John shudders at the sound of his voice and scrambles to obey, pulling himself up onto the desk so Rodney can slip into the space between his legs, press their hips together hard enough John feels the harsh scrape of cotton and denim over his cockhead.
Rodney doesn’t let up, pushes him back and back and down until John’s shoulder blades are aching with the pressure and his spine is arched to maintain the angle he needs to bite and suck at Rodney’s lower lip.
It hurts a little, and John loves it – loves how real it is, how he can feel every skipping, imperfect beat of Rodney’s pulse against the pads of his fingers, how Rodney hasn’t even undone their pants, too frantic for John’s mouth and neck and the delicate shell of his ear.
Their shirts are rucked up under their armpits, chests rubbing together with every clumsy, hasty thrust of their hips. It only registers in John’s mind as important because Rodney whines loud and shaking when he shifts to the right and John’s dog tags catch between them. John reaches up and hauls Rodney down by the back of his neck, and their teeth crash together with a bone-jarring sound, but they keep on kissing and kissing until John’s swallowing Rodney’s wild, hurt sounds – sounds he’s dreamt about coaxing from that mouth for weeks and months and ages – and Rodney’s hips are stuttering through his orgasm.
“Please,” John mumbles, voice slurred and desperate because he can feel it waiting just at the base of his spine, so ready, and Rodney isn’t moving.
He doesn’t wait long, because a minute later the heel of Rodney’s palm is pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants, the round ball at the base of Rodney’s thumb below the head right where he needs it, and he’s coming with his head thrown back and Rodney’s mouth on his neck and Rodney’s sweat on his skin and Rodney, Rodney, Rodney above him, around him, holding onto him.
When he remembers how to open his eyes, he’s met with Rodney’s mouth on his as a reward. There’s something sharp digging into his back, a smear of ink on the side of his arm where a pen burst, but he can’t bring himself to move.
“Was that alright?” Rodney whispers.
He sounds nervous, and it’s enough that John makes some connections of his own, remembers the stiff way Rodney used to hold himself, as though afraid he’d do something wrong and John would leave.
“Perfect,” John says sincerely, and fishes out a pair of pliers from underneath him while he drags Rodney down for another kiss.
no subject
John shudders at the sound of his voice and scrambles to obey, pulling himself up onto the desk so Rodney can slip into the space between his legs, press their hips together hard enough John feels the harsh scrape of cotton and denim over his cockhead.
Rodney doesn’t let up, pushes him back and back and down until John’s shoulder blades are aching with the pressure and his spine is arched to maintain the angle he needs to bite and suck at Rodney’s lower lip.
It hurts a little, and John loves it – loves how real it is, how he can feel every skipping, imperfect beat of Rodney’s pulse against the pads of his fingers, how Rodney hasn’t even undone their pants, too frantic for John’s mouth and neck and the delicate shell of his ear.
Their shirts are rucked up under their armpits, chests rubbing together with every clumsy, hasty thrust of their hips. It only registers in John’s mind as important because Rodney whines loud and shaking when he shifts to the right and John’s dog tags catch between them. John reaches up and hauls Rodney down by the back of his neck, and their teeth crash together with a bone-jarring sound, but they keep on kissing and kissing until John’s swallowing Rodney’s wild, hurt sounds – sounds he’s dreamt about coaxing from that mouth for weeks and months and ages – and Rodney’s hips are stuttering through his orgasm.
“Please,” John mumbles, voice slurred and desperate because he can feel it waiting just at the base of his spine, so ready, and Rodney isn’t moving.
He doesn’t wait long, because a minute later the heel of Rodney’s palm is pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants, the round ball at the base of Rodney’s thumb below the head right where he needs it, and he’s coming with his head thrown back and Rodney’s mouth on his neck and Rodney’s sweat on his skin and Rodney, Rodney, Rodney above him, around him, holding onto him.
When he remembers how to open his eyes, he’s met with Rodney’s mouth on his as a reward. There’s something sharp digging into his back, a smear of ink on the side of his arm where a pen burst, but he can’t bring himself to move.
“Was that alright?” Rodney whispers.
He sounds nervous, and it’s enough that John makes some connections of his own, remembers the stiff way Rodney used to hold himself, as though afraid he’d do something wrong and John would leave.
“Perfect,” John says sincerely, and fishes out a pair of pliers from underneath him while he drags Rodney down for another kiss.