Jul. 31st, 2008
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Their yard is acre and a half. John had wanted more, Rodney had wanted less, and they'd compromised in the middle. John's argument had been that the kids needed space to run around and play, Rodney's had been that he was allergic to pretty much everything that grew on God's green earth, and he'd like to continue breathing as much as possible.
At first John had assumed that the Rodney was exaggerating his allergies to get out of mowing the grass. The one summer that John spent hobbling around on a broken leg had pretty much proved that Rodney was telling the truth.
Rodney had mowed the lawn faithfully—because the whole point of having it was so the kids could play in it and they couldn't very well play if the yard was doing an impression of the rain forest—but John had been left feeling guilty and useless. Every time Rodney came in he'd been a mess of red eyes, congested sinuses, and wracking coughs. John had accepted lawn mowing duties without complaint after that.
The lawn mower starts up easily, a sure sign that Rodney has been out messing with it. John grins, listening to it rumble, already starting to sweat. It's far too warm for late spring, especially this early in the morning, and John scowls at the sun, before looking across his lawn.
Rodney offers every year to get a riding mower, and John keeps telling him no. John has been mowing the lawn since he was ten years old, and it just feels right to use a push mower. He likes the vibration of the engine up his arms. He takes maybe more satisfaction than he should from being able to look at the finished product and knowing that he did it.
John also doesn't feel as guilty drinking a beer or two after pushing the mower for an hour. He figures it's a fair trade.
The sun is beating down hard on his shoulders by the time he's done, hot and relentless. John's shirt is lying on the back porch, abandoned when it had started clinging to his back and shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of the sun in his bones. There are pieces of sad, defeated grass stuck all over him, and John picks at them as he puts the lawn mower back in the shed.
Beer sounds good right about now, ice cold, maybe with a left over piece of pizza. John kicks his shoes off outside the house, his socks green around his ankles, padding across the kitchen tile and calling for Rodney. He pauses with the fridge door open, enjoying the rush of cool air across his overheated skin, listening for sounds of life.
John frowns, wiping across his brow, feeling a drop of sweat sliding down his spine. He abandons the fridge, and the beer, padding across the floor, hollering up the stairs for Rodney. No response. John feels something like panic in his chest, remembering waking up to men in black with guns, Rodney being pulled out of his bed while John struggled and fought.
John's heart is racing, he takes the stairs three at a time, throwing open all the doors, not finding Rodney and racing back downstairs. No sign of Rodney anywhere in the house and John slides across the tile to the garage door, half sure that there's going to be a white van speeding away, Rodney trussed up in the back.
Rodney is slamming the hood of John's hotrod closed, patting the car. John freezes, his heart thundering, bracing himself up against the doorframe. Rodney's hair is a mess, smears of grease across his forehead and cheek, down his arms and completely covering his fingers. Rodney's shirt is sticking to his skin, and John doesn't know how he's handling the jeans and boots.
John makes a sound, laughter almost, all hot relief, and Rodney turns to look at him. Rodney beams up at him, reaching for the rag laid out by his tools, wiping at the grease on his hands, saying, "Oh, hey, I just thought I'd do some work on the Mustang while I didn't have anyone under my feet. How's the yard?"
"Good," John steps down into the garage, up to Rodney. Rodney's hair is damp, curling up the way it does when it's wet, and John rubs his thumb across his brow. Rodney leans into the touch and John wraps his hand around the back of the other man's neck, leans in and kisses him hard, just to reassure himself that Rodney is here, that everything is fine.
The force of the kiss coaxes a surprised sound from Rodney. It doesn't sound like protest. John pushes at him, until the back of Rodney's thighs hit the hood of the Mustang. Rodney slides an arm around John's back, flattens his fingers across John's skin, dragging the knuckles of his other hand up John's side.
John only pulls away when he runs out of breath, and even then he doesn't go far, his forehead pressed up against Rodney's, their noses bumping. Rodney licks his lips, John can almost feel it, sounding irritated when he says, "You realize you're all covered in grass, right? I'm probably getting hay fever right now."
John ignores the complaint to kiss him again, pressing himself as tight against Rodney as he can, feeling it when Rodney goes pliant against him. Rodney sighs against his mouth, winding his fingers into John's waistband, tugging his hips forward.
The sweet rub of pressure has John hissing, his cock throbbing. He grinds against Rodney again, nipping at his mouth before managing to make himself ask, "Where are the kids?" Because they hadn't been in the house, either.
Rodney hums, sliding one hand down to squeeze John's ass, leaving the other where it is, his thumb rubbing back and forth over John's hip. Rodney sounds distracted, "Your brother came by and took them to the zoo."
That makes John pause, running the words back through his head just to make sure he heard properly. He still doesn't quite believe it, so he says, "Dave took the kids to the zoo?" It still doesn't make any sense.
Rodney shrugs, dropping a quick kiss on John's lips before leaving a trail across his jaw. John wishes, absently, that he'd shaved in the shower, still trying to get used to the way his beard has decided it wants to be mostly white now. Rodney doesn't appear to mind, voice vibrating against John's throat, "I may have mentioned that Jeannie was looking for someone that was good with kids to settle down with, and that Junior and Emily wrote her an e-mail every week, and that they'd be sure to mention how much fun they had with their uncle."
John feels himself smile, snorting, "You may have, huh?"
Rodney presses a matching smile against John's neck, nipping at his skin, soothing with his tongue and making a soft, needy sound. "It certainly looks that way. They won't be back for hours." There's nothing but promise in Rodney's voice, in the way that he's easing the tips of his fingers below John's waistband.
Possibilities stream through John's head, straight down his spine to his dick. He bites back a groan, grabbing at Rodney, pulling him back into a kiss. He pushes and Rodney's weight settles back onto the hood of the Mustang just for a moment and John freezes, one idea jumping up and down and demanding attention.
John pulls back, looks Rodney up and down and bites his lip in anticipation. Rodney looks back at him, squints at his expression, looks over his shoulder, and then raises a hand, shaking his head, "No. No way, don't even think about it, John."
"I'm already thinking about it." John can feel himself grinning, crossing to Rodney's tool chest and rifling through the drawers. He knows he left—ah, there. John grabs the lube victoriously, turns back to find Rodney with his arms crossed, and momentarily loses his train of thought. Rodney's fingers are strong, grease under his fingernails, his shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest, to his arms. John's mouth goes dry. "God, Rodney."
For a half second Rodney's expression softens, he licks his lips, but then he's rallying, "We can't. There are kids around here. They could be scarred for life. And—and what about the joggers? They could be by at any time."
John shrugs, stepping back into Rodney's space, tilting Rodney's head back and nuzzling against his neck, knowing all the places to bite and suck to make the other man shudder. John learned all of Rodney's buttons years ago, which had made winning arguments a hell of a lot easier. Rodney whines up to the ceiling, sounding breathy, "At least put the garage door down. Someone will hear."
"Not if you're quiet," John nips at Rodney's skin, rumbles the words into his ear and feels him shiver. John slides his hands down Rodney's back, into the back pockets of Rodney's jeans. They feel heavy, damp with sweat and grease. It makes John squeeze, grinding into Rodney. "C'mon, Rodney, please?"
For a moment Rodney is quiet, but that never lasts.
"Okay, fine, but—" John stops listening, shifting to kiss Rodney hard and then taking a half step back. Rodney makes a surprised sound, but John is already pulling at his hips, twisting him around and then sliding a hand beneath his shirt.
Rodney's back is slick with sweat, hot, solid. John groans, running his hand up the line of Rodney's spine, pushing him down. John can feel Rodney's breath hitch when he leans forward, bracing his hands on the hood of the Mustang, looking over his shoulder at John. There's a smear of grease on Rodney's cheek, right below his eye. John wants to lick it, pressing himself up against Rodney's back, grunting.
Rodney snorts, "You're utterly ridiculous," and John would protest but right now all he wants to do is fuck Rodney across the hood of his car, the sooner the better. John kisses and sucks at the back of Rodney's neck, sliding his hand around to Rodney's chest, dragging his thumb across one of Rodney's nipples, feeling his rough indrawn breath.
When Rodney tilts his hips back John curses, his palm sliding down Rodney's stomach, fingers fumbling with his button and zipper. John manages to wrestle Rodney's jeans and boxers to somewhere down around his knees before losing all patience with the effort. He takes a moment to look down at his handiwork, Rodney, leaning over the hood of his muscle car, bare assed and looking over his shoulder.
John curses again, yanking at his own fly, and then getting distracted by Rodney's pointed looks at the lube. John reaches for it automatically, slicking up his fingers, pressing as much of his body up against Rodney's side as he can manage and reaching for the sweet curve of his ass.
Rodney groans, low and loud, with the press of just one of John's fingers into him. John looks automatically out to the road, but there are no wandering neighbors looking horrified. At this point John isn't sure he would care even if there was. He needs this, right now, pants into Rodney's ear, "I need—I can't—"
Rodney nods, jerky, "Yeah, yeah, okay," and that's enough. John buries his face against the other man's broad shoulder, working another finger into him, quick and desperate. As far as prep goes it's minimal at best, but Rodney said 'yeah' and John needs to be in him.
When John slides his fingers free Rodney grunts, his hips tilting back. John fumbles with his zipper again, managing to get his shorts mostly off his hips before reaching for the lube again, slicking himself up and then grabbing for Rodney's hips, holding on in a futile attempt to steady himself. Rodney is hot and tight around him, and John pushes in, hearing the whine in the back of his own throat, powerless to stop it.
Rodney cries out, something wordless and thick, his head dropping, the muscles in his arms jumping. John holds his breath, just revels in this for a long moment. Then he's thrusting forward, pushing and shoving at Rodney's broad back until he gets the idea and slides down to his elbows, down flat on his chest when John thrusts into him again.
The angle is weird and hard on John's knees, but he can't be assed to care. Rodney is so tight, perfect, here and safe and dirty from working on John's car. John keeps a hand braced in the middle of Rodney's back, yanking and pulling at Rodney's shirt until he can get to skin, snapping his hips hard and fast, finesse nothing but a forgotten concern.
Rodney's hands keep slipping across the hood, slick with sweat. He's making the best sounds, grunting, more desperate moans when John bends his knees and finally finds the leverage he was looking for. The car is shifting back and forth, springs groaning, and John curls over Rodney, thrusting over and over, as hard as he can, needing this in a way he can't articulate.
Rodney is still managing to hold his hips up off the hood, and John slides a hand around the curve of his hip. John's hand is still slick with lube, and Rodney makes a desperate sound when John grips his cock, jacking him in a sloppy counter-rhythm to John's thrusts.
John isn't aware that he's babbling, "—don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me—" until Rodney manages to get a hand back, grabbing at John's hip and squeezing. Rodney's fingers are clever, strong, comfortingly familiar.
They've been together nearly half John's life now, and he doesn't know what he'd do without Rodney, doesn't even want to think about it. He'd found Rodney when his life was empty and going to hell, and the other man had been his whole world since then. John knows it might not be entirely healthy. He doesn't care.
Rodney is gasping, words tumbling broken off his lips from John's thrusts, "—I'm here, I'm right here—" and he is. John shouts, pushing hard into him, his orgasm burning through him. He's dimly aware that Rodney's cock is still hard in his hand, but can't seem to make his fingers work.
Rodney's neck is right there, and John bites at his skin, flushed red from heat and exertion. Rodney is squirming around, and John grunts, making his arm work, touching Rodney the way he knows Rodney likes until the other man comes all over his fist, messy and hot.
Rodney groans, low and long, going limp across the hood of the car. John collapses on top of him, feeling Rodney's heart beat, Rodney's heat soaking up into him. Outside the sun is shining, a car driving past while John watches.
John isn't sure how long they stay that way before Rodney pushes up off the hood, muscles in his back and shoulders working. John barely has time to convince his knees to work, sliding out of Rodney and hissing at the loss, clinging to the other man's back while Rodney bats at his hands.
Eventually John relents, shifts back, gives Rodney enough space to turn. Rodney's chest is red from being pressed against the hood, and he pulls up his pants with the slightest wince in the corners of his eyes. John feels a flash of guilt, "Shit, I'm sorry."
Rodney pauses, his jeans still loose around his hips, blinking up at John. His eyes are still a little dazed, his mouth red and kiss swollen. Rodney frowns, then reaches out, grabbing at John's arms and pulling him close, kissing him, soft now.
Rodney says, his lips brushing John's, "It's okay. I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."
John squeezes his eyes shut, nodding desperately, burying his face against the side of Rodney's neck. He's warm and solid and here. John wraps his arms around Rodney, holds him, and allows himself to believe. Rodney pokes him in the shoulder, "Now, I am going to go shower. Coming?"
John considers, "Probably."
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