[ not that he doubts Freddie's capability, not for a minute. predictably, John gives way and finds himself shortly after spread out underneath a sprawl of person, chuckling quietly upwards at him. ]
I never said I'd done everything. I doubt I've marked off even half of your repertoire.
[ they're not unlike one another in this domain either. giving. John learned it a long time ago and since it's developed into something to take pleasure and pride in: being good at knowing, finding the things people yearn for and doing what he can with them, making people happy there in ways he doesn't elsewhere. in most situations, this no less than any other, asking for anything gives out more of him than it's worth.
and it's not that he doesn't trust Freddie to keep those things safe, it's that it's just not in him anymore. he finds what he wants now in what's asked for and what's offered, in silent gestures and the acceptance of gifts. finds bits of himself and his own desire in the ways he answers, a dance.
John notices himself inspecting the way the scant light catches on the ends of Freddie's eyelashes and wonders how he got here in the first place, how either of them did. doesn't care enough to grasp for an answer. ]
[Freddie pauses, caught between curling down against John in a way altogether too appealingly comfortable or taking this opportunity for further exploration. His focus flickers back to John's face, distracted from the choice.]
Having had lots of people and having done everything. Like, say you were into, I don't know, being blindfolded and whipped with birch branches. You wouldn't want to get into it with some headless torso on Scruff.
[His fingertips punctuate his sentences, light touches pressing a little more firmly in the spots that make him arch into them.]
I mean, Dean does. But he's a fucking idiot.
[And Freddie's far too much about control to give even the responsibility for his own pleasure to someone drifting through for a night. Satisfaction's often a hollow affair because he's learned not to want, because he's learned he can't have.
Not flogging with birch switches, incidentally. Things far more extreme. Risks he won't take even now - as he chooses against trickier forms of intimacy in favour of pressing his mouth to John's collarbone, and lower, lower.]
[ John hums softly under the press of Freddie's mouth, eventually raising a hand to cradle his skull as he considers what's been said. no. that sort of thing isn't anything to get into with a stranger. in all honesty it isn't anything that had even crossed his mind when the question was raised - but even aside from that, it's good to hear for its own reasons. John knows full well Freddie's got a sensible head on his shoulders, wise enough to know how to keep himself out of trouble for all the trouble he gets himself into, but it does beg the question.
John's thumb drags back and forth over the same short path through soft blond and he asks, straightforward as Freddie had, ]
What about you, then. [ a prompt, John watching Freddie's descent, sleep creeping slowly away from the little pools of pleasure blossoming out under touches. not far, but far enough for curiosity and something more focused to grip him firmly. ] Something you'd want to do. With someone who's got a head.
Edited (the awkward phrasing was real) 2016-05-31 01:40 (UTC)
[No, John. That's not how reciprocation works. Freddie's smile, as he lifts his head from laving a track with his tongue down the centre of John's chest says that he's not going to hold it against him, but like fuck does he get an answer in exchange for a dodge.]
I'll tell you when I want you to know.
[Whether that's merely stubbornness or there's a degree of trust John's not yet won (both), it's a subject for another day. When Freddie's in a different kind of giving mood.]
Though, speaking of getting head...
[Or, doing something that actively prevents speaking, as the case may be. The next moments may reveal that there are some things Freddie's not only done but done so often that practice makes something close to perfect. That promise of the best blowjob of John's life wasn't intended idly.]
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no subject
[ not that he doubts Freddie's capability, not for a minute. predictably, John gives way and finds himself shortly after spread out underneath a sprawl of person, chuckling quietly upwards at him. ]
I never said I'd done everything. I doubt I've marked off even half of your repertoire.
[ they're not unlike one another in this domain either. giving. John learned it a long time ago and since it's developed into something to take pleasure and pride in: being good at knowing, finding the things people yearn for and doing what he can with them, making people happy there in ways he doesn't elsewhere. in most situations, this no less than any other, asking for anything gives out more of him than it's worth.
and it's not that he doesn't trust Freddie to keep those things safe, it's that it's just not in him anymore. he finds what he wants now in what's asked for and what's offered, in silent gestures and the acceptance of gifts. finds bits of himself and his own desire in the ways he answers, a dance.
John notices himself inspecting the way the scant light catches on the ends of Freddie's eyelashes and wonders how he got here in the first place, how either of them did. doesn't care enough to grasp for an answer. ]
no subject
[Freddie pauses, caught between curling down against John in a way altogether too appealingly comfortable or taking this opportunity for further exploration. His focus flickers back to John's face, distracted from the choice.]
Having had lots of people and having done everything. Like, say you were into, I don't know, being blindfolded and whipped with birch branches. You wouldn't want to get into it with some headless torso on Scruff.
[His fingertips punctuate his sentences, light touches pressing a little more firmly in the spots that make him arch into them.]
I mean, Dean does. But he's a fucking idiot.
[And Freddie's far too much about control to give even the responsibility for his own pleasure to someone drifting through for a night. Satisfaction's often a hollow affair because he's learned not to want, because he's learned he can't have.
Not flogging with birch switches, incidentally. Things far more extreme. Risks he won't take even now - as he chooses against trickier forms of intimacy in favour of pressing his mouth to John's collarbone, and lower, lower.]
no subject
John's thumb drags back and forth over the same short path through soft blond and he asks, straightforward as Freddie had, ]
What about you, then. [ a prompt, John watching Freddie's descent, sleep creeping slowly away from the little pools of pleasure blossoming out under touches. not far, but far enough for curiosity and something more focused to grip him firmly. ] Something you'd want to do. With someone who's got a head.
no subject
I'll tell you when I want you to know.
[Whether that's merely stubbornness or there's a degree of trust John's not yet won (both), it's a subject for another day. When Freddie's in a different kind of giving mood.]
Though, speaking of getting head...
[Or, doing something that actively prevents speaking, as the case may be. The next moments may reveal that there are some things Freddie's not only done but done so often that practice makes something close to perfect. That promise of the best blowjob of John's life wasn't intended idly.]