“Yeah, okay,” John says, breath hot against Rodney’s cheek; his fist tightens at the head of Rodney’s cock deliberately, squeezing a drop of moisture from the slit and smoothing it down the shaft, and Rodney hadn’t even known he was capable of making that noise, but then John does it again, and again, quickening his strokes abruptly, and Rodney’s moaning constantly, squirming under John with both his feet planted flat on the chair so he can arch up, fuck into John’s hand.

John’s watching raptly now, his damp hair hanging down over his eyes and shadowing the sweep of his nose. He’s murmuring something Rodney doesn’t have the brain power to make sense of, but Rodney can hear the rough, throaty tone of it, and, Jesus, John sounds like he loves this.