predator
“If you don’t stop wiggling,” Deacon warns, voice warm against Rocker’s nape and gruff with the sleep he’s desperately trying to grasp onto, “I won’t be responsible for what I do to neutralize you.”
Huffing, Rocker shoves his naked back closer to the older man’s equally bare front, then pulls Deacon’s arm higher around his middle; thankfully, Deacon gets the message. Rocker sighs happily (like a princess, he can almost hear Deacon cooing) when that capable hand snakes up between his pecs (let me see those pretty tits, sweetheart) and wraps lightly around his throat; his grip is snug enough for Rocker to feel its presence, but not tight enough to induce panic or to limit Rocker’s air supply.
“Sleep.”
Rocker hums and does his best to obey and stay still and count sheep—he does—but, five minutes later, he feels Deacon’s chest expand on a sigh.
“Donovan.”
The bicep pillowing Rocker’s head flexes, and then that arm is enveloping him, the hand hooking beneath his opposite armpit—an immovable bar across his torso. The hand around his neck roams, the weapon-callused palm skating down his side and his hip. Rocker feels the weight of Deacon’s half-hard cock against the curve of his ass before Deacon shifts his hips away, and the older man’s hand slips between them. He hears the familiar click of a bottle (how does he always find the lube so quickly? Rocker is positive it had been buried in the top sheet at their feet when Deacon had deemed it ‘bedtime’) and the slick sound of flesh on flesh.
Deacon’s lips caress his neck before teeth clamp down on the meat of his neck—a predator subduing its prey—and then firm fingers are testing his rim, pressing in and leaving too quickly (Deacon is so goddamn good at fingering, fuck); almost immediately, the older man replaces them with his dick, sliding in slowly enough that Rocker wants to sob.
“Da—”
Deacon finally removes his teeth from Rocker’s neck when his cock, hot and thick and not fully hard, is seated comfortably inside of Rocker. “Go to sleep,” he commands with more exhaustion than arousal, as though it’s the simplest task in the world for Rocker to complete.
“How am I sup—”
“Settle down.”
He hears the rustle of fabric as Deacon wipes the lube from his fingers onto the comforter behind them. Deacon’s right arm comes back around him, snagging his hand and tangling their fingers together before tucking their clasped hands to Rocker’s chest, over his heart.
“Relax, Donovan,” Deacon murmurs, lips pressing butterfly kisses into the indents Rocker knows the other man’s teeth have left behind. “Be good for me.” The scrape of Deacon’s beard against his bare skin has goosebumps erupting, a shiver rolling down his spine. Deacon’s arms squeeze harder around him—the left pressing down, the right pulling back—in a bear hug, a comforting compression. “Go to sleep, baby girl,” the older man says through a yawn, burying his nose in the nape of Donovan’s neck.
Rocker’s cock is hard and aching; each time he exhales, the tip slides against Deacon’s hairy forearm. How the fuck is he supposed wind down like this?
Except… the thickness inside of him is so familiar, the body surrounding him so warm, the humid breaths flowering down his nape so soothing…
“Perv.” His tongue isn’t cooperating, numb and obtrusive in his mouth. His eyes feel gritty, his lids heavier with each blink.
He feels Deacon’s tired smile against his skin. As Rocker’s eyelids lose the fight against gravity, the older man shoots back a fond, “Slut,” one more sweet kiss landing on the top knob of Rocker’s spine.
(If, the next morning, it’s the best night of sleep Rocker can recall having in years, well… no one else has to know.)
