This story is rated NC-17 (adults only). It includes explicit male/male sex. If this is what you came for, scroll down. If it isn't, hit the Back button.
Rodney never stops talking, just the way John imagined. He fills the space between kisses with a rising and falling murmur of words, fading in and out of audibility as he presses them to John's neck and licks them into John's skin and muffles them in John's hair: "God, finally, after all this, I was beginning to think, oh, oh, god, I can't believe, you're so, John, oh, oh --"
He keeps up a low, steady commentary until the moment when John's boxers hit the floor and they're finally skin to skin, and then he abruptly falls silent.
John raises his head, alarmed -- damn it, if Rodney's changing his mind, if he's choosing now to have a freakout, John is never going to forgive him -- but Rodney is looking at him with a sort of wild expression, eyes big and mouth very crooked. John has no clue what's going on in Rodney's head, but it's something intense and significant, and John wants to look away, to break the power of that look, to protect himself from being seen.
He doesn't. He looks into Rodney's too-naked eyes, and Rodney takes in a breath through his teeth --
And suddenly Rodney's in charge. His hand on John's shoulder guides John to kneel on the bed, brace his hands against the wall. His hands on John's sides make John shiver and drop his head, accepting it, accepting Rodney's fingers opening him and Rodney's knees parting his and Rodney's cock patiently waiting until all in a rush John's body opens to him.
It's nothing like John remembers, because if he remembered it being like this, he would never have given it up, not even for wings.
And all this in total silence. John can feel Rodney's breath on his neck, Rodney's chest heaving against his back, but he's never known Rodney to go this long without talking.
"Jesus, Rodney," he pants, "say something so I -- know it's you."
And Rodney puts his mouth against John's ear and says very quietly, "You know it's me."
Yeah, he knows it's Rodney, because nobody but Rodney has ever been able to do this, come up against all John's defenses and wave a careless hand and say, Right, but naturally none of that applies to me.
Even in the field, Rodney has never been as easy to keep at a distance as John expected; he gets into John, he's capable of disappointing John, which means John has expectations. So if he thought this was safe, he was an idiot, because it's dangerous as hell. And Rodney won't be careful with him because Rodney doesn't know how to be careful with anything. Rodney only knows how to batter at a problem with everything he's got, over and over, for hours if he has to. In the rain. In the dark. Plan B. Plan C. Plan D.
So if Rodney really wants this, them, not a friendly grope but something real, then Rodney's going to keep on trying until he makes it through, and John might as well give in to the inevitable --
"Sh," Rodney says, and wraps his other arm around John, leaving John to stop both of them from crashing against the wall with each powerful thrust. John braces. The tightness across his chest feels good, their push and counterpush, the way they make each other work harder. He heaves toward Rodney, gasping at the spike of sensation, and Rodney says, "John," in a deep growl of a voice, and pushes back. John doesn't dare take a hand off the wall but Rodney's hand is right where he needs it, long tight strokes, like his own hand only better because he can feel Rodney's arm flexing against his hip, can look down and see Rodney's hand, can let go and stop trying and leave it in Rodney's hands, Rodney's hands that know what to do.
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April 3, 2006