John's got a face like he's sucking something sour and bitter -- not a lemon, really, that's death -- but his hands move with certainty, rough and hard in weird places even after so long, and it doesn't feel good, what he's doing. It's hard and rough in weird places, just like those hands, and there're streaks of fire burning up into Rodney's skull, licks of flame that leave him grey-out and moaning because ow, ow, and also, oh, god ow.
But then twenty minutes goes by, and John still looks frustrated and unhappy, but Rodney is feeling no pain, nope, not even a little, blissed out on the tickle of warmth that's John's body against his because all the ow and ouch and whimper no's of before are a distant memory, nearly gone because it's better. Really better and okay, maybe only for like five minutes or something because this is reality and his back problems come from years of neglect and bad posture and whatever else's he's done, but Rodney isn't thinking of that, not now, because now it's good and John's leaning forward, just a
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Oh, I am starry-eyed with love for this, not just because of the boys and not just because my husband does much the same thing, has some of the same flaws and gets that pinched look on his face.
But then twenty minutes goes by, and John still looks frustrated and unhappy, but Rodney is feeling no pain, nope, not even a little, blissed out on the tickle of warmth that's John's body against his because all the ow and ouch and whimper no's of before are a distant memory, nearly gone because it's better. Really better and okay, maybe only for like five minutes or something because this is reality and his back problems come from years of neglect and bad posture and whatever else's he's done, but Rodney isn't thinking of that, not now, because now it's good and John's leaning forward, just a ( ... )
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Thank you, lovely.
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