Low-Slung, Surfer Boy

by The Grrrl

Title: Low-Slung, Surfer Boy

Authors: sheafrotherdon and The Grrrl

Author's email: thegrrrl2002@gmail.com, sheafrotherdon@livejournal.com

Author's URL: http://thegrrrl2002.slashcity.org/, http://sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com/

Archive: Ask first.

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis

Pairing: Sheppard/McKay

Summary: The boys take a vacation, and all it takes for everything to come unraveled is one pair of swim trunks.

It's the trunks that do it the ridiculous, low-slung, surfer-boy trunks that John pulls on their first morning at the beach. The moment Rodney sees them his plans unravel his plans for a leisurely morning unwinding beneath a large beach umbrella, noodling on the Riemann hypothesis and sipping iced coffee from a chilled glass the size of his head, recovering from the previous night's sexual athletics and storing up energy to do it all again come dusk. As John ambles past, the equations fly right out of Rodney's head, replaced instead by the irresistible urge to watch John's hips, John's ass, John's lean, bare back as he wades into the surf and dives beneath a wave, as he swims out beyond the breakers and floats on his back, a shit-eating grin plastered happily across his face.

It's torture the kind expressly prohibited by conventions with Swiss people to watch John swim and dive and shake back his hair and laugh for the sheer goddamn fun of it, and then the asshole has to fetch his board and head out to surf and Rodney's forced to adjust the position of his laptop lest anyone see exactly how fascinating he finds the sine-curve of John's long, lean spine and the play of water against his skin.

He doesn't understand why John can't just wear a t-shirt with his swim trunks, like reasonable people would do.

So when John ambles back, shorts made heavy by water and sand, hipbones jutting like some kind of taunt, Rodney has no choice he slams down his laptop, scrambles up from his chair, drags John inside their rented house, not listening to the, "Hey!" and "Rodney, what's " or replying to, "You should come in the water too, you know," preferring to push him down and spread him out across the bed, kissing each inch of sun-tanned skin that's been made cold and salty by the ocean, kissing and licking until John's skin is warm again.

He works his tongue beneath the waistband of those seizure-inducing, stupid-making, damp, beautiful shorts, making John gasp and keen and squirm with want. When John murmurs, "Yeah, Rodney, do it, c'mon," and lifts his hips suggestively, it strikes Rodney just how long he's been waiting for this, and what kind of torture it's been. And maybe, just maybe, he needs a little revenge.

Time to change tactics.

He sets a hand on each of John's thighs, spreading them apart, and mouths him through the front of his trunks, oh so very gently. Soft, almost-not-there pressure, up along John's cock, then rubbing his cheek against the thin nylon fabric, feeling the hardness build underneath.

John starts and curses and tries to unfasten his swimsuit's ties, but the string knots hold up and Rodney lifts his head, smiles with a vengeance and murmurs, "Oh, that so serves you right."

Sitting up, John makes a frustrated noise and tugs on the water-swollen string again, pulling it this way and that, but the knot holds steady. Giving up, he sighs and flops back down on the bed, arms outstretched, pouting just the tiniest bit. Rodney's never been able to withstand the pout, especially not when John's turned on, and sun-kissed, his hair disheveled and his skin smelling of salt. So he crawls up over him, smiling just a little, nudges his nose to John's temple, says, "Hi, greedy, greedy, torturous swimming trunk person."

John just huffs out a breath and looks even sulkier. Rodney nuzzles in for a kiss, brushing his lips against John's, and finally John kisses him back, arms wrapping around Rodney.

"My pants," John says. "They're stuck."

Rodney nods solemnly. "Very tragic."

"Rodneeeeeey," John says, and now the pout's been replaced by wide eyes and the hopeful quirk of an eyebrow.

Rodney kisses him slowly, a soft, sweet, wicked distraction, insinuating himself between John's thighs. "If you hadn't been in such a hurry . . ." he murmurs, rocking against John just a fraction, enjoying the way John's expression goes blank before he pushes up against Rodney's weight, raising his head to lick a stripe the length of Rodney's neck.

"Rodneeeeeey," John says again, but Rodney won't be rushed he slides down John's body, taking his sweet damn time, pausing to kiss John's nose, his chin, each dark nipple. John's hands are restless on his shoulders, fingers twitching as Rodney eases further down, licking the round of John's tanned belly, enjoying the twitch and quiver of muscles beneath before he runs his tongue along the line of hair leading straight down from John's navel to his shorts, the line of hair that's been taunting him all damn day.

John gasps and squirms and Rodney grins with satisfaction. "Oh my," he says innocently, eyeing the string on John's rumpled trunks. "That knot is downright Gordian." He tugs on it a little, deliberately letting his fingers gaze John's eager but sadly trapped cock. "I am, as you know, immensely talented, dexterous even, and I have some experience with close work requiring fine motor skills, but even I'm not sure I can fix this."

"Motherfuck," John curses, tearing at the knot with trembling fingers.

Rodney resolutely does not laugh.

"Who makes these things anyway?" John pants, yanking at the string, squirming in place, eventually grabbing hold of the side of his trunks and ripping them clean down the seam. He flops back on the bed. "Thank god," he says, breathless.

Rodney can't hold back, he snorts with laughter even though John is stunning, naked and hard, red cock arching up, and maybe Rodney's a little giddy at this point, too much sun and hips and damp naked skin and John way too much John.

Or maybe not enough.

Rodney ducks down and rubs his cheek along the smooth length of John's cock, then closes his mouth over the head. Slick and salty against his tongue, and John moans, thrusting his hips. "'Bout damn time," John manages, voice low and unsteady.

Rodney hums a reply, feels John shudder in response. He's not done teasing, not done with the sly curl of glee in his chest but this is a better way of expressing it, he decides; slow sucks, the flick of his tongue, fingertips sliding behind John's balls, grazing hot skin, pressing, waiting.

A soft gasp of breath and John arches, hips twisting as he spreads his legs wide, and then he's pushing into Rodney's touch. Rodney draws back, lips moving over John's cock until just the tip is in his mouth, wet and leaking, and he waits for the soft, pleading "Rodney . . . " before sliding back down, taking John's cock deep into his mouth, sucking hard. John's feet skitter on the bed, and he's breathing hard, making helpless noises, his breath uneven, his hands on Rodney's shoulders, in his hair, tangling the sheets. Rodney presses with his tongue, skims back with his fingertips, grazes John's ass, and there's a split-second moment of absolute stillness before John gasps and comes, hips bucking, flooding Rodney's tongue with salt to match his skin.

Rodney holds John until he's done, until the trembling subsides, and only then does he let John's softening cock slip from his mouth. His own cock is aching and needy; he wants to fuck John, he really does but he can't remember where they stashed the lube so he climbs over John, tugging his own swimsuit down so he can push his cock against John's totally pornographic hip, and it's all John's fault, he is so going to fuck John tonight, he's going to fuck him for hours, and if the way John reaches up, wraps his arms around him, pulls him down, kisses him with his eyes half-closed is anything to go by, John's going to be totally, wonderfully, completely okay with that.

"C'mon," John murmurs, and the sound of his voice, well-fucked and unsteady, shoots straight to Rodney's cock, makes his hips stutter and his rhythm break. "C'mon," John encourages, sliding a hand down Rodney's back, scratching blunt fingernails across the base of his spine, easing a finger down Rodney's ass, between his cheeks.

Rodney squeezes his eyes closed, losing himself in the pause before he comes, panting helpless, whimpering his relief into John's warm shoulder, slumping pitifully over him when he's spent.

"Rodney," John whispers, running a hand over Rodney's head.

"Hipbones," Rodney manages, liking how the word slides out of his mouth. "Pervy, pervy hipbones." He slides off to one side and kisses John's jaw.

John blinks at him, dazed. "Okay," he says.

Rodney grins pretty stupidly.

"You been . . ." John's voice catches and he wets his lips, speech clearly still a little beyond him. "Out in the sun too long?"

Rodney shakes his head. "You. Your body all " He waves a hand " out there. With the bony and the tan and the bones. Bones," he sighs happily, rubbing his nose against John's upper arm.

John nods, forehead crinkling slightly. "Ooookay."

Rodney pats John's chest, pleased that John gets it, then he yawns and rests his head on John's shoulder. He's sticky and his swimsuit is down around his knees but that can all wait; he's exhausted, barely keeping his eyes open and John's so comfy and warm but shifting and wiggling and grunting and Rodney raises his head, about to complain because hey, sleeping now, when John pulls something out from beneath him.

His ragged, torn swimsuit.

"Oh," Rodney says sadly.

"I've got some . . " John throws the ruined swim trunks on the floor. "Speedos. Somewhere."

Rodney feels his jaw sag.

"What?" John asks.

"We should get back on the beach," Rodney insists. "Right now."

"Nope." John closes his eyes and rolls toward Rodney. "Nap time."

"We can nap on the beach," Rodney says. When John doesn't respond, Rodney adds, "you know, sunshine, sound of the water very relaxing."

John remains motionless, except for one tiny twitch of his cheek.

"Oh my god, you tease, you, you are a lying tease " Rodney sputters.

John laughs and pulls Rodney close, and Rodney supposes that being kissed quiet is not such a bad way to start a vacation; not a bad way at all.

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