Actions

Work Header

redolence

Work Text:

As soon as the door is shut, they're all over each-other. They kiss a bit, snarling and carelessly, but it's mostly to get the lance corporal mad. He treats Mike like garbage when he's horny, and he's horniest when he's furious so it's all for a good cause.

 

“Do you ever fucking shave?” Rivaille moans, irritatedly pulling away from the roughness against his face.

Mike sniggers a little. “You're jealous, right?”

 

There are strong, staunch thighs wrapped around his waist. Rivaille can support himself like that for hours, Mike remembers fondly, and the exertion does wonderful things to the muscles of his backside.

 

Rivaille barks at the sudden attention to his ass, but refuses to let go. His grip tightens on Mike's thick waist, and he glances floor-wards momentarily.

 

“If you fucking drop me, I swear to fuck-”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike sniggers a little, nipping at Rivaille's scowling mouth.

 

In retaliation, he bites plenty back, insistently exposing skin to sink his teeth into, pushing Mike's scruffy uniform off. Cussing a lot under his breath, he rakes a long trail of nail marks along tan shoulderblades.

 

He snarls, and seemingly gets infinitely frustrated rocking into the hands spreading his ass apart. He takes a chance by letting go of his grip up top, and grabs Mike's boner to squeeze hard enough to hurt.

 

“Step backwards.”

 

Mike rolls his eyes and nods, not wanting to be too disobedient but still a little too amused at his little control-freak lover. When his calf smacks into the chair leg, he sits down. His hands never leave Rivaille's ass, mostly to get to him.

 

“What's my chance of getting at that sinful mouth, huh?” Mike drones, almost sardonically, as if he's expecting the derisive scoff of 'fat chance'.

“I wouldn't even consider it unless you took a fucking bath first.”

“But it's you who stinks, babe,” Mike rasps against his ear, sniffing a little, and laps at the warm skin there.

 

Rivaille goes very stiff, his shoulders tensing up around his ears, and he whispers a lone swearword as teeth sink into his earlobe. He doesn't even object to having his pants unfastened and pushed down. He lifts his hips a little, and the white pants drop to the floor.

 

There are needy fingers insistently fucking with Mike's flies, but they're doing such a shoddy job he has to take over himself.

 

His dick occupies the space between their bodies wonderfully, and the cold air of the room hitting it makes his head spin.

 

Rivaille straddles his lap with his dense thighs wire taut, and mumbles vaguely.

Obviously he doesn't have anything useful to say.

 

Mike doesn't press the point of undressing Rivaille further, not really wanting to have to argue him into exposing himself when it wasn't necessary. Rivaille did not like being vulnerable, and Mike didn't like pushing his luck.

 

Anyway, the bare legs were a sight to behold on their own, and the loose shirt collar exposed a forbidden pale, soft neck.

 

Rivaille is in charge here, obviously, one slick hand between them controlling the friction of their sexes, the material of his under-shorts growing translucent and damp.

 

His eyes flicker closed often, creasing in frustration as he pants, swears, and rubs himself greedily against Mike's dick.

 

Mike is quiet, breathy, over heated, and struggling to keep his hands to himself

Despite his best efforts the thin cotton shirt and under-vest did little to distract him from the flawlessly toned, heated body inches away from his own.

 

He touches Rivaille's torso a little, starting gently so not to piss him off too much but getting swore at for 'pussying around'. So much for that.

 

His ministrations devolve quickly into just grabbing at the musculature of his back, the curve of his waist, digging nails into his hips, admiring the swell of his ribs with each breath.

 

Rivaille kind of jolts a little, but the connection between them is so wonderful in that moment Mike actually yelps.

 

“That's good, keep doing that. Fuck.”

 

“Bugger off, I know what I'm doing.”

 

Hard nipples show through Rivaille's shirt (wet in a few places with mutual sweat) basically begging for touched, moving against the fabric as he moved his body.

Mike obliges, gladly reaching to toy with his chest, and twists to nibble a line of hickies along his collarbone so he can't get grumpy about it.

 

Rivaille locks up for a few seconds in response, hips twitching involuntarily against the other mans, muscles tight.

 

He whispers, lowly, “Mother fucker, I will get you for that.”

 

And then he grits his teeth, and speeds the fuck up. While he rides the fuck out of Mike, he opens his underwear fly a little and gets some fingers on himself.

 

“Are you a mess?” Mike asks, perhaps a little too interested, because Rivaille's face folds into a scowl.

“Fuck off. Don't make this weird.”

“What's weird? You reek of precome. I know you're coming undone.”

“I don't, ugh, fucking reek of anything,” he insists through gritted teeth, but his cheeks flush.

Mike laughs a little, drops one hand from teasing sensitive nubs to grip his hipbone. “You close?”

“Fuck off, maybe, I-”

“Can I lick those fingers?” He drawls, chasing the pulse along Rivaille's carotid artery with a thick tongue.


His response is a slightly embarrassed cough of surprise, and then strong fingers pushing into his mouth. They're coated in something slightly tangy and a little bitter, and the taste makes Mike groan a little and lose all control at the same time.

 

Rivaille pushes back against him, needily, spitting a long chain of insults, digging his nails into whatever skin he can find (those welts on Mike's thigh were going to linger), and gasps for air.

 

The friction between them gets hotter, and wetter, and Rivaille actually yells for a second before a thoughtful blond bites his mouth closed.

They come together, roundabout, because Mike comes heavily and quickly with a jolt and Rivaille takes about a minute on either side completely incomprehensible. Bar the word 'fuck' and the frotting, neither of them were concentrating too much on anything else.

 

Rivaille climbed off tidily, started straightening his shirt, and then wobbled so hard he almost toppled over.

 

“Do you fucking have to get come on my boots every time?”

 

Mike sighed, a hand over his eyes, and put his dick back in his pants.

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably.”