Chapter Text
Stanford’s head fell back and the seat reclined just as silently as the little sigh from his mouth.
First-class, indeed. A height of luxury he assumed he’d never be afforded, but one his new husband was hell-bent on providing him. And while there was no question as to whether their wedding that day was based in love or finance, he certainly was enjoying the perks of a wealthy new husband insistent on spoiling him.
Champagne, crisp and bubbly upon boarding. A try at caviar that ended with a mouthing of ‘that’s it?’ and a politely placed napkin. Tender slices of chicken cutlet, laid over a risotto creamier than the moderately oaked Chardonnay Fiddleford was sure to catch the label on. They'd allowed themselves that particular snobbery, in light of the impressive collection of aged wines they’d discovered when their most recent ‘first’ kiss turned to urgently reaching for door knobs and stumbling into a well-stocked cellar. The Northwest’s must have kept a sommelier staffed, for Stanford had never known them to have such taste.
The lovely little lemon sorbet wasn’t quite so grandiose, but it did taste divine for hours in kisses they snuck through the in-flight entertainment. They weren’t quite sure what was playing, but everyone else plugged up with headphones granted a couple hours of flirting and swooning without driving them all ill with smooching and smacking and various renditions of ‘No, I love you more.’
Even the flush they felt when a flight attendant happened upon their canoodling was sumptuous. With a coupling of satin-cased down pillows for each of them, they’d had to resist groaning in relief when Stanford returned from the overhead bin with their blanket, (“This is practically a duvet, Fiddleford.” “Pack it, Stanford.”) and their low backs settled into the provided padding.
It wouldn’t, Stanford learned, be the last groan he suppressed that evening.
Because as wonderful as all the pampering, amenities, and congratulations Ford had been privy to that day were, not-a-one had been quite so luxurious as the precious man he’d happily wed—or the many spoilings said precious man offered, such as tugging Ford’s cock through his fly right in the middle of first-class.
All other passengers were finally asleep, though a few had still been reading, chatting, when Fiddleford began his teasing.
Cabin lights dimmed and services concluded until they were approaching Athens, Fiddleford had seemed quite settled, undoing his seatbelt and curling into Ford’s side like his chest was far more comfortable than any pillow that could be offered. With a smile on his face, Ford wrapped an arm right round him, and assumed they would be winding down alongside the other cabin dwellers—though it wasn’t very long before the pages he read creased under thumb when he was reminded what they said about assuming.
It was subtle, at first. A hand beneath his shirt, fingers at his stomach, pinkie teasing at a hem he’d torn off Ford a million times. It was innocent, Fiddleford would feign, those nights he’d gotten Ford to bring his textbooks into bed,
“So we can snuggle.”
“So we can snuggle. Right.”
Where “snuggling” usually became—
“Fiddleford . . . Oh, god, Fiddleford . . .”
“Well, ain’t you a sight . . .”
And, well, Stanford had always loved to play along.
Quickly forgetting the name of his book, he took tabs on their surroundings. The couple across the aisle had conked right out, a head on a shoulder, one drooling over the other. The single thirty-something on the diagonal was just shutting out their light, reclining in their seat and nestling into pillows. No one sat behind them on either side, and the two directly in front of them were slowly becoming more yawn than whisper . . . With no gaps between the seats to spot the lovers’ tomfoolery without an exorbitant amount of effort.
So Ford’s thumb found space in the crease of Fidd’s hip, and he gave it a squeeze he’d always claimed was innocent.
“Stanford . . .”
“What? It feels nice.”
Soon, fingers were feeling up his chest, ghosting at his neck, slowly as they could, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Ford forced a simple exhale where he’d usually start to—
“F-Fiddleford . . .”
“Am I bothering you, honey?”
Knowing fingers splayed, began to drag back to his stomach.
“Say the word and I’ll stop.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t want you to stop.”
Fiddleford relaxed further into his side, nuzzled at his ribs, yawned oh-so-soft, like he was the sweetest thing on Earth digging nails in Stanford’s flesh.
“Why don’t you close that book?”
So Stanford shut his copy of “Some Fucking Book” by Who T.F. Cares, and he turned out the light.
Fingers down his stomach turned to grabbing at his legs. Grabbing at his legs turned to tracing towards his crotch. Teasing round his groin. Narrowly avoiding, but never quite ignoring, the throbbing at his center causing creases in his pants.
Then the last light went out, and Ford suppressed a shudder when Fidd’s hand weighed down his cock.
Stanford sat there, an image of discipline: single brow perked; gaze soft and dead ahead; pointer finger on his nose, the others draping to his chin . . . Why, he figured he held the same disposition of any other boring old man holding his sleepy spouse, pondering boring old man thoughts while waiting for boring old man sleep. Any passerby would be left completely unsuspecting, nary a clue to just how actively he worked to maintain silence and composure while he heeded and rocked into Fidd’s palm beneath the surface. One hand covered his pleased expression, the other enjoyed the privileges of his husband’s proximity coupled with his being covered shoulder-down. His toes curled and his foot tapped in his slipper, wondering just how long Fiddleford would keep him grinding through his pajamas like a goddamn—
“Ask me for it, Stanford.”
“Fidd . . . Fiddleford, please—”
—They froze at a sound like a distant sawmill right in front of them. It tore through logs gentler than a knife through butter, while a little breeze whistled just beside it, melding seamlessly into one sweet, relieving song that told our newlyweds, “I think we’re alone now.”
And finally—finally!—Fiddleford unbuttoned his red flannel fly.
The blanket was the perfect cover. Thick, cleverly draped over Ford’s left arm rest and across Fiddleford’s back, there was no visible sign of the slow tugging just beneath; and with the fabric so lush, so nice and soft on Ford’s eager prick, neither the shifting of his hips nor the friction of their skin could break the makeshift sound barrier it made above his lap.
That blanket was quick becoming Ford’s favorite piece of luggage. In fact, he felt like a fool for ever suggesting it an impractical carry-on, and figured he ought to express his humility and appreciation in tandem to Fiddleford post-session—less so for the blanket, more so for refusing to let travel plans interfere with their wedding night.
Stanford smiled behind his hand. Oh, our poor wedding night. As if they hadn’t achieved consummation in the limo post-ceremony. Or snuck off and away from the celebrations to do it again. Oh, and no one could forget the rollicking good frot they shared in the shower, or Fiddleford gasping for his fingers in the bathroom by the gate . . . Frankly, they were impressed they’d managed to keep their hands off each other at all that day. Marriage, forty years overdue, it seemed, was quite the powerful aphrodisiac.
An aphrodisiac that pulsed out the beads of building pleasure, spilling over the back of Fidd’s hand before he could rub it from his slit and massage it into his head. So he slid down instead, wrist twisting to glaze underneath and send his thumb back smooth. Thick veins pulsed into lazily grazing fingers, undeterred from their path even as Ford’s cock leapt forward and into Fidd’s working thumb, pressing at his slit to bathe in what he wept. Laving him. Massaging him. Compelling him to spill, and spill again.
Stifling the noise was one thing, and one Ford thought he managed well. It was another thing entirely, however, taming primal urges; and with so much effort dedicated to preventing the audio-visual cues of their engagement, the pathetic little ruts begging for Fidd’s grip couldn’t consciously be helped.
But Fiddleford always rewarded depravity, and Ford wasn’t pleading long before his hot palm enclosed his tip, lathering his fist for the slicking of his prick.
Fiddleford certainly worked him, dousing more and more with every twist he sent down—but only in increments. While glossing Ford right for pumping was certainly the goal, Fiddleford seemed to maintain quite a vested interest in the spoiling of his head. And as such, he seemed hesitant to offer any sort of break from the experience. His hand only took a few new centimeters with every stroke down, holding for a beat to press clockwork circles in his slit, trace aching curves, gather the overflow gushing from his peak. Then he’d come right back to claim it, hand making love to each and every nerve, all of them screaming after warm, practiced squeezing.
Stanford hadn’t a single complaint. Every glide back down returned that much slicker, tighter, smoother than the last. Less and less friction turned short beats into reaching strokes, centimeters into quarter inches—half inches, letting his head go in bursts to slide further and further, until Stanford could feel the side of Fidd’s hand meet his boxers on every descent, cock finally greased with his own pre-ejaculate.
One brow perked turned to two brows raised, a slight shift in demeanor between a good fondling and a proper handjob. He’d tried his best to keep his gaze lidded, but he had to compensate somehow for inhibited expression, so instead his eyes were wide-feigning-curious. Intrigued, with his hand clasped across his mouth, like he was contemplating the Origin of Life from an entirely new perspective rather than urgently shoving past Fidd’s silken hem to find (Of course he’s not wearing undergarments) the sweet, bare curve of his hip. He couldn’t help but tap a finger at the bone.
Dah-di-dit dit di-dah di-dah-dit / dah-dah-dit dah-dah-dah dah-di-dit dah-dah-di-di-dah-dah / Di-di-dah-dit di-dit dah-di-dit dah-di-dit di-dah-di-dit dit di-di-dah-dit dah-dah-dah di-dah-dit dah-di-dit dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah1-1
Stanford was surprised he could maintain a rhythm in code when his hips maintained none.
Di-di-dit di-di-dah di-dah-dah-dit dit di-dah-dit dah-di-di-dit dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah / Dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah di-di-dit dah di-dah dah-dit dah-di-dit di-dit dah-dit dah-dah-dit dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah 1-2
An already relaxed lumbar melted even further when Fidd’s free hand massaged the meat of his back.
Di-dit / di-dah-di-dit dah-dah-dah di-di-di-dah dit / dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah 1-3
It snaked around his waist, claimed a hand-full.
Di-dit / di-dah-di-dit dah-dah-dah di-di-di-dah dit / dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah 1-3
Stanford closed his eyes to conceal pathetic crossing when Fidd uncurled a finger to trace his wetted lip.
Di-dit / di-dah-di-dit dah-dah-dah di-di-di-dah dit / dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah-di-dah-di-dah-dah 1-3
The hand at his waist dragged up his side, the other slowing to a stop. It became a sheath around his cock, single finger pointing up, and the dark of Ford’s lids became a pyrotechnic show when the pad massaged circles in his over-worked head. A trickle of spit seeped past his lips when Fidd’s warmth found his ribs, and a spindly little finger lifted to type:
Di-dit / di-dah-di-dit dah-dah-dah di-di-di-dah dit / dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah dah-dah-di-di-dah-dah / dah dah-dah-dah dah-dah-dah dah-dah-di-di-dah-dah 1-4
Stanford’s eyes snapped open when Fiddleford, without sacrificing pace, switched to tap a tip, beating like a drum,
Di-di-dit dah di-dah dah-dit di-di-dah-dit dah-dah-dah di-dah-dit dah-di-dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-5
The seat followed promptly when Ford sat upright, revealing an incredibly tight lip when his hand shot out and exposed the night sky. His forehead found acrylic, and his face found reprieve, finally falling and silently screaming into indigos and creams that promised not to tell. While the head lifting from his chest said Fiddleford was surprised, he clearly wasn’t disturbed, hand holding ever firmer as Ford’s thrusts grew ever stronger. He was half-grateful, half-loathsome there was no reflection in the window, but the moon beaming down on clouds within reach was a more than ideal sight to drop his jaw low and mouth ‘oh my god’ when his husband kept speaking:
Dah-dah di-dit dah-dit dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-6
His hand resumed stroking, faster than before.
Dah-dah di-dit dah-dit dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-6
The taps became firmer. Back support retreated.
Dah-dah di-dit dah-dit dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-6
Suddenly, Fiddleford was shifting from his grasp, and Stanford tore himself from the window to find a reason why. Mouth hanging open, chest barely heaving, face surely reddened and his glasses all askew, Ford caught Fidd’s scheming eyes with a question in his own: Where the fuck are you going?
Fiddleford’s hair was still nice and combed, beard lush and braided, little bits of chest hair poking out his olive, buttoned top. He was handsome and brilliant—his eyes goddamn radiant!—when he smiled up at Ford and shot him a wink. Then he plopped a hand on Ford’s shoulder, leaned up real close, and he dragged his tongue as heavy on Ford’s ear as his fingers up his shaft. Ford squeezed his eyes shut, bit marks into his knuckle, swiftly overcome by the burning in his stomach when Fidd palmed his sponge 1-7 and forced his cock there. He felt his slit open further, a thick gush on his stomach, and the shiver that followed was nearly a cry.
Lips curled at his ear, and a breath like a laugh sent poor Stanford pulsing into three fingers tapping:
Dah-di-dah-dah dah-dah-dah di-di-dah di-dah-dah-dah-dah-dit di-dah-di-dit di-dah-di-dit / dah-dah di-dah dah-di-dah dit / di-dah / dah-dah dit di-di-dit di-di-dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-8
Stanford almost burst at the implication, and he, at long last, released one little shudder—not nearly the decibel of the plane’s gentle hum, but crashing like cymbals in the space between his ears. When he pulled back, Ford knew Fiddleford was looking at the same, desperate eighteen-year-old begging to be taken, let in, bitten, ridden, sucked, choked, stroked, punished, praised, smacked, dicked, licked, fucked—whatever variant of lovemaking shenanigans they’d found their way into any given night. For what it was worth, that same eighteen-year-old who used to blush when he held all mercy over Stanford was blushing back at him that night, too. Far less bashful, but all the more enamored. Their smiles raised their cheekbones towards their eyes in unison, though Ford’s became smug when his hand slid up Fidd’s shirt and forced him to stifle a gasp. Ford’s face conveyed a borrowed upper hand, but even in determination, his traveling fingers trembled, racing quickly up his spine to tell a tingling Th9 1-9:
Dah-dah-dit dah-dah-dah / dah-dah-dah dah-dit dah-dah-di-di-dah-dah / dah di-di-di-dit dit dah-dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-10
Fiddleford closed his mouth and raised one brow, tilting his head in a question to which Ford already knew the answer. His face grew hotter under Fiddleford’s gaze, and he needed a moment to investigate the imprint of his incisors before he could return to eyes bigger and brighter than the moon. His mouth felt like a damn squiggly line across his face—a shaky attempt to hold back his smile, though it didn’t seem success was in the cards for him that night. Rather, his eyebrows pinched towards the center and lifted towards his Fidd, chin pulling back to crease into his neck, and like it was all one mechanism, his lips peeled away into Fiddleford’s favorite smile: the flustered one, that always got him his way.
Di-dah-dah-dit di-dah-di-dit dit di-dah di-di-dit dit di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-11
“Please.” Fiddleford mouthed back, shaking his head. The smile returned incredulously under narrowing eyes, body shaking in unheard laughter beneath Stanford’s palm.
Ford watched his face, enthralled, unable to resist mirroring the biting of his lip when Fiddleford looked down his body. He tried to follow Fidd’s gaze as he threw a final, precautionary glance towards the aisle—only to return with a face and body language as hurried and needing as Stanford was feeling.
“Hold the blanket.” Fiddleford mouthed, and Stanford was too mesmerized by the electric dazzling of giddy eyes, perfectly encumbered by all the beloved crinkles of his smile, to feel even remotely destitute by the loss of Fidd’s hand from his shaft. He complied without question, taking the blanket to lift it so his husband—who was already gripping at his shoulder and sliding a leg between his own—could make his way down.
It was then Ford caught the first sight of his prick since their little encounter began. Dense, silver curls pushing past layers of black and red fabric, encompassing his base (likely made so for Fiddleford’s own enjoyment, same as the shirt pushed up and exposing his gut). The locks closest were slick, clinging to his cock, and shining from whatever moonlight snuck in while Fiddleford clambered over. He incidentally pressed his own unmentioned—and, by all accounts, un-asking—thrill above Stanford’s knee, and Ford made a note to tend to that later (assuming Fiddleford would think better than to spill on to the carpet if soiling their own property impeded the hitherto discreet handjob).
His cock shined just as bright, his own pre-cum mingled with the sweat of his mound and the peeking bit of sack to create one sheen Fiddleford would have called heavenly—had he not been too busy shuddering into Ford’s bare stomach and dropping his right knee. Another dribbling rolled down his shaft as Ford twitched towards his belly, body elated by the tactile evidence that Fiddleford’s coming, and his eyes found the overstimulated, pleading head of his prick.
A vivid, thulian pink, dripping, leaking, oozing, absolutely begging Fiddleford to resume his spoiling.
This, Stanford thought, as Fiddleford’s second knee rolled off his own to make its quiet landing, is a bold first move fresh off the no-fly list.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Stanford mouthed towards the climate controls above. Mouthing quickly turned to pursing when he marked a new finger with the print of his teeth. They sank even deeper, but the cool of his new wedding band perched on his upper lip dulled the pain—and amplified the chills his love evoked tenfold. There were faint little shuffles behind his ears, skull shifting minutely and fluidly into satin. He paid them no mind, what with the effort demanded in keeping ragged breaths as quiet as he did. His other hand wove into a damp patch of white, thumb rubbing into the smooth of Fidd's scalp like he could keep himself steady as Fidd used Ford’s head to fuck the soaking, pliant hole between his gums and his tongue.
I deserve a fucking Oscar for this . . . Ford thought to himself, eyes pinching tight as he reclined a few degrees and his legs spread a few more when the hand not actively pumping squeezed and massaged at Ford’s inner thigh. He really didn’t, but Fidd’s efficient pacing and their sheer fucking luck would let him believe he had—and in all fairness, the level of control he maintained while receiving what was objectively the best head of his life 42,000 feet in the night sky was an accolade-worthy endeavor.
Fiddleford had always—always—provided Stanford with immaculate oral sex. In fact, he was a natural, having brought Stanford to completion in about six minutes when his inexperienced mouth met Ford’s virgin cock . . . But they weren’t about to fool themselves and pretend either college or their thirties held a candle to the oral (hell, any variant of) sex they were having in their sixties.
His love had seemed nervous, the night they revived such intimacy. It seemed as if he were . . . embarrassed. Embarrassed by the ways he’d aged. Worried certain changes would alter the experience for Stanford, or even feel strange.
“And when has that ever been a deterrent, my darling?”
Not three minutes had passed when embarrassment was completely forgotten, Stanford sprawled out on satin, far too wide-eyed and mind-blown to give a flying fuck it had ended so quickly. The silver of the moon caught a glint of gold between Fidd’s curling lips, hands on quaking thighs as he peered down at his heaving lover. A familiar laugh filled the air between them, and Ford looked to Fiddleford to find the same gleaming, brow-perked expression he’d only had in dreams for decades: the one that raised the hair on Ford’s arms, and promised fixation would follow.
“Oh, them pesky teeth were just in my way.”
And what argument did Ford have to that?
Not a fucking one. In fact, he’d rather argue that just a few conveniently-placed teeth and access to his gums had unlocked quite an ecstasy-laden world for them both.
For one thing, it had become far more comfortable on his poor darling’s jaw. Atop what Ford’s cock already demanded, a full set of teeth required extra stretch, extra strain, and, notably, extra ache—through which Fiddleford had always been an excellent sport. He had even enjoyed it, to an extent, admitting to an immense sense of gratification in enduring pain if Stanford kept tensing and saying his name like that.
“‘Sides—” Fiddleford breathed when he let Ford’s spent dick slip from his mouth, spit chasing after it.
Stanford looked down to find only one lens properly fixed over his eye. Still heaving, he reached up and adjusted to see Fidd proper, all satisfied and dreary-eyed between his legs. Oblivious to the edge of Fidd’s desk searing creases in his thighs, Ford sat captivated by the wink shot beneath shagged-out bangs and falling frames. His cheekbone perked the corner of his mustache when it rose to meet the gesture, leaving Fiddleford’s flushed mouth in a perfect, lazy smile that had Ford stirring all-over when it pressed into his thigh.
“—usually means you’re about to finish anyway.”
Ford had always matched his efforts with warm kisses, breathless thank you’s, massaging his sore jaw ‘til it fell slack in his palms . . . a practice that failed to cease, regardless of change.
They weren’t quite certain they’d achieved eradication, but they knew for certain the threshold for pain had dramatically increased—so much so that Fidd had yet to find it.
And, fortunately for them both, their wedding night would not be marking the point of discovery.
Gnawing would have never been advisable in their youth, but Fidd’s ever-fuckable smile kneading Ford into the pulsing seal of his tongue felt like a love letter to his glans on their wedding night. While his fist pumped quick and steady to keep him worked up, he carried on wrapping and releasing the ridges from his lips with no real urgency. Flicking his tongue round, squeezing along the shape of his bulb ‘til he reached the very tip and lapped up more of his seemingly endless stream, just to bob that inch back down and repeat, making Ford feel every soft little curve above, the lapping, sucking, sumptuous wriggle of his tongue just beneath.
Another perk: Fiddleford could feel a lot more—and he said it felt incredible. Like his face was legitimately getting fucked. The chewing just as much a massage on his gums as it was on Ford’s cock, he said it turned his head into a brainless mush around him, squelching his nerve endings all the more passionately down his length, getting an electric tingle that shot from head to toe when Ford’s head would glide over and over and tickle the dome of his hard palate.
That said, Fiddleford had become a lot more vocal on his cock, and where Ford had previously felt that through the medium of his lips, it had become that plus his nibbling gums, his hollowed inner cheeks, his unreasonably dexterous tongue—his entire fucking head positively buzzing round him in delight.
While, luckily (though Stanford felt it unfair), the blanket excellently concealed the muffled sounds that would fill their rooms back home, Stanford had become intimately familiar with what sounds accompanied each frequency, each hum, each pulse and long, consistent thrum. The ones that were for Stanford, the ones that were unconscious, and so, sound barrier be damned, Stanford knew exactly what wet, contented noises spoiled the ridges of his dick.
Then Fiddleford decided it was about time every other inch got to enjoy the same thing.
It took everything in Stanford not to whine when the hastened rhythm of his fist began to slow, though he quick refocused to anticipation when Fidd maintained short, steady beats at his base. The hand that had been teasing and groping at his thigh came to wrap at Ford’s wrist still curving round his head—and Ford’s eyes went wide when Fidd pressed down and his mouth went with it.
Ford craned his neck to watch his lap, as if he didn’t already know he wouldn’t see more of his cock disappear into Fidd’s mouth as he was urged to push ‘til his lips met his fist. He kept watch anyway, fighting the urge to roll his eyes shut and fall back into the pillow when a gust of air burst from Fidd’s nostrils with the pursing of his lips. Another hum showed Fidd’s own contentment, before he was tugging on Ford’s wrist as a cue to pull back up. He kept guiding him like that for a few good strokes, some nice, slick, and quick, some slow, dripping, and groaning, giving Stanford his permission to steer Fidd’s head to his own satisfaction.
When the pressure on his wrist began withdrawing, Stanford obediently took the reigns, receiving a rewarding caress at the underside of his wrist before the hand slipped away in the fray of tensing hips and a helpless face burying into a palm above when Ford’s shaking hand set a slow, steady rhythm for the perpetually drenching hole to follow up and down his dick.
It couldn’t squeeze quite as much on the rock-hard flesh of his shaft, but it became all the tighter for it, Fiddleford taking any little pauses to grind and suck on him, his tongue pulling and thrusting, licking into veins and forcing Ford to choke back his grunts while he buzzed even harder down the length.
Stanford wanted to buzz right back, tear the blanket away so he could see and hear the obscenity beneath, let a tear slip from his eye and shout out in ecstasy as his husband took more and more of him until he—but that would be quite inappropriate, given the circumstances. So instead he ran his left hand through his own hair, the right tightening in Fiddleford’s, and he closed his eyes with a long, shaky exhale as he picked up the pace on piping his husband’s mouth.
Fidd’s humming became more vibrant when he did, and Ford knew exactly which sound that was: the one that sang from deep within his chest that he was proud of Ford for taking what he wanted.
In other words (or lack thereof), it was Fidd’s full-mouthed way of saying “good boy”—and god, if it didn’t feel just as good as it sounded.
And Stanford was a good fucking boy, giving nothing more than the raising of his brows and a silent chanting of “fuck fuck fuck” into his wedding ring when he paced Fidd’s sucking so his mouth met his fist when the pinkie pressed into his pubes, claiming everything Fidd was offering, and slipping his head to spill more into the tight, swallowing heat of his throat.
His head fell back into the pillow, neck arching in contrast, fighting the urge not to hum in the frequency Fidd kept gliding on his cock. But the fight to hold back affirmation quick turned into a sharp snap out his nostrils, matched by his abdomen and big, brown eyes. His lower-half tensed and his trunk almost lifted when Fidd’s hand started unwrapping from his cock. Before Ford could raise ten degrees or uncurl his finger, Fidd’s other hand returned to his wrist, shoving his face down ‘til Ford felt his nose smush into dense, damp curls.
Ford’s jaw dropped with the chair, staring up at the ceiling as Fiddleford guided him back to the previous rhythm, deeper than before. His hips sporadically pulsed to meet his lips, pursed and pressing to his mound so Fidd could gnaw and swallow as much of Ford as possible.
When Fiddleford’s grip loosened, Stanford took control once more, shivering when Fidd stroked along his forearm and sent another moan of “good boy” his way.
Dah-di-di-dit dit / di-dah-dit di-dit dah-dah-dit di-di-di-dit dah / dah-di-di-dit di-dah dah-di-dah-dit dah-di-dah di-dah-di-dah-di-dah 1-12
He promised on Ford’s pulse. Then both hands disappeared entirely, leaving Ford alone for however long with a hot, gushing cave for him to fuck.
He must have installed some sort of cloaking device, the thought was fleeting when a quick glance confirmed the space between his legs looked still. He hadn’t even a moment to be further impressed by his bouncing knee’s (a trait of his husband’s he only bore in such circumstances (and a whopping 4.7)) inability to break illusion before he was laying his head back into the pillow once more, wedding ring pressing into the dimple of his chin as his mouth stammered and stuttered into his palm. His eyes twitched and they creased and they ultimately leaked as his hips and hand worked Fidd’s mouth at his implore.
Ford had not a fucking clue as to what Fiddleford could have been doing with his hands, and he hadn’t the wherewithal to care, because whatever they were up to merely made an impressive display of Fidd’s ability to multitask. Inner cheeks undulating to cling where his tongue couldn’t meet his gums; said tongue blocking off his two bottom teeth, alternating between rocking over the curve of him, pressing in to rub every bud into nerves that strove to grab on, lapping at whatever leaked from his head when Ford let him indulge, and pressing, pressing, pressing to grind the most boneless parts of himself over his gliding, throbbing cock. Groaning round him like Ford was hitting some sweet spot yet-undiscovered—surely, whatever Fiddleford could accomplish atop all that was applaud-worthy in attempt alone.
In fact it was impossible for Ford to argue that it wasn’t, because, as he’d soon discover, that was for Stanford, too.
The hand that had guided him before was on the back of his hand once more, though it wasn’t there to grip his wrist anymore. Rather, it stroked between his sensitive fingers, gave a gentle tug that urged him to let go. Of course, Stanford heeded, feeling long exhales along his own fingers and shaft when Fiddleford regained control.
Instead of shoving and urging as before, Fiddleford gave a gentle press, a light drag, and like instinct, Stanford followed. Their sweat mingled seamlessly, hands moving as one along Fidd’s skin, still wonderfully privy to the bobbing of his head as they curved round his skull to trace pulsing temples, follow sweet crinkles that mapped love and laughter.
Fiddleford guided him ‘til the heel of his palm wrapped round his jaw, letting his trembling fingers claim his cheek to feel the intricate mechanism of a passionate sucking, let him feel the buzz from the source as it grew all the more amorous. The hair along his cheeks rose to meet his flesh, tickling along the underside in time with the vibrations—then Stanford’s eyes snapped open, knee and breath freezing when he discovered what Fidd’s hands had been up to.
A siege of coarse, freshly conditioned tendrils snaked round their forearms to bind the lovers at the wrist. More still continued creeping, two strands of white jutting out to drag along the lines where pinkie met thumb while the rest reached their fingers, spilling down to tease and make tremble the valleys that lay there. One strand continued winding further, twisting over and around one particular set of digits to squeeze Fidd’s new band above Ford’s knuckle.
Apparently, unbraiding his beard and tying them up amidst the best blowjob he’d ever given wasn’t a grand enough display for Fiddleford, with another generous swath diving for Ford’s crotch while the rest continued winding. Thick and collected streams forced their way past loose fabric to paint the arches where his hips met his groin. Another dove center, delicate but eager to stroke at Ford’s taint and force him to shiver. More dipped beneath his sack, teasing the seam then sending strands to wrap round and over, ‘til they concealed him in a ball of slithering white.
Ford could have sworn his brain had melted out his ears.
Please tell me he’ll do this shit again, the hope zipped through as Ford saw instead the back of the seat in front of him. Perhaps knowing his orgasm was impending motivated him, or perhaps he really did deserve the Oscar, for Ford looked again like the contemplative old man from before—sans husband, of course. Satin had not distressed his curls, his breath was shaky, but appeared steady. The arm rest bore his weight through his elbow, his hand relaxed across his mouth, barely tapping at his cheek—very apparently focused, but not at all suspicious.
That was above their barrier, of course. Beneath he was tensing and pulsing, rocking and grinding, knee again bouncing, rising to such a rhythm Ford couldn’t think to calculate—
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Ford’s brows flinched and he glanced to find the KBPS on his left forearm. Fidd’s hand had snuck from beneath the blanket, several strands of white following to coil and tug and claim that arm, too.
Was it particularly wise to sacrifice the last barrier he had for his face? No, not really. But Stanford figured he’d done quite well thus far, and it wasn’t like he had more than two minutes left in him anyway, the way Fiddleford was going at it.
And besides: he really bore no interest in denying Fiddleford a god damn thing that evening.
So he shot one last glance around the cabin, took one last preparatory breath, gave the blanket one last cautionary yank, and he surrendered his hand to follow Fidd’s bidding.
It was snatched in an instant, offered nothing but a gentle squeeze before it was urgently tugged into place. Their wrists were bound before Ford’s palm met his face, more strands zipping past to lap at their fingers, mirroring flicking little brushes to make four hands quake.
Fidd pressed his hands firmer into the backs of Ford’s, so he not only felt his beloved’s wedding band dig into his flesh, but had his own ring so lovingly, eagerly, needily squeezed between the meat of an index finger and his love’s fucked-out face.
Stanford felt his heart melt, and his lips fell apart when his whole body shook.
I really married him.
His eyes squeezed tight, his chest heaved without rhythm.
I didn’t lose him.
His thighs gripped Fidd’s ribs, ‘I love you’ on his breath when another teasing strand twisted round fingers bearing symbols of their union.
He came back to me.
He stammered a pathetic “oh” over and over.
I came back to him.
The hair sealed round them, ring-clad fingers rose as one.
And after all this time, after everything, he’s all–
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On instinct, he tried to pull up a hand to cover his mouth, but the weight of Fidd’s hands on his own meant he only pulled his darling’s face further down his cock. He was met with another moan, firmer pressure on his hands, and Stanford found he lacked not only the heart but even a modicum of strength to request his hand back when he jerked his first shot into Fiddleford’s throat.
Stanford’s eyes popped open and his teeth clamped down, biting his lips in a last-ditch effort to contain any noise. It didn’t stop a harsh breath from escaping his nose, nor did it do anything to encourage stillness, Ford instead lurching from his seat to curl round Fidd’s head and hold on tight while he helplessly humped his face.
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Well, Fiddleford probably already knew he was “coming”, calves wrapping round him, heels digging in his low back.
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Whatever. Fiddleford always told him to “hush up” when he tried to apologize for his pleasure, anyway, and he didn’t seem to mind the sudden bursting as he drank from Stanford like he spilled sweet ambrosia.
He figured he’d try once more.
Dah di-di-di-dit di-dah-dah-dit— 1-17
Fuck! He grit his teeth in his failure to express gratitude, though the disappointment was short-lived when he felt Fidd huff into his mound and take control of ringed fingers.
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Ford’s jaw fell slack and he turned towards the wall, knowing he’d lost his chance at the Oscar when he shuddered towards the moon.
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Fidd bobbed his head faster, wrapped his lips tighter, and forced his love to choke on little clicks begging to be whines.
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A promise as he drove Ford down his throat, urging him to give ‘til he had nothing left.
Stanford was still heaving when the blanket lifted to reveal his husband’s face. With nary a drop spilled, dick once more flaccid and tucked back into his sweats, there was little to no evidence as to what they’d just done. Save for Ford’s flushed face and short breath, of course. Alright, Fiddleford swiping his hand across his equally flushed mouth above a previously braided beard wasn’t very subtle either. Nor the lax thighs he used as armrests on either side of him . . . Or the fact he was between said thighs at all.
But any concern about how damning they were, gazing back at each other, flew right out the window when Fidd smiled so wide his eyes almost closed. Ford found his lips curling round the little pants he managed to keep silent, sending one last thought of Fuck ‘em to the Oscars before he squished Fidd’s cheeks between his palms.
“Hello.” He mouthed with the intention of a chuckle, chest shaking as Fidd sighed and let his face melt into the circles Ford pressed into his jaw.
“Hi . . .” Fidd mouthed back, and Ford had to stifle a laugh when his eyes squeezed shut and the smallest sound escaped. It got Fiddleford’s eyes back on him, all saccharine and smitten, lids droopy above a slack-jawed smile that made Ford’s widen. He tilted his head out towards the aisle. “Coast clear?”
“Ah . . .” Stanford looked out to the rest of the cabin, relieved to find it frozen in time despite their own brazen antics. The couple across from them had hardly budged—if one would even count falling more bonelessly asleep as budging. The singleton on the diagonal was still reclined and had, at some point, begun snoring, though it wasn’t quite on par with the duet in front of them that had apparently grown louder while he and Fiddleford were lost in each other.
God, we’re good, Ford thought to himself, hardly aware of how his smile grew or his head nodded when he turned to tell his husband—only to be startled when he found his hands falling empty and Fiddleford rising between his legs.
Enchanting . . . And Stanford was enchanted, heart beating out his eyes like a god damn Tex Avery cartoon as he gazed upon the man of his dreams. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows, showing off freckles and spots his lips had traced a million times, forearms that had loved him and held him and been deep inside him . . . Lead up to long, lovely fingers tending to a beard so silken, they swam right through, his new gold band only slightly more brilliant than white tresses wrapping round it in the light of the moon.
He caught a glimpse of the hair left on his head, his need to verify Ford’s post-orgasmic claims exposing it was just the right amount of fucked up as dazzling eyes flicked about the cabin. Ford’s own were quick to wander back to dexterous hands, deftly separating his beard into three tidy sections so he could pull it back into the braid that had once been.
Ford found it quite hypnotic, really, the way he alternated pieces of his beard between his knuckles and his thumbs almost rhythmically, never allowing a single strand to fall out of place in formation of the plait. It was like he didn’t even have to think to do it.
His eyes followed mesmerized all the way to the little curl that took shape above Fidd’s crotch, swiftly pinched between thumb and forefinger so Fiddleford could pull the thin, olive band past his wrist to tie himself off while Ford’s eyes meandered to the tent just below.
Possibilities of reciprocation flooded his mind as Fidd did one last check for any loose strands, though he wasn’t thinking long before one of those lovely hands cupped his cheek and urged his gaze up to find Fiddleford’s own. No matter how old he got, it seemed, Ford simply couldn’t help blustering under Fidd’s pleased expression, eyes so focused and smirk so smug, it forced the peaks of his flushed cheeks into his own line of sight.
Fidd’s smug smirk quick turned into an endeared smile, and his fingers ran through Ford’s curls as he leaned down towards him, exciting Stanford to the point he started leaning forward in hopes of meeting his sweet kiss. The other hand landed on his shoulder, and Ford found his eyes closing and lips pursing, falling to a shudder as fingers fell from his hair to meet the back of the chair and familiar breath hit his lips—only to find a distinct absence in front of him when a leg was tossed over his own and Fiddleford rolled off into his long abandoned seat.
Ford blinked his eyes open and clicked his tongue, turning towards his husband with a questioning expression only to find him playing coy just beside him. He’d have been humming, had they the liberty of making sound, though Ford could still imagine the self-satisfied tune on his lips as he curled his mustache towards eyes looking decidedly not at him.
He continued staring anyway, watching his fingers comb through his hair and fail to do anything remotely close to taming Stanford’s handiwork when he finally turned to “absentmindedly” look back into big, brown eyes. Feigned innocence could only hold out a second longer, before the smile was tugged from his lips and Fidd mouthed a laughing “What?”
Ford scoffed and rolled his eyes away from Fiddleford with the shaking of his head, allowing a moment where it was his eyes decidedly turned away before he caught Fiddleford gasping between his palms and leaned in close, as if to bring to fruition what Fidd had only teased.
Oh, and it was evident Fiddleford wanted it, that he craved for Stanford to call his bluff and bring their lips together in the sweet connection that always accompanied shows of passion.
But Stanford didn’t. Not immediately, anyway. Instead, he stopped mere centimeters away, a smirk of his own growing on his face as desperation flickered in Fidd’s eyes, lips stammering in a pathetic plea when Stanford denied them the relief of his kiss.
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Fidd’s eyes grew wide with the tapping at his temple, shudder forced out his mouth when Ford’s other hand fell to wrap round his waist.
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Then he let him think for a moment that the teasing would be ceasing, but instead bypassed his kiss to drag his lips to his ear, hearing the faintest little “lord” as his speaking hand fell and squeezed the erection long craving his attention.
“I’ll be the one on his knees . . .” His lips caressed the curve with every word before coming together to leave it wet with his kiss. Ford couldn’t deny himself the satisfaction when one hand clasped at his shoulder, the other clutching at his shirt when he dared to pull back and observe his husband’s face. And when he found Fidd’s breath quickened, brows pinching and eyes searching Ford’s face for what could possibly come next, he frankly grew sick of their little game of chicken.
So he removed his hands from the lower regions of Fidd’s body, and he grabbed his face to take him in a kiss that reminded him of being eighteen, of being thirty, and of being two old men who could never quit loving in spite of all the things that had tried to stop them.
And when he recovered from the daze of Ford’s kiss, and it dawned on him that his lover had left and five minutes had passed, Fiddleford, too, rose from his seat, and he sauntered off to his next little treat.