Work Text:
It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed, but all the kisses they’d shared before had been rather clumsy and extremely shy, not quite chaste but close to it, though never lacking in affection.
This kiss was heady with sensuality. Perhaps all the others had been mere practice and Diarmuid now thought the time was ripe to kiss as lovers did, or perhaps the drizzling rain had sparked an instinctive need for heat. Either way, as they took shelter underneath the ancient oaks in an attempt to keep dry, Diarmuid grabbed the Mute by his tunic and crawled into his lap to kiss him.
There was still a clumsiness to his technique, but every moment their lips stayed locked together Diarmuid grew a little more comfortable, a little more certain. He yanked insistently on the Mute’s tunic, rocking against his leg as he attempted to bridge whatever little distance remained between them, a low, quiet growl rising from his throat.
The act itself was like magic. A spell cast over him, or, more accurately, a glamor removed. The Mute loved Diarmuid—no one could ever dispute that—but it had a faraway love, a yearning love, the loyal devotion of a steadfast knight whose beloved was so far above him, so good, so pure, that he exalted just to be able to walk in their shadow.
Diarmuid’s kiss was nowhere near pure. It was heated, and a little rough, and Diarmuid’s lips were warm and soft, and droplets of rain clung to his lashes, and his body was pleasantly heavy against the Mute’s.
He realized, in a way that he had never quite realized before, that Diarmuid was extremely beautiful. Not like an angel, ethereal and otherworldly, but alluring in the way only a person could be. Someone who could touch, who could be touched, who felt pleasure and had desires, who was desired in return.
It was that low growl that did it. Surprised by the hum of it against his lips, the Mute gave a slight gasp, but it was enough for Diarmuid to slip his tongue into his mouth to eagerly explore the shape of his teeth and taste his spit. In a daze, the Mute thought that it was a very nice thing indeed to have Diarmuid inside of him, and then it seemed all the blood in his body rushed straight to his cock.
A strangled moan escaped him. Diarmuid, spurred on by the noise, rolled his hips. Even beneath his rough spun robes the Mute could feel the heat of his arousal, how hard it was as he rocked against the Mute’s own.
Diarmuid threw his head back, soft, breathy little moans tumbling from his wet lips. What had he ever done to deserve such beauty? The sight of his dark, damp hair and flushed cheeks, the sound of his moans accompanied by the patter of rain, and of the rustle of their clothing as they moved together, the weight of him in the Mute’s lap, how he felt just right in his arms—
Suddenly, the Mute shivered from his head to his toes, fingers clutching at Diarmuid’s hips, nails scraping at his robes. He gritted his teeth, face burning as he realized that he’d—
Finished.
Just like that, as quickly and readily as a boy during his first clumsy fumbling. The Mute was sure he was blushing scarlet. His face felt as though he could boil water. Luckily Diarmuid hadn’t realized, too focused on his own pleasure to notice the Mute’s embarrassing predicament.
The Mute held him as his movements became frantic and desperate, until finally Diarmuid buried his face in the crook of the Mute’s neck and came.
Diarmuid’s curls were wet with sweat and rainwater. The Mute ran his fingers through them, soothing him as he trembled through his release.
“I’d like to do that again,” Diarmuid murmured. “If you want to.”
The Mute kissed his cheek in assent.
Later, as he laid in bed, the Mute told himself that his rather swift reaction was simply a fluke. It’d been nearly a decade since he’d touched himself, let alone laid with anyone. When a crusader dedicated himself to God, he took a vow of celibacy. The Mute had taken it seriously even when his fellow soldiers hadn’t. And then when he arrived at the monastery, he’d thrown his entire being into prayer, labor, and penance.
The thought of sex had only entered his mind that morning when Diarmuid pressed his tongue into his mouth and rocked against him, taking reign over his body as well as his heart.
He was out of practice with physical intimacy, that was all. The next time they stole a moment together, he would prove to Diarmuid that he was worthy of such love.
Except the next time, as they hid themselves in the sand dunes close to shore, Diarmuid slipped out of his braies and rucked up his robes and bared himself with such nimble eagerness—cock hard and pink and drooling precum—that the Mute had time only to fall back against the sand and hold Diarmuid’s hips as he let out a breathless laugh and rubbed his bare cock against the front of the Mute’s breeches before the Mute dug the heels of his boots into the dirt and grit, groaning as he came.
It was lucky that they were by the sea, so that the crash of the waves swallowed their sounds, and so that he could wash his breeches in the tide and the humiliation from his body as he dove underneath the water.
He could offer Diarmuid very little. The Mute’s vow of silence meant that there were to be no songs composed to his beauty and virtues, no sweet nothings whispered in his ear at night, no declarations of true and everlasting love.
His body was aging and scarred and rough, but it was all he had. Diarmuid enjoyed it, liked to run his long fingers through his hair and beard, to trail them down his chest, to tickle his belly and smile at the choked laugh that it earned him—and now he teased and touched the Mute with a paramour’s roving hands, exploring him anew.
The Mute had survived blows to the head that made him see stars and left his ears ringing, had taken strikes from swords that bounced off his armor but bruised the skin underneath. He'd weathered every battle with strength and discipline. He was inured to war, but Diarmuid’s body pressed against his made him lose control of himself.
The Mute was already a broken man, a sinner, a lifelong penitent—he could not bear to be a disappointment to his lover as well.
All was well when he could focus solely on Diarmuid’s pleasure. Using his callused hands to knead the aches of the day’s labor from his body, rubbing his pale, freckled thighs, squeezing his ass, wrapping one arm around his waist to keep him upright as he stroked his cock with his other hand until Diarmuid collapsed against him, boneless and satisfied.
But if Diarmuid even brushed the tip of the Mute’s cock with a teasing finger, if he sucked at the sensitive skin of his neck, if he trailed his tongue down to his nipples, if his knee went between his legs to press against his cock—
Then he came undone with alarming speed and with great, panting, gasping breaths. It was simply too much for him to handle—to be touched like that—adored like that—loved like that by one he loved so ardently in return.
There were even times when the act of tending to Diarmuid’s pleasure—the sight of him, the scent of him, the feel of him—overwhelmed the Mute to the point of climax. Diarmuid would reach for him and touch his breeches, damp and sticky, and simply smile and kiss his cheek.
Each time brought him sharp, stinging humiliation as his body betrayed him in front of his lover in the worst way. They couldn’t make love as often as they wanted to, and because the Mute couldn’t control his cock, when they did find the time, it was over far too soon.
But he could not deny Diarmuid nothing, and neither could he resist Diarmuid’s overtures, and so when he asked the Mute if he might touch him he was helpless to do anything but nod his agreement and try and think of the chores that still had to be completed that day in an attempt to stave off his inevitable, untimely orgasm.
This particular morning Diarmuid was particularly amorous. They crossed over the hills, far from the gaze of any prying eyes at the monastery, and then Diarmuid happily pushed him into the grass and tugged at his belt and breeches.
“I want to use my mouth on you,” he said brightly.
Since they started their dalliances, he’d taken Diarmuid’s cock in his mouth several times, but this would be the first time Diarmuid did the same for him. The Mute had tried his best to avoid it, because there was no doubt in his mind that he would not last long—not with the hot, wet heat of Diarmuid’s mouth around him.
But if it was what Diarmuid wanted—
Diarmuid patted the ground. “Lay down,” he said. “I want you comfortable.”
The Mute settled back onto the grass and, unsure what to do with his hands, laced them atop of his stomach. He lifted his hips slightly so that Diarmuid could tug down his breeches and his braies. He stared at the clear, blue sky, trying to focus on its bright beauty, steeling himself as Diarmuid grabbed hold of his cock.
With practiced ease Diarmuid fondled the Mute’s balls with one hand while the other gently stroked him until he was hard and aching. His thumb smeared a drop of precum along the head of his cock.
The Mute bit his lip hard. His knees trembled as Diarmuid leaned over him, his mouth open, his breath warm.
He moaned when Diarmuid tentatively licked at his cock, first at the head, and then, encouraged by the Mute’s whimpering, swept the length of him with his tongue—base to tip.
There was still the dulse to collect, the Mute thought desperately, fingers pulling up blades of grass. It’d been rinsed with fresh water and was now drying in the sun, and later they would take a handful of it and toss it into the soup.
Diarmuid lapped at the drops of precum beading at the tip of his cock, making a satisfied sound that was like the one he made when he was enjoying a meal. The Mute swiftly decided that he could no longer think of dinner. He turned instead to fishing. He found the whole task rather unpleasant—the boredom of waiting for a fish to bite, having to gut the creatures, throwing their innards to the chickens who then followed him around expectantly and pecking at his boots when he shooed them away.
This musing on the nature of poultry was interrupted by Diarmuid, wrapping his lips around him, sucking gently at the tip as he still pumped the shaft with his fist.
It was impossible to think of anything except Diarmuid when Diarmuid was touching him. Tasting him. But he tried. The Mute tensed, his jaw clenched.
Repairing the fences. Mucking out the stables. Mending the hole in his tunic—
Diarmuid pulled off his cock with a soft, wet pop and pressed a kiss to it.
Fuck.
The Mute came. He heard Diarmuid gasp in surprise, felt his open lips, the uncertain flutter of his fingertips as the Mute spilled into his mouth and hands.
Fuck, he thought again. Fuck.
He struck the ground with his fist, once, twice, groaning in frustration.
“Did I—did I do it incorrectly?” The Mute raised his head. Diarmuid stared at him with wide, glistening eyes. His lips and hands were wet with seed, but there was no warm, satisfied blush on his face, only embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” Diarmuid said. He tucked the Mute’s spent cock back into his breeches and wiped his hands on the grass. “I’ll be better next time.”
The Mute pushed himself onto his elbows, vigorously shaking his head. No, no—for Diarmuid to think that the fault lay with him—
But Diarmuid misunderstood him. “You don’t want to?” he cried. “Was it that horrible?” His face turned blotchy red with mortification. He shifted on his knees, seemingly ready to bolt right then and there. The Mute grabbed the sleeve of his robe before he could do so, frantically trying to think of a way to explain the situation.
Never had he been so desperate to speak before. Good God—this had to be a punishment in itself. To have a beautiful young lover but to be too undisciplined to last long enough to satisfy him, and then for Diarmuid to think that it was his technique that was the failure—
He groaned anew and brought Diarmuid’s hand to his lips, kissing his fingertips with earnest. They tasted of the earth, of sea salt.
Diarmuid looked away and said, not a little reproachfully, “I don’t understand.”
How to make him understand? The Mute reached between them to cup Diarmuid’s cock, still half-hard even now. Diarmuid gave an unhappy huff and tried to turn away. The Mute swallowed and brought Diarmuid’s hand to his breeches, wet with his release, and his flaccid cock underneath.
“You came, but I haven’t.” Diarmuid said. This time his frown was one of confusion. “Yes, I know.”
In the most humiliating set of exaggerated gestures he’d ever acted out, the Mute raised his index finger to indicate an erection. He curled his other hand as if grasping a cock and pretended to stroke it, then quickly made a fist and splayed his fingers out wide—conveying, hopefully, the act of release.
Blushing furiously, he lowered his still raised index finger to signify a spent cock. Under Diarmuid’s gaze, he made the stroking motion once more, but kept his finger firmly pointed down. He then gestured to his crotch.
“You can’t—get hard again after finishing?” Diarmuid asked. The Mute nodded. “And you finished before I did.”
The Mute covered his eyes and nodded.
Diarmuid continued, “You think that you—finished too soon?”
He sighed an affirmation.
“But you usually finish before me!” At the Mute’s wince, Diarmuid asked, “That bothers you? But why?”
Because Diarmuid deserved someone with more discipline, more self-control, someone who wasn’t scarred by battle and who could make love to him with as much enthusiasm as he deserved—not a man like the Mute, who more often than not left his seed staining his clothes and dripping from Diarmuid’s hands. How could he pleasure Diarmuid properly if he went off at the slightest touch?
Gently, tentatively, Diarmuid placed a hand on his shoulder. “I still don’t quite understand. Do you enjoy it when I touch you?”
Of course he did. The Mute took hold of Diarmuid’s hand once more and kissed his palm.
Diarmuid cupped his cheek. “And I enjoy it when you touch me. As long as we both feel pleasure, what does it matter which of us finishes first?”
The Mute brought Diarmuid’s hand to the dark hair of his beard, then raised it so that his fingers brushed against his weathered face, the beginning of wrinkles near the corners of his eyes, the deep-etched lines in his forehead. He rubbed Diarmuid’s smooth hand with a thumb and gave him a rueful smile.
Understanding dawned in Diarmuid’s eyes. He spluttered, “But—you’re not that much older than I am!”
It was a kind statement, but there were enough years between them that the Mute was self-conscious of his age, of the wear of his body, of how easily he came undone. And Diarmuid was in his prime, with his bright eyes and sun-kissed skin and lean muscle and vigor.
If Diarmuid wasn’t a novice—if they were anywhere else but the monastery, where the Mute was the only man who had not known Diarmuid since he was a child—would he still be eager for the Mute’s affection?
“May I be honest with you?” Diarmuid traced the Mute’s lower lip with his finger. “You’ve been so many places—met so many people, seen so many things. And you must have—” He looked away, suddenly shy. “That is, I am so blessed to have you as my lover. I only wonder if you wish that were not so—inexperienced?”
Never. The Mute shook his head.
Yes, he’d shared his bed with others before, and his bedroll, and the hard ground when that was all that was available. But he would be hard-pressed to call any of them lovers except in the basest sense. They’d had sex, but never had they shared meals or secrets or jests or sat in comfortable silence with him.
None of them had held his heart as Diarmuid did now.
“Do you love me as I am?”
The Mute kissed him, slow and gentle and sweet. He felt Diarmuid’s lashes against his cheek as his eyes fluttered shut. He tasted himself on Diarmuid’s lips, swallowed his soft moan when he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer.
Diarmuid rested a palm on his chest, right above his heart. “Then, will you believe me when I say the same of you? I fell in love with you as you are. I love you as you are.”
It still stung that he could no longer last the length of time it took to say a morning prayer, but that wound to his ego was soothed by Diarmuid’s lips against his pulse, the shape of his smile on his skin.
“I like it when I make you come,” he murmured. “I like to see you happy and enjoying yourself. And it makes me feel—very proud, when I can do that for you.”
The Mute hugged him all the tighter. Again, he thought of the dulse drying out in the sun, and all the other chores that needed to be completed before the sun went down. But they had already stolen so much time, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to steal just a little more.