(no subject)
I wrote a teeny bit of Roommates-verse for sheafrotherdon's Festival of Bellies, where there is asdf;asdfalsfj SO MUCH happy bellyness to be had, *sigh*.
untitled
Collapsing on the slightly sticky linoleum floor together is one thing (dozing for a while, slumped and spent); peeling themselves off of it later is something closer to awkward, more so when Rodney tucks himself back into his pants and can feel his cheeks burning, when John shuffles off to the bathroom to deal with his own situation, leaving Rodney alone in the kitchen in the late afternoon with the hum of the refrigerator (door slightly ajar where John didn't close it all the way), the sound of the shower starting up.
There's pizza later, after John emerges wearing wrinkled khakis and a t-shirt and a smirk, and a couple of hours of TV that Rodney doesn't watch because he's busy staring at the long line of John's leg, the way his fingers drum against his thigh, all the inches between them where they're sprawled on the battered couch.
And then, and then- And then, John's standing in front of Rodney, reaching for him. The TV's black and the house is silent and John's holding out his hand to Rodney, and he can't possibly be, be asking Rodney, can he? Holding out his big tan hand, blister on his thumb, a look on his face like he's doing something stupid or brave or both when he says, "Come on, Rodney, I really don't want to jerk off alone. Again."
Rodney goes. He is, after all, a genius.
He goes, and John comes, this time with Rodney's bare stomach pressed up against his spine, with Rodney reaching around John's body and learning him by touch, and they fall asleep in John's warm, musky bed, their hands clasped loosely together against John's belly, rising and falling with every slow breath.
untitled
Collapsing on the slightly sticky linoleum floor together is one thing (dozing for a while, slumped and spent); peeling themselves off of it later is something closer to awkward, more so when Rodney tucks himself back into his pants and can feel his cheeks burning, when John shuffles off to the bathroom to deal with his own situation, leaving Rodney alone in the kitchen in the late afternoon with the hum of the refrigerator (door slightly ajar where John didn't close it all the way), the sound of the shower starting up.
There's pizza later, after John emerges wearing wrinkled khakis and a t-shirt and a smirk, and a couple of hours of TV that Rodney doesn't watch because he's busy staring at the long line of John's leg, the way his fingers drum against his thigh, all the inches between them where they're sprawled on the battered couch.
And then, and then- And then, John's standing in front of Rodney, reaching for him. The TV's black and the house is silent and John's holding out his hand to Rodney, and he can't possibly be, be asking Rodney, can he? Holding out his big tan hand, blister on his thumb, a look on his face like he's doing something stupid or brave or both when he says, "Come on, Rodney, I really don't want to jerk off alone. Again."
Rodney goes. He is, after all, a genius.
He goes, and John comes, this time with Rodney's bare stomach pressed up against his spine, with Rodney reaching around John's body and learning him by touch, and they fall asleep in John's warm, musky bed, their hands clasped loosely together against John's belly, rising and falling with every slow breath.