[John isn't completely naked. He's still wearing his dog-tags, and they clatter around his neck with every slam of his ass into Poe's pelvis.
He loves the way Poe's body moves with him. His hands fall away from the headboard to grip onto the meat of Poe's shoulders, leaning down to claim a kiss from Poe's parted lips before driving himself harder, faster, deeper, because he's close and-
Oh my god. John grins wolfishly.]
Sounds like five stars to me-
[Something about that wasn't right. It takes John a moment to put two and two together, what with all the blood in his body flowing straight into his dick and away from his brain.
John's so close. He can ignore it. Ride this out, and think about it later.
But he feels a tingle at the base of his spine, the intrinsic knowing that something is wrong. A sixth sense, if that sixth sense were being half-aware of a door opening and someone talking in a perfectly normal voice. John looks back over his shoulder.
And makes eye-contact with Rodney Mckay standing in the doorway of their bedroom.
His heart stops. His jaw drops. He freezes like a deer in headlights. If that deer were doing the nasty in the middle of the highway with another deer, though since they're technically two stag, you could probably call it locking horns.
John's first instinct is to NOT be doing what he's doing, which means dismounting, but since Poe's still in him, he can't just roll off and to the side without breaking his dick in half. He attempts a vertical lift-off, like a helicopter, except helicopters aren't usually seconds away from orgasm, or slippery with sweat. And they usually have a bigger landing pad than a single bed already overcrowded with two full-grown men.
How terrible mistakes always happen in a split-second, but in slow motion, is something John doesn't have an answer to.
What John means to do is separate, roll to one side, and cover himself with a blanket. What John does is separate, fall to the wrong side, and land hard on his (already tender) ass on the floor.
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Date: 2018-01-27 08:20 pm (UTC)He loves the way Poe's body moves with him. His hands fall away from the headboard to grip onto the meat of Poe's shoulders, leaning down to claim a kiss from Poe's parted lips before driving himself harder, faster, deeper, because he's close and-
Oh my god. John grins wolfishly.]
Sounds like five stars to me-
[Something about that wasn't right. It takes John a moment to put two and two together, what with all the blood in his body flowing straight into his dick and away from his brain.
John's so close. He can ignore it. Ride this out, and think about it later.
But he feels a tingle at the base of his spine, the intrinsic knowing that something is wrong. A sixth sense, if that sixth sense were being half-aware of a door opening and someone talking in a perfectly normal voice. John looks back over his shoulder.
And makes eye-contact with Rodney Mckay standing in the doorway of their bedroom.
His heart stops. His jaw drops. He freezes like a deer in headlights. If that deer were doing the nasty in the middle of the highway with another deer, though since they're technically two stag, you could probably call it locking horns.
John's first instinct is to NOT be doing what he's doing, which means dismounting, but since Poe's still in him, he can't just roll off and to the side without breaking his dick in half. He attempts a vertical lift-off, like a helicopter, except helicopters aren't usually seconds away from orgasm, or slippery with sweat. And they usually have a bigger landing pad than a single bed already overcrowded with two full-grown men.
How terrible mistakes always happen in a split-second, but in slow motion, is something John doesn't have an answer to.
What John means to do is separate, roll to one side, and cover himself with a blanket. What John does is separate, fall to the wrong side, and land hard on his (already tender) ass on the floor.
He has no words.]