Die Hard fic: (Not Exactly the) Tunnel o' Love
Happy Valentine's day, y'all. As seems to be my tradition, have some cinderblock and schmoop.
...The smutty kind this year.
Written for the sexy_rightQuips and Quotes Challenge.
Title: (Not Exactly the) Tunnel o’ Love
Author: persnickett
Rating: MA, for sex
Prompt: Sexy, right?
Summary: Gapfiller.This very nearly escaped being entitled simply “Tunnel Smut” and it probably should have been. Yeah.
Warning: Nah.
Disclaimer: This never happened.
___________________________
(Not Exactly the) Tunnel o' Love
___________________________
This was absurd. The whole thing was absurd. Being thrown to the ground just in time to avoid being crushed by flying cars with nothing but the body of the man above you to shield you from the impact and the shattering glass was absurd. Having psychotic acrobat-ninjas bent on killing you by blowing up everything you owned was ridiculous, and being told to “stay” behind a concrete caisson in a dark tunnel in the middle of a major traffic collision pile-up because there are helicopters that need killing with airborne cars was ludicrous, and pretending you could get away with that by just jumping out of said airborne car without needing serious medical attention afterward was just plainly absurd.
There was tough, and then there was stupid. And McClane looked like he was hurt.
“Sexy, right?” McClane asked him, when he said as much.
And Matt just knew, knew that McClane was smirking his big, smug, bald head off as he stubbornly dragged himself up off the giant boulder of rubble he’d just climbed over, at the squeaky, way-too-quick “No!” Matt had given him in reply.
McClane had been smirking at him like that a lot. And okay, sure, Matt’s over-eagerness to protest too much could possibly be misconstrued as denial or something, but that was just so not the point. He was concerned that’s all. All he’d said was that McClane probably needed a doctor, and hell, the man probably did.
McClane still had blood running down from the top of his scalp and across his cheek, and on his chest, and his arm, and a bunch of other spots Matt hadn’t had time to catalogue yet. And Matt was pretty sure he’d seen him clutching his ribs and his arm, and he was definitely limping. So sue him, but it was kind of hard not to be concerned about a guy who repeatedly flings his body in front of bullets and explosions and various potentially fatal vehicular mishaps as a shield for you, just because a bunch of real life Hollywood movie villains are inexplicably after your frankly-not-that-important blood.
“I’m just saying...” Matt tried again, picking his way gingerly over the rocks and uneven ground. The knee of his jeans was ripped open, and he was pretty sure he’d done something stupider to it than just take some of the skin right off, but McClane definitely looked the worst for the wear, and the logical thing was to do something about it, dammit.
“And I’m tellin’ you,” McClane interrupted, somehow several long strides ahead of him already even though he looked like he could barely walk. “There’s time for that later, right now we gotta find cops - help. We can make time for the doctor after we stop these guys, catch whoever’s behind all this, and after I get you somewhere safe. Then - if you shut up long enough - bet you’d probably like it if I could see about maybe getting you off, huh?”
“I - s-scuse me?”
“Off. Of the charges. Yeah, the part where you’re wanted by the FBI. Remember that, Mr. ‘Accessory to Armageddon’?”
Okay, so McClane wasn’t the only one misinterpreting things, but really? Seriously, Matt wasn’t entirely sure that one was his fault. McClane was the one who kept making that mischievous smirk-face and walking around talking about stuff like being ‘sexy’ and saying things that sounded...well...flirty.
“Jesus Christ,” McClane swears suddenly, like he was waiting for Matt to give him some kind of response that was formed out of coherent words instead of mainly staring dumbly and thinking about the sheer unlikelihood of steely, gruff-ball John McClane flirting with anyone period, let alone anyone like Matt. ...Possibly with his mouth open. “C’mere.”
And Matt could swear that a second ago McClane was several steps over dangerous, rocky terrain away from him, but now he’s right in front of him, swiping out one hand to snag his wrist and hauling him off in a completely different direction. And then suddenly that hand is at his nape, and McClane has Matt’s back up against the tunnel wall, and how exactly had he managed to make that scruff-of-the-neck cop-move somehow gentle?
“What, where?” Matt stammers. “What are we doing?”
“Said I’d get you off, didn’t I?”
There’s that smirk again. Matt wouldn’t be falling for it again this time, except for the way the voice is different now; a low sort of purr, like the dirtiest kind of promise.
There’s a hand settling on his chest too, that’s different from the admittedly surprising amount of hands-on protect-and-serve that McClane’s been treating him to up ‘til now. It’s more... deliberate, and a little too heavy or something. Weighty, like a question. Matt could swear that it’s too warm somehow too, sitting dully on his chest, with subtle heat pooling slowly in Matt’s skin under the contact of it.
Yet another reason for the hospital - can concussions cause fever? Matt’s never had one so he doesn’t know, but he’s even starting to feel a little too warm himself, like this close up he can feel that same heat coming off of McClane all over.
“Wh-”
“Relax,” McClane says dismissively, every trace of that dirty purr gone now. “Just a handjob. What, you’re gonna turn it down?” Like he’s asking how Matt feels about maybe ordering a pizza.
Whoa. No misinterpreting that one.
McClane’s eyes meet his for a searching second, and either McClane has a really weird-ass sense of humour or he means it and this, right here, is actually going to go down.
There’s a tightness in Matt’s throat all of a sudden that probably has nothing to do with his asthma acting up. The mute shake of the head he gives McClane could be interpreted as mere disbelief, in case this really is some sort of joke, but he supposes it could also be some sort of assent, and it seems McClane isn’t waiting for any more permission than that. The hand on his chest smoothes down over his ribcage, moves toward his waist.
“Yeah, I see you, kid. ...Can’t take the way you’re lookin’ at me anymore,” McClane grunts hurriedly, yanking upward a little on Matt’s shirts to get the layers of fabric out of his way. “Here, get your jeans open.”
Matt opens his mouth again, maybe to say something about the fever thing, or to ask what kind of way exactly he’s been looking at McClane to get this reaction, but all that comes out is “I - Jesus McClane.”
It’s taking all the goal-directed activity his brain can muster just to find the dexterity to make his hands follow McClane’s to the waistband of his jeans - to slow whatever this is down a second, or maybe just grab self-consciously at the edges of the denim to hold them together, but when they get there, everything his fingers do seems to be less like holding, and more like helping.
The pop of the button and the buzz of his zipper being forced apart sound louder than they should, like some kind of warning notification in his head. Matt catches a quick breath and takes a concerned grasp of McClane’s arm.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head or something?”
It’s looking like this is really, actually going to happen. And concussion-fevers aside, there’s probably at least some small-to-middling number of reasons - some of them likely legal ones - why it shouldn’t.
“...Because I’m slightly concerned you’ve gone completely fucking cra-aaah haha, oh wow. You’re really going for it, huh,” Matt says next, because there’s a hand on his dick already. Doing things. And it looks like his dick really really likes those things, because he’s already half hard and his fingers seem to have clenched into a fist in the sleeve of McClane’s shirt.
“Oh Jesus, oh shit. You’re using two hands now.” Correction: hands. There are hands on his dick. Plural. And ‘half hard’ is quickly becoming ‘all-the-way, full-on, alone-in-the-house-with-unlimited-free-porn’ hard. “Uh,” he says, always the epitome of eloquence. “…God.”
“Gonna give me a running commentary or you gonna let me get on with it?” McClane asks bluntly, and the smirk is gone. Apparently not only is this happening, but McClane is also taking it pretty seriously.
“No I - uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhn. No, please- guh- huh. Please, continue,” Matt invites cordially, before giving up on polite conversation and letting his head roll back against the cinderblock. “Nnnnnnn, fuck. “
John’s (newest) way of telling him to shut up seems to be to take one of those big broad hands off his dick and use it to grip Matt’s chin instead, with the thumb laid quellingly over both his lips.
Matt gets the message, he totally does, but then, as if to prove it can manage just fine on its own - the wrist of the single hand still gripping him twists unbelievably, and Matt makes another one of those embarrassing, choked, keening sort of noises. It looks like McClane is left-handed - how Matt is just noticing that now, with all the shooting and punching that’s been going down so far, is a question he will have to ponder later, because McClane takes Matt’s little stifle-noise as an opportunity to fit his thumb in between Matt’s lips. It’s dirty, but he doesn’t care, just opens up to take it in. He doesn’t suck though, just tilts his chin enough to let McClane settle it between his teeth before he closes his jaw just tight enough to trap him there.
McClane looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time since he started whatever this is and smiles that maddening crooked half-smirk again, but it’s not teasing this time so much as it is pleased. Matt has a second to take in the way the pupils look like they might be blown slightly wider than usual, then those eyes drop a little to take in the view of what Matt’s mouth is doing, and he can’t help it, he bites down, just a little. McClane’s lips part slightly and he takes in a short breath, but his only real response is to press a little harder, moving in deeper over the sharp edges of Matt’s teeth and turning his head firmly to the side.
McClane (John?) is doing things to Matt’s neck now, using his mouth, even though Matt’s skin has to be just as filthy by now as John’s fingers - grazing lips over his collar bone, lightly scraping teeth over the taut tendon - and Matt raises his tongue to the pad of the thumb in his mouth.
The taste is salt-gritty, like ash and dust, but it makes John’s rhythm on his cock stutter, and when Matt closes his lips and sucks, swirls his tongue, John groans against his neck. He bites down, does even better things that make Matt’s cock surge in his hand so Matt keeps it up, stroking with his tongue and moaning now and then even though he’s supposed to shutting up because - damn.
It’s all almost a bit too much - no foreplay to make everything sort of floating and blurred, the complete surprise of it all seems to be putting a razor edge on everything. Or maybe it’s the adrenaline still surging through his veins magnifying every little sensation, making it all sharper somehow, brighter, brasher. Everything McClane is doing feels impossible. This whole day is impossible.
Whatever Matt is trying to communicate must be working though because John really goes to town with the necking thing, pushing closer and breathing hard in his ear, making the most obscene sorts of little sucking noises and doing the most tantalizing, infuriating things - but never quite hard enough. It seems like he’s always stopping just shy, as if John is dying to mark him but too wary - battling some recurrent temptation to leave traces he doesn’t have permission for - as if it would stand out against all the bruises Matt is going to have by tomorrow anyway.
Matt nips at his hand again, presses his body forward and thrusts into McClane’s knowing grip, trying to say without words that it’s okay, that he wants it - whatever McClane wants to give him, Matt is ready to take.
But McClane isn’t having it, leaning in and pinning Matt’s body back to the concrete with his own, one thigh in between his legs to hold him still. Matt can feel the hard length of him against his hip, and he has to let McClane loose, opening his mouth for the sharp gasp he can’t seem to help giving in response to the rigid line of proof that he’s not the only one enjoying this.
McClane runs his thumb over Matt’s lips again as soon as he’s free - a slow, wet smear like he likes the way that feels too, and Matt is glad McClane’s fingers are out of his mouth because the urge to clench his jaw, grind his teeth against the pressure quickly building down low in his gut, is too much. He has to pull free, tipping his head back against the bricks, gritting his teeth and thrusting forward as much as John will let him.
“There we go,” McClane mutters in his ear, and Matt almost doesn’t recognize the voice, it’s gone so husky and molten.
He feels McClane run what has to be his tongue all the way up the column of his throat, before McClane’s free hand comes to rest at the base, just over his collar bone, and then…and then… Cool air flooding between them as John steps quickly away.
For a second Matt is terrified he’s going to just stop, leave him right here, right on the edge of everything - but then he takes in the fact the warm, heavy hand at his throat, and the one furiously working his dick, are still there, and Matt realizes the little separating move is because McClane wants to watch.
And that is it, all he can take. Matt looks down too, purely on instinct, but the sight of his own cock, red and dark and harder than maybe he’s ever been, moving in a quickly unravelling rhythm through McClane’s fist is all he can handle. Something fluttery twists in his stomach hard enough it almost feels like it hurts, and it’s all the warning he gets.
Everything in him seems to draw tight at once like a rubber band snapping to, and his body pitches forward, folding almost in half and Matt is done for, panting and swearing, and pressing his forehead into John’s shoulder, fingers making a desperate fist in the soft cotton of McClane’s battered and bloodied Henley.
He just needs to keep breathing. That’s the key. His knees feel like they’re about to buckle, which might be okay because courtesy really does dictate that the polite thing to do is probably drop to his knees in the gravel and return the favour right away, but McClane is already stepping away from him and wiping his hand off nonchalantly on his jeans.
“Okay,” Matt pants, not sure what comes next. “What-”
“Toldja,” McClane says, saving him the trouble, and his voice is that same gruff bark as always. “I see the way you look at me, and it’s fuckin’ distracting kid. We don’t have time for that shit. So I hope that’s enough to keep you offa me until we’re done here and we can get to the main event. You gonna be able to concentrate now? Because I need you sharp.”
McClane isn’t even looking at him, he’s already eyeing the metal escape ladder a few feet down the wall from them - all business.
“Uh,” Matt says, in a tone that is anything but.
John McClane just pushed him against the wall, gave him one of the most blistering orgasms he’d had in his life, and told him there was a main event to look forward to, that was potentially going to be even more epic. Oh yeah, he’s concentration personified. No distractions or questions plaguing his mind at all.
Matt looks at the dark smear where John wiped his hand off on his jeans, knowing he won’t be able to quit staring at that stain (okay, so maybe he’d been staring at McClane in that way... a little) until it either gets blotted out with more fucking blood, or John makes good on that ‘main event’ thing.
“Concentrate,” he repeats, watching McClane make his way up the ladder and back out into daylight - absolutely without watching his ass, or thinking about how he is doing that with the bulge Matt knows for a fact is still happening in those jeans, or those seriously distracting promises for later.
“...Sure thing.”
~~
...The smutty kind this year.
Written for the sexy_rightQuips and Quotes Challenge.
Title: (Not Exactly the) Tunnel o’ Love
Author: persnickett
Rating: MA, for sex
Prompt: Sexy, right?
Summary: Gapfiller.This very nearly escaped being entitled simply “Tunnel Smut” and it probably should have been. Yeah.
Warning: Nah.
Disclaimer: This never happened.
___________________________
(Not Exactly the) Tunnel o' Love
___________________________
This was absurd. The whole thing was absurd. Being thrown to the ground just in time to avoid being crushed by flying cars with nothing but the body of the man above you to shield you from the impact and the shattering glass was absurd. Having psychotic acrobat-ninjas bent on killing you by blowing up everything you owned was ridiculous, and being told to “stay” behind a concrete caisson in a dark tunnel in the middle of a major traffic collision pile-up because there are helicopters that need killing with airborne cars was ludicrous, and pretending you could get away with that by just jumping out of said airborne car without needing serious medical attention afterward was just plainly absurd.
There was tough, and then there was stupid. And McClane looked like he was hurt.
“Sexy, right?” McClane asked him, when he said as much.
And Matt just knew, knew that McClane was smirking his big, smug, bald head off as he stubbornly dragged himself up off the giant boulder of rubble he’d just climbed over, at the squeaky, way-too-quick “No!” Matt had given him in reply.
McClane had been smirking at him like that a lot. And okay, sure, Matt’s over-eagerness to protest too much could possibly be misconstrued as denial or something, but that was just so not the point. He was concerned that’s all. All he’d said was that McClane probably needed a doctor, and hell, the man probably did.
McClane still had blood running down from the top of his scalp and across his cheek, and on his chest, and his arm, and a bunch of other spots Matt hadn’t had time to catalogue yet. And Matt was pretty sure he’d seen him clutching his ribs and his arm, and he was definitely limping. So sue him, but it was kind of hard not to be concerned about a guy who repeatedly flings his body in front of bullets and explosions and various potentially fatal vehicular mishaps as a shield for you, just because a bunch of real life Hollywood movie villains are inexplicably after your frankly-not-that-important blood.
“I’m just saying...” Matt tried again, picking his way gingerly over the rocks and uneven ground. The knee of his jeans was ripped open, and he was pretty sure he’d done something stupider to it than just take some of the skin right off, but McClane definitely looked the worst for the wear, and the logical thing was to do something about it, dammit.
“And I’m tellin’ you,” McClane interrupted, somehow several long strides ahead of him already even though he looked like he could barely walk. “There’s time for that later, right now we gotta find cops - help. We can make time for the doctor after we stop these guys, catch whoever’s behind all this, and after I get you somewhere safe. Then - if you shut up long enough - bet you’d probably like it if I could see about maybe getting you off, huh?”
“I - s-scuse me?”
“Off. Of the charges. Yeah, the part where you’re wanted by the FBI. Remember that, Mr. ‘Accessory to Armageddon’?”
Okay, so McClane wasn’t the only one misinterpreting things, but really? Seriously, Matt wasn’t entirely sure that one was his fault. McClane was the one who kept making that mischievous smirk-face and walking around talking about stuff like being ‘sexy’ and saying things that sounded...well...flirty.
“Jesus Christ,” McClane swears suddenly, like he was waiting for Matt to give him some kind of response that was formed out of coherent words instead of mainly staring dumbly and thinking about the sheer unlikelihood of steely, gruff-ball John McClane flirting with anyone period, let alone anyone like Matt. ...Possibly with his mouth open. “C’mere.”
And Matt could swear that a second ago McClane was several steps over dangerous, rocky terrain away from him, but now he’s right in front of him, swiping out one hand to snag his wrist and hauling him off in a completely different direction. And then suddenly that hand is at his nape, and McClane has Matt’s back up against the tunnel wall, and how exactly had he managed to make that scruff-of-the-neck cop-move somehow gentle?
“What, where?” Matt stammers. “What are we doing?”
“Said I’d get you off, didn’t I?”
There’s that smirk again. Matt wouldn’t be falling for it again this time, except for the way the voice is different now; a low sort of purr, like the dirtiest kind of promise.
There’s a hand settling on his chest too, that’s different from the admittedly surprising amount of hands-on protect-and-serve that McClane’s been treating him to up ‘til now. It’s more... deliberate, and a little too heavy or something. Weighty, like a question. Matt could swear that it’s too warm somehow too, sitting dully on his chest, with subtle heat pooling slowly in Matt’s skin under the contact of it.
Yet another reason for the hospital - can concussions cause fever? Matt’s never had one so he doesn’t know, but he’s even starting to feel a little too warm himself, like this close up he can feel that same heat coming off of McClane all over.
“Wh-”
“Relax,” McClane says dismissively, every trace of that dirty purr gone now. “Just a handjob. What, you’re gonna turn it down?” Like he’s asking how Matt feels about maybe ordering a pizza.
Whoa. No misinterpreting that one.
McClane’s eyes meet his for a searching second, and either McClane has a really weird-ass sense of humour or he means it and this, right here, is actually going to go down.
There’s a tightness in Matt’s throat all of a sudden that probably has nothing to do with his asthma acting up. The mute shake of the head he gives McClane could be interpreted as mere disbelief, in case this really is some sort of joke, but he supposes it could also be some sort of assent, and it seems McClane isn’t waiting for any more permission than that. The hand on his chest smoothes down over his ribcage, moves toward his waist.
“Yeah, I see you, kid. ...Can’t take the way you’re lookin’ at me anymore,” McClane grunts hurriedly, yanking upward a little on Matt’s shirts to get the layers of fabric out of his way. “Here, get your jeans open.”
Matt opens his mouth again, maybe to say something about the fever thing, or to ask what kind of way exactly he’s been looking at McClane to get this reaction, but all that comes out is “I - Jesus McClane.”
It’s taking all the goal-directed activity his brain can muster just to find the dexterity to make his hands follow McClane’s to the waistband of his jeans - to slow whatever this is down a second, or maybe just grab self-consciously at the edges of the denim to hold them together, but when they get there, everything his fingers do seems to be less like holding, and more like helping.
The pop of the button and the buzz of his zipper being forced apart sound louder than they should, like some kind of warning notification in his head. Matt catches a quick breath and takes a concerned grasp of McClane’s arm.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head or something?”
It’s looking like this is really, actually going to happen. And concussion-fevers aside, there’s probably at least some small-to-middling number of reasons - some of them likely legal ones - why it shouldn’t.
“...Because I’m slightly concerned you’ve gone completely fucking cra-aaah haha, oh wow. You’re really going for it, huh,” Matt says next, because there’s a hand on his dick already. Doing things. And it looks like his dick really really likes those things, because he’s already half hard and his fingers seem to have clenched into a fist in the sleeve of McClane’s shirt.
“Oh Jesus, oh shit. You’re using two hands now.” Correction: hands. There are hands on his dick. Plural. And ‘half hard’ is quickly becoming ‘all-the-way, full-on, alone-in-the-house-with-unlimited-free-porn’ hard. “Uh,” he says, always the epitome of eloquence. “…God.”
“Gonna give me a running commentary or you gonna let me get on with it?” McClane asks bluntly, and the smirk is gone. Apparently not only is this happening, but McClane is also taking it pretty seriously.
“No I - uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhn. No, please- guh- huh. Please, continue,” Matt invites cordially, before giving up on polite conversation and letting his head roll back against the cinderblock. “Nnnnnnn, fuck. “
John’s (newest) way of telling him to shut up seems to be to take one of those big broad hands off his dick and use it to grip Matt’s chin instead, with the thumb laid quellingly over both his lips.
Matt gets the message, he totally does, but then, as if to prove it can manage just fine on its own - the wrist of the single hand still gripping him twists unbelievably, and Matt makes another one of those embarrassing, choked, keening sort of noises. It looks like McClane is left-handed - how Matt is just noticing that now, with all the shooting and punching that’s been going down so far, is a question he will have to ponder later, because McClane takes Matt’s little stifle-noise as an opportunity to fit his thumb in between Matt’s lips. It’s dirty, but he doesn’t care, just opens up to take it in. He doesn’t suck though, just tilts his chin enough to let McClane settle it between his teeth before he closes his jaw just tight enough to trap him there.
McClane looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time since he started whatever this is and smiles that maddening crooked half-smirk again, but it’s not teasing this time so much as it is pleased. Matt has a second to take in the way the pupils look like they might be blown slightly wider than usual, then those eyes drop a little to take in the view of what Matt’s mouth is doing, and he can’t help it, he bites down, just a little. McClane’s lips part slightly and he takes in a short breath, but his only real response is to press a little harder, moving in deeper over the sharp edges of Matt’s teeth and turning his head firmly to the side.
McClane (John?) is doing things to Matt’s neck now, using his mouth, even though Matt’s skin has to be just as filthy by now as John’s fingers - grazing lips over his collar bone, lightly scraping teeth over the taut tendon - and Matt raises his tongue to the pad of the thumb in his mouth.
The taste is salt-gritty, like ash and dust, but it makes John’s rhythm on his cock stutter, and when Matt closes his lips and sucks, swirls his tongue, John groans against his neck. He bites down, does even better things that make Matt’s cock surge in his hand so Matt keeps it up, stroking with his tongue and moaning now and then even though he’s supposed to shutting up because - damn.
It’s all almost a bit too much - no foreplay to make everything sort of floating and blurred, the complete surprise of it all seems to be putting a razor edge on everything. Or maybe it’s the adrenaline still surging through his veins magnifying every little sensation, making it all sharper somehow, brighter, brasher. Everything McClane is doing feels impossible. This whole day is impossible.
Whatever Matt is trying to communicate must be working though because John really goes to town with the necking thing, pushing closer and breathing hard in his ear, making the most obscene sorts of little sucking noises and doing the most tantalizing, infuriating things - but never quite hard enough. It seems like he’s always stopping just shy, as if John is dying to mark him but too wary - battling some recurrent temptation to leave traces he doesn’t have permission for - as if it would stand out against all the bruises Matt is going to have by tomorrow anyway.
Matt nips at his hand again, presses his body forward and thrusts into McClane’s knowing grip, trying to say without words that it’s okay, that he wants it - whatever McClane wants to give him, Matt is ready to take.
But McClane isn’t having it, leaning in and pinning Matt’s body back to the concrete with his own, one thigh in between his legs to hold him still. Matt can feel the hard length of him against his hip, and he has to let McClane loose, opening his mouth for the sharp gasp he can’t seem to help giving in response to the rigid line of proof that he’s not the only one enjoying this.
McClane runs his thumb over Matt’s lips again as soon as he’s free - a slow, wet smear like he likes the way that feels too, and Matt is glad McClane’s fingers are out of his mouth because the urge to clench his jaw, grind his teeth against the pressure quickly building down low in his gut, is too much. He has to pull free, tipping his head back against the bricks, gritting his teeth and thrusting forward as much as John will let him.
“There we go,” McClane mutters in his ear, and Matt almost doesn’t recognize the voice, it’s gone so husky and molten.
He feels McClane run what has to be his tongue all the way up the column of his throat, before McClane’s free hand comes to rest at the base, just over his collar bone, and then…and then… Cool air flooding between them as John steps quickly away.
For a second Matt is terrified he’s going to just stop, leave him right here, right on the edge of everything - but then he takes in the fact the warm, heavy hand at his throat, and the one furiously working his dick, are still there, and Matt realizes the little separating move is because McClane wants to watch.
And that is it, all he can take. Matt looks down too, purely on instinct, but the sight of his own cock, red and dark and harder than maybe he’s ever been, moving in a quickly unravelling rhythm through McClane’s fist is all he can handle. Something fluttery twists in his stomach hard enough it almost feels like it hurts, and it’s all the warning he gets.
Everything in him seems to draw tight at once like a rubber band snapping to, and his body pitches forward, folding almost in half and Matt is done for, panting and swearing, and pressing his forehead into John’s shoulder, fingers making a desperate fist in the soft cotton of McClane’s battered and bloodied Henley.
He just needs to keep breathing. That’s the key. His knees feel like they’re about to buckle, which might be okay because courtesy really does dictate that the polite thing to do is probably drop to his knees in the gravel and return the favour right away, but McClane is already stepping away from him and wiping his hand off nonchalantly on his jeans.
“Okay,” Matt pants, not sure what comes next. “What-”
“Toldja,” McClane says, saving him the trouble, and his voice is that same gruff bark as always. “I see the way you look at me, and it’s fuckin’ distracting kid. We don’t have time for that shit. So I hope that’s enough to keep you offa me until we’re done here and we can get to the main event. You gonna be able to concentrate now? Because I need you sharp.”
McClane isn’t even looking at him, he’s already eyeing the metal escape ladder a few feet down the wall from them - all business.
“Uh,” Matt says, in a tone that is anything but.
John McClane just pushed him against the wall, gave him one of the most blistering orgasms he’d had in his life, and told him there was a main event to look forward to, that was potentially going to be even more epic. Oh yeah, he’s concentration personified. No distractions or questions plaguing his mind at all.
Matt looks at the dark smear where John wiped his hand off on his jeans, knowing he won’t be able to quit staring at that stain (okay, so maybe he’d been staring at McClane in that way... a little) until it either gets blotted out with more fucking blood, or John makes good on that ‘main event’ thing.
“Concentrate,” he repeats, watching McClane make his way up the ladder and back out into daylight - absolutely without watching his ass, or thinking about how he is doing that with the bulge Matt knows for a fact is still happening in those jeans, or those seriously distracting promises for later.
“...Sure thing.”
~~