torch, flambeau@strangeplaces.net
January 12, 2007
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Nearer to the miracle
Rodney still sleeps on his stomach, face-down and with at least one arm straight down by his side, and John says no way can that be comfortable, sleeping on tits that size, and Rodney snorts into the pillow or mattress and says he's fine and shut up, sleeping now, but he won't let John pillow his head on those amazing tits, oh no, then it's all complaints and stop that and that's extremely uncomfortable and you're probably leaving a hair-shaped dent in my breast, move over, and he'll poke John's ribs with hard little jabs until John moves. But he sleeps on his stomach like it's the only way for human beings to sleep, and on hot nights he spreads out like a starfish, one arm over here, legs apart, taking up the whole bed.
John likes to stretch out next to him, on his side, and run his hand down Rodney's spine and settle it on the wonderful curve of his ass, round soft flesh against his palm and his fingers gradually slipping lower, curving down the underside, curling in, fingertips rubbing softly until he feels wetness and he can slide a finger right inside, fucking it slowly in and out of Rodney's pussy, not a combination of words he'd ever thought he would use, and then two fingers, slick and easy, and Rodney makes a half-annoyed, huffy sound, like he really only wants to sleep and his parted legs aren't an invitation at all, but his hips are rocking along to that slow rhythm. Heatwave on Atlantis, every night this hot and sometimes John licks the sweat from Rodney's back because it tastes just a little different.
Rodney's lazy, nights like this he says it's too hot to move, but John likes to finger him nice and slow and watch him ripple like the water outside the open balcony door, shallow waves with the full depth of the ocean below, all secrets and promises and he likes that, he makes little noises and braces his arms against the bed, pushes back. Slowly. Slow like water, and both arms tucked under his chest now, it looks bizarre and John leans in and whispers, you're playing with your tits, aren't you, and Rodney huffs and says no, his unconvincing voice muffled by the sheets as he spreads his legs wider still. Then he says yes, might as well enjoy them while he's got them, and John completely agrees with that. He intends to enjoy every part of Rodney, in whatever shape or form, while he's got him, and this is one of his favorite ways, and one of Rodney's favorite ways, too.
It's not too hot to move, and John knows because he's shifting forward, moving to cover Rodney's body with his own, and his cock ends up resting against the inside of his wrist and he can just push forward, slipping against his slick palm and wet fingers and right inside, going deep in two thrusts and Rodney says oh, oh yeah, because he likes that, John knows, likes being opened up and likes that first deep slide of John's cock into his body, likes feeling it in his pussy and in his ass and in his mouth, and he makes it look perfect and right. John knows a lot about what Rodney likes, because Rodney tells him and because he listens even when Rodney's not telling him.
Slow, hot nights are the best, and John pulls his hand out from between Rodney's legs and braces his arms on the mattress to either side of Rodney's body and just rocks, sinking in slow and easing back again, feeling Rodney move beneath him, hips lifting for a better angle. They can do this for a long time, until the moon is low enough to shine in through the balcony door and watch them, until one of them slides out of lazy and into eager, pushing harder, and usually it's John but tonight it's Rodney, clenching tight, shoving his hips back to fuck himself on John's cock just so, just the way he wants it, and John works a hand in under Rodney until his fingers are in the right place to give Rodney something to rub against, and it's hot, it's the hottest night they've ever had, Rodney's corkscrewing his hips around and around, twisting between John's cock and fingers, muttering obscene pleas and orders into the pillow that John can't hear but follows anyway.
When Rodney's a man, he flails when he comes, legs jerking, fingers spasming, lips trembling and once during a sixty-nine he hit John's ass, hard, with the palm of his hand, which made John come as well, all over Rodney's face, but he's always denied the causality. When Rodney's a woman he freezes instead, he's tight and tense and everything happens on the inside, all that clenching and rippling and he even holds his breath until it's over and then he slumps forward, panting, laughing a little, and that laugh is one of John's favorites out of all the noises Rodney makes, in bed and out of bed, it reaches right into him and spins him around until his heart's dizzy, but all he can say is, fuck, I love your pussy, panting it into Rodney's ear, his voice grown as ragged as his thrusts.
Well, get your own, Rodney says, warm and easy and sarcastic now and John can't understand why he didn't see that coming, it's like being at the top of the rollercoaster and feeling the inevitability of gravity in the pit of his stomach, wanting it and not wanting it at the same time and completely helpless to resist in either case, and he should have known, he should have realized that Rodney listens to what John's not telling him, too. I'm done, Rodney says, I'm done with this, and he stretches his strange and familiarly curvy body and pushes back against John, taking him deeper still, it's your turn next, and John knows what's coming, knows he's coming, and he lets go and falls and shudders all over.