(no subject)
Title: Slow Burn
Fandom: Tour of Duty
Author: zeplum
Pairing: Goldman/McKay
Rating: Adult
Dedication: All for brooklinegirl, my ToD godmother.
Note: Set at some point after "Doc Hoc".
Back in the world, Myron had always liked the quiet, nice girls. Other guys might've thought they were boring, but Myron learned at a rather young, impressionable age with Susie Watson that nice didn't always translate to innocent, a kernel of knowledge he came to value as he matured.
But something had changed when he arrived in country -- well, to be honest, everything had changed -- but suddenly Myron found himself attracted to woman that weren't passive dolls to smile and be handled with care. He's grown to like the challenge of a woman that speaks her mind; how the tension that churns in his gut, and the way his heart races. He had some of the best sex of his life with Alex, and it wasn't due to any particular skill she possessed. Uncharitable to say, perhaps, but true.
That still didn't explain McKay. To be quite honest, nothing explained McKay. Myron had assumed the flyboy to have the privilege and education to go along with his smooth words and easy charm, but McKay's appeal is natural and all are powerless to resist. Even, much to his consternation, Myron himself.
He's been walking around edgy all day, though he thought he'd covered pretty well until Anderson drew him aside, laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder and gave him one of those looks. If he'd been Purcell or Roo, it would've been followed by a discreetly muffled, "What the hell's with you, boy?"
How could he tell his sergeant that sharing quarters with McKay was up there with the worst kind of hell he'd enjoyed during the war? How could he explain to Zeke that sometimes when McKay looked at him, Myron's blood boiled and his breathing got short, and that half the time he was tetchy just to cover up the overwhelming desire to back McKay against the nearest flat surface and kiss the hell out of him.
Then there were times like this, when Myron's swallowed more than his share of bullshit for the day, that the idea of waving the red flag in front of a very big bull sounds like a brilliant mission objective. Back from a three day mission that yielded nothing more than exhaustion and grime, Myron returns from the showers before McKay (hedonist to Goldman's utilitarian - the real reason for smoking in the shower), and pulls on a pair of old fatiuge trousers, a pair from his first days at Ladybird. Forgoing a shirt, he stretches out on his bed, closes his eyes, and waits patiently for McKay to return.
He doesn't have to wait long to hear McKay's boots tromping up the stairs, or the creak of the door as it opens. McKay takes two steps into the hooch and stops dead, letting the screen door slap close behind him.
He's laid out like a gift ready for the taking, and Myron can almost feel Johnny's eyes burning over his flesh, hotter than any subtropical sun. He tries hard not to smirk -- gotcha!, he thinks.
"Come off it, Goldman," McKay tells him, settling into his chair, the one more at home in McKay's off-base bachelor pad than the OD green hooch. "I can tell when you're sleeping."
The corner's of Myron's mouth quirk up and he decides to give up, and rolls over onto his side. "And how do you know that?"
McKay looks at him from over the top of his magazine. "You drool more."
Myron laughs at that and almost forgets that he's trying to torture McKay. "Okay," he says, sitting up. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, blowing it out with practiced precision. Out of one sleepy eye, he watches McKay watch him. "You've spent a lot of time watching me sleep then?"
He's answered with a smug smile from McKay over the top of the skin magazine. "Actually, when I moved in, Anderson told me I should always keep my boots and poncho handy in case of a flood."
"Funny."
"I thought so."
"Dammit McKay," he sighs. Myron starts clenching his fists in frustration. "Is everything a joke to you?"
Myron rolls off his bed and stands before McKay, hands at hips, staring him down like he's just another grunt. They've been through this conversation countless times before, and countless times before Myron's never gotten a satisfactory answer out of his friend -- or at least one that satisfied him for very long. Tonight, maybe things will be different.
McKay looks up at Goldman, eyes all feigned innocence, and folds down the magazine. "You know that's not true."
"Do I? Because sometimes I wonder, Johnny." Myron braces his weight on the arms of the chair, leans over McKay, well into his personal space. Myron can feel the heat coming off his body, the faint smell of shaving cream; so strong, so very male, and it with it, Myron's breath skips.
"You're serious when you look at me." Myron doesn't let his voice go much above a whisper.
And holding Johnny's gaze then is one of the hardest things he's ever done, because there's that line there, that line they're both about to cross, damn the consequences. It makes Myron quirk a smile, because if anyone is better at damming the consequences and living to tell the tale, it's the two of them.
So, comparatively, meeting Johnny's lips with his own isn't very hard after all the things he's been through. It's easy, and nervous, because for a moment, McKay isn't kissing back, but then he is and Myron quickly ascertains that this is going to a battle of wills all the way.
Johnny makes the next move when he flicks his tongue over Myron's lips, ever so lightly. The sensation is spectacular, and he can't but help to open his mouth for more. He tries to settle in, resting a knee between Johnny's widespread thighs, grasping the back of the chair for balance; the angle is incredibly awkward and Myron knows they're going to have to move soon, but he can't stop.
Even here they're a study in contrasts, McKay's teasing to Myron's straightforwardness, and he thinks that with anyone else, this would be awful, but right now he wants nothing more than to drown in the heat of Johnny's hands, and the slick of his tongue.
When he shuts his eyes tight, tries to pull back, McKay worries on his bottom lip, and Myron groans in response.
McKay's eyes are dark with desire as he looks at Myron, a grin spreading from ear to ear. "Jesus Goldman, what took you so long?"
Myron merely narrows his eyes and glares, then leans in for a swift, dirty kiss. It'll have to be punishment enough.
"C'mon," he grabs a fistful of McKay's shirt and tugs him out of the chair. The kisses grow longer now as they learn each other, Johnny charting him with a surprising attention to detail, as if he's recording every jump of muscle at sure hands or last gasp of unexpected pleasure.
So intent on pushing Johnny's shirt off his broad, tanned shoulders, Myron doesn't realize that they've been moving steadily towards his bed until the end of it brushes against the backs of his knees. He pauses, sucks a kiss into the crease of neck and shoulder, and says, "So I was thinking --"
"Bed?"
Myron pulls back and beams. "Exactly."
He fully expects to be on his back a moment later, a hot, hard and happy McKay settled between his legs. And he wants it, desperately, because they haven't gotten the angle quite right and he might just die if McKay doesn't touch him right now. But instead, Johnny pivots round and sits on the bed, holding Myron in front of him, hands resting heavy on his hips.
"McKay, what do you think you're doing?"
"Do you trust me?"
"Absolutely not," he grits out, but Myron's conviction is mollified when Johnny licks a wet stripe up his belly. "You're still a pain in the ass," he says, unconsciously thrusting his hips forward, right into McKay's face.
"Whoa," McKay holds onto him firmly, thumbs stroking the skin at his hips, hinting at more. "Sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Myron."
He bites back a frustrated cry. "Just do something! I'm dying here."
"Okay, okay."
Johnny's fingers slide along the waistband of Myron's fatigues, skipping now and again, flirting with the over-sensitized skin. His breath hitches every time, making McKay's smile spread ever wider. Myron rests one hand on Johnny's shoulder for balance and lets him continue. The button pops next and McKay draws down the zipper slow and easy, and with its descent, Myron breaths a sigh of long relief; free from constriction at last.
He doesn't know exactly what McKay would do at this point, but McKay suffers from no indecision. He licks one broad stripe up Myron's cock, circles the head while Myron watches, transfixed.
"Dreamt about this," Johnny says, taking hold of Myron's erection with one hand, stroke firm and just what Myron needs. His hand clenches at McKay's shoulder, nails biting in, and McKay laughs before taking Myron into his mouth.
"Johnny, you gotta stop --" He pulls back leaving McKay with a self-satisfied smile.
"Admit it, you liked it."
"Of course I liked it! But," he says, taking advantage of McKay's distraction by pushing him back onto the bed, "you're not the only one that's had thoughts."
If possible, McKay's smirk becomes even wider. He leans back on his arms and spreads his legs. "Bring it on," he challenges, beckoning Myron with a crooked finger.
"Pain in the ass." Shaking his head, Myron starts to take off his pants, but McKay tells him to stop.
"Keep 'em on, but get over here."
He does what Johnny says, crawls up his bed till Myron's straddled over McKay dropping scattered, frantic kisses across his heaving chest. He manages to open McKay's fatigues and grasps him with one hand, teasing with slow strokes.
"Oh, that's it," McKay grits out.
The next thing Myron knows, he's on his back with Johnny bearing down on him, pants at their knees, their hips grinding together, the pressure unbelievably good. He closes his eyes and lets his body go, his body arching up to meet Johnny's at every thrust, like they're actually fucking and --
"Oh god."
He comes with a high arch of his back, fists clutching at thin air, McKay's face buried in his shoulder. McKay comes a moment later with a full body shudder and then collapses on top of him like a dead weight.
A moment later McKay rolls off. "Move over," he gripes, knocking Myron with his elbow.
"It's my bed."
"It's should be the least you could do after I showed you a good time. People might start to think I'm easy."
"You are."
"Are you always this cranky after getting laid?"
"I hate you."
McKay lets out a short, amused grunt.
"What?"
"Just thinking how good it'd be if you actually liked me.
- end -
For additional show info, see Notes From the Underground or epguides.com. All pictures linked above are from Notes.
Fandom: Tour of Duty
Author: zeplum
Pairing: Goldman/McKay
Rating: Adult
Dedication: All for brooklinegirl, my ToD godmother.
Note: Set at some point after "Doc Hoc".
Back in the world, Myron had always liked the quiet, nice girls. Other guys might've thought they were boring, but Myron learned at a rather young, impressionable age with Susie Watson that nice didn't always translate to innocent, a kernel of knowledge he came to value as he matured.
But something had changed when he arrived in country -- well, to be honest, everything had changed -- but suddenly Myron found himself attracted to woman that weren't passive dolls to smile and be handled with care. He's grown to like the challenge of a woman that speaks her mind; how the tension that churns in his gut, and the way his heart races. He had some of the best sex of his life with Alex, and it wasn't due to any particular skill she possessed. Uncharitable to say, perhaps, but true.
That still didn't explain McKay. To be quite honest, nothing explained McKay. Myron had assumed the flyboy to have the privilege and education to go along with his smooth words and easy charm, but McKay's appeal is natural and all are powerless to resist. Even, much to his consternation, Myron himself.
He's been walking around edgy all day, though he thought he'd covered pretty well until Anderson drew him aside, laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder and gave him one of those looks. If he'd been Purcell or Roo, it would've been followed by a discreetly muffled, "What the hell's with you, boy?"
How could he tell his sergeant that sharing quarters with McKay was up there with the worst kind of hell he'd enjoyed during the war? How could he explain to Zeke that sometimes when McKay looked at him, Myron's blood boiled and his breathing got short, and that half the time he was tetchy just to cover up the overwhelming desire to back McKay against the nearest flat surface and kiss the hell out of him.
Then there were times like this, when Myron's swallowed more than his share of bullshit for the day, that the idea of waving the red flag in front of a very big bull sounds like a brilliant mission objective. Back from a three day mission that yielded nothing more than exhaustion and grime, Myron returns from the showers before McKay (hedonist to Goldman's utilitarian - the real reason for smoking in the shower), and pulls on a pair of old fatiuge trousers, a pair from his first days at Ladybird. Forgoing a shirt, he stretches out on his bed, closes his eyes, and waits patiently for McKay to return.
He doesn't have to wait long to hear McKay's boots tromping up the stairs, or the creak of the door as it opens. McKay takes two steps into the hooch and stops dead, letting the screen door slap close behind him.
He's laid out like a gift ready for the taking, and Myron can almost feel Johnny's eyes burning over his flesh, hotter than any subtropical sun. He tries hard not to smirk -- gotcha!, he thinks.
"Come off it, Goldman," McKay tells him, settling into his chair, the one more at home in McKay's off-base bachelor pad than the OD green hooch. "I can tell when you're sleeping."
The corner's of Myron's mouth quirk up and he decides to give up, and rolls over onto his side. "And how do you know that?"
McKay looks at him from over the top of his magazine. "You drool more."
Myron laughs at that and almost forgets that he's trying to torture McKay. "Okay," he says, sitting up. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, blowing it out with practiced precision. Out of one sleepy eye, he watches McKay watch him. "You've spent a lot of time watching me sleep then?"
He's answered with a smug smile from McKay over the top of the skin magazine. "Actually, when I moved in, Anderson told me I should always keep my boots and poncho handy in case of a flood."
"Funny."
"I thought so."
"Dammit McKay," he sighs. Myron starts clenching his fists in frustration. "Is everything a joke to you?"
Myron rolls off his bed and stands before McKay, hands at hips, staring him down like he's just another grunt. They've been through this conversation countless times before, and countless times before Myron's never gotten a satisfactory answer out of his friend -- or at least one that satisfied him for very long. Tonight, maybe things will be different.
McKay looks up at Goldman, eyes all feigned innocence, and folds down the magazine. "You know that's not true."
"Do I? Because sometimes I wonder, Johnny." Myron braces his weight on the arms of the chair, leans over McKay, well into his personal space. Myron can feel the heat coming off his body, the faint smell of shaving cream; so strong, so very male, and it with it, Myron's breath skips.
"You're serious when you look at me." Myron doesn't let his voice go much above a whisper.
And holding Johnny's gaze then is one of the hardest things he's ever done, because there's that line there, that line they're both about to cross, damn the consequences. It makes Myron quirk a smile, because if anyone is better at damming the consequences and living to tell the tale, it's the two of them.
So, comparatively, meeting Johnny's lips with his own isn't very hard after all the things he's been through. It's easy, and nervous, because for a moment, McKay isn't kissing back, but then he is and Myron quickly ascertains that this is going to a battle of wills all the way.
Johnny makes the next move when he flicks his tongue over Myron's lips, ever so lightly. The sensation is spectacular, and he can't but help to open his mouth for more. He tries to settle in, resting a knee between Johnny's widespread thighs, grasping the back of the chair for balance; the angle is incredibly awkward and Myron knows they're going to have to move soon, but he can't stop.
Even here they're a study in contrasts, McKay's teasing to Myron's straightforwardness, and he thinks that with anyone else, this would be awful, but right now he wants nothing more than to drown in the heat of Johnny's hands, and the slick of his tongue.
When he shuts his eyes tight, tries to pull back, McKay worries on his bottom lip, and Myron groans in response.
McKay's eyes are dark with desire as he looks at Myron, a grin spreading from ear to ear. "Jesus Goldman, what took you so long?"
Myron merely narrows his eyes and glares, then leans in for a swift, dirty kiss. It'll have to be punishment enough.
"C'mon," he grabs a fistful of McKay's shirt and tugs him out of the chair. The kisses grow longer now as they learn each other, Johnny charting him with a surprising attention to detail, as if he's recording every jump of muscle at sure hands or last gasp of unexpected pleasure.
So intent on pushing Johnny's shirt off his broad, tanned shoulders, Myron doesn't realize that they've been moving steadily towards his bed until the end of it brushes against the backs of his knees. He pauses, sucks a kiss into the crease of neck and shoulder, and says, "So I was thinking --"
"Bed?"
Myron pulls back and beams. "Exactly."
He fully expects to be on his back a moment later, a hot, hard and happy McKay settled between his legs. And he wants it, desperately, because they haven't gotten the angle quite right and he might just die if McKay doesn't touch him right now. But instead, Johnny pivots round and sits on the bed, holding Myron in front of him, hands resting heavy on his hips.
"McKay, what do you think you're doing?"
"Do you trust me?"
"Absolutely not," he grits out, but Myron's conviction is mollified when Johnny licks a wet stripe up his belly. "You're still a pain in the ass," he says, unconsciously thrusting his hips forward, right into McKay's face.
"Whoa," McKay holds onto him firmly, thumbs stroking the skin at his hips, hinting at more. "Sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Myron."
He bites back a frustrated cry. "Just do something! I'm dying here."
"Okay, okay."
Johnny's fingers slide along the waistband of Myron's fatigues, skipping now and again, flirting with the over-sensitized skin. His breath hitches every time, making McKay's smile spread ever wider. Myron rests one hand on Johnny's shoulder for balance and lets him continue. The button pops next and McKay draws down the zipper slow and easy, and with its descent, Myron breaths a sigh of long relief; free from constriction at last.
He doesn't know exactly what McKay would do at this point, but McKay suffers from no indecision. He licks one broad stripe up Myron's cock, circles the head while Myron watches, transfixed.
"Dreamt about this," Johnny says, taking hold of Myron's erection with one hand, stroke firm and just what Myron needs. His hand clenches at McKay's shoulder, nails biting in, and McKay laughs before taking Myron into his mouth.
"Johnny, you gotta stop --" He pulls back leaving McKay with a self-satisfied smile.
"Admit it, you liked it."
"Of course I liked it! But," he says, taking advantage of McKay's distraction by pushing him back onto the bed, "you're not the only one that's had thoughts."
If possible, McKay's smirk becomes even wider. He leans back on his arms and spreads his legs. "Bring it on," he challenges, beckoning Myron with a crooked finger.
"Pain in the ass." Shaking his head, Myron starts to take off his pants, but McKay tells him to stop.
"Keep 'em on, but get over here."
He does what Johnny says, crawls up his bed till Myron's straddled over McKay dropping scattered, frantic kisses across his heaving chest. He manages to open McKay's fatigues and grasps him with one hand, teasing with slow strokes.
"Oh, that's it," McKay grits out.
The next thing Myron knows, he's on his back with Johnny bearing down on him, pants at their knees, their hips grinding together, the pressure unbelievably good. He closes his eyes and lets his body go, his body arching up to meet Johnny's at every thrust, like they're actually fucking and --
"Oh god."
He comes with a high arch of his back, fists clutching at thin air, McKay's face buried in his shoulder. McKay comes a moment later with a full body shudder and then collapses on top of him like a dead weight.
A moment later McKay rolls off. "Move over," he gripes, knocking Myron with his elbow.
"It's my bed."
"It's should be the least you could do after I showed you a good time. People might start to think I'm easy."
"You are."
"Are you always this cranky after getting laid?"
"I hate you."
McKay lets out a short, amused grunt.
"What?"
"Just thinking how good it'd be if you actually liked me.
- end -
For additional show info, see Notes From the Underground or epguides.com. All pictures linked above are from Notes.