Prompt: A photo of two men getting busy outdoors. One was particularly...acrobatic.
Note: This fic has been edited to better comply with FFN's rating regulations. The original version of the fic is rated NC-17 and can be found on my livejournal under the name exiled_mind.
Dirtside
Leonard had to admit that, as far as ideas went, it turned out this picnic thing had merit.
Of course he wouldn't be admitting that to Jim quite yet. It was entirely to do with having his mouth otherwise occupied, of course, and not at all due to a desire to delay eating his bit of crow for as long as possible. And, naturally, Jim's mouth was equally as engaged and Leonard wouldn't want to deprive him of the opportunity to gloat a bit.
Or give him any reason to, god-forbid, stop what he was currently doing – enthusiastically - to Leonard's dick.
Just then, to unwittingly drive Leonard's point home, Jim did something particularly inventive with his tongue against that spot just under the head and Leonard offered an answering groan of approval. This was apparently precisely what Jim had been looking for, as he repeated the movement several more times, liquifying no-doubt-important parts of Leonard's brain as he worked.
Yeah. A picnic had been a great idea.
Admittedly, when Jim had turned up in the transporter room for their few hours of dirt-side leave carrying a insulated carry-sac overflowing with food and drink, Leonard had been... suspicious. When a second bag had been thrust into his hands that contained only a huge sheet clearly ″borrowed″ from the oversized bed in the most opulent guest stateroom and a pillow, of all things, suspicion had morphed into slightly irritated disbelief.
″You're making me beam down to an abandoned farming planet with you for a booty call?″ He'd hissed softly eying the transporter tech and Scotty warily.
″Lighten up, Bones,″ Jim had replied with only a hint of his usual infuriating grin before turning to Scotty with the order to beam them down to his selected coordinates.
Leonard had gotten over his misgivings right about the time they'd rematerialized in a grassy field and Jim had abandoned his carry-sac in the shade of a nearby tree, dropped to his knees at Leonard's feet, unfastening Leonard's uniform trousers as he went, and swallowed him down.
Leonard had arched his back and clung desperately to Jim's head. He may have even shouted at the thrill of the warmth and wetness and the immediate, skilled suction. They were entirely alone, though, so he could probably get away with denying it.
After working Leonard into a right state, Jim had pulled off with one last swipe with his tongue (Leonard may have keened at the loss – another job for staunch denials later on), spread out the sheet on the grass, and pressed Leonard down onto his back.
He'd tossed the pillow aside, though, when Leonard had reached for it, insisting that it was for ″round two.″ Leonard couldn't find the energy or spare brain cells to complain, however, when Jim had slung a leg over him and began to position them into a mutually very beneficial arrangement.
Jim, as he'd proved to Leonard many times in the past and hopefully many many more in the future, was a man of many talents and truly excellent ideas on how to kill a few hours downtime.