Fic: We're Fools in Need (SGA/SPN)
Well, I thought since this whole *quote*LJ thing*unquote* we could all use some porn. So, I decided to combine my two favorite fandoms and do something that Becky (quidditchkiss) and myself have wanted since the first half of Ever and the last half of Always.
To everyone that took my poll I think you'll find it's pretty 50/50. Either way you want to swing it, that's fine with me as long as you enjoy. With many thanks to Becky for her support, HAPPY READING!
We're Fools In Need
933 words, Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, NC-17
“Dean. My name.” He grinds down as if to make it stick and John can feel his control slip.
There’s a rundown bar five miles outside Oklahoma City with peeling shutters and paint stripped steps. The sign reads ‘Red Rooster’ or ‘Bed ooster’ if you want to get technical. John pulls in at half past nine, unshaven and clothes rumpled. The third step dips as he mounts the porch, opening the door with ease and letting light into the musty room.
The bartender nods, and John saddles up on the nearest stool. “Whiskey,” he says.
The man pulls a foggy glass from under the counter and wipes it clean. John’s barely got the crumpled five from his jeans before the drinks in front of him. He half-smiles in thanks and relaxes.
The bar smells like smoke and rust, the scent of damp wood filtering in between the two depending on which way he leans. It’s small, rectangular in shape and John can tell it’s full of locals-about five of them in fact.
When the front door opens the hinges moan, and John lifts his eyes. The first thing he notices are the boots, coated with grime and unlaced, he watches them slide over the flooring with casual ease. They stop on his right and John takes in the full package, beaten, battered, and bruised. The guy’s got a split lip and a ripped shirt, dirt smeared across his cheek like he’d had an unfortunate meeting with the ground. From the way he was standing though, John didn’t think he’d stayed down long enough for them to get acquainted.
The bartender has a full glass in front of the man before he can order and the guy downs it with one long stroke. Sighing, he wipes at his mouth and starts walking towards the bathroom. He’s halfway there when he throws John a look over his shoulder, it doesn’t say much, but John can read the invitation all the same.
Lifting his brows--more at himself than the bartender--he finishes his drink and follows.
He’s three steps into the Men’s Room when his senses go alert, body tensing as he’s manhandled into a nearby stall. He can taste sweat and the copper tang of blood, he opens up to it, revels. There’s a hand in his hair and John can feel his skin jump.
“Dean,” the guy says.
“What?” John’s struggling to free his own arm, hand fisting of its own accord into the hem of the man’s torn t-shirt.
“Dean. My name.” He grinds down as if to make it stick and John can feel his control slip. Aggravated, he pushes back, hips meeting Dean’s inch for inch.
The cut on his lip has re-opened and John licks it, sucking in the full body shudder with a simple slide of tongue. Dean’s hips stutter, fingers stretching taut against the warm skin on John’s back. He can feel the sharp bite of nails as they press into his flesh. Growling, he hooks a leg around the back of Dean’s knee, moving on to bite the curve of his jaw.
Everything on him tastes unclean and John wants to fold up inside it, wants to get lost in the scars, lose everything he is in the freckles marring Dean’s skin. They blur into brown as sweat clouds his vision and John can hear Dean making low noises in the back of his throat.
The hand at his waist tightens and Dean lifts John's chin to push their lips together. They clack teeth and John thinks he could get high off the sensation. Dean’s moved his hand from John’s back to the inside of his pants, cupping his ass and pulling him up to increase the friction.
John reciprocates the favor, squeezing his free hand into the space between them and unzipping Dean’s fly. The rough side of coarse hair rubs hard against his neck as Dean buries his face in the crook of John’s shoulder. He can barely get his hand inside, Dean bucking up fast and pulling John right along with him.
The space is cramped, and John can hear the hiss of strained metal as they move against the stall’s side panel. It shakes with every thrust, bowing under the onslaught. Dean is incredibly hard, greedy, nipping at John’s exposed areas. He fists him in counterpoint to his own thrusts, keeping the pressure constant, unending.
He can hear Dean bite back a curse, see him swallow hard before he takes John physically by the hips and shifts him until his feet no longer touch the ground. John’s torn between the sudden increase of pleasure and the loss of control. He pulls his hand from Dean’s clothes, smirking slightly at the groan in response. Instead he presses his palms into the tiled walls, using them as leverage to keep pace.
The knot in his stomach is uncoiling, feeding through his system as his movement becomes sporadic, uncalculated. His arms shake and he can feel the muscle burning. From Dean’s lips falls a litany of Latin, John can barely catch it, phrases rushed together in one breath; ‘Ita’ ‘Sic’ ‘Sic’
He responds instinctively, snapping his hips down hard. “Fuck,” he groans, arms giving out as orgasm hits. For once John feels thankful to have Dean’s body pinning him to the wall. Dean comes without a sound, just a ghost of air across his lips as his body tenses up and releases. They sink slowly to the floor, breathing hard.
“Sheppard,” John says when he feels like he’s gotten enough oxygen back in his system, “John Sheppard.”
Dean grins, eyes bright. “’Pleasure to meet you John Sheppard. You were drinking whiskey, right?”
--Sequel
To everyone that took my poll I think you'll find it's pretty 50/50. Either way you want to swing it, that's fine with me as long as you enjoy. With many thanks to Becky for her support, HAPPY READING!
We're Fools In Need
933 words, Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, NC-17
“Dean. My name.” He grinds down as if to make it stick and John can feel his control slip.
There’s a rundown bar five miles outside Oklahoma City with peeling shutters and paint stripped steps. The sign reads ‘Red Rooster’ or ‘Bed ooster’ if you want to get technical. John pulls in at half past nine, unshaven and clothes rumpled. The third step dips as he mounts the porch, opening the door with ease and letting light into the musty room.
The bartender nods, and John saddles up on the nearest stool. “Whiskey,” he says.
The man pulls a foggy glass from under the counter and wipes it clean. John’s barely got the crumpled five from his jeans before the drinks in front of him. He half-smiles in thanks and relaxes.
The bar smells like smoke and rust, the scent of damp wood filtering in between the two depending on which way he leans. It’s small, rectangular in shape and John can tell it’s full of locals-about five of them in fact.
When the front door opens the hinges moan, and John lifts his eyes. The first thing he notices are the boots, coated with grime and unlaced, he watches them slide over the flooring with casual ease. They stop on his right and John takes in the full package, beaten, battered, and bruised. The guy’s got a split lip and a ripped shirt, dirt smeared across his cheek like he’d had an unfortunate meeting with the ground. From the way he was standing though, John didn’t think he’d stayed down long enough for them to get acquainted.
The bartender has a full glass in front of the man before he can order and the guy downs it with one long stroke. Sighing, he wipes at his mouth and starts walking towards the bathroom. He’s halfway there when he throws John a look over his shoulder, it doesn’t say much, but John can read the invitation all the same.
Lifting his brows--more at himself than the bartender--he finishes his drink and follows.
He’s three steps into the Men’s Room when his senses go alert, body tensing as he’s manhandled into a nearby stall. He can taste sweat and the copper tang of blood, he opens up to it, revels. There’s a hand in his hair and John can feel his skin jump.
“Dean,” the guy says.
“What?” John’s struggling to free his own arm, hand fisting of its own accord into the hem of the man’s torn t-shirt.
“Dean. My name.” He grinds down as if to make it stick and John can feel his control slip. Aggravated, he pushes back, hips meeting Dean’s inch for inch.
The cut on his lip has re-opened and John licks it, sucking in the full body shudder with a simple slide of tongue. Dean’s hips stutter, fingers stretching taut against the warm skin on John’s back. He can feel the sharp bite of nails as they press into his flesh. Growling, he hooks a leg around the back of Dean’s knee, moving on to bite the curve of his jaw.
Everything on him tastes unclean and John wants to fold up inside it, wants to get lost in the scars, lose everything he is in the freckles marring Dean’s skin. They blur into brown as sweat clouds his vision and John can hear Dean making low noises in the back of his throat.
The hand at his waist tightens and Dean lifts John's chin to push their lips together. They clack teeth and John thinks he could get high off the sensation. Dean’s moved his hand from John’s back to the inside of his pants, cupping his ass and pulling him up to increase the friction.
John reciprocates the favor, squeezing his free hand into the space between them and unzipping Dean’s fly. The rough side of coarse hair rubs hard against his neck as Dean buries his face in the crook of John’s shoulder. He can barely get his hand inside, Dean bucking up fast and pulling John right along with him.
The space is cramped, and John can hear the hiss of strained metal as they move against the stall’s side panel. It shakes with every thrust, bowing under the onslaught. Dean is incredibly hard, greedy, nipping at John’s exposed areas. He fists him in counterpoint to his own thrusts, keeping the pressure constant, unending.
He can hear Dean bite back a curse, see him swallow hard before he takes John physically by the hips and shifts him until his feet no longer touch the ground. John’s torn between the sudden increase of pleasure and the loss of control. He pulls his hand from Dean’s clothes, smirking slightly at the groan in response. Instead he presses his palms into the tiled walls, using them as leverage to keep pace.
The knot in his stomach is uncoiling, feeding through his system as his movement becomes sporadic, uncalculated. His arms shake and he can feel the muscle burning. From Dean’s lips falls a litany of Latin, John can barely catch it, phrases rushed together in one breath; ‘Ita’ ‘Sic’ ‘Sic’
He responds instinctively, snapping his hips down hard. “Fuck,” he groans, arms giving out as orgasm hits. For once John feels thankful to have Dean’s body pinning him to the wall. Dean comes without a sound, just a ghost of air across his lips as his body tenses up and releases. They sink slowly to the floor, breathing hard.
“Sheppard,” John says when he feels like he’s gotten enough oxygen back in his system, “John Sheppard.”
Dean grins, eyes bright. “’Pleasure to meet you John Sheppard. You were drinking whiskey, right?”
--Sequel