Chapter Text
The apartment’s HVAC hummed, white noise on an otherwise quiet night. An action flick was playing– the TV colors a touch too cool. John’s eyes burned if he watched for too long– Not like they were watching it anyway.
“Pizza’s cold,” John grumbled, the warmth pressed against his back impossible to ignore. Mime.
“Don’t care,” Mime mumbled, nuzzling to the crook of John’s neck, his embrace tightening around John’s center– as if the non-existent distance between them was criminal.
They’ve gone through two movies, a 6-pack of beer– the shitty one, as John put it, but still bought because the bastard likes it, and the uneaten pizza on the coffee table. John’s attention slipped between the second can and Mime’s arm around his shoulders. By the start of the second movie, Mime had already settled in, clinging.
The couch groaned, but John didn’t notice. A divot was already forming at its center from the times they’ve done this before, a protest against their combined weight.
“Mime,” John's voice cut through the long-ignored spectacle of bad CGI and explosions on their TV– Mime’s idea, insisting John would like it.
“Mmm, warm,” Mime replied, muffled against John.
“You’re not even watching–”
“Sure, I am, something about guns… and… agents–”
“That was before; this is about aliens now.”
“Semantics.”
John paused, barely enough to have a sip. He didn’t bother shoving Mime off.
“Ridiculous,” John muttered, all bark and no bite. “We’re wasting electricity, y’know.”
“I’ll waste more electricity if I can get you like this,” Mime whispered, placing a chaste kiss on John's nape.
“Stupid,” John shot back a little too quickly, a little too quietly. Red-faced and warm– not. He blamed the beer.
“Mhm, and hard,” Mime added, casual if anything. His hands found purchase beneath the hem of John’s tank, fingers pressing in John’s hips like he knew them by heart. “Been hard since the agents kissed.”
“That was–” Half an hour ago, the words dying as John’s breath hitched. “I thought you weren’t watching.”
“Not really,” Mime’s hand slithered higher, feeling John’s warmth. “But I noticed you tensed up when it happened. The jaw thing you do. Got me worked up.”
“Bastard,” John groaned through gritted teeth as his hands found Mime’s. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”
“What smirk?” Mime replied, smug as ever. “Don’t you want this? I can stop on your word, y’know.”
“Don’t–” John snapped. “Damn you, don’t you dare.”
“I am damned, John,” Mime purred against John’s neck, licking a strip up to his ear as his hands found John’s chest. “You, on the other hand–” Mime mocked, breath warm, teasing.
His fingers kneaded the sinner’s pecs, fingers grazing over sensitive nubs, John's throat eliciting a sound somewhere between a choke and a moan. Mime thrusted. Grinding into John’s cleft, separated by too many layers of clothing. John ground down in turn.
“Eager,” Mime huffed, his voice octave lower. “I’ll make you feel good soon enough.”
“Now–”
“Patience,” Mime teased as he tugged on John's perked nipple. “Or was it chastity–? Whatever. You learned it from Him,” A weighted pause, his tone shifting back from sultry to mocking. “Didn't you?”
John's breath hitched, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the noise threatening to breach his throat. Mime's hand was adept at making John feel everything and nothing at once, still pinching, grazing against John's nipples. John pondered their sensitivity as every tug sent blood rushing south, his sweatpants tenting.
Mime's hand inched down, feeling John's defined abs, and the happy trail leading– quite literally a path to John's arousal. Mime slipped past the waistband, clasping the root of John's semi hard-on.
“Commando?” Mime inquired, amused. “Someone's ready,” He laughed, giving John's cock a teasing stroke from root to tip and back to the root.
Through gritted teeth, John yanked Mime's hand off before peeling off his embrace. His body burned, cock throbbing, shedding a tear of pre at its tip, wetting his sweatpants. He loomed over Mime, his eyes locked onto the fucker who was draped across the couch, thighs spread with the boner he had been spotting that John desperately wanted to ignore pressing against his ass.
“Now, now,” Mime chuckled, hands up in surrender. “I was only teasi–”
“You keep talking.”
John dove, thick thighs bracketing Mime's as he straddled him face-to-face. He grabbed both wrists, joining them together above Mime's head, forceful enough to make the man under him groan. Using one hand to restrain Mime's arms and his sheer weight, John left no opportunity for Mime to escape. Mime grinned wide– impossibly wide.
“Teasing me all damn night,” A pause, his free hand tugging Mime’s shirt up his arms and off him. “Insisting on a movie marathon when I could see your intentions a mile away.”
“Worked, didn't it–?”
“Quiet.”
“Yes, sir~.”
John let go for a brief moment, peeling his tank top off as well. Mime’s eyes immediately locked onto John’s body, his already hard cock throbbing incessantly against his boxers, which had long been soaked. His now free hands couldn’t help but gravitate towards John’s hips, as he continued to drink in the sight of the half-naked sinner.
“Fuck, you’re burning Johnny,” Mime whispered, incredibly pleased that his plan came to fruition. John’s pecs heaved at his words and the intrusion of Mime’s impatient hands– They were firm, still pumped from his earlier gym session. “Have I told you how hot you are?”
“You have,” John sighed, pulling down his sweatpants before kicking them off onto the coffee table. “Eighth time this week.”
Mime whistled, “You kept track, hm~?” John’s full figure was bare and out for display for him– only for him. “Could you blame me when you look like this?” Mime leaned forward, mouth open, breath warm against John’s pectoral, directly above his heartbeat, and planted a kiss there. Mime continued, peppering the expanse of his chest before hovering on a nipple.
“You’ve been paying attention to my pecs a lot,” John rasped as Mime's tongue darted out to lick the sensitive nub.
“These tits of yours need worship.”
“Don't call them tits…” John groaned, unamused.
“Shure dey arh–” Mime replied, words muffled as he suckled on one, forcing out a choke from John.
“Even now– Hah– You're still teasing.”
Mime hummed around John's now slobber-coated areola, keeping up at fondling with the other with his free hand. At the same time, his other hand tugged his boxers down, now loosely wrapped around his ankles. His cock sprang, and a resounding wet slap rang through the living room as it met with John’s ass cheek. “Heh, nice buns,” Mime gave a languid thrust as he settled between John’s rear.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m horny,” Mime corrected. His cock was leaking copious amounts of pre, slicking John’s ass crack. “And, you’re hot. Do the math, priest.”
John rolled his eyes, biting his lower lip to stop himself from moaning at the teasing length at his entrance. He rolled his hips, flexing his glutes around the soon-to-be intrusion. Mime’s body responded, thrusting upward with fervor– instinctual, needy. His grip tightened around John’s hips, bruising in their force, making John squirm.
“Damn, mutt,” John chuckled, a broken half-moan as he let Mime rut against him. His hips rocked with the sporadic rhythm Mime had set, feeling everything and nothing at once. It was torture– it was pleasure– it was mere foreplay. Before long, his hands captured Mime’s wrists and pinned them above his head for the second time.
“Stay still,” John panted, his face mere inches from Mime’s, who was too blissed out to hear. Still humping, Mime cried out another moan of pleasure, his eyes closing from the feeling.
“I said stay still,” John ordered, as he pressed his weight on Mime. Mime rutted– attempted to– once, twice, and finally realized his hips were immobilized.
“Wha–” Mime whined, snapping free from his stupor. “No, I was so close–”
“You’re not getting off that easy,” John replied, his grip tightening on Mime’s writhing arms, biceps flexing as he kept them pinned against the couch.
John loomed over him, sweat-slicked and imposing, the streetlight through the window burning the silhouette of his physique in Mime’s pleasure-drunk brain– shoulders broad, waist tapered, thighs like stone pillars bracketing Mime's narrower frame. The divot in the couch swallowed them deeper, the plush protesting beneath John's shifting weight.
"Johnny," Mime tried, hips bucking fruitlessly against the iron grip pinning him. "C'mon, I was joking about the tits–"
"Shut up." John's voice had dropped, guttural, barely recognizable. He leaned down, chest heaving against Mime's, until their foreheads touched and Mime could taste the beer on his breath. "You think you're so clever,” A roll of his hips. “Teasing me through two movies,” A lean toward Mime’s exposed neck. “Getting me worked up," Another collision of hips, deliberate, grinding his ass against Mime's trapped cock. "Making me wait," A nip at Mime’s pulse.
"That's–” Mime's breath stuttered. ”That's my line–"
"Not tonight." John straightened, releasing one wrist only to grip his own cock, heavy and flushed against his stomach. He gave it a slow stroke, thumb catching the pearl at the tip, spreading it. Mime watched, transfixed, as John reached behind himself–fingers probing, slicking, opening with the patience of a man taming sin– and perhaps he was.
“Repentance takes many forms,” John muttered, voice hoarse, eyes heady with lust as it never left Mime’s. “I’ve gotten tired of you looming over my back, Mime. And now–” He chuckled, deep. Arousal palpable with the dark grumble of his throat. “I finally got you still.”
He rose slightly on his knees, positioning, and Mime felt the blunt pressure against John's entrance– the resistance, then the yielding. John's jaw tightened as he sank, inch by devastating inch, taking Mime inside with a control that belied the tremor in his thighs.
"Fuck–" Mime's head fell back, hands flying to John's hips before being seized and slammed back against the couch. "John–"
"I set the pace." John's voice was strained, sweat beading at his temples, but his grip on Mime's wrists was absolute. His own cock stood untouched, bobbing against his stomach with each downward roll of his hips. "You don't move. You don't rut. You take what I give you."
And what he gave was excruciating– slow, grinding descents that seated Mime deep, then the clench of muscle as John lifted, almost to the tip, before sinking again. The sight made Mime hard as steel– John's defined abs contracting, pecs flushed and heaving, his powerful thighs flexing and releasing as he rode with methodical, punishing slowness. His cock pulsated, leaking pre-cum inside John, amplifying the slickness, the mere feeling of John around him.
"God, you're–" Mime gasped, overwhelmed by the tight heat, the visual, the sheer reversal of their dynamic. He'd planned to tease, to draw this out until John broke and begged. Instead, he was pinned, helpless, while the sinner used his body with devastating precision.
“You don’t get to use His name–” John gritted out, picking up pace instinctively, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. “Blasphemer.”
Mime would have laughed if he could breathe. “Hypocrite– Hah– Fuck–”
John leaned forward, releasing one wrist to grip Mime's jaw, forcing eye contact. His pupils were blown wide, lips bitten red, and he was beautiful– terrifying, divine, damned. "You wanted to know what I learned from Him?" He rolled his hips in a circle that made Mime see stars. "Discipline. Control. How to withstand–" A particularly vicious clench around Mime's cock "–temptation.
“You’re not–” Mime choked on his own spit, his pelvis crushed by John’s tempo. “You’re not withstanding anything–!”
“No,” John finally let his hand go to his neglected cock. “I’m indulging. Big difference.”
The change was immediate. John’s strokes matched his rhythm– fast and efficient. He was close. Mime could tell from the muscle tightening around him, from John’s hitched breathing, from the pace that blurred the line between control and lost precision– deeper, desperate.
“Fuck– Go on–” Mime whispered despite himself. “Use me.”
That set John off.
His pacing grew more frantic. Less about the control he had set and more about losing himself. He ceased his grip around his member, consequently letting go of Mime’s wrists as he propped himself up on the couch. His eyes grew heavy with each downthrust, eyes rolling back as he fucked himself on Mime, who he himself remained pliant– if you could call a moaning mess pliant– amidst the assault.
Now free, Mime’s hands found themselves beneath John’s ribcage, tracing the muscle there. He moved lower and lower until it met with John’s hips– not to control, but to feel. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm was hypnotic– if not for how close it pushed him. Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, he’d repeat in his mind, a mantra in the middle of every slap that drowned out sounds from the TV– every clench that dared milk out the life from him.
But then the pressure stopped.
“Wha–” Mime’s eyes locked onto John, desperate, drunk on lust and want. “Please– Not again, Joh–”
“Thrust,” John cut off, barely a sound. “Up.”
Mime obeyed– weak, unfocused– hips barely lifting to meet him.
“You’re not listening–” John growled, rough, inhuman. “Thrust–” A pelvis-crushing slam, then the dreadful rise that dragged over every inch. “Up!” John staggered on Mime’s length. But before he could slam back down, Mime’s once passive hands on his hips tightened, marking.
“I did say I’ll make you feel good,” Mime hissed. “So take–” A thrust– “Everything–” another– “I’ve got–!”
“More,” John moaned, meeting back against Mime’s found vigor. “Mime– More–!”
“Johnny–” Mime’s head threw back, the words escaping against his non-existent will. “Fuuck– Johnny–!”
John’s eyes blew wide, his body burned, desire pulled like a taut string as he slammed down at the smaller man– once, twice, and a third time. Mime felt the white-hot pulse, the wet heat flooding him as John came with a strangled groan, spending thick ropes across both their abdomen and Mime’s face, marking him with release. The clench of the orgasm sent Mime over the edge– balls deep and helpless, he came inside.
John collapsed forward, his full weight pressing Mime into the couch. Their breathing synced, though ragged, the HVAC hummed in chorus with the white noise of the TV– now turned static, the movie long over.
"Still think," John mumbled against Mime's neck, aftershocks making him twitch occasionally around Mime's softening cock, "that your plan worked?"
Mime laughed, weak and genuine, carding his now-free fingers through John's sweat-damp hair. "Worked wonders if I say so myself~."
John bit his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to bruise. "Bastard."
"Yours," Mime agreed, sated and stupid with it. "Apparently."
Their lips met, unclear whether it was John or Mime who leaned in. They didn’t care. Mime’s hand pulled John closer by his nape– John responded with tongue, sharing the taste of salt from Mime’s shoulder and the tart remnants of beer. They stayed like that for a few moments.
They couldn’t tell if it had been mere seconds or minutes when they parted. A string of saliva bridging their tongues. John’s thumb brushed against Mime’s jaw, finding a wet patch there– his own release. Mime smirked, took his thumb in his mouth, and tasted his spent.
“Sweet~”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love me!~.”
“Shut up.”
“Make m–”
Yep. They went back to kissing.
The pizza was still cold, uneaten. The beer was warm. The couch divot would never recover. John didn't move to fix any of it.