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"What are you doing?"
Matt glances sideways at John, fingers still jammed into his mouth. "I've got…" He licks over his teeth, tonguing desperately, "this piece of barbeque pork…" Scrape of his fingernail against the gum. "…stuck in my teeth."
John snorts and one minute he's walking along next to Matt with his fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets and the next he's got them tangled in Matt's coat, whirling him around and slamming him hard into the lee of an apartment staircase. It's so fast—and you'd think that Matt would be used to that by now, but he's not, because…because he's just not. And because maybe he likes it, to be surprised but the sudden, quasi-dangerous shifts of John's moods, by his speed, by the potentially brutal power in his hard, square hands. It's like…contact with the stone and Matt's already hard as the cement behind him.
John's mouth covers his and Matt's eyes flutter shut for a long, melting moment. John simultaneously jerks Matt forward by his belt and pushes him back into the stair again. God. Oh, God. That's so hot. Sometimes Matt worries about what's happening to him, what's already happened to him, fucking the straightest guy he's ever met—a cop, for Christ's sake—in secret, hiding bruises and bite and finger marks beneath his clothes and then masturbating to them later. It's crazy. He's crazy.
But not as crazy as the noise and feel of John unbuttoning Matt's jeans, tugging the zipper down in one, brutal jerk.
Matt doesn't do anything with his hands, fluttering uselessly at his sides, but he hears the desperation in his voice when he pleads, "John. John…"
"Shhh." John covers Matt's mouth with his hand, fishing in Matt's boxers with the other. "Shhh."
John is smirking, that infuriating, all-knowing, 'oh, you're going to beg for this' half-grin and then he leans in and his mouth replaces his fingers in silencing Matt's whimpers—his completely humiliating whimpers—and his fingers are curving around Matt's cock, and it's good. Jesus Christ and the whole choir of angels, it's so good, and it's stupid and dangerous and they're right out on a public street and John—John, the living action hero himself—is jerking him off and Matt thinks this is it. This is it; this time I'm just going to die.
He's going to kill me.
"John," he mumbles.
John turns his face aside, nuzzling the side of Matt's face. His perpetual stubble burns Matt's cheek (Will there be marks? He bets there'll be marks. God, let there be marks.) and he mutters, "…so fucking hot with your stupid hair hanging in your face and that mouth and the way you look at me… Just want to fuck you right here." John's teeth latch onto Matt's neck, sucking and chewing and the agony of it goes straight to his cock, flushed and full in John's grip. Matt cries out, strangled and struggling to be quiet. He bites his bottom lip and tastes blood. John growls before he laps at the scraped gouges his teeth have left in Matt's skin. "Come on, Matty, come…"
Matt makes a noise that's supposed to indicate his denial, that he can't; not like this and not here, out on the street where anyone can see them, dirty and desperate still so goddamn good.
Then John twists and says, "C'mon, baby, want you to, come on me. Wanna feel you come on me," and Matt loses it, just totally fucking loses it, moaning out sharply as his knees unhinge. John pins Matt to the stone again, stroking and kissing Matt through the spasms with soft, guttural yeahs as punctuation until Matt is wrung out and limp, literally and metaphorically, held up only by John fucking leaning on him.
"That was…" Matt gulps. His voice sounds completely wrecked. "That was…really dirty, McClane."
"Yeah." John takes a step back. His mouth looks bruised and swollen, but the smirk is back, smug as ever. When Matt scans down, he sees the spots of his come, turning John's shirt translucent and gluing the cotton to his hard, flat abs. Matt moans again, twitching deep in his cock. Hastily he tucks himself into his pants, smearing his fingers and shorts. He doesn't know what to do with it and finally, he scrapes it inefficiently against the brick.
"How're your teeth?"
Matt runs his tongue hastily across them. "Fine. It's. Um. Gone."
John spreads his hands like there you go before he zips up his jacket over the wet spots. Matt is not thinking about how that's going to flatten it to his skin. Totally not thinking about it.
"I could've used a toothpick!" Matt's hears the squeakiness of his tone and tries desperately to correct it.
"Where's the fun in that?" John snorts and grabs Matt's sleeve, tugging him into motion. "C'mon."
"Where to now?" Matt's legs still feel a little (or a lot) rubber-bandy and John's walking way too fast for Matt's post-coital state. "Hey…we in a hurry or something?"
John turns on him again—and really, this time Matt should've been ready for it, but no. John jerks Matt's hand between his legs and Matt feels John's steel-hard cock, pressing against his jeans urgently. "Yeah. We're in a hurry."
Matt gives himself a moment to touch, to feel, rocking his palm over John, right here, in the middle of the street. The truth of that, the inescapable reality of him and John, right here, right now…
John's smirking at him again.
"Yeah," Matt says, grinning back. "Okay."