Fic: High as Heaven [SGA]
Title: High as Heaven
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Atlantis/Rodney. Yes, like that.
Summary: Sex. Love. ~850 words.
Rating: Adult, see above re: sex.
The sun's slowly dipping toward the horizon, and Rodney's considering letting himself fall face-first onto the bed and not moving a muscle for the next eight hours when he hears the knock at his door.
"I'm still a little wired from the chair," Sheppard says, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, his eyes open just a little too wide, and walks past Rodney into the room, reaching out to touch things like the wall or one of Rodney's photos, wandering aimlessly.
Rodney realizes that this is what passes for jittery in the universe of John Sheppard, and lacking any other ideas, leans against the wall to wait. This could take a while.
"No, not wired," Sheppard says, stopping with his hand hovering over a light fixture, tilting his head like he's seeing something strange. "Wired into. It's not as . . . not as much as being in the chair, but still. I can feel her. I can see where everyone is and she's like . . . electricity. God." He shakes his head.
Sheppard almost never calls the city she, Rodney knows. Once in a blue moon, when it's just him and Rodney; once in Carson's earshot--only once; never with Elizabeth or Lorne there.
"She has a massive crush on you, you know," Sheppard says, and for a second Rodney thinks he means Elizabeth, but Sheppard's still fondling the lamp, tracing it with just the tips of his fingers. Not Elizabeth. The other she.
"Jealous?" Rodney says, joking, and with two steps John's right in Rodney's personal space, bringing his hands up to touch him, skimming up his arms, shoulders, neck, looking at him almost reverently, touching his jaw and--"No, God, you have no idea"--kissing him like he's drowning.
Rodney allows himself about a third of a second to debate the intelligence of the decision he's about to make, and to hell with it, he deserves this, let someone else be the smart one for once, and he grabs John hard and kisses him back, pulling him closer, body to body and all the touch he never gets, all at once.
"She--I wish you could feel her like I do," John's murmuring along Rodney's jawline. "Your hands--what you do to her," still moving, warm palms, mapping Rodney's body with touch, only breaking contact for a second when Rodney opens John's jacket and pushes it down his arms. John catches his fingers on the way back up, like he's completing a circuit, and he goes back to kissing Rodney, deep and dark like he's finally coming home.
And that's when Rodney has a sudden, horrible thought, and he pulls back (not very far, considering how close John is pressing him to the wall) and untangles his fingers and says, "Wait, wait, is this you and not some freakish possession because really I'd rather do this when we're both in our right minds--" and John looks at him, mussed and irritated and breathing hard and says, "Yes, dumbass, it's me," sounding like himself again. "Can we--can we get on with this?"
"Yes," Rodney says faintly, because somehow his belt has become undone and it's getting very difficult to form complete sentences. Definitely they can get on with it, "okay, carry on," to which John smirks, and the next thing Rodney knows they're on his bed, sheets rumpled beneath him and the heavy weight of John above, anchoring him. Which is kind of odd, because really John looks like he's the one who's about to fly away.
"Let her in," John whispers, "let me in, if you could just stop thinking and--" he mouths Rodney's neck, just below his ear, "how she feels about you," and drifts downward, hands and mouth, and--
"This," Rodney gasps, "is the weirdest threesome ever," and is rewarded with laughter, puffs of breath on his hipbone.
"You're telling me?" John says, looking up at Rodney, his eyes dark and manic. "I can feel the shields. She . . . clear your mind," and Rodney's last coherent thought is that if John Sheppard's mouth is meditation, he will never make fun of yoga again.
Rodney only ever feels the city as a faint vague tickle in the back of his mind; usually doesn't try for more than that and doesn't get much when he does. But here, now, with Atlantis' golden boy leading him there, Rodney finds the whisper-soft touch of the city and holds on and oh god, like humming along his whole body he feels her, the waiting, the longing, joy love welcome promise, the utter adoration for John, and he pulls John up, needing more, full body touch as close as possible, and gasping into John's mouth he comes.
A minute later, John shudders, and Rodney feels Atlantis feel it, happiness completion bliss love love love love, and as John comes back to himself Rodney kisses him and cups his head and touches his back and whispers Atlantis' love in the twilight, gold and shadows and his city under his skin.
Notes: Title from Love's Trinity by Alfred Austin. Blame and thanks to melannen. See also gaiaanarchy's A Thursday Morning Concerto For the City in the Sea for additional inspiration.
The sequel, We Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Crisis.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Atlantis/Rodney. Yes, like that.
Summary: Sex. Love. ~850 words.
Rating: Adult, see above re: sex.
The sun's slowly dipping toward the horizon, and Rodney's considering letting himself fall face-first onto the bed and not moving a muscle for the next eight hours when he hears the knock at his door.
"I'm still a little wired from the chair," Sheppard says, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, his eyes open just a little too wide, and walks past Rodney into the room, reaching out to touch things like the wall or one of Rodney's photos, wandering aimlessly.
Rodney realizes that this is what passes for jittery in the universe of John Sheppard, and lacking any other ideas, leans against the wall to wait. This could take a while.
"No, not wired," Sheppard says, stopping with his hand hovering over a light fixture, tilting his head like he's seeing something strange. "Wired into. It's not as . . . not as much as being in the chair, but still. I can feel her. I can see where everyone is and she's like . . . electricity. God." He shakes his head.
Sheppard almost never calls the city she, Rodney knows. Once in a blue moon, when it's just him and Rodney; once in Carson's earshot--only once; never with Elizabeth or Lorne there.
"She has a massive crush on you, you know," Sheppard says, and for a second Rodney thinks he means Elizabeth, but Sheppard's still fondling the lamp, tracing it with just the tips of his fingers. Not Elizabeth. The other she.
"Jealous?" Rodney says, joking, and with two steps John's right in Rodney's personal space, bringing his hands up to touch him, skimming up his arms, shoulders, neck, looking at him almost reverently, touching his jaw and--"No, God, you have no idea"--kissing him like he's drowning.
Rodney allows himself about a third of a second to debate the intelligence of the decision he's about to make, and to hell with it, he deserves this, let someone else be the smart one for once, and he grabs John hard and kisses him back, pulling him closer, body to body and all the touch he never gets, all at once.
"She--I wish you could feel her like I do," John's murmuring along Rodney's jawline. "Your hands--what you do to her," still moving, warm palms, mapping Rodney's body with touch, only breaking contact for a second when Rodney opens John's jacket and pushes it down his arms. John catches his fingers on the way back up, like he's completing a circuit, and he goes back to kissing Rodney, deep and dark like he's finally coming home.
And that's when Rodney has a sudden, horrible thought, and he pulls back (not very far, considering how close John is pressing him to the wall) and untangles his fingers and says, "Wait, wait, is this you and not some freakish possession because really I'd rather do this when we're both in our right minds--" and John looks at him, mussed and irritated and breathing hard and says, "Yes, dumbass, it's me," sounding like himself again. "Can we--can we get on with this?"
"Yes," Rodney says faintly, because somehow his belt has become undone and it's getting very difficult to form complete sentences. Definitely they can get on with it, "okay, carry on," to which John smirks, and the next thing Rodney knows they're on his bed, sheets rumpled beneath him and the heavy weight of John above, anchoring him. Which is kind of odd, because really John looks like he's the one who's about to fly away.
"Let her in," John whispers, "let me in, if you could just stop thinking and--" he mouths Rodney's neck, just below his ear, "how she feels about you," and drifts downward, hands and mouth, and--
"This," Rodney gasps, "is the weirdest threesome ever," and is rewarded with laughter, puffs of breath on his hipbone.
"You're telling me?" John says, looking up at Rodney, his eyes dark and manic. "I can feel the shields. She . . . clear your mind," and Rodney's last coherent thought is that if John Sheppard's mouth is meditation, he will never make fun of yoga again.
Rodney only ever feels the city as a faint vague tickle in the back of his mind; usually doesn't try for more than that and doesn't get much when he does. But here, now, with Atlantis' golden boy leading him there, Rodney finds the whisper-soft touch of the city and holds on and oh god, like humming along his whole body he feels her, the waiting, the longing, joy love welcome promise, the utter adoration for John, and he pulls John up, needing more, full body touch as close as possible, and gasping into John's mouth he comes.
A minute later, John shudders, and Rodney feels Atlantis feel it, happiness completion bliss love love love love, and as John comes back to himself Rodney kisses him and cups his head and touches his back and whispers Atlantis' love in the twilight, gold and shadows and his city under his skin.
Notes: Title from Love's Trinity by Alfred Austin. Blame and thanks to melannen. See also gaiaanarchy's A Thursday Morning Concerto For the City in the Sea for additional inspiration.
The sequel, We Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Crisis.