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sga_flashficTitle: Are You Experienced?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trinityofone
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~800 words
Summary: Follow-up to my previous answer to this challenge. “All right,” Rodney admitted, “the pants were a mistake.”
A/N: Totallyslodwick’s fault. She called me a tease. *g*
Are You Experienced?
“All right,” Rodney admitted, “the pants were a mistake.”
“Told you,” said John, but he didn’t make Rodney suffer for his error in judgement too long: wiggling his hips and slipping out of his trousers, then rolling Rodney over onto the blanket they were borrowing from a couple who were most likely still waiting in line at one of the outhouses. Pants and socks and shoes and time travel device: all stacked neatly at the blanket’s edge.
It was 1969. The Summer of Love.
Rodney had wormed his hand up under John’s shirt. His palm warm on John’s back, he pressed them more tightly together, opening his mouth for John’s, holding him close with his strong thighs. “This is so weird,” he said, as they paused, breath coming in gasps, cheek to stubbled cheek. “I’m barely a year old; I shouldn’t be having sex yet.”
“You want to stop?” John asked. His hands had just found Rodney’s ass; it would be a shame to have to relocate so soon.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Rodney. One hand flailing, the other rubbing circles across John’s back. “I mean...Woodstock.”
You, John thought, and stopped himself from grinning stupidly by leaning down and biting at Rodney’s earlobe, adding his own mark above the little pinhole prick.
“Take off your shirt,” Rodney ordered, tugging at the fabric. “We’re going to have sex in front of hundreds of thousands of people: we should at least be naked.”
John laughed. “They can’t see us,” he said, raising himself up onto his knees and stripping his shirt off over his head.
“But I can,” said Rodney. He ran his hands up John’s sides, fingers tickling over the bare flesh. John could feel the sun warm on his back, as if they were really there, as if this were really happening. And it was.
He bent low again, dog tags scraping down, tasting Rodney’s mouth. They kissed, Rodney’s hands exploring his shoulders and his back, gentle soothing touch punctuated by the occasional squeeze when John did something especially inventive with his tongue, when their cocks met and rubbed through the fabric of John’s boxers and Rodney’s uniform trousers.
“Hey,” John murmured. “What happened to getting naked?”
“Pushy,” Rodney said, and as John swallowed his laugh, Rodney rolled them over and did away with his shirt. The removal of his pants corresponded with a particularly enthusiastic burst of applause from the crowd, and Rodney—who was perhaps right about the contact high after all—rose bare-assed to his full height and took a bow.
Hendrix started playing “Foxy Lady.”
John felt close to bursting with lust and mirth. “You’re a cute little heartbreaker,” he told Rodney, jerking him back down, kissing his mouth and his flushed cheeks.
“Are you coming to get me?”
His hands just having made a happy reunion with Rodney’s ass, “Oh yeah,” John panted. He squeezed, grinding Rodney down against him. “Let me stand next to your fire.”
“That’s a completely,” Rodney let out a hot pant of breath and started tugging John’s boxers down with determined fingers, “different—yes, yes, oh—a completely different song.” They had found a rhythm—aligned quite nicely with Jimi’s, actually—dicks grinding against each other on every downbeat, on every pulsing guitar thrust. “He’s not even—uh—playing that song.”
“Maybe he’ll play it later,” John suggested. Time seemed infinite and stretched, a glorious loop of sound and sun and skin and sex.
It was hot and they were quickly becoming sweat-slicked; his skin felt like liquid, running into, melting into Rodney’s. And at his very center, the very center of both of them, that burning point of pleasure, growing with every stroke. Rodney’s strong arms were braced above him and his own hands on the generous curves of Rodney’s ass, guiding them. The sun beat into his eyes, brighter than the edges of the eclipse, and when he let his lashes flutter closed, colors burst against his eyelids like fireworks.
Forget the drugs; this was all he needed to make his mind expand.
And his body, shuddering against Rodney’s, collapsing together like an exploded wall, like time and space. Legs tangled and bellies sticky with come: he mouthed the skin of Rodney’s neck, sun-kissed and salty-sweet.
“How do you feel?” he asked him, guitar chords rippling through them like a gentle breeze. The rolling mass of bodies, and none of them registering but the one above him.
Rodney rolled the bulk of his weight off of him, but kept a leg and an arm entwined. “Not really,” licking swollen lips, plump and berry-red, “not necessarily stoned, but...”
“Beautiful,” said John. “Beautiful.”
Author:
trinityofoneRating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~800 words
Summary: Follow-up to my previous answer to this challenge. “All right,” Rodney admitted, “the pants were a mistake.”
A/N: Totally
slodwick’s fault. She called me a tease. *g*Are You Experienced?
“All right,” Rodney admitted, “the pants were a mistake.”
“Told you,” said John, but he didn’t make Rodney suffer for his error in judgement too long: wiggling his hips and slipping out of his trousers, then rolling Rodney over onto the blanket they were borrowing from a couple who were most likely still waiting in line at one of the outhouses. Pants and socks and shoes and time travel device: all stacked neatly at the blanket’s edge.
It was 1969. The Summer of Love.
Rodney had wormed his hand up under John’s shirt. His palm warm on John’s back, he pressed them more tightly together, opening his mouth for John’s, holding him close with his strong thighs. “This is so weird,” he said, as they paused, breath coming in gasps, cheek to stubbled cheek. “I’m barely a year old; I shouldn’t be having sex yet.”
“You want to stop?” John asked. His hands had just found Rodney’s ass; it would be a shame to have to relocate so soon.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Rodney. One hand flailing, the other rubbing circles across John’s back. “I mean...Woodstock.”
You, John thought, and stopped himself from grinning stupidly by leaning down and biting at Rodney’s earlobe, adding his own mark above the little pinhole prick.
“Take off your shirt,” Rodney ordered, tugging at the fabric. “We’re going to have sex in front of hundreds of thousands of people: we should at least be naked.”
John laughed. “They can’t see us,” he said, raising himself up onto his knees and stripping his shirt off over his head.
“But I can,” said Rodney. He ran his hands up John’s sides, fingers tickling over the bare flesh. John could feel the sun warm on his back, as if they were really there, as if this were really happening. And it was.
He bent low again, dog tags scraping down, tasting Rodney’s mouth. They kissed, Rodney’s hands exploring his shoulders and his back, gentle soothing touch punctuated by the occasional squeeze when John did something especially inventive with his tongue, when their cocks met and rubbed through the fabric of John’s boxers and Rodney’s uniform trousers.
“Hey,” John murmured. “What happened to getting naked?”
“Pushy,” Rodney said, and as John swallowed his laugh, Rodney rolled them over and did away with his shirt. The removal of his pants corresponded with a particularly enthusiastic burst of applause from the crowd, and Rodney—who was perhaps right about the contact high after all—rose bare-assed to his full height and took a bow.
Hendrix started playing “Foxy Lady.”
John felt close to bursting with lust and mirth. “You’re a cute little heartbreaker,” he told Rodney, jerking him back down, kissing his mouth and his flushed cheeks.
“Are you coming to get me?”
His hands just having made a happy reunion with Rodney’s ass, “Oh yeah,” John panted. He squeezed, grinding Rodney down against him. “Let me stand next to your fire.”
“That’s a completely,” Rodney let out a hot pant of breath and started tugging John’s boxers down with determined fingers, “different—yes, yes, oh—a completely different song.” They had found a rhythm—aligned quite nicely with Jimi’s, actually—dicks grinding against each other on every downbeat, on every pulsing guitar thrust. “He’s not even—uh—playing that song.”
“Maybe he’ll play it later,” John suggested. Time seemed infinite and stretched, a glorious loop of sound and sun and skin and sex.
It was hot and they were quickly becoming sweat-slicked; his skin felt like liquid, running into, melting into Rodney’s. And at his very center, the very center of both of them, that burning point of pleasure, growing with every stroke. Rodney’s strong arms were braced above him and his own hands on the generous curves of Rodney’s ass, guiding them. The sun beat into his eyes, brighter than the edges of the eclipse, and when he let his lashes flutter closed, colors burst against his eyelids like fireworks.
Forget the drugs; this was all he needed to make his mind expand.
And his body, shuddering against Rodney’s, collapsing together like an exploded wall, like time and space. Legs tangled and bellies sticky with come: he mouthed the skin of Rodney’s neck, sun-kissed and salty-sweet.
“How do you feel?” he asked him, guitar chords rippling through them like a gentle breeze. The rolling mass of bodies, and none of them registering but the one above him.
Rodney rolled the bulk of his weight off of him, but kept a leg and an arm entwined. “Not really,” licking swollen lips, plump and berry-red, “not necessarily stoned, but...”
“Beautiful,” said John. “Beautiful.”
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-26 10:40 am (UTC)Oh, oh, YAY. That is just... just perfect. And Rodney standing up and taking a naked bow. I love so much. There should be more fic about music, and sex and music. These two fics have also made me realize that I will never forgive myself for having missed out on the sixties.