Passing Shot by Liondragon 3/3 [stargate atlantis] (World Cup)
And the stunning conclusion! Depressing game spoilers for Group E play, NBA Finals, and Stanley Cup playoffs. Note that Chuck Campbell is in fact David Hewlett's stand-in, so I love making weird body-twin jokes about them. Something's probably stolen from serabut but I can't figure what. *g* Radek's long phrase is a Czech idiom for storm in a teacup.
edit: One line was bothering me and I couldn't remember how I wanted it till now. It was at a Pride Week festival that I spied sponsored recycling boxes marked GOT LUBE? So... that's where that's from.
EDIT: I am totally blanking right now, but I'm not the first one to mess with the holsters like that. And I cannot remember what fic that was! Argh. But yeah, that move is not my idea.
[ Part 1][ Part 2]
Passing Shot (part 3/3)
Prompt: Football widow(er)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Content: Graphic m/m/m/m sex. Adult. Gloriously un-beta'd.
One minute before the end, Rodney McKay nearly broke the television. "I don't fucking believe it! What the hell was that? What the hell just HAPPENED!" He tossed his coffee mug at the wall but it missed the screen and the wall, and wasn't that a metaphor for everything.
As Hurricanes players flooded the ice, he slumped down next to Chuck and moaned. "They sucked."
Earlier in the game, he and Chuck had been up and screaming and identically jabbing their fingers at the screen, trying to urge their ("only for the duration of the series, you understand," Rodney had said) Oilers forward. It was generally accepted that Rodney had been a bad influence on Chuck. The patrol had glanced in on the conference room marked 'STANLEY CUP GAME 7' and simply closed the door.
Now it was too quiet.
*
The city had suffered a minor contagion, which had delayed three days' worth of games. Rodney managed not to hack up a lung while he swore at Hermiod and decrypted the NBA Finals, the Stanley Cup Playoffs, World Cup Football group play, and some cricket matches; Carson allowed it since Rodney wasn't swearing at him for injecting the treatment every three hours.
Elizabeth granted everyone a free day once the quarantine was lifted. John wondered aloud if she'd been overcome by the pent-up testosterone, but Radek said knowingly that she had money riding on the Socceroos.
Conference rooms and labs were marked off with their respective match broadcasts. With the exception of the mess (the Australia and Mexico supporters had clashed over the use of it), every large, habitable space had been devoted to playoff games. They even draped a tarp over the stargate and there projected Japan v. Brazil; John reasoned that with most people watching that game, the gate would be well-guarded. Some of the smaller spaces had been taken over by the self-styled football widows for a wedding specials marathon. Word had it that Hermiod was receiving his body-weight in Athosian candy.
So two hours later, in the ensuing revelry (staunch Nakamura supporters Carson and Miko nearly fell down the stairs celebrating their team's lone goal) no one took notice that the Stanley Cup conference room had been locked.
*
Ages later, John was banging on the door. "Open up, McKay!"
"How do you know it's Dr. McKay?" It was Major Lorne.
"I asked Atlantis nicely, and he's one of five people who can override that," John grumbled. "Now it's time to ask her not-so-nicely." There was a panel being popped off; hopefully he wouldn't destroy the crystals.
One door swung open. "Rodney?" John called.
"Go away."
John gestured for Lorne to follow him in, like it was a dangerous mission. Lorne looked like he thought it was. "Hey buddy, you okay?"
"I am not okay," growled Rodney. "I am not drunk enough."
"Oilers lost, huh?" Lorne said, and both John and Rodney shot him a Look.
John sighed and picked his way through overturned chairs and plastic bottles formerly containing beer. It occurred to Rodney that he ought to have been more careful about the homebrew. He, like the rest of the command team, had automatic access to liquor by right of blackmail, but he was usually more discreet. After a moment, Lorne followed John inside.
"C'mon, Rodney. There's always next year." John sat down next to him, though out of eye-poking range. Rodney's hands seemed temporarily out of his control.
"They'll sign away all their good players," Rodney said plaintively. "It's a gross injustice on a cosmic level that they could get past Game 6 and not be able to pull it off. For god's sake, Ward's an Oilers fan! He plays for the enemy!" Belatedly he realized he was talking to two Americans. "What are you doing here, anyway? Come to mock the football widows?"
"Widower," corrected John. "And where's Chuck?"
"Chuck and the Quebecer left with the Aussies. Traitors." Rodney had grabbed the edge of John's t-shirt and was nervously tugging it out of his pants.
Lorne cleared his throat. "So why'd you say 'widows'? Plural?"
"What?" Rodney's hand formed a fist, fingers working, balling up even more of the black fabric. John sidled closer to prevent strangulation. "What, grammar lessons, Major? I meant in the collective sense of the term, with the two of you going door to door traumatizing the TLC marathons--"
"Bouře ve sklenici vody, I hear you, Rodney! You cannot crawl under rocks--" and Radek Zelenka burst in, picking his way through the mess though he was listing to the side. He didn't even notice Lorne, and John was on the far side of the couch.
Rodney sat up, yanking John along. "What rocks? I thought you were doing your interpretive dance with Doubek!"
Radek didn't appear surprised to see Colonel Sheppard attached thusly, though he did glance at the band of exposed midriff under Rodney's fist. "Simona was confined to quarters for punching Foschi."
"Oh." Rodney squinted at him. "I guess they lost."
"Yes, great tragedy," said Radek solemnly. "Nedved played well, at least. But that is not quite the point. I have looked for you since quarantine ended."
"For what?" Rodney demanded. It was their day off. And if there had been an emergency, he should have been the first to know.
For the first time Radek seemed to notice both Lorne and Sheppard. He blinked, for some reason unknown to Rodney found their presence acceptable, and tucked his glasses in his shirt-pocket. "For this," Radek said, grabbing Rodney's face and kissing him.
Rodney's jaw dropped in surprise, which only served to give Radek a wider area to exploit. Rodney was twisted around, getting kissed from above, his hand pulling John's t-shirt taut, and he jumped again John touched his tensing fist.
"Oh my god are you cra--!" Radek claimed his mouth again, and to his left John outright moaned.
"Wait a minute!" Rodney tried again. "So Italy won, that's what the U.S. wanted, right?"
Just behind his ear, John said glumly, "The thing is, we lost to Ghana. The Czechs and the Americans are eliminated." Rodney almost let go of John's shirt, except the base of his thumb was being stroked. Why wasn't anyone freaking out? They hadn't planned this, had they? With wide eyes he silently implored Radek for even a partial explanation.
The door shushed to a close, prompting them to look up.
"Ahoj, Major," murmured Radek.
"Glad to see you didn't go back on your bet, Doctor," said Lorne. He met John's eyes over Rodney's shoulder.
"You were not at the match," observed Radek, turning partially but keeping a hand on Rodney. John was starting to hyperventilate, which really should have been more alarming.
"I watched Game Six," said Lorne, and they all heard his heavy sigh. It was like the ultimate downer to see Lorne so dejected, not unlike a kicked puppy. "Dallas lost."
Radek frowned. "I am sorry to hear that," he said, as his thumb traveled to Rodney's lips, presciently stopping a perfectly truthful statement that they didn't have a chance while Dwayne Wade was with Miami.
"You know what, this day off sucks," John said. "Rodney, you gonna let go of me?"
This time Rodney was able to say, perfectly truthfully: "No. No, not really."
"Okay," John said, and planted his knees on the seat so he could lean over and kiss Rodney on the mouth.
Rodney was still buzzing from Radek's mouth-to-mouth. John's kiss was dizzying, brilliant, so inherently insane that it was all he could do to focus on the feel of hands cupping his face, of another hand rubbing his chest. The motion pushed him back toward Radek, still behind the couch and breathing hard liquor fumes on Rodney's ear.
When John came up for air, he was on all fours on the couch, his boots hanging off the edge. True to his word, Rodney hadn't let go; John's shirt was rucked up almost to his neck. "Lorne," John said huskily. "Do me a favor."
"Sir?"
Rodney winced, suddenly uneasy beyond the usual reaction to surreality. 'What happened in the labs stayed in the labs' applied especially to himself and Radek. But this was Sheppard, and his second-in-command was still in the room.
"Disarm me, would you?"
Efficient as ever, Lorne came around to the other side of the couch and reached between John's legs to unstrap his thigh holster.
Radek clutched at Rodney and Rodney clutched back. John's face was inches away from them, eyes fluttering and tongue-tip flicking obscenely while Lorne unclasped, unbuttoned, and ripped, confiscating a sidearm, an extra clip, and a knife. Then, absolutely deadpan, he pat John down, one inseam to ankle, then the other leg.
"Going to take off your shoes, Sir," Lorne said. He lifted an ankle, untying John's double knots and loosening it with swift thwick-thwicks. John's eyes had slid shut, and beyond that Rodney could see Lorne's concentration just over the curve of John's ass. He splayed his hand over John's bare chest at the same time Radek reached down and started unbuttoning his pants.
"Oh god," Rodney murmured.
John's lids drifted up till he was staring at Radek's hand, which was clearing more clothing out of the way. "You wanna go with what's most convenient, McKay?" he said, and Rodney could feel the breath on his stomach. Rodney glanced over at Lorne, who'd dropped the shoe and sock on the floor; his C.O.'s foot was in his hands and with the same focused gaze Lorne was caressing his ankle.
"Rodney," said John more sharply. "You want my mouth or his hand?"
What kind of a stupid question was that? "Both," Rodney said impatiently. Radek huffed, fond and exasperated, and John just grinned. "For goodness' sake get on with it. Radek, sit here, you're making my neck hurt. And if I'm dropping my pants, you lose your shirt, Colonel."
"I always lose my shirt," John complained.
"Yes, and whose fault is-- uh, yeah, oh, oh," Rodney squirmed, sinking into the couch as Radek wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. John held down Rodney's knee, holding him open, and leaned up to lick along Rodney's slackened mouth.
"Sir," Lorne admonished. He was probably getting kicked back there. Rodney glanced over, oddly smug that Lorne was in fact flushed from enjoying the view. Then Radek and John pulled his shirt off and god, how many hands were fondling him?
From somewhere around his chest, John's voice said, "Any of us have supplies?"
"Jo, I do," said Radek.
"Rodney, you need one?" John turned his head, nosing Rodney's belly. Rodney stared crosseyed at his questioning brow and hazel eye.
"No," admitted Rodney. "M'clean." Someone, Radek, cupped his balls, playing with them as they tightened, but Rodney was fixated on the curve of John's stubbled jaw. He touched John's nape and got a shuddering sigh.
"Lorne," John said, twisting around suddenly to look over his shoulder. His hair tickled Rodney's skin. And there it was again, that flash of instinctive communication, like they were in the field and didn't have a hand free for signals. Beside him Radek pressed in, just as turned on as Rodney, and one of them might've whimpered when John finally said, casually, "Think you can handle yourself back there?"
"I'll do my best, Sir," said Lorne, his smile cheerful and his eyes leering.
John's smile caught on the edge of Rodney's skin, and he turned to catch Radek's eye. "Got lube?"
Radek stammered, patting his pockets one-handed, "I, I believe so, ah, here," and tossed a pouch over to Lorne, who caught it deftly.
John kissed along Rodney's chin. "Hey, you okay with this?"
"What Stanley Cup," Rodney murmured, watching John's hips as he wriggled out of his pants. After a moment he found the use of his hands again, and held John's face to his. "Don't be an idiot." John smiled at him, bright and eager.
Then from his right: "Dobrý, dobrý, dobrý, I have just watched Nedved's last game, cannot talk all day," and the next thing he knew, Rodney was getting the handjob of his life, head thrown back against the couch and moaning without reserve. Somewhere in there John was kissing him, touching his nipples (cheating bastard), and someone was blowing over his cockhead and Rodney honestly did not care who it was.
It was going to register any minute now why John's mouth wasn't involved. Like all good eureka moments, Rodney felt it before he knew it, John's shuddering gasp and the slight push translated from John's shoulder. It was a second before he made himself open his eyes when he realized that Lorne, still mostly in uniform, was fucking John's ass.
Then it dawned, centuries late, that John was naked and he was going to suck his cock. "Oh my god," said Rodney, "Hurry up, hurry up, I can't--!" And Radek had to muffle his cries with his mouth, because he was screaming John's name and advanced Ancient architecture wasn't that soundproof. He was trying hard to stick to some kind of rhythm, but still bucked hard against Radek's firm weight on his hip, still jerked a little too fast into the warm channel of Radek's hand and John's mouth.
Then one of the hands went away, and Rodney dragged an eye open to follow it: John reaching down to touch himself, and that was it. Rodney couldn't take it anymore. He gasped into Radek's mouth, then his ear as the man muttered a litany of Czech, and somewhere in there he squeezed the hand he didn't know he was holding, and John squeezed back when he came.
"Damn, Sir," Lorne said, a million years later.
Somewhere outside, people were banging drums in celebration. Rodney was laid out on Radek's lap. Very relaxed. Very much liking this day off. In the midst of the rustling and bumping, Rodney opened his mouth to ask something.
Then John leaned overhead and said, "Polib me." Rodney blinked. They were kissing. John and Radek. Wow. When they both looked down at him, eyes still blown out and luminous, Rodney got his answer. None of it had been planned at all. They'd just all come prepared.
Rodney gripped the hand still tangled in his and decided that was one for the win column.
edit: One line was bothering me and I couldn't remember how I wanted it till now. It was at a Pride Week festival that I spied sponsored recycling boxes marked GOT LUBE? So... that's where that's from.
EDIT: I am totally blanking right now, but I'm not the first one to mess with the holsters like that. And I cannot remember what fic that was! Argh. But yeah, that move is not my idea.
[ Part 1][ Part 2]
Passing Shot (part 3/3)
Prompt: Football widow(er)
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Content: Graphic m/m/m/m sex. Adult. Gloriously un-beta'd.
One minute before the end, Rodney McKay nearly broke the television. "I don't fucking believe it! What the hell was that? What the hell just HAPPENED!" He tossed his coffee mug at the wall but it missed the screen and the wall, and wasn't that a metaphor for everything.
As Hurricanes players flooded the ice, he slumped down next to Chuck and moaned. "They sucked."
Earlier in the game, he and Chuck had been up and screaming and identically jabbing their fingers at the screen, trying to urge their ("only for the duration of the series, you understand," Rodney had said) Oilers forward. It was generally accepted that Rodney had been a bad influence on Chuck. The patrol had glanced in on the conference room marked 'STANLEY CUP GAME 7' and simply closed the door.
Now it was too quiet.
*
The city had suffered a minor contagion, which had delayed three days' worth of games. Rodney managed not to hack up a lung while he swore at Hermiod and decrypted the NBA Finals, the Stanley Cup Playoffs, World Cup Football group play, and some cricket matches; Carson allowed it since Rodney wasn't swearing at him for injecting the treatment every three hours.
Elizabeth granted everyone a free day once the quarantine was lifted. John wondered aloud if she'd been overcome by the pent-up testosterone, but Radek said knowingly that she had money riding on the Socceroos.
Conference rooms and labs were marked off with their respective match broadcasts. With the exception of the mess (the Australia and Mexico supporters had clashed over the use of it), every large, habitable space had been devoted to playoff games. They even draped a tarp over the stargate and there projected Japan v. Brazil; John reasoned that with most people watching that game, the gate would be well-guarded. Some of the smaller spaces had been taken over by the self-styled football widows for a wedding specials marathon. Word had it that Hermiod was receiving his body-weight in Athosian candy.
So two hours later, in the ensuing revelry (staunch Nakamura supporters Carson and Miko nearly fell down the stairs celebrating their team's lone goal) no one took notice that the Stanley Cup conference room had been locked.
*
Ages later, John was banging on the door. "Open up, McKay!"
"How do you know it's Dr. McKay?" It was Major Lorne.
"I asked Atlantis nicely, and he's one of five people who can override that," John grumbled. "Now it's time to ask her not-so-nicely." There was a panel being popped off; hopefully he wouldn't destroy the crystals.
One door swung open. "Rodney?" John called.
"Go away."
John gestured for Lorne to follow him in, like it was a dangerous mission. Lorne looked like he thought it was. "Hey buddy, you okay?"
"I am not okay," growled Rodney. "I am not drunk enough."
"Oilers lost, huh?" Lorne said, and both John and Rodney shot him a Look.
John sighed and picked his way through overturned chairs and plastic bottles formerly containing beer. It occurred to Rodney that he ought to have been more careful about the homebrew. He, like the rest of the command team, had automatic access to liquor by right of blackmail, but he was usually more discreet. After a moment, Lorne followed John inside.
"C'mon, Rodney. There's always next year." John sat down next to him, though out of eye-poking range. Rodney's hands seemed temporarily out of his control.
"They'll sign away all their good players," Rodney said plaintively. "It's a gross injustice on a cosmic level that they could get past Game 6 and not be able to pull it off. For god's sake, Ward's an Oilers fan! He plays for the enemy!" Belatedly he realized he was talking to two Americans. "What are you doing here, anyway? Come to mock the football widows?"
"Widower," corrected John. "And where's Chuck?"
"Chuck and the Quebecer left with the Aussies. Traitors." Rodney had grabbed the edge of John's t-shirt and was nervously tugging it out of his pants.
Lorne cleared his throat. "So why'd you say 'widows'? Plural?"
"What?" Rodney's hand formed a fist, fingers working, balling up even more of the black fabric. John sidled closer to prevent strangulation. "What, grammar lessons, Major? I meant in the collective sense of the term, with the two of you going door to door traumatizing the TLC marathons--"
"Bouře ve sklenici vody, I hear you, Rodney! You cannot crawl under rocks--" and Radek Zelenka burst in, picking his way through the mess though he was listing to the side. He didn't even notice Lorne, and John was on the far side of the couch.
Rodney sat up, yanking John along. "What rocks? I thought you were doing your interpretive dance with Doubek!"
Radek didn't appear surprised to see Colonel Sheppard attached thusly, though he did glance at the band of exposed midriff under Rodney's fist. "Simona was confined to quarters for punching Foschi."
"Oh." Rodney squinted at him. "I guess they lost."
"Yes, great tragedy," said Radek solemnly. "Nedved played well, at least. But that is not quite the point. I have looked for you since quarantine ended."
"For what?" Rodney demanded. It was their day off. And if there had been an emergency, he should have been the first to know.
For the first time Radek seemed to notice both Lorne and Sheppard. He blinked, for some reason unknown to Rodney found their presence acceptable, and tucked his glasses in his shirt-pocket. "For this," Radek said, grabbing Rodney's face and kissing him.
Rodney's jaw dropped in surprise, which only served to give Radek a wider area to exploit. Rodney was twisted around, getting kissed from above, his hand pulling John's t-shirt taut, and he jumped again John touched his tensing fist.
"Oh my god are you cra--!" Radek claimed his mouth again, and to his left John outright moaned.
"Wait a minute!" Rodney tried again. "So Italy won, that's what the U.S. wanted, right?"
Just behind his ear, John said glumly, "The thing is, we lost to Ghana. The Czechs and the Americans are eliminated." Rodney almost let go of John's shirt, except the base of his thumb was being stroked. Why wasn't anyone freaking out? They hadn't planned this, had they? With wide eyes he silently implored Radek for even a partial explanation.
The door shushed to a close, prompting them to look up.
"Ahoj, Major," murmured Radek.
"Glad to see you didn't go back on your bet, Doctor," said Lorne. He met John's eyes over Rodney's shoulder.
"You were not at the match," observed Radek, turning partially but keeping a hand on Rodney. John was starting to hyperventilate, which really should have been more alarming.
"I watched Game Six," said Lorne, and they all heard his heavy sigh. It was like the ultimate downer to see Lorne so dejected, not unlike a kicked puppy. "Dallas lost."
Radek frowned. "I am sorry to hear that," he said, as his thumb traveled to Rodney's lips, presciently stopping a perfectly truthful statement that they didn't have a chance while Dwayne Wade was with Miami.
"You know what, this day off sucks," John said. "Rodney, you gonna let go of me?"
This time Rodney was able to say, perfectly truthfully: "No. No, not really."
"Okay," John said, and planted his knees on the seat so he could lean over and kiss Rodney on the mouth.
Rodney was still buzzing from Radek's mouth-to-mouth. John's kiss was dizzying, brilliant, so inherently insane that it was all he could do to focus on the feel of hands cupping his face, of another hand rubbing his chest. The motion pushed him back toward Radek, still behind the couch and breathing hard liquor fumes on Rodney's ear.
When John came up for air, he was on all fours on the couch, his boots hanging off the edge. True to his word, Rodney hadn't let go; John's shirt was rucked up almost to his neck. "Lorne," John said huskily. "Do me a favor."
"Sir?"
Rodney winced, suddenly uneasy beyond the usual reaction to surreality. 'What happened in the labs stayed in the labs' applied especially to himself and Radek. But this was Sheppard, and his second-in-command was still in the room.
"Disarm me, would you?"
Efficient as ever, Lorne came around to the other side of the couch and reached between John's legs to unstrap his thigh holster.
Radek clutched at Rodney and Rodney clutched back. John's face was inches away from them, eyes fluttering and tongue-tip flicking obscenely while Lorne unclasped, unbuttoned, and ripped, confiscating a sidearm, an extra clip, and a knife. Then, absolutely deadpan, he pat John down, one inseam to ankle, then the other leg.
"Going to take off your shoes, Sir," Lorne said. He lifted an ankle, untying John's double knots and loosening it with swift thwick-thwicks. John's eyes had slid shut, and beyond that Rodney could see Lorne's concentration just over the curve of John's ass. He splayed his hand over John's bare chest at the same time Radek reached down and started unbuttoning his pants.
"Oh god," Rodney murmured.
John's lids drifted up till he was staring at Radek's hand, which was clearing more clothing out of the way. "You wanna go with what's most convenient, McKay?" he said, and Rodney could feel the breath on his stomach. Rodney glanced over at Lorne, who'd dropped the shoe and sock on the floor; his C.O.'s foot was in his hands and with the same focused gaze Lorne was caressing his ankle.
"Rodney," said John more sharply. "You want my mouth or his hand?"
What kind of a stupid question was that? "Both," Rodney said impatiently. Radek huffed, fond and exasperated, and John just grinned. "For goodness' sake get on with it. Radek, sit here, you're making my neck hurt. And if I'm dropping my pants, you lose your shirt, Colonel."
"I always lose my shirt," John complained.
"Yes, and whose fault is-- uh, yeah, oh, oh," Rodney squirmed, sinking into the couch as Radek wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. John held down Rodney's knee, holding him open, and leaned up to lick along Rodney's slackened mouth.
"Sir," Lorne admonished. He was probably getting kicked back there. Rodney glanced over, oddly smug that Lorne was in fact flushed from enjoying the view. Then Radek and John pulled his shirt off and god, how many hands were fondling him?
From somewhere around his chest, John's voice said, "Any of us have supplies?"
"Jo, I do," said Radek.
"Rodney, you need one?" John turned his head, nosing Rodney's belly. Rodney stared crosseyed at his questioning brow and hazel eye.
"No," admitted Rodney. "M'clean." Someone, Radek, cupped his balls, playing with them as they tightened, but Rodney was fixated on the curve of John's stubbled jaw. He touched John's nape and got a shuddering sigh.
"Lorne," John said, twisting around suddenly to look over his shoulder. His hair tickled Rodney's skin. And there it was again, that flash of instinctive communication, like they were in the field and didn't have a hand free for signals. Beside him Radek pressed in, just as turned on as Rodney, and one of them might've whimpered when John finally said, casually, "Think you can handle yourself back there?"
"I'll do my best, Sir," said Lorne, his smile cheerful and his eyes leering.
John's smile caught on the edge of Rodney's skin, and he turned to catch Radek's eye. "Got lube?"
Radek stammered, patting his pockets one-handed, "I, I believe so, ah, here," and tossed a pouch over to Lorne, who caught it deftly.
John kissed along Rodney's chin. "Hey, you okay with this?"
"What Stanley Cup," Rodney murmured, watching John's hips as he wriggled out of his pants. After a moment he found the use of his hands again, and held John's face to his. "Don't be an idiot." John smiled at him, bright and eager.
Then from his right: "Dobrý, dobrý, dobrý, I have just watched Nedved's last game, cannot talk all day," and the next thing he knew, Rodney was getting the handjob of his life, head thrown back against the couch and moaning without reserve. Somewhere in there John was kissing him, touching his nipples (cheating bastard), and someone was blowing over his cockhead and Rodney honestly did not care who it was.
It was going to register any minute now why John's mouth wasn't involved. Like all good eureka moments, Rodney felt it before he knew it, John's shuddering gasp and the slight push translated from John's shoulder. It was a second before he made himself open his eyes when he realized that Lorne, still mostly in uniform, was fucking John's ass.
Then it dawned, centuries late, that John was naked and he was going to suck his cock. "Oh my god," said Rodney, "Hurry up, hurry up, I can't--!" And Radek had to muffle his cries with his mouth, because he was screaming John's name and advanced Ancient architecture wasn't that soundproof. He was trying hard to stick to some kind of rhythm, but still bucked hard against Radek's firm weight on his hip, still jerked a little too fast into the warm channel of Radek's hand and John's mouth.
Then one of the hands went away, and Rodney dragged an eye open to follow it: John reaching down to touch himself, and that was it. Rodney couldn't take it anymore. He gasped into Radek's mouth, then his ear as the man muttered a litany of Czech, and somewhere in there he squeezed the hand he didn't know he was holding, and John squeezed back when he came.
"Damn, Sir," Lorne said, a million years later.
Somewhere outside, people were banging drums in celebration. Rodney was laid out on Radek's lap. Very relaxed. Very much liking this day off. In the midst of the rustling and bumping, Rodney opened his mouth to ask something.
Then John leaned overhead and said, "Polib me." Rodney blinked. They were kissing. John and Radek. Wow. When they both looked down at him, eyes still blown out and luminous, Rodney got his answer. None of it had been planned at all. They'd just all come prepared.
Rodney gripped the hand still tangled in his and decided that was one for the win column.