BACKSTORY: 13 February 1995, London

[_johnny]

mirrored from here

He comes from a place where people buy wedding gifts at the drugstore; where the course of true love is a rutted red-clay road that washes out even in a drizzle, littered with broken beer bottles and blue Wal-Mart bags. Verity of sentiment is frequently punctuated by the full-stop pop of a nose or eye-socket exploding under the

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[__jack]

There is blind comfort in the habitual and the ritualistic, and when Johnny does his very best to extricate himself from the warmth of the sheets and that of Jack's arms (it can take hours on a good day), Jack takes refuge in the things he occupies himself with when he's alone in a space meant for two. It's the things that kept him happy for years before Johnny came along, too; before Johnny, by the simple fact of his existence, became a habit a little harder to break than tea and a comfortable robe, ratty from use but ugly from the start, on a grey Saturday morning

[_johnny]

It's like when you're a little kid, right, when somebody tells you a good secret and you wanna tell so bad, man, it bounces and flips around in your gut and makes the hairs on your arms stand on end with the best kind of shiver. And when you do tell, finally, the anticipation leaves your body in a rush along with the words and it's a kind of release that's almost like coming. Except when you're eight you don't know about orgasms, but it's the same kind of feeling, childish and sexual and mainly about love and not wanting to disappoint anybody and really really wanting to please somebody and...

And all Johnny has to do it put his key in the lock and he can tell. He can share. He twitches from foot to foot, rubs at the bandage on his arm.

Jack'll be up and about by now, he'll be lapping at his tea and fussing with his papers and Johnny'll go in and he'll plop himself into Jack's lap and give him a thorough kissing, maybe a nice grope, before he shows off his surprise. Yeah, yeah, good plan, snog him off-guard and then voila.The

[__jack]

Norman Ferguson will be happy to get this not entirely justified B+ on his very much mediocre expounding of... something or another, who bloody cares when the door has just admitted a roomful of fresher air and a smiling bloke who looks an awful lot like he's been up to something. Which is moot, because Johnny's pretty much always up to something.

The grin is particularly wicked this time, and Johnny's pulling at the sleeves of his jumper like he wants to wriggle out of it, and from experience that may very well happen at any given time. Johnny's hands are empty, however, and Johnny's hair (thick and dark and longish enough to hide your face in) is intact, and Johnny is definitely up to something.

Jack stops himself from getting up and turns to face Johnny, who's only just walking into the room, entrance-like. Jack slumps into his chair cosily and eyes Johnnny with amused suspicion.

"What's going on," he tries sternly, but the spastic look in Johnny's eyes, threatening to bubble over any moment now, wrings a chuckle out of Jack.

[_johnny]

Johnny works his thumbs into his cuffs and he shrugs his shoulders; "Nothing," he answers, bright and transparent, and he grins back at Jack.

Jack, fuck, Jack whose slouch is rapidly becoming a somewhat more obscene sprawl, just... Jack. Yeah. He feels his smile soften, warm. Sometimes he thinks about getting those long lines and perfect curves on film, but mostly he's perfectly content to have them all to himself, to know they're his.

Mine mine you're mine and I'm yours yours, us it's us.

He shrugs again and stuffs his hands into his pockets, crosses the room the plan, man, stick to the plan with a long stride and stands tilting his head, just smiling smiling smiling and Jack returning the brightness watt for watt.

"Hey, big man," he repeats, and his voice is gone all husky. He steps closer, so they're just about knee-to-knee. "I got a surprise for you."

[_johnny]

Johnny looks down at his arms, folded and braced there on the back of the couch, sees Jack's name there, on his skin, fucking part of him now, forever.

Even though there's a part of him that wants to reach back, yank Jack's shorts down, slick his own ass, do something... God, but it feels so fucking amazing to just be taken and taken over like this, Jack's hard cock pressed hotly against his ass while Jack's hand strokes Johnny's cock just right, just right.

He wiggles a little, presses back a little, and Jack's teeth sink into the join of Johnny's neck and shoulder, surprises a gasp and a growl out him. Jack growls back and Johnny's cock twitches in Jack's hand. He shudders, head to toe.

He wants to say please again, he wants to ask Jack to hurry up and fuck him, inside inside inside of me, please and he shakes again when he feels Jack twisting away for a second, shakes harder when he feels Jack's bare cock moving in a silky-sweet slide against his ass

[__jack]

"Got it." The half-empty tube is warm from its hiding place in the sofa bathed in sunlight for at least half the day everyday.

Jack's hands fumble at it, would rather be on Johnny's skin again then wrestling with the slippery cap; to compensate, he moves his hips against Johnny's arse, his skin still a bit sleep-warm and smooth along Johnny's cleft. The cap remains obstinately impossible to open so Jack gives up for the moment, tossing it onto the couch and back away from Johnny.

There's a muffled protest and a petulant shift of muscles when he does, both of which die down with a choke when Jack kneads Johnny's arsecheeks before positioning himself to run his tongue from Johnny's balls (swinging heavy and flushed already) to Johnny's back with the wet flat of his tongue.

[_johnny]

Johnny half-laughs and half-howls when Jack repeats the path in the opposite direction, gasps and moans when Jack stops halfway and spreads Johnny with his thumbs, his big hands warm and heavy on Johnny's hips. In, yeah, in, and Johnny sighs and rocks a little into the cool smooth leather.

"So fucking good," he says softly, bends again, folds his arms and arches his back and Jack presses his tongue deeper into Johnny's ass, makes Johnny's breath come in stuttering gasps with every flicker and stab.

So so good, brilliant, amazing, love this, love you, Jack and he's digging his fingers into the sofa-back and rocking back and forth between the friction of the leather and the burning thrust of Jack's tongue; he doesn't even realize he's been speaking aloud until Jack raises his head, presses his lips to the small of Johnny's back and says, "You too, Johnny, love you, too..."

[__jack]

Jack has always been overly fond of Johnny's love for mid-coital declarations, and he smiles against the warm curve of Johnny's back as he reaches for the lube again. His hands are strangely still now and it uncaps without a fuss.

He squeezes a good amount of it into the palm of his hand and spreads it over his fingers with his thumb, letting the lubricant absorb his body heat before he slicks them over Johnny's hole. The wet muscles tightens then loosen against the slight touch, Johnny's gurgled moan in synchrony; Jack teases with the pad of his finger for a minute, listening to the quiet of their apartment, listening to Johnny's breathing, to the sounds in the back of his throat.

Jack hums, pleased, and pushes two knuckles in, twisting gently just so, free hand smoothing along Johnny's spine.