Okay, finally trying to place everything in one convenient location. This was written eons ago for one of ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxoniensis' challenges, and largely because foxmonkey is so lovely.
"Rising with the Tide"
SG:A
Sheppard/Dex
NC-17
Slash
by stungunbilly
John wakes to waves lapping at his ankles; the water is warm and gentle, but the tide is coming in. He looks at the sky and sees that the sun is sinking in a pool of reddish-bronze, leaving a wake of indigo and stars across the sky. A snore draws his attention to the blanket a few feet away where Ronon sleeps, sprawled half-naked on his belly, arms above his head. He’s never seen the man so relaxed, and it makes him chuckle when he hears Ronon muttering to someone named Kalil to let him sleep longer. He often forgets how young Ronon is.
It doesn’t take long for the nights to get cold here in the Lantean spring, and a chilly breeze raises the hairs on the nape of John’s neck. Goosebumps rise on Ronon’s golden back, and he murmurs again and wakes, eyes softer than John has ever seen them. He smiles a little at John and rolls over, scratching idly at his belly. John’s eyes are drawn almost helplessly, and who could blame him? Ronon in a thong swimsuit would steal anyone’s breath.
This time, though, Ronon catches him staring. His only warning is a low growl, and then Ronon’s weight is on him before he can react, pressure on his arms and legs pinning him down and warm breath on his face. He can’t control the reponse that seems to come from his whole body at once, hips jerking helplessly and lungs gasping for air, skin burning with contact.
Ronon’s low chuckle doesn’t help. And his eyes are too knowing for someone little more than half John’s age. The tiny smile is hot, though, so hot that John struggles some more, just to watch it grow.
“I guessed right, then,” says Ronon, and grinds his pelvis firmly into John’s growing erection.
John struggles to sound normal but fails, gasping “Congratulations, you win the prize.”
And then Ronon is kissing him, deep wet lewd kisses that show him graphically what Ronon wants to do to the rest of him. He needs this, oh how he needs this. There have been no male tongues in his mouth, no hard cocks grinding into him since before McMurdo, since Afghanistan, and he is so hungry that he has no finesse, just sucks on Ronon’s tongue as if it could feed all the hunger for cock he has buried beneath a smart-ass smile and (false, so false) air of bravado.
“I’m going to fuck you,” says Ronon, pulling back for a moment to stare at him fiercely, “but we need oil for that, and I won’t wait. Give me your mouth.”
John is on him the moment Ronon lets him go, scrambling to his knees and yanking at the tiny scrap of leather between him and what he needs. He is salivating too much, and his first sucks are noisy and awkward, but the scent and the taste are intoxicating, and he loses himself in the rhythm he can’t forget, up and down and swirling his tongue, dancing with his mouth and his whole body to the music of Ronon’s moans. Ronon is on his back in the sand, strong thighs around John’s head, hands fisting in John’s hair, but he doesn’t thrust up, though John wants him to, wants his mouth to be fucked roughly, and tries to communicate this by opening his throat and swallowing most of Ronon’s cock in one move.
He must have gone too fast, because he chokes when his mouth is flooded with come, pulling off a bit, and swallowing hard and moaning at the dirty hotness of the mess spilling all over his face. He sucks until Ronon pushes him off a little roughly, but with a reassuring hand to the back of his head, guiding him up Ronon’s body and into another of those mind-stealing kisses, no less demanding than before. A firm hand, large and calloused, grabs his dick and begins to stroke him perfectly. John is so hard, so turned on, that he only lasts long enough to breathe in through his nose and let a muffled moan into Ronon’s mouth before he comes messily over Ronon’s belly. He flops into the puddle of come, unable to keep his eyes open for the moment, and sighs contentedly when he feels gentle fingers in his hair.
He’ll have to deal with this; sex with a subordinate, sex with someone vulnerable and young and alien, for crying out loud, but that will be later. Now, he has a nap to take. Above him, Ronon’s breath has already evened into sleep, and the warmth of his body makes everything else seem less important. Even the tide lapping again at his ankles doesn’t cause John Sheppard to stir.
oxoniensis' challenges, and largely because foxmonkey is so lovely."Rising with the Tide"
SG:A
Sheppard/Dex
NC-17
Slash
by stungunbilly
John wakes to waves lapping at his ankles; the water is warm and gentle, but the tide is coming in. He looks at the sky and sees that the sun is sinking in a pool of reddish-bronze, leaving a wake of indigo and stars across the sky. A snore draws his attention to the blanket a few feet away where Ronon sleeps, sprawled half-naked on his belly, arms above his head. He’s never seen the man so relaxed, and it makes him chuckle when he hears Ronon muttering to someone named Kalil to let him sleep longer. He often forgets how young Ronon is.
It doesn’t take long for the nights to get cold here in the Lantean spring, and a chilly breeze raises the hairs on the nape of John’s neck. Goosebumps rise on Ronon’s golden back, and he murmurs again and wakes, eyes softer than John has ever seen them. He smiles a little at John and rolls over, scratching idly at his belly. John’s eyes are drawn almost helplessly, and who could blame him? Ronon in a thong swimsuit would steal anyone’s breath.
This time, though, Ronon catches him staring. His only warning is a low growl, and then Ronon’s weight is on him before he can react, pressure on his arms and legs pinning him down and warm breath on his face. He can’t control the reponse that seems to come from his whole body at once, hips jerking helplessly and lungs gasping for air, skin burning with contact.
Ronon’s low chuckle doesn’t help. And his eyes are too knowing for someone little more than half John’s age. The tiny smile is hot, though, so hot that John struggles some more, just to watch it grow.
“I guessed right, then,” says Ronon, and grinds his pelvis firmly into John’s growing erection.
John struggles to sound normal but fails, gasping “Congratulations, you win the prize.”
And then Ronon is kissing him, deep wet lewd kisses that show him graphically what Ronon wants to do to the rest of him. He needs this, oh how he needs this. There have been no male tongues in his mouth, no hard cocks grinding into him since before McMurdo, since Afghanistan, and he is so hungry that he has no finesse, just sucks on Ronon’s tongue as if it could feed all the hunger for cock he has buried beneath a smart-ass smile and (false, so false) air of bravado.
“I’m going to fuck you,” says Ronon, pulling back for a moment to stare at him fiercely, “but we need oil for that, and I won’t wait. Give me your mouth.”
John is on him the moment Ronon lets him go, scrambling to his knees and yanking at the tiny scrap of leather between him and what he needs. He is salivating too much, and his first sucks are noisy and awkward, but the scent and the taste are intoxicating, and he loses himself in the rhythm he can’t forget, up and down and swirling his tongue, dancing with his mouth and his whole body to the music of Ronon’s moans. Ronon is on his back in the sand, strong thighs around John’s head, hands fisting in John’s hair, but he doesn’t thrust up, though John wants him to, wants his mouth to be fucked roughly, and tries to communicate this by opening his throat and swallowing most of Ronon’s cock in one move.
He must have gone too fast, because he chokes when his mouth is flooded with come, pulling off a bit, and swallowing hard and moaning at the dirty hotness of the mess spilling all over his face. He sucks until Ronon pushes him off a little roughly, but with a reassuring hand to the back of his head, guiding him up Ronon’s body and into another of those mind-stealing kisses, no less demanding than before. A firm hand, large and calloused, grabs his dick and begins to stroke him perfectly. John is so hard, so turned on, that he only lasts long enough to breathe in through his nose and let a muffled moan into Ronon’s mouth before he comes messily over Ronon’s belly. He flops into the puddle of come, unable to keep his eyes open for the moment, and sighs contentedly when he feels gentle fingers in his hair.
He’ll have to deal with this; sex with a subordinate, sex with someone vulnerable and young and alien, for crying out loud, but that will be later. Now, he has a nap to take. Above him, Ronon’s breath has already evened into sleep, and the warmth of his body makes everything else seem less important. Even the tide lapping again at his ankles doesn’t cause John Sheppard to stir.
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