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.fic: Infinite which is yes - McKay/Sheppard (NC17) 1.1
.title: Infinite which is yes
.rating/warnings: NC17 for the *koff*
.disclaimers: Not mine. Commence lamentation... now.
.advertisements: post-beach!sex. Follow up to the untitled beach volleyball ficlet, which has its own odd pedigree.
.notes: Part of this could not have been done (or at least, could not have been done as well) without![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chebonne and her beautiful words.
Aside tomonanotlisa and sheafrotherdon: I hope the teasing has stopped *leer* And to foxxcub: here's your porn :D
.infinite which is yes
Teyla comes back from the jumper, entirely too soon and yet not soon enough, with the first-aid kit, and between the two of them--which mostly means Rodney grabbing a bandage and painkillers and telling Teyla he'd take care of it--they get John patched up.
John can move, though he's a bit woozy and will need to go see Carson, because the man is constitutionally incapable of setting foot outside his quarters without disaster striking.
Rodney tells John this as he makes him rotate his neck.
"I'm not five, McKay," John says, and winces. "Ow."
"Since you haven't yet mastered basic motor skills, five is obviously overestimating. Come on, we need to get you to Carson. You know how he gets when he can't see you at least once a day." He offers a hand, scowling Ronon away from even thinking about helping.
Ronon retires with a muttered and completely unnecessary remark and moves off to the jumper.
John sways a bit, a careful hand to his forehead to keep it from exploding--Rodney knows the feeling--but steadies enough to start walking. Rodney inserts himself under one of John's arms, pulling it across his shoulders, and all that sun-warm length of bone and muscle is draped along him, bare skin shockingly present, separated from Rodney by his t-shirt, and by nothing at all where John's arm curves across the back of his neck.
"I can walk, you know," John says. His breath comes soft and hot over Rodney's ear.
"No you can't."
"I'm getting better."
Rodney tightens his grip around John's wrist, feeling the thin thread of bracelet pressing into his palm. "No you're not."
"Okay," John says, smirking and soft all at once. "I'm not."
He leans in a bit closer, and Rodney wraps his free arm around John's back, play of muscle under his arm, sand scratching between them, but everything about John is smooth and effortless and alive.
* * *
Rodney has no idea what the marines are thinking as their CO walks through Atlantis with his t-shirt on backwards and sand in his hair, feet bare on the hallway floors. Whatever they're thinking, Rodney decides, it had better not be inappropriate, and he glares at a few of them pre-emptively, just in case.
"Jealous?" John has that stupid grin plastered across his face, the kind that draws out the fine lines around his eyes, the mobile flesh of his mouth, the kind that hypnotizes Rodney if he's not careful.
"Concussion?" Rodney snaps, shaking off distraction and propelling John along.
They reach the infirmary in record time. Carson takes one look at John's tanned and sandy self, then takes one look at his head and says he'd probably been stunned but nothing more, nothing that requires the MRI Rodney's sure is necessary.
"If you start mutating or something, report back," he tells John, returning to his mice. "And try not to play sport with Ronon again if you can help it. I have damn-all patching the lot of you up as it is."
John tosses off a salute that's sloppy and insouciant even for him. Rodney sighs, scowls at Carson to let him know what he thinks about his medical practices, and trails John out the door.
The second they step out of the infirmary, movement and sense of purpose disappear. Nothing to worry and snap at anymore, possibility of mortal injury gone, Teyla and Ronon vanished--Teyla to explain to Elizabeth why they're back early and Ronon to do something really sporting, like pound the marines into marine jelly--and it's the two of them, Sheppard and McKay again, no direction, only Sheppard standing in front of Rodney, in his tanned skin and his back-to-front shirt and khakis that have nothing on underneath.
"Lab," Rodney says, the second Sheppard says "Come on, Rodney," just-there smile pulling at his lips, and snap, like that he's John again.
"Oh. Yes. Okay." Quick roll of green eyes and Rodney shuts up. A bit dazed--overexposure to the sun, he tells himself, or John, which is kind of the same thing--he falls into step, not really caring where they're going. Next to him, John tucks his hands in his pockets and slouches along like any teenager, shoulders and long line of torso curved in relaxation.
Loose and happy, Rodney thinks. An uncomplicated kind of happy that doesn't have near death or disaster or barely-saving-the-day behind it. He wears it well, as comfortably as John wears anything else.
Dimly, he's aware of the fact that John's leading him back to his quarters, that they are more than likely going to have sex, and, also dimly, that this excites him. John pulls him effortlessly along, down and down the hallways, like John's always done, and that's why the excitement is distant, pulse of it matched more to the summer day outside, the waves and their perpetual rhythm, and that, inexplicably, this is effortless.
The second they step through the door John has him against the wall, fingers sliding together, and the sand in John's palms rasps across the inside of Rodney's wrists.
"So you were watching." Everything about John is heat: the words, breath that carries them, his body with leftover sunlight.
"No boxers today?" Like there's any point in denying it, and the blink-and-you-miss-it flicker of surprise tells Rodney John hadn't expected that.
"No boxers," John says, surprise melting back into dark eyes and satisfaction and intent. Hands on Rodney's face now, thumbs firm on his cheekbones, mouth firmer on Rodney's mouth.
Easy, lazy like summer heat, easy to give into it and Rodney does, just opens and John's right there, sigh of salt-breath through Rodney's lips. John's hands trace out Rodney's neck, his shoulders, his chest, which makes Rodney shiver and John laugh, and Rodney has to run his hands down the planes of John's body, down ribs and John's flank and hip, all muscle and leashed strength, and under the precarious waistline of John's khakis.
"No boxers," John mutters, and Rodney can feel both the words and the smile. Yeah, no boxers, the worn khaki soft on Rodney's knuckles and John's body hot and hard under his fingertips.
He says something about defying the laws of physics, which makes John laugh and pull him back into the kiss, into him and back even more, back and back so John can guide both of them to bed, hitching himself across it with improbable grace and always, always pulling Rodney along so Rodney ends up with his knees bracketing John's thighs and watching as John slides, serpent-like, out of his shirt. As John grins at him and his hands drift toward the button of his khakis, and too-clever fingers hover there, suggesting.
"We'll--sand--sheets," Rodney says, or tries to say but John says we'll have worse in a minute in a way that destroys whatever coherence is left because John is unfastening his cutoffs and motioning impatiently for Rodney to pull them down. So he does, sliding cloth down sleek hips and thighs and finally off and forgotten and oh God, John is hard, is magnificent, is miles of skin and suppleness and perfection, lithe power and promise under Rodney's body.
John's windows open to the west and the afternoon sun, which turns the water to fire and John to flawed and tarnished gold, spills through them to stain the room a hallucination of red and blue. Like Rodney's hands it lingers over him, bolder, more familiar than Rodney is, because Rodney still can't believe this, almost, learning the contours of John's body as they flex and change, how touching John's nipples makes him shudder and his head tilt back, how the curve of his neck tastes when Rodney bends to lick and nip and suck.
He forgets to be self-conscious, though the sun isn't as kind to him, John's fingers traveling up under his shirt, mapping him like the jumper controls, the P-90, everything that John can touch and make come alive. Gun calluses scrape over his ribs -- oh my God, ticklish, even though his body twists into the sensation, and so John laughs and does it again -- his nipples, which makes him gasp into the hot curve of John's neck.
"Next time, you're not wearing this damn shirt," John informs him, fighting with Rodney's blue button-down. "And you're playing with us, like it or not."
"And have Ronon give me brain damage?" He yanks his shirt over his head and John, in gratitude, yanks him back down, chest to chest, and rolls them over, cock shockingly hard and hot against the shelf of Rodney's hip. "Or we could just go to the beach and have sex."
"That works." And kissing works too, John's mouth already acquainted with his, even though they haven't quite figured each other out yet, and they fumble their way into a rhythm that Rodney reinforces with both hands on John's ass.
"Tan all over," he mumbles into John's hair as John licks his way across his collar bone.
"Yup." Sweet drag of skin all down Rodney's body, mouth and fingers marking territory, pausing when John encounters Rodney's sensible, UV-impervious cargo pants. One hand plays elusively across him, making Rodney gasp and thrust up into unyielding weight, shiver as John teases the zipper down. "Good thing about really private beaches."
John under sea and sky, he can see that, him, stretched out, all clean lines and languid, wearing nothing but light that catches in his dogtags, odd prisms of sweat.
"Come next time," John says, grinning, the idiot, blowing odd little breaths across Rodney's cock, his fingers trailing down the sweatslick crease of Rodney's groin.
"Come right now," Rodney gasps, because he will, he so will, hard and God it hurts in the worst/best way, with John's hand on him and John's eyes on him too.
"Come here," he amends, because he wants to see John come first, not because he's nice but because he's selfish, wanting to watch without having to fight the afterglow. John comes compliantly, with a light in his eyes that says he's going along only because he likes it.
He reaches for John, one hand steady on his neck, the other one closing over John's cock, which makes John shudder and snap, subterranean ripples of muscle that play all along John's body and echo in Rodney's own. Rodney has to smirk, watching John's assurance come undone, green eyes gone dark and stripped of sarcasm and control. Long, firm strokes and John is all kinetic now, muscles tight with holding back even as he rocks into Rodney's hand, graceful and beautiful even doing that, and come on Rodney says, and John does.
Amazed and open, that's John's face when he comes, like when they're flying or doing something completely insane and getting away with it, this naked joy with something under it that Rodney doesn't know if he wants to examine too closely. Undone, and John even looks like he doesn't believe it, staring blindly at the patterns of come strung across Rodney's torso.
Then, seamlessly, John slides into release, slides down next to Rodney in a long, hot drape of muscle. Shocks and shivers still work their way under John's skin, and his hands shake as he reaches for Rodney to pull him into a kiss.
"Fuck," John gasps when he breaks the kiss. He doesn't let go, though. "Fuck, McKay."
"Yeah," Rodney agrees, still caught by the sight of John lost in orgasm. Memory, fresh and sharp, digs deep into his body, cuts along every nerve and makes him gasp, thrust against the thigh John has obligingly pressed up against him.
"Need help?" John asks, superior even through the haze of post-orgasm lassitude. He offers Rodney his hand and Rodney needs a minute to stare at John's wrist and the bracelet decorating it before he realizes what John's offering.
He licks John's palm, salt and grit of sand, tries not to moan and fails completely with John's hand wraps around his cock. His hips shiver forward and it should hurt, sand dragging against sensitive flesh, but it's hot and it's friction and it's good, and the darkness in John's eyes swallows light, Rodney's desperation, his urgency, everything.
Orgasm comes out of nowhere, from some dark place like John's dark eyes, a rush he senses the second before it hits. Rush of heat and light that blocks out the sun, everything except John's hand on his cock and John's breath in his ear, talking him through it, God, you're hot, come on come on, nonsensical phrases that fade and vanish but then come back and bring him back down to earth.
His heart is racketing in his chest like it's trying to escape, and he's sweaty and come-covered and probably wild-eyed, and he would like to say all this except his voice doesn't work, no breath to make it go, but suddenly it doesn't matter because John talks for him.
"Good," John says, not a question, and pushes Rodney onto his back, presses close alongside with one leg over Rodney's, foot tucked along the lower curve of Rodney's calf. They're sweaty and smell like the beach and like sex, but unless it involves cranes or a transporter, Rodney isn't moving.
He becomes aware, slowly, that John's laced the fingers of his left hand through Rodney's right, and that his thumb is graphing parabolas across the back of Rodney's hand and down his wrist. It's slow, meditative, calming, although looking down past the screen of dark hair, Rodney can see John's very invested in this.
Stay, okay? John asks.
Rodney traces out okay in nonsensical constellations on the smooth skin of John's back.
-end-
Post-fic notes: For the curious, the title is a snippet from e.e. cummings' very lovely "65."
.rating/warnings: NC17 for the *koff*
.disclaimers: Not mine. Commence lamentation... now.
.advertisements: post-beach!sex. Follow up to the untitled beach volleyball ficlet, which has its own odd pedigree.
.notes: Part of this could not have been done (or at least, could not have been done as well) without
chebonne and her beautiful words.Aside to
monanotlisa and sheafrotherdon: I hope the teasing has stopped *leer* And to foxxcub: here's your porn :D.infinite which is yes
Teyla comes back from the jumper, entirely too soon and yet not soon enough, with the first-aid kit, and between the two of them--which mostly means Rodney grabbing a bandage and painkillers and telling Teyla he'd take care of it--they get John patched up.
John can move, though he's a bit woozy and will need to go see Carson, because the man is constitutionally incapable of setting foot outside his quarters without disaster striking.
Rodney tells John this as he makes him rotate his neck.
"I'm not five, McKay," John says, and winces. "Ow."
"Since you haven't yet mastered basic motor skills, five is obviously overestimating. Come on, we need to get you to Carson. You know how he gets when he can't see you at least once a day." He offers a hand, scowling Ronon away from even thinking about helping.
Ronon retires with a muttered and completely unnecessary remark and moves off to the jumper.
John sways a bit, a careful hand to his forehead to keep it from exploding--Rodney knows the feeling--but steadies enough to start walking. Rodney inserts himself under one of John's arms, pulling it across his shoulders, and all that sun-warm length of bone and muscle is draped along him, bare skin shockingly present, separated from Rodney by his t-shirt, and by nothing at all where John's arm curves across the back of his neck.
"I can walk, you know," John says. His breath comes soft and hot over Rodney's ear.
"No you can't."
"I'm getting better."
Rodney tightens his grip around John's wrist, feeling the thin thread of bracelet pressing into his palm. "No you're not."
"Okay," John says, smirking and soft all at once. "I'm not."
He leans in a bit closer, and Rodney wraps his free arm around John's back, play of muscle under his arm, sand scratching between them, but everything about John is smooth and effortless and alive.
Rodney has no idea what the marines are thinking as their CO walks through Atlantis with his t-shirt on backwards and sand in his hair, feet bare on the hallway floors. Whatever they're thinking, Rodney decides, it had better not be inappropriate, and he glares at a few of them pre-emptively, just in case.
"Jealous?" John has that stupid grin plastered across his face, the kind that draws out the fine lines around his eyes, the mobile flesh of his mouth, the kind that hypnotizes Rodney if he's not careful.
"Concussion?" Rodney snaps, shaking off distraction and propelling John along.
They reach the infirmary in record time. Carson takes one look at John's tanned and sandy self, then takes one look at his head and says he'd probably been stunned but nothing more, nothing that requires the MRI Rodney's sure is necessary.
"If you start mutating or something, report back," he tells John, returning to his mice. "And try not to play sport with Ronon again if you can help it. I have damn-all patching the lot of you up as it is."
John tosses off a salute that's sloppy and insouciant even for him. Rodney sighs, scowls at Carson to let him know what he thinks about his medical practices, and trails John out the door.
The second they step out of the infirmary, movement and sense of purpose disappear. Nothing to worry and snap at anymore, possibility of mortal injury gone, Teyla and Ronon vanished--Teyla to explain to Elizabeth why they're back early and Ronon to do something really sporting, like pound the marines into marine jelly--and it's the two of them, Sheppard and McKay again, no direction, only Sheppard standing in front of Rodney, in his tanned skin and his back-to-front shirt and khakis that have nothing on underneath.
"Lab," Rodney says, the second Sheppard says "Come on, Rodney," just-there smile pulling at his lips, and snap, like that he's John again.
"Oh. Yes. Okay." Quick roll of green eyes and Rodney shuts up. A bit dazed--overexposure to the sun, he tells himself, or John, which is kind of the same thing--he falls into step, not really caring where they're going. Next to him, John tucks his hands in his pockets and slouches along like any teenager, shoulders and long line of torso curved in relaxation.
Loose and happy, Rodney thinks. An uncomplicated kind of happy that doesn't have near death or disaster or barely-saving-the-day behind it. He wears it well, as comfortably as John wears anything else.
Dimly, he's aware of the fact that John's leading him back to his quarters, that they are more than likely going to have sex, and, also dimly, that this excites him. John pulls him effortlessly along, down and down the hallways, like John's always done, and that's why the excitement is distant, pulse of it matched more to the summer day outside, the waves and their perpetual rhythm, and that, inexplicably, this is effortless.
The second they step through the door John has him against the wall, fingers sliding together, and the sand in John's palms rasps across the inside of Rodney's wrists.
"So you were watching." Everything about John is heat: the words, breath that carries them, his body with leftover sunlight.
"No boxers today?" Like there's any point in denying it, and the blink-and-you-miss-it flicker of surprise tells Rodney John hadn't expected that.
"No boxers," John says, surprise melting back into dark eyes and satisfaction and intent. Hands on Rodney's face now, thumbs firm on his cheekbones, mouth firmer on Rodney's mouth.
Easy, lazy like summer heat, easy to give into it and Rodney does, just opens and John's right there, sigh of salt-breath through Rodney's lips. John's hands trace out Rodney's neck, his shoulders, his chest, which makes Rodney shiver and John laugh, and Rodney has to run his hands down the planes of John's body, down ribs and John's flank and hip, all muscle and leashed strength, and under the precarious waistline of John's khakis.
"No boxers," John mutters, and Rodney can feel both the words and the smile. Yeah, no boxers, the worn khaki soft on Rodney's knuckles and John's body hot and hard under his fingertips.
He says something about defying the laws of physics, which makes John laugh and pull him back into the kiss, into him and back even more, back and back so John can guide both of them to bed, hitching himself across it with improbable grace and always, always pulling Rodney along so Rodney ends up with his knees bracketing John's thighs and watching as John slides, serpent-like, out of his shirt. As John grins at him and his hands drift toward the button of his khakis, and too-clever fingers hover there, suggesting.
"We'll--sand--sheets," Rodney says, or tries to say but John says we'll have worse in a minute in a way that destroys whatever coherence is left because John is unfastening his cutoffs and motioning impatiently for Rodney to pull them down. So he does, sliding cloth down sleek hips and thighs and finally off and forgotten and oh God, John is hard, is magnificent, is miles of skin and suppleness and perfection, lithe power and promise under Rodney's body.
John's windows open to the west and the afternoon sun, which turns the water to fire and John to flawed and tarnished gold, spills through them to stain the room a hallucination of red and blue. Like Rodney's hands it lingers over him, bolder, more familiar than Rodney is, because Rodney still can't believe this, almost, learning the contours of John's body as they flex and change, how touching John's nipples makes him shudder and his head tilt back, how the curve of his neck tastes when Rodney bends to lick and nip and suck.
He forgets to be self-conscious, though the sun isn't as kind to him, John's fingers traveling up under his shirt, mapping him like the jumper controls, the P-90, everything that John can touch and make come alive. Gun calluses scrape over his ribs -- oh my God, ticklish, even though his body twists into the sensation, and so John laughs and does it again -- his nipples, which makes him gasp into the hot curve of John's neck.
"Next time, you're not wearing this damn shirt," John informs him, fighting with Rodney's blue button-down. "And you're playing with us, like it or not."
"And have Ronon give me brain damage?" He yanks his shirt over his head and John, in gratitude, yanks him back down, chest to chest, and rolls them over, cock shockingly hard and hot against the shelf of Rodney's hip. "Or we could just go to the beach and have sex."
"That works." And kissing works too, John's mouth already acquainted with his, even though they haven't quite figured each other out yet, and they fumble their way into a rhythm that Rodney reinforces with both hands on John's ass.
"Tan all over," he mumbles into John's hair as John licks his way across his collar bone.
"Yup." Sweet drag of skin all down Rodney's body, mouth and fingers marking territory, pausing when John encounters Rodney's sensible, UV-impervious cargo pants. One hand plays elusively across him, making Rodney gasp and thrust up into unyielding weight, shiver as John teases the zipper down. "Good thing about really private beaches."
John under sea and sky, he can see that, him, stretched out, all clean lines and languid, wearing nothing but light that catches in his dogtags, odd prisms of sweat.
"Come next time," John says, grinning, the idiot, blowing odd little breaths across Rodney's cock, his fingers trailing down the sweatslick crease of Rodney's groin.
"Come right now," Rodney gasps, because he will, he so will, hard and God it hurts in the worst/best way, with John's hand on him and John's eyes on him too.
"Come here," he amends, because he wants to see John come first, not because he's nice but because he's selfish, wanting to watch without having to fight the afterglow. John comes compliantly, with a light in his eyes that says he's going along only because he likes it.
He reaches for John, one hand steady on his neck, the other one closing over John's cock, which makes John shudder and snap, subterranean ripples of muscle that play all along John's body and echo in Rodney's own. Rodney has to smirk, watching John's assurance come undone, green eyes gone dark and stripped of sarcasm and control. Long, firm strokes and John is all kinetic now, muscles tight with holding back even as he rocks into Rodney's hand, graceful and beautiful even doing that, and come on Rodney says, and John does.
Amazed and open, that's John's face when he comes, like when they're flying or doing something completely insane and getting away with it, this naked joy with something under it that Rodney doesn't know if he wants to examine too closely. Undone, and John even looks like he doesn't believe it, staring blindly at the patterns of come strung across Rodney's torso.
Then, seamlessly, John slides into release, slides down next to Rodney in a long, hot drape of muscle. Shocks and shivers still work their way under John's skin, and his hands shake as he reaches for Rodney to pull him into a kiss.
"Fuck," John gasps when he breaks the kiss. He doesn't let go, though. "Fuck, McKay."
"Yeah," Rodney agrees, still caught by the sight of John lost in orgasm. Memory, fresh and sharp, digs deep into his body, cuts along every nerve and makes him gasp, thrust against the thigh John has obligingly pressed up against him.
"Need help?" John asks, superior even through the haze of post-orgasm lassitude. He offers Rodney his hand and Rodney needs a minute to stare at John's wrist and the bracelet decorating it before he realizes what John's offering.
He licks John's palm, salt and grit of sand, tries not to moan and fails completely with John's hand wraps around his cock. His hips shiver forward and it should hurt, sand dragging against sensitive flesh, but it's hot and it's friction and it's good, and the darkness in John's eyes swallows light, Rodney's desperation, his urgency, everything.
Orgasm comes out of nowhere, from some dark place like John's dark eyes, a rush he senses the second before it hits. Rush of heat and light that blocks out the sun, everything except John's hand on his cock and John's breath in his ear, talking him through it, God, you're hot, come on come on, nonsensical phrases that fade and vanish but then come back and bring him back down to earth.
His heart is racketing in his chest like it's trying to escape, and he's sweaty and come-covered and probably wild-eyed, and he would like to say all this except his voice doesn't work, no breath to make it go, but suddenly it doesn't matter because John talks for him.
"Good," John says, not a question, and pushes Rodney onto his back, presses close alongside with one leg over Rodney's, foot tucked along the lower curve of Rodney's calf. They're sweaty and smell like the beach and like sex, but unless it involves cranes or a transporter, Rodney isn't moving.
He becomes aware, slowly, that John's laced the fingers of his left hand through Rodney's right, and that his thumb is graphing parabolas across the back of Rodney's hand and down his wrist. It's slow, meditative, calming, although looking down past the screen of dark hair, Rodney can see John's very invested in this.
Stay, okay? John asks.
Rodney traces out okay in nonsensical constellations on the smooth skin of John's back.
-end-
Post-fic notes: For the curious, the title is a snippet from e.e. cummings' very lovely "65."
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