dS, F/K, explicit

Ray lets his head fall forward, his brow against Fraser's shoulder. He only needs to rest a minute, but Fraser won't let him rest, won't even give him that minute before he pushes his fingers into Ray's hair and tugs his head up again. Ray has time to suck in a quick breath and then Fraser's mouth is on his again, wet and hot, that tongue pushing up to meet Ray's own.

Ray moans and kisses Fraser back because he can't help it either, really--more than a year the two of them worked together, day in and day out, and all that time he was thinking of this. Of what it would feel like to get naked in a bed with Fraser. To get his fingers that hair, even, or kiss that fucking...mouth and now that he can finally do this, now that he's allowed, he doesn't even want to stop long enough to breathe.

"God," Fraser says, and kisses Ray again, slides his mouth down Ray's chin, licks the sweat off his neck. "Ray," he says, and bites Ray's shoulder, gently, his teeth wet and sharp on Ray's skin. Ray closes his eyes and thrusts into the warm hollow of Fraser's hip and Fraser's big hand closes hard on his ass, fingers digging in. Ray's stupid and blind, narrowed down to heat here and roughness there, to their breath in the silence, to the way Fraser's voice sounds like sandpaper or like liquor maybe, and Ray knows that doesn't make sense, but he can't, he can't make himself care.

"Fuck," he says, and his own voice sounds way too high-pitched and he might maybe be embarrassed about that, sometime. He lets his head fall back and thrusts again, and Fraser's fingers move on his ass, find the cleft and press inside it, inside him, slick with spit or something. He grunts and pushes forward again, then back onto Fraser's finger. And Fraser slides his other hand around to the back of Ray's head, pulling him down again so he can press his mouth to Ray's ear.

"Ray," he says. "Is this...can I...is this okay?"

Ray swallows hard. He needs to answer this because otherwise Fraser's going to stop, but Fraser has his thighs pressed against Ray's hips, and Ray can still, can still fucking taste Fraser every time he licks his lips or presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and he keeps getting distracted. He kisses Fraser's jaw and then he licks Fraser's ear, and then Fraser's finger is shifting inside him, getting ready to withdraw, so he lifts his head, forces himself to say something.

"Nnnuh," he says.

Fraser pauses. Ray swallows again and lifts his head and thank god, Fraser looks about as stupid as Ray feels: eyelids half-closed, his lips red and swollen. "No," Ray manages. "I mean, yeah. Or...just don't, uh. Don't stop."

Fraser licks his lips. "Okay," he says. And then Ray doesn't even know what he's doing anymore because Fraser's mouth is open under his and Fraser's fingers are in his hair, scraping against his scalp, keeping him close, and they're both breathing hard and the bed is smacking against the wall--thunk, thunk, thunk--and Ray's thinking about what if Fraser fucked him. He's thinking what if Fraser had him pushed into the mattress right now, and instead of that finger working its way inside him it was Fraser's cock, and he thinks that holy Christ he wants that, he wants it so fucking much.

"Fuck me," he says against Fraser's cheek. "Fraser, god--fuck me. I mean it. Please."

And Fraser sucks in a breath and pulls him even closer, pushes his fingers deeper and Jesus, Jesus, Ray is losing it, like there are stars in the dark behind his squeezed-closed eyelids and a ringing in his ears kind of losing it, and he's coming all over Fraser's stomach, Fraser's voice low and rough against his ear.

SGA, McKay/Sheppard


Rodney shifted. Broken glass crunched under the soles of his boots, that small sound echoing in the empty house where he was sheltering. Beneath the pines at the edge of the yard, something in the shadows moved. Rodney shivered, tightened his grip on the gun in his hand, sweat slick on the cool metal.

"Rodney," John said again. "I mean it. Don't."

Rodney closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard. Then he let all the breath out of his lungs at once, reached a shaky hand up to the radio in his ear and tugged it out.

John's strained whisper went silent. Without it, the night suddenly seemed much larger. Rodney heard the wind pick up outside, rustling the tops of those pines, stirring the grass in the yard, making the door swing on its one remaining hinge. He couldn't see much out there, but it seemed like the yard was empty. The...whatever-they-were--the Invaders, the locals had called them--they seemed to be concentrating their attentions on John, who was stuck in the branches of one of those pines, which John seemed to think was a perfectly satisfactory situation because it meant that the locals had been able to escape. Which, Rodney thought, pulling a grenade from the pouch on his belt with fingers that felt like rubber, was totally a John Sheppard kind of plan: short-sighted, unnecessarily dramatic and featuring the heroic sacrifice of hey, you guessed it--himself.

"Two more minutes," Rodney muttered. "I would've thought of something. I mean, come on--of course I would have. I'm great in time-pressured situations. I do my best planning that way." He hefted the grenade, gave it a doubtful look. In the training video, they said you should pick a target and plan your toss before you pulled the pin, so okay, that meant that now was the time. He took a breath. Let it out again. Took another breath. Considered making a brief detour so he could vomit, since that's what his stomach seemed to be suggesting he do, right now--and rather strenuously suggesting, too, actually.

But then there was a sudden rustling from the direction of the pines and what sounded like wood cracking, and Rodney heard John swear out loud, sounding scared--or at least startled--and then Rodney was running, flat-out, already halfway across the yard before he even knew what he was doing.

It was over pretty quickly from there. Yes, there was almost an issue when the pin turned out to be ridiculously difficult to pull out of the grenade, and Rodney had to pause mid-barbarian-charge to fiddle with the thing, and yes, when it finally come loose, he was so startled he almost forgot to actually throw it. But he did throw it, and he didn't blow his own arm off, and he got John out of the goddamned tree and they made it through the gate.

And later, when they were safe in Atlantis and the briefing was over--when John pulled Rodney into his quarters and shoved him hard against the wall in the dark, and kissed him like one of them was drowning, his mouth open and hot and alive, his fingers already working their way into Rodney's clothes--well. Rodney was willing to concede that heroics sometimes had their own reward.

SGA, McKay/Sheppard, explicit

                 "...so then, after all that negotiating, he said 'I'll think about it.'"

                 John made a soothing sort of noise and pulled Rodney's left arm out of his shirt sleeve.

Rodney hmphed. "'I'll think about it.' As if we hadn't just spent three hours explaining to him why it was absolutely necessary, and exactly what the consequences were going to be if he didn't--and I am not talking about minor stuff here, John; I mean, these people are on the verge of self, uh...what are you doing?"

John lifted his mouth from the hard curve of Rodney's shoulder. "I'm sucking on you," he said.

Rodney blinked. "Oh. Okay. Well, anyway, after that I might have said some, um...things." John scraped the fingertips of one hand down Rodney's hairy chest. Rodney shivered. "So now Elizabeth says I'm not allowed on any more diplomatic missions."

John smiled against the skin of Rodney's neck. "What'd you say?" he asked between kisses, and undid Rodney's fly.

Rodney shivered again, trying to bring his shoulder up to protect his neck from John's mouth. "I don't know," he said. "I suppose I said he was exploitative. And I might have called him a profiteering vulture." He shivered again, and then gasped when John's hand found its way into his underwear. "Also a morally vacant asshat," he added faintly.

John snorted, lifting his head. "You called the Grand Duke of Polomy an asshat?"

Rodney smiled tentatively. "Possibly?"

"Huh." John leaned in a little closer, made his grip a little tighter, watched Rodney's eyes fall closed. "Well. I think that's pretty hot."

"Oh," said Rodney, without opening his eyes. John kissed him, then did it again, bringing his unoccupied hand up to hold the side of Rodney's face, squeezing Rodney's cock inside his shorts, licking his way into Rodney's unresisting mouth. Rodney moaned and kissed him back, those big hands closing hard on his arms. For a little while, he didn't even try to talk.

But later, when they were both naked on the bed and John was kissing his way across Rodney's chest, he heard Rodney take a meditative breath. (That was the thing about Rodney: he would think of something to say pretty much any time his mouth wasn't actively occupied--and sometimes even that wouldn't stop him.)

"I could be diplomatic," he said now. "Don't you think?"

John grinned and licked Rodney's left nipple, shaking his head.

"No, but really--how hard could it be? I'm an intelligent guy."

"Rodney," John said gently, sliding up so he could look into Rodney's eyes, pushing the sweaty hair from Rodney's face and stroking that flushed cheek with his thumb. "You are the least diplomatic person I know. No--" Rodney opened his mouth like he was going to protest, so John shook his head. "Really. You will never, ever make a good diplomat. Never. Really. No."

Rodney closed his mouth and gave a frustrated little huff through his nose. John was obliged to kiss him pretty thoroughly. It took a while.

"You're still a genius, though," he said, eventually, when both of them were breathless.

"Well, yes," Rodney agreed. He did sound a little mollified, though; was tracing patterns on the small of John's back with his fingertips.

"And, you know--pretty fucking cute."

"Yeah?" That got him a grin.

John kissed it. "Mmm," he said. "But don't, uh. Don't tell anybody I said so."

SGA, team

                 Teyla's back ached.

She shifted, leaning back against the railing and stretching her bare feet out in front of her. It was difficult to find a comfortable position. Difficult to force herself to relax at all. She had been working a lot lately, dividing her time between offworld missions and the harvest on the mainland; she couldn't remember the last time she'd done anything this irresponsible.

But orders were orders, and Dr. Weir had been very clear. Teyla was to accompany the rest of the team to the south pier for an afternoon of mandated "R&R." "It'll do you all a world of good," she'd said. "You work too hard, and everyone has a limit. I'd just like to make sure that none of you is in any danger of reaching yours."

Well, and here they were. As ordered.

Out at the end of the pier, John and Ronon were standing with their toes curled around the edge of the platform, side by side. They appeared to be having a spitting contest. Rodney, however, had not adapted as well to the requirements of the afternoon. He was standing uncomfortably in the shade next to the nearest spire, his arms crossed over his chest, muttering to himself. He had been there for almost thirty minutes already--ever since he'd discovered that Dr. Weir had removed his computer from the bag he'd insisted on bringing, replacing it with a paper book and a deck of playing cards.

Teyla tipped her head back against the rail and closed her eyes. "Rodney," she called. "Perhaps you would find that the afternoon would pass more quickly if you did not spend it pacing?" She did not even have to open her eyes to know he was glaring at her now. She smiled a little. "Come, sit down. I'll help you with your sunscreen."

She could feel him waffling between the pleasures of continued sulking and the more immediate ones associated with having someone else rub lotion into your skin. Truly, he was as transparent as a little child, at times. It was a good thing that he was also cute.

Eventually, the sulking lost, as she had known it would. She heard his feet cross the pier, felt the whoosh of displaced air as he took a seat beside her. "How can you do this, just...give in like this?" She heard a rustling, and his voice grew muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. "I mean, I know you aren't like those two over there--you aren't the kind of person who can just spend the whole afternoon happily...hmm. What is it that they're doing, exactly?"

Teyla opened her eyes and they both watched John and Ronon for a time. The spitting war was over; the newest game seemed to require them to clasp hands and wave their thumbs about.

"I have no idea," Teyla admitted, after a while. She took the lotion Rodney pressed into her hand and squeezed a goodly portion of it into the other palm. "But are you hungry? Perhaps it would be a good idea for us to eat while those two are...occupied." She reached sideways and began to smooth the lotion over Rodney's shoulders.

Rodney groaned and shifted closer. "That--mmm--that is a good idea. I know they only packed us a couple of those ham and cheese sandwiches. I think it's entirely appropriate for the two of us to claim them."

Teyla smiled and leaned back against the railing again. The lotion was well-spread on Rodney's back, but she left her hand there anyway, warm against his spine, and he smiled at her, briefly, as he dug through the insulated bag into which the kitchen staff had packed their food. The sun beat down, sleepy and bright and warm against Teyla's eyelids, and even the enormous splash at the end of the pier couldn't persuade her to open them again.

In a little while, John and Ronon would be here, too, dripping salt water and demanding a fair share of the food, breathless and laughing, somehow managing to make even this wide-open space feel crowded. Rodney would complain and they would probably throw him in the ocean, and then they would all four of them spend the rest of the afternoon drying slowly in the sun.

Teyla smiled and patted Rodney's back before she drew her hand away. Perhaps Elizabeth had been right. They'd needed this. One day of childish ease in the midst of all the rest.

dS, F/K

                 "I think I've had enough, Fraser. This is done."

Fraser looked up from the book he was reading, squinting into the shadows outside the pool of light cast by his reading lamp. "Well," he said. "I suppose you might want to throw it out then, Ray."

Dief lifted his head from his forepaws and gave a protesting yelp.

"Diefenbaker, there is no way on this green earth that you could possibly be hungry. I personally saw you eat more than half your own weight in popcorn tonight." Dief grumbled, but lowered his head again. Fraser sighed.

Ray stood up from the table, put one hand over his slightly distended belly and gave the remnants of his slice of berry pie a doubtful look. "Maybe in a little while?" he said. "I mean, once stuff has a chance to, uh...settle."

Fraser sighed again, settling deeper into the cushions. He was careful not to say anything about overindulgence and the costs thereof, but he did allow himself a small disapproving shake of the head as he lifted his book again. He heard Ray snort, heard the sound of his feet on the kitchen tile and then the rattle of the refrigerator opening, a small chink as the plate touched the metal shelf within. A moment later, he felt the air move above him and had just enough time to look up before Ray himself landed on the cushions beside him, all elbows and protuberant knees.

"Ouch," Fraser said mildly.

"Shh." Ray squirmed and shifted, and Fraser sighed and accommodated him until they'd somehow managed an arrangement in which Ray rested between Fraser's body and the back of the couch, his head propped on Fraser's chest, one arm flung across his belly. He squirmed a little more, then, sneaking one bare foot between Fraser's warmer, sock-clad ones before he gave a satisfied grunt and closed his eyes.

Fraser lifted the hand that wasn't holding his book and dropped it into Ray's untidy hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. "I'm impressed," he murmured. "I wouldn't have thought the couch was sturdy enough to hold both of us and half the berry pie in Christendom as well."

"Mmmph," agreed Ray. "It's a good couch." He patted at it without opening his eyes.

Fraser smiled and let his hand fall flat against the back of Ray's head. The fire popped and sent a shower of sparks up the darkened shaft of the chimney, briefly brightening the rest of the room. Outside, it was snowing; Fraser could hear the soft hiss-hissing against the window.

"Should we go to bed?" he asked, eventually, setting his book on the floor.

Ray sniffed and held him a little harder, already most of the way asleep. "Mmhmm," he said. "Yeah. In, um. In a little while."


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