It starts, predictably enough, during rehearsals. Not that John makes a habit of fucking his co-stars. Alright, that's a lie, but it's not on purpose. It just happens. Hell, most of the time they're the ones that start it off. It's the fucking tension that gets him every time. Wrapping himself up in someone. Just because he's cleaned up and calmed down in his old age doesn't mean he doesn't still crave the old intensity. He has to get his fix one way or another, that's what it comes down to.
Tennant's a fucking geek, hardcore anorak, but damn if he can't act. He doesn't treat this Who lark like a shabby, crap show that kids didn't even think was cool until a few years ago. He probably wanked to it growing up, and now he's living it, and maybe that explains it because since the read-throughs John's been unable to stop himself sniffing after him like a dog. Moth to a flame, like fucking always.
And Tennant's sniffing back. John knows the signs. The touches, never accidental. The looks. God, those eyes, boring into him from across the room. Even the ugly old-man prosthetics don't touch those eyes. Makeup wouldn't dare.
Between takes, the getup gives Tennant free license to act the dirty old man. He's going around pinching bums and being a total letch. He's completely different when he's out of character, not creaky and hobbled but almost dancing around the set, remarkably agile for someone that gangly. He's probably a spaz on the dance floor, and just for a moment John thinks about feeding him a couple of Es, slipping them onto his tongue and he knows Tennant would suck his fingers because he's seen him licking the scenery and it made his cock twitch and he had to think about taxes and boring meetings because he was watching with his son, for god's sake.
Tennant's tongue isn't why he took the job. A potential perk, yes. Reason, no. For him it is a lark, something his son can watch him in for a change. It's not genius stuff, as much as anything for telly is genius these days, but there's a real energy to the room, and at least part of that is Tennant's fault. John soaks it up like a sponge. Inhabits it. Channels it right back at him, make the Master the Doctor's equal. It's a hell of a charge, even when they're not in the same room. When Tennant's reading his lines off-camera but still putting every ounce of emotion into it. John has to force himself not to look at him, to stay in the scene. Even when he's acting at a birdcage, Tennant's right there staring at him. Saying the words.
But for all the smoldering and flirting, for all the dancing around each other, it's the death scene that finally pushes them over. It looked so corny on paper, but after being trapped behind prosthetics and CGI for days, Tennant sinks his teeth into the scene like a starving man. Clings to him, begs, pleads, sobs like a wailing widow. Even as John holds his breath and pretends to be dead, cradled in his arms, he's completely drawn in. Believes it. A few minutes of pure tragedy, pure theatre amid the slam-bang kiddy noise of the finale. The wail seems to go on forever in one take, and it almost breaks his heart.
He hates the behind-the-scenes crap that's everywhere on sets these days, and it's even worse with Who because they've got cameras pointed at cameras pointed at cameras here. He's convinced Tennant not to pull him into his little video diary, but the Confidential team has a job and it's got to be done. He hates interviews, hates having to be himself on camera, and even moreso after that kind of scene. Fucking vampires, all of them, wanting to suck out his feelings for a quick buck and a DVD extra.
They drag him into wardrobe and start with the questions. Of course they ask him about the death scene. He covers with a joke about manly stubble, and they go away, thank Christ. Off to find another victim.
When he escapes, the crew is on a break, and Tennant's nowhere to be found. John noses about and finally tracks him down. Somehow in a building full of people, he's found a quiet corner away from everyone. For once, his manic energy is missing. Drained.
"Hell of a scene," John says, keeping his voice down.
"Hey," Tennant greets. "Yeah, it was." His natural accent is somehow startling, since John's grown used to his London affectation. A moderately thick Scottish brogue that's a long way away from the Doctor. His voice rough from sobbing, take after take.
John finds himself slipping back to his own natural accent. They're not the Master and the Doctor here. "You had your manly stubble in my eye," he says, to lighten the mood.
Tennant laughs. Grins crookedly. "Sorry 'bout that." Meets his eyes, and John sees a flare of heat there.
"No you're not," John says. Steps forward, holds his gaze.
Tennant licks his lips, swallows. There's dried tear tracks on his cheeks. The best actors always cry for real. John wonders what he thought about to summon that kind of pain.
"They're not gonna need us for a while," Tennant says, as he stares at John's mouth. Back up to his eyes, down again.
And John has something witty to say about now, he really does, but it doesn't matter anymore because the next thing he knows they're wrapped around each other and kissing like the world's about to end and this is all they have. He's not even sure who moved first, or if either of them did. It was like magnets snapping together, inevitable, as impossible to fight as gravity.
Tennant's lips are slightly salty from the tears. He smells of deodorant and makeup and sweat and the faint must of Wardrobe. He's as slim as John is, even slimmer, but the extra inches of height make John push up on his toes. Beanpole. He pushes Tennant up against the wall and practically tries to climb up him, one thigh against his hip and their crotches rubbing and Tennant pulling at his clothes and arse as if to help him up those extra inches. John grabs at his hair with a growl, thinking fuck Makeup, fuck Continuity, his hair's always a mess.
He gives up on climbing up Tennant's body when Tennant grabs him and pushes him against the wall, their teeth clicking together as they return to kissing feverishly. John parries with a hand to his groin, rubbing and feeling how hard Tennant already is, fuck yes. And then Tennant returning the favour.
There's nothing soft here. No cuddling, no words, just pure lust. And then Tennant speaks, voice even rougher, a rumble from deep in his chest. "God, I want to fuck you," he says, the vowels all drawn out.
John takes a sharp breath and groans. "Not enough time," he says, somehow stringing sounds together to make words.
"I.O.U.," Tennant breathes, and roughly pulls open his trousers and pushes his hand into John's underwear and John lets out a high-pitched moan as those long, slim fingers begin to urgently pull at his cock and that's when John knows he's lost whatever thin tether of control he had over this encounter. He concentrates on clinging to Tennant and devouring his mouth and thrusting into his expert touch, fuck, he knows what he's doing.
But then so does John. He pushes up that tight shirt and jacket, gets his hands onto skin. Feels up his body as he rides Tennant's fist. Grips his tight little arse, all muscle, barely an inch of fat on his skinny body and it makes him all hard angles. The sharp jut of his hip bones, the bumps of his ribcage. And where he's softer, it's muscle, tensed and flexing as he moves. John wants to see him naked, and he's not lowering himself to buying DVDs. He pulls open buttons even as his thrusts against Tennant quicken. Reaches skin and scratches at it with stubby nails, wants to mark him, get a solid grip on him, claim him because fuck if he wants this to end. Moans, whimpers, clings as climax pulls at him once, again, harder, and then he spills out onto David's hand, his cries muffled by deep kisses, his hips thrusting erratically, slowing, stopping. He's breathing hard, his knees feel weak. David's a mess, hair wild, clothes undone, red lines all over his chest. It's a good thing the Doctor doesn't strip down. And yeah, that bulge in his trousers, oh yes.
John doesn't stop to think about it, can't stop to think, just drops to his knees, pulls open that zipper, pulls out his cock and tastes it. David groans and leans his hands against the wall and closes his eyes. Gives a shallow thrust of encouragement, and John doesn't take orders and ignores it. Grips the shaft and licks the head like a lollipop, red and shining. Sucks and laves and gently nibbles. Massages his balls through his trousers. Feels the urge and follows it, and with one hand yanks his trousers and pants down to his knees. And yeah, this is more like it. Almost naked is a good look for him.
He knows he's switched to David in his head. After he's come in the man's hand, it's first-name basis. And David's moaning his name, pleading god, don't stop. John reaches back and presses a finger between his cheeks, teases the rim of his arsehole, and David chokes and groans.
After that, it's short work. David bites back a cry as he comes, not daring loudness for fear of someone finding them. John catches his come in his mouth but doesn't swallow, stands up and kisses him and pushes the come into his mouth, and David gives a startled sound and a moan and swallows it. And when he opens his eyes, John sees the Doctor's surrender, and feels so very much the Master, and can't resist pulling the Doctor down by his tie and onto his knees and now he's the one who has to look up. The Master sneers down at him, triumphant.
"Use my name," he demands.
"Master," David breathes, and shudders like he's coming a second time.
A bolt of lust shoots through John, and he releases the tie, falls out of character. Collects himself. Wipes the come from his chin, his clothes. Looks down at David, who hasn't moved, who's a complete mess, and wants to make him even more of a mess and Wardrobe's already going to have a fit.
After one long, intense look, he stumbles off to clear his head.
There's a late addition to the script, a face-off on a hill, and when they're done smoldering and wresting with each other in character, they do it again in David's trailer as themselves. They manage to keep quiet, but mostly because their mouths are full of each other's cocks.
After filming, it stops. It has to stop, because the job is over, and he only does this on the job. It's his vice, but he keeps it where it belongs. Separate.
And it is. It's over. He barely thinks about it, except every time he watches the new episodes of Doctor Who, and happens to catch the repeats on his own even though it's just because the telly's on. And he hates awards shows but somehow ends up watching to the end just to see him win award after award and beat John's own nominations which really should bother him more but he's too busy being amused by David's fashion sense. God, where does he get those terrible suits? The only reason he pulls them off at all is that he clearly thinks they're the height of fashion and plays them that way. Not an ounce of shame, but John already knew that about him.
When June ends, he files the whole business away with the last of the Master episodes. Doesn't think about David at all. Until August, when he calls out of the blue and invites him to the Ivy for dinner.
"Come on, it'll be great," he says.
And John ought to say no. It goes against the tidy boxes he keeps his life in. But instead he somehow ends up saying yes, and soon enough he's meeting David at their reserved table. David greets him with an unreserved hug.
By the time they're well into the meal and their third beers, John is wondering why he thought this was a bad idea. It's actually great. David's almost as much of a music geek as he is; even if he doesn't have the best taste at least he's discerning. Outside of the busy work of filming, he gets to know David a little better, commiserates with him about the overwhelming force that is the Doctor Who production machine, the constant press and fan attention. John had a taste of that before, but Life on Mars publicity was nothing next to what David has to go through.
"I could never do that," he says. Takes another swig of beer. "God, it'd drive me mad."
"It's all right," David says, slurring slightly. "Kinda fun. Fans're nice."
John shudders. "No, thanks."
"You know what I hate?" David says, waving his finger about. "First question they asked, first day: when am I leaving? Bastards. It's all Chris' fault, really. I should call him up and yell at him. What time is it in America?"
"I can never remember," John says. Finishes off his beer. The waiter comes and takes their plates, and they turn down dessert in favour of another round.
"God, I need to piss," David announces, grins and laughs.
"Can't take you anywhere," John says, aware of people watching. He's always aware. "Come on," he says, and takes David by the arm, tugs him along. If he doesn't help, David might end up in the ladies' in the state he's in. Which would be funny, but also mortifying. Besides, John has to piss like a racehorse.
They make their way to the toilet without incident. While they're pissing, the only other man in the bathroom leaves, and they have the room to themselves. It's only then that a change comes over David: sudden--though not complete--sobriety. And a devious look as he zips himself up and reaches for the lock to the door.
It clicks into place.
While John is still staring at him in confusion, standing there dumbly with his hand on his cock, David comes over and kisses him. Pulls him close, smoothly replaces John's hand with his own and starts to stroke him before he can even think about protesting. Sneaky bugger.
"You were faking," John says, amused despite himself.
"I believe they call it acting," David replies. "Sloshed from four beers? Hardly."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"The Ivy needs reservations weeks in advance," David says, voice lowering.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?" John says, amazed.
"I missed you," David says. Bends down and licks at his neck. "Been thinking about you."
John says nothing to that, just shudders as David toys with the head of his cock, makes it harden in his hand. Now he remembers why this was a bad idea, but that doesn't mean he's going to try to stop this. He wants it as much as David does, he just can't admit it.
"Not gonna have much time after this," David continues. "Bloody schedule. Maybe I can convince Russell to bring back the Master for another three-parter." And with that, he drops to his knees and sucks John's cock hard.
"Fuck," John pants. Grips David's hair, needs to just to stay upright. "Oh, fuck."
David gives a hum of agreement, and that shoots right down John's cock and makes him bite his lip. He can't believe they're doing this here, now. God, they must be insane. It's all David's fault, but John can't bring himself to be mad when his cock's practically down his throat. Christ, he can suck.
Without missing a beat, David starts tugging down John's jeans. Gets them down around his knees, then starts playing with his arse. It takes a while for John to realize his fingers are slick, and with a start realizes that David brought lube. "Cheeky fuck," he hisses. "Who do you think you are, Casanova?"
David laughs around his cock, then swallows it, fucking swallows it, and John's eyes roll in his head. If he had any kind of argument against what's happening, it's melted out his ears.
The next thing he knows, David's pulled off, pulled him to the sink and bent him over it. John can see him in the mirror, face flushed and eyes dark with lust, with intent. Sees him unzipping his jeans, pulling out his cock and stroking it. Feels him pushing it into his arse.
"That's it," David breathes, fucking him shallowly, easing himself in. Stroking John's cock, keeping him too aroused to think. Not that John doesn't want this. God, he wants this. He spreads his legs as far as his jeans will allow, and David's the one who groans this time. Curses and sinks deeper. His reflection shifts, and he looks almost overwhelmed for a moment before desire pushes it away.
They don't have much time. It's a miracle that no one's knocked yet, but maybe David's planning went so far as paying off the staff. Christ knows he's got the cash these days. John stops thinking as David starts to fuck him hard, rough strokes on his cock out of sync with the thrusts into his arse. The strain on David's face, the cords of his neck standing out, his teeth gritted with effort. Like every part of him is focused on fucking him. John flushes under the intense attention even as he claws at the sink, arches his spine. David's free hand is gripping his shirt, rumpling it, fingers digging into his body as he holds him, fucks him. Sees himself being fucked, the head of his cock peeking out of David's fist. The exposure, the intimacy, make him shiver, clench tight around the cock in his arse. David groans, too loudly. John really hopes he paid off the staff.
"Do this-- with all your dates?" John gasps.
David laughs breathily. Growls low. "This a date now?"
"Better be," John says. Grunts as David fucks him especially hard. Pants open-mouthed as his arousal builds.
"First date?" David asks, with a twist of his hips. "Second? Do we count each time we've had sex? Each act?"
John just moans, too far gone to think, much less talk. David shuts up too, concentrates on fucking him senseless. And it's not long before John comes hard, whole body tensed, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out because they're in a fucking restaurant toilet. He comes all over the sink, his shirt, David's hand. Wants to collapse but David keeps holding him up, both hands now, pushes him against the sink and just lets loose, fucks him wildly until he comes with one last thrust, pulsing deep inside his arse and then collapsing against his back, breathing hard.
David eases off him, eases out with a groan and a wet sound. John feels wetness, lube and come dribbling out of his arse. He's the one that's a wreck this time. He leans against the sink, recovering, while David wipes off his cock, straightens himself up. John wants to glower at him for looking so damn collected, but he's still trying to coordinate his limbs.
David reaches down and pushes his fingers into his arse, plays with the rim with a wet squelch. John groans, shudders. Moans when those fingers delve deeper, curl inside him. Closes his eyes and surrenders as David torments him with pleasure and aftershocks of orgasm and drips of come slide down his balls.
There's a polite cough from the other side of the door, and the fingers slide out of him. David grabs some paper towels and hands them to him. "Time's up," he says, regretfully. "Should have given him another couple hundred."
John laughs and shakes his head.
After he's cleaned up as best he can, they leave the toilet. Apart from a well-paid waiter, no one's the wiser. David pays the bill, and they head for the exit.
They see the flash of paparazzi well ahead of time. It's only to be expected, but John can't help but feel like "just been bummed by David Tennant" is written all over his face in black marker. He manages to keep his cool as they leave, but then David puts a proprietary arm around his shoulder. John swears he can smell a whiff of lube and come from his hand, and blushes hard.
With any luck, the press will just think he's flushed from too much beer.
When he gets the invitation for the screening for Voyage of the Damned, John knows what he has to do. He RSVPs yes, and starts thinking about getting David back on his knees. Or hands and knees. Or both.
So much for compartmentalizing.
And then it turns out that David's taste in music is better than he thought, because he runs straight into him at the Jools Holland Hootenanny. Ends up spending the whole show with him, even getting corralled into some of that bloody publicity nonsense, because it's not like the BBC will let David go anywhere without a TARDIS anymore. He's seen the tabloid rumour that he's slated as the next Doctor, and considers it the most absurd thing he's ever read.
Sadly, there's no time to pull David off to a conveniently hidden corner for sex, because the place is fucking packed and there's filming and an early call for work. He does, however, find out that David is just as much of a spaz dancer as he expected him to be. Though getting soused couldn't have helped his coordination.
Three days later is the big premiere. When John considers what to wear, there's really only one option.
The moment David sees him, he gets a sly grin. "Nice shirt," David says, leaning in. "Wanna fuck?" he whispers, then cackles.
John snorts. "What do you call that suit?"
"Style," David says, proud of the black plaid monstrosity he's dug up this time.
John makes a mental note to injure that suit beyond repair before the night is out. It needs to be taken out back and shot.
All too soon, David is pulled away for the usual chaos. Interviews, photo shoots with the TARDIS, signatures, children, handshakes. John returns to his wife and sticks with her, much preferring her company to getting sucked into the publicity machine. He feels a twinge of guilt about his thing with David, but not so much that he's prepared to stop. He can't really call it an affair. Fuckbuddies? He shrugs off the whole train of thought and gets another glass of wine.
The actual show isn't half-bad. He's actually started to enjoy the new Doctor Who, and not just for its star. Watching it with his son -- and obsessively rewatching on his own -- shook off his cynicism. Not that the eye candy hurts at all. He likes the tux. Now that's a good look for him.
Afterwards there's the usual wrap-up, but thankfully the crowd thins quickly due to the hour, and his wife heads home to relieve the babysitter. He tracks David down and finds him leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand.
"Good show," he says.
"Thanks," David replies. "What a night. Few months, I get to do it all over again."
"All done for now, though?"
"Yup," David says.
John reaches up and 'accidentally' knocks his drink all over his suit. David straightens up, holds his arms out, looks despairingly down at himself. "Aw, what a mess."
"Shame," John says, not at all sincerely.
"Seen any abandoned glasses of soda water?" David asks, looking around.
"Think so. Back this way," John says, giving his collar a tug.
David follows after him, fussing over his ruined jacket. Not at all paying attention to where they're going until they stop. "There's soda water in the TARDIS?" he says, confused.
John closes the doors, pulls the cheap lock shut. Flicks off the lights illuminating the windows. Light streams dimly in through the open back. He pulls David in and kisses him.
He stops and checks, and is pleased to see David's confusion has been replaced by dazed lust. He leans in close, whispers in his ear. "On your knees," he commands.
David swallows a whimper. Sinks down without protest, and John can see him shifting. Becoming someone else. Not quite the Doctor, not quite himself, but something in between. And he looks up at John like he's a someone else too.
John would bet good money that the Doctor Who episodes young David wanked to were the ones with the Master in them. A slow, evil smile creeps across his face.
"I win," he says, sinking into the role. "But what to do with you? I suppose I'll just have to keep you."
David visibly shivers. Looks up at him almost worshipfully. It goes straight to John's cock, it does. Yeah, he likes this.
"I don't hear any begging," John says, in a sing-song voice.
"Please," David breathes, begs, like he did for the Master, but better, because he's on his knees and not on another set. "Please keep me."
"It's a start," John says, slitting his eyes. Tilts his head. "But I'm going to need more than that."
"I'll do anything," David pleads, eyes wide, lips parted enticingly. "Please."
They haven't even started yet, and John's already hard, straining at his jeans. "I'm going to need a demonstration," he says, mind racing with ideas. "I need to know you're going to behave."
David gives a strangled whimper. "Yes," he groans.
"The jacket," John says, firmly. "Take it off. Now."
David doesn't hesitate, strips off the ugly, stained jacket. Holds it out, an offering. Fuck, if this keeps up John might come before he's even touched. The power trip is amazing, and David's just so... god. So his. John's really going to enjoy getting his revenge for the Ivy.
"Rip it in half," he orders.
There David hesitates. John gives him his most commanding, Masterly glare, and he can see the Doctor part of David wither beneath it. Needing to suffer, to be punished, because he's been such a bad, bad Time Lord. With a loud rip his precious jacket is torn in two. John smirks in satisfaction and takes the pieces.
The Doctor glares stubbornly up at him. John doesn't have a laser screwdriver, but he can improvise. He grabs that black tie and pulls at it, turning it into a leash, making it tight enough to show just who's in charge. Tugs the Doctor forward, makes him crawl after him, out the back of the TARDIS and through the doors behind. He's done some planning of his own, and he knows they'll have their privacy back here. As much fun as it would be to fuck him in the TARDIS, the prop's a rickety thing that'd probably fall apart on them.
He sees a glimpse of David as the Doctor persona wavers, as he looks around in case someone might see. But there's no one, just them. John locks the doors behind them.
"Strip," he orders. "Everything but the tie."
John stands there and watches as David slowly strips for him. All that black sliding away to reveal pale skin, shades of pink, his hard cock already flushed and dark. There's thin carpeting here, a desk, some folded up tables, chairs. Typical modern conference room, bland as shit. Well, not so much with the latest addition.
It should be harder to concentrate, to stay in character, but fuck if David naked on his hands and knees isn't inspirational. John just has to think of David setting him up at the Ivy to have all the motivation he needs.
He reaches down, caresses his cheek. Presses his thumb against his lips, and then feels a shock of lust as David sucks it into his mouth, hollows his cheeks around it. It's no wonder John can't stay away from him, can't get enough. For a man addicted to intensity, David is a whole new drug, one that's already his. All he has to do is reach out and take him.
He grabs him by the tie, pulls him up onto his knees. Their faces are so close, their lips not even an inch apart. The need for them to kiss is exquisite. He moves forward just a fraction, then back again, the barest measure of a tease. He can feel David's breath against his lips. Leans in immeasurably slowly, hears a soft gasp of need, lets his lips brush just barely against David's, and then pulls away. David whimpers, bereft.
John saw this in him during filming. He knew he did. And that moment after the death scene... God, that moment. The hit that hooked him.
"Use my name," he says again.
"John," David moans.
It's all John can do not to come in his jeans right then. Fuck fuck fuck. Yes. "Yes," he hisses. Does kiss him then, gives in to the need and ravishes his mouth, grips tight at his hair.
He doesn't just want to fuck him. He needs to.
"Undress me," he breathes, trying to regain some control over himself along with the scene. "Nice and slow."
David looks at him with those dark, intense eyes and then reaches for his jacket. John straightens up and David stands, yet somehow manages to bend his lanky body enough that he stays shorter than him. John has to give him credit for staying in character.
David worshipfully strips him, folds his clothes neatly. He also manages to caress seemingly every inch of John's body in the process, running his hands all over him as he pushes off shirt and jeans. He sniffs deeply at John's shirt, but dry cleaning long removed any trace of come. And then David leans in and sniffs him.
"You smell good," David says, meets his eyes. Dark and playful. Holds up the lube he found in John's pocket.
John gives him a look and takes it back. Cheeky fuck. If John's not careful, he's going to get the upper hand again. Not that that would be entirely bad.
That gives him an idea.
"Here," he says, giving him back the lube. "Get yourself ready." He smirks as realization dawns on David's face, though that's quickly replaced by a knowing smile. Without looking away, David wets his hand, the same hand he had up John's arse in the Ivy toilet. He reaches behind and pushes into himself, and John can see his arm move as he works his fingers in and out. David's eyes half-close as he lets his head fall back, as he moves against his own hand.
John can't resist this kind of temptation. He moves in, hands at David's waist, mouth on his arched neck. Stops thinking about anything but their bodies against each other. Takes David's busy hand and wraps it around his own cock, so that David is stroking him, slicking him, and reaches around and presses his own fingers into his slick arsehole.
Unlike most of their previous encounters, this is far from hurried. No rush to the finish for fear of discovery.
He wraps his free hand around David's neglected cock, strokes him. Abandons his neck to kiss his mouth. Loses himself in David's body, his touch. Everything else fades away.
It's David who finally makes the next move, probably because of John's teasing fingers inside him. With a growl he grabs John by the arms, pushes him back and into a nearby chair. Sits on his lap, straddles him, kisses him passionately.
"If you don't fuck me soon," he says, voice low, "it's going to drive me mad. And then the BBC will sue you for destruction of property."
John laughs, then gives him a darkly lustful look. Pushes him off his lap, then down to his knees. Pushes the chair away and kneels behind him, gives himself a few strokes, and then sinks his cock into David's arse. David falls forward onto his hands, and John leans over him, holds his hips as he starts to fuck him. God, he's wanted to do this all year. If they hadn't spent the whole time in that trailer sucking each other's cocks, he could have done it then.
"Beeb gonna mind-- if I give you rugburn?" John pants.
David laughs, clenches around his cock. "I'll check my contract."
John gives him a good hard thrust for that, and David groans incoherently. The sound just makes John need to fuck him harder. Even if they have all night, he really isn't going to last that long, and he knows it.
"Touch yourself," John says.
David moans, wraps one hand around his cock. For once, John actually wishes there was a camera pointed at them, so he could see David's face, his hand. There's no mirror to look at him in.
He pulls out, gritting his teeth because it's that hard to force himself to do it. David looks over his shoulder, confusion under his lust.
John grabs the pile of David's clothes and drags it over. Sits on the carpet, leans back. "C'mere," he says, leaning back, legs straight. David crawls over him, straddles his body, kisses him. John's hands grip his hips and guide him, position him. And David sinks down onto his cock with a groan.
John lies back all the way, his head pillowed on David's clothes. He's treated to the sight of David over him, hand on his cock, fucking himself slowly as he rises up and down on John's cock. It's fucking glorious, and feels even better. John runs his hands over all of him he can reach, adds his own hand to David's cock.
John doesn't normally think of men as beautiful, but right now it's the only description he can think of for how David looks. The way his mouth falls open as he sinks down, the strain of his thighs and stomach as he rises up. The way he rides him, meeting his thrusts. The way he moans. David's noisy when he's being fucked.
Fuck, he's loud. Too loud.
John grabs his tie, pulls it off him. Grabs him by the arms and holds him as he tumbles them over, so that David's on the floor and John is over him.
"Shh," he hushes, and gags him with the tie. David lets him do it, groans, bites the fabric as it's secured with a knot. John stares down at him and shudders at the sight. Hitches David's leg up to his waist and starts fucking him again. God, he feels good around him. David brings up his other leg and his thighs grip John's sides. All that stuntwork keeps him strong, limber. John thinks about sending Russell a thank you note.
David's moans are sufficiently muffled by the tie, which means John can concentrate on fucking him into the floor. He pounds into him, driven by the need for him that's been building steadily since that first day. Grips him bruisingly, holding him in place, pinning him down the way David's thighs are glued to his sides. His lips curl in a snarl as they fuck, as they try to drive themselves into each other, bodies hot and taut and flushed.
He bats away David's hand and grips his cock roughly, strokes it fast, hungry for a result. Gets it in David's muffled sob of lust, the rictus of pleasure on his face. Keeps at it until he wrings climax from David's body, until he comes hard, arching his back, clenching exquisitely tight around John's cock. He spurts messily between them, all over John's fist, and John wants him messier. Fuck, he wants him as wrecked as he was in the Ivy, wants him devastated. He wipes his hand clean on David's body and grips his leg and brings it higher so he can drive in deeper. Makes him bend, and fuck he's made for it.
John comes with a choked cry, hips twitching as he pours himself out inside David's arse. Digs his fingers in so hard he knows he'll leave bruises. Collapses, panting, shaking.
When he can see straight again, he untangles himself from David with a groan. Hears that wet noise when he slides out and can't resist, has to plunge his fingers into his wet, loosened arse, parts David's thighs and fucks him with two fingers until he's moaning and quivering helplessly, gripping the carpet like a lifeline. Summons the energy to roll him onto his front and pushes in a third, relishing the way he feels inside, hot and wet, the way it makes him squirm.
He can't get enough of him. It's as bad an addiction as any he's had, and each time it just gets stronger.
"We're doing this again," he says, staring at his fingers as they slide in and out.
"Okay," David mumbles, muffled by the tie. He clenches around John's fingers and groans.
John abandons his arse for now and pulls open the knot, tosses aside the tie. Kisses him sloppily, hungrily. Ends up on the bottom again, with David sprawled on top of him, sticky and lazy with afterglow.
"That enough of a demonstration?" David asks, smugly.
John just gives him a low growl, and kisses him again.