Fic: Fly Boys, Part 1 (John/Cameron) NC17
Title: Fly Boys
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Timeline: During Pegasus Project
Written for justhuman who was all, "Flyboys -- Cameron/Shep *guh!*"
Summary: Unbetaed pr0n, folks, that's it.
*
John and Mitchell are in the armory when Elizabeth radios to give a progress report on the repairs on the Odyssey.
"Yeah, he's with me," John says when she asks after Mitchell, his voice carefully controlled even though he and Mitchell are on their sides on the floor, pants down around their thighs, cocks rubbing together.
There are some things you don't forget, no matter how long it's been, and John will always be able to keep his voice steady while he's pulling Gs, while there's a craft around him vibrating enough to set his teeth chattering. He's not flying right now, no, but sometimes fucking is like flying, and this is one of those times.
"I'm showing him around a bit," John adds and shoves Mitchell's hands between their bodies, eyes rolling back in his head when the other man wraps a hand around both of them and starts stripping them.
Mitchell leans forward, sweat sliding down his temple, and puts his mouth right near the mouthpiece of John's radio. "Lovely place you folks have here, Dr. Weir," he says just as he drags the tip of his thumb over the head of John's cock.
John's hips slam forward and he almost bites down on his goddamn tongue when he clenches his jaw to keep himself from making a sound. "I'll have him back before the repairs are done," John says to Elizabeth when he can breathe again. "Sheppard out."
He keys his radio off and curls one of his legs over Mitchell's calf, pulling him closer. "Bastard," he hisses, and Mitchell laughs at him.
"Those Jumpers are making you soft. You're out of practice," Mitchell says, and, yeah, John is completely out of practice. It's been before Atlantis, before Antarctica, since he's fucked like he's flying, and there have only been a couple of times when he's flown like he's fucking.
"Screw you," John snarls and shoves Mitchell over on his back, pinning him down and setting himself on Mitchell's thighs, their dicks still pressed together in Mitchell's hand. "Keep going," he rasps when Mitchell stops jerking them off, and then groans and arches his back when he starts up again.
"I can get this whenever I want."
John forces his eyes open, looks down at the dark gleam in Mitchell's eyes. Yeah, Mitchell probably has it a fuck of a lot easier than John does. Lot more chances to fly something without inertial dampeners, more access to fly boys who get it just like John and Mitchell are getting it now, giving it now. John, on the other hand, has only one other fly boy on Atlantis, which doesn't even matter because he can't fucking go there, ever, on account of being the CO of the entire goddamn base.
"Go for it, Sheppard," Mitchell tells him, and John narrows his eyes, not sure what he means, but then Mitchell spreads his legs, uses his free hand to tug John down, and John gets it, he so fucking gets it.
They were on their sides because it's a neutral position, no one on top or bottom, no one's hackles getting raised, and if this wasn't an exception to the rule then Mitchell would have sat up, shoved John back and down, and gone to town until John reversed the position or they ended up on their sides again.
But Mitchell can get this anytime, and John can't, and he appreciates what Mitchell's giving him right now, letting him have, and he shifts so that he's cradled between Mitchell's thick strong thighs and he braces his hands on he floor on either side of Mitchell's head, and he thrusts.
Shoves and pushes and slides and rocks against the soft skin by Mitchell's hip, sometimes brushing against Mitchell's cock, sometimes not, and Mitchell is like an X302 under him--enough inertial dampening to not crack John's molars, but too little to take away all of the kick of speed and velocity and motion that makes John's dick throb and his balls ache and his throat beg to have something in it.
John fucks against Mitchell, hard and fast, and he doesn't know or care about Mitchell getting off, except that every time Mitchell grunts and gasps it scrapes along John's skin, makes his teeth hurt like the enamel's worn down and the nerves are exposed, and it makes it that much better.
Considering how long it's been, it's no surprise that John comes first, colored spots dancing behind closed lids, a pain-filled sound fighting its way past his clenched teeth.
"Christ," Mitchell groans and John feels him tense but is too come-hazy to realize what it means. The next thing he knows, Mitchell is lunging up, ready to pin John to the floor, and John only just manages to slide to the side. Mitchell glares at him with glittering eyes, but John just grins at him and pushes him back down.
"Relax," John drawls and swoops down, takes Mitchell's cock in his mouth, wet and sloppy and dirty, and Mitchell growls low in his throat and starts shoving his dick down John's throat and John doesn't even fucking care that he's choking, that his eyes are watering, because it's so fucking good, so goddamn much, with the way Mitchell's vibrating under him, thrusting into him, stealing his air so that he might as well be at an all-time-high altitude, air too thin and too little.
It's one of the many things John had to give up to be here and maybe it's not what he misses the most, or even most often, but he does miss it and he has no idea when he'll get it again, so he relishes every second of it: Mitchell's dick heavy and weighted on his tongue, stretching his lips, bruising the back of his throat, and finally--when John relaxes, opens--sliding so far back that John's nose presses against his pubes.
Mitchell comes then, making this noise like he's the one choking, and John desperately sucks air in through his nose, swallows so that he doesn't suffocate, and finally pulls off with the bitter salt taste of Mitchell's dick sliding along his tongue.
They get themselves together in record time--it's part of the thrill and John would get hard again from the additional adrenaline rush except that walking around with a hard on would be bad form. He thinks of Wraith and wills his dick to stand the hell down. Mitchell leans lazily against the wall, next to a crate of P90s, and John sweeps a hand along the side of the other man's head, resettling hair that was unsettled when Mitchell was writhing underneath him.
"Thanks," John says when they're put back to rights and about to leave.
"Anytime," Mitchell says and grins at him. "I mean that. Next time you're back on earth, come find me. I'll give you a tour of the SGC."
"Yeah, okay," John says, and keys open the armory door.
*
.End
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Timeline: During Pegasus Project
Written for justhuman who was all, "Flyboys -- Cameron/Shep *guh!*"
Summary: Unbetaed pr0n, folks, that's it.
*
John and Mitchell are in the armory when Elizabeth radios to give a progress report on the repairs on the Odyssey.
"Yeah, he's with me," John says when she asks after Mitchell, his voice carefully controlled even though he and Mitchell are on their sides on the floor, pants down around their thighs, cocks rubbing together.
There are some things you don't forget, no matter how long it's been, and John will always be able to keep his voice steady while he's pulling Gs, while there's a craft around him vibrating enough to set his teeth chattering. He's not flying right now, no, but sometimes fucking is like flying, and this is one of those times.
"I'm showing him around a bit," John adds and shoves Mitchell's hands between their bodies, eyes rolling back in his head when the other man wraps a hand around both of them and starts stripping them.
Mitchell leans forward, sweat sliding down his temple, and puts his mouth right near the mouthpiece of John's radio. "Lovely place you folks have here, Dr. Weir," he says just as he drags the tip of his thumb over the head of John's cock.
John's hips slam forward and he almost bites down on his goddamn tongue when he clenches his jaw to keep himself from making a sound. "I'll have him back before the repairs are done," John says to Elizabeth when he can breathe again. "Sheppard out."
He keys his radio off and curls one of his legs over Mitchell's calf, pulling him closer. "Bastard," he hisses, and Mitchell laughs at him.
"Those Jumpers are making you soft. You're out of practice," Mitchell says, and, yeah, John is completely out of practice. It's been before Atlantis, before Antarctica, since he's fucked like he's flying, and there have only been a couple of times when he's flown like he's fucking.
"Screw you," John snarls and shoves Mitchell over on his back, pinning him down and setting himself on Mitchell's thighs, their dicks still pressed together in Mitchell's hand. "Keep going," he rasps when Mitchell stops jerking them off, and then groans and arches his back when he starts up again.
"I can get this whenever I want."
John forces his eyes open, looks down at the dark gleam in Mitchell's eyes. Yeah, Mitchell probably has it a fuck of a lot easier than John does. Lot more chances to fly something without inertial dampeners, more access to fly boys who get it just like John and Mitchell are getting it now, giving it now. John, on the other hand, has only one other fly boy on Atlantis, which doesn't even matter because he can't fucking go there, ever, on account of being the CO of the entire goddamn base.
"Go for it, Sheppard," Mitchell tells him, and John narrows his eyes, not sure what he means, but then Mitchell spreads his legs, uses his free hand to tug John down, and John gets it, he so fucking gets it.
They were on their sides because it's a neutral position, no one on top or bottom, no one's hackles getting raised, and if this wasn't an exception to the rule then Mitchell would have sat up, shoved John back and down, and gone to town until John reversed the position or they ended up on their sides again.
But Mitchell can get this anytime, and John can't, and he appreciates what Mitchell's giving him right now, letting him have, and he shifts so that he's cradled between Mitchell's thick strong thighs and he braces his hands on he floor on either side of Mitchell's head, and he thrusts.
Shoves and pushes and slides and rocks against the soft skin by Mitchell's hip, sometimes brushing against Mitchell's cock, sometimes not, and Mitchell is like an X302 under him--enough inertial dampening to not crack John's molars, but too little to take away all of the kick of speed and velocity and motion that makes John's dick throb and his balls ache and his throat beg to have something in it.
John fucks against Mitchell, hard and fast, and he doesn't know or care about Mitchell getting off, except that every time Mitchell grunts and gasps it scrapes along John's skin, makes his teeth hurt like the enamel's worn down and the nerves are exposed, and it makes it that much better.
Considering how long it's been, it's no surprise that John comes first, colored spots dancing behind closed lids, a pain-filled sound fighting its way past his clenched teeth.
"Christ," Mitchell groans and John feels him tense but is too come-hazy to realize what it means. The next thing he knows, Mitchell is lunging up, ready to pin John to the floor, and John only just manages to slide to the side. Mitchell glares at him with glittering eyes, but John just grins at him and pushes him back down.
"Relax," John drawls and swoops down, takes Mitchell's cock in his mouth, wet and sloppy and dirty, and Mitchell growls low in his throat and starts shoving his dick down John's throat and John doesn't even fucking care that he's choking, that his eyes are watering, because it's so fucking good, so goddamn much, with the way Mitchell's vibrating under him, thrusting into him, stealing his air so that he might as well be at an all-time-high altitude, air too thin and too little.
It's one of the many things John had to give up to be here and maybe it's not what he misses the most, or even most often, but he does miss it and he has no idea when he'll get it again, so he relishes every second of it: Mitchell's dick heavy and weighted on his tongue, stretching his lips, bruising the back of his throat, and finally--when John relaxes, opens--sliding so far back that John's nose presses against his pubes.
Mitchell comes then, making this noise like he's the one choking, and John desperately sucks air in through his nose, swallows so that he doesn't suffocate, and finally pulls off with the bitter salt taste of Mitchell's dick sliding along his tongue.
They get themselves together in record time--it's part of the thrill and John would get hard again from the additional adrenaline rush except that walking around with a hard on would be bad form. He thinks of Wraith and wills his dick to stand the hell down. Mitchell leans lazily against the wall, next to a crate of P90s, and John sweeps a hand along the side of the other man's head, resettling hair that was unsettled when Mitchell was writhing underneath him.
"Thanks," John says when they're put back to rights and about to leave.
"Anytime," Mitchell says and grins at him. "I mean that. Next time you're back on earth, come find me. I'll give you a tour of the SGC."
"Yeah, okay," John says, and keys open the armory door.
*
.End