I blame you all.
please, let me get what I want ----
sga, mckay/beckett. so definitely NC-17. I’ve been finally lured to the dark side. (the cookies were lovely, thank you.)
They've almost died again. The Wraith had been on their door step. The announcement The Ships have been destroyed is still vibrating in the air, fresh from the radio system, and the cheers ring through the city. Carson stands shaking on his feet in the small lab, relief rushing through him, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, and Rodney...
Rodney is looking at him. Staring.
Carson frowns at him. "What?" he asks and wonders if he's bleeding or something. He looks down at himself, but finds nothing wrong. Then looks up at Rodney again. Rodney's still looking at him like he might diffuse if he let him out of his sight. Something there that-- Carson suddenly feels like he should be moving, going, running. He can't do that because there's an intensity in Rodney's look, the kind that pins Carson's feet to the ground.
And then Rodney bounces. Carson never thought Rodney could move that fast, but there he is, grabbing a hold of Carson's head and pressing him against the wall and, oh god, kissing him. Kissing him like tomorrow's the end of the world, and that would be such a cliché if it hadn't been so close to being true.
It's not even a kiss: it's a point made and barriers crossed and questions asked, an exclamation mark, and it's that – not electricity or even anything physical – that makes Carson dizzy. Rodney's lips are hard and his body is solid against Carson's; a déjà-vu of sorts washes over him, except this time he knows who's the mind behind the action.
Rodney makes a sound, a small sound that sounds suspiciously like a squeak when he breaks the kiss, sharp, sudden. And he's not pulling away; pulling away would mean looking at Carson's face and Carson can tell from the tightness in the muscles of Rodney's arms that he's not ready to do that yet. Instead, Rodney hides his face into Carson's neck, breathes in sharp gulps of air.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and Carson can feel the movement of his lips on his skin, even through the fabric of his jacket. "Sorry. I wasn't planning on doing that." But he's still clinging, fingers still tangled in Carson's hair.
"That's alright," Carson says, with a weak, amazed voice, eyes wide, and his fingers flex on Rodney's biceps because he has no idea what to do with his hands.
"I'm not..." Rodney starts but doesn't conclude. Hot air puffing at the skin between Carson's hairline and the collar of his shirt. He closes his eyes against the sensation.
"Aye." It sounds like a moan, and Carson bites his tongue; Rodney tenses against him.
Rodney pushes himself off, away from Carson and takes a step back; his lips are slightly redder than usual and there's a shade of dark high on his cheeks. He looks at a spot left from Carson's head. Laughs; a short chuckle that doesn't sound humored at all. Runs his hand through his already mussed hair. Rocks on the balls of his feet like he doesn't know which way to go.
And then, Carson can see the decision on Rodney's face, the determination, and before he knows it, the door is sliding shut (Carson is imagining the near ominous click that it makes as it locks; imagining because the doors on Atlantis don't do that but he still can hear it clear as a day). The room suddenly seems smaller, tighter.
He knows where this is going even before Rodney takes a step forward.
"Rodney," he breathes out, pleading even though he no longer knows what he's pleading for.
He doesn’t know where the heat is coming from, but then it’s all crashing lips and bruising skin from there forward. He’s certain they’re making a mess out of themselves, scattering themselves all over the place in some violent burst of emotion, but something inside of him just yielded and caved in and needed. He can feel it in his skin, a burning that won’t let go, isn’t sated, wants more no matter how much his body crashes against Rodney’s.
The wall is hard against his back, and Rodney is solid against his front, pressing him against the wall even tighter. If his teeth scrape his lips a bit too hard at times, he can’t find it in himself to complain. It’s too good. It gets even better when Rodney yanks his shirt out of his trousers and slips his warm fingers under the fabric, up his side, to his chest. And he’s not really moaning, not even really kissing any more, just breathing into Rodney’s mouth in desperate gulps for air. Haste-clumsy fingers scramble lower down his body, another hand still pressing against his chest like Rodney’s afraid Carson is going to run any moment now. He’s not. Not when Rodney’s fingers finally find his belt buckle and start yanking.
It’s absurd. Entirely crazy, and he can’t even think any more. Just holds on, fingers probably making bruises on Rodney’s arms, when Rodney gets his trousers undone and his hand inside and Jesus fucking Christ and Mary.
Rodney thrusts his thigh in between Carson’s and rubs up against him, and suddenly Carson can’t get him close enough. He shoves his fingers into Rodney’s short hair and pulls; the half-surprised, half-aroused yelp that escapes Rodney gets lost somewhere between lips and tongues.
His other hand at Rodney’s back now, pulling too. He can feel the muscles there moving under his fingers as Rodney rolls and arches against him, a desperate, uncontrolled wave of motion, and even that could be enough to drive him over the edge, just feeling that want pouring off of him. He can feel Rodney pressing against his thigh, can feel that too, and he can’t help imagining how this would be like with all of their clothes off and nothing between them but air and the sweat on their skins. He moans at the thought.
Rodney only lets go of him long enough to make a fumbled attempt at his own trousers; if Carson could think more than oh god yes, he would feel embarrassed at his lack of initiative. Instead he wraps his hand around Rodney’s hipbone when Rodney manages to shove his clothes down enough, thumb fitting perfectly at the hollow at the edge, and holds him there, exposed and shivering.
And he doesn’t know when he got this bold, this unashamed, but somehow keeping Rodney at just far enough a distance so that he can watch as he shivers is even better than having him cover every possible inch of Carson’s body. And he watches. He watches the way Rodney’s head tilts back a fraction of an inch when Carson’s runs that thumb down the edge of his hipbone, and when he moves his hand to push the trousers even lower. Watches as Rodney’s tongue swipes against his bottom-lip when Carson slowly traces his fingers back up his thigh. Watches as Rodney mumbles something that just might have been fucking tease or might have been something else entirely.
Rodney steadies his hands against the wall on either side of Carson’s head when Carson finally wraps his fingers around his cock. A shuddering moan and another desperate roll of his hips. Head bowing closer now, lips finding lips now, body moving closer now, and – oh bloody fuck – skin on skin now. Carson’s vaguely aware that he’s groaning into Rodney’s mouth, making a lot more noise than is necessarily wise considering where they are.
And it’s a rush, rushing, scrambling, stumbling all over themselves in their haste to just get off, rough, fast, dirty, before someone starts wondering where they are and if they’re okay, so when Rodney takes a hold of his hips, holding them still against the wall, and takes charge, Carson’s doesn’t really mind because at that moment there’s nothing better than Rodney against him. He’s biting his lip, and Rodney is burying his face into Carson’s neck to muffle his own moans, and the hand that Carson has wrapped around both of them is tight, and Rodney is pushing into that grip, all hot slide and friction, the sensation driving him right off the edge.
All too soon and not soon enough it comes like a firestorm up his spine and slams against the back of his skull. He’s left gasping for air and writhing against Rodney, vaguely aware of Rodney following him not far behind.
And when the height of the feeling passes, being pressed between the wall and Rodney is the only thing keeping him standing. Rodney’s head is heavy on his shoulder, his fingers almost too tight on his hips. Carson feels himself slowly coming back down. It’s almost surreal, like he’s stepping into another dimension, or possibly stepping back out of one. Has to keep breathing because reality is slowly floating back into his focus, sounds other than the rush of his blood and the tempo of their movements finally penetrating.
Sound of the crackle of Rodney’s headset from somewhere at the level of their feet. At which point it had fallen, Carson can’t remember. He tenses at the sound, as if he’s finally snapping out of whatever spell he was under. Becomes aware of the sticky mess on his hand, the sweat sliding down between his shoulder blades, and Rodney, equally tense, fingers clenching against his flesh like he has no idea what to do with them.
Someone is calling Rodney’s name on the radio.
Rodney jerks to movement, quickly bending down to pick up the headset. He’s already hastily tucking and shoving at his own clothes, stepping away and turning his back to Carson as he clumsily shoves the receiver back to his ear and snaps at whoever is on the other end of the line. Carson is left suddenly cold. His head is humming. “What? Yes,” Rodney is saying into the radio. His hands quickly get his clothes back into order. “Yeah, yeah, fine. I was just... You know, just, don’t do anything to that until I get there. How’s the power holding up?”
There’s half a room of space between them now, and it’s only at that notion that Carson has the sense to start putting his own clothes back to order as well. He does so with faintly shaking fingers, can feel something like embarrassment rushing up his skin and heating up his face. He wipes his hand on the inside of his shirt and hopes that no one will notice before he gets the chance to go change.
“I’m on my way, okay? Just keep the temperature down if you can and we might be able to salvage it. I’ll be right there. McKay out.”
And with that they’re left in silence.
Rodney makes one last attempt at arranging his clothes, head bowed to scrutinize their state, but Carson thinks it’s probably more for show and avoidance than anything else. When he finally turns around to look at Carson, his gaze dances nervously all over the place. “Look, I have to, um...” He gestures at the door. “Go. I have to go.”
Carson nods because it’s not like he can think of anything else to say, either. And then he suddenly feels guilty when he realizes that he’s probably needed too and that they picked possibly the worst time imaginable to do this. Not that he knows if this would have happened at any other time. “Aye, me too.” He pushes himself off the wall.
“Right. Yeah. Um.” Rodney closes his mouth, biting his lip. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Takes them out again and runs one through his hair. Jolts to movement. He doesn’t look at Carson as he makes his way to the door and slides it open.
Carson hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the door swooshes shut again after Rodney. He rubs his hands over his face with a sigh. There’s something in his chest, twisting.
God, what on earth did he get himself into?