SGA fic: Downpour
Title: Downpour
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: PWP; John and Rodney, on a vacation on Earth.
Author's Note: Written for the LJ comm words_fly_up. My quote was #45: "For the rain it raineth every day."
John ran a hand through his hair. “I really don’t see why we couldn’t-”
“Because it is raining outside,” Rodney said. “Torrential downpour. Raining. It has been raining for the last three days and it’s still raining now and we are not going to go outside and get soaked and possibly electrocuted just so you can stare at the pretty waves.”
“I think ‘torrential downpour’ may be overstating it just a bit, Rodney,” John deadpanned.
Rodney wasn’t listening. “Maybe we should order room service. I’m feeling a little peaky. Do you think they serve pancakes all day long?”
John, leaning against the railing of the small balcony, laughed, and Rodney looked up, tangled in scratchy hotel blankets, and watched John watch the rain.
“Come look at the clouds,” John called back.
Rodney stumbled out of bed and walked over to stand on the balcony next to Sheppard. The rain really wasn’t that bad; it was the warm rain of a summer thunderstorm in Florida, and the clouds above looked like wisps of smoke, grey and purple, over the sea.
The balcony was slick with rain, and John’s body was wet with a mixture of errant raindrops and sweat from the humidity. Rodney said, “You idiot, you’ve got rain all over you and I think that somehow you’ve even managed to get sand in your hair,” and John smiled, leaned over, and kissed him.
Rodney brought a hand up, and wrapped it around John’s back, fingers pressing into the muscles, and they stood, kissing, until Rodney said, “Okay, yes, bedroom,” and dragged John inside, one hand fisted in John’s hair. Rodney kissed him, messily, pulling him back to the bed, pausing only to peel off John’s pajama pants before pushing him onto the bed.
Rodney stepped out of his boxers and climbed onto the bed, crawling to lay on top of John, who snickered.
“What?” Rodney asked, and John ran a hand over Rodney’s thigh before answering.
“I told you a trip to the beach would be good. Oysters are aphrodisiacs-”
“It’s not the oysters, okay?” Rodney said, and then after a short silence, when John’s eyes had seemed to grow darker and somehow sharper, he added, “It’s the cleaning lady. That big white apron and the way she handles that mop-”
John grinned, and leaned up, cutting off Rodney’s speech as he pulled Rodney’s lower lip into his mouth and sucked.
Rodney moaned, softly, and bent down, breaking away from John’s kiss and moving his lips down, tracing the curve of John’s jaw line and finally sucking on the skin just behind John’s right earlobe.
John hissed, and arched up, hard into Rodney’s thigh, and Rodney thrust back, sliding over onto his side to face John. John’s hand snaked over and wrapped around Rodney’s cock, pulling up, right.
Rodney gasped, and then pulled away, putting a hand on John’s chest to push him onto his back, and then Rodney leaned over the side of the bed and sloshed his hand through the melted mess of ice in the bucket on the floor. All of the cubes had dissolved into little half-moons, and Rodney grabbed one, rolled back over on the bed, and put it on John’s sternum, tracing a line downward to his bellybutton, and following the watery trail with his tongue.
John fisted his hands in the sheets and Rodney smiled, blowing lightly on the wet line on John’s chest, until goose bumps appeared on John’s skin and he shivered.
Grabbing another piece of ice, Rodney pressed the tip to John’s neck, outlining the muscles, and then with his left hand he reached up and held John’s right arm down as he ran the piece of ice along John’s collarbones, leaving a trail of liquid almost like paint from a brush.
John bucked a little, and Rodney let go of John’s arm and slid down, sliding the melting ice over John’s ribs, and down further to rest in the dip of skin between his abdomen and thigh, and as Rodney ran the ice down lower John actually hissed and arched off of the bed, panting, and said, “Christ, Rodney.”
Rodney popped the ice, now just a sliver, into his mouth, crawled back up John’s body, and kissed him, and the ice was gone in seconds.
John kissed him, and threw his head back, holding his breath as Rodney worked a hand between their bodies and found John’s cock, fingers ghosting over the slit and then wrapping around the base and pulling, hard and fast. Then John was moaning, low into the back of his throat, and reaching in to grab at Rodney and then stroking, matching Rodney’s tempo, faster and harder until John came, spurting all over Rodney’s hand and his own stomach. John gasped, and his hand faltered for just a second and then he leaned up, sucking Rodney’s neck and then biting, all the while pulling furiously at Rodney’s cock, and then Rodney came in a rush of sound-the sound of skin on skin, some seagull crying outside on the sand, and his own murmured “Yes... there, God, harder, there... yes...”
Rodney rolled off of John and onto his stomach on the bed, smearing semen on the sheets, watching the rise and fall of John’s chest. “So,” John said.
“You smell,” Rodney said, and it was true-John smelled of aftershave and sweat, and Coppertone, although they hadn’t used any sunblock at all; and he smelled like sex, and rain, and sand.
“And I mean that in the nicest way possible,” Rodney offered.
John smiled, and rolled his eyes. “You really suck at conversation, Rodney,” he said, and then sat up, stretching, and wiping himself with an edge of the sheet. He stood, pulled on his pajama pants, and walked back out to the balcony.
“We could go scuba diving,” he called back.
“You could go scuba diving,” Rodney corrected, rolling over and pulling on his boxers.
“I could go scuba diving, and find you the biggest conch shell you’ve ever seen,” John said.
Rodney stumbled onto the balcony and stood next to John, watching the waves hit the shore, dragging in seaweed and broken bits of seashells. Rodney leaned in close, hip to hip, and put his hand in John’s.
John looked at the ocean, all the different blues and violent greens, the foam and the surf breaking on the sandbar fifty yards out. John looked at the clouds, and smiled. “I think the weather’s lifting.”
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: PWP; John and Rodney, on a vacation on Earth.
Author's Note: Written for the LJ comm words_fly_up. My quote was #45: "For the rain it raineth every day."
John ran a hand through his hair. “I really don’t see why we couldn’t-”
“Because it is raining outside,” Rodney said. “Torrential downpour. Raining. It has been raining for the last three days and it’s still raining now and we are not going to go outside and get soaked and possibly electrocuted just so you can stare at the pretty waves.”
“I think ‘torrential downpour’ may be overstating it just a bit, Rodney,” John deadpanned.
Rodney wasn’t listening. “Maybe we should order room service. I’m feeling a little peaky. Do you think they serve pancakes all day long?”
John, leaning against the railing of the small balcony, laughed, and Rodney looked up, tangled in scratchy hotel blankets, and watched John watch the rain.
“Come look at the clouds,” John called back.
Rodney stumbled out of bed and walked over to stand on the balcony next to Sheppard. The rain really wasn’t that bad; it was the warm rain of a summer thunderstorm in Florida, and the clouds above looked like wisps of smoke, grey and purple, over the sea.
The balcony was slick with rain, and John’s body was wet with a mixture of errant raindrops and sweat from the humidity. Rodney said, “You idiot, you’ve got rain all over you and I think that somehow you’ve even managed to get sand in your hair,” and John smiled, leaned over, and kissed him.
Rodney brought a hand up, and wrapped it around John’s back, fingers pressing into the muscles, and they stood, kissing, until Rodney said, “Okay, yes, bedroom,” and dragged John inside, one hand fisted in John’s hair. Rodney kissed him, messily, pulling him back to the bed, pausing only to peel off John’s pajama pants before pushing him onto the bed.
Rodney stepped out of his boxers and climbed onto the bed, crawling to lay on top of John, who snickered.
“What?” Rodney asked, and John ran a hand over Rodney’s thigh before answering.
“I told you a trip to the beach would be good. Oysters are aphrodisiacs-”
“It’s not the oysters, okay?” Rodney said, and then after a short silence, when John’s eyes had seemed to grow darker and somehow sharper, he added, “It’s the cleaning lady. That big white apron and the way she handles that mop-”
John grinned, and leaned up, cutting off Rodney’s speech as he pulled Rodney’s lower lip into his mouth and sucked.
Rodney moaned, softly, and bent down, breaking away from John’s kiss and moving his lips down, tracing the curve of John’s jaw line and finally sucking on the skin just behind John’s right earlobe.
John hissed, and arched up, hard into Rodney’s thigh, and Rodney thrust back, sliding over onto his side to face John. John’s hand snaked over and wrapped around Rodney’s cock, pulling up, right.
Rodney gasped, and then pulled away, putting a hand on John’s chest to push him onto his back, and then Rodney leaned over the side of the bed and sloshed his hand through the melted mess of ice in the bucket on the floor. All of the cubes had dissolved into little half-moons, and Rodney grabbed one, rolled back over on the bed, and put it on John’s sternum, tracing a line downward to his bellybutton, and following the watery trail with his tongue.
John fisted his hands in the sheets and Rodney smiled, blowing lightly on the wet line on John’s chest, until goose bumps appeared on John’s skin and he shivered.
Grabbing another piece of ice, Rodney pressed the tip to John’s neck, outlining the muscles, and then with his left hand he reached up and held John’s right arm down as he ran the piece of ice along John’s collarbones, leaving a trail of liquid almost like paint from a brush.
John bucked a little, and Rodney let go of John’s arm and slid down, sliding the melting ice over John’s ribs, and down further to rest in the dip of skin between his abdomen and thigh, and as Rodney ran the ice down lower John actually hissed and arched off of the bed, panting, and said, “Christ, Rodney.”
Rodney popped the ice, now just a sliver, into his mouth, crawled back up John’s body, and kissed him, and the ice was gone in seconds.
John kissed him, and threw his head back, holding his breath as Rodney worked a hand between their bodies and found John’s cock, fingers ghosting over the slit and then wrapping around the base and pulling, hard and fast. Then John was moaning, low into the back of his throat, and reaching in to grab at Rodney and then stroking, matching Rodney’s tempo, faster and harder until John came, spurting all over Rodney’s hand and his own stomach. John gasped, and his hand faltered for just a second and then he leaned up, sucking Rodney’s neck and then biting, all the while pulling furiously at Rodney’s cock, and then Rodney came in a rush of sound-the sound of skin on skin, some seagull crying outside on the sand, and his own murmured “Yes... there, God, harder, there... yes...”
Rodney rolled off of John and onto his stomach on the bed, smearing semen on the sheets, watching the rise and fall of John’s chest. “So,” John said.
“You smell,” Rodney said, and it was true-John smelled of aftershave and sweat, and Coppertone, although they hadn’t used any sunblock at all; and he smelled like sex, and rain, and sand.
“And I mean that in the nicest way possible,” Rodney offered.
John smiled, and rolled his eyes. “You really suck at conversation, Rodney,” he said, and then sat up, stretching, and wiping himself with an edge of the sheet. He stood, pulled on his pajama pants, and walked back out to the balcony.
“We could go scuba diving,” he called back.
“You could go scuba diving,” Rodney corrected, rolling over and pulling on his boxers.
“I could go scuba diving, and find you the biggest conch shell you’ve ever seen,” John said.
Rodney stumbled onto the balcony and stood next to John, watching the waves hit the shore, dragging in seaweed and broken bits of seashells. Rodney leaned in close, hip to hip, and put his hand in John’s.
John looked at the ocean, all the different blues and violent greens, the foam and the surf breaking on the sandbar fifty yards out. John looked at the clouds, and smiled. “I think the weather’s lifting.”