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This story is a sequel to resonant's
Resolution and cesperanza's
Clarity; they did all the heavy lifting for me, and let me hop in and pinch-hit for the original third writer.
Composition
by shalott
John pounds on the door until Rodney opens it, sweaty and pale and scared, in a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt that's sticking to his belly. Then they're kissing, just that fast; the door's not even closed yet and John has his hands on Rodney's sticky, hot skin, his fingers are stuttering over Rodney's hips.
"John," Rodney says, thickly, and John pushes him down onto the bed and strips him, urgently. He can't come again this soon, but he needs to see; no, he needs to touch, to put his tongue to the crease of Rodney's thigh and lap the salt away, to close his eyes and press his face to the warm soft skin of Rodney's belly and breathe in the smell of him, knead Rodney's thighs in his hands; to nuzzle his way up Rodney's chest and, remembering, graze his teeth over Rodney's nipples and suck them, hard, to hear for himself the way Rodney's breath catches.
"Oh—" Rodney says, panting, "oh, you were watching
me," and he's pulling John up. They're rolling all over the bed together, tangled legs. Rodney's hand is sliding down the back of John's sweatpants. His fingers are blunt and callused, longer than John's, nails trimmed back and smooth-rounded, and John's already slick from earlier.
He bites his lip when Rodney presses in; deeper than he's used to, and the angle's dead-on perfect, right
there. And Christ, he's almost glad he already came, because now he can just lie here and let Rodney fuck him slowly with his fingers, over and over. Rodney bends his head down and carefully, inquisitively licks at John's nipples. John gasps, convulsively, writhing on Rodney's fingers, and Rodney licks him again, tonguing him soft and wet and warm, the lightest stroke.
Rodney's cock is full and heavy again, bumping John's thigh, the slick head just kissing against the shaft of John's own cock as it bobs up and down, leaving a little wet trail that's cool in the air. "I can't last," John says, groaning; it doesn't matter anymore that he just came. He's clutching at Rodney's shoulders, big and more solid under his hands than he'd expected, easy to hang on to.
"Yes, you can," Rodney says, half a command, thumb pressing down at the base of John's cock firmly. John shudders and hooks his arm around Rodney's neck, kissing him desperately, because Rodney's right; Rodney can make this last as long as he wants. Rodney's still finger-fucking him slow and easy, and rolling John's balls in his other hand; all the things John's loved doing for him, given back to him with interest.
"I want to fuck you," Rodney blurts, abruptly. "I want to—I've wanted to—"
"Jesus,
yes," John says, and he cups Rodney's face in his hands and keeps kissing him while Rodney's pushing inside. It's like no first time he's ever had; even while Rodney's stroking in and out, his fingers are tracing delicate patterns over John's sides, going unerringly to every one of those sensitive, almost-ticklish places until John's shivering in his arms, so close he's having a hard time remembering to breathe.
Rodney lays him back down against the pillows, and John tilts his hips up higher for it, Rodney coming in deeper now, faster, the steady hard thrusting John loves to finish on. It's better, it's so much better than his own hand, with Rodney's grip tight on his hips, and Rodney's voice going low and husky, saying, "So much, wanted you so much—
John—"
And Rodney's still watching him, but now he's smiling, heavy-lidded and nakedly happy. John slips his hand into Rodney's and interlaces their fingers, holding on, and they fall into place together.
= End =