Title: Promotion
Author: amireal
Rating: So NC-17 I had to write it in the dark. Under the covers. With my eyes closed. ~900 words.
Pairing: Sheppard/Mitchell Yes. That's right. Wanna make something of it?
Warnings: Um. Should there be?
A/N: Thanks to z_rayne who pretty much hit me over the head with a club so I'd send her the original to beta.

Dedication: To seperis and ltlj, you know why. *wink*

Summary: pro•mo•tion noun
1. Advancement in rank or responsibility.
2. Encouragement of the progress, growth, or acceptance of something; furtherance.




John Sheppard was drunk.

Rip roaring, totally sloppy drunk.

Not that Mitchell was that far from shit-faced. The other side of shit-faced, where you possibly think about finding the nearest trash can while you can still remember how to walk and hold things at the same time.

"I totally get where you're coming from," Mitchell slurred. "Later, I'll tell you what General Landry did to me."

"Oh yeah?" John slipped further into the couch. How he'd rated the VIP suite he had no idea. "Why later?"

"Because there's gonna be sex first, and I'd rather not start thinking about the general before sex." He made a face like his beer had been spiked with lemon.

Eew.

"Sex?" John raised an eyebrow. He was feeling pretty mellow. Promotion that had started out looking like a review board, Rodney all stuttery and handsy with that stilted pat on the back, Elizabeth holding an entire platoon of colonels and generals at bay with just a stare. "Drunken sex?" He over-pronounced, feeling the words around his teeth. God he was drunk.

Their ties were across the room, tangled on the floor at the foot of the bed, having landed there after a game of 'lasso throw' that Mitchell was scarily good at. Their jackets had somehow made it to hangers, but then again they'd been sober at the time. John eyed Mitchell's shirt: a few buttons popped, the light material not even wrinkled but still somehow messy. He was lazing about on the bed, one leg bent, a soft fold prominent in the crotch area of his pants. John licked his lips.

"Promotion day blowjob?" Mitchell smiled and nodded his head in a 'come hither' motion.

Who was John to object? He slid off the couch and crawled toward the bed. Not because the room was a little spinny, not at all. It was because of that subtle hip shifting Mitchell did. John licked his lips again, kneeling beside the bed and unbuttoning Mitchell's pants.

"Hey I meant I— Oh yeah, better than corn bread."

John sucked harder, Mitchell's cock heavy and wonderful in his mouth. God, he was dizzy with it, just— Yeah, he missed this. He used an unsteady hand to cup Mitchell's balls, rolling them lightly.

"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard," Mitchell sighed and came.

Shuddering slightly at the new rank, John licked and suckled him through it, messy and still pretty drunk. His own cock twitched in his pants and John fumbled to release it, the aching sharp and perfect.

"There's hand cream in the bathroom," Mitchell slurred, rolling over and wiggling out of his pants.

John stumbled to the bathroom, pants falling to his ankles, he nearly fell to the floor when he tried to toe out of his shoes, but eventually he managed and was soon in only his dress shirt and one sock. He stumbled back to the bed holding the hand cream like it was the answer to everything important. Mitchell hadn't gotten any further than his pants at his ankles, but John didn't care. He already had a glop of lotion warming in his hand when he fell to the bed and hooked a leg over the back of Mitchell's knee, pulling at it so his legs were spread nicely.

"Yeah baby, go ahead." Mitchell wiggled again.

"Call me Lieutenant Colonel," John rasped into the fabric at Mitchell's shoulder, one greased finger circling around soft, crinkled skin.

"Yes sir," Mitchell said, laughing lightly and then gasping as John's finger pressed inside. "Fuck."

John bit down gently, trying to concentrate on the faintly bitter-tasting fabric and the slow motion of his fingers and not the soft, warm, and perfect hip his cock was pressed against.

"More." Mitchell pushed back onto his finger and John went ahead and pulled out and then twisted two fingers back in. "Yeah, that's it."

In, out, scissor, twist. Mitchell was pretty relaxed and John didn't think it would last all that long anyway. God, why had he drunk that much?

He climbed over Mitchell, pushing his knees further apart and settling into the diamond his legs made because his ankles were still held together by his pants. John's cock was quickly gripped by heat and pressure so perfect—just what he needed—and he sank in so easy that he made a surprised sound. It was followed quickly by another light laugh from Mitchell and a playful hip pull. John had to stop there, had to let their legs press together and feel the heat between them through two layers of shirts, had to let the uncomfortable press of buttons take some of the edge off.

He kissed the back of Mitchell's neck. A thank you, maybe. He wasn't sure.

He moved, one slow, shuddering movement in and out and it was over, his hips slammed back on slide number two and his hand shifted, holding Mitchell down at his hip and shoulder, just fucking, lost and mindless as all of his muscles tightened into one unbearable ball of pleasure and he couldn't breathe anymore.

His eyes rolled up and everything whited out into bliss.

Later, Rodney would look at John and roll his eyes at the fourth time he reminded someone about his promotion, and John would smile and damn the regulations and slide his hands into his pockets to help smooth out the slight roll in the front of his pants. "A guy's allowed to be happy."