(no subject)
Title: Frustration
Pairing:Chandler/Kent
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Plotless porn (again), with no redeeming features whatsoever. I'm sorry!
Word count: 1200
Disclaimer: Whitechapel belongs to its creators, and I am but a penniless student.
Kent’s lips hurt. By force of habit, he goes to bite his them whilst he’s scrolling through page after page of old case notes, and flinches, splashing the mug of tea he was holding. Miles tuts at him from the desk across without glancing up, and despite the fact nobody is even looking at him, he goes bright red, because.
Well.
The reason for his sore mouth isn’t exactly a safe for work discussion. Fuck, it isn’t even safe to think it at work, lest he become distinctly uncomfortable.
This morning. God, this morning.
He’d woken up first, for once, curled with his back pressed against Joe’s chest, and felt rather smug and content, considering drifting off again when he’s shifted a little and - god. Joe was hard, warm and pressed against his arse through his boxers.
Kent shuddered and pressed back again, twisting his hips a little. The reaction had been immediate, a tightening of the arm slung over his waist, and the hand, which had been stuffed under the pillow, squeezes. The movement causes three of Joe’s fingers to press momentarily against Emerson’s throat, before he relaxes again.
(Kent just about melts at that.)
He’d wriggled backwards again, but this time the arm holding his waist succeeded in stilling him, and Joe had rolled onto his back, sleepily mumbling bloody hell, stop it at the ceiling. When he goes to move the arm currently under Kent’s head, Kent had seized the opportunity and sucked his index finger into his mouth.
Joe’d flinched at the sudden contact, and for a second, Emerson thought that he’d yank his hand away in disgust, on grounds of germs, but he didn’t, and had instead turned to look at him, expression stormy, and pupils a little blown.
Kent hollowed his cheeks, brushing his tongue across the skin beneath the nail, and he’d felt Joe’s shudder. He’d only realised how hard he himself was when Joe removed his thumb and dragged it roughly over his slick lips, watching as they coloure-
Fuck, he thinks, jerking out of his reverie and scrolling down the webpage, suddenly aware that he’d been staring blankly at the screen for the last ten minutes.
In his haste, he knocks the stack of papers on the corner of his desk over, and catches them, but not before alerting his DI. Chandler glances up at the movement, despite the fact he caught most of them, and when they make eye contact, Joe is wearing the same look he had this morning, the same intense gaze.
Kent can feel himself blush again, and fuck, it isn’t doing anything to stop the memories flooding back, of how after Joe had yanked his hand away from his mouth, he’d threaded his hand into Emerson’s hair and pulled him closer, until they were pressed together. The kiss they’d shared was bruising, and Joe had ground up against his hip.
He’d barely needed encouragement anyway, but the pull downwards in his hair had left him fighting back a whimper.
Kent hadn’t even kissed down his chest like he usually does - it hardly seemed fitting, anyway, and instead slides under the covers and shuffles down until his face is level with Joe’s cock, straining against his boxers. His mouth waters a little.
When he licked delicately at the head through the fabric, Joe actually growled, threading his hand through Kent’s hair again. A warning, then. Kent shivered and pressed his own erection against the bed sheets, grinding.
He still kept mouthing at the fabric, even as he pulled the boxers down. Joe, at that point flung back the sheet and glared down at him, before tightening his hold in his hair and, whilst keeping eye contact, lifted his hips up so that just the head of his cock pushed into Kent’s mouth.
Kent heard himself whine, suddenly wanting to take more, but Joe just held him steady, fucking up into his mouth, far too slowly. When he curls his tongue, he can taste how slick Joe is, sliding against his lips. He finally gives up any sense of dignity he has and pushes his hips shamelessly into the mattress, whimpering. At that, Joe just looks up and fucks harder into his mouth, his gaze fixed on the obscene stretch of Kent’s reddened mouth around himself.
Emerson moaned at that, feeling self-conscious and warm, heat rising in his cheeks, because it was one thing to suck somebody off, and another to be scrutinised whilst doing it. He shivers, not entirely unpleasantly, and hollows his cheeks again, keeping eye contact.
He can feel that Joe must be getting close, with how his thrusts are becoming erratic, the sound of his breathing roughened beyond belief, and it gives him a sharp thrill that he’s the only one that gets to see his boss like this, so taken apart and mindless with pleasure.
He draws back, pulling against the hand in his hair, and flickers his tongue against the slit harshly, and that’s it, Joe practically flies to pieces, hips arching upwards. The thumb of the hand holding his jaw smoothing across his cupid’s bow. If Emerson weren’t so concerned with swallowing down the slick bursts against the back of his tongue, he’d fucking liquefy at the contact, the additional drag against his skin when it already feels so sensitive setting his nerve endings alight.
He didn’t even wait until Joe had recovered before he squirmed back up the bed, plastering himself against Joe’s side and rubbing against his hip, because fuck, just the rub of cotton against him was nearly making him sob.
“Please Joe, fuck -please.” He hears himself say, voice uneven, and god, he just wants nothing more than to have Joe’s (beautiful) hands wrapped around him. It wouldn’t ever take that much, not when he’d just spent the best part of 20 minutes rubbing himself off against the sheets, and Joe skimmed his hand down, fingers slipping under the elastic, when-
Fucking hell, for all the bad timing in the fucking world-
The phone had rang.
The bloody-
Double murder in the Square Mile, apparently, of all places.
Hammer, he heard through the phone. Nasty way to go. They want you down here, obviously.
Miles has brilliant timing, Kent thinks, already wistful for the lost handjob.
By the end of the phone call, Chandler had already started getting dressed. (He’d kept making furtive glances at the bathroom, weighing up whether he had time for a shower, before very unwillingly decided against it.)
Still, at least he’d looked apologetic as he fastened his trousers, thought Kent, begrudgingly returning to the present. His coffee from earlier is stone cold.
“Kent?” he hears, and looks up to see Joe -no, Sir, as he calls him when they’re working together - leaning out of his office.
“Can you come here a minute?” he says, and the others, thank god, take no notice as he makes his way there, still half-hard in his trousers from just the memories.
When he steps into the office, Joe’s expression changes abruptly. It goes absolutely predatory.
Kent unconsciously bites his lip and winces when the throbbing returns.
He closes the door behind him, flipping the lock.