Recipient's name: kimberlite
The prompt or prompts used: 2) Cam or John helping the other after a flashback/nightmare
Notes: Pinch hit for kimberlite
- sorry it wasn’t up faster! Many thanks to reccea for looking at it when it was just a structure and raisintorte
for the beating. :)
It’s never cold in the dreams. The snow is there, the ice on his eyelashes and his cracked windshield, and the wind, wailing in his ear. But he’s never actually cold. There’s never actually a bone-deep chill, the burn of snow on his skin, unshakable tension in his muscle. He’s numb to it and that should tell him it’s a dream except he remembers afterward, floating in the dark, trying to bend his knee and being unable to find his legs. Maybe he’d already lost feeling in the plane, his blood spilling out over the wreckage. Maybe that’s why his subconscious doesn’t feel the need to fill in the subzero temperatures that haunted his last waking moments in the wreckage of his 302.
Instead he dreams of the minutes later, of the shouts of the rescue team, garbled words he can’t make out, hands lifting and shifting him, a needle in the crook of his arm. He dreams of the drugged-up darkness and the glare of the hospital lights, of seeing his legs but not feeling them, of being trapped in his own body as Sheppard leaned over him calling his name.
Wrong. That’s wrong. It wasn’t Sheppard, it was O’Neill. Sheppard wasn’t there. Not there until later, much later, when there was SG-1 and Atlantis and - “Mitchell!”
Cam lunges, pushing aside the snow - metal - blankets - where was he? The air is warm, and the gentle sounds of the ocean lapping against the pylons of Atlantis fill in the clawing holes in his awareness that are looking for snow and numbness and the ghost sensation of burning pain.
He closes his eyes and opens them again. Ocean air. Filmy curtains. Strong hands locked around his biceps. Atlantis. Not his room. He bites back a curse and draws in a harsh breath before he ventures a, “Sheppard?”
Guy wasn’t much of a conversationalist. No “how’re you doing?”; no “that must have been a helluva dream.” The hand on Cam’s far arm moved to rub his back, up between his shoulder blade, then lower down the spine, all the way to the scar tissue in the small. Cam arched into it. A deep throb was making itself known in his groin and as much as he wanted to ask Sheppard if the Afghanistan in his dream was hot or as neutral as Cam’s Antarctica...well, there were other things he wanted, things he’d actually get.
“C’mere,” he says, twisting from the waist and cupping his hand behind Sheppard’s neck. Sheppard's mouth is warm when Cam presses into it. Warm like Antarctica wasn't. Warm like he was sure he'd never be again. He shifts around on his knees, straddling Sheppard's thighs and pressing them both down to the bed. Sheppard gets a hand around Cam's cock and Cam moans into Sheppard's mouth.
Sheppard drags his mouth free and smiles a little as he slides down the bed. When his shoulders are pressing into Cam's thighs, he stops and guides Cam's cock down into his mouth. Cam leans forward, bracing himself on the mattress, hands first, then forearms, and he breathes a laugh into his pillow as Sheppard works him deeper.
He tries not to thrust but can't help rocking his hips just because he likes the slide of John's bottom lip against the underside of his cock. He bites his lip because being with John makes him feel a little dirty, like he wants things he wouldn't want with other people. He shifts his weight to one side and reaches down to tangle his fingers in the mess of John's middle-of-the-night bedhead.
John makes a noise and Cam thinks, You fucking love this, don't you? His mouth is too dry to say it out loud and he's not even sure he'd want to hear it in his own voice. It's one of those things - too dominant, too crude. Too satisfied.
John cups his hand around Cam’s balls and yeah, yeah, that’s good. That’s so good. John knows right where to touch him, just which buttons to push. It should be enough, should be good for him this way but instead he pulls John off - gently - and says, “Hands and knees, Sheppard.”
John’s mouth is visibly damp in the faint light as he turns onto his stomach and the air is suddenly cool on Cam’s cock, reminding him of frostbitten patches of skin on his face that feel the cold before anywhere else. He closes his hand around himself, a gesture that’s only protective if someone can read his mind.
Condoms and lube are in the pop-out compartment in the wall at the head of the bed. Cam pulls one on and slicks himself up. Sheppard's on the bed, knees set apart, ass in the air. Cam touches him, spreads him wide, moves in behind him. In the past, usually, he uses his fingers, loosens John up. Tonight, he ducks his head and tastes, using his tongue, closing his eyes and forcing every choked-off gasp and grunt from John's reluctant throat. Cam doesn't really like it at first, the taste of John musky and strong and the skin under his tongue too intimate but once John starts making noise, once Cam is able to draw helpless sounds out of him at will, then he stops thinking, stops caring, and just does whatever he can to bring John up to the edge.
When he's there, when John's fucking himself back against Cam's mouth, Cam straightens up and gives his cock an extra stroke, another layer of lubricant, and presses himself against John's ass. He didn't stretch John this time so he goes slow, but John's ready for him, taking his cock with only the barest press of resistance. Cam waits for a beat, then two, when he's fully seated, and there, John bucks back against him and it's time.
Cam braces himself on John's hips, the jut of John's hipbones fitting into the clutch of his finger. He pumps his hips and John moves, crying out a little and Cam is lost. He fucks John hard and steady, focusing on holding an angle that's good for both of them, but when it's clear it's good for John, when the growls and whines slip higher and higher, that's when Cam loses himself in the pull and the pulse. His body is working, hips and thighs and abdominals, all things they said he'd never use again. He jerks at John's hips with his arms, sinking as deep as he can. The heat of John's body burns away the memories of snow, the phantom chill Cam's dreams can't replicate. Cam is here, in Atlantis with John, and alive, and mobile, and able, and he doesn't slow down, can't, when John roars under him and clenches down, coming over his own stomach and the sheets.
Instead he goes faster, harder, and John’s just taking him. It’s amazing and hot and Cam is hit with a jolt of gratitude that gets washed out by the satiating relief of his orgasm. The world rushes by him and he closes his eyes against the dizziness, holding on to John like a life raft and letting him ease them both down on the bed.
Cam sprawls on top of John until John twitches his hips and Cam realizes it must be uncomfortable under there. He pushes himself up into leaning rest and gets his knees under him. John grunts when Cam pulls out and and rolls onto his back. Cam gets up and goes to the bathroom to clean up a little and splash water on his face. A few minutes later, John does the same.
When he comes back, they lie in silence for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, and Cam concentrates on the temperature of the room, the sound of the ocean, the satisfied ache in his thighs and ass that comes from a short, intense bout of physical activity.
“You know,” Sheppard says in the dark, unexpectedly, “sometimes I dream about Afghanistan. And I wake up wanting a hamburger.”
Cam chuckles. It’s such a Sheppard thing to say. Trying, acknowledging, and still, utterly inept at sharing his feelings. “I always want fried chicken,” he admits. They’re quiet again for a minute and then Cam says, “It’s never cold when I dream about it. It should be cold, right?”
Sheppard shrugs. Cam can’t really see it but he can feel the shift and hear the brush against the sheets. “I’m never wearing shades. I shouldn’t be able to see a thing; the sun’s so bright and it reflects off the sand. But everything’s always in perfect detail and the shades are never there.”
“Weird,” Cam agrees.
“Yeah,” Sheppard says.
Cam turns his head, looks at Sheppard’s vague profile, smudged by the darkness and the shadows of things in the room. He leans over, presses his mouth to Sheppard’s jaw, just below his ear. It’s weirdly shy and awkward, like this is happening after history class, behind the gym, instead of in their bed, where Cam just licked and fucked Sheppard.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For being here with me.”
Sheppard mumbles, “Where else would I be? This is my room.” but his fingers tangle with Cam’s, and they both sleep peacefully ‘til morning.
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