An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
John gets a little excited after a close brush with death up in the air. He can't just go onto the hardstand all indecent, so Johnny Hoerr, being the good copilot he is, offers to help him out.
NSFW - awkward boners to mutual clothed handjobs, semipublic sex/risk of getting caught, size queen Hoerr/slightly above average yet inexperienced nice Catholic boy John Brady. 2,868 words.
How fucking embarrassing. Yeah, let him just hop out of the cockpit with his goddamn raging hard-on on full display. Not like he exactly has many options here—stroke himself off in the cockpit in front of his copilot, which he'd rather die than do, or blue balls. So John tries to think about old people and finances and anything else he can conjure up to temper the warm throb between his legs and stays very, very still, aside from shifting his weight a little to try and relieve some of the discomfort of the tight confines of his pants, which feels marginally more acceptable than shamelessly reaching down to adjust himself like he'd really like to right now. "Well, obviously, I'm hoping it'll go down, Johnny," he says sourly. "We've still got an hour in the air." Hoerr watches him for a moment, mouth half open, like he's thinking that's definitely not the case. He's probably fucking correct on that one—his body, as he'd learned during his adolescence, can be incredibly persistent when it wants to be. "You think that's..." Johnny squints a little, and glances down at his fucking boner, and frowns a little before looking up at him, which doesn't feel fantastic, and only serves to thoroughly compound his embarrassment until he considers reaching for his fucking chute. "It'll be enough?" John gives him an annoyed look. "What the fuck else am I going to do?" And then there's a pause, like Johnny's looking before a metaphorical leap. "You can't just step onto the hardstand like that. You're my copilot. I'll help you out."
