(no subject)
A sort of footnote to the maddening, loose-fisted handjob . . .
The first time Rodney does it, John thinks he might go crazy. He drifts upward from sleep, warm and aroused, until the sensation sharpens into hot pleasure, defined by Rodney's fist loosely circling his erection, just skimming the shaft. Rodney's not in any kind of hurry, touching John with a barely-there pressure that's just on the edge of ticklish, and John might think that Rodney's not even paying much attention, except for the intent, focused way he's watching what he's doing.
John lets his head loll to the side and meets Rodney's gaze-he thinks that maybe Rodney will step it up, get this thing moving, now that he knows John's awake to enjoy it, but Rodney keeps the same too-slow pace, the same too-light touch, pushing John between arousal and irritation, the muscles in his stomach clenching in anticipation of what he's desperately hoping is next, but no, no, Rodney just keeps up his slack, relentless stroking.
John tries lifting his hips, pushing his cock into Rodney's fist, but Rodney moves with him, doesn't flex or tighten, and all John gets is the same hazy impression of Rodney's warm palm, the almost-rasp of his calluses. He does it again, though, and again, bucks and tries to get some friction, and Rodney's hardly even doing anything, but John's gasping anyway, and he shudders wildly when Rodney's fingers graze his cockhead.
And then he can't take it anymore-he wraps his hand around Rodney's and squeezes until it's as tight as he needs, tighter, fucking up into his own hand and Rodney's at the same time. John can hear himself groaning, but he can't make himself stop, can't stop snapping his hips and clutching Rodney's hand until it's finally enough, until it's too much and he's coming, spilling hot over both of them together and hearing Rodney's gusty breaths coming almost as loud and as quick as his own.
The first time Rodney does it, John thinks he might go crazy. He drifts upward from sleep, warm and aroused, until the sensation sharpens into hot pleasure, defined by Rodney's fist loosely circling his erection, just skimming the shaft. Rodney's not in any kind of hurry, touching John with a barely-there pressure that's just on the edge of ticklish, and John might think that Rodney's not even paying much attention, except for the intent, focused way he's watching what he's doing.
John lets his head loll to the side and meets Rodney's gaze-he thinks that maybe Rodney will step it up, get this thing moving, now that he knows John's awake to enjoy it, but Rodney keeps the same too-slow pace, the same too-light touch, pushing John between arousal and irritation, the muscles in his stomach clenching in anticipation of what he's desperately hoping is next, but no, no, Rodney just keeps up his slack, relentless stroking.
John tries lifting his hips, pushing his cock into Rodney's fist, but Rodney moves with him, doesn't flex or tighten, and all John gets is the same hazy impression of Rodney's warm palm, the almost-rasp of his calluses. He does it again, though, and again, bucks and tries to get some friction, and Rodney's hardly even doing anything, but John's gasping anyway, and he shudders wildly when Rodney's fingers graze his cockhead.
And then he can't take it anymore-he wraps his hand around Rodney's and squeezes until it's as tight as he needs, tighter, fucking up into his own hand and Rodney's at the same time. John can hear himself groaning, but he can't make himself stop, can't stop snapping his hips and clutching Rodney's hand until it's finally enough, until it's too much and he's coming, spilling hot over both of them together and hearing Rodney's gusty breaths coming almost as loud and as quick as his own.