Dec. 2nd, 2007 09:24 pm
Fandom: SG: Atlantis
Warnings: Slash, language
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Beta: ferret_kitty who has totally schooled me on kilts.
Summary: Look, it's just smut. John/Carson smut. Oh my god.
Author's Note: *cough* So, mgbutterfly is totally Carson Beckett, and I'm totally John Sheppard and since we're in love... Do I need more explanation? Really? I think not. Also, I'm sorry butterfly, baby, Rodney sort of pushed and prodded his way in at places. I can't help it. I love him like burning...
It's like this: John's always had serious questions about kilts. When he thinks about it, anyway, which actually isn't something he indulges in all that often, but what the hell. He's indulging in it now. And, he has questions and they need answers and he just isn't sure where to start.
He contemplates writing a list. It would go something like this:
What kind of underwear does one wear with kilts? Boxers? But what if one leg rides up, how would it be comfortable to spend the entire day worrying about something escaping? Tighty-whities? What if someone saw them after an unfortunately breeze happened along? Isn't it drafty? Are the knee-high socks part of the kilt wearer's dress code? Wouldn't one feel naked with his knees hanging out for God and the world to see?
Of course, those are just preliminaries to what actually bothers him the most. Namely, what does one do when one gets an erection while wearing a kilt? Surely, it must happen. Half the people that wore them historically were running around bludgeoning other people to death on a regular basis, and that kind of blood pumping activity tends to get things interested. And teenagers wear them sometimes, right?
So, logically it's a problem that someone, somewhere, has faced before. That means that there is an answer, and all he has to do is find a way to obtain it. Unfortunately, while he is drunk enough to consider the logistics of kilt wearing, he is not yet intoxicated enough to put into motion his plan to experiment until supplied with adequate answers to his burning questions.
He slouches back further into his chair, and reaches out absently for his bottle of Zelenka's rotgut. It's much emptier than he remembers it being, if the weight of it in his hand is anything to go by. He scowls, before raising it to his lips and taking a long swig.
It's probably a bad sign that he can't taste the battery acid burn of it anymore, but that does make it easier to drink, and so he's not complaining.
He wishes, absently, that Rodney were here. At best, Rodney would be able to supply an explanation, at worst his mocking would distract John from the tilt of his thoughts. Either way, the situation would be rectified and he could move on with his life, which at this point looked to consist of stumbling through the hallways until he could crash in his room.
Unfortunately, Rodney is at the big kid's table, looking bored out of his skull last time John had snuck a look at him, eyes glazed over as the Prime Minister of Planet "Overly-Grabby Nudists" chatted his ear off.
John's still not sure why exactly they're hosting the Prime Minister and his governmental cabinet. Or, rather, he was sure earlier, but it's sort of slipped his mind with just about everything else. He thinks maybe it had something to do with convincing them that they really were very friendly and well worthy of the near-coffee that grew on the nigh tropical islands of their world.
He's unclear why this meant they had to have a feast of epic proportions, especially seeing as they really don't have that much food to spare. Of course, one only had to look so far as the science team to get all the motivation they needed to procure caffeine or a likely substitute ASAP. John was pretty sure that he'd seen cases of heroin withdraw with less drama involved.
So, entertaining the Merry Nudists it had been, and while they'd conceded that much, Elizabeth had put her foot down about a bunch of naked people running around Atlantis. John, personally, thinks that might have been an error of judgment, because there are hot alien chicks and then there are hot, naked, nubile alien island chicks, and well... He's pretty sure that there can never be too much hot, naked, nubile alien island chick in the world.
No one else had seemed inclined to support that position in the meeting arranging the ceremony, though. Certainly not Elizabeth, who had been looking at him like she wanted nothing more than to slap him across the knuckles with a ruler before Rodney managed to say something stupid and deflect her ire. Which was why, instead of the "nudity" plan, with which John had been very much on board, they had the "dress up in your native land's ceremonial garb" plan.
Supposedly, it was the only way to get the naked chicks to put on pants and what might loosely be considered shirts. John was fairly certain it was really just a scheme to embarrass the hell out of the senior staff, and possibly induce mass alcohol poisoning as everyone tried to drink themselves out of the situation.
John shifts again, tugging at the collar of his dress blues, and shoving the now empty bottle of liquor aside. Everyone looks uniformly uncomfortable, especially the not-naked natives and Rodney, who had thought he was going to get out of it by claiming that he didn't have any ceremonial garb. Teyla had been ever so helpful to provide traditional Athosian clothing for him, and John had wished for a camera with all his heart.
John's still not sure what to make of the fact that apparently the traditional clothing for male Athosian's is, well, the equivalent of a wedding dress. Complete with train, sequins, and veil. He doesn't ask how they even know what sequins are. Or how they procured them.
He's willing to admit that he really doesn't care why it is they dress that way. Some things are funny enough not to need explanations.
Now, he just wishes for this night to be over. Because, well, when he'd said everyone looked uncomfortable it had been just a slight exaggeration, because he happens to be sitting across from the one man who does not look like he'd rather die than spend another second in the mess hall.
Carson Beckett looks completely wasted. Besides that, because, well, that's how they all look, he always looks content and at peace, and totally not bothered by the fact that he's wearing what is for all intents and purposes a skirt. A blue and orange skirt. That completely clashes with his medical jacket and the white socks he's got pulled up to his knees.
John wouldn't mind so much--hell, he's made his fair share of questionable fashion decisions--but his brain is apparently stuck in a loop of kilt and underwear and boners. And he's been pretty much completely staring at Carson's crotch for at least the last half an hour, since Carson had flung that purse thing he'd been wearing at a couple making out beside them, and his thoughts are starting to shift inexorably to Carson's kilt and potential underwear and possible boner.
He's pretty sure that this train of thought is neither safe nor a good idea, but that's not stopping it. In fact, that might be making it worse, because he's never been a big fan of following rules or doing the smart thing. Plus, he's just on the right side of drunk to remember that he hasn't gotten laid in months and maybe he should do something about that before he forgets what fucking feels like.
His good sense wars with his libido and arrives at a fierce stale mate, and it's about that time that Carson apparently realizes that John's slightly preoccupied with his skirt. John watches the other man's legs shift, plaid fabric shifting as the pleats stretch to accommodate the movement. He sucks in a deep breath, surprised by the burst of low heat in his gut, barely hears Carson's voice, "Um. Major? Are you feeling alright?"
Now, the right thing to do would be to look up, meet Carson's eyes and slur something drunkenly back. John knows this. Nevertheless, what he actually does is continue staring at Carson's skirt, the inches of pale, pale thigh between the hem and the ridiculous socks. He drawls, after a moment, because he can feel Carson staring expectantly, "Yeah. M'fine."
A beat of silence, and Carson shifting again, balling his hands into fists and shoving them into his lap. He wonders if he's making the other man uncomfortable. And then remembers that he's staring at Carson's crotch while thinking about his dick and figures that if Carson isn't uncomfortable he should be. This time when he tries to drag his eyes upward they cooperate.
Carson is flushed, skin splotched red from his neck up. His eyes are glassy, his mouth wet and red, and the warmth in John's gut slip slides lower. He looks embarrassed and innocent and utterly fuckable and John's mouth is running before he can stop it, "What happens if you get hard?"
Carson's voice is a squeak, "What?"
John leans forward, almost overbalancing when he realizes that his center of gravity is more fucked that he'd realized. He drawls, surprised by how throaty his own voice has gotten, "If you get hard. In the kilt. What happens?" He narrows his eyes, waves his hands in what he hopes is a adequately descriptive gesture for what he's imagining in his mind, "Wouldn't it just kind of tent? Out, I mean? Noticeably?"
He's not sure how to describe the look on Carson's face as. He looks shocked, expression glazed over, and then he is burying his face in his hands, groaning, "Oh my God." John drops his eyes back to Carson's crotch, trying to decide if it looks any more filled out than it had a minute ago.
There is a bit of a bulge against his left thigh, but John's not sure if it's a fold in the fabric or something infinitely more promising. And suddenly he really, really wants to get Carson hard, wants to see what it does to the kilt. For scientific purposes, of course. And also, because he's bored and horny.
He leans closer, 'until only the edge of his ass is still in his chair. He's almost in Carson's space now, but not quite. Close enough to feel the promise of warmth, but not close enough to allow it to warm his already flushed skin. He rumbles, "I think we should find out. I bet the pleats'll lay real nice over it, don't you think?"
Carson makes a choking sound, bending towards his knees, hands still firmly over his face. John can't help the smug grin he can feel on his face, lowers his voice another octave, "C'mon, whaddaya say?" and Carson jerks in his seat, his body moving towards John's voice before he catches himself. And John realizes he'd won before he even realized he was playing.
Carson jerks to his feet, trying to march towards the door and swaying slightly on his feet. John would think that the other man was fleeing, except he cocks his head over his shoulder, meeting John's gaze for a split second before walking into a wall.
John does his best to smother a smug grin, and starts making his own uncomfortably unstable way after Carson.
Carson's standing almost immediately inside the hallway, one hand braced on the wall. For a half second John thinks he might be about to throw up, and hopes that's not the case, because he's positive that would kill the mood. Such as it is.
He trips the last few steps over to Carson, hands slamming into the wall on either side of Carson's shoulders. The man startles at the bang of sound, bumps forward into John before rebounding backwards to slam against the wall. He's all big eyes and an open mouth and John can almost hear the protests, and so he presses himself close against the other man's solid body, wedges a leg between the other man's thighs, sinks into his warmth.
Carson's makes a surprised sound as the breath is squeezed out of his lungs, and his hands beat a brief rhythm against the wall as he flails his arms. John nudges his head to the side, breaths against Carson's ear, lips dragging across skin when he speaks, "What kind of underwear does one wear with a kilt, Carson?"
The sound Carson makes is little more than a helpless gurgle, and then his hands are at John's hips, fisting in his jacket. It's a small miracle when Carson widens his stance, tipping his head up and to the side in naked invitation. John leans heavier into the other man, aware that is voice is little more than a growl now, "Tell me, Carson, are they restrictive enough to impede the experimental process?"
Carson chokes on, "No, God, no. It's-" and then he's rocking up against John, the heat that had been pressed against John's thigh suddenly gaining shape and definition. John grins, flattens a hand against his chest and leans all his weight into it, growls, "Now, let's see, shall we?"
He leans back slowly, admiring the handiwork that he is mostly claiming for his own. It's not so much a tenting as a very defined bulge. The fabric must be heavier than he expected. He revises his estimate from linen to wool, pressing one thumb beneath the curve of Carson's stomach, tightening the stretch of fabric.
The other man arches up against his hand, and John pushes back. Says, "Right. Well." And then figures since they're both there anyway, and he's now had his most pressing question answered, he can work on addressing his other concerns. Namely the fact that they're both drunk and hard and sex is possibly the only solution to the present situation. "Well."
The floor is startlingly hard against his knees, and he grunts in surprise, digs his fingers hard into Carson's hips to steady himself. The other man is staring down at him, eyes huge, mouth hanging open, and John feels the wildness in his own answering smile.
He slides his hands down Carson's thighs, grabbing the edges of the kilt and lifting it. Carson jerks. For a half second the man tries to press the fabric back down, stammering protests, and John leans forward, forehead pressing low against Carson's stomach. The other man's hands flutter around his face for a few seconds, before settling in his hair, fingers curling up. Carson says, "Oh."
And John says, "Yeah," and leans away enough to pull the kilt up again, this time without interference.
Carson is, in fact, wearing boxer briefs, which makes sense, John supposes, though he has no idea why they're bright orange. It doesn't really matter. He tugs at them impatiently, slides them off the other man's hips, pushing down until they get hung up on the socks, at which point he figures what the hell. Good enough.
He flashes Carson another smile, ducks his head, and as an afterthought, pulls the edge of the kilt down over his head instead of leaving it bunched around Carson's hips. Carson makes a sound that John only barely hear, and John decides that he's far too drunk for skill, and goes straight to sloppy and enthusiastic.
He closes his lips over Carson's cock, sucks and licks and tries to remember how you're supposed to breathe when you do this. It's stuffy, under Carson's kilt, dark and warm and well, of course, intimate. He bobs his head, feels the fabric rustle over his hair, the coarse weave dragging over the nape of his neck.
He digs his fingers into Carson's hip, one hand below the fabric, one above it. He'd like to say that he can taste salt or haggis or something, but the truth is his taste buds have been effectively massacred for at least the next few days. On the plus side, apparently his gag reflex has suffered the same fate, because suddenly taking Carson deep seems like a really, really good idea.
He swallows around the other man, and Carson's left knee gives. John tries to take a deep breath, which is slightly impeded by the fact that there's a cock down his throat, and tightens his grip on Carson's hips to bruising, locks his elbows and holds the other man up against the wall by sheer stubborn determination.
A half second later he realizes that Carson is jerking and twitching and limp because he's coming. He's pretty sure that the fuzziness in his head, the fact that he hadn't even realized, is a good sign that he's actually a good bit drunker than he'd been assuming.
He pulls away, the obscene wet pop of his mouth sliding off Carson's cock amplified beneath the kilt.
The air against his skin when he pulls free of the clinging fabric is cool, sharp. He takes a deep, steadying breath, staring up at Carson, doing his level best to slide down the wall. The man's sort of collapsed around John's hands, expression utterly wrecked. John can't help but smile, because, yeah, he's still got it.
He leans his forehead against the other man's thigh, partially to help with keeping him upright, partially because the alcohol in his gut is starting to sour. He's painfully hard, pants stretched tight over his erection, and he's wondering how long Carson's going to need to recover before thinking about reciprocating. After all, fair is fair.
Carson goes tense, then, straightens and bats at John's head, croaking out, "Oh—oh, John, look--"
Which is all the warning John gets before there's a low murmur of pleased surprise, long and loud enough that he knows it has to be more than one person. He turns his head carefully to the side, dreading whatever it is that's awaiting him.
For a long moment what he's seeing doesn't actually register, and then it does. He blinks dumbly up at the Prime Minister of the Clothing Optional Nation, his posse arrayed behind him. Rodney's standing mutely beside the Prime Minister, arms crossed, expression irate and impatient. He snaps, "This is just like you. I get stuck transporting the people who haven't even managed to discover loin cloths back to their rooms and you're having sex."
John says, "Um," because he's not really sure what else he's supposed to say.
Luckily, the Prime Minister renders any further response from him unimportant. The man claps his hands, face breaking open in a huge smile as he pivots on his heels to face Rodney. He exclaims, voice booming in the hallway, "Never have we had trading partners initiate the rite of Zemplage! Truly, this is a blessed day between our peoples!"
And then the man is going to his knees, tugging Rodney closer. John catches a glimpse of Rodney's expression, somewhere between surprised and utterly horrified, and then the man is lifting Rodney's billowing skirt and crawling under. Around them, the others in the party are following their leader, and John counts at least six people disappearing under Rodney's train as the man twists and smacks at the lumps moving beneath the fabric.
Rodney yelps, "Oh my God--" and then cuts himself off with a low, desperate whimper.
John can only stare, mouth open in shock because, okay. So maybe the Happy Naked People had some questions about skirts, too. He assumes, from the noises, that they're being adequately answered, and when Carson tugs him to his feet and they stumble their way down the hallway, he goes willingly.
They get the near-coffee, in the end, and Rodney only walks funny for about a week.
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