched. But he didn’t dare move.
He watched Nicky close the workshop window and carefully set the latch in place—as if there was anyone outside to hear. Then he washed his hands in the basin, lathering up the soap between his fingers and palms and rinsing it off twice like he had all the time in the world. He dried his hands, then poured a cup of water from the jug on Jonathan’s bench. He drank it slowly before setting it aside.
All the while Jonathan looked on from the cot, waiting. Exposed skin cooling in the air. It made it clear how thoroughly Nicky’s massage had warmed him.
Finally, Nicky walked back. he stood in front of Jonathan, hands resting on his belt.
“Sit up.”
Jonathan rose from his half-reclined position, letting his feet touch the floor again. Without a word Nicky unbuckled his belt, leather and metal clattering on the floor, and then he dropped his trousers and underwear.
Jonathan sucked in a breath. Then opened his mouth in anticipation. Nicky gripped the back of his neck and pressed his cock down onto Jonathan’s tongue.
Human cocks were small, dainty things, however plump and upright they could grow, and Jonathan had always been intrigued by how smooth and uncomplicated they were, able to fit neatly in a person’s mouth. Nothing like terrapine bodies.
Nicky was soft at first but it wasn’t long until he hardened up, rubbing his cock down against the wet heat of Jonathan’s tongue at his leisure, tasting of bitter salt. Jonathan breathed carefully, concentrating on keeping his teeth out of the way, and relished the infinitesimal sighs Nicky let slip above him.
Then he gasped as Nicky pulled out completely.
Nicky ignored Jonathan’s wet sputter and reached out to grip the top of Jonathan’s shell, shifting him back so there was space between them.
“Give me your hands,” he demanded, and the breathlessness of the command wreaked havoc on Jonathan’s poor, suppressed dick, still throbbing in its confines.
The slight webbing at the bottom crease between Jonathan’s thumb and forefinger was a tried and true tool of pleasure for Nicky and he placed his hands accordingly so Nicky could rest his cock on the soft, taut skin there.
Nicky began to thrust between his hands, the way slicked by Jonathan’s own spit that spread easily from Nicky’s wet cock onto his thumb and fingers. His hands were so big compared to Nicky that it was easy to adjust and squeeze to make a tight ring for him, bracing his elbows to meet the force of Nicky’s thrusts, feeling Nicky’s balls hit the side of his hands. He knew the visual was all the more powerful for Nicky who bowed his head to watch the press of his cock through and out the other side. A focused endeavour that meant he needed to lean heavily against the top of Jonathan’s shell to keep himself upright. Closing him in.
Nicky paused to grab the massage oil and lube up the juncture of Jonathan’s hands as it started to get tacky, and then he set a furious pace for his last rut. He slowed down suddenly and thrust once. Twice. Three times–
He came abruptly on Jonathan's chest, gasping in his final throes. Jonathan could feel Nicky’s cum dripping down his front.
“Thank you, Chef,” Jonathan said, and watched the shiver that went through Nicky at the words. His eyes were hazy and gosh, Jonathan loved to make him feel good. Loved that punch-drunk look that came over his face after orgasm.
Nicky took a moment to catch his breath, legs shaking, before he visibly gathered himself and pulled his weight off of Jonathan.
He didn’t waste any time and simply grabbed Jonathan’s breeches and tugged them off, roughly dragging them over his ankles so Jonathan had to brace himself against the cot to not get pulled along with them.
Jonathan couldn’t hold back anymore. He let his penis firm from his cloaca and the rush of blood was dizzying as it emerged. He was sure he made a loud noise at the relief of it and he opened his eyes in time to see Nicky’s satisfied expression.
The man took off his shirt and vest so he was naked too. It was only practical considering how messy things were about to get.
Nicky climbed onto the cot, straddling Jonathan’s legs so he could line his body up with Jonathan’s dick and press the length of it up against his torso. The purple of it, flushed with arousal, looked almost black against Nicky’s skin. Jonathan flexed the seminal ridges that ran on either side and sighed at the sweet friction it brought, rubbing against the soft skin and hair of Nicky’s body.
The first time they’d had sex, Nicky had been shocked by the wide, flared head of his cock and the pulsing, throbbing motion the ridges around the glans could make. The size alone—proportional to a quarter a terrapine’s height—was the only thing Nicky had apparently been prepared for and Jonathan had only felt a little guilty about laughing at his surprise.
There was no shyness or naivety now. Nicky had years of experience under his belt and knew exactly how Jonathan liked it. Jonathan was at his mercy.
Nicky poured a generous amount of oil onto his own hands and arms, reminiscent of his massage preparation, and placed his hands under the head of Jonathan’s cock, arms braced firmly along the sides.
“You’ll last for me,” he declared.
“Yes, Chef,” Jonathan answered as steadily as he could, and promptly moaned as Nicky began to squeeze down from the head of his cock.
Damn, damn, damn. He really wasn’t going to last.
Jonathan bucked up into the friction and worked his hips as best he could so the pressure spread along his whole length and didn’t stay overwhelmingly in one spot. Except after only a few thrusts he was already out of breath, heaving his weight up and down, cot rattling beneath him.
Nicky watched him, body holding firm against his movements. Then as Jonathan started to slow he loosened one arm and let Jonathan flex his cock across his chest and belly, rubbing the edges of his glans deliciously against Nicky's skin. Ohh. Right where he wanted. The milky white of his pre-cum smeared into Nicky’s chest hair alongside the oil and sweat, making it cling together in furrows down his body. He looked magnificent. A glorious mess.
“Come on,” Nicky urged Jonathan, and slapped his cock.
Jonathan yelped and cursed. Nicky renewed his attentions, arms braced around him again, pumping the top. It was far too sensitive there and Jonathan could feel himself tipping dangerously close. He was dimly aware of the low keen that was escaping his lips, trying not to come. Damn, damn.
Nicky let go. Jonathan fell back against the cushions, panting. Chest heaving. Cock throbbing. Relief and desperate, aching frustration all at once.
He got a brief reprieve, then Nicky stated, “One last time.”
Nicky’s hands wrapped around him again. He slowly stroked up and down with the lightest pressure, fingers tracing along his seminal ridges. It was an agonising tease and Jonathan could feel with painful accuracy each twitch he made.
Then Nicky built up the pace, moving faster, bringing his arms in to squeeze right where Jonathan needed it over his glans. He wanted to buck his hips but Nicky’s weight against his legs was solidly holding him down, forcing him to take it, unmoving, overwhelming—and that was enough to send Jonathan over the edge.
Intense didn’t begin to describe it. The peak of his orgasm was almost painful as it tore through him hot and fast. Before the aftershocks of pleasure rippled after, and he sank back into the cushions, a dead weight.
When Jonathan finally opened his eyes, dazed, Nicky was still astride him, busy wiping his own chin with one of the wet cloths.
Nicky smiled, amused at whatever dreamy face Jonathan knew he must be making at him.
“You always make a mess of me,” Nicky said, laughter in his voice, tone of authority gone. He dabbed at his dripping chest, and Jonathan felt a thrill run through him at the sight. The man always looked good covered in his cum.
Nicky glanced down at Jonathan’s cock, flaccid now, and leant over to grab the other cloth. He dropped it on Jonathan and Jonathan yelped at the chill. But he took it gratefully and wiped himself down before letting everything slip back into place.
“You all good?” Nicky asked.
“Oh yeah. More than good,” Jonathan said happily.
Nicky smiled and leaned in to kiss him. A quick peck to navigate the moustache and beard, and then a deeper kiss that made Jonathan melt a little.
Nicky went to prop the window open again and Jonathan pulled on his pyjama pants and found his pipe, settling down on one side of the cot to smoke in post-coitus languor. Nicky joined him on the other side, trousers back on, bringing over the leftover plate of nuts from the workbench and another glass of whiskey.
He grunted in satisfaction as he sunk into the pile of cushions. “God, I think I needed that.”
Jonathan smiled. “You were definitely in need of an unwinding.”
Nicky pointed a finger. Accusatory. “And your knee was in need of some attention.”
“Oh, that ain’t nothing new,” Jonathan laughed. He took a handful of nuts from the plate. “My joints are always aching these days.”
“Well. You don’t need to polish my boots to get a massage. Ask me before it gets sore again.”
"Alright, alright."
Nicky settled in to read his book—some food travel memoir he’d been telling Jonathan was half stuck up nonsense but worth it for the insights on seasonal fishing in Rillspur—and Jonathan let himself sink into the cushions, letting the smoke mellow him out.
“Mm. Where'd you get this?”
Jonathan refocused his attention on Nicky. His brows were pulled together, looking approvingly into his whiskey glass. "It’s not your usual,” Nicky added.
Jonathan smiled. It was a smokier blend and more expensive too, but he was glad to share it with Nicky. That’s what good drink was for. “You don’t remember?”
Nicky shook his head.
“The last stop we put lobster and crab rolls on the menu. Before Elena joined us.”
“Ohh, the port between Red Cliff and Toone. That was a while ago.” He looked thoughtful, stroking his moustache. “We should visit there again sometime. They had seafood to die for.”
Jonathan smiled at the glint in Nicky’s eyes. Then remembered earlier.
“Hey, uh. Speaking of Elena," he ventured. “Do you think we should tell her?”
“Mm?” It clearly took a moment for Nicky to realise what he meant, eyes going wide. “What? About us?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Just, y’know. Seems polite is all.”
“Ah, she’s naturally curious. She’ll figure it out.” Nicky waved a hand dismissively.
“Nicky.” Jonathan gave him a look. “Come on.”
Nicky gave a grumpy sigh, staring at his book.
“You ashamed of fooling around with an old man like me?” Jonathan teased. He was sure that wasn’t the case, but deep in the soft depths of his heart he did worry about that sometimes. He’d had a lifetime to stack up old hurts from past lovers.
Nicky reached over and swiped a hand at him, knocking his leg. “Y’know I don’t think that. I just…” He sighed. “I guess I’m used to this being private. Just us.”
That was true. It was nice not having to explain nothing to no-one and just enjoy the ride. But Jonathan knew that couldn't last forever. You always had to let the world in at some point. “I’m just saying, next time the opportunity crops up, maybe we should mention it.”
“Alright.” Nicky acquiesced.
He blew out a breath. Then shuffled closer to lean against Jonathan while he read and Jonathan smiled, wrapping an arm around him to pull him close.