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.commentfic: Taken With You - John/Rodney (NC17)
Taken With You, jacket-inspired commentporn by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheafrotherdon and aesc (John/Rodney, ~2800 words; NC17)
FOR CONTEXT
Notes: Recently, some people (e.g.sheafrotherdon, dogeared) have discovered that if, sometime around 9pm, I'm plied with suggestive comments (along the lines of: "Doesn't Rodney look all dominant in his leather jacket?"), I will happily swap porny comments for the rest of the night. Paradoxically, this has been great for my work ethic and they've been wonderful to indulge me :>
ETA: now podficced with incredible hotness bythe_oscar_cat!
“You’ve been watching me all day.” Rodney’s studying him, eyes dark with focus and intent, and this close the rich scent of leather hangs in every breath.
“So?” He tries for evasion, not that there’s anywhere to go, nowhere Rodney can’t find him, nowhere John can’t obsess about Rodney’s goddamn black leather jacket.
He wears it well, better than well, broad-shouldered and solid and powerful, and it’s worked some alchemy on him so when Rodney crowds John against the wall, corralling him there with his body, there’s nothing of Rodney’s usual awkwardness – only an intensity that nearly pulls John out of himself.
“Do you want me to touch you?” Rodney asks, all quiet focus, and his gaze flickers briefly down to John’s crotch. Everything in John tenses, and apparently, John really likes this idea. Something electric, impossible, races underneath his skin, and he wants to move, but the weight of Rodney’s eyes grounds him, keeps him still as Rodney traces the air along the contour of John’s arm, a ghost-touch John more imagines than feels, even as Rodney tugs at the elastic of his wristband.
“Do you?” Rodney asks, and the breath John drags in smells like Rodney and leather. “You have to say it.”
“Yeah,” John says past dry lips, and he can’t help moving into Rodney’s hands when Rodney nods and steps close so John’s back is pressed to the wall, his chest pressed firm against Rodney’s. The sleeves of Rodney’s jacket are warm from his body, and his fingers imprint fire when they find the skin under John’s shirt.
“What do you want?” Rodney doesn’t look away as he undoes John’s belt, slide and shiver of leather across John’s belly.
“Anything,” John mutters, twisting into the elusive pressure of Rodney’s hands. His hips brush against Rodney’s, hot shock of Rodney’s erection against his own. He wants to touch, to grip Rodney’s wrists and feel the play of leather and skin and bone under his own hands. But he doesn’t, keeps his hands in place, held immobile by Rodney’s silence, keeps still, and his voice breaks with the effort of it; he needs a moment to remember how to put words back together. “Touch me, just . . . whatever.”
For answer, Rodney settles into him, stilling him, and his mouth is a sudden heat on John’s neck, licking and sucking a bite at the join of his shoulder where his t-shirt definitely won’t cover it. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t care who’s going to see this tomorrow, this or the track of red, sucking kisses Rodney strings across his neck, under his chin, the sudden, sharp presence of Rodney’s mouth on his, licking in, pressing, demanding an answer he won’t let John give until he breaks away and they’re staring at each other across electrified inches of space.
“You like that?” Rodney asks, and if his voice is broken, his eyes are midnight-dark and steady.
Too much, John thinks, but he nods unsteadily and waits for Rodney to reach for him again.
Rodney’s hands move, mapping, re-learning like he hasn’t already memorized John’s body by taste and touch and sight, plotting out patterns across John’s chest, his belly, his arms in patterns that maybe only Rodney sees. And Rodney’s mouth, hot but leaving coolness behind when he moves away, lips turning words into kisses, a litany of questions John answers with nods and moans and quiet urgency, and all around him is Rodney (sturdy, sure, determined) and each breath is thick with sweat, with the heavy, organic, skin-warm smell of leather.
"Do you like this?" Rodney asks, and this is a hand underneath a shirt, nails scraping against skin, and this is breath across an ear. "Or maybe you want me to suck you? – and the way his mouth moves around the words invites imagination (hot, wet, that sharp tongue), and the hand trailing lower only hints at touch before pressing down on an arousal so hard it hurts. "Or maybe this?" he whispers, eyes dark and enthralled, and oh God, fuck, yes this. Rodney's fingers are quick, busy at his fly, cool against his cock as he frees John and strokes. "You wanna come all over my hand?" he asks, and John's body is a desperate arc - pressure, friction, please, anything, just give it.
But Rodney slows his strokes, teasing, keeps John right there on the edge until John's swearing with it, sweating with it, hands closing fruitlessly in the sleeves of Rodney's jacket, begging hoarsely, softly, desperate. Only then does Rodney lean in, take John's earlobe between his teeth, nip right as his thumb rubs just beneath the head of John's cock, the last perfect touch in a tight, reckless twist of his hand, and John freezes, groans harshly as the pause breaks into sharp, painful shards of deep, wrenching pleasure. He comes and comes, long, grateful pulses that splash over Rodney's knuckles, and when John's spent, Rodney slowly, sinfully licks his hand clean, tongue playing the back of his wrist, his palm, the spaces between his fingers.
A drop of come catches on the cuff of Rodney's jacket, and John watches hazily as Rodney's tongue traces along the edge, as his nostrils flare to catch the humid scents of John and sweat and leather. Then Rodney's back with him, holding him up, holding him down, mouth on his hot and possessive, hard cock against John's shaking thigh, and Rodney whispers to the corner of John's lips, "What are you going to do about that, then?"
John has to think hard to clear a path through the post-coital fog clouding everything, but he swallows, wets his lips, whispers (rough and low), "Fuck me?" And Rodney's reply is a slow, hard roll of his hips against John's, fingernails tracing over his sides, curving in fractals down to John's ass (and John's shaking, want lasering swift and brutal through his lassitude), and Rodney laughs, a deep vibration echoed in John's chest, and says, "That I can do."
John lets Rodney manhandle him - herd him toward the bed and strip him down, leaving him naked and dazed, sprawled back over tumbled sheets, watching as Rodney dispenses of his own clothes piece by piece. "Yeah," John murmurs, and he steeples one leg, shifts his hips, anticipatory, fingers grasping at then releasing the bedclothes.
Rodney pauses, shirt gone, jeans undone and loose around his hips, steps close to the foot of the bed. A hand on John's upraised knee, smoothing the long slope of his thigh to push him open, and God he's just laid out for Rodney, for eyes that have been eclipsed with black: his body, his own fingers knotted in white, disheveled sheets, and Rodney's fingers are walking the humid space of John's groin.
"C'mon," John rasps, and he's pushing up against Rodney's hand, wanton, open, needy. His breathing's uneven and his skin is flushed. He never breaks eye contact, but reaches for the lube on the bedside table anyway, fumbling it into his hand. "Or I won't wait."
Rodney removes his hand, and the absence of pressure has John's hips arcing up in search of it, all of him taut nearly to breaking with it, and Rodney's dark, heavy eyes are on him and he nods sharply at the lube in John's shaking hand and says "I want to watch."
It isn’t a question or a request, and hearing it John has to open his mouth to breathe, short little pants of breath as he uncaps the lube and squeezes it onto his fingers. He draws up both legs and pushes, flexing the muscles in his thighs as he tilts his hips, reaches to slide one long, slick finger into his body, shivering at his own touch but never looking away from Rodney's gaze.
Rodney's nostrils flare (as though he can smell the want pouring off John like sweat) a hitching breath that echoes John's so perfectly that John corkscrews his hips in answer, another finger, so awkward and so not enough, not with Rodney there, and fuck, he'll beg if he has to, fucking himself with his own fingers, look straight down into those deep dark eyes and pray.
"Help me," he says, fingers working, hips rocking helplessly.
"With what?" Rodney's kneeling on their bed now, scarcely beyond the bracket of John's spread knees, and it's hard but John finds coordination enough to run a foot up Rodney's thigh, to press his toes against the hard cock still mostly covered by denim and cotton, to feel Rodney shudder once, hard, against him. And John looks into Rodney's lust-hazed face and, with everything in his body, asks –
Please.
Rodney moves quickly, pushes John's hand aside and coats his own fingers in lube, slows as he teases John, a finger pressing lightly just behind his balls before sliding back. "You gonna come again?" he asks, finger pressing easily into the warm, close heat of John's body. "Once I'm inside you?" He adds another finger, shivers as John's breath hitches and stutters, as John presses eagerly down against his hand.
John doesn't know whether to promise the near-impossible or try for honesty, because it's not like he's eighteen and can go all night, but oh god just Rodney's fingers in him (they play him like Rodney can play the city, make the both of them sing) and Rodney watching him, dark and ecstatic, and yeah, maybe he can.
"That's down to you," he whispers, managing a flicker of a smirk before Rodney twists his fingers and he's groaning, hips bucking. "C'mon, c'mon," he pants. "Rodney . . . "
"You'll come," Rodney says, imprinting the words with licks and nips on the skin of John's left thigh, indulging in a slow, wide, superior smile when John surges against the third finger. You'll come, and Rodney says it like it's inevitable, looking down at him and pushing his knees wider apart.
"Would you get naked?" John demands, sweating, thighs falling further open without protest.
Rodney leans back a little, broad shoulders sweat-slicked, one large hand playing across the topography of John's knee, three fingers still buried him, twisting, making all of John’s body come alive with heat. And he's considering it, John thinks a little wildly – eyes stony and calculating, like he's trying to decide whether to do what John wants or fuck him with jeans halfway down his hips, just out of spite.
"Okay," Rodney says at last, pulling his fingers from John's body one by one, smiling just a little - a smile John can't decipher - as he stands up and shucks his jeans. His boxers follow and god, John has no idea how he's not buried hip deep in his body already, fingers bruising his hips, straining toward orgasm and the release he must so badly want by now, hard as he is, flushed and damp. Rodney kneels back on the bed, palms the back of John's left calf, tilts his head as if to get a better view.
"You look..." Rodney's voice is hoarse, harsh enough to sting, "God, John."
John surges up, hooks a hand behind Rodney's neck, and crushes their mouths together as he pulls him down into the cradle of his hips. "Killing me," he pants between kisses, fingers tangled in Rodney's short hair. "Want."
"Me too," Rodney gasps against his mouth. And yes yes yes he's doing it, rocking back to steady John's hips, to open him, and John's breath catches on a moan, on fullness as Rodney flexes into him, this slow, killing, perfect pace that has Rodney's face transfigured.
John lets out a long, shaky breath, arching into the pressure. "Feels . . ." But he doesn't finish - can't, just lets Rodney spread and lift his legs further, sink inside, sending pleasure spiraling up, up, hot and dangerous through his belly, curling toward his heart. Inside him, Rodney's a deep, fierce pressure, inexorable, and sensation pours across John like water: the stretch, the heat, the slick glide of Rodney's cock a counterpoint to both, Rodney's hands burning bruises in the hollow of his hips.
And above him, Rodney's beautiful - muscles that stretch and release with each thrust, sweat catching in the hollow of his collarbone, blue eyes fixed on John. John tightens everything inside his body, just to see the shiver of feeling that passes over Rodney's face, the way his eyes shut for a second and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, breathless.
"Don't. . ." The word snags on the hitch in Rodney's breath, frozen like the rest of him, the always-restless hands gone still. And John arcs up, forcing Rodney deeper, deepest and whispers in his own broken breath, "Make me come."
Rodney keeps his eyes closed, keeps his hip still and close for a moment, and when he looks up again there's determination mingled with the unholy want in his gaze. He lifts his hand to his mouth, licks his palm, then slowly, slowly wraps his fingers around John's cock. John's only half-hard, but the touch makes him fill a little more, and oh god, he wants this, he wants this so badly, and when Rodney bends down - impossible angle, god, his thighs, tomorrow - he kisses him wet, filthy, desperate.
Rodney's hips grind hard against him, the ache stretching out into pleasure, answering the wet, hot lick of Rodney's tongue across John's mouth, teeth sharp and unexpected at his neck. And the hand on John's cock pulls arousal into him, impossible and perfect, and John's half-wrecked from earlier, and only Rodney's solidity, his weight, is keeping him from coming apart with how much he wants this.
Rodney lifts up just a little, eyes shut tight, breathing hard, reaching for control that's escaping him. "John, John, John . . . " And Johns pretty sure Rodney has no idea he's even making a sound. Then Rodney's reaching for him again, surging into him, head low so his breath comes frantic against John's chest, something like come on mixed in with desperation, come on come on, those words the only thing keeping any kind of rhythm.
John realizes -- god, impossible -- he's going to come again - the feeling lighting beneath his hips, pushing greedily up through his belly, spilling down his legs until he's all but insensible with the pressure of it, the thought that he's close, so close, again, again, and god, if Rodney would just - oh . . . oh, god . . . .
Everything at once: Rodney's hand on his cock, this sharp, swift twist and nails riding dangerously along the vein, his mouth on John's neck and his breath shattering hot against John's skin, one thrust, another, one that takes Rodney so deep he's everywhere, in, around, through, all that’s holding John together as he comes apart.
. . . .
John has no idea how long it is before he's fully aware of his surroundings again, but Rodney's slumped above him, still breathing hard, and his belly's slick with come. He's lying with his legs thankfully, blissfully stretched down the full length of the mattress, and he shivers, oversensitized, as Rodney shifts just a fraction, drags shin over shin and causes hair to rasp against hair. "God," John manages, and he's not going to be able to move for days. Except to splay a hand in the middle of Rodney's back, that is, gentle against the trembling curve of his spine, damp with sweat.
Muscles tremble and jump under John's fingers, subterranean tremors that run the length of Rodney's back. Another shudder as Rodney pulls himself off and crashes back down by John's side, still half on top of him, the two of them pressed all along each other in their narrow bed.
"What you - " The words have to make their way through Rodney's still-rapid breath; the hand on John's chest is careful, soothing, meditative. "God, John, what you do. . ."
"What I do?" John mumbles, hoarse. He noses up into Rodney's tousled hair.
"Yeah." Drowsiness and amazement dull the cutting edge of Rodney's impatience. His forehead is smooth, warm against John's shoulder, and the hand on John's chest still travels in slow, aimless circles.
"What you do," John murmurs affectionately. He arches up into Rodney's touch just a little, soaking in the petting.
"Yeah," Rodney sighs, and John can feel him smile, can call up from memory what that smile looks like even as he feels it stretch across his skin. Rodney's hand smoothes sleep and calmness into him, tracing it across John's body, working it deep into exhausted flesh.
John loves these moments, wishes he could stretch them further, feels them over every inch of his skin just like the moment before orgasm - a inevitable plunge to some other feeling lurking just beyond the cusp of both moments, but sleep, this time, the waiting end as he's lulled by Rodney's breath and warmth and touch.
sheafrotherdon and aesc (John/Rodney, ~2800 words; NC17)FOR CONTEXT
Notes: Recently, some people (e.g.
sheafrotherdon, dogeared) have discovered that if, sometime around 9pm, I'm plied with suggestive comments (along the lines of: "Doesn't Rodney look all dominant in his leather jacket?"), I will happily swap porny comments for the rest of the night. Paradoxically, this has been great for my work ethic and they've been wonderful to indulge me :>ETA: now podficced with incredible hotness by
the_oscar_cat!“You’ve been watching me all day.” Rodney’s studying him, eyes dark with focus and intent, and this close the rich scent of leather hangs in every breath.
“So?” He tries for evasion, not that there’s anywhere to go, nowhere Rodney can’t find him, nowhere John can’t obsess about Rodney’s goddamn black leather jacket.
He wears it well, better than well, broad-shouldered and solid and powerful, and it’s worked some alchemy on him so when Rodney crowds John against the wall, corralling him there with his body, there’s nothing of Rodney’s usual awkwardness – only an intensity that nearly pulls John out of himself.
“Do you want me to touch you?” Rodney asks, all quiet focus, and his gaze flickers briefly down to John’s crotch. Everything in John tenses, and apparently, John really likes this idea. Something electric, impossible, races underneath his skin, and he wants to move, but the weight of Rodney’s eyes grounds him, keeps him still as Rodney traces the air along the contour of John’s arm, a ghost-touch John more imagines than feels, even as Rodney tugs at the elastic of his wristband.
“Do you?” Rodney asks, and the breath John drags in smells like Rodney and leather. “You have to say it.”
“Yeah,” John says past dry lips, and he can’t help moving into Rodney’s hands when Rodney nods and steps close so John’s back is pressed to the wall, his chest pressed firm against Rodney’s. The sleeves of Rodney’s jacket are warm from his body, and his fingers imprint fire when they find the skin under John’s shirt.
“What do you want?” Rodney doesn’t look away as he undoes John’s belt, slide and shiver of leather across John’s belly.
“Anything,” John mutters, twisting into the elusive pressure of Rodney’s hands. His hips brush against Rodney’s, hot shock of Rodney’s erection against his own. He wants to touch, to grip Rodney’s wrists and feel the play of leather and skin and bone under his own hands. But he doesn’t, keeps his hands in place, held immobile by Rodney’s silence, keeps still, and his voice breaks with the effort of it; he needs a moment to remember how to put words back together. “Touch me, just . . . whatever.”
For answer, Rodney settles into him, stilling him, and his mouth is a sudden heat on John’s neck, licking and sucking a bite at the join of his shoulder where his t-shirt definitely won’t cover it. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t care who’s going to see this tomorrow, this or the track of red, sucking kisses Rodney strings across his neck, under his chin, the sudden, sharp presence of Rodney’s mouth on his, licking in, pressing, demanding an answer he won’t let John give until he breaks away and they’re staring at each other across electrified inches of space.
“You like that?” Rodney asks, and if his voice is broken, his eyes are midnight-dark and steady.
Too much, John thinks, but he nods unsteadily and waits for Rodney to reach for him again.
Rodney’s hands move, mapping, re-learning like he hasn’t already memorized John’s body by taste and touch and sight, plotting out patterns across John’s chest, his belly, his arms in patterns that maybe only Rodney sees. And Rodney’s mouth, hot but leaving coolness behind when he moves away, lips turning words into kisses, a litany of questions John answers with nods and moans and quiet urgency, and all around him is Rodney (sturdy, sure, determined) and each breath is thick with sweat, with the heavy, organic, skin-warm smell of leather.
"Do you like this?" Rodney asks, and this is a hand underneath a shirt, nails scraping against skin, and this is breath across an ear. "Or maybe you want me to suck you? – and the way his mouth moves around the words invites imagination (hot, wet, that sharp tongue), and the hand trailing lower only hints at touch before pressing down on an arousal so hard it hurts. "Or maybe this?" he whispers, eyes dark and enthralled, and oh God, fuck, yes this. Rodney's fingers are quick, busy at his fly, cool against his cock as he frees John and strokes. "You wanna come all over my hand?" he asks, and John's body is a desperate arc - pressure, friction, please, anything, just give it.
But Rodney slows his strokes, teasing, keeps John right there on the edge until John's swearing with it, sweating with it, hands closing fruitlessly in the sleeves of Rodney's jacket, begging hoarsely, softly, desperate. Only then does Rodney lean in, take John's earlobe between his teeth, nip right as his thumb rubs just beneath the head of John's cock, the last perfect touch in a tight, reckless twist of his hand, and John freezes, groans harshly as the pause breaks into sharp, painful shards of deep, wrenching pleasure. He comes and comes, long, grateful pulses that splash over Rodney's knuckles, and when John's spent, Rodney slowly, sinfully licks his hand clean, tongue playing the back of his wrist, his palm, the spaces between his fingers.
A drop of come catches on the cuff of Rodney's jacket, and John watches hazily as Rodney's tongue traces along the edge, as his nostrils flare to catch the humid scents of John and sweat and leather. Then Rodney's back with him, holding him up, holding him down, mouth on his hot and possessive, hard cock against John's shaking thigh, and Rodney whispers to the corner of John's lips, "What are you going to do about that, then?"
John has to think hard to clear a path through the post-coital fog clouding everything, but he swallows, wets his lips, whispers (rough and low), "Fuck me?" And Rodney's reply is a slow, hard roll of his hips against John's, fingernails tracing over his sides, curving in fractals down to John's ass (and John's shaking, want lasering swift and brutal through his lassitude), and Rodney laughs, a deep vibration echoed in John's chest, and says, "That I can do."
John lets Rodney manhandle him - herd him toward the bed and strip him down, leaving him naked and dazed, sprawled back over tumbled sheets, watching as Rodney dispenses of his own clothes piece by piece. "Yeah," John murmurs, and he steeples one leg, shifts his hips, anticipatory, fingers grasping at then releasing the bedclothes.
Rodney pauses, shirt gone, jeans undone and loose around his hips, steps close to the foot of the bed. A hand on John's upraised knee, smoothing the long slope of his thigh to push him open, and God he's just laid out for Rodney, for eyes that have been eclipsed with black: his body, his own fingers knotted in white, disheveled sheets, and Rodney's fingers are walking the humid space of John's groin.
"C'mon," John rasps, and he's pushing up against Rodney's hand, wanton, open, needy. His breathing's uneven and his skin is flushed. He never breaks eye contact, but reaches for the lube on the bedside table anyway, fumbling it into his hand. "Or I won't wait."
Rodney removes his hand, and the absence of pressure has John's hips arcing up in search of it, all of him taut nearly to breaking with it, and Rodney's dark, heavy eyes are on him and he nods sharply at the lube in John's shaking hand and says "I want to watch."
It isn’t a question or a request, and hearing it John has to open his mouth to breathe, short little pants of breath as he uncaps the lube and squeezes it onto his fingers. He draws up both legs and pushes, flexing the muscles in his thighs as he tilts his hips, reaches to slide one long, slick finger into his body, shivering at his own touch but never looking away from Rodney's gaze.
Rodney's nostrils flare (as though he can smell the want pouring off John like sweat) a hitching breath that echoes John's so perfectly that John corkscrews his hips in answer, another finger, so awkward and so not enough, not with Rodney there, and fuck, he'll beg if he has to, fucking himself with his own fingers, look straight down into those deep dark eyes and pray.
"Help me," he says, fingers working, hips rocking helplessly.
"With what?" Rodney's kneeling on their bed now, scarcely beyond the bracket of John's spread knees, and it's hard but John finds coordination enough to run a foot up Rodney's thigh, to press his toes against the hard cock still mostly covered by denim and cotton, to feel Rodney shudder once, hard, against him. And John looks into Rodney's lust-hazed face and, with everything in his body, asks –
Please.
Rodney moves quickly, pushes John's hand aside and coats his own fingers in lube, slows as he teases John, a finger pressing lightly just behind his balls before sliding back. "You gonna come again?" he asks, finger pressing easily into the warm, close heat of John's body. "Once I'm inside you?" He adds another finger, shivers as John's breath hitches and stutters, as John presses eagerly down against his hand.
John doesn't know whether to promise the near-impossible or try for honesty, because it's not like he's eighteen and can go all night, but oh god just Rodney's fingers in him (they play him like Rodney can play the city, make the both of them sing) and Rodney watching him, dark and ecstatic, and yeah, maybe he can.
"That's down to you," he whispers, managing a flicker of a smirk before Rodney twists his fingers and he's groaning, hips bucking. "C'mon, c'mon," he pants. "Rodney . . . "
"You'll come," Rodney says, imprinting the words with licks and nips on the skin of John's left thigh, indulging in a slow, wide, superior smile when John surges against the third finger. You'll come, and Rodney says it like it's inevitable, looking down at him and pushing his knees wider apart.
"Would you get naked?" John demands, sweating, thighs falling further open without protest.
Rodney leans back a little, broad shoulders sweat-slicked, one large hand playing across the topography of John's knee, three fingers still buried him, twisting, making all of John’s body come alive with heat. And he's considering it, John thinks a little wildly – eyes stony and calculating, like he's trying to decide whether to do what John wants or fuck him with jeans halfway down his hips, just out of spite.
"Okay," Rodney says at last, pulling his fingers from John's body one by one, smiling just a little - a smile John can't decipher - as he stands up and shucks his jeans. His boxers follow and god, John has no idea how he's not buried hip deep in his body already, fingers bruising his hips, straining toward orgasm and the release he must so badly want by now, hard as he is, flushed and damp. Rodney kneels back on the bed, palms the back of John's left calf, tilts his head as if to get a better view.
"You look..." Rodney's voice is hoarse, harsh enough to sting, "God, John."
John surges up, hooks a hand behind Rodney's neck, and crushes their mouths together as he pulls him down into the cradle of his hips. "Killing me," he pants between kisses, fingers tangled in Rodney's short hair. "Want."
"Me too," Rodney gasps against his mouth. And yes yes yes he's doing it, rocking back to steady John's hips, to open him, and John's breath catches on a moan, on fullness as Rodney flexes into him, this slow, killing, perfect pace that has Rodney's face transfigured.
John lets out a long, shaky breath, arching into the pressure. "Feels . . ." But he doesn't finish - can't, just lets Rodney spread and lift his legs further, sink inside, sending pleasure spiraling up, up, hot and dangerous through his belly, curling toward his heart. Inside him, Rodney's a deep, fierce pressure, inexorable, and sensation pours across John like water: the stretch, the heat, the slick glide of Rodney's cock a counterpoint to both, Rodney's hands burning bruises in the hollow of his hips.
And above him, Rodney's beautiful - muscles that stretch and release with each thrust, sweat catching in the hollow of his collarbone, blue eyes fixed on John. John tightens everything inside his body, just to see the shiver of feeling that passes over Rodney's face, the way his eyes shut for a second and he catches his bottom lip between his teeth, breathless.
"Don't. . ." The word snags on the hitch in Rodney's breath, frozen like the rest of him, the always-restless hands gone still. And John arcs up, forcing Rodney deeper, deepest and whispers in his own broken breath, "Make me come."
Rodney keeps his eyes closed, keeps his hip still and close for a moment, and when he looks up again there's determination mingled with the unholy want in his gaze. He lifts his hand to his mouth, licks his palm, then slowly, slowly wraps his fingers around John's cock. John's only half-hard, but the touch makes him fill a little more, and oh god, he wants this, he wants this so badly, and when Rodney bends down - impossible angle, god, his thighs, tomorrow - he kisses him wet, filthy, desperate.
Rodney's hips grind hard against him, the ache stretching out into pleasure, answering the wet, hot lick of Rodney's tongue across John's mouth, teeth sharp and unexpected at his neck. And the hand on John's cock pulls arousal into him, impossible and perfect, and John's half-wrecked from earlier, and only Rodney's solidity, his weight, is keeping him from coming apart with how much he wants this.
Rodney lifts up just a little, eyes shut tight, breathing hard, reaching for control that's escaping him. "John, John, John . . . " And Johns pretty sure Rodney has no idea he's even making a sound. Then Rodney's reaching for him again, surging into him, head low so his breath comes frantic against John's chest, something like come on mixed in with desperation, come on come on, those words the only thing keeping any kind of rhythm.
John realizes -- god, impossible -- he's going to come again - the feeling lighting beneath his hips, pushing greedily up through his belly, spilling down his legs until he's all but insensible with the pressure of it, the thought that he's close, so close, again, again, and god, if Rodney would just - oh . . . oh, god . . . .
Everything at once: Rodney's hand on his cock, this sharp, swift twist and nails riding dangerously along the vein, his mouth on John's neck and his breath shattering hot against John's skin, one thrust, another, one that takes Rodney so deep he's everywhere, in, around, through, all that’s holding John together as he comes apart.
. . . .
John has no idea how long it is before he's fully aware of his surroundings again, but Rodney's slumped above him, still breathing hard, and his belly's slick with come. He's lying with his legs thankfully, blissfully stretched down the full length of the mattress, and he shivers, oversensitized, as Rodney shifts just a fraction, drags shin over shin and causes hair to rasp against hair. "God," John manages, and he's not going to be able to move for days. Except to splay a hand in the middle of Rodney's back, that is, gentle against the trembling curve of his spine, damp with sweat.
Muscles tremble and jump under John's fingers, subterranean tremors that run the length of Rodney's back. Another shudder as Rodney pulls himself off and crashes back down by John's side, still half on top of him, the two of them pressed all along each other in their narrow bed.
"What you - " The words have to make their way through Rodney's still-rapid breath; the hand on John's chest is careful, soothing, meditative. "God, John, what you do. . ."
"What I do?" John mumbles, hoarse. He noses up into Rodney's tousled hair.
"Yeah." Drowsiness and amazement dull the cutting edge of Rodney's impatience. His forehead is smooth, warm against John's shoulder, and the hand on John's chest still travels in slow, aimless circles.
"What you do," John murmurs affectionately. He arches up into Rodney's touch just a little, soaking in the petting.
"Yeah," Rodney sighs, and John can feel him smile, can call up from memory what that smile looks like even as he feels it stretch across his skin. Rodney's hand smoothes sleep and calmness into him, tracing it across John's body, working it deep into exhausted flesh.
John loves these moments, wishes he could stretch them further, feels them over every inch of his skin just like the moment before orgasm - a inevitable plunge to some other feeling lurking just beyond the cusp of both moments, but sleep, this time, the waiting end as he's lulled by Rodney's breath and warmth and touch.
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