(no subject)
Doghouse (John/Rodney, Nantucket au [ Index], ~900 words, fits between Four-Wheel Drive and Run); and eeee thank you to almost_clara for the lovely art!
John finds himself spending a Saturday afternoon in Madaket sitting on someone's mud room floor while eight-week-old labrador puppies crawl over and around him. He's taken with a little chocolate girl, smallest of the litter, gentlest, who licks his thumb and falls asleep in the crook of his arm. But he ends up taking home a jet black bundle of energy with sharp teeth, the troublemaker-first one to figure out how to get out of the puppy box, first one to figure out how to haul himself up on the family's couch-for free, and with the owner's blessings and enough fervent wishes for good luck that it almost makes John have second thoughts.
The pup-Cash, because John just can't resist the joke about the man in black-tears around the house for an hour and a half that night, drinks a whole bowl of water while standing with his two oversized front paws in it, leaves an improbably large puddle on John's kitchen floor before he's finally out, curled up with John in the green armchair, snoring softly, his tiny, rapid heartbeat thrumming against John's stomach.
It's been a while, a long while, since John's had to take care of anyone but himself, and he thinks he might be a little rusty.
* * *
The first night Rodney stays over, they barely make it to the bedroom, don't make it to the bed at all, stumbling and clumsy with stored-up want, John's hands greedy for the texture of Rodney's bare skin-his shoulder, his belly, the sunburned triangle on his chest that's giving off its own heat, his hot, gasping mouth, his hot cock, the hot spill of him over John's fingers.
John can't get enough. Lunch the day after, they're polishing off a plate of egg and tomato sandwiches one minute and making out on John's couch the next. He licks mayonnaise from the corner of Rodney's mouth, kisses him and is kissed, his hands full of Rodney until they're not, until soft hair's tickling his palms, because Rodney's sliding to the floor mostly gracefully, spreading John's thighs and unzipping his jeans and sucking him until John sees whole galaxies of stars against his eyelids, right there in the middle of the sun-bright afternoon.
They finally make it to his bed two nights later, and John teases Rodney about having slept in it when he barely even knew John. Rodney says it'll probably be better with John in it, would be even better if John would hurry up and get in him-and then John is, in him, sliding home into Rodney, and it's good, it's amazing- And his heart's thumping in his chest with something like panic, and when he thrusts and holds on and says, "I've got you, I've got you," over and over, it's to drown out the voice in his head saying, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this.
John's not exactly sure what happens the next morning, just that it feels like someone else stepped in and took the reins while he was asleep. He gets up early, and when Rodney joins him in the kitchen, John hears himself saying, "Hey, it's looking like a busy week-I'll call you when I get a chance," watches Rodney's face rearrange itself from sleepy to perplexed to hurt, watches him stare into his mug of coffee until it gets cold, drops Rodney back at his cottage with a "So long," and he can't make himself stop any of it.
He doesn't call, and neither does Rodney, and John tries to figure out why he thought it would be better this way.
* * *
The first time John leaves Cash home alone, he comes back to find one half of four different pairs of shoes chewed and otherwise nearly mangled beyond recognition, so he starts taking the dog with him in the Wagoneer on most of his errands around town, hums along with Johnny Cash when the country station from the Cape comes in, tells him every time, "Hey, buddy, listen up-this is your namesake."
Cash rides in the front seat, pink tongue lolling; sleeps at the foot of John's bed, heavy and warm and constant; runs at John's heel down the beach and back; always gets the last corner of John's toast.
* * *
John feels like he's coming down with something. He has an oppressive low-grade headache that Advil and caffeine don't seem to do anything about and not much of an appetite. He sticks close to home, like he can't trust what'll happen if he goes out the door. There's a spate of beautiful days, cool and sunny and fresh, and John spends them slumped on the couch staring off into nothing or sleeping.
When he eases himself out of bed on a Thursday morning, John still feels muzzy, but he slips on his running shoes anyway, steps outside and takes a deep breath, stretches until his joints pop. Something wound tight in his chest uncoils as he lets his body loose to run, lets it take him back to Rodney.
* * *
A little more than two years after John brings Cash home, John almost clocks a guy in khakis with Cash's frisbee, and Cash sprays the guy with saltwater and sand and nearly knocks him over, and John meets Rodney.
John finds himself spending a Saturday afternoon in Madaket sitting on someone's mud room floor while eight-week-old labrador puppies crawl over and around him. He's taken with a little chocolate girl, smallest of the litter, gentlest, who licks his thumb and falls asleep in the crook of his arm. But he ends up taking home a jet black bundle of energy with sharp teeth, the troublemaker-first one to figure out how to get out of the puppy box, first one to figure out how to haul himself up on the family's couch-for free, and with the owner's blessings and enough fervent wishes for good luck that it almost makes John have second thoughts.
The pup-Cash, because John just can't resist the joke about the man in black-tears around the house for an hour and a half that night, drinks a whole bowl of water while standing with his two oversized front paws in it, leaves an improbably large puddle on John's kitchen floor before he's finally out, curled up with John in the green armchair, snoring softly, his tiny, rapid heartbeat thrumming against John's stomach.
It's been a while, a long while, since John's had to take care of anyone but himself, and he thinks he might be a little rusty.
* * *
The first night Rodney stays over, they barely make it to the bedroom, don't make it to the bed at all, stumbling and clumsy with stored-up want, John's hands greedy for the texture of Rodney's bare skin-his shoulder, his belly, the sunburned triangle on his chest that's giving off its own heat, his hot, gasping mouth, his hot cock, the hot spill of him over John's fingers.
John can't get enough. Lunch the day after, they're polishing off a plate of egg and tomato sandwiches one minute and making out on John's couch the next. He licks mayonnaise from the corner of Rodney's mouth, kisses him and is kissed, his hands full of Rodney until they're not, until soft hair's tickling his palms, because Rodney's sliding to the floor mostly gracefully, spreading John's thighs and unzipping his jeans and sucking him until John sees whole galaxies of stars against his eyelids, right there in the middle of the sun-bright afternoon.
They finally make it to his bed two nights later, and John teases Rodney about having slept in it when he barely even knew John. Rodney says it'll probably be better with John in it, would be even better if John would hurry up and get in him-and then John is, in him, sliding home into Rodney, and it's good, it's amazing- And his heart's thumping in his chest with something like panic, and when he thrusts and holds on and says, "I've got you, I've got you," over and over, it's to drown out the voice in his head saying, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this.
John's not exactly sure what happens the next morning, just that it feels like someone else stepped in and took the reins while he was asleep. He gets up early, and when Rodney joins him in the kitchen, John hears himself saying, "Hey, it's looking like a busy week-I'll call you when I get a chance," watches Rodney's face rearrange itself from sleepy to perplexed to hurt, watches him stare into his mug of coffee until it gets cold, drops Rodney back at his cottage with a "So long," and he can't make himself stop any of it.
He doesn't call, and neither does Rodney, and John tries to figure out why he thought it would be better this way.
* * *
The first time John leaves Cash home alone, he comes back to find one half of four different pairs of shoes chewed and otherwise nearly mangled beyond recognition, so he starts taking the dog with him in the Wagoneer on most of his errands around town, hums along with Johnny Cash when the country station from the Cape comes in, tells him every time, "Hey, buddy, listen up-this is your namesake."
Cash rides in the front seat, pink tongue lolling; sleeps at the foot of John's bed, heavy and warm and constant; runs at John's heel down the beach and back; always gets the last corner of John's toast.
* * *
John feels like he's coming down with something. He has an oppressive low-grade headache that Advil and caffeine don't seem to do anything about and not much of an appetite. He sticks close to home, like he can't trust what'll happen if he goes out the door. There's a spate of beautiful days, cool and sunny and fresh, and John spends them slumped on the couch staring off into nothing or sleeping.
When he eases himself out of bed on a Thursday morning, John still feels muzzy, but he slips on his running shoes anyway, steps outside and takes a deep breath, stretches until his joints pop. Something wound tight in his chest uncoils as he lets his body loose to run, lets it take him back to Rodney.
* * *
A little more than two years after John brings Cash home, John almost clocks a guy in khakis with Cash's frisbee, and Cash sprays the guy with saltwater and sand and nearly knocks him over, and John meets Rodney.