Smutlet: The Sea It Swells
Links of the day:
1. siriaeve explains the glory of the Shirt Removal of Rage with caps of Joe Flanigan in Family Album.
2. niannah linked to this really great essay on Male Bisexuality.
Also, because I tortured my flist with an annoying poll earlier, and because I felt like it, here is some porn. It's an outtake from a story I'm working on (Don't look at me like that, wychwood!) and in it, John and Rodney are 18 and 16, respectively. Unless that bothers you, in which case you can just tell yourself that they're just kind of immature for their ages. (Not far from the truth.)
So. Insta-porn:
Title: The Sea It Swells
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney (weird, so weird to call them Sheppard & McKay if they're teenagers)
Length: ~1000 words
Summary: AU PWP. I need you with me on this, Rodney.
The Sea It Swells
“What can I do,” John says, standing barefoot in the surf, the ocean crusting salty over the cuffs of his ratty jeans, “what can I do to make you trust me in this?”
Rodney shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He has no fucking clue.
He watches, silently, as John folds up his sunglasses and puts them in his pocket.
“I need you with me on this, Rodney,” John says, hand reaching out, fingers ghosting over Rodney’s wrist, curling into his hand. He pulls him closer, into the water. “Are you with me?”
My feet are cold, Rodney thinks, but John squeezes, jerks Rodney’s eyes up to his. Jerks his mouth; and oh, Rodney thinks, as John’s lips, warm and chapped, close over his own: Oh, this. You can do this. There’s always this.
“You’re with me, Rodney, aren’t you?” John says, and Rodney nods, staring at John’s mouth. He wants more. He wants so much more of this.
His fingers scramble at John’s arm: fine hair and tight, ropy muscle. John blinks at him for a moment, possibly as surprised as Judas would have been, if his kiss in Gethsemane had been met with an open mouth, with lips and tongue and teeth. “Are...” Rodney says. “You want me with you?”
John sucks in a breath. Then he says, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” and bends, kissing Rodney again, sweeping his tongue inside his mouth. Rodney grips John’s shoulders and holds on.
“Yeah, c’mon,” John says, and pulls Rodney toward the house.
It’s not John’s house. It belongs to a nice old German lady, a friend of John’s aunt, and he’s being paid to house-sit: the perfect job for the naturally lazy. John’s anything but lazy now, though, pulling Rodney into the bedroom, tugging off his shirt and his sea-damp jeans. Turning Rodney around, pressing him back onto the nice little German lady’s crisp white sheets. Sliding his hand up under Rodney’s shirt, then sweeping those clever fingers down his chest, popping each button on his fly, deft movements of a delicate thumb.
Rodney almost doesn’t care about that. He just wants John’s mouth, his mouth: warm and wet and eager for him. The scrape of John’s stubble against his cheeks and he never thought...he never once imagined it would be like this.
“I always wondered,” John says, touching Rodney’s cock-God, Rodney can look down his body and see John touching his cock-“I always wondered if you’d want this. I thought you might. I thought I might-”
He cuts himself off with a pant as his own cock slides into place next to Rodney’s. He’s touching them both, guiding them as Rodney’s own hands slide slickly over John’s shoulders. “C’mon,” John says, kneeling over Rodney, looming; and he reaches up, moves one of Rodney’s hands down so that he’s there, too; so that he can feel it, too: feel the hot splash of John’s come on his hand and chest; and himself, coming, as John shudders against him, as he holds him tight.
“Oh, you’re with me on this,” John says, laughing and wheezing at once. “You’re so with me.”
*
He wakes in the middle of the night wrapped in a stranger’s sheets with John pressed against his back and John’s hand, under the covers, intently working his cock.
“Oh,” Rodney says, and “Urr...” as he throws his head back against John’s shoulder and comes.
John licks at his neck. “I wanna fuck you,” he says. “Can I fuck you?”
The question’s kind of rhetorical.
The hand lotion John pulls out of the bedside table smells like honey and lavender and Rodney tries hard not to think about who it belongs to or why John knows it’s there (although on second thought, that last bit’s not a bad image at all, at all). John moves against him, hugging one arm across Rodney’s chest. He slides the other hand down, between his ass cheeks: slick fingers making slow, exploratory gestures, circling in. Rodney jerks back against John’s hand, involuntarily; “You’ve done this before?” he asks.
“I’ve done lots of stuff,” John says.
And Rodney supposes that’s true, although in all the times John’s pulled him out of bed in the middle of the night, spiriting him away to some exciting and exotic destination, he’s never once stopped to think of all the nights he’s slept straight through, dusk to dawn: and John, off somewhere, on his own.
Rodney feels the first push of a probing finger and he tries to breathe easily, slow and deep against John’s other hand, the hand brushing slow circles across Rodney’s chest. “God, you’re so tight,” John says. “You’re so-” And Rodney’s smart enough to hear the unspoken Mine.
But he wants that. He wants this. He wants John in him and around him; wants John to want him and to need him. Are you with me on this? I need you to be with me on this. And he is-oh, oh: even when it hurts, he is.
“You’re gonna like this, Rodney,” John says, working another finger inside, “you’re gonna like this so much, you’re never gonna, you’re never gonna want-”
And John rolls a leg up against his calf, across his thigh. Their toes tangle as John pushes into him, and Rodney’s not cold anymore, he’s burning hotstretchheat; and John’s mouth against his shoulder, and John’s fingers scorching holes hot like cigarette burns into his hip; and John in him, pushing home, pushing, pushing. Rodney makes a choked sound, not quite a sob, and gasps when he feels John press flush against him. And gasps when he hears that same sound echoed back: “Don’t ever leave me, Rodney; Rodney, don’t ever leave.”
************
And now I'm going to go have pancakes, because apparently today is Pancake Day. It's a Catholic thing. *shrugs the shrug of the religiously oblivious but well-fed*
1. siriaeve explains the glory of the Shirt Removal of Rage with caps of Joe Flanigan in Family Album.
2. niannah linked to this really great essay on Male Bisexuality.
Also, because I tortured my flist with an annoying poll earlier, and because I felt like it, here is some porn. It's an outtake from a story I'm working on (Don't look at me like that, wychwood!) and in it, John and Rodney are 18 and 16, respectively. Unless that bothers you, in which case you can just tell yourself that they're just kind of immature for their ages. (Not far from the truth.)
So. Insta-porn:
Title: The Sea It Swells
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney (weird, so weird to call them Sheppard & McKay if they're teenagers)
Length: ~1000 words
Summary: AU PWP. I need you with me on this, Rodney.
The Sea It Swells
“What can I do,” John says, standing barefoot in the surf, the ocean crusting salty over the cuffs of his ratty jeans, “what can I do to make you trust me in this?”
Rodney shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He has no fucking clue.
He watches, silently, as John folds up his sunglasses and puts them in his pocket.
“I need you with me on this, Rodney,” John says, hand reaching out, fingers ghosting over Rodney’s wrist, curling into his hand. He pulls him closer, into the water. “Are you with me?”
My feet are cold, Rodney thinks, but John squeezes, jerks Rodney’s eyes up to his. Jerks his mouth; and oh, Rodney thinks, as John’s lips, warm and chapped, close over his own: Oh, this. You can do this. There’s always this.
“You’re with me, Rodney, aren’t you?” John says, and Rodney nods, staring at John’s mouth. He wants more. He wants so much more of this.
His fingers scramble at John’s arm: fine hair and tight, ropy muscle. John blinks at him for a moment, possibly as surprised as Judas would have been, if his kiss in Gethsemane had been met with an open mouth, with lips and tongue and teeth. “Are...” Rodney says. “You want me with you?”
John sucks in a breath. Then he says, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” and bends, kissing Rodney again, sweeping his tongue inside his mouth. Rodney grips John’s shoulders and holds on.
“Yeah, c’mon,” John says, and pulls Rodney toward the house.
It’s not John’s house. It belongs to a nice old German lady, a friend of John’s aunt, and he’s being paid to house-sit: the perfect job for the naturally lazy. John’s anything but lazy now, though, pulling Rodney into the bedroom, tugging off his shirt and his sea-damp jeans. Turning Rodney around, pressing him back onto the nice little German lady’s crisp white sheets. Sliding his hand up under Rodney’s shirt, then sweeping those clever fingers down his chest, popping each button on his fly, deft movements of a delicate thumb.
Rodney almost doesn’t care about that. He just wants John’s mouth, his mouth: warm and wet and eager for him. The scrape of John’s stubble against his cheeks and he never thought...he never once imagined it would be like this.
“I always wondered,” John says, touching Rodney’s cock-God, Rodney can look down his body and see John touching his cock-“I always wondered if you’d want this. I thought you might. I thought I might-”
He cuts himself off with a pant as his own cock slides into place next to Rodney’s. He’s touching them both, guiding them as Rodney’s own hands slide slickly over John’s shoulders. “C’mon,” John says, kneeling over Rodney, looming; and he reaches up, moves one of Rodney’s hands down so that he’s there, too; so that he can feel it, too: feel the hot splash of John’s come on his hand and chest; and himself, coming, as John shudders against him, as he holds him tight.
“Oh, you’re with me on this,” John says, laughing and wheezing at once. “You’re so with me.”
*
He wakes in the middle of the night wrapped in a stranger’s sheets with John pressed against his back and John’s hand, under the covers, intently working his cock.
“Oh,” Rodney says, and “Urr...” as he throws his head back against John’s shoulder and comes.
John licks at his neck. “I wanna fuck you,” he says. “Can I fuck you?”
The question’s kind of rhetorical.
The hand lotion John pulls out of the bedside table smells like honey and lavender and Rodney tries hard not to think about who it belongs to or why John knows it’s there (although on second thought, that last bit’s not a bad image at all, at all). John moves against him, hugging one arm across Rodney’s chest. He slides the other hand down, between his ass cheeks: slick fingers making slow, exploratory gestures, circling in. Rodney jerks back against John’s hand, involuntarily; “You’ve done this before?” he asks.
“I’ve done lots of stuff,” John says.
And Rodney supposes that’s true, although in all the times John’s pulled him out of bed in the middle of the night, spiriting him away to some exciting and exotic destination, he’s never once stopped to think of all the nights he’s slept straight through, dusk to dawn: and John, off somewhere, on his own.
Rodney feels the first push of a probing finger and he tries to breathe easily, slow and deep against John’s other hand, the hand brushing slow circles across Rodney’s chest. “God, you’re so tight,” John says. “You’re so-” And Rodney’s smart enough to hear the unspoken Mine.
But he wants that. He wants this. He wants John in him and around him; wants John to want him and to need him. Are you with me on this? I need you to be with me on this. And he is-oh, oh: even when it hurts, he is.
“You’re gonna like this, Rodney,” John says, working another finger inside, “you’re gonna like this so much, you’re never gonna, you’re never gonna want-”
And John rolls a leg up against his calf, across his thigh. Their toes tangle as John pushes into him, and Rodney’s not cold anymore, he’s burning hotstretchheat; and John’s mouth against his shoulder, and John’s fingers scorching holes hot like cigarette burns into his hip; and John in him, pushing home, pushing, pushing. Rodney makes a choked sound, not quite a sob, and gasps when he feels John press flush against him. And gasps when he hears that same sound echoed back: “Don’t ever leave me, Rodney; Rodney, don’t ever leave.”
************
And now I'm going to go have pancakes, because apparently today is Pancake Day. It's a Catholic thing. *shrugs the shrug of the religiously oblivious but well-fed*