Residue
Title: Residue
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Matt
Summary: John's gun makes Matt uncomfortable in a way he's not sure how to deal with.
As John leans over the back of the couch, nuzzling the side of Matt's face, all Matt can feel is the chill from the gun that hangs down from McClane's body, almost touching his own. It winks at him slightly in the light of the room and Matt tries not to look, staring at the laptop screen in front of him.
"You're still wearing your gun," he says, his voice cold like the metal barrel.
"Yeah, I know," John replies easily, clearly not sensing Matt's tone. Matt's okay with that. He doesn't want John to think the problem's with him. It's just that bit of steel he carries around. "Do you know that you smell like sugar? Syrup?"
"You smell like gunpowder," Matt says, before he can stop himself. It's true. It's a scent that always makes Matt feel a little queasy. He swallows hard.
"Target practice," John shrugs. The idea of John doing this for fun, rather than out of necessity, makes Matt feel even worse. He knows it's not really like that, that John's just keeping his shooting sharp for when it is a necessity, but Matt can't help imagining him smiling as he hits that paper target right through the heart.
John pushes himself upright with what seems like a big effort and then Matt can hear him in the other room, shrugging off his jacket and the holster. He comes back through and sits on the couch by Matt. Matt curls his legs a little tighter under himself as he types away. He's sharing code with some guy from Portland and he tells himself that he needs to get it finished, that that's the only reason he's ignoring John, even though he can feel his stare.
"Give me your feet," John says, breaking the rather strained silence.
Matt looks up at him, slightly suspicious despite himself. "Why?"
John doesn't really reply, just gives this kind of nod of encouragement, like he doesn't need to explain himself. Matt looks at him for another moment and then turns himself on the couch, stretching his legs out so that his feet fall in John's lap. It's much more comfortable. John gives him the tiniest smile and wraps his hands around Matt's feet, squeezing slightly. He sneaks one hand into the leg of Matt's jeans and strokes gently at his calf muscle.
"You nearly done?"
Matt gives a shrug, looking back at the screen. "I don't know." He tries to reconcile the warm feel of those fingertips with the coldness of the gun they grip. He hates himself for not being able to get it out of his head.
John gives a nod, but he looks put out by Matt's distance. "Mind if I put the TV on?"
Matt shakes his head. He looks at the last piece of coding he wrote and realises it's completely wrong. He sends a note to the Portland guy and focuses back on John. "Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, I'm good," John dismisses flicking through channels. He settles on a news station and Matt tries very hard not to grumble. "You eaten anything in a food group outside of sugar today?"
"It's Red Bull," Matt tells him. "I smell like Red Bull."
"You smell like fucking syrup," John insists, but he's not complaining. In fact he's almost smiling. Matt looks at his screen again. The guy from Portland's asking him for that coding again, and correctly please. Matt sighs. He looks at John.
"Listen, you know what, I'm done," he says. "I can be done."
John looks up, raising his eyebrows. "Don't let me spoil your fun."
Matt shakes his head and smiles. "You're not. And I'm being rude. And that feels really nice." His eyes fall to John's hand on his leg. John gives him this look and moves his hand higher, forcing Matt's jeans to bunch up as the tips of John's fingers tickle the back of his knee. Matt kind of feels the air go out of him as he logs off, suddenly in a hurry, and closes the lid of the laptop, placing it on the table.
He moves, John's hands sliding easily from his legs and to his hips as Matt straddles him. Their bodies fit snugly together, like they're a fit. Matt leans down, brushing his lips over John's and then smiling at him, making him follow. John does, gripping him a little tighter and pressing his own lips firmly against Matt's. Matt offers him no resistance, leaning back into him and letting John's tongue slide wetly over his bottom lip and inside. It's kind of feels like coming home.
John's body is warm against his, and the kiss feels so good, but now that Matt's this close again, he can smell the gunpowder, that slightly singed scent lodging in his nostrils. It turns his stomach slightly, and he thinks that it's wrong that John can do that. Except that it's not John, Matt reminds himself. It's just what John does so easily.
Matt still remembers holding a gun in his hands, still remembers pulling the trigger. He remembers the weight of it, the recoil as he shot, the sound and the smell and the blood spray that was all his fault. He remembers it like it's happening right now.
He feels his pulse beating faster as John's hands, dirty hands, slide under his shirt, smudging gunpowder residue all over his skin. Matt swears he can feel it. He pulls back a little too sharply and he knows that John must notice, even though Matt forces a smile at him.
"Hey," Matt says, out of breath and uneasy. "You wanna take a shower, maybe?"
"I smell bad?" John asks, raising his eyebrows.
"No," Matt dismisses, shaking his head. "I mean together. It'll be hot. Sexy."
John smiles slightly. "I know what you meant, kid." He leans in and kisses Matt again, a soft kiss, like he's trying to calm him down or something. "It bother you that much?" he asks, the words falling against Matt's lips.
"Huh?" Matt asks, his eyes still closed.
"I can't even smell it," John says. Matt suddenly knows exactly what he's talking about. He opens his eyes and takes a breath.
"I can't smell the sugar," Matt says. He gives a shrug. "It's a part of you."
John shakes his head. "It's a part of what I do."
Matt looks at him. He knows that John's right, but he can't quite manage to quiet the thoughts that emerge each time he sees John's gun, in his holster or on the dresser, or when John comes home smelling like this, when it's all over his clothes and his hands, invisible but poignant.
But the thoughts aren't really anything to do with John. He's just the catalyst. The catalyst to everything that Matt fears since he pulled that trigger and opened that door inside himself that he's afraid he'll never truly close. A door that, as he looks into John's eyes now, he knows John understands. Matt's not entirely sure if that makes him feel better or worse.
"It gets easier, right?" Matt asks, hating that childish, hopeful edge to his voice.
He can tell by the look on John's face that he doesn't fully understand the question. Is Matt asking if he'll get over what he did, or if killing gets simpler the more you do it? Matt's not even sure himself anymore. He didn't notice the double meaning until now, but he suddenly wonders where his subconscious truly lies.
He leans in and kisses John again, because that's pretty much the only thing he's sure of in that moment. He misjudges it and presses their mouths together too hard at first, the impact giving a dull thud. He pulls back slightly, his arms sliding around the back of John's neck as he kisses him for real, sucking on his bottom lip and losing himself to the sigh that he elicits. By the time their tongues are sliding together again, the knots in Matt's stomach have started to ease. Everything about John feels familiar, comfortable, so Matt concentrates on touch and tells his other senses to go fuck themselves. If all he could ever do for the rest of his life was feel John McClane, with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, his tongue, he would be perfectly content with that.
John pulls back, rubbing his thumb over Matt's cheek until he gives in and opens his eyes. John's a little flushed, a little breathless, and more than a little horny, and it makes Matt think he'd kind of like sight to go with that touch.
"Let's take a shower," John says. "I hate having this shit on me as much as you do."
Matt nods, because he's not really sure what else to do or say. He's not sure he trusts himself enough to try. He climbs off John backwards and gets to his feet, ceding control to John and allowing himself to be manoeuvred towards the bathroom with a series of touches and kisses. They linger over one another's bodies as they undress each other, allowing fingers to trail over flesh that they mapped long ago.
Matt likes it like this, when they're not in a rush, when they're completely consumed with one another. They're usually both too impatient for anything resembling foreplay, having some kind of unspoken agreement to get right down to the good stuff without delay. But when it's like this, everything's magnified, and Matt can appreciate how patience can be a virtue. He needs that tonight. He thinks they maybe both do.
It needs to be them against the world.
The shower is hot and steam starts to fill the room almost instantly. Matt lets it wash over him, standing so close to John that the water droplets seem to dance from body to body without them actually touching, like a subtle illusion. Matt reaches for the soap and lathers it up in his hands, watching the white suds forming and spilling over. He takes John's palms in his own and rubs the soap into them. That's the part of John he feels the greatest need to cleanse. He then takes one of John's hands at a time, using both of his own to massage the silky bubbles into John's calloused fingers and palms.
Matt finds himself lost in it, his whole consciousness boiling down to two sets of hands and the way they slide together. He feels kind of like Lady MacBeth, but the spot is on John's hand instead of his own. Matt can feel it melt away easily enough with the soap though, leaving him feeling as though he's touching nothing but John. It makes Matt feel so much cleaner, even though he was never the one who was dirty. Not physically, anyway.
John seems to sense the shift, twining his fingers with Matt and demanding his attention. "I good to touch you now, kid?"
"Anywhere you want," Matt responds easily.
John frees his hands and runs them down Matt's sides, forcing him to repress a shiver. He smiles at Matt, an unabashedly sexual smile, and then grabs Matt's hips, taking a step forward to press their bodies firmly and hotly together. John's hard against him and Matt finds that he's half-hard too. He wonders how he could possibly not notice that.
John kisses him, deep and open mouthed, and Matt just makes a pathetic noise of encouragement and melts right into him. The water pounds down on them, sliding over their bodies as they slide against each other, and Matt's fully hard and close to drowning before he can even get a grip on himself. He moans, the sound muted by the sound of rushing water and his own thundering heart, and then he feels himself sway as John eases up on him.
"Just my hands?" John asks. Matt opens his eyes and finds John holding the soap out to him.
Matt trails the bar over John's skin with his right hand and follows the suds with his left, working over his chest, his shoulders, his arms. It's sensual and intimate and it makes Matt's blood run a little faster. He's soon at John's abdomen, staring down at his dark cock, and he decides that he's waited long enough. No more gunpowder, no more grime, no more long day at work. No more anything now except for what's right in front of him; flesh, muscle, bone, John. It's fucking beautiful.
He places the soap aside and wraps a sudsy hand around John's cock, giving a firm squeeze before starting to stroke up and down, watching his own movements as John leans into him and grunts right into his ear. It makes Matt's own cock jolt and his toes curl a little. John's body tenses and his teeth grit. He slams Matt back against the tiles of the shower before Matt even knows what's happening, knocking the air right out of him.
"Sorry," John forces out, his voice dark and desperate. It does things to Matt.
"That's cool," he responds. It really is.
John reaches for the soap, turning it around in his right hand as he places his left flat on the tiles behind Matt to hold himself up. Matt's hand is steady on John's dick, working smoothly up and down, the rhythm feeding into his own body and making his hips hitch slightly with it. John lets the soap fall from his hand to the floor of the shower with a thud, his slick fingers wrapping around Matt's cock and giving his body what it craved. Matt's head falls back for a moment before he's right back there with John, the two of them seeming to move as one, their hands working each other in tandem.
Matt feels his feet slipping on the tile as they lose themselves to it so completely, but John has him pinned so firmly that he knows there's no way that he can fall. He holds onto John a little tighter anyway, fingers curling into the thick muscles of John's shoulder as his other hand continues to jerk him off, the strokes so fast and firm now that each one sends a little water flying. Matt watches it, watches John, tastes him, clumsy kisses and wet sucks of skin, smells the generic soap and that thing that's simply John, as well as the sex that also manages to shine through. He listens to the sound of the water, like summer rain, and the sound of John's moans mixing into it, and he knows that he could never live with touch alone. He wants the whole fucking package, for better or worse, because this is too much to miss out on. He wants everything, which is what he has in that moment.
Matt doesn't know if it's that realisation, or the way John flicks his wrist, or the fact that he can only be touched like that for so long without exploding, but he feels it all give way then, stemming from somewhere deep inside him and spilling over, his veins running with liquid pleasure as his orgasm settles hot and heavy over him, the creamy evidence washed away quickly by the water that swirls around their bodies as John continues to touch him just right.
John isn't far behind him, Matt feeling the evidence of his orgasm not only spilling over his hand, but also bitten into his shoulder. Matt kind of loves it when John bites. It's so possessive and out of control.
The water shuts off and John covers Matt's body with his own in the quiet, their panting seeming deafening without the roar of the water. Matt feels the chill as the steam starts to dissipate, and each drip drip of cold water makes him feel colder still, but John's body is heated against his and he can't quite find the will to move. Ever.
"It gets easier," John whispers into his ear, right when Matt thinks he might fall asleep on his feet. Matt doesn't know which question John's answering, but it doesn't really matter. Either way, he finds it's the response he was looking for.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Matt
Summary: John's gun makes Matt uncomfortable in a way he's not sure how to deal with.
As John leans over the back of the couch, nuzzling the side of Matt's face, all Matt can feel is the chill from the gun that hangs down from McClane's body, almost touching his own. It winks at him slightly in the light of the room and Matt tries not to look, staring at the laptop screen in front of him.
"You're still wearing your gun," he says, his voice cold like the metal barrel.
"Yeah, I know," John replies easily, clearly not sensing Matt's tone. Matt's okay with that. He doesn't want John to think the problem's with him. It's just that bit of steel he carries around. "Do you know that you smell like sugar? Syrup?"
"You smell like gunpowder," Matt says, before he can stop himself. It's true. It's a scent that always makes Matt feel a little queasy. He swallows hard.
"Target practice," John shrugs. The idea of John doing this for fun, rather than out of necessity, makes Matt feel even worse. He knows it's not really like that, that John's just keeping his shooting sharp for when it is a necessity, but Matt can't help imagining him smiling as he hits that paper target right through the heart.
John pushes himself upright with what seems like a big effort and then Matt can hear him in the other room, shrugging off his jacket and the holster. He comes back through and sits on the couch by Matt. Matt curls his legs a little tighter under himself as he types away. He's sharing code with some guy from Portland and he tells himself that he needs to get it finished, that that's the only reason he's ignoring John, even though he can feel his stare.
"Give me your feet," John says, breaking the rather strained silence.
Matt looks up at him, slightly suspicious despite himself. "Why?"
John doesn't really reply, just gives this kind of nod of encouragement, like he doesn't need to explain himself. Matt looks at him for another moment and then turns himself on the couch, stretching his legs out so that his feet fall in John's lap. It's much more comfortable. John gives him the tiniest smile and wraps his hands around Matt's feet, squeezing slightly. He sneaks one hand into the leg of Matt's jeans and strokes gently at his calf muscle.
"You nearly done?"
Matt gives a shrug, looking back at the screen. "I don't know." He tries to reconcile the warm feel of those fingertips with the coldness of the gun they grip. He hates himself for not being able to get it out of his head.
John gives a nod, but he looks put out by Matt's distance. "Mind if I put the TV on?"
Matt shakes his head. He looks at the last piece of coding he wrote and realises it's completely wrong. He sends a note to the Portland guy and focuses back on John. "Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, I'm good," John dismisses flicking through channels. He settles on a news station and Matt tries very hard not to grumble. "You eaten anything in a food group outside of sugar today?"
"It's Red Bull," Matt tells him. "I smell like Red Bull."
"You smell like fucking syrup," John insists, but he's not complaining. In fact he's almost smiling. Matt looks at his screen again. The guy from Portland's asking him for that coding again, and correctly please. Matt sighs. He looks at John.
"Listen, you know what, I'm done," he says. "I can be done."
John looks up, raising his eyebrows. "Don't let me spoil your fun."
Matt shakes his head and smiles. "You're not. And I'm being rude. And that feels really nice." His eyes fall to John's hand on his leg. John gives him this look and moves his hand higher, forcing Matt's jeans to bunch up as the tips of John's fingers tickle the back of his knee. Matt kind of feels the air go out of him as he logs off, suddenly in a hurry, and closes the lid of the laptop, placing it on the table.
He moves, John's hands sliding easily from his legs and to his hips as Matt straddles him. Their bodies fit snugly together, like they're a fit. Matt leans down, brushing his lips over John's and then smiling at him, making him follow. John does, gripping him a little tighter and pressing his own lips firmly against Matt's. Matt offers him no resistance, leaning back into him and letting John's tongue slide wetly over his bottom lip and inside. It's kind of feels like coming home.
John's body is warm against his, and the kiss feels so good, but now that Matt's this close again, he can smell the gunpowder, that slightly singed scent lodging in his nostrils. It turns his stomach slightly, and he thinks that it's wrong that John can do that. Except that it's not John, Matt reminds himself. It's just what John does so easily.
Matt still remembers holding a gun in his hands, still remembers pulling the trigger. He remembers the weight of it, the recoil as he shot, the sound and the smell and the blood spray that was all his fault. He remembers it like it's happening right now.
He feels his pulse beating faster as John's hands, dirty hands, slide under his shirt, smudging gunpowder residue all over his skin. Matt swears he can feel it. He pulls back a little too sharply and he knows that John must notice, even though Matt forces a smile at him.
"Hey," Matt says, out of breath and uneasy. "You wanna take a shower, maybe?"
"I smell bad?" John asks, raising his eyebrows.
"No," Matt dismisses, shaking his head. "I mean together. It'll be hot. Sexy."
John smiles slightly. "I know what you meant, kid." He leans in and kisses Matt again, a soft kiss, like he's trying to calm him down or something. "It bother you that much?" he asks, the words falling against Matt's lips.
"Huh?" Matt asks, his eyes still closed.
"I can't even smell it," John says. Matt suddenly knows exactly what he's talking about. He opens his eyes and takes a breath.
"I can't smell the sugar," Matt says. He gives a shrug. "It's a part of you."
John shakes his head. "It's a part of what I do."
Matt looks at him. He knows that John's right, but he can't quite manage to quiet the thoughts that emerge each time he sees John's gun, in his holster or on the dresser, or when John comes home smelling like this, when it's all over his clothes and his hands, invisible but poignant.
But the thoughts aren't really anything to do with John. He's just the catalyst. The catalyst to everything that Matt fears since he pulled that trigger and opened that door inside himself that he's afraid he'll never truly close. A door that, as he looks into John's eyes now, he knows John understands. Matt's not entirely sure if that makes him feel better or worse.
"It gets easier, right?" Matt asks, hating that childish, hopeful edge to his voice.
He can tell by the look on John's face that he doesn't fully understand the question. Is Matt asking if he'll get over what he did, or if killing gets simpler the more you do it? Matt's not even sure himself anymore. He didn't notice the double meaning until now, but he suddenly wonders where his subconscious truly lies.
He leans in and kisses John again, because that's pretty much the only thing he's sure of in that moment. He misjudges it and presses their mouths together too hard at first, the impact giving a dull thud. He pulls back slightly, his arms sliding around the back of John's neck as he kisses him for real, sucking on his bottom lip and losing himself to the sigh that he elicits. By the time their tongues are sliding together again, the knots in Matt's stomach have started to ease. Everything about John feels familiar, comfortable, so Matt concentrates on touch and tells his other senses to go fuck themselves. If all he could ever do for the rest of his life was feel John McClane, with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, his tongue, he would be perfectly content with that.
John pulls back, rubbing his thumb over Matt's cheek until he gives in and opens his eyes. John's a little flushed, a little breathless, and more than a little horny, and it makes Matt think he'd kind of like sight to go with that touch.
"Let's take a shower," John says. "I hate having this shit on me as much as you do."
Matt nods, because he's not really sure what else to do or say. He's not sure he trusts himself enough to try. He climbs off John backwards and gets to his feet, ceding control to John and allowing himself to be manoeuvred towards the bathroom with a series of touches and kisses. They linger over one another's bodies as they undress each other, allowing fingers to trail over flesh that they mapped long ago.
Matt likes it like this, when they're not in a rush, when they're completely consumed with one another. They're usually both too impatient for anything resembling foreplay, having some kind of unspoken agreement to get right down to the good stuff without delay. But when it's like this, everything's magnified, and Matt can appreciate how patience can be a virtue. He needs that tonight. He thinks they maybe both do.
It needs to be them against the world.
The shower is hot and steam starts to fill the room almost instantly. Matt lets it wash over him, standing so close to John that the water droplets seem to dance from body to body without them actually touching, like a subtle illusion. Matt reaches for the soap and lathers it up in his hands, watching the white suds forming and spilling over. He takes John's palms in his own and rubs the soap into them. That's the part of John he feels the greatest need to cleanse. He then takes one of John's hands at a time, using both of his own to massage the silky bubbles into John's calloused fingers and palms.
Matt finds himself lost in it, his whole consciousness boiling down to two sets of hands and the way they slide together. He feels kind of like Lady MacBeth, but the spot is on John's hand instead of his own. Matt can feel it melt away easily enough with the soap though, leaving him feeling as though he's touching nothing but John. It makes Matt feel so much cleaner, even though he was never the one who was dirty. Not physically, anyway.
John seems to sense the shift, twining his fingers with Matt and demanding his attention. "I good to touch you now, kid?"
"Anywhere you want," Matt responds easily.
John frees his hands and runs them down Matt's sides, forcing him to repress a shiver. He smiles at Matt, an unabashedly sexual smile, and then grabs Matt's hips, taking a step forward to press their bodies firmly and hotly together. John's hard against him and Matt finds that he's half-hard too. He wonders how he could possibly not notice that.
John kisses him, deep and open mouthed, and Matt just makes a pathetic noise of encouragement and melts right into him. The water pounds down on them, sliding over their bodies as they slide against each other, and Matt's fully hard and close to drowning before he can even get a grip on himself. He moans, the sound muted by the sound of rushing water and his own thundering heart, and then he feels himself sway as John eases up on him.
"Just my hands?" John asks. Matt opens his eyes and finds John holding the soap out to him.
Matt trails the bar over John's skin with his right hand and follows the suds with his left, working over his chest, his shoulders, his arms. It's sensual and intimate and it makes Matt's blood run a little faster. He's soon at John's abdomen, staring down at his dark cock, and he decides that he's waited long enough. No more gunpowder, no more grime, no more long day at work. No more anything now except for what's right in front of him; flesh, muscle, bone, John. It's fucking beautiful.
He places the soap aside and wraps a sudsy hand around John's cock, giving a firm squeeze before starting to stroke up and down, watching his own movements as John leans into him and grunts right into his ear. It makes Matt's own cock jolt and his toes curl a little. John's body tenses and his teeth grit. He slams Matt back against the tiles of the shower before Matt even knows what's happening, knocking the air right out of him.
"Sorry," John forces out, his voice dark and desperate. It does things to Matt.
"That's cool," he responds. It really is.
John reaches for the soap, turning it around in his right hand as he places his left flat on the tiles behind Matt to hold himself up. Matt's hand is steady on John's dick, working smoothly up and down, the rhythm feeding into his own body and making his hips hitch slightly with it. John lets the soap fall from his hand to the floor of the shower with a thud, his slick fingers wrapping around Matt's cock and giving his body what it craved. Matt's head falls back for a moment before he's right back there with John, the two of them seeming to move as one, their hands working each other in tandem.
Matt feels his feet slipping on the tile as they lose themselves to it so completely, but John has him pinned so firmly that he knows there's no way that he can fall. He holds onto John a little tighter anyway, fingers curling into the thick muscles of John's shoulder as his other hand continues to jerk him off, the strokes so fast and firm now that each one sends a little water flying. Matt watches it, watches John, tastes him, clumsy kisses and wet sucks of skin, smells the generic soap and that thing that's simply John, as well as the sex that also manages to shine through. He listens to the sound of the water, like summer rain, and the sound of John's moans mixing into it, and he knows that he could never live with touch alone. He wants the whole fucking package, for better or worse, because this is too much to miss out on. He wants everything, which is what he has in that moment.
Matt doesn't know if it's that realisation, or the way John flicks his wrist, or the fact that he can only be touched like that for so long without exploding, but he feels it all give way then, stemming from somewhere deep inside him and spilling over, his veins running with liquid pleasure as his orgasm settles hot and heavy over him, the creamy evidence washed away quickly by the water that swirls around their bodies as John continues to touch him just right.
John isn't far behind him, Matt feeling the evidence of his orgasm not only spilling over his hand, but also bitten into his shoulder. Matt kind of loves it when John bites. It's so possessive and out of control.
The water shuts off and John covers Matt's body with his own in the quiet, their panting seeming deafening without the roar of the water. Matt feels the chill as the steam starts to dissipate, and each drip drip of cold water makes him feel colder still, but John's body is heated against his and he can't quite find the will to move. Ever.
"It gets easier," John whispers into his ear, right when Matt thinks he might fall asleep on his feet. Matt doesn't know which question John's answering, but it doesn't really matter. Either way, he finds it's the response he was looking for.