FIC: Battle Hymn of the Republic (NC-17, McKay/Sheppard)
Title: Battle Hymn of the Republic
Author: Munchie (munchkinott)
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Archive: my LJ, JAM's Padded Cell and Wraithbait
Feedback: here if you're a listed friend or leave a comment at either JAM or Wraithbait.
Disclaimer: Still Stargate: Atlantis. Still not owning any of this. Still not making any money out of it. Still violating copyright but am too poor to sue.
Warnings: Rampant gay sex and LOTS of it. Hallelujah!
Summary: Major John Sheppard is a man with a plan. To set it off all he needs is a touch of genius.
Author's Notes: NOT blaming alyse for this one. Oh no. This is the product of this thread (in my LJ) - where things were discussed regarding McKay, Sheppard, long grass, lewd and lascivious nekkid conduct and the episode Underground - too many Merchant Ivory period dramas on an empty brain and I needed the porn. I am a woman. I get like this frequently. I just needed to picture pretty men doing er... stuff. And to write it down so I wouldn't forget what kind of stuff they were er... doing. *cough*
I dedicate this fic to the brave souls of the Irscombe Valiant Society (and Neighbourhood Watch) who didn't make it into the story this time. But, I have no doubt, whose senseless massacre I will document later in the name of attempted humour.
Major John Sheppard left nothing to chance when his team was involved. He was that kind of guy. Focused on his work, ever cautious, a lone wolf leading the pack, a...
Sheppard tapped his boot sole on the ground. The earth was soft under his shoe, not parched and dry but not water-logged and muddy either. Sheppard dropped his chin and pushed his dark lens aviator sunglasses further down his nose to survey the rest of the shaded glade. A few small tuffets of earth -- probably formed by trees falling and being left to antiquity -- created a low bank inside the small copse. The tall grasses from an adjacent meadow grew higher and thicker near the edge of the copse, which itself was decked with tall, twisted trees whose long small-leafed branches created a thin canopy. It allowed just enough bright sunlight to leak through to keep it warm and well lit.
It was, in Sheppard's professional opinion, a potential hostile zone, the ideal place and position from which to launch an offensive by stealth.
He didn't like it.
Ok, he did. Sheppard'd seen the Lord of the Rings movies, he wasn't immune to aestheticism.
It just didn't feel right. Something was missing, something was wrong.
Sheppard instinctively kept his left hand under the housing of his P-90 and crept deeper inside the copse.
***
Dr. Rodney McKay hated these kinds of missions. Trading skills and assistance for food invariably devolved into something four steps down from a full scale nuclear war.
It almost did, once.
Or twice.
Three times if McKay included the day they'd 'gated through to a planet with real cocoa beans a minute after the hydro-electric plant, which the populace had been hiding their first fission reactor behind, suffered a slight case of meltdown.
On all three occasions Sheppard had been in charge of 'diplomatic liaison' efforts.
McKay saw it as a disturbing portent that of all the days Elizabeth had to come down with a case of laryngitis it had to be when they were booked to negotiate with a race that had crossed the technological barriers of hybrid agriculture.
They'd created the first legitimate Mocha bean outside of a Starbucks can.
McKay was damned if he was going to let the Sheppard Curse strike this time.
His plan of avoidance was simple -- beans, Atlantis, cappuccino. Promising the locals anything more volatile than a car battery was completely out... Elizabeth had raised her portable whiteboard, propped it on her knees in the medical bay and told them both as much, though McKay didn't know how the felt tip of her marker hadn't spontaneously combusted from the language she'd used. He didn't realise you could fit so many small words on such a small whiteboard and the number of them that were four-letter was just...
She'd put some more on the back too -- in Arabic -- just so they'd get the point.
Of course McKay's plan had fallen apart the second they'd set remolecularised foot over the event horizon. Sheppard had wanted to make the first gesture of greeting to the locals. So Teyla had thoughtfully kicked him in the back of the knee and stepped forward to meet the welcome party.
Weir had got to her too. But good.
From there on in, Sheppard had been exiled to the back of the negotiation table. Very far back. Sitting on a small, three-legged wooden milking stool in the corner of a room that made the Atlantis gateroom look like McKay's first apartment -- back.
Lieutenant Ford had been given orders to shoot Sheppard in the foot if he tried to interrupt the due process. Ford even produced a copy of his orders. Ford'd been under more pressure than he'd expected, with Sheppard so far in his face that the rigid peak of Ford's baseball cap was starting to bend at an uncommon angle. And having Sheppard grinding out his demands to see those orders -- from between clenched teeth like a rabid dog that'd been chained near a swimming pool too long -- that couldn't have been nice for Ford either.
Ford held up the smaller whiteboard he'd been keeping in his vest pocket.
Floot te fanker ni the luot! E.W.
Ok, the writing was a little smudged but Sheppard got the message. And from the expression on his face, Sheppard didn't find the idea of Ford flooting his luot off worth the risk.
Which was why McKay was currently on a reconnaissance and exploration excursion in the middle of a big meadowy nowhere; Sheppard was pitching a tantrum and didn't want his troops to see him cry.
They'd gone for a walk.
McKay was to take some readings and Sheppard got to strut around with his P-90 in the great outdoors, feeling occasionally important and rather unnerved that behind every tree, behind every other corner, there would be a Weirboard with his name on it and something about his lineage in Cyrillic.
McKay just wanted to be indoors. They were just getting to the coffee-sampling point of negotiations when Sheppard had stood up and put his sunglasses on with the practiced air of a man who'd watched Top Gun too many times.
"I'm goin' for a walk. Check things out," Sheppard had drawled to Ford - Ford whose finger, with good reason, hadn't left the trigger of his 9mm. "McKay, you're with me." Sheppard tugged down the front of his vest and jacket for no reason, worked some imagined crick out of his neck and turned towards the door.
"Whatever you say, Jean Luc," McKay had muttered, observing the way his response had taken almost all of the Old West, Man with No Name, predatorial danger and cool out of Sheppard's sloping step before he reached the door.
That had been approaching three hours ago. The planet's sun was now directly overhead and McKay was considering reapplying his sunscreen. He was a lab rat astrophysicist, not a beach bum -- temperatures above 20 degrees Celsius just weren't McKay's thing.
McKay switched his microreader down, tucked it back into his pack and was just about to go on a search through the various small pockets and zipped compartments in his pack for the tube of sunscreen when he heard a rustle from the shaded tree line to his right.
The next three seconds of McKay's life passed far too quickly. He saw a dark shadow moving through the trees, never strong enough to focus on or give any idea of direction to. It was too fast, too obscured, too...
McKay swung around, spinning on his heel, his hand already on his 9mm's holster, hoping that he wasn't going to have one of those days where the Velcro holding strap wouldn't budge no matter how hard he thumbed at it or pulled at the butt of the gun to free it.
The shadow had emerged in a moving blur, blackness in blinding light. Its large, black eyes tore expressionless through McKay as it grabbed him by the shoulders, its hands moved quickly to McKay's throat without adding pressure. Fingers slid quickly up the back of McKay's neck to the base of his skull, one hand resting there, fingers curling in McKay's hair. The other hand went to McKay's at his holster and grabbed his wrist, stopping McKay from drawing his sidearm. Its body pressed up against McKay's, hot shallow breaths merged with McKay's and the astrophysicist knew he was going to die...
Or he was going to kill Sheppard.
The shadow brought its mouth down hard against McKay's, its lips almost effortlessly parting his, its tongue licking impatiently at McKay's teeth and lining of his lip.
McKay relaxed slightly, kept his jaw tightly clenched and moved both of his hands up to the creature's head, to its dark, spiky, soft though gelled to oblivion hair, and used a handful of it to keep the creature close.
Close enough to open one eye and assess how far he was away from the charming Oak-style tree which he'd propped his pack against.
Less than two feet.
Perfect.
Rodney McKay unclenched his jaw, twisted and shoved the shadow against the tree trunk -- taking the wind out of it with a heavy oof -- then proceeded to give Major John Sheppard the most thorough oral examination he'd had since High School, or at least two nights ago.
When he finished, then he was going to kill Sheppard.
***
Responsibility was Major John Sheppard's middle name.
He was just being responsible, Sheppard rationalised. Which was why, after scoping the narrow, shaded copse out and finding it slightly less dangerous than a marshmallow, Sheppard took up a position on the far side of one of the grassiest tuffets. It was a good position for Sheppard, giving him three-hundred-and-sixty degree sight coverage of the entire copse and a clear line on the two meadows it cut through.
Perfect.
Sheppard rolled over, reclining on his back on the short, steep incline. He tucked his right hand back behind his head, moved his sunglasses up past his hairline and studied his surroundings with a more langourous, lazy eye.
Sunlight streaked in hazy beams through the darker branches and leaves. Small clouds of near microscopic flies segued against some trees, chasing after the sap leaking from cracks in the bark. The breeze was cooler inside the copse but still carried on it the scent of meadow grasses and wild flowers, and strange fruits. It held all the damp flavours of autumn.
As far as Sheppard was concerned, nothing on Earth in his lifetime had ever been this tranquil. The highest mountain in the world had been summated and souvenired long before he was born. The greatest rivers crossed by bridges. Seas breached by tunnelling underneath and ancient forests laid bare to flat, farming wastelands; all before he joined the US Air Force. All that was left on Earth were the oceans and the skies; both could be conquered though neither would ever be tamed.
There was nowhere like this place on Earth; Sheppard was sure of it.
Trudging footsteps paused at the edge of the tree line closest to Sheppard's viewpoint and Sheppard rolled again onto his stomach, unclipping his P-90 to use the sight to give him a rapid close up view of the meadow beyond the trees.
His target stood offset from two stout trees, roughly thirty yards from Sheppard's lookout and twenty-five from Sheppard's trap.
Sheppard was concealed more by the obliging shadows than the tuffet and the sight on his gun was at the wrong angle to catch and glint off the mild sunrays, so he adjusted the lens sight to keep a focus on his quarry.
"Hey there," Sheppard whispered to himself. "Closer..." His target deposited the black webbing pack he'd been carrying. "C'mon... You hate sunshine. This whole damn walk's been killin' you for three fuckin' HOURS," Sheppard continued to mutter. "I know, I've had to listen to ya! Come into the nice, cool shade..." Sheppard hitched himself further up the bank. He wriggled into a good position to dig his boot toe into the soft ground and get a half decent launch point to clear the mound in one leap.
It was a good plan.
It was a great plan.
Rodney McKay was hot, bothered, caffeine-deprived and cranky. And Sheppard was already entertaining ideas of springing his trap at the exact moment McKay reached boiling point, which would be when McKay's jacket came off his shoulders and down to approximately elbow level. Then he'd advance. Braveheart in black. Jump the bank, take the last three feet of it in a run and grab McKay with his hands, literally, tied behind his back.
The rest of Sheppard's plan was deliciously predictable. And greatly lacking in responsibility -- which was the part Sheppard liked best.
A little cool air, a lot of kissing and if that failed to subdue McKay, Sheppard knew he'd have an irritated, foul-tempered Canadian on his hands with a mouth that knew every insult known to mankind and eyes that could scream blue murder.
Sheppard licked his lips. He'd found this place. He'd checked it out, covered every inch of leafy, mossy ground. He'd done all of the hard work; he damn well wasn't going to be the one on top too!
Sadly, like all good plans, there was one magnificent flaw.
McKay had heard Sheppard. It was either the small, dry twigs under Sheppard's boots cracking under his weight as he shifted, or the louder than Sheppard had anticipated rustle of his arms moving up through the dead leaves and dry grass.
He'd made a noise.
And now had to deal with a hot, bothered, caffeine-deprived, cranky, and decidedly paranoid Canadian with a 9mm Glock semi which had an effective range, but the guy carrying it considered aiming to be something you did with an internet chat program.
Braveheart in black went by the wall.
Sheppard just wanted to get out of his hiding place, out into the open and disarm McKay before he carried out Weir's sincerest wish and started flooting everything -- especially him.
Sheppard dived out from his cover, his sunglasses managing to drop perfectly into place on the bridge of his nose as he rolled the short way down the other side of the bank. He landed half sprawled, half crouched at the bottom and breathed a minor sigh of relief that McKay and Velcro had never been on communicative terms in a crisis. Sheppard pushed his aviator sunglasses further up his nose with the third finger of his right hand and took off again in a skilful dodge and weave, using the shadows and distorted sunlight to his advantage. He broke through the long grass of the copse into the full glare of the high sun, into McKay's blind side.
He reached for McKay's shoulders and Sheppard would've slipped his fingers under McKay's webbing vest, if McKay hadn't turned in such a way that the bright sunlight caught the golden tips of his light brown hair. If that light hadn't shone on McKay's skin, reflecting back a glistening sheen of sweat. And McKay's eyes? Sky blue shifting to stormy hell.
A small voice in the back of Sheppard's mind whimpered quietly.
Why did McKay have to look this hot when he was about to kill someone?
Why did that someone always have to be him?
Why did he really get off on that?!
Sheppard's hands shifted too easily, too quickly, from McKay's shoulders. Moving up, taking in -- in the give-or-take two seconds Sheppard had to live without conducting an anatomical sight-feeling tour of Rodney McKay -- the length and sensation of McKay's clean shaven throat. Sheppard raked his fingers up the nape of McKay's neck and into his hair with one hand, reeling him in from there.
Reeling was a little optimistic.
Reeling was not being slammed back against a tree like a Bond movie goon.
Sheppard cursed Teyla's policy of personal defence classes for all. He cursed her even more when she'd put McKay in a kind of headlock Sheppard'd only ever seen in XXX-rated movie theatres. He sort of toned down cursing her name when McKay practiced it on him though.
That really was one hell of a position to be in...
And now Sheppard was pushed with his back up against a tree trunk, McKay's knee insinuated between his thighs, having every drop of oxygen drawn out of his lungs by a clinical asthmatic who'd miraculously gained the ability to breathe through his ears.
At least McKay hadn't shot him.
McKay moved in closer, if that was possible, kicking Sheppard's feet further apart and using his bodyweight and better centre of gravity to keep Sheppard pinned. He drew Sheppard's tongue into his mouth, sucked on it as he maneuvered Sheppard's hips roughly into a contact position with his own groin.
Sheppard just registered McKay's hands roaming everywhere, under his clothes, over his clothes and a mouth that was driving Sheppard nuts if he didn't get to feel it on his dick -- now!
McKay sucked on Sheppard's tongue -- long, slow, closing his lips around it -- the move insinuating, especially when added to the hand that McKay had closed around Sheppard's erection and was now stroking Sheppard in a rhythm in perfect time with his pseudo-blowjob.
Sheppard snaked his hands down McKay's back, McKay's webbing vest getting in the way of his appreciation of the hard muscles he knew were under there.
Fortunately he didn't have that problem with McKay's ass.
Lightweight waterproof canvas, lighter-weight cotton was all that was between Sheppard's hands and McKay's firm, rounded, tight as hell ass.
Sheppard squeezed, digging his fingers low into the material, cupping McKay's ass and pressing into the junction of the inner seams of McKay's BDUs. To get any closer to what Sheppard wanted, McKay would have to be naked. And McKay knew it.
McKay nipped at the tip of Sheppard's tongue. A warning. Then he sealed his mouth over Sheppard's and let the Major feel the low moan forming at the base of his throat. It reverberated in Sheppard's mouth. In Sheppard's throat. And down into Sheppard's chest.
Sheppard's hands slipped a little further down McKay's upper thigh, massaging McKay's ass and stroking the sensitive flesh of McKay's inner thigh simultaneously.
He hadn't had the best of starts, but Major John Sheppard had to admit that his day was starting to improve.
***
McKay knew Sheppard had evil hands. It went with the overall territory that was Major John Sheppard. Childish, insatiable, wouldn't know responsibility if it jumped out and hit him with a two-by-four, no sense of danger or practicality -- John. This was John with the long, strong fingers which were forever cursed to do bad things.
Great bad things that made McKay's vision swirl and bones liquefy in a million amazing ways.
Oh, he hated the son of a bitch.
Definitely hated him right now, given where Sheppard had his hands. Where Sheppard's fingers were probing. How they couldn't, right now, reach the one spot that would make McKay cry out and beg to be touched there again. The direction they hinted at this going from there. No matter how much McKay wanted to drop his trousers and let Sheppard run his obscene, caressing course?
He was not going to let the bastard win.
Rodney McKay was not going to be drawn into another one of Sheppard's seductive little set ups.
He'd been stalked, scared half to death, deprived of his first taste of real, fresh ground coffee for a month and almost shot the stupid prick.
Major John Sheppard was coming first and in his pants, whether he liked it or not.
McKay increased his palm's pressure on Sheppard's groin, hissing and grunting with frustration into Sheppard's open mouth and taking victorious delight in every small buck of Sheppard's hips, in the protracted moans McKay elicited. The way Sheppard blinked, licked and bit his lips and rolled his eyes as McKay literally jerked him off through his BDUs.
God he was good.
He was Rodney fucking McKay! Of course he was good!
Ok, Sheppard wasn't bad either.
McKay kissed him briefly as a reminder. McKay figured Sheppard needed reminding of how hot he looked when he was hard, sweating, wanton and about to come in his shorts with another guy's hand on his dick -- McKay's hand.
Sheppard's hips rocked against McKay's palm, the tempo shifting up. Sheppard was so close now, so very close McKay could smell it, feel it. As Sheppard tilted his head back against the tree bark, McKay moved his face in closer, trailing his parted lips over Sheppard's, ready to home in; steal one kiss, possess Sheppard's cry as he came.
Came for him.
Came under him.
Came now.
Rodney McKay didn't know Sheppard was going to throw him a real doozy first.
Victories just didn't work like that.
***
Major John Sheppard had a plan.
And this wasn't it.
The idea was very appealing though, mostly to Sheppard's concept of living dangerously.
Smelling of sex for a day or so; no way of changing his shorts or BDUs; having to go through a full debriefing knowing Teyla and Elizabeth can smell it -- smell him -- and are trying to figure out if it's him or McKay on him. And he's sitting there for an hour, knowing that he's gone down on McKay. Done it shallow too, so he thinks he can still taste McKay there every time he licks his lips. Sheppard's given McKay low-down, dirty, back alley head and McKay's smirking like the smug bastard he is. And what he'll pay for being later.
Damned plan just kept getting in the way.
Sheppard's brain was slowly being cooked beyond cognitive thought by the sensation of McKay's hand on his dick, but still he couldn't forget that plan.
That really GOOD plan.
The one Sheppard'd had before McKay turned the tables on him and he'd been too turned on not to give in to the pushy little fucker.
Pissed off, passionate, Canadian nerds with receding hairlines just did it for Sheppard in that big a way.
"Fuck me," Sheppard murmured into McKay's mouth, locking his lips around McKay's lower one to emphasise his point.
"What?" McKay spluttered, obviously surprised. Too obviously thinking about sources of lubrication on alien worlds, miles from habitation, civilisation, brand name pharmacies and probably trying to think what was Ancient for Astroglide.
"Fuck. Me." Sheppard watched McKay through a veil of dark, perspiration moistened eyelashes. He was hoping that this was as far as he had to go into atrociously bad gay porn movie territory to win McKay over, because Sheppard wasn't going to take his boots off to remove his BDUs and then have to put his boots back on -- again -- to complete his plan of seduction.
He moved his left hand from McKay's hip, raising it to brush down McKay's right forearm -- smoothing creases both real and imagined from McKay's jacket sleeve. He halted his path at McKay's wrist; his fingers circled there, coaxing McKay's hand away from the tender form of his erection.
"Not here." His voice was little more than a hoarse, breathless whisper. He wasn't completely sure how he was going to be able to walk; the entire lower half of his body was perfectly happy to stay right where it was, right where McKay was, anywhere McKay was. "C'mon, I'll show you."
It would just be better for both of them if where McKay was happened to be exactly where Sheppard wanted him -- so Major John Sheppard, weary, embattled and carrying an unbelievably tender erection walked.
***
Rodney McKay gave up protesting, seeing as it was difficult to formulate a coherent argument when Sheppard had just used the F-word.
Being precise, Sheppard hadn't simply used it; he'd moaned it -- with all of the seductive, molten desire of a whore. But that was John. Sheppard could turn one high grade expletive into something that, once uttered, turned the cartilage in McKay's knees to Jell-O and made him harder than hell from the thought of it.
Fuck me.
Fuck you.
Sheppard had mastered it. McKay had attempted to drive his requests up to Sheppard's level of intensity. However, "Please can we have sex now, if you're not busy or anything?" was just too damned polite. McKay knew it. He was too damned polite.
McKay suspected Sheppard gave up being polite two seconds after he lost whatever passed for his virginity.
And he probably lost that in a field somewhere.
A high plains wheat field, when the travelling fair was in town. Seduction by Ferris Wheels and cotton candy, lights in the distance, loud carnival music carried on the breeze.
Romance and John Sheppard seemed to go together.
He just wasn't the kind of guy who'd get his sleeve caught in an unfamiliar automatic gearshift, crack his elbow on the sunroof and almost break his nose with a misjudged kiss.
That was McKay.
And that was why McKay was letting Sheppard lead him through thick clumps of long grasses. Where they could only walk two steps before one of them had to turn or move in for a too brief kiss.
Sheppard was a pathological romantic.
And McKay was a sucker for it with very few exceptions?
"Do you know how dangerous this is?" McKay said, indicating the potential death trap Sheppard had led him to in all of its innocuous, naturally comfortable glory. "Brambles, ALIEN brambles, creepy vines... Oh my God," McKay spied a small wave of tiny flies surrounding the split trunk of one of the larger trees in the copse. "The pollen count is freakin' SENTIENT! John, we are not having sex here."
"Yes, we are." Sheppard worked on the fastenings of his webbing vest.
"No, we are not."
"Yes, we are." Sheppard removed and draped his vest over the steepest bank of the enclosure. Sitting down alongside it, he started to work on his shoelaces.
"No we are--" McKay folded his arms and tilted his head to one side. "Sheppard, what the hell are you doing?"
"Huh?"
"Shoes?" McKay pointed.
"Hey, the rest's comin' off too, don't worry about it." Sheppard touched his jacket collar for effect and managed to remove a sock.
"You're going to walk around an alien planet, barefoot?" McKay blinked. "Are you insane?"
"You're worried I might step on a nail?" Sheppard raised his eyebrows incredulously and wiggled his toes in the shorter, moss type grass under his bare feet.
"No." McKay bristled uncomfortably. "I'm..."
Sheppard unzipped his charcoal jacket.
"You..." McKay blinked. Sheppard was rolling his shoulders, shucking the jacket off. "Uh... Don't have the most impressive track record when it comes to indigenous fauna and life forms, Major Sh--"
"What happened to Sheppard?" Sheppard teased, unclipping his belt with his thumb and forefinger then slowly teasing apart the two Velcro straps of his holster.
McKay swallowed. In his opinion Sheppard should've given up the military and gone on to pursue his true calling as a stripper. A really GOOD stripper.
"Wait a second." Sheppard paused, propping his elbows on his knees he leaned forward. "What the hell happened to John?!"
McKay couldn't think of a good comeback for that one. "Are those nettles?" McKay gestured to the nearest clump of green leaves that looked nothing like nettles. "Those are net--"
"Look, Rodney..." Sheppard stood up, grabbing the hem of his sheer black sweater and hauling it over his head as he did so. "In another three seconds I'm gonna be naked, on my knees, on the FLOOR and screaming for your dick in my ass!" Sheppard ditched his sweater onto his clothing pile.
McKay decided that this shaded, cool copse was starting to get hotter than the exposed sunny meadow. He couldn't be sure which was cranking the temperature up more; Sheppard's mouth or his persistent clothes shedding.
"I can assure you. If I'm gonna do that? Therearenonettles," Sheppard added sternly with a sweep of his hand then he started fumbling with the button fly of his BDUs.
"P... P... Poison Oak!" McKay spluttered.
"WHAT?!" Sheppard fiddled with the last button. It was always the last button. He hated BDUs, the small buttons were stitched flat to the material which rendered the last one or two buttons almost impossible to unfasten in an emergency. And this was an emergency. The kind of emergency Sheppard usually wore button-fly jeans for.
"You're Henry fucking Godber!" McKay was just projectile vomiting words now.
"Who?" Sheppard continued to pick at the last button. "And you slept with him, right?"
"Hardly, we were eight years old at the time," McKay retorted. "Henry Godber, he was... Uh... A kid in my 4th grade class. Spent most of kindergarten with his head STUCK between railings. Every summer his mom would send him into school, first day of the new term with HUGE Poison Oak blisters he... he..."
Sheppard smirked - McKay wasn't really watching -- then pushed his BDUs and shorts down over his hips in one stroke.
"Smelled of calamine lotion and had sticking plasters on his knees CONSTANTLY... and he..." McKay pulled his attention away from the various benign plants and peaceful bugs that were giving him hives just looking at them, back to Sheppard.
Who was naked.
Kicking his tangled BDUs and shorts to one side.
And stepping up to McKay like a cat.
And McKay was either a mouse or the saucer of milk. The way Sheppard was licking his lips was no tell.
McKay really needed some fresh air. Considering he was already outside and IN the fresh air he needed the opposite. Some dry, recycled lab air that tasted of bleach and pine detergent. Something to sober McKay up, cool him down because now would not be a good time to start hyperventilating.
Sheppard scratched the back of his neck and grinned. "Yeah?"
"Just attracted..." McKay gulped. "In fact, was a magnet for..."
"Are you finished now with the Elementary school allegories?" Sheppard encircled McKay's waist with his arms and tilted his head to one side, setting up for another kiss. Kissing was good. Kissing was common ground. It wasn't the sort of subject McKay could see himself having long, drawn out conversations with Sheppard about -- mainly because they both seemed to prefer doing it to actually talking about it...
This was entirely avoiding the issue. McKay was about to be kissed by a naked sex maniac who got off on doing it al fresco on other planets.
And in other dangerous places.
While flying a Puddle Jumper with his MIND -- for example.
And it really was doing things for McKay's sex-drive that he didn't think were possible.
"Trouble." McKay tilted his head to the right, aligning his lips with Sheppard's.
"Oh I'm a whole world of trouble," Sheppard whispered.
"Too much for one planet. There'd better not be any Poison Oak around here," McKay grumbled; then he kissed his troublesome US Air Force Major.
***
From one kiss everything went according to plan.
Almost.
Sheppard had helped McKay out of his clothes. Though 'helped' wasn't entirely accurate a description considering the amount of tugging, pulling, tearing at zips and summary violence involved in the process. And they were on schedule.
Sheppard liked schedules.
He also liked kissing, which invariably set his schedules off by a mile.
Oral sex?
Well now, that just threw his schedule off even further.
But he'd been on his knees, easing McKay's BDUs and shorts down at the time and McKay's dick was just there and...
There was a plan? He had a plan?
What plan?
Sheppard had only intended to breathe warm air over the shaft of McKay's erection. He'd only wanted to hear that strange semi-whimper McKay made every time he did that. Sheppard hadn't wanted to give in to temptation; to outline his own lips with the head, trailing pre-ejaculate across his lips like gloss. This wasn't in his plan.
Neither was the hesitancy and dark arousal in McKay's eyes as Sheppard had darted the tip of his tongue out; nor how McKay had watched, fascinated by Sheppard and how carefully Sheppard tasted the replenished beads of pre-ejaculate that had collected at the tip of McKay's dick.
Sheppard really thought he'd cornered the market in intense until he saw McKay in moments like these. There was intense and then there having was a pair of eyes like a laser drill.
And the laser drill was wondering what Sheppard would do next.
Would Sheppard trace the pattern of veins beneath McKay's skin? Would he seize on the smallest details that only he seemed to see, favouring them with messy kisses and slow licks before sliding his tongue along the underside of McKay's dick? Would he ease the edge of McKay's foreskin back, laving McKay's body with his lips and tongue before enclosing McKay in the suckling heat of his mouth?
Sheppard watched McKay, watching him.
Entranced by Sheppard's gaze. Enslaved by Sheppard's mouth.
McKay had probably started to wonder how Sheppard could be the one on his knees and still have that much power. Sadly Sheppard didn't give him much time to follow on from that thought. Instead, he clicked his tongue, gifted McKay with a lopsided grin and took McKay whole.
Sheppard's plan hadn't so much been diverted as put back for a while.
McKay needed to remember what Sheppard's mouth felt like around him. How the back of Sheppard's throat felt, how tight and how Sheppard had to swallow before the muscles relaxed and how those two extra inches of Sheppard's soft, moist throat felt around the head of McKay's dick. McKay needed that reminder.
And Sheppard had left his memo pad back on Atlantis.
He had to know how long Sheppard could hold him down like this, hold McKay right there until he came or went crazy from the sensation. That Sheppard only pulled back to slide McKay's length back into the velvet embrace of his throat, that he could do it as many times as he wanted to -- repeatedly fuck McKay with his mouth and throat until McKay's legs buckled and McKay's lips were dry from being bitten down on too hard.
McKay needed to know that Sheppard was in the position to make McKay come hard, fast and so far down his throat that when he gasped and swallowed, when he was done, it was for breath, for air in his lungs because McKay was long gone by then.
Sheppard really should've packed his memo pad.
"Hey there." Sheppard sat back on his heels and threw McKay a mischievous grin.
"You..." McKay spat. "Son of a fucking bitch!"
"Now, Rodney, is that any way to talk to the guy who's just given you the best blow job you've had all week long?" asked Sheppard, his grin widening.
"No. That's the way I talk to the guy who STOPPED giving me a blow job, JUST when it was getting INTERESTING!"
"You know you're cute when you're angry, right?"
"You know you're nowhere near cute when you're... YOU!" McKay snarled. "You're a cocky, facetious prick Sheppard!"
"What happened to John?!" Sheppard whined.
"First name terms? After this? You have got to be fucking KIDDING me!" McKay exploded. "I... I was... You do not DO that ok? Not to another guy. Not when he's... Ah... Being moved by the experience."
"Moved by the... What?"
"Ok, I will phrase this in really small words that might just permeate your really thick skull." McKay took a deep breath and shouted. "YOU DO NOT HANG A GUY OUT TO DRY LIKE THAT! I... I was... It was getting really interesting, ok? I was really... Enjoying it. And what you were doing was great... It's just... You STOPPED and everything and that kind of..."
"Put a crimp in your day, huh?" Sheppard smirked.
"No, Sheppard. No! A crimp is no coffee. A crimp is walking in blinding heat through God knows WHERE for THREE fucking HOURS only to be hijacked for illicit outdoor sex by a crazy guy who shoots at other crazy guys for a LIVING--" McKay continued his rant.
"I fly choppers too," Sheppard interjected quietly. "Just thought I should... Mention that."
"Not on this planet," McKay snapped back. "What I'm trying to say is WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"
"I'm the best you've ever had," Sheppard said with more than a hint of challenge.
"It may surprise you to know -- I've. Had. Better," McKay retorted.
"Not in this galaxy. Not in this life," Sheppard shot back.
"This is all about your ego isn't it?" said McKay
"No. It's all about you fucking me into the dirt," Sheppard growled.
"Oh." McKay gulped. "Then would you mind untying my shoelaces?"
***
Sheppard was known for his breathtaking ingenuity and unending resourcefulness. Sneaky gall was just a hop and a jump from there. And relieving Beckett's medical bay of an extra large tube of water-based ultrasound, multi-purpose medical lubricant in the presence of the eagle-eyed Elizabeth Weir required a certain level of sneaky gall.
It probably also took the stealth of a criminal mastermind cat burglar and all-purpose jewel thief too.
Rodney McKay wasn't exactly in the humour to buy Sheppard's excuses about it being an emergency and, "You don't know. We could need this stuff for something." He was too turned on for that. Too hard, too hot, even naked and hidden from the glare of the sun in the shadows of the leafy copse.
And for once it was McKay who was wishing Sheppard would just shut up for five seconds.
Shut up and let the deeper implications of whatever plan Sheppard had cooked up sink in to McKay. Days' worth of planning, hours of research and McKay was more than just a little bit lucky that Sheppard hadn't thrown his scheme into action on a day where they were being shot at, blown up, held captive or otherwise menaced.
McKay felt a pang of sadness at that thought.
We're Going to Die sex was usually pretty damned good.
Shutting Sheppard up was also pretty damned good. It required McKay bending slightly at the waist, the fingers of his right hand tangling in the styled disarray of Sheppard's dark hair and kissing him until one word rang loud in McKay's mind -- Ventolin.
Ventolin and oxygen and air and none of which was important because McKay was trying to find any trace of himself in Sheppard's mouth with his tongue. And Sheppard had a habit of giving as good as he got, which was why McKay had to drop to one knee, then both to stop himself from overbalancing. From there it was far too easy for McKay to move to his side, for the hand that had turned in Sheppard's hair to slide to the nape of Sheppard's neck. The other, still holding the cool metal tube of lubricant, pressed to Sheppard's shoulder to steady McKay as he moved to the ground. Sheppard hissed as the metal touched his skin; he hissed and inhaled and closed his full lips around McKay's bottom lip, sucked there, made McKay groan.
Made McKay roll on his hip, tangle his legs with Sheppard's until he couldn't remember whose ankle or foot, or if it was his toe or Sheppard's bristling the short hairs on his legs, and move until he was lying half underneath Sheppard.
Sheppard's only option was to turn inward, let his left forearm steady his balance as he continued to kiss McKay, and untangle their legs -- just enough to plant his right knee firmly against the grassy ground. McKay was using both hands on him, it didn't seem fair to Sheppard that McKay could do that when all he could do was clench his left fist and hope the pads of his fingertips touched McKay's skin; tilt McKay's chin back gently with his right thumb, trail the joint down over McKay's Adam's Apple before swirling the pad and the rest of his fingers lightly in McKay's upper chest hair.
All to keep one kiss going -- maintain the flow of sensation between their bodies.
McKay's hands roved over Sheppard's body in seemingly aimless wander. He sought out Sheppard's shoulders, the motion of hard, sculpted muscle under skin. He was less flesh, more muscle and bone; lean and lithe in a way that moulded around McKay. The harder angles of Sheppard's body seemed to vanish the second they touched McKay's skin. And Sheppard's skin? Smooth, soft to McKay's touch and warm, so warm McKay wouldn't be satisfied until Sheppard's entire body covered him from shoulder to heel.
This wasn't sex. This wasn't getting off. This was venturing beyond knowing each other's bodies -- knowing where to touch, where to kiss and how to move towards release.
It was McKay revelling in the sensation of Sheppard's almost black chest hair under his hands. Feeling Sheppard's heartbeat through skin and tissue, noticing the way the short hairs curled, almost on command, over the tips of McKay's fingers and tickled under his nails.
It was Sheppard smiling at how he kissed McKay, how he had to start with the left corner of McKay's mouth. How he just had to taste McKay's uneven pout, every time. The sensation of McKay's body under his, all of the secrets of responsible muscles and toned flesh McKay hid from everyone but Sheppard under clothes that were always a size too big or stretched out of shape.
This was making love in the long grass. Casting spells they were clever enough to know not to do, but remained dumb enough not to care.
Sheppard dipped his head to McKay's shoulder, lips and teeth teasing absently at McKay's throat and shoulder. He was ready. Teased and tormented to the brink, McKay's hand resting -- latent and suggestive -- on the shallow curve of Sheppard's ass only served to torment Sheppard further. It was a reminder of what Sheppard wanted and what he feared, fear now that he was too aroused to accept.
McKay felt the weight of Sheppard relaxing against him. Kisses stopped, mouth unmoving on McKay's skin -- only breath, hot shallow breaths prickled McKay's shoulder and ear. Sheppard was waiting, waiting for him to move his fingers -- take his explorations deeper to hotter skin and tighter warmth. He wanted McKay to press his fingers to his body, tell him that he was there; warn Sheppard what was next before McKay's touch returned slick and cool.
McKay reached for the tube he had dropped somewhere near his right thigh. Sheppard took the tube from McKay's hand. McKay flipped the cap; Sheppard squeezed the clear contents over McKay's fingers then dropped the tube on the ground.
Sheppard shivered silently, breath hitching as McKay's liquid touch soothed his heat. Sheppard liked to fuck. He burned quickly, brightly then shattered like fragile glass in the moment. Sensation, this kind, these gentle touches McKay bestowed upon him, with chill, slick fingers working into Sheppard with agonisingly slow tenderness -- they broke him. Made Sheppard sob and plead in murmurs where he would normally bite and swear and shout. Feeling too vulnerable and clinging to a body that was all too safe, that meant much more than one short, frantic fuck. That wasn't fucking. That was something else, something Sheppard did for McKay every time but couldn't accept in return.
It was love.
Sheppard liked to watch McKay like this. Feel McKay's hips start to thrust against him when he slowly drew his fingers in and out of McKay's ass. Listen to McKay reciting gibberish to himself in an effort to last those few seconds longer. Sheppard didn't like hearing it in his own voice, feeling it in his own body; a rebellious arch of spine and pushing hips and knowing McKay had brought him so close and with a slowness of touch Sheppard couldn't lie through. Sheppard couldn't bare his teeth, growl and scream for more when he knew he'd be coming down from that one last touch with closed eyes, parted lips and a plea on his lips.
And McKay would call him John.
And Sheppard wouldn't have to say anything else.
***
They shifted in the long grass -- changed positions, never moving too far from the reach of fingers or mouths. Arms held or steadied weight. Heavier than lead, legs moved, parted. Elbows, knees and shins were cushioned by the earth and shorter, soft grass.
Sheppard turned his back to McKay; taking his weight on his hands and knees as he did.
Sheppard didn't have to say it. He didn't need to ask or tell McKay that he needed him fast and rough and over too soon.
As McKay didn't have to whisper how good Sheppard's body felt to him in the first second after he'd penetrated Sheppard's ass. There were no words for the kind of heat Sheppard surrounded him with, nor were there any for the tightness of slicked, stretched muscle contracting around the head of McKay's cock. McKay could only groan, scratch his upper incisors over his bottom lip and sink deeper into Sheppard.
McKay was less than halfway when Sheppard expelled a low, hitching breath. McKay thought Sheppard couldn't be that close; McKay was and it was taking almost all of his concentration not to come. Not to hurt, not to release, not to let go and fuck Sheppard into the ground. McKay wanted to hear Sheppard call his name, shout it out to the silent trees. Maybe then Sheppard wouldn't hear his own name? Hear McKay whisper it into the joint of his shoulder and neck. He wouldn't know the ?John? McKay emitted on a grunted gasp. Sheppard wouldn't know that his name was flavoured on McKay's lips; tasted of sweat and soft skin, or that his name was scented with styling gel, summer grass and wildflowers and the headier aroma of sex.
Sheppard wouldn't know. He would feel McKay's left arm wrapped tightly around his chest, McKay's fingers digging into his right shoulder, McKay's chin nestled not far behind -- and still Sheppard wouldn't see how McKay screwed his eyes shut, where his brow would wrinkle in the centre as the first wave of McKay's climax broke.
Sheppard wouldn't see that, he would only feel it.
There were no words to be said, only sounds to be heard. Sensations to be felt and touches returned. Sense and scent and light and sound and breaths turned to vapour in the air.
This was them.
It was John's fingers clawing into the ground, raking through grass and remnants of too many seasons passed.
It was his hand closing over John's; John's hand was fractionally wider but his knuckles fitted to the flesh of Rodney's palm so well that Rodney's fingers extended, slotting so easily into the V-shape spaces between John's without pause, without thought.
It was the feel of his body moulded to John's back; his hips fitting flush to John's ass.
It was his other hand on John's dick, slick sliding, skin on skin, matching the small thrusts he made in and out of John's ass.
John's body buckled under him, although he was taking as much of his weight as he could on his knees. John's left hand reached up, enveloped Rodney's fist, their thumbs sweeping across each other's as Rodney caressed the tip of John's erection.
John trembled and dug the fingers of his right hand down further -- dark soil under his fingernails, dark earth on his hands, Rodney at his back. He kept hold of John's hand, squeezed it. His right arm was extended, laid over John's and the short dark hairs on John's forearm prickled the sensitive underside of his forearm, as his lover shook and trembled beneath him.
Rodney barely registered it. He barely registered anything except the feel of John's ass gripping his dick; John's hand over his and John's fluids spurting through his fingers as his lover broke apart.
Rodney couldn't feel anything else but he could still hear.
Rodney could hear John's voice slicing through the calm of a summer's afternoon.
One word. One name.
Rodney.
And that was enough for Rodney to come too.
The End
Author: Munchie (munchkinott)
Type: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Archive: my LJ, JAM's Padded Cell and Wraithbait
Feedback: here if you're a listed friend or leave a comment at either JAM or Wraithbait.
Disclaimer: Still Stargate: Atlantis. Still not owning any of this. Still not making any money out of it. Still violating copyright but am too poor to sue.
Warnings: Rampant gay sex and LOTS of it. Hallelujah!
Summary: Major John Sheppard is a man with a plan. To set it off all he needs is a touch of genius.
Author's Notes: NOT blaming alyse for this one. Oh no. This is the product of this thread (in my LJ) - where things were discussed regarding McKay, Sheppard, long grass, lewd and lascivious nekkid conduct and the episode Underground - too many Merchant Ivory period dramas on an empty brain and I needed the porn. I am a woman. I get like this frequently. I just needed to picture pretty men doing er... stuff. And to write it down so I wouldn't forget what kind of stuff they were er... doing. *cough*
I dedicate this fic to the brave souls of the Irscombe Valiant Society (and Neighbourhood Watch) who didn't make it into the story this time. But, I have no doubt, whose senseless massacre I will document later in the name of attempted humour.
Major John Sheppard left nothing to chance when his team was involved. He was that kind of guy. Focused on his work, ever cautious, a lone wolf leading the pack, a...
Sheppard tapped his boot sole on the ground. The earth was soft under his shoe, not parched and dry but not water-logged and muddy either. Sheppard dropped his chin and pushed his dark lens aviator sunglasses further down his nose to survey the rest of the shaded glade. A few small tuffets of earth -- probably formed by trees falling and being left to antiquity -- created a low bank inside the small copse. The tall grasses from an adjacent meadow grew higher and thicker near the edge of the copse, which itself was decked with tall, twisted trees whose long small-leafed branches created a thin canopy. It allowed just enough bright sunlight to leak through to keep it warm and well lit.
It was, in Sheppard's professional opinion, a potential hostile zone, the ideal place and position from which to launch an offensive by stealth.
He didn't like it.
Ok, he did. Sheppard'd seen the Lord of the Rings movies, he wasn't immune to aestheticism.
It just didn't feel right. Something was missing, something was wrong.
Sheppard instinctively kept his left hand under the housing of his P-90 and crept deeper inside the copse.
***
Dr. Rodney McKay hated these kinds of missions. Trading skills and assistance for food invariably devolved into something four steps down from a full scale nuclear war.
It almost did, once.
Or twice.
Three times if McKay included the day they'd 'gated through to a planet with real cocoa beans a minute after the hydro-electric plant, which the populace had been hiding their first fission reactor behind, suffered a slight case of meltdown.
On all three occasions Sheppard had been in charge of 'diplomatic liaison' efforts.
McKay saw it as a disturbing portent that of all the days Elizabeth had to come down with a case of laryngitis it had to be when they were booked to negotiate with a race that had crossed the technological barriers of hybrid agriculture.
They'd created the first legitimate Mocha bean outside of a Starbucks can.
McKay was damned if he was going to let the Sheppard Curse strike this time.
His plan of avoidance was simple -- beans, Atlantis, cappuccino. Promising the locals anything more volatile than a car battery was completely out... Elizabeth had raised her portable whiteboard, propped it on her knees in the medical bay and told them both as much, though McKay didn't know how the felt tip of her marker hadn't spontaneously combusted from the language she'd used. He didn't realise you could fit so many small words on such a small whiteboard and the number of them that were four-letter was just...
She'd put some more on the back too -- in Arabic -- just so they'd get the point.
Of course McKay's plan had fallen apart the second they'd set remolecularised foot over the event horizon. Sheppard had wanted to make the first gesture of greeting to the locals. So Teyla had thoughtfully kicked him in the back of the knee and stepped forward to meet the welcome party.
Weir had got to her too. But good.
From there on in, Sheppard had been exiled to the back of the negotiation table. Very far back. Sitting on a small, three-legged wooden milking stool in the corner of a room that made the Atlantis gateroom look like McKay's first apartment -- back.
Lieutenant Ford had been given orders to shoot Sheppard in the foot if he tried to interrupt the due process. Ford even produced a copy of his orders. Ford'd been under more pressure than he'd expected, with Sheppard so far in his face that the rigid peak of Ford's baseball cap was starting to bend at an uncommon angle. And having Sheppard grinding out his demands to see those orders -- from between clenched teeth like a rabid dog that'd been chained near a swimming pool too long -- that couldn't have been nice for Ford either.
Ford held up the smaller whiteboard he'd been keeping in his vest pocket.
Floot te fanker ni the luot! E.W.
Ok, the writing was a little smudged but Sheppard got the message. And from the expression on his face, Sheppard didn't find the idea of Ford flooting his luot off worth the risk.
Which was why McKay was currently on a reconnaissance and exploration excursion in the middle of a big meadowy nowhere; Sheppard was pitching a tantrum and didn't want his troops to see him cry.
They'd gone for a walk.
McKay was to take some readings and Sheppard got to strut around with his P-90 in the great outdoors, feeling occasionally important and rather unnerved that behind every tree, behind every other corner, there would be a Weirboard with his name on it and something about his lineage in Cyrillic.
McKay just wanted to be indoors. They were just getting to the coffee-sampling point of negotiations when Sheppard had stood up and put his sunglasses on with the practiced air of a man who'd watched Top Gun too many times.
"I'm goin' for a walk. Check things out," Sheppard had drawled to Ford - Ford whose finger, with good reason, hadn't left the trigger of his 9mm. "McKay, you're with me." Sheppard tugged down the front of his vest and jacket for no reason, worked some imagined crick out of his neck and turned towards the door.
"Whatever you say, Jean Luc," McKay had muttered, observing the way his response had taken almost all of the Old West, Man with No Name, predatorial danger and cool out of Sheppard's sloping step before he reached the door.
That had been approaching three hours ago. The planet's sun was now directly overhead and McKay was considering reapplying his sunscreen. He was a lab rat astrophysicist, not a beach bum -- temperatures above 20 degrees Celsius just weren't McKay's thing.
McKay switched his microreader down, tucked it back into his pack and was just about to go on a search through the various small pockets and zipped compartments in his pack for the tube of sunscreen when he heard a rustle from the shaded tree line to his right.
The next three seconds of McKay's life passed far too quickly. He saw a dark shadow moving through the trees, never strong enough to focus on or give any idea of direction to. It was too fast, too obscured, too...
McKay swung around, spinning on his heel, his hand already on his 9mm's holster, hoping that he wasn't going to have one of those days where the Velcro holding strap wouldn't budge no matter how hard he thumbed at it or pulled at the butt of the gun to free it.
The shadow had emerged in a moving blur, blackness in blinding light. Its large, black eyes tore expressionless through McKay as it grabbed him by the shoulders, its hands moved quickly to McKay's throat without adding pressure. Fingers slid quickly up the back of McKay's neck to the base of his skull, one hand resting there, fingers curling in McKay's hair. The other hand went to McKay's at his holster and grabbed his wrist, stopping McKay from drawing his sidearm. Its body pressed up against McKay's, hot shallow breaths merged with McKay's and the astrophysicist knew he was going to die...
Or he was going to kill Sheppard.
The shadow brought its mouth down hard against McKay's, its lips almost effortlessly parting his, its tongue licking impatiently at McKay's teeth and lining of his lip.
McKay relaxed slightly, kept his jaw tightly clenched and moved both of his hands up to the creature's head, to its dark, spiky, soft though gelled to oblivion hair, and used a handful of it to keep the creature close.
Close enough to open one eye and assess how far he was away from the charming Oak-style tree which he'd propped his pack against.
Less than two feet.
Perfect.
Rodney McKay unclenched his jaw, twisted and shoved the shadow against the tree trunk -- taking the wind out of it with a heavy oof -- then proceeded to give Major John Sheppard the most thorough oral examination he'd had since High School, or at least two nights ago.
When he finished, then he was going to kill Sheppard.
***
Responsibility was Major John Sheppard's middle name.
He was just being responsible, Sheppard rationalised. Which was why, after scoping the narrow, shaded copse out and finding it slightly less dangerous than a marshmallow, Sheppard took up a position on the far side of one of the grassiest tuffets. It was a good position for Sheppard, giving him three-hundred-and-sixty degree sight coverage of the entire copse and a clear line on the two meadows it cut through.
Perfect.
Sheppard rolled over, reclining on his back on the short, steep incline. He tucked his right hand back behind his head, moved his sunglasses up past his hairline and studied his surroundings with a more langourous, lazy eye.
Sunlight streaked in hazy beams through the darker branches and leaves. Small clouds of near microscopic flies segued against some trees, chasing after the sap leaking from cracks in the bark. The breeze was cooler inside the copse but still carried on it the scent of meadow grasses and wild flowers, and strange fruits. It held all the damp flavours of autumn.
As far as Sheppard was concerned, nothing on Earth in his lifetime had ever been this tranquil. The highest mountain in the world had been summated and souvenired long before he was born. The greatest rivers crossed by bridges. Seas breached by tunnelling underneath and ancient forests laid bare to flat, farming wastelands; all before he joined the US Air Force. All that was left on Earth were the oceans and the skies; both could be conquered though neither would ever be tamed.
There was nowhere like this place on Earth; Sheppard was sure of it.
Trudging footsteps paused at the edge of the tree line closest to Sheppard's viewpoint and Sheppard rolled again onto his stomach, unclipping his P-90 to use the sight to give him a rapid close up view of the meadow beyond the trees.
His target stood offset from two stout trees, roughly thirty yards from Sheppard's lookout and twenty-five from Sheppard's trap.
Sheppard was concealed more by the obliging shadows than the tuffet and the sight on his gun was at the wrong angle to catch and glint off the mild sunrays, so he adjusted the lens sight to keep a focus on his quarry.
"Hey there," Sheppard whispered to himself. "Closer..." His target deposited the black webbing pack he'd been carrying. "C'mon... You hate sunshine. This whole damn walk's been killin' you for three fuckin' HOURS," Sheppard continued to mutter. "I know, I've had to listen to ya! Come into the nice, cool shade..." Sheppard hitched himself further up the bank. He wriggled into a good position to dig his boot toe into the soft ground and get a half decent launch point to clear the mound in one leap.
It was a good plan.
It was a great plan.
Rodney McKay was hot, bothered, caffeine-deprived and cranky. And Sheppard was already entertaining ideas of springing his trap at the exact moment McKay reached boiling point, which would be when McKay's jacket came off his shoulders and down to approximately elbow level. Then he'd advance. Braveheart in black. Jump the bank, take the last three feet of it in a run and grab McKay with his hands, literally, tied behind his back.
The rest of Sheppard's plan was deliciously predictable. And greatly lacking in responsibility -- which was the part Sheppard liked best.
A little cool air, a lot of kissing and if that failed to subdue McKay, Sheppard knew he'd have an irritated, foul-tempered Canadian on his hands with a mouth that knew every insult known to mankind and eyes that could scream blue murder.
Sheppard licked his lips. He'd found this place. He'd checked it out, covered every inch of leafy, mossy ground. He'd done all of the hard work; he damn well wasn't going to be the one on top too!
Sadly, like all good plans, there was one magnificent flaw.
McKay had heard Sheppard. It was either the small, dry twigs under Sheppard's boots cracking under his weight as he shifted, or the louder than Sheppard had anticipated rustle of his arms moving up through the dead leaves and dry grass.
He'd made a noise.
And now had to deal with a hot, bothered, caffeine-deprived, cranky, and decidedly paranoid Canadian with a 9mm Glock semi which had an effective range, but the guy carrying it considered aiming to be something you did with an internet chat program.
Braveheart in black went by the wall.
Sheppard just wanted to get out of his hiding place, out into the open and disarm McKay before he carried out Weir's sincerest wish and started flooting everything -- especially him.
Sheppard dived out from his cover, his sunglasses managing to drop perfectly into place on the bridge of his nose as he rolled the short way down the other side of the bank. He landed half sprawled, half crouched at the bottom and breathed a minor sigh of relief that McKay and Velcro had never been on communicative terms in a crisis. Sheppard pushed his aviator sunglasses further up his nose with the third finger of his right hand and took off again in a skilful dodge and weave, using the shadows and distorted sunlight to his advantage. He broke through the long grass of the copse into the full glare of the high sun, into McKay's blind side.
He reached for McKay's shoulders and Sheppard would've slipped his fingers under McKay's webbing vest, if McKay hadn't turned in such a way that the bright sunlight caught the golden tips of his light brown hair. If that light hadn't shone on McKay's skin, reflecting back a glistening sheen of sweat. And McKay's eyes? Sky blue shifting to stormy hell.
A small voice in the back of Sheppard's mind whimpered quietly.
Why did McKay have to look this hot when he was about to kill someone?
Why did that someone always have to be him?
Why did he really get off on that?!
Sheppard's hands shifted too easily, too quickly, from McKay's shoulders. Moving up, taking in -- in the give-or-take two seconds Sheppard had to live without conducting an anatomical sight-feeling tour of Rodney McKay -- the length and sensation of McKay's clean shaven throat. Sheppard raked his fingers up the nape of McKay's neck and into his hair with one hand, reeling him in from there.
Reeling was a little optimistic.
Reeling was not being slammed back against a tree like a Bond movie goon.
Sheppard cursed Teyla's policy of personal defence classes for all. He cursed her even more when she'd put McKay in a kind of headlock Sheppard'd only ever seen in XXX-rated movie theatres. He sort of toned down cursing her name when McKay practiced it on him though.
That really was one hell of a position to be in...
And now Sheppard was pushed with his back up against a tree trunk, McKay's knee insinuated between his thighs, having every drop of oxygen drawn out of his lungs by a clinical asthmatic who'd miraculously gained the ability to breathe through his ears.
At least McKay hadn't shot him.
McKay moved in closer, if that was possible, kicking Sheppard's feet further apart and using his bodyweight and better centre of gravity to keep Sheppard pinned. He drew Sheppard's tongue into his mouth, sucked on it as he maneuvered Sheppard's hips roughly into a contact position with his own groin.
Sheppard just registered McKay's hands roaming everywhere, under his clothes, over his clothes and a mouth that was driving Sheppard nuts if he didn't get to feel it on his dick -- now!
McKay sucked on Sheppard's tongue -- long, slow, closing his lips around it -- the move insinuating, especially when added to the hand that McKay had closed around Sheppard's erection and was now stroking Sheppard in a rhythm in perfect time with his pseudo-blowjob.
Sheppard snaked his hands down McKay's back, McKay's webbing vest getting in the way of his appreciation of the hard muscles he knew were under there.
Fortunately he didn't have that problem with McKay's ass.
Lightweight waterproof canvas, lighter-weight cotton was all that was between Sheppard's hands and McKay's firm, rounded, tight as hell ass.
Sheppard squeezed, digging his fingers low into the material, cupping McKay's ass and pressing into the junction of the inner seams of McKay's BDUs. To get any closer to what Sheppard wanted, McKay would have to be naked. And McKay knew it.
McKay nipped at the tip of Sheppard's tongue. A warning. Then he sealed his mouth over Sheppard's and let the Major feel the low moan forming at the base of his throat. It reverberated in Sheppard's mouth. In Sheppard's throat. And down into Sheppard's chest.
Sheppard's hands slipped a little further down McKay's upper thigh, massaging McKay's ass and stroking the sensitive flesh of McKay's inner thigh simultaneously.
He hadn't had the best of starts, but Major John Sheppard had to admit that his day was starting to improve.
***
McKay knew Sheppard had evil hands. It went with the overall territory that was Major John Sheppard. Childish, insatiable, wouldn't know responsibility if it jumped out and hit him with a two-by-four, no sense of danger or practicality -- John. This was John with the long, strong fingers which were forever cursed to do bad things.
Great bad things that made McKay's vision swirl and bones liquefy in a million amazing ways.
Oh, he hated the son of a bitch.
Definitely hated him right now, given where Sheppard had his hands. Where Sheppard's fingers were probing. How they couldn't, right now, reach the one spot that would make McKay cry out and beg to be touched there again. The direction they hinted at this going from there. No matter how much McKay wanted to drop his trousers and let Sheppard run his obscene, caressing course?
He was not going to let the bastard win.
Rodney McKay was not going to be drawn into another one of Sheppard's seductive little set ups.
He'd been stalked, scared half to death, deprived of his first taste of real, fresh ground coffee for a month and almost shot the stupid prick.
Major John Sheppard was coming first and in his pants, whether he liked it or not.
McKay increased his palm's pressure on Sheppard's groin, hissing and grunting with frustration into Sheppard's open mouth and taking victorious delight in every small buck of Sheppard's hips, in the protracted moans McKay elicited. The way Sheppard blinked, licked and bit his lips and rolled his eyes as McKay literally jerked him off through his BDUs.
God he was good.
He was Rodney fucking McKay! Of course he was good!
Ok, Sheppard wasn't bad either.
McKay kissed him briefly as a reminder. McKay figured Sheppard needed reminding of how hot he looked when he was hard, sweating, wanton and about to come in his shorts with another guy's hand on his dick -- McKay's hand.
Sheppard's hips rocked against McKay's palm, the tempo shifting up. Sheppard was so close now, so very close McKay could smell it, feel it. As Sheppard tilted his head back against the tree bark, McKay moved his face in closer, trailing his parted lips over Sheppard's, ready to home in; steal one kiss, possess Sheppard's cry as he came.
Came for him.
Came under him.
Came now.
Rodney McKay didn't know Sheppard was going to throw him a real doozy first.
Victories just didn't work like that.
***
Major John Sheppard had a plan.
And this wasn't it.
The idea was very appealing though, mostly to Sheppard's concept of living dangerously.
Smelling of sex for a day or so; no way of changing his shorts or BDUs; having to go through a full debriefing knowing Teyla and Elizabeth can smell it -- smell him -- and are trying to figure out if it's him or McKay on him. And he's sitting there for an hour, knowing that he's gone down on McKay. Done it shallow too, so he thinks he can still taste McKay there every time he licks his lips. Sheppard's given McKay low-down, dirty, back alley head and McKay's smirking like the smug bastard he is. And what he'll pay for being later.
Damned plan just kept getting in the way.
Sheppard's brain was slowly being cooked beyond cognitive thought by the sensation of McKay's hand on his dick, but still he couldn't forget that plan.
That really GOOD plan.
The one Sheppard'd had before McKay turned the tables on him and he'd been too turned on not to give in to the pushy little fucker.
Pissed off, passionate, Canadian nerds with receding hairlines just did it for Sheppard in that big a way.
"Fuck me," Sheppard murmured into McKay's mouth, locking his lips around McKay's lower one to emphasise his point.
"What?" McKay spluttered, obviously surprised. Too obviously thinking about sources of lubrication on alien worlds, miles from habitation, civilisation, brand name pharmacies and probably trying to think what was Ancient for Astroglide.
"Fuck. Me." Sheppard watched McKay through a veil of dark, perspiration moistened eyelashes. He was hoping that this was as far as he had to go into atrociously bad gay porn movie territory to win McKay over, because Sheppard wasn't going to take his boots off to remove his BDUs and then have to put his boots back on -- again -- to complete his plan of seduction.
He moved his left hand from McKay's hip, raising it to brush down McKay's right forearm -- smoothing creases both real and imagined from McKay's jacket sleeve. He halted his path at McKay's wrist; his fingers circled there, coaxing McKay's hand away from the tender form of his erection.
"Not here." His voice was little more than a hoarse, breathless whisper. He wasn't completely sure how he was going to be able to walk; the entire lower half of his body was perfectly happy to stay right where it was, right where McKay was, anywhere McKay was. "C'mon, I'll show you."
It would just be better for both of them if where McKay was happened to be exactly where Sheppard wanted him -- so Major John Sheppard, weary, embattled and carrying an unbelievably tender erection walked.
***
Rodney McKay gave up protesting, seeing as it was difficult to formulate a coherent argument when Sheppard had just used the F-word.
Being precise, Sheppard hadn't simply used it; he'd moaned it -- with all of the seductive, molten desire of a whore. But that was John. Sheppard could turn one high grade expletive into something that, once uttered, turned the cartilage in McKay's knees to Jell-O and made him harder than hell from the thought of it.
Fuck me.
Fuck you.
Sheppard had mastered it. McKay had attempted to drive his requests up to Sheppard's level of intensity. However, "Please can we have sex now, if you're not busy or anything?" was just too damned polite. McKay knew it. He was too damned polite.
McKay suspected Sheppard gave up being polite two seconds after he lost whatever passed for his virginity.
And he probably lost that in a field somewhere.
A high plains wheat field, when the travelling fair was in town. Seduction by Ferris Wheels and cotton candy, lights in the distance, loud carnival music carried on the breeze.
Romance and John Sheppard seemed to go together.
He just wasn't the kind of guy who'd get his sleeve caught in an unfamiliar automatic gearshift, crack his elbow on the sunroof and almost break his nose with a misjudged kiss.
That was McKay.
And that was why McKay was letting Sheppard lead him through thick clumps of long grasses. Where they could only walk two steps before one of them had to turn or move in for a too brief kiss.
Sheppard was a pathological romantic.
And McKay was a sucker for it with very few exceptions?
"Do you know how dangerous this is?" McKay said, indicating the potential death trap Sheppard had led him to in all of its innocuous, naturally comfortable glory. "Brambles, ALIEN brambles, creepy vines... Oh my God," McKay spied a small wave of tiny flies surrounding the split trunk of one of the larger trees in the copse. "The pollen count is freakin' SENTIENT! John, we are not having sex here."
"Yes, we are." Sheppard worked on the fastenings of his webbing vest.
"No, we are not."
"Yes, we are." Sheppard removed and draped his vest over the steepest bank of the enclosure. Sitting down alongside it, he started to work on his shoelaces.
"No we are--" McKay folded his arms and tilted his head to one side. "Sheppard, what the hell are you doing?"
"Huh?"
"Shoes?" McKay pointed.
"Hey, the rest's comin' off too, don't worry about it." Sheppard touched his jacket collar for effect and managed to remove a sock.
"You're going to walk around an alien planet, barefoot?" McKay blinked. "Are you insane?"
"You're worried I might step on a nail?" Sheppard raised his eyebrows incredulously and wiggled his toes in the shorter, moss type grass under his bare feet.
"No." McKay bristled uncomfortably. "I'm..."
Sheppard unzipped his charcoal jacket.
"You..." McKay blinked. Sheppard was rolling his shoulders, shucking the jacket off. "Uh... Don't have the most impressive track record when it comes to indigenous fauna and life forms, Major Sh--"
"What happened to Sheppard?" Sheppard teased, unclipping his belt with his thumb and forefinger then slowly teasing apart the two Velcro straps of his holster.
McKay swallowed. In his opinion Sheppard should've given up the military and gone on to pursue his true calling as a stripper. A really GOOD stripper.
"Wait a second." Sheppard paused, propping his elbows on his knees he leaned forward. "What the hell happened to John?!"
McKay couldn't think of a good comeback for that one. "Are those nettles?" McKay gestured to the nearest clump of green leaves that looked nothing like nettles. "Those are net--"
"Look, Rodney..." Sheppard stood up, grabbing the hem of his sheer black sweater and hauling it over his head as he did so. "In another three seconds I'm gonna be naked, on my knees, on the FLOOR and screaming for your dick in my ass!" Sheppard ditched his sweater onto his clothing pile.
McKay decided that this shaded, cool copse was starting to get hotter than the exposed sunny meadow. He couldn't be sure which was cranking the temperature up more; Sheppard's mouth or his persistent clothes shedding.
"I can assure you. If I'm gonna do that? Therearenonettles," Sheppard added sternly with a sweep of his hand then he started fumbling with the button fly of his BDUs.
"P... P... Poison Oak!" McKay spluttered.
"WHAT?!" Sheppard fiddled with the last button. It was always the last button. He hated BDUs, the small buttons were stitched flat to the material which rendered the last one or two buttons almost impossible to unfasten in an emergency. And this was an emergency. The kind of emergency Sheppard usually wore button-fly jeans for.
"You're Henry fucking Godber!" McKay was just projectile vomiting words now.
"Who?" Sheppard continued to pick at the last button. "And you slept with him, right?"
"Hardly, we were eight years old at the time," McKay retorted. "Henry Godber, he was... Uh... A kid in my 4th grade class. Spent most of kindergarten with his head STUCK between railings. Every summer his mom would send him into school, first day of the new term with HUGE Poison Oak blisters he... he..."
Sheppard smirked - McKay wasn't really watching -- then pushed his BDUs and shorts down over his hips in one stroke.
"Smelled of calamine lotion and had sticking plasters on his knees CONSTANTLY... and he..." McKay pulled his attention away from the various benign plants and peaceful bugs that were giving him hives just looking at them, back to Sheppard.
Who was naked.
Kicking his tangled BDUs and shorts to one side.
And stepping up to McKay like a cat.
And McKay was either a mouse or the saucer of milk. The way Sheppard was licking his lips was no tell.
McKay really needed some fresh air. Considering he was already outside and IN the fresh air he needed the opposite. Some dry, recycled lab air that tasted of bleach and pine detergent. Something to sober McKay up, cool him down because now would not be a good time to start hyperventilating.
Sheppard scratched the back of his neck and grinned. "Yeah?"
"Just attracted..." McKay gulped. "In fact, was a magnet for..."
"Are you finished now with the Elementary school allegories?" Sheppard encircled McKay's waist with his arms and tilted his head to one side, setting up for another kiss. Kissing was good. Kissing was common ground. It wasn't the sort of subject McKay could see himself having long, drawn out conversations with Sheppard about -- mainly because they both seemed to prefer doing it to actually talking about it...
This was entirely avoiding the issue. McKay was about to be kissed by a naked sex maniac who got off on doing it al fresco on other planets.
And in other dangerous places.
While flying a Puddle Jumper with his MIND -- for example.
And it really was doing things for McKay's sex-drive that he didn't think were possible.
"Trouble." McKay tilted his head to the right, aligning his lips with Sheppard's.
"Oh I'm a whole world of trouble," Sheppard whispered.
"Too much for one planet. There'd better not be any Poison Oak around here," McKay grumbled; then he kissed his troublesome US Air Force Major.
***
From one kiss everything went according to plan.
Almost.
Sheppard had helped McKay out of his clothes. Though 'helped' wasn't entirely accurate a description considering the amount of tugging, pulling, tearing at zips and summary violence involved in the process. And they were on schedule.
Sheppard liked schedules.
He also liked kissing, which invariably set his schedules off by a mile.
Oral sex?
Well now, that just threw his schedule off even further.
But he'd been on his knees, easing McKay's BDUs and shorts down at the time and McKay's dick was just there and...
There was a plan? He had a plan?
What plan?
Sheppard had only intended to breathe warm air over the shaft of McKay's erection. He'd only wanted to hear that strange semi-whimper McKay made every time he did that. Sheppard hadn't wanted to give in to temptation; to outline his own lips with the head, trailing pre-ejaculate across his lips like gloss. This wasn't in his plan.
Neither was the hesitancy and dark arousal in McKay's eyes as Sheppard had darted the tip of his tongue out; nor how McKay had watched, fascinated by Sheppard and how carefully Sheppard tasted the replenished beads of pre-ejaculate that had collected at the tip of McKay's dick.
Sheppard really thought he'd cornered the market in intense until he saw McKay in moments like these. There was intense and then there having was a pair of eyes like a laser drill.
And the laser drill was wondering what Sheppard would do next.
Would Sheppard trace the pattern of veins beneath McKay's skin? Would he seize on the smallest details that only he seemed to see, favouring them with messy kisses and slow licks before sliding his tongue along the underside of McKay's dick? Would he ease the edge of McKay's foreskin back, laving McKay's body with his lips and tongue before enclosing McKay in the suckling heat of his mouth?
Sheppard watched McKay, watching him.
Entranced by Sheppard's gaze. Enslaved by Sheppard's mouth.
McKay had probably started to wonder how Sheppard could be the one on his knees and still have that much power. Sadly Sheppard didn't give him much time to follow on from that thought. Instead, he clicked his tongue, gifted McKay with a lopsided grin and took McKay whole.
Sheppard's plan hadn't so much been diverted as put back for a while.
McKay needed to remember what Sheppard's mouth felt like around him. How the back of Sheppard's throat felt, how tight and how Sheppard had to swallow before the muscles relaxed and how those two extra inches of Sheppard's soft, moist throat felt around the head of McKay's dick. McKay needed that reminder.
And Sheppard had left his memo pad back on Atlantis.
He had to know how long Sheppard could hold him down like this, hold McKay right there until he came or went crazy from the sensation. That Sheppard only pulled back to slide McKay's length back into the velvet embrace of his throat, that he could do it as many times as he wanted to -- repeatedly fuck McKay with his mouth and throat until McKay's legs buckled and McKay's lips were dry from being bitten down on too hard.
McKay needed to know that Sheppard was in the position to make McKay come hard, fast and so far down his throat that when he gasped and swallowed, when he was done, it was for breath, for air in his lungs because McKay was long gone by then.
Sheppard really should've packed his memo pad.
"Hey there." Sheppard sat back on his heels and threw McKay a mischievous grin.
"You..." McKay spat. "Son of a fucking bitch!"
"Now, Rodney, is that any way to talk to the guy who's just given you the best blow job you've had all week long?" asked Sheppard, his grin widening.
"No. That's the way I talk to the guy who STOPPED giving me a blow job, JUST when it was getting INTERESTING!"
"You know you're cute when you're angry, right?"
"You know you're nowhere near cute when you're... YOU!" McKay snarled. "You're a cocky, facetious prick Sheppard!"
"What happened to John?!" Sheppard whined.
"First name terms? After this? You have got to be fucking KIDDING me!" McKay exploded. "I... I was... You do not DO that ok? Not to another guy. Not when he's... Ah... Being moved by the experience."
"Moved by the... What?"
"Ok, I will phrase this in really small words that might just permeate your really thick skull." McKay took a deep breath and shouted. "YOU DO NOT HANG A GUY OUT TO DRY LIKE THAT! I... I was... It was getting really interesting, ok? I was really... Enjoying it. And what you were doing was great... It's just... You STOPPED and everything and that kind of..."
"Put a crimp in your day, huh?" Sheppard smirked.
"No, Sheppard. No! A crimp is no coffee. A crimp is walking in blinding heat through God knows WHERE for THREE fucking HOURS only to be hijacked for illicit outdoor sex by a crazy guy who shoots at other crazy guys for a LIVING--" McKay continued his rant.
"I fly choppers too," Sheppard interjected quietly. "Just thought I should... Mention that."
"Not on this planet," McKay snapped back. "What I'm trying to say is WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"
"I'm the best you've ever had," Sheppard said with more than a hint of challenge.
"It may surprise you to know -- I've. Had. Better," McKay retorted.
"Not in this galaxy. Not in this life," Sheppard shot back.
"This is all about your ego isn't it?" said McKay
"No. It's all about you fucking me into the dirt," Sheppard growled.
"Oh." McKay gulped. "Then would you mind untying my shoelaces?"
***
Sheppard was known for his breathtaking ingenuity and unending resourcefulness. Sneaky gall was just a hop and a jump from there. And relieving Beckett's medical bay of an extra large tube of water-based ultrasound, multi-purpose medical lubricant in the presence of the eagle-eyed Elizabeth Weir required a certain level of sneaky gall.
It probably also took the stealth of a criminal mastermind cat burglar and all-purpose jewel thief too.
Rodney McKay wasn't exactly in the humour to buy Sheppard's excuses about it being an emergency and, "You don't know. We could need this stuff for something." He was too turned on for that. Too hard, too hot, even naked and hidden from the glare of the sun in the shadows of the leafy copse.
And for once it was McKay who was wishing Sheppard would just shut up for five seconds.
Shut up and let the deeper implications of whatever plan Sheppard had cooked up sink in to McKay. Days' worth of planning, hours of research and McKay was more than just a little bit lucky that Sheppard hadn't thrown his scheme into action on a day where they were being shot at, blown up, held captive or otherwise menaced.
McKay felt a pang of sadness at that thought.
We're Going to Die sex was usually pretty damned good.
Shutting Sheppard up was also pretty damned good. It required McKay bending slightly at the waist, the fingers of his right hand tangling in the styled disarray of Sheppard's dark hair and kissing him until one word rang loud in McKay's mind -- Ventolin.
Ventolin and oxygen and air and none of which was important because McKay was trying to find any trace of himself in Sheppard's mouth with his tongue. And Sheppard had a habit of giving as good as he got, which was why McKay had to drop to one knee, then both to stop himself from overbalancing. From there it was far too easy for McKay to move to his side, for the hand that had turned in Sheppard's hair to slide to the nape of Sheppard's neck. The other, still holding the cool metal tube of lubricant, pressed to Sheppard's shoulder to steady McKay as he moved to the ground. Sheppard hissed as the metal touched his skin; he hissed and inhaled and closed his full lips around McKay's bottom lip, sucked there, made McKay groan.
Made McKay roll on his hip, tangle his legs with Sheppard's until he couldn't remember whose ankle or foot, or if it was his toe or Sheppard's bristling the short hairs on his legs, and move until he was lying half underneath Sheppard.
Sheppard's only option was to turn inward, let his left forearm steady his balance as he continued to kiss McKay, and untangle their legs -- just enough to plant his right knee firmly against the grassy ground. McKay was using both hands on him, it didn't seem fair to Sheppard that McKay could do that when all he could do was clench his left fist and hope the pads of his fingertips touched McKay's skin; tilt McKay's chin back gently with his right thumb, trail the joint down over McKay's Adam's Apple before swirling the pad and the rest of his fingers lightly in McKay's upper chest hair.
All to keep one kiss going -- maintain the flow of sensation between their bodies.
McKay's hands roved over Sheppard's body in seemingly aimless wander. He sought out Sheppard's shoulders, the motion of hard, sculpted muscle under skin. He was less flesh, more muscle and bone; lean and lithe in a way that moulded around McKay. The harder angles of Sheppard's body seemed to vanish the second they touched McKay's skin. And Sheppard's skin? Smooth, soft to McKay's touch and warm, so warm McKay wouldn't be satisfied until Sheppard's entire body covered him from shoulder to heel.
This wasn't sex. This wasn't getting off. This was venturing beyond knowing each other's bodies -- knowing where to touch, where to kiss and how to move towards release.
It was McKay revelling in the sensation of Sheppard's almost black chest hair under his hands. Feeling Sheppard's heartbeat through skin and tissue, noticing the way the short hairs curled, almost on command, over the tips of McKay's fingers and tickled under his nails.
It was Sheppard smiling at how he kissed McKay, how he had to start with the left corner of McKay's mouth. How he just had to taste McKay's uneven pout, every time. The sensation of McKay's body under his, all of the secrets of responsible muscles and toned flesh McKay hid from everyone but Sheppard under clothes that were always a size too big or stretched out of shape.
This was making love in the long grass. Casting spells they were clever enough to know not to do, but remained dumb enough not to care.
Sheppard dipped his head to McKay's shoulder, lips and teeth teasing absently at McKay's throat and shoulder. He was ready. Teased and tormented to the brink, McKay's hand resting -- latent and suggestive -- on the shallow curve of Sheppard's ass only served to torment Sheppard further. It was a reminder of what Sheppard wanted and what he feared, fear now that he was too aroused to accept.
McKay felt the weight of Sheppard relaxing against him. Kisses stopped, mouth unmoving on McKay's skin -- only breath, hot shallow breaths prickled McKay's shoulder and ear. Sheppard was waiting, waiting for him to move his fingers -- take his explorations deeper to hotter skin and tighter warmth. He wanted McKay to press his fingers to his body, tell him that he was there; warn Sheppard what was next before McKay's touch returned slick and cool.
McKay reached for the tube he had dropped somewhere near his right thigh. Sheppard took the tube from McKay's hand. McKay flipped the cap; Sheppard squeezed the clear contents over McKay's fingers then dropped the tube on the ground.
Sheppard shivered silently, breath hitching as McKay's liquid touch soothed his heat. Sheppard liked to fuck. He burned quickly, brightly then shattered like fragile glass in the moment. Sensation, this kind, these gentle touches McKay bestowed upon him, with chill, slick fingers working into Sheppard with agonisingly slow tenderness -- they broke him. Made Sheppard sob and plead in murmurs where he would normally bite and swear and shout. Feeling too vulnerable and clinging to a body that was all too safe, that meant much more than one short, frantic fuck. That wasn't fucking. That was something else, something Sheppard did for McKay every time but couldn't accept in return.
It was love.
Sheppard liked to watch McKay like this. Feel McKay's hips start to thrust against him when he slowly drew his fingers in and out of McKay's ass. Listen to McKay reciting gibberish to himself in an effort to last those few seconds longer. Sheppard didn't like hearing it in his own voice, feeling it in his own body; a rebellious arch of spine and pushing hips and knowing McKay had brought him so close and with a slowness of touch Sheppard couldn't lie through. Sheppard couldn't bare his teeth, growl and scream for more when he knew he'd be coming down from that one last touch with closed eyes, parted lips and a plea on his lips.
And McKay would call him John.
And Sheppard wouldn't have to say anything else.
***
They shifted in the long grass -- changed positions, never moving too far from the reach of fingers or mouths. Arms held or steadied weight. Heavier than lead, legs moved, parted. Elbows, knees and shins were cushioned by the earth and shorter, soft grass.
Sheppard turned his back to McKay; taking his weight on his hands and knees as he did.
Sheppard didn't have to say it. He didn't need to ask or tell McKay that he needed him fast and rough and over too soon.
As McKay didn't have to whisper how good Sheppard's body felt to him in the first second after he'd penetrated Sheppard's ass. There were no words for the kind of heat Sheppard surrounded him with, nor were there any for the tightness of slicked, stretched muscle contracting around the head of McKay's cock. McKay could only groan, scratch his upper incisors over his bottom lip and sink deeper into Sheppard.
McKay was less than halfway when Sheppard expelled a low, hitching breath. McKay thought Sheppard couldn't be that close; McKay was and it was taking almost all of his concentration not to come. Not to hurt, not to release, not to let go and fuck Sheppard into the ground. McKay wanted to hear Sheppard call his name, shout it out to the silent trees. Maybe then Sheppard wouldn't hear his own name? Hear McKay whisper it into the joint of his shoulder and neck. He wouldn't know the ?John? McKay emitted on a grunted gasp. Sheppard wouldn't know that his name was flavoured on McKay's lips; tasted of sweat and soft skin, or that his name was scented with styling gel, summer grass and wildflowers and the headier aroma of sex.
Sheppard wouldn't know. He would feel McKay's left arm wrapped tightly around his chest, McKay's fingers digging into his right shoulder, McKay's chin nestled not far behind -- and still Sheppard wouldn't see how McKay screwed his eyes shut, where his brow would wrinkle in the centre as the first wave of McKay's climax broke.
Sheppard wouldn't see that, he would only feel it.
There were no words to be said, only sounds to be heard. Sensations to be felt and touches returned. Sense and scent and light and sound and breaths turned to vapour in the air.
This was them.
It was John's fingers clawing into the ground, raking through grass and remnants of too many seasons passed.
It was his hand closing over John's; John's hand was fractionally wider but his knuckles fitted to the flesh of Rodney's palm so well that Rodney's fingers extended, slotting so easily into the V-shape spaces between John's without pause, without thought.
It was the feel of his body moulded to John's back; his hips fitting flush to John's ass.
It was his other hand on John's dick, slick sliding, skin on skin, matching the small thrusts he made in and out of John's ass.
John's body buckled under him, although he was taking as much of his weight as he could on his knees. John's left hand reached up, enveloped Rodney's fist, their thumbs sweeping across each other's as Rodney caressed the tip of John's erection.
John trembled and dug the fingers of his right hand down further -- dark soil under his fingernails, dark earth on his hands, Rodney at his back. He kept hold of John's hand, squeezed it. His right arm was extended, laid over John's and the short dark hairs on John's forearm prickled the sensitive underside of his forearm, as his lover shook and trembled beneath him.
Rodney barely registered it. He barely registered anything except the feel of John's ass gripping his dick; John's hand over his and John's fluids spurting through his fingers as his lover broke apart.
Rodney couldn't feel anything else but he could still hear.
Rodney could hear John's voice slicing through the calm of a summer's afternoon.
One word. One name.
Rodney.
And that was enough for Rodney to come too.
The End