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Destruction was all around them; the mission had been successful, but only just barely. The enemy had caught them by surprise, and it was a miracle of sorts that John hadn't been more injured.
Lovecraft's lack of injury went without saying, but the intensity of the battle showed on the discolored blotches spattering his dark coat. He shrugged it off and examined the stains as he folded it over a tentacle. "John, do you think these will come out? I like this coat."
John stood, doubled over, hands on knees, vines everywhere, breathing raggedly. "I have no idea," he gasped. His own clothes weren't faring much better, and his overalls had a gash torn in one of the legs. He was lucky the knife hadn't gotten much farther than that, at least, and had left only a thin cut along his shin.
"That was rough," he sighed, as he staggered upright.
Lovecraft nodded, and looked dispassionately around the remains of the battlefield as his tentacles slowly wound their way back into his sleeves.
After a moment, he crossed to where John stood, and offered his hand. John accepted it gratefully, the coolness of Lovecraft's touch a welcome relief. He held it tight, and buried his face in his partner's shirt, still breathing hard.
"I hate this," he whispered.
"I know, John," Lovecraft answered quietly. He pulled John into an embrace, and kissed the top of his head.
Once John's breathing was calm, Lovecraft gently lifted his chin. They kissed tenderly, like they did after every mission; a reminder that for the time, at least, there were better things.
John wasn't sure how this little tradition of theirs had gotten started, precisely.
Like many things, that was a lie he told himself. The truth was, it had started at his own insistence: a celebratory kiss after a mission. It had escalated with adrenaline and his own insecurities: a successful mission brought with it guilt and self-loathing. Losing himself in the attentions of his partner was a balm of sorts, and he sought forgiveness in each touch, each kiss. Lovecraft had no forgiveness to offer, but his indifference to their crimes was almost as good.
John still protested sometimes, more from a sense of propriety than anything. "This is really messed up if you think about it."
Each time, Lovecraft only shrugged. "Should I stop?"
"I didn't say that."
John's neck ached where his grapevine started; someone had grabbed it and used it to yank him to the ground, not hard enough to pull it out, thank god, but hard enough to hurt like hell. He rubbed at it absently, not even really aware of what he was doing until Lovecraft gently pushed his hand away from it.
"Huh?" he asked, a noise which turned into a gasp halfway through as Lovecraft's mouth took over the job of soothing the wound.
John's neck was one of his weak points and Lovecraft knew it.
He leaned his head to the side so Lovecraft had better access. A soft moan escaped him as Lovecraft lapped carefully at the tender skin around the root, circling his tongue around it and sucking at John's skin where it was a little less damaged. The pain forgotten, his vine wrapped around Lovecraft's head and pulled him closer, an unconscious extension of John's appreciation.
Lovecraft laughed quietly before he doubled his efforts and began suckling at John's neck in earnest, alternating soft bites and small, languid circles with his tongue.
"Stop trying to give me a hickey," John fussed. "I'll never hear the end of it."
Lovecraft responded by nipping harder at the tender skin, then his mouth trailed up to John's ear. "I wish to mark you as mine, John Steinbeck," he murmured, before returning his attention to the base of John's neck.
An involuntary shiver of anticipation ran down John's spine. His skin was already dotted with bruises, some from fights, but most from Lovecraft's insistence on leaving a token of his affection. The small, dark flowers bloomed across his shoulders, his arms, down his thighs. As they yellowed and faded, they were replaced anew, coaxed out of his skin by teeth and tongue. Each was a reminder of how willingly he offered himself, and of how fiercely Lovecraft accepted his offering.
He opened his mouth to try to protest further, but all that came out was a ragged groan. It almost wasn't fair how good such a simple thing could feel; how it only took a few moments of it for his entire body to catch on fire. His hands clutched at Lovecraft's tie and he pressed against him, trying to quench even a little bit of his arousal.
A soft tug pulled his one functional overall strap off of his shoulder, then Lovecraft's hands were at his shirt, undoing his buttons, as his mouth worked its way down onto each new inch of exposed skin.
"We should... go in the camper," John managed to say, between ragged breaths. Sometimes, they didn't even make it back to the truck, but today, John didn't want to be near the destruction.
"If you like," Lovecraft answered. He flicked his tongue over one of John's nipples.
"God damn it."
Lovecraft stood up, a slight smirk of satisfaction on his face. John was looking up at him, trying very hard to seem annoyed, but the blush that spread from ear to ear and halfway down his chest betrayed him.
A moment of consideration later, Lovecraft bent down. In one smooth motion, he put his arms around John's chest, picked him up off the ground, and began heading towards the truck.
Normally John would fuss about such treatment, but he was already lost to desire. He wrapped his legs around Lovecraft's waist, dug his hands into his hair, and buried his tongue into his mouth. If it was difficult to walk that way, Lovecraft gave no indication; he returned each one of John's hungry kisses, twining their tongues together.
John hardly realized that they had made it to the truck until Lovecraft did the awkward little duck required to pass through the low door. Once inside, he set John down heavily on the camper's small table, and pushed him backwards.
It took only a second for the surprise to further John's arousal. His hands fumbled with his belt, until there was nothing preventing him from kicking off his overalls.
Lovecraft was somehow always faster at undressing; by the time John was free of his pants, all of his clothes were in a tidy pile on the floor. He looked at John appraisingly before running a cold hand down his stomach and hooking a finger around the waistband of his shorts.
Even now, though it was far from their first time, John still blushed and squirmed under Lovecraft's gaze. His dark eyes traced John's form against the small table, and when they reached the bulge barely hidden by underwear, a slight smile crept onto his face.
John felt his blush deepen as Lovecraft toyed with his waistband.
"You gonna stare all day," John asked, his voice rough, "or are you gonna fuck me?"
"Tsk tsk, so impatient," Lovecraft chuckled, his hands languidly caressing John's hips, his thighs, his stomach, carefully and purposefully avoiding what he knew John wanted.
He leaned over and kissed John's neck. "And what if I did? Would your face turn as red as the blood spattering it?" he purred into John's ear in a tone that was positively unfair.
John squirmed again, and bucked his hips, trying desperately to achieve any form of contact.
Lovecraft leaned back, pinning John's hips to the table with his hands, and went back to staring. John was breathing hard, still trying to move against the restraint. Lovecraft smiled and traced a single finger across the inside of John's thigh, maddeningly slowly.
Through barely open eyes, he saw Lovecraft sink down and a moment later he felt the gratifying sensation of his tongue sliding along his erection. John's legs almost involuntarily wrapped around Lovecraft's shoulders and pulled his head closer, desperately. He felt Lovecraft's answering chuckle along his length, and his moans were temporarily interrupted by an embarrassed whine.
Immune to John's insistence, Lovecraft took his time, savoring each reaction, each twitch, each thrust as he teased John with this tongue. John writhed beneath him, and when Lovecraft finally took the head of his cock into his mouth, he threw his head back, and dug his heels into Lovecraft's shoulders.
John's voice was a tangle of syllables, none of them from the same words, but all with the same meaning. He was grateful that there was no one nearby who could overhear. Without having to muffle his cries into a pillow, or against Lovecraft's shoulder, he gave full voice to his pleasure, whimpering with delight. Each gasp, each sigh, each grasp at nothing but air was a compliment, and Lovecraft repaid them fully, tongue sliding over his skin.
Almost without realizing it, John wrapped vines around the table to steady himself, leaving both hands free to clutch at the back of Lovecraft's head, forcing himself further into his mouth, deeper along the back of his throat. He risked a glance downwards, and met Lovecraft's eyes.
Lovecraft was watching him curiously, lips around the base of John's cock, completely unfazed by his increasingly desperate thrusts.
John slid against the top of his mouth, against the back of his throat, and it was good, beyond good, it was amazing, but at the same time, it wasn't what he wanted. He struggled against the pleasure to form words, and was only marginally successful. His gasping, half formed thoughts made Lovecraft stop for a moment, amused.
"Yes, John?" he asked, as if this wasn't a familiar road, as if he didn't know exactly what John wanted.
John tried to look annoyed. Short of breath, flushed, and desperate, he failed. "I need you," he said, and it came out as a beg.
One of Lovecraft's hands trailed away from his thighs, and he tensed with expectation. Fingers danced agonizingly slowly across his hip, over his stomach, down through the curls around his erection, until finally arriving at their destination, digging into the muscles of John's butt.
John's fingers wound tighter into Lovecraft's hair. He managed to gasp out an insistent, "Please."
Lovecraft's mouth slid away from his cock long enough for him to say, "Patience, John."
There was only so much patience a man could have. Lovecraft's damnable tendency to take his sweet time was torture. Maddeningly wonderful torture. John let out a long whine as Lovecraft returned his tongue to its task, and then John thrust hard into his mouth, and kicked his leg against Lovecraft's back in a combination of pleasure and frustration.
Without warning, a tiny shred of guilt tried to make its way through his mind; there were bodies outside, bodies he and Lovecraft had left, and here he was, thrown back on his hand-me-down camper's table, cock buried in his partner's mouth. He was too far gone to lust to even feel bad about it; instead the thought turned into a dark sort of satisfaction. They were dead and he was alive, painfully alive, and by god he was going to celebrate by getting fucked senseless.
The thought rushed along his spine and set a fire in him.
"Howard, please, I need--" his words cut off as Lovecraft sucked hard on the head of his cock. He gasped. "You're such a fucking tease."
After a long, twisting lick along his shaft, Lovecraft met his eyes and smiled. "Ah, but John, coaxing such noises out of you is quite enjoyable."
John's face started to burn again, and he looked away. "Yeah. Well. Just get on with it."
"Very well," Lovecraft said with an affectionate laugh.
Lovecraft stood, and as he turned to get the necessary supplies, John watched him appreciatively. The fall of his dark hair, impossibly messy from the fight and John's grasping hands, the angle of his shoulder blades, and one of John's particular favorites, the glorious little indentation in his back, just the right size to rest his hands on, that gave way to the delectable curve of his--
"John, you are staring."
"Damn right I am. I was staring at your ass."
"I see. Then I shall have to return the favor."
John couldn't help it, and laughed. "Goddamn, Howard, you really need to work on your dirty talk."
Lovecraft stared at him a moment, then glanced down at John's erection. "I don't see why," he answered, sinking to his knees again.
"Fair enough," John managed to say, before Lovecraft's mouth was on him again, and his ability to speak was reduced to a groan.
Lovecraft's hand traced along the curve of John's butt, and then finally, John felt the slightest tease of a touch, the faintest trace of a single finger in slow circles around his hole. His gasps became a full blown cry of need, as every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation. He heard the familiar click of a bottle top, and then a single, slick finger slid inside him.
He begged wordlessly with everything he had for more, and Lovecraft gladly obliged, pushing his finger in deeper, letting John adjust, then adding a second, carefully coaxing him open. Two fingers became three, coated with lube, caressing him from inside, exploring his heat and making him burn with need.
After one more agonizingly slow lick around the head of his cock, Lovecraft stood up, fingers still buried inside his partner. John squirmed and twitched at the sudden loss of contact, and whined insistently.
Lovecraft watched him fondly; most of John's body was flushed now, his back arched as his hips rocked against Lovecraft's palm. John's hands clutched at air, and his legs sought Lovecraft's waist, to pull him closer. He was gorgeous like this, lost to desire, spread out with no trace of guilt or self-consciousness.
The air in the camper was thick with sweat and arousal, and the only things that mattered were John's need, hot as the slick pressure surrounding Lovecraft's fingers, and his own desire, patiently waiting to be sated. He slowly pulled his fingers out of John, slid his hand away, and watched him gasp.
John looked up at him through lidded eyes, and even in his impatience, took a second to appreciate the sight. Lovecraft was all angles, bone and lean muscle, pale skin impossibly unblemished, almost glowing with the faint light of the sunset through the curtains. He was breathtaking.
Their eyes met, and Lovecraft raised an eyebrow at John curiously. Usually at this point, the man was so demanding that he would almost beg.
The blush across John's face deepened. "I can't help it, you're beautiful," he whispered.
Lovecraft shook his head. "John, it is you, flesh and blood and bone and vines, who is beautiful."
For a second, the moment was tender, and Lovecraft pulled John up towards him in a lingering kiss. He ground his hips slowly against John's thigh and sighed contentedly. John answered in kind, until his hands started to become desperate again.
Taking it as a sign that John was ready to continue, Lovecraft's mouth shifted to his ear, and between breaths, he murmured, "May I?"
John nodded fiercely. "Yes."
Lovecraft pulled John forward, slightly off the edge of the table. He folded John's legs back against his stomach, spreading him open. He paused a moment to admire his handiwork.
John whined impatiently, staring, blue eyes framed by bent legs.
And then, finally, he felt the head of Lovecraft's cock, slick with lube, press against him. Pure greed filled his body and overtook his senses. The first few motions were slow and careful and John rolled his hips in answer, needy and ready for more.
Lovecraft pushed into him farther, and the stretching sensation of his entry was overwhelming. It stung just a little at first, and it took John a moment to fully relax his muscles and adapt. Lovecraft rocked his hips tentatively and the friction sent sparks through John's body.
"More," he breathed.
Lovecraft obliged, rewarding John's patience at last with a smooth thrust of his hips that drove his full length into John's eager heat. His motions were slow and studied, his rhythm languid as he pulled back and thrust again.
John was lost to words, and as Lovecraft stretched him open, again and again, his breathing and voice set themselves to the same pace. With each maddeningly slow retreat, he inhaled raggedly. With each progressively harder thrust, he exhaled a loud moan of pleasure.
The wordless appreciation was all Lovecraft needed to continue, palms dug into the back of John's thighs, spreading him further. Satisfied that John was fully ready now, Lovecraft began moving in earnest, his strokes shorter, more powerful.
John whimpered beneath him, hands white knuckled as they clawed at the table, cock twitching, desperately gasping for air. His awareness narrowed to the feeling of Lovecraft moving inside him, taking him over and over, pounding him against the table which shook ominously with each increasingly forceful thrust.
John was close, amazingly, maddeningly, blissfully close, and he gasped out ragged syllables as every muscle in his body wound tighter. His eyes were clenched shut and he was only vaguely in control of the sounds he was making; each slight motion, each thrust sent a wave of pleasure through his body that came out through his mouth without the interference of his brain. He gasped between moans, unable to get quite enough air.
He felt his balance shift slightly, then Lovecraft's hand was on his cock, his grip moving in time with the motion of his hips. A handful of quick strokes was all it took, and all of John's tension broke at once. White heat engulfed his body and overtook his mind and left him a shuddering, whimpering mess. Soon a hazy warmth washed over him, and he lay back against the table, gasping and spent.
Lovecraft followed a few sharp thrusts later. He stilled his hips, brushed his hair back out of his face, and looked down at John, eyes closed, chest heaving, still quietly whimpering. Satisfied that John was finished, he pulled out.
John whined at the sudden emptiness, then pushed himself up into a sitting position at the edge of the table. The feeling of air against the stickiness on his stomach was cold and unpleasant.
Lovecraft watched him shiver, and ran a finger across his abdomen; that didn't help at all, and John squirmed. "You always make such a mess, John," he teased, fondness in his voice.
An embarrassed grunt was his only response.
He chuckled, and wound his fingers through John's hair, stuck to his forehead with sweat. He kissed him lightly on the cheek, the salt taste of his skin reminding him of home. "Wait here a moment."
Still short of breath and lost in the afterglow, John obliged.
Lovecraft returned with a damp towel, and methodically cleaned off John's stomach and legs before picking him up off the the table and placing him carefully in the camper's small bed. He crawled in beside John, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, exhausted and content. The coolness of Lovecraft's skin felt good against John's sweat-soaked back, and he snuggled into the embrace gratefully. He opened one eye just enough to notice the towel tossed onto the bed stand.
"Aw, Howard, that was the new dishtowel."
He felt Lovecraft shrug against his back.
Before he could protest further, tiredness overtook him. He yawned. Lovecraft was already asleep, his soft, slow breaths drifting through John's hair.
He wrapped Lovecraft's hand in his own, curled up tighter in the blankets, and closed his eyes. Soon he too was asleep, and it was peaceful and dreamless.