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Johnny does this thing where he flirts with most things that move on two legs, and yeah, that’s all well and good, everybody does it. It’s a bit of harmless fun which is probably exactly what the Graceland agents need after a long day of being threatened at gunpoint by drug pushers, cop killers, and other nefarious folk.

But just not Mike, that’s all he wants. Really. He swears, he just wants Johnny to find some cute girl or even a mischievous guy who can keep up with the glint in Johnny’s eyes. It’s not as if Mike doesn’t necessarily enjoy the attention, but it can be rather trying on his nerves after he’s been accused of selling out Bello’s men. He’d like to not have to deal with Johnny’s smirks and witty comments and double entendres sometimes. It also doesn’t help that Johnny has a tendency to be a little over the top with Mike: he flirts with him more than anybody else in the house. Mike writes it off as the fact that, other than Paige, nobody in the house would probably be too receptive and responsive to Johnny’s teasing—Briggs and Jakes don’t really strike Mike as the playful flirting type, at least not when it would come to Johnny, and Charlie’s definitely only going to be sighing about them encouraging his behavior, and well. That leaves Mike.

Honestly, Mike doesn’t know why it bothers him sometimes. After all, Johnny doesn’t mean anything by it; he flirts with everyone, and for the most part, it’s harmless, until it’s not and Johnny’s walk of shame’ing home at ten in the morning. Most days, Mike just brushes it off, attributes it to his greenness, the fact that he’s still the baby of the house, and Johnny has ever right to give him hell for it.

There’s something so frustrating about how Johnny feels like he can just mess up Mike’s hair and get all up in Mike’s space like it’s his own or like he has some right to be flush against Mike when they’re standing by the bar. It’s downright rude, or it would be if half of the time it didn’t cause Mike’s stomach to swoop with that feeling of being valued and looked after.


Under most circumstances, Johnny is about as subtle as a gun, unless it involves a case, and even then, he wants to put a chupacabra on his ass and to fuck that marijuana farmer who’s vicious enough to paint a barn Dale-colored. Johnny’s intensity is the reason that Mike’s pretty aware of the fact that Johnny flirts with most people, which, perhaps counter-intuitively, calms Mike. There’s a lot less pressure when Mike knows that Johnny also gives other people that same smile and is so quick to be touchy and affectionate with people he just met, slinging arms around girls whose names Johnny has hardly even got to yet.

For once, the entire house is gathered at the local bar, sitting around their usual table because it seems to be some kind of weekly tradition for them. Jakes is sitting next to Paige, laughing about the latest ridiculous stunt Johnny pulled while Briggs shakes his head. Charlie’s got a shoulder leaning into Mike’s, gentle and reassuring—one of the things about Graceland he has come to love in the past few weeks. He’s still fresh, but they seem to care about him already, saving him pasta leftovers and giving him nicknames and comfortingly pushing into his personal space. Of course, there’s comforting and then there’s intrusive and there’s Johnny. There’s Charlie’s shoulder against his, but there’s also Johnny’s limbs that fly around as he interrupts Paige’s story, ending up with one of Johnny’s arms around his shoulders which eventually moves to rest on his knee, and then his foot and leg which are encroaching on Mike so that the bone of Johnny’s knee is bumping into Mike’s knee as well. And fucking seriously, John.

Mike doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t necessarily want to draw any unneeded attention to the fact that Johnny’s like some kind of magnet that can’t help but affix himself to Mike. Mike just grits his teeth and deals with it because it’s Johnny and he can’t really complain when numerous people are subject to the same treatment. This is how Johnny shows his affection, Mike reminds himself.

It’s only when Paige raises an eyebrow and cuts into her own story with a, “Jesus, Johnny, give the boy some room to breathe, would you?” that Mike second-guesses himself. He doesn’t ever really recall anyone telling Johnny to back off of somebody before, and oh, oh, that’s new. As is the defensive and pissy look Johnny gives Paige, like he’s personally offended for being separated from Mike.

Later on during the night, after Briggs has disappeared to chat up some girl he supposedly has a little bit of an on-and-off thing with, Paige is trying that game where she pawns Mike off helplessly to some intimidating, gorgeous girls.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure the first rule says ‘No girls upstairs,’” Johnny adds, pushing his body forward more so he’s half in-between Paige and Mike, his weight leaning back against Mike. Typical.

Paige just laughs, reminding Johnny that most girls have a place of their own to take Mike back to while Mike wonders when his sex life was suddenly a discussion he was butted out of by Paige and Johnny. Still typical.

“Ah, the rule is ‘No badge, no upstairs,’” Paige says, smirking. “But nice try, Johnny.”

Johnny deflates slightly, stepping back and shrugging. “I’m just saying, the pseudo rule would allow Mike to bring a guy upstairs.” He winks at Mike, digging an elbow into his ribs before walking over to a bar stool next to a girl that has been eying Johnny up for a while now.

Mike downs the rest of his beer pretty quickly after that, mostly ignoring the way Paige looks at him with some kind of question on her face. Instead of chatting up the girl Paige is convinced Mike should go talk to, he spends the rest of the night taking stock of the way Johnny hardly touches the girl he’s talking to, the way he gives her ample room, the way he doesn’t look at her as if he wants to make her heart stop with a smile.

Mike might’ve misjudged the severity of the situation.


As it turns out, Johnny does do subtle, but only when he’s tired. Only when the house is quiet and Johnny doesn’t have that energy from being around other people that fuels his extrovert. Only when it’s just Mike and Johnny, and really, the subtlety is the worst part, if you ask Mike.

It’s softer and more…real. It’s harder to resist, harder to hate, harder to not smile back with genuineness when Johnny looks so expectant, and Mike really has no defense for that.

There’s no defense Mike has for the way Johnny helps Mike wash the dishes in the middle of the night—there’s nothing good on television, Johnny insists as he grabs a towel to dry. It’s in the way Johnny is still in Mike’s space but less theatrical, less limbs and more solidness. More of Johnny’s shoulder grazing Mike’s every time he reaches for a dish to dry, more of “tell me about your day with your sugar daddy Bello, Mikey,” and more strings of Spanish words that Mike doesn’t entirely catch, but he thinks there might’ve been a term of endearment at the end there.

It’s different from the bar, it’s different from when everybody’s around. It’s also different from Johnny with girls at the bar, but Mike reminds himself that this is simply how John shows his affection, makes sure that Mike knows, despite his newness, that he’s looked after.

When the dishes are dry, Mike steals the towel from Johnny, wiping the water off of his hands, pretending to be oblivious to the way that Johnny holds onto the other end of the towel. The way Johnny’s fingers seem to reach out towards Mike’s fingers, the way Johnny’s eyes look up at Mike in a kind of daze. Mike writes it off as Johnny’s exhaustion—he’s had a long day of assisting Jakes with some overly ambitious and very criminal Jamaicans.

Johnny tosses the towel on the counter, helping Mike put the plates away, but not before tapping his palms against Mike’s hip to move him out of the way. There’s the reticent way that Johnny’s one hand still stays on Mike while he opens cupboards and how he seems to hover around Mike the entire time they put dishes away, hardly talking anymore. Johnny is like a planet in orbit around Mike, and it’s calm and serene—a hazier version of Johnny and his enthusiasm and his affection. A simplicity.

Mike tries not to get too attached the way Johnny slowly slides a hand across Mike’s back before patting him on the shoulder with a quiet, “Night, Mikey.”

That’s new too.


Johnny’s an asshole. And by asshole, Mike mostly means that it’s about one hundred and fifty-seven percent not okay for Johnny to toss Mike over his shoulder and then into the ocean. One hundred and fifty-seven percent not okay.

It’s even more not-okay for him to do a victory lap around Paige’s towel either.


Johnny’s a big fan of the good-morning headlock.


Johnny’s also a big fan of play-wrestling in the foyer until Charlie breaks it up.


Johnny. That shithead. Is also a fan of falling asleep on the couch, limbs splayed about everywhere, ensuring some type of infuriating contact with Mike, who, for the record, sits far enough away that contact shouldn’t be so necessary.


There’s a one-sided pillow fight to wake Mike up for surfing lessons. And eyebrow-waggling suggestions of showering together afterward.


It’s getting out of hand.


Mike hits the breaking point when they’re at the stupid beach bonfire again, as much as a house tradition as that bar and sauce night, and it feels a lot like family, which Mike has no qualms with.

He does, however, have qualms with the way Mike-contact—no, not human contact, quite specifically Mike contact—is a dire, life-or-death kind of thing for Johnny. His feet are propped up in Mike’s lap, and he’s like a goddamn leech—Mike means that in the most endearing way possible, he swears. It’s still so frustrating, and it’s hard to continue justifying that John is like this with everybody. John does not, contrary to initial popular belief, treat everybody else like his own personal jungle gym.

He’s…not, not quite like this, and it was easy to keep shoving things under the rug until nobody else in the house was willing to, constantly calling Johnny out on the way his words dripped with sexual innuendo half the time he spoke to Mike, the way his eyes had that perpetual shine of up to something. After that, Mike couldn’t entirely ignore the fact that Johnny kept him closer than anybody else. What was there that he could do about it though? It’s not that he wants it to stop, but it’s like the boy has no sense of how much affection is too much or how many offers for good luck kisses are no longer platonic jokes, and let the record state that Mike’s nerves are only this frayed because his lies are his life and things are weighing heaver on his shoulders than ever.

He doesn’t have the sanity or the time to put up with Johnny’s suffocating sweetness. Doesn’t have anything in the book for how to handle that one roommate who mercilessly flirts with him for something to do when Mike is pushing down the urge to bend Johnny over the next nearest surface. It’s a hard thought not to have when John consistently covers Mike’s entire body with his own, so sue him.

The rest of the group is rattling on in Spanish, and god, he hates when they do this. It’s for his own good, he reminds himself; he’ll give them that. But it isn’t as if much of this will stick or sink in when Mike’s already on his fourth beer, and he’s hardly following the conversation as it is, content to sit back and relish in the moment of family.

Until Johnny is toeing at Mike’s leg, moving his legs around so that he’s tapping against Mike’s foot, nudging at him restlessly for attention. Attention that Mike is now hard-wired to give by second nature, moving the hand that isn’t holding his beer to Johnny’s ankle and draping his arm over Johnny’s legs so that his elbow kisses John’s knee. Mike doesn’t miss the soft sigh Johnny lets out before settling his limbs back into peace.

Not five minutes later, Mike catches onto the fact that he should be involved in the conversation, catching his name every so often and still drowning in the back and forth of fast foreign words, half of them street slang that his audio tracks don’t really include. At the knitting of Mike’s eyebrows, Johnny sits up, still leaving his legs on their throne of Mike’s lap and translating a few things, catching Mike up. This is par for the course, and fuck it, Johnny can drape himself over Mike as often as he wants if he keeps translating Spanish in Mike’s ear, slipping the occasional joke in when he knows that Mike followed that last sentence, breath hot and voice raspy and yeah, this is okay. This is fine by Mike.

Johnny lets slip a particularly hilarious crack, right about the time that the alcohol and the warmth all break down Mike’s frayed nerves. His head dips down, laughing in the same breath space as Johnny, their foreheads touching, the two of them ducked down in their own world. This is a slow progression that has been flipping the house right side round, because Mike is new and Johnny is leeching onto him even more than he’s been stuck to the rest of the house. They’re all pretty codependent too, so that’s saying something there. It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way Mike’s smile is so fucking contagious when it’s right next to Johnny’s cheek like that, when Johnny’s shaky breath floats across Mike’s face.

And then Briggs is making some comment in Spanish about Mike learning Johnny’s language, something like aprende su lengua? And yeah, Mike’s trying, damn it, that’s why Johnny’s in his face, drunken whispering no no no esposas means wives and handcuffs, isn’t that kinky, Mikey. And oh, this is why it’s taking Mike forever to follow this language, but the raucous laughs make him feel like he’s missed something again, and it’s fucking frustrating. Just reason four hundred and ninety-three why Mike can’t deal with anything right now.

Johnny’s face clouds over, and he separates slightly from Mike, pulling back a bit and putting a few inches distant between their faces again so he’s no longer leaning up against Mike. His feet, though, stay perched on Mike’s lap, and Mike unconsciously feels his grip on John’s ankle tighten. He follows Johnny’s movement away from him, closing the gap again—how the tables have turned.

He looks questioningly at Johnny, reaching out for his linguistic life-raft, raising his eyebrows in request for a translation, is he actually missing something, because it doesn’t seem like Paige is actually losing it at the idea of Mike learning Spanish. Johnny shoots daggers at Briggs with his eyes, before leaning back into Mike, whispering, “Lengua means language, but it also means tongue.”

Mike nods, until it hits him, and his wide eyes look at John for confirmation; John’s straight face, slight wince at the edges if Mike looked closely, told him, yeah yeah Briggs was suggesting that I’m giving you private language lessons with my tongue yeah.

And oh. Oh. Mike doesn’t move, only hitches his nails against the sensitive skin by John’s Achilles. That. That makes sense. And Charlie’s on to the next thing, dragging everyone’s attention from Johnny and Mike, and Christ, Mike’s going to have to hug her tomorrow morning. Johnny looks up at Mike, a little precarious, like it’s a tipping point—like everything was leading up to this—and Mike just nods some more.

Johnny’s been taking miles and miles when Mike wasn’t even giving him an inch, and Johnny takes miles from nobody else, only sneaks out an inch or two from everybody else and backs off appropriately when they sigh wearily. So Mike succumbs, pushes back and gives Johnny the go-ahead, gives him an inch that also says here, take a mile while you’re at it.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Mike says, a nonchalant shrug on his shoulders. He pushes back, digs his shoulder into Johnny’s and pushes his forehead up against Johnny’s temple and oh.

Johnny isn’t like this with anybody else, subtle and shit, even a little scared in the bubble they’ve carved out for themselves in this house. Johnny’s hand moves up to Mike’s hair, runs through it sloppily before pulling Mike into a headlock, some kind of assertation that yeah, that’s a damn good idea.

It’s his victory lap, and Mike is helpless to do anything but laugh when Johnny sloppily drunk-wrestles Mike, he never moves the arm that ends up wrapped around Mike’s shoulders. Typical.


Before long, Jakes is off in the house, getting his affairs in order for tomorrow’s bust (if all goes as planned), followed by Charlie dragging Briggs into the house, insisting that he’s good for the night. Yeah, Paige hangs around for a bit, getting a little bored of the way every thing the boys say seems to be followed up immediately by some kind of unspoken conversation. It’s in the way Mike’s hand tightens around John’s ankle while he laughs, the way Johnny forces them into eye contact and abruptly changes his expression, the way she is on one side of the bonfire while they’re glued to each other on the other side. She feels like she doesn’t belong, and eventually, she decides that they’ll be okay on their own, probably better than okay.

She stands up, a stupidly affectionate smile on her face. “Alright, alright. I’m going,” she holds her hands up as if she’s innocent of something she definitely isn’t, Mike decides, and adds a, “be safe, boys,” before sprinting off at the house. Johnny opens his mouth to yell something indignant back, but before he can, Mike’s hand is over his mouth, shouting “goodnight” at Paige instead. But of course, this is Johnny and of course, Johnny’s tongue has something to say about the matter, and really, Mike should’ve known better than to try to silence him.

So then Mike’s punching Johnny in the arm, wiping the spit back onto Johnny’s sweatshirt before being tackled to the sand, John’s arm forcing its way across Mike’s windpipe. It results in a tussle of sorts, the usual headlocks and ankle tangling that usually takes place in the house when they’re less intoxicated and exhausted. When Mike gets some sand in his eyes, however, things stop and John lies back beneath Mike, settling his body on the sand and trying to find an angle of the firelight by which he can see if Mike’s eyes are okay. It takes a minute, but eventually Mike is still on top of John, the sand no longer a pressing issue.

The positioning is rather awkward as Mike is sitting atop Johnny, one leg in the sand and other uncomfortably folded up between his body and John’s legs. They seem to call a silent truce, John watching as Mike untangles his leg and shifts around a bit, brushing the sand off of his clothes. It stops him in his tracks.

Johnny isn’t patient, Johnny doesn’t just sit around. The only time that boy sits still is when he’s napping, and even then, that’s a stretch. He sits back, albeit on Johnny, and analyzes the situation: Johnny’s still and scattered limbs dropped back against the sand. But his eyes tell a different story, they’re impatient and boring into Mike—yes, all of this is new. Johnny doesn’t do patient, Mike’s pretty sure the word isn’t even in his vocabulary, but he’s clearly trying. Trying to wait for Mike, trying not to push him over the edge. This is new, this isn’t what everybody else gets.

Mike—Mike can objectively acknowledge that now, despite the buzz he’s been nursing for a few hours. Can objectively tick off the things that are his only when it comes to Johnny, it’s a feeling better, more thrilling than the warmth he gets during family dinner at the house.

But Johnny can only wait for so long, and Mike gets that, gets why Johnny reaches forward and tugs on Mike’s wrists until his balance is failing, until Mike’s hands fall to the sand to support him, his body closer to Johnny’s now.

Johnny’s eyebrows rise a little, smile playing on his lips but still hiding just below the surface, and that was it. That was his move, Mike’s turn now.

It takes a little while, longer than John anticipated, but he coaxes Mike anyway, more of those subtle, subliminal touches—thumb swiping over Mike’s wrists and knees brushing up against his back. When Mike is done watching Johnny, he swoops in, too quickly and too angry. His hand grabs Johnny by the back of the neck and pulls him in while still surging forward to meet him.

Mike’s lips aren’t as forceful as the rest of him, but for the first few seconds, no real kissing takes place. It’s just lips against lips as Johnny smiles too much like victory against Mike’s mouth, fucking rude. That’s no way to treat a boy straddling your lap, now is it? Especially not when you’ve fought tooth and nail and stupid little flirty touches to get him there. Regardless, Mike kisses John until he caves, both of his hands springing to life and going to either side of Mike’s head, pulling him farther down. It doesn’t take long, unsurprisingly, for Johnny to edge his tongue into Mike’s mouth, and yeah, Johnny loses a little bit of ground when Mike groans, but…details.

The kiss continues in a fevered manner for a quite some time, until Johnny tires momentarily of Mike’s lips, beginning to kiss his jaw. One hand runs through the hair at the back of Mike’s skull, disheveling the picture of perfection that usually is Mike Warren’s hair. And yeah, that’s going to look so good against Johnny’s pillows in the morning, fuck. The thought alone causes him to tug slightly on Mike’s hair for better access to Mike’s neck, and he’s sucking impatient little kisses on the skin, causing Mike to squirm in a way that is not helping either of them. When Johnny’s mouth ventures the square juncture of Mike’s jaw just below his ear, there’s a whispered fuck that only earns Mike warm breath and teeth against the shell of his ear.

It sets off a chain reaction of events, Johnny’s teeth. Mike lets out a breathy moan, so much unlike the composure with which he’s been unwavering for the past few weeks, and that’s all John’s been fighting for lately. John readjusts his hips against the sand, against Mike, in response, and no, that was a bad idea because Mike moans once more, drops his head down against John’s shoulder, letting out warm breath, open-mouthed. And Jesus, that’s too much, John thinks as he flips them over, pinning Mike down on his back. He let his guard down, and no chance in hell was Johnny turning that opportunity down.

The sand is getting everywhere, is in Mike’s hair, in Johnny’s hair, all down their backs, and the kisses are getting sloppy, only looking for skin but finding some sand as well. And then Johnny has Mike’s shirt off, tapping against his rib cage to demand Mike lift up enough to remove the shirt. But that’s exactly the moment that Johnny gets greedy, greedier than usual with Mike; he grabs Mike’s hands, holding them down against the ground, and he can fucking feel his own body slithering up against Mike’s, biting and bruising the skin of his chest, covering them with kisses and spit. Except Mike is down to very few fighting options, his hands forced down by a determined John, and Christ, he knows he’s making noises that are betraying him right now—but then again, it’s a little late for that, he supposes.

Mike settles for arching his back and locking his legs around Johnny’s middle, and oh okay, he can work with this, he thinks, angling his hips just so and rolling them up. And Johnny’s lifting his hands up, pulling Mike’s wrists up only to shove them back against the sand; his head snaps up, eyes dark as they stare at Mike. Johnny feels a little helpless for once in his life, like he’s tumbling head over heels too fast with no way of stopping. His hips press down against Mike, causing them to groan in a dirty unison.

“No, God, wait,” Johnny mumbles, his forehead pressing against Mike’s cheek, and fuck, that’s familiar, that’s so Johnny, that’s so Mike’s Johnny that maybe not many others ever see. And Johnny’s laughing, infectious and loud, feeling vaguely like he’s weightless and yeah, okay, he’s a little drunk, sure. But Mike’s legs around his waist make him want to fly, and shit, Johnny’s pretty sure he could manage that if Mike asked him to.

It’s not long until Mike’s laughing as well, their faces ducked close together, and they’ve been here before it seems—like it was all leading up to this, and it was.

“Wait, wait,” Johnny repeats, struggling out of Mike’s hold to put out the fire, kicking sand on it left and right. But Mike ends up behind him, pressing their bodies together with his hands roaming, the warmth of his skin enticing Johnny back. “I’ve created a monster,” Johnny sighs, pushing his hips back, and letting Mike’s short nails scrape across his torso up under his shirt.

As it turns out, too much of a good thing isn’t a bad thing—it’s an addiction in the making. As it fucking turns out, Johnny wore him down. This is new. It’s not that surprising.


Johnny trails behind Mike on the way to the house, his shirt in John’s hand and undoubtedly covered in sand. They don’t keep much distance between them on the short walk, as if Johnny’s body is being pulled forward by the sheer movement of Mike’s body away from him.

For some God-only-knows reason, Johnny decides to shush Mike as he opens the sliding glass door out back, as if there’s any reason why they should be quiet. There are no secrets at Graceland, and Mike’s about positive that this is going to be front-page news at the breakfast table tomorrow whether either of them likes it or not. Mike’s got that sinking feeling that Johnny’s going to love it, that smug little shit. But despite the finger Johnny puts up to his lips, he continues to smother Mike’s mouth with dirty kisses, leading him backwards into any number of furnishings—it’s the exact opposite of discreet but what exactly can Mike do when Johnny’s hands are fumbling with his belt? Nothing, that’s what.

Mike suspects that Paige is probably still awake, and Briggs might be too, but there’s a distinct lack of lighting or activity anywhere in the house. And sometimes he fucking loves these guys and this weird sense of respect and privacy they’ve built up. Johnny shoves Mike backwards into his room, ignoring Mike’s protests to go get the sand off of him first, and yeah, there’s the impatience Mike knows so well. There’s no time wasted between the door and the bed, save time for Johnny to kick off his shoes and shuck a shirt among other clothing items. And then Johnny is focused on pressing his palms against Mike’s chest, smirking at him for a moment before shoving Mike none too gently back onto the bed, knees collapsing against the edge.

Despite the rush, John looks over at him, takes in the image of Mike in his boxer briefs and propped up on his elbows before crawling on top of him. The first coherent thought Johnny has after fuck is why did we forget the boxers when he grinds down against Mike’s dick, and from there, it’s a whirlwind of Mike’s moans that drown out Johnny thinking about that. He reaches between them, cupping Mike over the fabric which simultaneously serves as too much and not enough. You would think Mike would be so used to Johnny’s hands on him that it wouldn’t be this exciting, but it is—and lord, this boy has managed to wear down every single one of Mike’s resistances.

Mike opens his eyes, watching the palm press against him and sighing almost breathlessly. He’s going to need more, he’s going to need it now, he needs Johnny’s fingers wrapped around him, Johnny’s fucking mouth.

“John, John,” Mike starts, voice a little hoarse and very low. Mike’s body bows a bit when Johnny decides to brush his fingertips way too lightly against the almost-ticklish skin along Mike’s sides. “You need to do something, anything,” Mike moves a hand to Johnny’s head in silent request; he doesn’t feel too guilty about it. Johnny is already halfway down the length of his body anyway, and really, Mike has been waiting for this so long, regardless of his denial.

But this is John, and of course, he gives Mike a hard time about it, nipping his teeth at the skin exposed at the top of the waistband. He continues along a similarly frustrating line of action, sucking until there’s a deep purple hickey down near the soft skin by Mike’s hipbone. And the first time Johnny even gets his mouth close to Mike’s dick is to pant warm breath over the fabric, and it’s driving Mike crazy already.

Johnny watches the entire time, stopping and starting to look up at Mike’s face, the way his hair is tousled against the pillow, the way the hand that isn’t digging into Johnny’s trapezius is balled up in a fist.

“Johnny,” Mike moans out, feeling his breath catch at the wetness on his boxer briefs, and there’s a hitching whine at the end that goes straight to Johnny’s dick.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Johnny murmurs, nuzzling his nose against the skin and tugging on Mike’s boxers until they’re down past his hips and he’s kicking them off. It’s been downhill for a while now, but maybe this is the point when it falls further, reaching terminal velocity, and there’s really no stopping now; neither of them probably could at this point, so on edge from what’s been building up for quite some time. And the one can of worms that Mike isn’t even going to touch with a ten-foot pole is if John is like this with everybody in bed, because this is fucking his in a way that nothing else is anymore; his own identity isn’t his own to share with people, but this feels about as close as he’s gotten to real as of late. He’s not going to ruin this.

Johnny’s mouth is warm and wet and hot and perfect as he takes Mike in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head almost lazily at first, his right hand at the base of Mike’s dick with a few dry strokes. Mike can feel his hips lifting up off the bed, feeling himself quickly unravel, his self-restraint disappear. Johnny intercepts his hips, pressing his forearm down across Mike’s hips, letting out a soft hum before swallowing as much of Mike as possible, earning him a low groan.

It’s not long before Mike is a downright mess, panting and swearing and tossing on the sheets as much as possible without fucking up into Johnny’s mouth. Part of Mike figures that Johnny’s jaw has to be getting sore by now, but at the same time, John is game to go as long as he has to listen to this FBI golden boy fall apart. The pit of Johnny’s stomach is turning, and he has to move one hand to palm himself, needing some sort of friction, because ironically enough, Mike’s broken little fucks are pretty criminal, if you ask John.

When Mike’s breath hitches in the middle of John’s name, he knows Mike is close, and Johnny moves his hands to grip up under Mike’s hips, practically guiding him to snap his hips up into Johnny’s mouth. Mike shifts his hips with a little too much abandon, and Johnny’s blunt nails dig little half-moons in the skin from the force nonetheless. It’s Johnny’s throat vibrations that send Mike over the edge, winning Johnny a sinful mantra of JohnJohnJohnJohn out of Mike’s mouth before he’s coming in John’s mouth.

Granted, golden boy had tried to tug Johnny off in time, grasping at hair that wasn’t there, practically shoving at Johnny’s jaw. When Mike’s body finally relaxes back against the bed and his toes stop curling into the sheets, his hand is still there, now cupping John’s face, thumb playing on Johnny’s lower lip before tugging him up for a proper kiss. The entire time, Mike can’t process a single thing other than the taste of himself on John’s tongue and the smooth way John swallowed his come down without batting an eyelash, and shit, if Mike’s body didn’t need a few minutes, he would be down to fuck John that second from the mental image alone.

Even so, Mike can only kiss Johnny, chasing his taste and teeth tugging on Johnny’s lip. His hands immediately reach for John’s boxers after regaining his bearings, pulling them down and wrapping a hand firmly around John’s dick. It doesn’t take much for John to come, and it’s not as if Mike can blame him; if their roles were switched, Mike would’ve been pretty ready to fire as well. Johnny’s head dips down against the pillow right next to Mike’s face, and his arms tremble as they hold his weight up over Mike. His breath is warm on Mike’s ear as he moans out a “Mikey,” giving Mike goosebumps and sending a thrill through his body even still.

His weight drops down, and holds Mike in place—and yeah, that’s about the most familiar thing all night, that’s certainly not knew, but it’s comforting nonetheless. Before Johnny can roll his weight off of Mike, he has his hands against Johnny’s hips and presses his head right next to Johnny’s.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Johnny asks, lifting his head, a tired smile on his face.

Mike only scoff-laughs, a huff of disbelieving breath, before retorting, “Do you?” And okay, touché.


Mike wakes up with a few barely-there-but-still-definitely-there hickeys on his neck and shoulders, a definitely-fucking-there-that’s-so-purple-it’s-black-johnny hickey on his hip, and nail-shaped bruises on his back where Johnny’s hands held him. And really, was that necessary?

But then, yeah. Mike kind of figures it was because this is Johnny, and everything he does with Mike is sort of suffocating and possessive in a that thrilling, stomach-twisting way, and this is just the next logical step of having Johnny’s body splayed all over him every second of every day.

Breakfast is, well, breakfast is interesting in that way that once the two of them are in the kitchen, Mike regrettably grabbing Johnny’s shirt off of the floor in his rush to find coffee and food, which wasn’t his wisest choice. But it’s not like it’s going to make things worse, and besides, it covers the hickeys which very well might’ve made the teasing worse.

“Morning, sunshine!” Charlie says, beaming up at them.

“Too happy, too loud,” Mike says, still half-asleep, while Johnny grunts his agreement. Mike slides across the bench seat, settling next to Charlie, and Johnny settles in across the table from Mike, ignoring Jakes initial protest of “hey, that’s my seat,” and there goes that. They all know, of fucking course they do, it’s Graceland. But they still have the decency to ignore the way that both of Johnny’s feet stretch across the space and settle on either side of Mike, closing him in. It doesn’t matter how far away you put Johnny, he’s going to find some way to let his limbs follow Mike, or so it seems.

And really, it’s okay, Mike is liking the feeling that having Johnny’s bare feet closing him in causes, likes the way it makes Mike’s skin burn a little. But fuck it, his roommates’ decency is only going to last until they both have their first cups of coffee if the looks they’re all sharing mean much of anything.

Johnny’s toes dig into the skin just under Mike’s butt before he mumbles a, “my feet are cold,” and Mike lets Johnny do that obnoxious thing where he sticks his feet under Mike’s legs, some awkward crutch of contact. It’s new, it’s cute, it’s not entirely unexpected.

Just as Paige’s smug okay, tell me everything, is so unsurprising that Mike almost rolls his eyes. This is definitely not breakfast table conversation.