ficpost: "FlyboyFlygirl" Sam Carter/John Sheppard
Title: "FlyboyFlygirl"
Author: wisdomeagle/Ari
Fandom: Stargate 'verse
Pairing: Sam Carter/John Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough sex, casual sex, exhibitionism.
Spoilers/Timeline: AU at the beginning of 8/1.
Notes: Backup fic for skinscript in sg_rarepairings. Prompt was "Carter on top. (Non-con okay, any location okay). (ps: this is not NaNo. Nor is it cracky birthday fic, or cesty birthday fic. sadface) Crossposted here/
Disclaimer: I totally don't own them.
Summary: You know what it's like when everything goes wrong?
Wordcount: 1550
FlyboyFlygirl (Just Fucking Fly)
"So now what do we do?"
Sheppard's the one who voices what Sam (and doubtless everyone else) is thinking. McKay and Zelenka and about half Sam's scientists have vanished into laboratories to rethink and reconfigure, and Dr. Weir and General O'Neill have gone to confront the abyss of paperwork that awaits them. That leaves Sam and Daniel and assorted suddenly worthless military personnel milling around the Gateroom. An hour ago, they were leaving their homeworld, their home galaxy, possibly forever. And now they're earthbound again.
"We get out of here," Sam tells him.
Daniel looks quizzical; she touches his shoulder briefly. We'll catch up later.
"And do what?"
"I have something to show you."
They go surface-side in silence.
"It's..."
"My bike."
"Yeah, I can see that. Why?"
"Because I don't have a private plane and I need to fly."
"And again I say why?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "Things go wrong. It happens. People die, we have funerals, we contact families. It happens."
"And there's nothing you can do when it just -- doesn't work."
"Exactly. Do you know how much I wanted to go to Atlantis?"
"More than I do."
"Way more than you do. You learned about the Stargate project, what, a week ago?"
"More like a month, but --"
"This has been my life for a decade, Major Sheppard. There's nothing I love more."
"Not even flying?"
"Not even close."
"Funny, General O'Neill said something like that."
"Yeah, he can occasionally be eloquent."
"He has a way of being persuasive."
"Exactly."
"We gonna ride?"
"Yes. Right now."
A minute or two on the road, and she can't feel him anymore. His hands are around her waist and she trusts in the process, trusts in gravity and aerodynamics and wind and tar and the peaceful roar of the engine, trusts in her hips and hands and mind to swerve them along the road and into the future, away from failure and into the oblivion of flight.
Sheppard shouts something that's lost in the wind and the whir, and Sam's okay with not knowing what he thinks so long as she knows that he's here.
At a red light he tries again. "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere. That's why we're on the bike."
"I meant --"
The light turns to green and Sam takes off again. It's taken her seven years of late nights with Daniel and awkward moments with Colonel O'Neill and meditating with Teal'c to figure out how to relax, to take curves as they come and to trust the journey. It's taken her best friend dying of radiation poisoning and living with memories stolen from Jolinar and so much grief that she's almost inured to it, but Sam knows to trust the journey. She knows that they're going where they need to be going and that Atlantis will sort itself out, that she'll sort it out when disappointment fades to pure ambition.
But not yet. Now. Now there are only trees and wind and road and body heat. Now, they're going to fuck.
It's in her body before it's in her brain. It's in the bike before it's in her heart, sensation before realization. There can be more to this day than failure -- there can be hope. There's friction. There's speed. There's flight.
Sam brings them to a stop at the side of the road, and for a moment they just sit, let the traffic speed past.
"We can go faster."
Sam nods.
"Much faster."
"Faster than light," Sam says.
"You ever get used to that?"
"I hope not."
More quiet; Sheppard slips off the bike. "We should hang out. You can tell me war stories you couldn't tell any other boyfriend."
"You're hitting on me."
Shrug. "You started it."
She grins. She did. Deep breath -- she'll finish it, too.
"Why don't we finish it off?"
"Good idea."
"I've never --"
"Had sex by the side of the road?" Sheppard gestures past the shoulder into the overgrown weeds, the small copse that separates the highway from mundane life.
"Never."
"But you want to?"
"I thought I'd give it a whirl."
"With me?"
"You're here."
"Oh, I'm flattered."
"Look, Major Sheppard. I don't know you. I don't -- I don't have a private life. I have my team. I have my work. I have the Stargate. And now --"
"I'm here."
"We're here."
"And you want to have sex with me. You want to use me for sex, don't you?"
"I -- yes. Okay, I want to use you for sex. That's fair."
"More unfair. Do I get a say in it?"
"No."
"No?"
This afternoon desire is infinite, the color of the sky, the steady lure of the abyss. Sheppard is the only person she knows who doesn't want to lose himself through the Stargate, who hasn't ascended to heaven or seen the far side of hell. It's refreshing and she wants him.
That he can still smirk and shrug and slouch, that he can look at her in the eye and wait, that his life isn't ruined by a failed mission, that he's patient, makes her as liquid as he is, leaning against a tree. The road noise dims as her heart beat speeds up; she's going to have public sex with a man she barely knows. It makes her breath come shakily, it makes her -- it's exciting. Exciting like a new planet was, in the beginning, like -- like Jack was, the first time she knew. Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Infinitely possible.
She kisses him with more strength than she meant to, pressing his back into the tree and forcing his mouth open for her tongue. Like being pushed through the Stargate, like diving into the ocean, it's all over in one plunge, strangers become lovers, distance become proximity, her tongue in his mouth and her teeth on his lips, her fingers sneaking up his shirt, searching for skin.
Someone honks at them and Sheppard makes a half-hearted attempt to push her away, but all she hears in that horn is congratulation, appreciation, that she's a good-looking woman claiming a pretty man, and they are only what the world sees, no secrets and no hiding, no subtext and no hinting, only woman, man, tree, and this breathless kiss, this groping.
He breaks the kiss, says, "You're a complicated person," and she pulls him back in, kissing harder, tighter, fiercer, letting her fingernails nick his hips, letting her left leg press against his thigh, lifting her knee so that she's teasing his groin. There can be no mistake. This isn't complex. There won't be any complications.
There is no difficulty in getting them prone, in pushing them down a gentle slope so they're less exposed (but still exposed enough, still daring), in shrugging herself out of a leather jacket and in lifting Sheppard's tee over his head, pressing her mouth to a nipple, biting softly.
"Hey. That actually is too rough." Shepperd jerks a little, but doesn't roll away. Sam's hands find his belt, his fly, and Sam's undressing him, tossing the clothes away, finding spots on his skin to lick, finding places on his flesh that she can grasp, hips, thighs. Her right hand reaches between his legs and discovers that he's half-hard.
He pushes himself up, uses his superior bulk to roll them both. He hovers over her, push-up position, and there's a leer on his face. She lets him leer, lifts both legs around his waist, pulls herself up so her groin brushes against his, then flips them both over again, pressing closer this time, pubes to pubes.
"Do you -- you do have a condom, right?"
"Somewhere," she says, and she finds the jeans she kicked aside, extracts a wallet, finds the package.
"So you do this a lot?"
"Sometimes."
"Really?"
"No."
"It's the Gate travel, right? It addles your brain?"
"Yes." She rolls the condom onto him.
"So this could happen to me?"
"Worse."
"Worse?"
"You might stay sane."
"That's worse?"
"You know when you first start to fly?"
He tries to nod, but she's pinned his neck to the ground. It's in his eyes, though. No one can hide it.
"And then planes crash?"
Another sparkle of understanding, a twist of his lips that says yes.
"And teammates die?"
He gulps under her hand and she kisses him, then, and dips her waist to tease his dick.
"And all you want to do is go higher, escape the fire?"
She doesn't let him answer, doesn't let him breathe, slides around him in one thrust that makes him gasp against her mouth. She pumps as roughly as she knows how -- right now, she doesn't care if they're visible from the highway or not, doesn't care if they're visible from space, if the Asgard are watching, if Pegasus will always be just one lightyear too far. She fucks it all away in the grind of groin to groin. Sheppard's back arches when he comes, and he goes limp beneath her, and she rubs herself, frantically, to some conclusion, orgasm but not resolution, nothing like --
"So." He's up on one elbow, watching her. "What do we do now?"
She gestures toward her bike. "What else? We fly."
Author: wisdomeagle/Ari
Fandom: Stargate 'verse
Pairing: Sam Carter/John Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough sex, casual sex, exhibitionism.
Spoilers/Timeline: AU at the beginning of 8/1.
Notes: Backup fic for skinscript in sg_rarepairings. Prompt was "Carter on top. (Non-con okay, any location okay). (ps: this is not NaNo. Nor is it cracky birthday fic, or cesty birthday fic. sadface) Crossposted here/
Disclaimer: I totally don't own them.
Summary: You know what it's like when everything goes wrong?
Wordcount: 1550
FlyboyFlygirl (Just Fucking Fly)
"So now what do we do?"
Sheppard's the one who voices what Sam (and doubtless everyone else) is thinking. McKay and Zelenka and about half Sam's scientists have vanished into laboratories to rethink and reconfigure, and Dr. Weir and General O'Neill have gone to confront the abyss of paperwork that awaits them. That leaves Sam and Daniel and assorted suddenly worthless military personnel milling around the Gateroom. An hour ago, they were leaving their homeworld, their home galaxy, possibly forever. And now they're earthbound again.
"We get out of here," Sam tells him.
Daniel looks quizzical; she touches his shoulder briefly. We'll catch up later.
"And do what?"
"I have something to show you."
They go surface-side in silence.
"It's..."
"My bike."
"Yeah, I can see that. Why?"
"Because I don't have a private plane and I need to fly."
"And again I say why?"
Sam takes a deep breath. "Things go wrong. It happens. People die, we have funerals, we contact families. It happens."
"And there's nothing you can do when it just -- doesn't work."
"Exactly. Do you know how much I wanted to go to Atlantis?"
"More than I do."
"Way more than you do. You learned about the Stargate project, what, a week ago?"
"More like a month, but --"
"This has been my life for a decade, Major Sheppard. There's nothing I love more."
"Not even flying?"
"Not even close."
"Funny, General O'Neill said something like that."
"Yeah, he can occasionally be eloquent."
"He has a way of being persuasive."
"Exactly."
"We gonna ride?"
"Yes. Right now."
A minute or two on the road, and she can't feel him anymore. His hands are around her waist and she trusts in the process, trusts in gravity and aerodynamics and wind and tar and the peaceful roar of the engine, trusts in her hips and hands and mind to swerve them along the road and into the future, away from failure and into the oblivion of flight.
Sheppard shouts something that's lost in the wind and the whir, and Sam's okay with not knowing what he thinks so long as she knows that he's here.
At a red light he tries again. "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere. That's why we're on the bike."
"I meant --"
The light turns to green and Sam takes off again. It's taken her seven years of late nights with Daniel and awkward moments with Colonel O'Neill and meditating with Teal'c to figure out how to relax, to take curves as they come and to trust the journey. It's taken her best friend dying of radiation poisoning and living with memories stolen from Jolinar and so much grief that she's almost inured to it, but Sam knows to trust the journey. She knows that they're going where they need to be going and that Atlantis will sort itself out, that she'll sort it out when disappointment fades to pure ambition.
But not yet. Now. Now there are only trees and wind and road and body heat. Now, they're going to fuck.
It's in her body before it's in her brain. It's in the bike before it's in her heart, sensation before realization. There can be more to this day than failure -- there can be hope. There's friction. There's speed. There's flight.
Sam brings them to a stop at the side of the road, and for a moment they just sit, let the traffic speed past.
"We can go faster."
Sam nods.
"Much faster."
"Faster than light," Sam says.
"You ever get used to that?"
"I hope not."
More quiet; Sheppard slips off the bike. "We should hang out. You can tell me war stories you couldn't tell any other boyfriend."
"You're hitting on me."
Shrug. "You started it."
She grins. She did. Deep breath -- she'll finish it, too.
"Why don't we finish it off?"
"Good idea."
"I've never --"
"Had sex by the side of the road?" Sheppard gestures past the shoulder into the overgrown weeds, the small copse that separates the highway from mundane life.
"Never."
"But you want to?"
"I thought I'd give it a whirl."
"With me?"
"You're here."
"Oh, I'm flattered."
"Look, Major Sheppard. I don't know you. I don't -- I don't have a private life. I have my team. I have my work. I have the Stargate. And now --"
"I'm here."
"We're here."
"And you want to have sex with me. You want to use me for sex, don't you?"
"I -- yes. Okay, I want to use you for sex. That's fair."
"More unfair. Do I get a say in it?"
"No."
"No?"
This afternoon desire is infinite, the color of the sky, the steady lure of the abyss. Sheppard is the only person she knows who doesn't want to lose himself through the Stargate, who hasn't ascended to heaven or seen the far side of hell. It's refreshing and she wants him.
That he can still smirk and shrug and slouch, that he can look at her in the eye and wait, that his life isn't ruined by a failed mission, that he's patient, makes her as liquid as he is, leaning against a tree. The road noise dims as her heart beat speeds up; she's going to have public sex with a man she barely knows. It makes her breath come shakily, it makes her -- it's exciting. Exciting like a new planet was, in the beginning, like -- like Jack was, the first time she knew. Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Infinitely possible.
She kisses him with more strength than she meant to, pressing his back into the tree and forcing his mouth open for her tongue. Like being pushed through the Stargate, like diving into the ocean, it's all over in one plunge, strangers become lovers, distance become proximity, her tongue in his mouth and her teeth on his lips, her fingers sneaking up his shirt, searching for skin.
Someone honks at them and Sheppard makes a half-hearted attempt to push her away, but all she hears in that horn is congratulation, appreciation, that she's a good-looking woman claiming a pretty man, and they are only what the world sees, no secrets and no hiding, no subtext and no hinting, only woman, man, tree, and this breathless kiss, this groping.
He breaks the kiss, says, "You're a complicated person," and she pulls him back in, kissing harder, tighter, fiercer, letting her fingernails nick his hips, letting her left leg press against his thigh, lifting her knee so that she's teasing his groin. There can be no mistake. This isn't complex. There won't be any complications.
There is no difficulty in getting them prone, in pushing them down a gentle slope so they're less exposed (but still exposed enough, still daring), in shrugging herself out of a leather jacket and in lifting Sheppard's tee over his head, pressing her mouth to a nipple, biting softly.
"Hey. That actually is too rough." Shepperd jerks a little, but doesn't roll away. Sam's hands find his belt, his fly, and Sam's undressing him, tossing the clothes away, finding spots on his skin to lick, finding places on his flesh that she can grasp, hips, thighs. Her right hand reaches between his legs and discovers that he's half-hard.
He pushes himself up, uses his superior bulk to roll them both. He hovers over her, push-up position, and there's a leer on his face. She lets him leer, lifts both legs around his waist, pulls herself up so her groin brushes against his, then flips them both over again, pressing closer this time, pubes to pubes.
"Do you -- you do have a condom, right?"
"Somewhere," she says, and she finds the jeans she kicked aside, extracts a wallet, finds the package.
"So you do this a lot?"
"Sometimes."
"Really?"
"No."
"It's the Gate travel, right? It addles your brain?"
"Yes." She rolls the condom onto him.
"So this could happen to me?"
"Worse."
"Worse?"
"You might stay sane."
"That's worse?"
"You know when you first start to fly?"
He tries to nod, but she's pinned his neck to the ground. It's in his eyes, though. No one can hide it.
"And then planes crash?"
Another sparkle of understanding, a twist of his lips that says yes.
"And teammates die?"
He gulps under her hand and she kisses him, then, and dips her waist to tease his dick.
"And all you want to do is go higher, escape the fire?"
She doesn't let him answer, doesn't let him breathe, slides around him in one thrust that makes him gasp against her mouth. She pumps as roughly as she knows how -- right now, she doesn't care if they're visible from the highway or not, doesn't care if they're visible from space, if the Asgard are watching, if Pegasus will always be just one lightyear too far. She fucks it all away in the grind of groin to groin. Sheppard's back arches when he comes, and he goes limp beneath her, and she rubs herself, frantically, to some conclusion, orgasm but not resolution, nothing like --
"So." He's up on one elbow, watching her. "What do we do now?"
She gestures toward her bike. "What else? We fly."