Archive of Our Own

“I’ve had an idea,” Robin said one morning after breakfast.

Hart looked up from the latest letter from Alice, who had been in Heidelberg for most of a year now. She was planning a visit home, along with Marianne, leaving Dr. Trelawney in the university town as she intended only to stay in England a couple weeks. “Yes?” he said, thoughts still full of his niece and Robin’s sister.

“The roasting pans.”

It took Hart a moment to realize what on earth Robin was talking about. He’d named the large, flat metal objects used to roast malt, an early part of the beer-making process. They roasted some of their own malt and bought some, as did many of their peers. “What about them?”

“Well, they don’t roast very evenly unless you fuss with them constantly, do they?” His hands shaped a pan in the air, with a long handle. “So if it’s left alone, the part lowest to the bottom is roasted quite a bit more, and the stuff towards the top isn’t roasted very much at all, is it, unless you’ve got someone shaking it constantly.”

“I, ah.” Robin’s hands were quite expressive, and the shapes he’d conjured were not making Hart think of beer very much at all. He forced his mind back on track. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Well, what if we turned it like a pig on a spit?” Robin’s hands went from flat to curved in an instant, and he drew a barrel shape in the air, a cylinder on its side. “What if we used something more like this?”

“I don’t know that anyone else does it,” Hart said, but he’d long since learned that Robin wouldn’t think that was a good reason not to try. “We could ask Alphonso about it. Maybe he’s heard of someone using a—what would that be, a barrel roaster?”

“A drum, maybe.” Robin dropped his hands to the table, one picking up his tea, the other reaching for a piece of toast. “I think it would result in a more even roast, and we might even be able to roast for longer.”

“What would that do?”

“I don’t know,” Robin said, “but I’d like to find out.”

“Are you asking my permission? Of course you may, if you can find someone to make you a—a drum roaster.”

“It’s not so much permission,” Robin said, a grin quirking one side of his mouth, “as much as your cooperation. Your aid and abettance, perhaps.”

“Of course you have it,” Hart said, making his mind up to write Alphonso that very morning. “Any resource I have is entirely at your disposal.”

“Oh, all of your resources are at my disposal?” Robin asked impishly.

“All of them,” Hart said. He knew Robin was flirting, and although he was not much of a flirt himself, Robin didn’t need any encouragement. Nevertheless, Hart smiled at him as his heart fluttered in his chest, helpless in the face of Robin’s charm.

“Then might I dispose of your resources in a different location?”

It was still morning, and some portion of Hart might have been scandalized at the suggestion. But a year of living with Robin as, in theory, his lodger, and a year of sharing a bed most nights meant that he was growing less scandalized by the hour. “We can discuss my resources elsewhere, yes.”

Later, as Hart tried to remember his name and what he had actually intended to do that morning, he lay on his stomach as Robin traced shapes through the sweat on his back. “I think,” Robin said eventually, “it’ll have to have air vents in it, in order to distribute the heat more evenly.”

Hart took a moment—several moments—to figure out what on earth he was talking about. “The roaster?” he said, after replaying Robin’s words in his mind.

“Yes.” Robin didn’t apologize for speaking of work in bed, and Hart would never ask it of him. Indeed, he loved seeing how Robin’s mind worked, now that it was put to business instead of card-counting and fortune-hunting. “I’m no blacksmith, but I think I can see how it must work. If it’s sealed off, with no air flowing through it, the water cannot evaporate, can it?”

“That makes sense.” Roasting pans were, of course, open to the air. “You’ll need someone to turn it.”

“Oh, I know,” Robin said, “but I think it’ll have less room for error. Especially once we’ve figured out how much coke and how much time per drum of barley.”

“Indeed,” Hart said.

“Here, turn over,” Robin said.

Hart did, a great effort that required a groan, and Robin shook his head. “You are a delight,” he said. Kneeling between Hart’s legs, he set a hand on each of Hart’s knees. “Porter, you know.”

“I do know about porter,” Hart said. “We make quite a bit of porter.”

“We do.” Robin skimmed his palms up over Hart’s thighs, light enough that he disturbed the hairs and not much else. “And porter is typically dark, but we can’t roast the malt too dark or it burns. No one wants a burnt porter.”

“Yes? I mean, no.” It was difficult to think while Robin was touching him so. Even though they’d sucked each other off no more than a quarter hour ago, Hart’s prick was reawakening. “You, ah, you’ve been experimenting with other heat sources, though.” He was extremely proud of himself for putting that sentence together.

“Oh, I have.” Robin’s thumbs stroked the soft skin on the inside of Hart’s thighs, just below his balls, stealing more of Hart’s brains. “Peat burns at a lower temperature, so one might think the malt could be roasted longer, but unfortunately, it also imparts, well, a peaty smell. Not everyone wants their beer to taste earthy.”

Hart wanted to taste one thing at the moment, and unless Robin had been drinking peaty beer or Scotch, his mouth was not what he’d consider earthy. “Ah, no, likely not.”

“Wood makes it smoky, and again, that’s not to everyone’s tastes. Let’s not even talk about coal.”

“No, let’s not.” Robin had started running his hands over Hart’s thighs again, his palms on the top and his thumbs just inside. He’d made it incredibly clear over the last year that he very much lusted after Hart’s thighs, as large and muscular and hairy as they were, and the way he knelt made it clear that his prick was becoming more and more interested, the more he touched Hart.

“And,” Robin said, “we tried the essentia bina, and while that makes a lovely, dark porter, it’s sweet and it distinctively tastes of molasses.”

“I like molasses,” said Hart, whose brains might well have been made of it. Robin was rubbing a thumb into the small dent behind his knee. Hart would never have said that was a place on his body that would arouse him when touched, but that was before Robin.

“But not in all the porter you drink.”

“That’s true.” Hart was fully hard now, somehow, and so was Robin, and yet all Robin was doing was groping Hart’s thighs. “Would you come here?” Hart asked plaintively.

“Let me finish,” Robin said.

“I will make you finish if you come here.” It sounded more wishful than threatening.

Robin hesitated, and then he shook his head slightly. “No, I meant about the porter.”

Hart sighed. “What do you want to tell me about porter?”

“I think if we can roast the malt more evenly in a drum, we may be able to roast it long enough to get it even darker than we can in the pans.”

“All right,” Hart said. “Now get down here.”

Robin did, his chest against Hart’s, their cocks aligned. “Is this what you wanted, or do you just want me to stop talking about the drum roaster?”

“Perhaps both,” Hart said. In apology, he kissed Robin, and then he wrapped his legs—his thighs that Robin loved so much—around Robin’s hips, pushing him gently back and forth.

“Oh!” Robin said. “You want it like this?”

They were both still sweaty, and Hart’s cock was leaking; there was a vial of oil next to the bed, but it was an entire arm’s length away. “Yes. Like this.”

Robin leaned down to kiss him again, tasting him like a brand-new barrel of his newest porter, savoring every single moment as if he were trying to memorize the recipe from flavor alone. “I do so adore you,” he said, and he thrust against Hart’s body.

“And I you.”

It took quite a bit longer than the first time, but they’d been wound up then, and this time, Hart got to enjoy the leisurely ascent to the summit. He kissed Robin and stroked his back, his shoulders, his arms, the muscles taut with his hands planted into the mattress. Sweat dripped from Robin’s nose to Hart’s jaw, and he smiled.

Too soon, Robin’s rhythm stuttered; too soon, Hart squeezed Robin against him and shoved his own hips against Robin’s. Robin fell to one side and dropped a hand between them, wrapping it around both of their cocks, and Hart added his, jerking themselves off together until they spilled between them, coating Hart’s belly.

Once again, Hart’s chest heaved as he attempted to recall who he was. Robin lay next to him, his breath quick as well. “So, a roaster drum,” Robin said. “I’ve already talked to someone about making one for me.”

“Of course you have,” Hart said, fond. “Of course you have.”

It was a couple months later when Robin came into their home, exultant. “It works!”

“Pardon?” Hart said. He had a stack of correspondence in front of him, unread, and he had been thinking of how he owed Evangeline Wintour a visit, since she’d been out of town when Alice and Marianne had visited.

“The drum roaster!” Robin said. “I had it installed yesterday, and today was the first batch, and look!” He held out his hand, upon which was a handful of malted barley grains, toasted a beautiful dark brown.

Hart took one in his fingers, bringing it closer for an inspection. It was the darkest brown malt that he’d ever seen, a color close to that of well-roasted coffee beans or good soil, and it smelled of caramelization with the smallest hint of burning. “Impressive,” he said. “How much of it is roasted this dark?”

“An entire drum!” Robin said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “I didn’t want to start with too many, but it’s enough to make a small batch.” The brewery was equipped to make small batches in addition to the large ones, either for smaller buyers or to test a new recipe. “We’ll be starting a batch of porter with this tomorrow.”

“So we’ll know, when?”

“Not until just around All Saint’s Day, I think,” Robin said. “There’s no instant gratification in beer brewing, but roasting the malt was about as close as I can get.”

“It looks wonderful,” Hart said. “Perhaps I’ll come down to help you with the porter.”

“Would you?” Robin perked up. “I’d like that.”

The next morning, Hart found himself mixing the dark malt with a mashing rake as Robin filled the vat with water. The weather was a little warm, and although he’d thrown off his jacket, he was still sweating. He kept mixing as Robin lit the fire underneath, and then they sat, waiting for the mash to come up to temperature.

Normally at a brewery, there would be other tasks to occupy them while they left the mash to soak for an hour or more, but those other tasks were being done by the actual brewery employees: washing the used implements, transferring another batch from one container to another, measuring out the hops and anything else added to the batch. All Hart and Robin had to do was watch the water come up to hot but not boiling, and that was about as boring as expected.

“If you were to make the strangest beer you could think of,” Robin said, after they’d exhausted the usual topics of family and friends, “what would you put into it?”

“Oh, um,” Hart said. Beer was sometimes spiced, but otherwise, the ingredients were pretty well set. “Perhaps some more interesting spices? I don’t know that I’ve had beer with black pepper in it.”

“I think I’d add fruit to beer,” Robin said.

“Wouldn’t that be halfway to wine?”

“Not grapes. Perhaps oranges? No, I’ve had that before, Plums, perhaps?”

“We could add orange peel to this one,” Hart said.

“I’d like to see how it tastes with nothing else in it,” Robin said, “but perhaps the next one. Although I’m not sure how much orange would go with porter. Something darker, perhaps.”

“Ginger?”

“Oh, like gingerbread. Perhaps. What about something more savory? Ham? Bacon?”

“That’s a possibility,” Hart said.

Robin laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

Hart wouldn’t say he was entirely a beer purist—he was helping Robin make a porter with malt that was almost completely black, wasn’t he?—but meat during the brewing process seemed a little much. “Porter and meat are very good together, but that’s typically after the brewing is complete.”

“Still.” Robin stroked his chin. “I’m sure there are other things we can use during the brewing process, things no one has thought of.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with some good ideas.”

“I wish it took less time to know how a batch is going to turn out.” Robin sat down and leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. Hart joined him on the bench as they watched the mash and the thermometer rising up from the liquid.

“Sometimes you just know,” Hart offered.

“And sometimes you have to wait a month or two just to find out,” Robin said, the barest shade of bitterness in his tone. “I tasted the malt; I’ve tasted the wort. But I haven’t been doing this long enough to know how it will go.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think I have, either.” Hart had also tasted the malt and the wort, the liquid that would be drained out of the mash. “We have to wait.”

“Bloody hell,” Robin said with a laugh. “Patience. Clearly, the most plentiful of my virtues.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hart said, looking around. They weren’t alone in the room, but between the roaring of the fire, the pumping of the water, and the other folks talking amongst themselves, no one seemed to be paying them any attention. He lowered his voice and continued. “You’re very patient under certain circumstances.”

“Oh, am I?” Robin murmured, glancing at Hart and then back at the mash. “Do tell.”

“You’re happy to wait when you know the result will be . . . beneficial to you.”

“Mm, beneficial, yes.” Somehow Robin made the word sound more lascivious than it was. “And you think that the results of the porter will be . . . beneficial to me?”

“I think we can make them beneficial,” Hart said, after clearing his throat.

“Indeed. What kind of beneficial?” Robin’s eyes danced merrily enough that Hart could tell, even though they weren’t facing each other.

“A rather penetrating sort of beneficial. On my end.” Or in his end, if one wanted to be crude. He watched Robin swallow, feeling a little hot under the collar himself, even taking into account the fire.

“We’ve done that before. Do you propose that we don’t, for a month or so?” Robin said, wide-eyed, as if he had never proposed a game of this sort.

“Well,” Hart said, “yes. But if you’d rather not, I’m sure we could make sure that it’s a good night regardless.” He himself didn’t want to go several weeks without anything other than Robin’s fingers inside him, but Robin liked anticipation. To make his lover happy, whether or not the porter turned out well—whatever it was, Hart would do it. He’d waited long enough, before Robin had come along. What was another few weeks?

“Well, then,” Robin said, a smirk spreading across his face. “Let’s wait. I expect it’ll be a night to remember.”

“I expect it will.”

Beer-brewing wasn’t a static process; there were a number of steps to be performed before it could be left on its own. That day, they drained the mash and left the wort to cool, and then added yeast and left it to ferment.

That night, Robin slid oiled fingers into Hart’s arse and rubbed his face, with its end-of-day stubble, on Hart’s thighs before sucking his prick. After Hart regained his breath, he tried to repay the favor. While he had Robin in his mouth, Robin kept speaking of what he’d be doing to Hart in a few weeks, and eventually he’d had to kiss Robin to shut him up.

A few days later, they transferred the beer to another container to rest to remove the sediment, and then it had to condition. Robin, jubilant over how lovely the porter looked so far, demanded Hart’s cock inside him, and he rode Hart like a prize stallion until neither of them could think.

Finally, a couple nights before All Hallow’s, Robin brought Hart to the brewery and stood in front of a barrel. “It’s ready to go.”

“Is it?”

“Well,” Robin said with a sly smile, “I tried it two weeks ago, before it finished conditioning, and it was good then. So I feel fairly certain about it.”

“Shall we bring some home?”

“Yes, we shall.”

They brought a small cask back with them, one that held ten pints or so. It was much more than they needed to taste and see if the dark-roasted malt had done what they’d hoped it would do, but it would keep overnight. Or, if it hadn’t turned out as well, they could see if it could be salvaged with the addition of other ingredients, but Robin’s face said he didn’t see that happening.

Robin drew a pint for himself and a second for Hart. “A toast?” He seated himself on the couch next to Hart, leaving a few inches between them. Less than it might have been, if anyone else was in the room. Hart didn’t love the distance, but they were currently engaged in business, after all.

“To patience,” Hart said, and he and Robin both held up their mugs to each other before taking a sip of the brand-new porter.

“Oh,” Robin said, while Hart was still rolling the sip around in his mouth. “It’s—it’s wonderful.”

It was wonderful, warm and dark and rich. The roasted malt lent it a caramelized taste on the back end, but it was smooth from start to finish, almost silky on the tongue. He’d never tasted a porter nearly that balanced. “Impressive,” he said.

“It’s so very good, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’d gladly drink a pint or two of that.”

“I hope everyone else agrees,” Robin said. “The roasted malt—look at the color.” He poured some into a clear glass and held it up to the light. It was a gorgeous dark brown, a shade off black, with a head the color of sawdust. “Look at it.”

“I have never seen a porter that dark,” Hart said. “We’ll have to make a whole vat of that. I can name four or five people who will buy everything we make.”

“We’ll have to let them try it,” Robin said. “We’ll have to let the other workers try it.” Hart and Robin were the brewmasters, but he had several other employees who had fine palates as well. “I want everyone to try it, and then maybe we can sell other breweries the black malt.”

“I’d like that too,” Hart said, “but not right now.”

“No?”

Robin was so elated with his own success, Hart reflected, that he’d forgotten that almost no one was at the brewery. More importantly, he’d forgotten what was to be his reward for having to wait. “I think,” he said, “we’ve got other things to do tonight.”

Robin remembered abruptly; from the outside, it looked a little as if he’d been hit by a brick. “Oh, yes,” he said. “You did promise me something.”

“I did, didn’t I.” Hart was greatly enjoying this. He was also greatly enjoying the porter, and he drank more as he watched Robin drain his mug and set it down on the table. “Would you like to collect?”

“Absolutely,” Robin said. He came over to stand in front of Hart, leaning down to kiss him, one hand on the arm of the couch. He tasted of porter, malt and yeast and hops, and Hart tipped his head up to chase the flavor. “But maybe we should make sure that the porter tastes just as good in the second pint.”

A second pint wouldn’t get Hart tipsy; there was too much of him for that. But it might relax him somewhat; it would certainly relax Robin, much slighter of frame and without a decade of running a brewery behind him. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Robin drew them each a second mug and sat back on the couch, his thigh touching Hart’s this time, a small tease. A sip or two later, he settled his hand on Hart’s thigh, a bigger tease, and Hart’s prick jumped.

Clearly Robin saw, because he said, “Is the porter that good?”

“It is,” Hart said, his throat dry despite all the liquid he’d consumed. “You’ve tasted it.”

“I have,” Robin said. “I’ve tasted other things, too, and perhaps I’d like to taste more of them.”

It took a moment for Hart to realize what he meant, and then he felt himself flush. “Oh.” Robin had offered several times to use his tongue on Hart’s arse, and while Hart had been quite happy the other way around—Robin’s cries and moans were intensely gratifying—he’d always found a way to do something else. This time, though, after Robin’s success with a new type of roaster, a darker malt, and an excellent new beer, well . . . he wouldn’t say he owed him, because they’d been long since done with anything transactional, but he very well might be willing to try. “I—yes.”

Hart’s words were not nearly as pretty as Robin’s, but from Robin’s reaction, one would never have known. His face lit up, his hand on Hart’s thigh clenched, and he swallowed the last half of his mug in one long draught. “Please, let’s go,” Robin said. “Unless you’d like to fuck here?”

They’d certainly fucked on every surface in the sitting room, but they had a bedroom—two, in fact, if one counted the one that Robin rarely used unless one of them was ill or tossing and turning—and if Hart was going to get his arse licked and then fucked, he’d rather do it in more comfort. Today, at least. “No, let’s go upstairs.”

Of course, in order to do that, Robin had to pull away from Hart’s thigh, and the space where his hand had been felt curiously cold. Hart ignored that and drained his pint before following Robin out of the room.

Robin kept looking back at him, as if it were some sort of chase, or possibly as if Hart would leave if he didn’t check constantly. Hart recognized the latter; some part of him still held disbelief that Robin was still here, still with him, and still chasing him into the bedroom for lovemaking quite regularly.

How, exactly, Robin managed to be the one doing the chasing when he was well in front, was something Hart decided not to question, not at that moment. He followed Robin through the hall, into the bedroom, and locked the door behind them. Dinner had been over some time ago, and Hart had dismissed all the servants, as he normally did on evenings when he didn’t need any help to dress for a ball or other event. There was no one in the house but the two of them, and no one to hear if Hart enjoyed having his arse licked quite as much as Robin did.

He shivered as Robin turned towards him, a look in his eye that Hart knew well. Robin liked to yield, or at least liked his body to yield, but he enjoyed being in control, too, and it was rather fortunate that Hart enjoyed ceding the reins, at least upon occasion. “Well?” Hart asked.

Robin came to stand in front of him, reaching for Hart’s cravat. Sometimes on days when they were not about to have sex, they’d do this, still, undressing each other. It was a small intimacy among all the other ways they shared their lives, but it still made Hart’s heart thump. He lifted his hands to undo Robin’s cravat, and then to unbutton his waistcoat.

Piece by piece, their clothing fell to the side, some on a chair, some directly onto the floor, and then they were both bare. Robin’s skin was gilded by the firelight, a candle and the hearth, and he looked, as he always did, like a fallen angel, here to seduce Hart, a sly smile on his face and one hand on his hip. Hart was long since seduced; he loved Robin, and he lusted after him, but he appreciated so very much the effort Robin always put into him.

“On the bed,” Robin said, and Hart went to draw down the covers and lie on his stomach, the better for Robin to access him. “No, on your back.”

“On my back?”

“One can do it that way, as well.”

Hart felt very provincial for a moment, but Robin came over to the head of the bed and kissed him until he’d forgotten what they were discussing. “Did you think,” Robin murmured in between kisses, “that I would want you in a position where I couldn’t have your thighs as well?”

Hart couldn’t exactly picture it, but he said, “However you wish.” He let Robin kiss him some more, still tasting of porter, dark and a little sweet.

Soon Robin drew away, settled between Hart’s thighs, and marched a campaign down Hart’s body, lavishing attacks on his neck, his collarbone, his nipples, each battlefield leaving both of them the winner. Hart muffled his cries with a hand; even though there was no one to hear, he had some dignity to maintain, at least for now. Robin’s hands preceded his mouth, stroking firmly down Hart’s sides before he dragged his teeth over the same skin. He pressed Hart’s knees upward and outward, leaving gentle and not-so-gentle bite marks over the insides of Hart’s thighs, as he avoided, frustratingly, Hart’s prick, which was not in the mood to be avoided.

There was a brief break in the action when Robin stuffed a couple pillows under Hart’s arse, and then he resumed his campaign, tracing delicate fingers over Hart’s hole. They’d done this before, as recently as a couple days before, and Hart’s body thought it knew what to expect, but when Robin said, “Brace yourself,” and lowered his mouth to place a kiss just there, well, it did not.

Hart’s thighs clenched; he worked very hard not to make it directly on Robin’s head. “Some other time,” Robin said, surfacing for a moment, and then he ducked down.

Hart could not see what Robin was doing, but he could feel it, could feel Robin’s thumbs pulling his arsecheeks apart and Robin’s tongue swiping once, carefully, over his hole. They were somehow greater than the sum of their parts, Robin’s actions; the wave of anticipation and feeling that swamped Hart was almost painful. “Do it,” he said, voice cracking.

“That doesn’t sound like begging,” Robin said, a fingertip spreading slick spit over his skin.

“You want me to beg?”

Robin shrugged diffidently. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Robin, brewmaster, love of my life,” he said, chest heaving, fingers begging to clench something other than the bedding, “please put your tongue in my arse.” It wasn’t begging, not really, but he couldn’t manage any more. “Please.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I will,” Robin said, and he bent himself and his head to his task.

Hart gasped as Robin alternated small licks and long, swirling strokes of his tongue; every so often, he’d swipe a thumb in as well, driving Hart out of his mind. It felt like—well, it felt as if someone were licking his arse, and he’d known it would be good, but he’d had absolutely no idea that it would be this good. Every nerve in his body was alight, a chandelier at the biggest ball of the season.

Robin’s shoulders bumped into his thighs, and he left off licking at Hart to stroke a hand up one. “You’re going to have to keep them up for me,” he said. “I can’t quite reach if you’re wrapping them around me.”

Hart reached down to grab his knees, fitting his hands just behind them, and pulling them in towards his chest. He wouldn’t have counted himself as a flexible man, but, well, here he was, and the absolute fire in Robin’s eyes made it worth a little strain.

“You are breathtaking,” Robin said, and before Hart could respond, Robin thrust his tongue inside him.

Hart cried out, low and wordless; he could feel himself yield to Robin as he had dozens of times before, but it was Robin’s mouth, lips, tongue. It was slick in a different way than spit on a finger, very different to the oil they typically used. Robin’s tongue was nimble, flexible, smaller and so very different than a prick, and yet Hart felt just as split open as he did on Robin’s cock. Robin was tasting the very heart of him, if one forgave the pun, and Hart could hide nothing.

When Robin’s hand closed around Hart’s prick, Hart startled and raised his head to look. “Do you want to come like this?” Robin said.

“I—no, I’d rather come on your cock,” Hart said, face burning. Robin’s face was slick with his own saliva, because he’d been rubbing it against Hart’s arse. How was he to survive this?

“Well, then,” Robin said magnanimously, “you shall have my cock.” He patted Hart on the thigh. “One moment.” Leaving the bed, he rinsed out his mouth with something Hart couldn’t see, his legs being in the way—it didn’t occur to him to let them go—and then came back and kissed Hart, tasting of porter again. Was that earthy hint the beer, or was it Hart’s hole? Hart didn’t know and wasted no time thinking of it. He kissed Robin back fiercely.

“You enjoyed that, I know you did,” Robin said in between kisses, and then Hart did let his legs go, wrapping them around Robin, his hands going to Robin’s head.

“I loved it,” Hart said, and his voice was hoarse. How had that happened?

“Shall we try it again sometime?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Hm,” Robin said, reaching for the bottle of oil on the nightstand, “no, I think we should save it for special occasions. Like successful batches of porter.”

“So every month, maybe?”

“I don’t know that every batch will be that good.”

“Liar,” Hart said, grinning, and he pulled Robin back down for another series of kisses, long and full of all the desire he could push into them. “Fuck me.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” Robin breathed. He sat back on his heels, coating his fingers with oil, and two went in smoothly. Hart relaxed around them and let Robin coax his body into loosening up a little more.

Three fingers felt wonderful, the next perfect step after Robin’s tongue, and then Robin sat back. “Can you hold your thighs up again, like you did before?”

Hart caught his knees in his hands again. “Like this? Why?”

“I like how it looks,” Robin said, leaning down to bite Hart’s thigh again. “You, offering yourself to me, as if I’m a priest of some religion and you, my willing sacrifice.” Hart shivered, and Robin pressed forward, and then he was inside Hart, slowly, making room for himself inside.

The first time they’d tried this, it had been overwhelming for Hart: too much sensation and too many emotions, even when it was just Robin’s fingers. He’d found it impossible to concentrate on relaxing and keep his body upright—he’d been on his hands and knees—and he hadn’t spent, because he was too out of his head. They’d stuck to fingers for another month or so, and they’d discovered that Hart very much preferred it when he could see Robin, and eventually, it had been the fun kind of overwhelming, not the impossible kind.

Tonight it was overwhelming again, but hovering just on the side of pleasant, and Hart did not have enough space in his own mind to consider why. He was still flayed open from Robin’s mouth; his prick had barely been touched the entire time, and he remained on the edge of spending. When Robin finally sank in the last inch, burying his entire cock in Hart’s body, his chest rising and falling rapidly, he looked at Hart, eyes wide. “Are you—?”

“Yes, good,” Hart managed, but barely. “Robin, please.”

“Yes, of course—”

Some part of Hart was happy to see that Robin was just as broken apart as he was, but most of him was able to do nothing but cry out with each thrust, each drag of Robin’s prick inside of him. Each time Robin stroked that place of ecstasy inside, the one that made him want to press Robin’s cockstand right there and also curl up into a ball, he moaned, improbably high-pitched, and through half-closed eyes he could see Robin’s entire body clench.

“I—Hart—you—”

Robin, silver-tongued, speechifying Robin, losing his words sent a jolt of lightning down Hart’s spine, fast and hot. He let one knee go, hand wrapping around his prick and tugging. “Let go,” he panted, and Robin groaned, deep and aching, before Hart felt him climax, his hips stuttering.

An instant later, Robin’s hand joined Hart’s on his cockstand, and together, they brought him off, Hart spending before Robin had even softened inside him. Robin withdrew gently, but Hart still felt bereft; before he could put the feeling into words, Robin had climbed up the bed and collapsed directly on top of him, threading his arms under Hart’s and burying his face in his neck.

“Oh,” Hart said, a poor word for all he felt, but Robin chuckled and sank into Hart more. Hart’s spend spread between them, warm and sticky; they’d have to clean it up before it glued them together, but right at that moment, he didn’t care. He had Robin pressing him into the mattress, warm and heavy and comforting, Robin who had seen all of him and then wrapped the two of them together like a present, as close as two people could be.

“That was amazing,” Robin murmured into Hart’s skin later. “You taste like—”

Hart cut him off with a kiss, not actually wanting to know what he tasted like. “I love you,” he said firmly.

“I love you too.” He peeled himself off of Hart; unfortunately, the spend between them had dried in a few patches, and Hart yelped as some of his hair was unceremoniously yanked. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Despite the instinctive reaction, Hart didn’t have quite enough in him to be annoyed. “But you could get me a cloth, if you’d like.”

“Of course I will,” Robin said, a little indignantly. “I’m not so poor a lover as that.” But his hands were gentle as he wiped at Hart’s belly, and eventually they were both clean enough for comfort.

“Shall we go to bed?” Robin asked, when he had finished. The cloth was hanging over the edge of the bowl; the sheets were pulled back into some semblance of order. It was certainly late enough; it had been dark for hours. Sleep tugged at Hart, but there was one more thing he needed to do.

“Let’s go downstairs for a nightcap,” he suggested, and Robin smiled. They pulled on dressing-gowns, trousers, and slippers, and headed back to the sitting room, where the porter awaited them. Hart drew them mugs this time, serving Robin as if he were a lord, and sat back on the couch, mug in his left hand so that he could put an arm around Robin, holding them together, shoulder to knee.

“To patience and success,” Robin suggested, and they clinked glasses.

“Patience and success,” Hart echoed. Leaning over, he whispered in Robin’s ear, “And to your clever tongue.”

Robin gave a bright shout of laughter and kissed Hart, tasting of porter and satisfaction.