Which tells Amos that Gideon's in this for more than just getting blown. It's a little electric, Amos realizes; a strange feeling he usually only experiences before a fight. Like his skin is being hit with a loose wire, but pleasantly. It makes him hungrier for Gideon's reactions, and his other hand on Gideon's hip is a firm weight as he pushes forward, laying them both out on a cramped bunk.
His mouth moves to Gideon's collarbone, and he begins the intentionally slow process of unzipping Gideon's jumpsuit, humming slightly in contentment.
At that moment, Gideon would have some difficulty if he tried to explain what he's in this for--Amos' guess is as good as anyone's.
He lies down when given the opportunity, his free hand knotting in Amos' sleeve. His thigh works between Amos', pressing up against his cock. However little he might be able to say, he finds ways to convey his meaning.
Sex can be about a lot of things. It tends to strip way lies when you're doing it right, though, which can be a big plus in Amos' opinion. It never occurred to Amos that Gideon was lonely. Don't you have to be alone to feel that way?
Amos allows himself to let out a gasp of pleasure, and jerks his hips forward. The zipper goes down further, and Amos continues to suck at Gideon's skin. "Fuck, you're pretty," he murmurs, eyes closed. He knows he's being an ass; Gideon will want to protest, and too fucking bad for him.
Gideon rolls his eyes around a sigh--Amos hits a good spot, his mouth warm on what's a skinny, careworn frame. The worst of what he's endured in the name of Martian hospitality has either faded with time or remains hidden from view, but a few scars still remain on his torso. He hasn't wanted to see them smoothed away, any more than he's wanted to test his luck with a prosthetic tongue.
Amos is full of shit, something they're both well aware of, and Gideon's struggling to care. The attention already has him hard, already arching up just a little in an attempt to meet the wet suck of his mouth. He wonders what it would be to feel Amos' tongue moving over the place where his own should be--but distantly, without urgency.
Amos knows better than to ignore scars, or pay special attention to them. They occupy a place in his mind, taking note for later, weighing the vengeance he'll one day inflict. But beyond that? At the moment, they're ephemeral.
And Gideon is needy. Lonely. And Amos is useful again. He knows he's good at what he's offers, and does his best to draw it out into an indulgence. He wants to see Gideon unwrap as much as anything else. The guy needs a second to just be himself, instead of the armor he hides behind. If Amos of all people is allowed to see that...
His mind switches tracks, not allowing him to complete the thought. Amos doesn't question it. He takes Gideon in, massaging the rest of him, still humming around his cock.
Gideon has no idea how needy he is until Amos' lips buzz against his shaft and he jerks a breath in like a broken automaton. It doesn't take long before he's gasping, still clenching at Amos' sleeve, hips coming off the bed.
Even if he'd been able to speak, he wouldn't have--sex has always been something of a furtive experience, for good or ill, vocal input rarely required--but when he does come, it's with a moan that gives the barest suggestion of the timbre his voice once had. His legs don't, in fact, shake, but one keeps rubbing at Amos' cock through his jumpsuit right up until he's lost to selfish sensation.
That's good. That's what he wanted. Gideon undone is fucking nice to look at, and there's a cool stillness at knowing Amos was the one to cause it.
Casual as anything, he turns on his side, unzipping his suit so he can jerk himself off after spitting in his palm. His face, he puts in the crook of Gideon's neck, inhaling shamelessly.
Gideon's too shaken by the entire experience to offer to help Amos finish. Teasing him during the act was about the most he was capable of, without a moment or two to recover--and by the time he realizes Amos has taken himself in hand, Amos' breath is moving over his skin, and he's disinclined to interrupt him. The most he does is wrap his arms loosely around him, both palms moving over his hair.
So, yeah, it's nice. It doesn't take Amos long-- he's been waiting this for a while-- and it's a few well-practiced moments of cleanup to keep a cloudy mess from accumulating in low G.
Amos stays there, face pressed into Gideon's neck, breathing deeply. "Fuckin' nice," he murmurs.
He makes a soft hmm sort of noise, for want of anything else to add to the conversation. Fortunately, there's little to say--where he might be inclined toward quiet talk with someone else, Amos has never been a chatterer. What he could offer now wouldn't be received with more than a laconic answer.
Instead, in the silence after Amos speaks, Gideon reaches into his jumpsuit, his hand moving over the hard muscles of Amos' side and back. It is to say, yes, this is fucking nice, though I might have chosen a different phrase to describe it.
Amos looks down with mild surprise, almost amused that this is what's caught Gideon's eye. "Shit," he says, a little triedly, "knew you were into that, would'a taken the thing off."
Gideon snorts, then shrugs--considering just how quickly the entire encounter happened, it hardly matters whether Amos disrobed or not. But he can hardly deny the fact that Amos' figure is one he's spent more time thinking about than he'd prefer to admit. Splaying his hand over even a fraction of that broad expanse is a quiet pleasure.
(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
And Amos can tell what Gideon likes, it's pretty fucking obvious. He takes Gideon's hand and lays it on his chest while he nuzzles into Gideon's too-long, too-soft hair.
He'd like to think he's a fairly subtle man on the whole--but there's little to guard against in this moment. Amos knows what he needs to about Gideon Thraxios; the things Gideon doesn't want him to know, he won't learn from lying in silence together on a bunk barely built for one man, let alone two. And to be given this moment, the weight of Amos' bulk beside him, under his fingertips, his nose in Gideon's hair, is a gift he hadn't expected. A silent sigh escapes him as he stares at the ceiling.
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His mouth moves to Gideon's collarbone, and he begins the intentionally slow process of unzipping Gideon's jumpsuit, humming slightly in contentment.
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He lies down when given the opportunity, his free hand knotting in Amos' sleeve. His thigh works between Amos', pressing up against his cock. However little he might be able to say, he finds ways to convey his meaning.
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Amos allows himself to let out a gasp of pleasure, and jerks his hips forward. The zipper goes down further, and Amos continues to suck at Gideon's skin. "Fuck, you're pretty," he murmurs, eyes closed. He knows he's being an ass; Gideon will want to protest, and too fucking bad for him.
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Amos is full of shit, something they're both well aware of, and Gideon's struggling to care. The attention already has him hard, already arching up just a little in an attempt to meet the wet suck of his mouth. He wonders what it would be to feel Amos' tongue moving over the place where his own should be--but distantly, without urgency.
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And Gideon is needy. Lonely. And Amos is useful again. He knows he's good at what he's offers, and does his best to draw it out into an indulgence. He wants to see Gideon unwrap as much as anything else. The guy needs a second to just be himself, instead of the armor he hides behind. If Amos of all people is allowed to see that...
His mind switches tracks, not allowing him to complete the thought. Amos doesn't question it. He takes Gideon in, massaging the rest of him, still humming around his cock.
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Even if he'd been able to speak, he wouldn't have--sex has always been something of a furtive experience, for good or ill, vocal input rarely required--but when he does come, it's with a moan that gives the barest suggestion of the timbre his voice once had. His legs don't, in fact, shake, but one keeps rubbing at Amos' cock through his jumpsuit right up until he's lost to selfish sensation.
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Casual as anything, he turns on his side, unzipping his suit so he can jerk himself off after spitting in his palm. His face, he puts in the crook of Gideon's neck, inhaling shamelessly.
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Amos stays there, face pressed into Gideon's neck, breathing deeply. "Fuckin' nice," he murmurs.
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Instead, in the silence after Amos speaks, Gideon reaches into his jumpsuit, his hand moving over the hard muscles of Amos' side and back. It is to say, yes, this is fucking nice, though I might have chosen a different phrase to describe it.
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(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
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