fic: Jesenice
Thursday, 1 July 2010 16:49![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyOh, just call it poorly-disguised chatfic, you guys. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alexthegreat said, "I want the story where Stephane is pissing Johnny off with his diva antics, and Johnny just turns on him and says, 'SHUT UP.' ", and things kind of went downhill from there. It's kind of embarrassing how much I like this story, though. :D?
Jesenice byalexthegreat and unlurkster
Johnny/Stéphane
NC-17
2522 words
This is set in Niigata, Japan, during the upcoming Fantasy On Ice show there. Another thing that is humiliating: how I have about four different versions of How Things Play Out there in my head.
“English,” Johnny says, as snottily as he can. “Don't you know where you are right now?” Stéphane looks confused, because he does, they're in Japan. Johnny slaps him, just to throw him off balance.
Stéphane’s always so goddamn bouncy and cheerful, and such an attention whore, and no one but Johnny, it seems, can ever see right through that. They haven’t spoken properly since that stupid fight they had in Russia, and Johnny’s still pissed. Like Stéphane has a fucking leg to stand on when he calls Johnny spoiled, the asshole.
He must have read some of the stuff Johnny had said in interviews, because he keeps asking Johnny if they’re all right, if Johnny’s still mad. He never knows when to stop.
Johnny wasn’t irritated to start off with, had been willing to forgive and forget, but Stéphane’s been pissing him off all day, and now Stéphane won’t leave Johnny’s hotel room even though Johnny really needs to sleep to get over his jet lag.
Stéphane flings himself over Johnny's bags, staring at him with an expression clearly meant to make Johnny give in. It won't work, though; Johnny knows him too well for that. Johnny tries to get him to move so he can change for bed, but Stéphane stubbornly remains in place.
“Johnny,” Stéphane coos from where he’s sitting on Johnny’s trolley luggage, reaching a hand up to brush against Johnny’s chin, and shit, shit. “Johnny, why are you so angry? What did I do --”
Johnny snaps. He says, “Shut up.” Hauling Stéphane to the bed -- Stéphane goes willingly, and is he looking thrilled? Well. Motherfucker, Johnny thinks. He tries not to swear too much, usually, but this time he can’t avoid thinking it. He’d missed this. Missed sex, mostly. Not Stéphane.
“Stay there,” Johnny says, glaring Stéphane down. He ducks back to his bags and pulls out a couple of scarves before climbing up to tie Stéphane to the bed. “Now stay still and shut up so I can get some fucking sleep.”
He flounces to his side of the bed and curls up onto his side, shutting his eyes. This is too fucking weird, but Stéphane isn't making any noise about it despite the fact that Johnny didn't gag him. He can still use his mouth, and he isn’t. He’s choosing not to. When Johnny realises this, he relaxes quickly, hearing Stéphane shift on the other side of the bed. He smiles to himself, a little bit smug, and drifts off eventually.
---
Johnny wakes up maybe an hour and a half later, and rolls over to see Stéphane lying there, still awake. His erection’s obvious through the front of his pants and Johnny smiles to himself. Stéphane meets Johnny's eyes, clearly desperate for some attention.
Still quiet, though. Johnny tries not to show he’s affected, and it's easier, because he hasn’t quite fully awakened yet. His senses have been dulled.
Johnny reaches over, unable to help himself, and strokes a hand down Stéphane's cheek. Stéphane arches into him -- and says something incomprehensible in French. Johnny glares at him. That’s so Stéphane -- when he’s displeased, he’ll retreat into muttering in another language, where Johnny can’t follow him. This time, Johnny’s having none of that.
“English,” Johnny says, as snottily as he can. “Don't you know where you are right now?” Stéphane looks confused, because he does, they're in Japan. Johnny slaps him, just to throw him off balance.
Stéphane gasps and pushes up and Johnny growls, “Stop moving. I've had enough of you today.”
Stéphane’s not even naked, but Johnny can feel the heat radiating from his body, and he pushes a hand into the plane of Stéphane's torso. Stéphane reacts, of course. He always reacts to everything, but this time Johnny’s going to make him do it in English.
Stéphane says, “Please,” very carefully. He sounds nearly raw.
Johnny won’t let himself be satisfied. “Please what? What do you want?”
Stéphane's face goes red. “Please,” he says, and his mouth stays open after he says that, like he's not done yet, still figuring out the words. Johnny waits for him, but he's careful to look unimpressed. “Please, I want you.”
“You have to tell me what to do, Stéphane,” Johnny says, lifting Stéphane's shirt up, fingers brushing against his skin.
“I want -- you in me,” Stéphane says, squirming when Johnny blows air against his skin carefully, and Johnny draws back at that.
“Is that what you really want?” he says. “Or are you just saying it, because it's easy, because you don't have the words for anything else.” Stéphane always has it so fucking easy, because of his charm, his looks, his fame. Johnny wants to make him beg.
Stéphane swears. “Merde, je ne sais pas --” and that’s all he gets out, before Johnny slaps him across the stomach.
“English,” he reminds him, and Stéphane's eyes shutter closed.
Johnny’s slightly drunk on all the power this gives him. Stéphane, Stéphane's so easy. He hasn't even touched Stéphane's dick yet, and the thought reminds him. He drops a hand down and cups Stéphane through his trousers. Stéphane hisses, pushing forward, and yeah, yeah. Johnny hates how unthinkingly arrogant Stéphane is, sometimes, sure that you'll talk to him and sure that you'll give in. Now it's payback time.
He gets up without any warning and goes outside to the convenience store near the hotel to get some ice, thinking what maybe he could do with it. He takes his time, smiling at the cashier in the mart. He feels hidden, mysterious. They don’t know what he’s doing with the ice.
By the time he opens the hotel room door again it’s been nearly twenty minutes. He ducks into the bathroom, gets his nail scissors and makes a neat cut in the packet, spilling its contents in the ice bucket he’d found lurking in a cabinet. He carries it some way in, then sets the bucket down and says, “Tell me a safeword. If you want out, you say it and I'll stop. Do you understand?”
Stéphane nods, says, “Ou -- Yes.”
Johnny decides to let the slip slide.
Stéphane blinks hard -- “Jesenice,” he says, and Johnny nods, feeling stuttery beneath his own skin. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself. He can’t go into this feeling the way he does, now; he has to be clear-headed. So Johnny leaves Stéphane there on the bed again, and goes to take a shower.
---
When he comes out Stéphane’s still tied to the bed, looking out of the window like it might rain. He’s actually humming, the bastard. But when Johnny moves into the room, noisier on purpose, he struggles to sit up, gets impeded by his wrists and then the sheets tangle around him. If he weren’t tied to the bed he might have fallen out. He looks appropriately startled, and Johnny’s viciously pleased. Johnny stalks towards Stéphane -- the only thing he's wearing now is the towel around his waist -- and coos, “Are your wrists sore?”
“Yes,” Stéphane says, blinking up. Johnny touches Stephane’s wrists with a soft touch, tracing meaningless lines and circles. He hadn’t used his silk scarves, on purpose. Apparently, when you tug hard enough against chiffon, the material starts to chafe. Johnny takes note of this.
“Let me get you some ice,” Johnny says, and he drops an ice cube onto Stéphane’s stomach. Stéphane shudders so hard that Johnny is almost thrown off him.
“Please,” Stéphane says, and Johnny says, “Please what.” He feels a little sadistic, because he knows what it's like, to not have the words for something. And yet. Johnny doesn’t feel bad enough to stop, because now there’s a warm bloom of satisfaction spreading through his chest.
Stéphane says, “Give me more.” His accent more pronounced, this time.
“More ice?” Johnny doesn't wait for an answer before yanking Stéphane's pants down and placing one ice cube delicately on the underside of Stéphane's dick.
Stéphane shakes now, and Johnny gathers him in his arms and says, “I know you can, you can take it,” whispering against the plane of Stéphane’s cheekbone. Stéphane’s breathing fast, his chest stuttering with tiny rises and falls. Johnny lets go of him and moves down, licks a stripe down Stéphane’s dick. It feels cold and hot, but mostly normal. When he looks up again Stéphane’s eyes have gone all dark.
“I want -- please -- give me --” Stéphane shakes and can’t find the words.
Johnny relents just a little and takes Stéphane in his mouth, his hands pressing down Stéphane’s hips so he can’t thrust up. He arches up, though, tugging at his restraints, muttering in English carefully.
Outside, it’s started to rain. Not a huge storm, just heavy enough that everything goes grey and visibility gets reduced. It feels like the rain’s hemming them in, so they’re the only ones around. It might as well be true, Johnny thinks. His wrists ache in sympathy when he sees the red stripes on Stéphane’s, but he just leans down and sucks on Stéphane’s collarbones instead. He knows Stéphane’s sensitive there.
Stéphane says, “Kiss me, please, I need to --” and Johnny cuts him off with a rewarding kiss, nipping at his lower lip, his hands sliding up against Stéphane’s ribs. Stéphane kisses back so eagerly, so desperately that Johnny aches for him, almost feels guilty for abandoning him. Johnny pulls back, whispers, “Close your eyes,” fingers closing his eyelids.
Stéphane breathes in hard and Johnny kisses each eyelid gently as he scratches down Stéphane’s chest. He’s not sure what he’s going to do yet. But when he reaches Stéphane’s dick, he pushes the last remaining bit of ice against the skin between his cock and his ass, and Stéphane jerks up again. Then Johnny replaces his finger with his tongue, easing the cold there, and finally, finally sucks Stéphane’s dick into his mouth.
Stéphane cries out, wordless -- neither English nor French nor any other language on earth, and Johnny wishes Stéphane wasn't tied up, so he could put his hands in Johnny's hair.
He brings Stéphane as close as he can, until Stéphane is shaking with need, and then he slides over towards his suitcase, takes out a condom and lube and waves them at Stéphane.
“Oh, yes,” Stéphane sighs, “give me --” and Johnny slides the condom down, slicks him up. He opens himself up while Stéphane watches. Then Johnny sinks down slowly, his thigh muscles burning, not used to that kind of exertion, and they both groan when he settles all the way.
Johnny can’t be bothered to hide it: he’s grinning with satisfaction. Usually when they have sex they always fight a little at first -- they both like being fucked way too much to be strictly compatible, sexually. Stéphane gets his way more often than is fair, but this time, he doesn’t get to choose. And it feels so good, and Johnny leans forward and whispers in Stéphane’s ear.
“This isn't what you wanted,” he says, and he doesn’t even know if Stéphane even understands him any more, or if he’s too far gone to know. “But this time -- I choose, you don't, you don't get to,” and Stéphane snaps his hips up, looks horrified as he does so -- he hadn't meant to interrupt, Johnny can tell -- and Johnny stops talking for a while.
“It's better this way,” Johnny says, when he can manage speech again, stroking a hand down Stéphane’s cheek. “We both get what we want -- well,” he amends, “to a point.”
All the while he’s speaking, he’s careful not to stop moving, grinding his hips gently even as he reaches over Stéphane’s head and unknots the scarves tying him to the headboard. He doesn’t stop moving, even when he rubs Stéphane’s wrists and brings them down gently, pushing them against the bed and leaning in to kiss Stéphane. Johnny's always been a multi-tasker. He can cope.
He presses Stéphane’s wrists down to the bed and rocks down, pulls up, presses down. Stéphane’s gasping now with each movement, his eyes huge in his face. Johnny hates how looking at him makes him want to be kind. That’s the way Stéphane’s always gotten everything he wants. Not this time, though.
He picks up Stéphane’s hand and curls it around his cock, using Stéphane’s hand to get himself off. He doesn’t really need it, probably. He can come when he's being fucked, is the thing. Most times, and definitely this time. But this time, he wants to be a little indulgent, a little selfish even. Stéphane’s hands are hot and a little moist from clenching into fists, and by the looks of it he hasn't regained full use of them yet. Johnny has to make his fingers curl in on themselves, and it’s sloppy, unfocused, but Stéphane’s hand loose around his dick, Stéphane in his ass is the greatest combination ever. Johnny closes his eyes, allows himself to gasp, and rocks down.
When Johnny comes, he comes as hard as he ever has. He’d been hard a long time, too.
He collapses onto Stéphane for a moment, breathless, panting into the sweaty skin of Stéphane’s neck. Stéphane’s breath is labored and harsh, and Johnny can feel against the inside of his thigh that Stéphane still hasn't come.
Good.
He rolls off, closes his eyes. He hears Stéphane shift and he says, “No.”
Stéphane stills and asks very quietly, “When?”
“When I say so,” Johnny responds.
Stéphane whines, low in his throat. Johnny puts a finger against his mouth, and his hand creeps to the right, cups Stéphane’s jaw. Then he changes his mind, reaches down to jack Stéphane off lazily. He can tell it's not enough, though. It’s slower than Stéphane wants.
He slows even more, brings his hand to the tip, flattening his palm over the end. “Now,” Johnny says. And just like that, Stéphane gasps, breath hitching in his throat, and comes with a muffled word in French. Johnny, unable to help himself, pinches the skin of his thigh and Stéphane jerks again, his cock jerking against his stomach, pulsing weakly. Johnny raises his eyebrows, impressed despite himself.
There’s a pause. It’s still raining, and Stéphane’s quiet, quieter than Johnny’d like. Johnny had the upper hand, and it was good, but he gets the sense that it might go bad if he allows the feeling to linger.
“So,” he says, into the silence of the room, not looking at Stéphane. “That'll teach you?” It works, because Stéphane laughs.
Johnny smiles, relieved, and climbs up to lie next to him. Stéphane spoons up against him, pressing his face into the space between Johnny’s shoulder blades, and Johnny can’t even work up the energy to be annoyed.
It’s almost sweet, and they don’t do sweet. Or, well -- Johnny doesn't do sweet; Stéphane’s all sweetness and Johnny can’t stand that about him, usually. But he thinks he’ll let it go for now.
Johnny tells himself he isn’t tired, and he isn’t, because he just had a nap. But between the still-falling rain and Stéphane's regular breathing, somehow he manages to fall asleep with his skin buzzing, his head full of the safeword they never had to use.
alexthegreat said, "I want the story where Stephane is pissing Johnny off with his diva antics, and Johnny just turns on him and says, 'SHUT UP.' ", and things kind of went downhill from there. It's kind of embarrassing how much I like this story, though. :D?Jesenice by
alexthegreat and unlurksterJohnny/Stéphane
NC-17
2522 words
This is set in Niigata, Japan, during the upcoming Fantasy On Ice show there. Another thing that is humiliating: how I have about four different versions of How Things Play Out there in my head.
“English,” Johnny says, as snottily as he can. “Don't you know where you are right now?” Stéphane looks confused, because he does, they're in Japan. Johnny slaps him, just to throw him off balance.
Stéphane’s always so goddamn bouncy and cheerful, and such an attention whore, and no one but Johnny, it seems, can ever see right through that. They haven’t spoken properly since that stupid fight they had in Russia, and Johnny’s still pissed. Like Stéphane has a fucking leg to stand on when he calls Johnny spoiled, the asshole.
He must have read some of the stuff Johnny had said in interviews, because he keeps asking Johnny if they’re all right, if Johnny’s still mad. He never knows when to stop.
Johnny wasn’t irritated to start off with, had been willing to forgive and forget, but Stéphane’s been pissing him off all day, and now Stéphane won’t leave Johnny’s hotel room even though Johnny really needs to sleep to get over his jet lag.
Stéphane flings himself over Johnny's bags, staring at him with an expression clearly meant to make Johnny give in. It won't work, though; Johnny knows him too well for that. Johnny tries to get him to move so he can change for bed, but Stéphane stubbornly remains in place.
“Johnny,” Stéphane coos from where he’s sitting on Johnny’s trolley luggage, reaching a hand up to brush against Johnny’s chin, and shit, shit. “Johnny, why are you so angry? What did I do --”
Johnny snaps. He says, “Shut up.” Hauling Stéphane to the bed -- Stéphane goes willingly, and is he looking thrilled? Well. Motherfucker, Johnny thinks. He tries not to swear too much, usually, but this time he can’t avoid thinking it. He’d missed this. Missed sex, mostly. Not Stéphane.
“Stay there,” Johnny says, glaring Stéphane down. He ducks back to his bags and pulls out a couple of scarves before climbing up to tie Stéphane to the bed. “Now stay still and shut up so I can get some fucking sleep.”
He flounces to his side of the bed and curls up onto his side, shutting his eyes. This is too fucking weird, but Stéphane isn't making any noise about it despite the fact that Johnny didn't gag him. He can still use his mouth, and he isn’t. He’s choosing not to. When Johnny realises this, he relaxes quickly, hearing Stéphane shift on the other side of the bed. He smiles to himself, a little bit smug, and drifts off eventually.
---
Johnny wakes up maybe an hour and a half later, and rolls over to see Stéphane lying there, still awake. His erection’s obvious through the front of his pants and Johnny smiles to himself. Stéphane meets Johnny's eyes, clearly desperate for some attention.
Still quiet, though. Johnny tries not to show he’s affected, and it's easier, because he hasn’t quite fully awakened yet. His senses have been dulled.
Johnny reaches over, unable to help himself, and strokes a hand down Stéphane's cheek. Stéphane arches into him -- and says something incomprehensible in French. Johnny glares at him. That’s so Stéphane -- when he’s displeased, he’ll retreat into muttering in another language, where Johnny can’t follow him. This time, Johnny’s having none of that.
“English,” Johnny says, as snottily as he can. “Don't you know where you are right now?” Stéphane looks confused, because he does, they're in Japan. Johnny slaps him, just to throw him off balance.
Stéphane gasps and pushes up and Johnny growls, “Stop moving. I've had enough of you today.”
Stéphane’s not even naked, but Johnny can feel the heat radiating from his body, and he pushes a hand into the plane of Stéphane's torso. Stéphane reacts, of course. He always reacts to everything, but this time Johnny’s going to make him do it in English.
Stéphane says, “Please,” very carefully. He sounds nearly raw.
Johnny won’t let himself be satisfied. “Please what? What do you want?”
Stéphane's face goes red. “Please,” he says, and his mouth stays open after he says that, like he's not done yet, still figuring out the words. Johnny waits for him, but he's careful to look unimpressed. “Please, I want you.”
“You have to tell me what to do, Stéphane,” Johnny says, lifting Stéphane's shirt up, fingers brushing against his skin.
“I want -- you in me,” Stéphane says, squirming when Johnny blows air against his skin carefully, and Johnny draws back at that.
“Is that what you really want?” he says. “Or are you just saying it, because it's easy, because you don't have the words for anything else.” Stéphane always has it so fucking easy, because of his charm, his looks, his fame. Johnny wants to make him beg.
Stéphane swears. “Merde, je ne sais pas --” and that’s all he gets out, before Johnny slaps him across the stomach.
“English,” he reminds him, and Stéphane's eyes shutter closed.
Johnny’s slightly drunk on all the power this gives him. Stéphane, Stéphane's so easy. He hasn't even touched Stéphane's dick yet, and the thought reminds him. He drops a hand down and cups Stéphane through his trousers. Stéphane hisses, pushing forward, and yeah, yeah. Johnny hates how unthinkingly arrogant Stéphane is, sometimes, sure that you'll talk to him and sure that you'll give in. Now it's payback time.
He gets up without any warning and goes outside to the convenience store near the hotel to get some ice, thinking what maybe he could do with it. He takes his time, smiling at the cashier in the mart. He feels hidden, mysterious. They don’t know what he’s doing with the ice.
By the time he opens the hotel room door again it’s been nearly twenty minutes. He ducks into the bathroom, gets his nail scissors and makes a neat cut in the packet, spilling its contents in the ice bucket he’d found lurking in a cabinet. He carries it some way in, then sets the bucket down and says, “Tell me a safeword. If you want out, you say it and I'll stop. Do you understand?”
Stéphane nods, says, “Ou -- Yes.”
Johnny decides to let the slip slide.
Stéphane blinks hard -- “Jesenice,” he says, and Johnny nods, feeling stuttery beneath his own skin. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself. He can’t go into this feeling the way he does, now; he has to be clear-headed. So Johnny leaves Stéphane there on the bed again, and goes to take a shower.
---
When he comes out Stéphane’s still tied to the bed, looking out of the window like it might rain. He’s actually humming, the bastard. But when Johnny moves into the room, noisier on purpose, he struggles to sit up, gets impeded by his wrists and then the sheets tangle around him. If he weren’t tied to the bed he might have fallen out. He looks appropriately startled, and Johnny’s viciously pleased. Johnny stalks towards Stéphane -- the only thing he's wearing now is the towel around his waist -- and coos, “Are your wrists sore?”
“Yes,” Stéphane says, blinking up. Johnny touches Stephane’s wrists with a soft touch, tracing meaningless lines and circles. He hadn’t used his silk scarves, on purpose. Apparently, when you tug hard enough against chiffon, the material starts to chafe. Johnny takes note of this.
“Let me get you some ice,” Johnny says, and he drops an ice cube onto Stéphane’s stomach. Stéphane shudders so hard that Johnny is almost thrown off him.
“Please,” Stéphane says, and Johnny says, “Please what.” He feels a little sadistic, because he knows what it's like, to not have the words for something. And yet. Johnny doesn’t feel bad enough to stop, because now there’s a warm bloom of satisfaction spreading through his chest.
Stéphane says, “Give me more.” His accent more pronounced, this time.
“More ice?” Johnny doesn't wait for an answer before yanking Stéphane's pants down and placing one ice cube delicately on the underside of Stéphane's dick.
Stéphane shakes now, and Johnny gathers him in his arms and says, “I know you can, you can take it,” whispering against the plane of Stéphane’s cheekbone. Stéphane’s breathing fast, his chest stuttering with tiny rises and falls. Johnny lets go of him and moves down, licks a stripe down Stéphane’s dick. It feels cold and hot, but mostly normal. When he looks up again Stéphane’s eyes have gone all dark.
“I want -- please -- give me --” Stéphane shakes and can’t find the words.
Johnny relents just a little and takes Stéphane in his mouth, his hands pressing down Stéphane’s hips so he can’t thrust up. He arches up, though, tugging at his restraints, muttering in English carefully.
Outside, it’s started to rain. Not a huge storm, just heavy enough that everything goes grey and visibility gets reduced. It feels like the rain’s hemming them in, so they’re the only ones around. It might as well be true, Johnny thinks. His wrists ache in sympathy when he sees the red stripes on Stéphane’s, but he just leans down and sucks on Stéphane’s collarbones instead. He knows Stéphane’s sensitive there.
Stéphane says, “Kiss me, please, I need to --” and Johnny cuts him off with a rewarding kiss, nipping at his lower lip, his hands sliding up against Stéphane’s ribs. Stéphane kisses back so eagerly, so desperately that Johnny aches for him, almost feels guilty for abandoning him. Johnny pulls back, whispers, “Close your eyes,” fingers closing his eyelids.
Stéphane breathes in hard and Johnny kisses each eyelid gently as he scratches down Stéphane’s chest. He’s not sure what he’s going to do yet. But when he reaches Stéphane’s dick, he pushes the last remaining bit of ice against the skin between his cock and his ass, and Stéphane jerks up again. Then Johnny replaces his finger with his tongue, easing the cold there, and finally, finally sucks Stéphane’s dick into his mouth.
Stéphane cries out, wordless -- neither English nor French nor any other language on earth, and Johnny wishes Stéphane wasn't tied up, so he could put his hands in Johnny's hair.
He brings Stéphane as close as he can, until Stéphane is shaking with need, and then he slides over towards his suitcase, takes out a condom and lube and waves them at Stéphane.
“Oh, yes,” Stéphane sighs, “give me --” and Johnny slides the condom down, slicks him up. He opens himself up while Stéphane watches. Then Johnny sinks down slowly, his thigh muscles burning, not used to that kind of exertion, and they both groan when he settles all the way.
Johnny can’t be bothered to hide it: he’s grinning with satisfaction. Usually when they have sex they always fight a little at first -- they both like being fucked way too much to be strictly compatible, sexually. Stéphane gets his way more often than is fair, but this time, he doesn’t get to choose. And it feels so good, and Johnny leans forward and whispers in Stéphane’s ear.
“This isn't what you wanted,” he says, and he doesn’t even know if Stéphane even understands him any more, or if he’s too far gone to know. “But this time -- I choose, you don't, you don't get to,” and Stéphane snaps his hips up, looks horrified as he does so -- he hadn't meant to interrupt, Johnny can tell -- and Johnny stops talking for a while.
“It's better this way,” Johnny says, when he can manage speech again, stroking a hand down Stéphane’s cheek. “We both get what we want -- well,” he amends, “to a point.”
All the while he’s speaking, he’s careful not to stop moving, grinding his hips gently even as he reaches over Stéphane’s head and unknots the scarves tying him to the headboard. He doesn’t stop moving, even when he rubs Stéphane’s wrists and brings them down gently, pushing them against the bed and leaning in to kiss Stéphane. Johnny's always been a multi-tasker. He can cope.
He presses Stéphane’s wrists down to the bed and rocks down, pulls up, presses down. Stéphane’s gasping now with each movement, his eyes huge in his face. Johnny hates how looking at him makes him want to be kind. That’s the way Stéphane’s always gotten everything he wants. Not this time, though.
He picks up Stéphane’s hand and curls it around his cock, using Stéphane’s hand to get himself off. He doesn’t really need it, probably. He can come when he's being fucked, is the thing. Most times, and definitely this time. But this time, he wants to be a little indulgent, a little selfish even. Stéphane’s hands are hot and a little moist from clenching into fists, and by the looks of it he hasn't regained full use of them yet. Johnny has to make his fingers curl in on themselves, and it’s sloppy, unfocused, but Stéphane’s hand loose around his dick, Stéphane in his ass is the greatest combination ever. Johnny closes his eyes, allows himself to gasp, and rocks down.
When Johnny comes, he comes as hard as he ever has. He’d been hard a long time, too.
He collapses onto Stéphane for a moment, breathless, panting into the sweaty skin of Stéphane’s neck. Stéphane’s breath is labored and harsh, and Johnny can feel against the inside of his thigh that Stéphane still hasn't come.
Good.
He rolls off, closes his eyes. He hears Stéphane shift and he says, “No.”
Stéphane stills and asks very quietly, “When?”
“When I say so,” Johnny responds.
Stéphane whines, low in his throat. Johnny puts a finger against his mouth, and his hand creeps to the right, cups Stéphane’s jaw. Then he changes his mind, reaches down to jack Stéphane off lazily. He can tell it's not enough, though. It’s slower than Stéphane wants.
He slows even more, brings his hand to the tip, flattening his palm over the end. “Now,” Johnny says. And just like that, Stéphane gasps, breath hitching in his throat, and comes with a muffled word in French. Johnny, unable to help himself, pinches the skin of his thigh and Stéphane jerks again, his cock jerking against his stomach, pulsing weakly. Johnny raises his eyebrows, impressed despite himself.
There’s a pause. It’s still raining, and Stéphane’s quiet, quieter than Johnny’d like. Johnny had the upper hand, and it was good, but he gets the sense that it might go bad if he allows the feeling to linger.
“So,” he says, into the silence of the room, not looking at Stéphane. “That'll teach you?” It works, because Stéphane laughs.
Johnny smiles, relieved, and climbs up to lie next to him. Stéphane spoons up against him, pressing his face into the space between Johnny’s shoulder blades, and Johnny can’t even work up the energy to be annoyed.
It’s almost sweet, and they don’t do sweet. Or, well -- Johnny doesn't do sweet; Stéphane’s all sweetness and Johnny can’t stand that about him, usually. But he thinks he’ll let it go for now.
Johnny tells himself he isn’t tired, and he isn’t, because he just had a nap. But between the still-falling rain and Stéphane's regular breathing, somehow he manages to fall asleep with his skin buzzing, his head full of the safeword they never had to use.