"...the way you flew through the air, no one could ever doubt you're a pilot!" Cam barked a southern drawl of a laugh and stepped through the swinging door of the locker room.
"Natural talent," John smirked to hide his grimace of pain as he flexed and twisted his torso midstride. "Hey, that new kid...Metcalf?"
"Where's he from? New Zealand?"
"Yeah, apparently they don't wear pads and their field's bigger."
"Sounds like McKay," John muttered from inside his t-shirt as he tried to separate the sweat-soaked fabric from his heated skin.
"Uh, huh," Cam answered distractedly, his eyes grazing over the increasingly visible stretch of his fellow colonel's taut abs. "Good game."
When John finally rid himself of his shirt, Mitchell was wearing nothing but his dog tags and a standard issue white towel, slung low on his hips.
"Yeah," Sheppard's agreement, all strangled and hoarse, made Cam look up, sky blue eyes meeting and holding with gold-flecked hazel. He swallowed hard as the vaguely familiar rush of heat flushed his skin and surged south to leave him pleasantly hazy.
John was the first to drag his gaze away, to focus on swapping his sweats for a towel. "Set something up next time I'm in the neighbourhood."
"Sounds good," Cam murmured; he knew he should head for the showers at the other end of the room, should leave Sheppard what minimal privacy you could have in a communal locker room; but his hardening dick and the view of the other man's hair-swathed chest with its multitude of scars kept him riveted to the spot.
John could feel Mitchell's eyes on him, felt them slide the length of his chest, linger on his nipples and rest at the hollow of his neck. He forced himself to keep it cool; made sure the towel tuck would hold, and calmly tossed his sweats on the wooden slat bench in front of the locker he'd been temporarily assigned. Mitchell's attention was nothing new. John had had his share of interest over the years, from the curious stares of other cadets not used to showering in close quarters with fifty other men, to the cursory examination of a superior officer. He'd even been pinned to the shower wall by a fellow AFC; but he'd never once started something, had never wanted to – until now. John was flushed, hot, even with the sweat from the game cooling on his skin, sliding down his spine and soaking into the towel at the small of his back. He eyed Mitchell with sidelong looks as he played for time, messing around with his gear, but he couldn't put off looking up forever.
The room had long ago fallen into silence, a silence heavy with a tense yet hopeful expectation that made Cam's heart race. He watched Sheppard's hands as the other man stalled. He thought about how those long fingers would grip tight, hold fast and force him to either surrender or fight for escape. Cam was hungry, hungry for the taste of Sheppard's sweat-sheened skin. He wanted to lave his tongue in the hollow of Sheppard's throat, feel him swallow with the pressure of Cam's licks, hear a groan of want escape as that full, pouty lower lip brushed Cam's ear.
John, having finally run out of things to shift around, straightened up and caught Mitchell licking his lips. It was too much, he lunged across the three-foot gap between them, and shoved Mitchell back against the locker. The collision was a deafeningly quiet echo as they, bodies held on pause, searched for permission or the flames of crashing and burning careers in each other's eyes.
The cool steel of the locker burned insistently into his shoulders, like an icy hint of warning reminding him of the very real risks; but the hands biting into his biceps felt better than he'd imagined. He wanted this, had wanted for years.
John controlled his breathing with an iron will born from hiding in open desert while the Taliban searched for a downed Infidel pilot. He watched every flutter of eyelash, felt every below-the-surface jerk of muscle and nerve under his palms; waited, hoped, that Mitchell was into this.
'Please let Mitchell be into this.' The few times they'd run into each other over the years, the other colonel's presence had messed with John's focus, filled his head with visions of dark secretly-enclosed spaces where hard bodies ground and thrust against each other.
Cam nodded on a rush of exhaled air and Sheppard was on him. A demanding clash of teeth, of hungry mouths and a slick tongue seeking entrance to moist heat with a swipe along soft willing lips and the sweet burn of rasping stubble.
Cam slid curved calloused palms over slick skin, fisted the towel and yanked Sheppard in tight against him. He breathed deeply out his nose as Sheppard ground his narrow hips in a teasing circle that had Cam breaking their kiss on a gasp of need. His chest was rising and falling like bellows, his heart freaking out against his ribs. Sheppard watched him warily, green eyes blown black with lust, like Cam held the other man's life in his hands. Cam stroked his fingers over rigid forearms, rasping the hair there with each gentle pass, felt a mimicked motion on his own arm; a question, a plea for absolution should Cam change his mind.
It was that tiny, yet significant gesture that sealed Cam's fate and he lunged away from the locker, forcing Sheppard to step back, startled yet smirking as he got with the program and pulled Cam in, even as Cam shoved Sheppard into the opposite row of lockers. Another collision echo blended with Sheppard's turned-on laugh and Cam freed his arms with a hasty pull so he could cup Sheppard's jaw, hold him firm while he shoved his tongue deep to taste. Heat and surprise, sweat and musk, haste and pleasure, Sheppard tasted fucking delicious and Cam wanted to feast.
A hand shaped to the back of John's head, its fingers tangled tight and tugged in warning while the other fisted itself in his tags. Mitchell was more than up for this. John moved a hand down Mitchell's spine, fingers slick in the slide of sweat as he memorized each bump and dip, till he reached the slipped towel and a sweetly curved ass.
Cam's hips stuttered forward of their own will as Sheppard's fingers wriggled beneath the towel to graze their tips questioningly on the tender sensitive skin between his cheeks. He pulled back, told himself it was because they needed air. Sheppard looked wary again and Cam just wanted to kiss the look right out of those prettyboy eyes, but fresh oxygen brought with it cool logic. He couldn't, not now at least.
"Not here," Cam croaked with a wary over-the-shoulder glance at the closed doors, shivered with sudden cold at the loss of Sheppard's touch and watched as hardness leached into Sheppard's expression. If he didn't do something, say something, Sheppard would be lost to him; but his brain was still taking orders from his dick. "My place? After dinner?"
It was like the sun coming out after a rainstorm. Sheppard's smirk lit his face, blushed his cheeks sunburn-pink, reached into his eyes and made Cam gasp as hands tugged on the towel at his waist. Sheppard's fingers precariously close to hot eager flesh. Cam felt his heart stop in his chest when warm breath murmured against the shell of his ear. "It's a date."
Cam fluttered his eyes open on a groan of disappointment when Sheppard pushed him back, large palms warm and confident on his hips. "Shower."
He nodded dazedly, he knew the sooner they left here, the sooner he could get the rest of his day squared away. After that there'd be dinner with his team and Sheppard for dessert. A groan escaped at the thought and he felt Sheppard shudder in response. Even though they were no longer touching, it was like they were still connected.
"Me too," Sheppard confessed huskily and, with a trailing-fingertip touch along Cam's forearm that sent lightning along every single one of his nerve endings, sauntered off toward the showers.
Summary: The collision was a deafeningly quiet echo as they, bodies held on pause, searched for permission or the flames of crashing and burning careers in each other's eyes.