R and R
by lamardeuse
Inspired by Crys
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Warnings (highlight to view): explicit sex
John finally gave up on surfing when his legs were so weak they couldn’t hold him up any more. He wobbled up the beach to the small cottage perched on a low rise, washed the worst of the sand and salt off him with the outdoor shower, then stripped off his trunks and left them on the railing before entering.
The sun was just starting to rise when he’d gone out, and so he wasn’t surprised to find Rodney still asleep. He wasn’t even surprised to see him naked and sprawled on the bed, all his covers kicked off; Rodney'd been bitching intermittently about the heat ever since they’d arrived in Barbados two days ago. However, he was surprised when he looked at Rodney and his breath stopped in his throat, because Rodney looked like – he looked like –
Well, he looked like a fucking porn star, to tell the truth, and although John certainly had no complaints when it came to their sex life, those weren’t the words that immediately sprang to mind when it came to Rodney himself. Rodney was big, and solid, and he had a gorgeous, wide mouth built for kissing, and he gave off heat like a blast furnace, and he had this kind of swirly-lick thing he did to John’s cock that was probably deserving of a Nobel Prize if they gave out Nobel Prizes for fellatio, but he was about the farthest thing from an exhibitionist you could get and still be willing to get naked with another person. He wasn’t self-conscious about his body, he just was completely uninterested in putting on a show with it, because he believed he had better things to do with his time, like worship John’s body, and up until now John was man enough to admit that had been fine with him.
But this – this was different. This wasn’t Atlantis; it wasn’t a fast, dirty fuck against a wall or in the back of a puddle jumper; it wasn’t twenty minutes stolen from the too-short interval between crises. This was five days and six nights of sand and sun and surf and sex and having no connection to the outside world; the cabin didn’t even have Internet, which had nearly been a deal-breaker right there. But John had finally been able to persuade Rodney that there were better things they could be doing, and he thought that Rodney was coming around to his way of thinking.
Now, it seemed, he had proof, because although Rodney in sleep was usually oddly formless, an exhausted lump buried under the covers, this Rodney was all bones and muscle and clearly defined parameters. The sweet, rounded curve of his ass, the sharp jut of an elbow, every bit of it was laid out on the white sheets like a seven-course meal on linen tablecloth. Rodney was a feast, and John wished he’d seen it before now, wished he’d been able to take him to a place where he could be that guy, the one who slept in his own skin like he knew every inch of it, the undisputed owner of his stretch of human real estate.
Never mind, John told himself, after an uncharacteristic moment of navel-gazing. He’s here, I’m here, we’re safe, and we have three nights left.
As John drew closer, he noticed the patch just under Rodney’s right shoulderblade where they must have skimped on the sunblock; it was red and angry and just starting to peel. Careful not to jar the bed, John leaned down slowly and pressed his lips to that small acreage of vulnerability, because it was always a good idea to start with something familiar and work your way up to the new stuff.
Rodney usually jerked awake, but today his rise to consciousness was languid, unhurried, like he knew full well the effect he’d had on John. This, of course, only served to make John even hotter. Growing bolder, he licked his way to the base of Rodney’s neck, then took a mock-bite out of the skin over his lowermost cervical vertebra.
Rodney – Jesus. He purred.
“You awake yet?” John murmured in Rodney’s ear, when he could trust his voice.
“Nawshurr,” Rodney slurred into the pillow. “Maybe y’better – unhhhh – pr'vide me with s’m sperimental data, hmmmm?”
“Always the scientist,” John said, teasing Rodney’s lobe with the tip of his tongue. “I’ll give you data,” he promised, and Rodney shivered.
Slowly, slowly, because for once they had time, John ran his fingertips over Rodney’s spine, scraped his short nails up Rodney’s sides, slid his palms down his shoulders and along the broad planes of his biceps. Rodney growled, and squirmed, and sighed, and by the time John was actually starting in on more R-rated territory, John was hard and Rodney was panting and the need was heavy and thick in the humid, salty air.
“John, John, please,” Rodney begged, trying to turn over, but John stopped him with a firm hand on the small of his back that turned into a caress, and then John was reaching for the lube and parting him and then he was pressing in, and Rodney curled his shoulders into the pillow and gripped the top edge of the mattress and held on, saying please and please and please until John thought that he would break apart, yielding not to the Wraith or the coldness of space or the callousness of fate, but to the fresh discovery he’d made in this peaceful place.
But then, if you had to yield to something, John decided, sinking into Rodney’s generous, warm body as the rising sun began to heat the land, this wasn’t such a bad way to go.
End
March 2006
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