Title: Boogie
Author: kbk
Rating: R
Disclaimer: So very not mine. Bad boys.
Notes: There's something of a ficcus interruptus, here. I intended... more. But it's just a pornlet. Doesn't even have a money shot.
Notes Again: There's a somewhat convoluted reasoning to the title, which I'm only writing here because I'll probably forget it because I'm not entirely sober right now. See, it's just a snippet. But then Aces said we could blame Stuart for The!Shep!Hair (um, that particular... phrasing? is mine) and I. uh. disagreed, a little. So I was thinking hair, and blame, and then I was singing. So. And it could be euphemistic. Really.
Summary: The future Prince of Atlantis meets the King of Canal Street.

"These look real," the guy comments, and lewdly runs his tongue over the dogtags, which shouldn't really be sexy, because John's known a hell of a lot of guys that fiddled with their dogtags one way or another and he wasn't attracted to any... well, to many of them, and it's not like he did anything about it. But that tongue is something else.

"They are," John replies, and hopes he doesn't sound too breathless. The guy - Stuart, his name is Stuart - looks up from under those artfully tousled curls with a devilish grin, the sort of expression that makes John want to pull him up by his hair and hold him down and bite him just to make him stop looking so smug, but then that tongue is darting out over a nipple and, well, the smugness may be justified. John tugs on a couple of the curls anyway.

"Oi!" Stuart protests, but he looks more resigned than annoyed, and quickly goes back to licking at random patches of skin. He pauses with his fingers at the top of John's fly and his mouth hovering about John's navel and comments, "don't think I've had a soldier before - not a Yank, anyway."

"'m a pilot," John gasps, "we're rarer, now will you just... do something?" He grips the other man's shoulder, avoiding that tempting mass of hair - and huh, maybe John should grow his hair again now he's got the rank to get away with it - and his other hand fists in the sheet because it's just bad manners to rush ahead and if he doesn't ground himself somehow he'll be gone in two minutes flat.

Stuart pauses again, grinning at him. "You're a rare one, indeed," he says, in a seductive purr that's probably taken innumerable men out at the knees, and works the zipper down tooth by tooth. John, cursing breathlessly, can feel each incremental degree of release.

Then that mouth is on him, that tongue curling around his cock, and John shouts, once, before he has to pant for air. It's been too long since he did this with another guy, with someone who knew just how to work him, and, christ. Stuart's pulled off both of their jeans without John noticing, and when he pushes at John's thigh in a silent question, John spreads wide, because it's been far too long for this as well.