bulletsabbath
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Summary
John is all bare skin and brimming heat against him, pressed flush and unapologetic. His fingers curl back, gripping Simon’s thigh, nails digging in just enough to leave a mark against the soaked denim. A fucking mark, a claim that makes Simon's head spin. "The fuck are you doing, MacTavish?" Simon grits, voice rough, frayed at the seams.
The man hums, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that sends a sharp bolt of pleasure down the length of Simon's spine. His breath stutters, a jagged inhale at the pressure against his cock.
"The fuck does it look like, Lieutenant?"
"Brat," Simon hisses, fingers curling into the man's damp mohawk, a swift tug as he pulls John's head back toward his chest, those blue eyes clouded with a wicked intent.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, teasing, Simon’s grip bruising tight on his waist. "And what the fuck are you going to do about it?"