We're Onto Something

by darsynia

Notes: Sequel to Gentling. Story title from the song 'Must Be Dreaming' by Frou Frou—
it seemed singularly appropriate, as this was written for the 'must be dreaming' challenge at sga_flashfic.
Pertinent lyrics: "I must be dreaming or / we're onto something / I must be dreaming for / I don't fall in love lawlessly." Written 5/16/08.


John's neck hurt. He was also a little cold, goosebumps making their presence known in a prickly wash all across his exposed skin. He opened his eyes and immediately recognized the problem—he was lying scrunched up on his side with no pillow, no blanket, and dangerously close to tipping over onto the floor. Running a slightly warmer hand along his upper arm for the friction, John examined his options.

Rodney was slumped improbably on his side—almost on his stomach, really—facing away from John, held up from the mattress by a large lump of blanket. It looked as if he'd rolled over in the middle of the night and taken it all with him, thus explaining John's cover-less state. Somehow, the pillow they'd been sharing (and hadn't John called that one—out of the four times they'd slept together like this, not once had he ever woken with a pillow. Not even when it'd been Rodney's bed, and Rodney's extra pillow) had also twisted itself sideways, and the majority of it was resting against the headboard. Overall, the picture was of sedated mayhem, and when John risked a peek over Rodney's shoulder, the image of McKay's hand clutching the blanket up near his face was so... so something that he quickly pulled his head back and dropped it on the mattress, shutting his eyes. This was unexpected.

John liked McKay. He was attracted to the man. He was okay with that. He'd even resigned himself to the fact that Rodney's ranting had a lot in common with the litany of frustrated noises he'd made when John had forced them to go slowly. Similar enough that when they'd been off-world and Rodney had begun complaining about their sluggish progress through a muddy field, John had gotten an incredibly vivid image of Rodney sweat-slick and panting, demanding that John stop torturing him and fuck him—

John had needed to order Ronon to their six so he could take point and cover his reaction. But Ronon wasn't here now, and Rodney's breathing had shallowed, a sure sign that he would wake soon. It wasn't that John was afraid (though a niggling voice in the back of his head pointed out that he was unlikely to admit it even if he were), it was that responding to an unexpectedly passionate kiss on a planet with touchy-feely aliens was one thing, and finding a sleeping McKay adorable was something else altogether. Rodney could go from commanding to vulnerable so quickly it made John's head spin and his protective instincts all flip on to high alert, and he still wasn't sure that mixing protective with possessive was such a good idea.

"You're thinking so hard I can hear it through your stupid hair," Rodney said, his voice muffled through the blanket and several layers of drool.

"I could have been asleep," John pointed out, wondering if a swift tug on the blanket would result in his regaining a share of it or a tumble onto the undoubtedly cold floor.

"Your breathing changes," McKay said through a yawn. John was just childish enough to be grateful that the other man's back was still turned, missing the grin that crept up onto his face at the easy familiarity.

"Do I breathe differently when I have a blanket to sleep with?" John asked, unable to keep his smile from coloring his tone of voice.

"If we held each other accountable for what we do in our sleep, I'd have long since smothered you for snoring," Rodney said, undaunted.

"I might not snore if I had a pillow to rest my head on," John said quietly, but Rodney didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he rolled over, wincing as he tugged the bulky folds of blanket out from under his back (and tucked it around himself, the bastard), a look of speculation on his face.

"Then again, we might end up having a lot more sex, given the male body's natural proclivities toward— Oh!"

McKay always maintained that John was smarter than he looked, and every so often, John liked to prove it—this time, he was way ahead of Rodney. The blanket had shifted when McKay had turned over, and John was able to reach his hand under it, sliding up into Rodney's boxers through a leg opening. It was a tight fit, but the position also meant that the other man had to be very careful about moving his hips or legs for fear of injuring John's arm. He could feel Rodney's strong thigh shaking against his arm as he stroked his hand up the length of Rodney's cock, morning hard and already wet at the tip. Rodney's eyes were wide and fixed on the ceiling, but his hand had patted at John awkwardly until he'd hooked his fingers into the waistband of John's boxers. John decided to up the ante.

"I had a dream like this, once," he said in a low voice, hand twisting on the word 'this' in a move that earned him a deep groan from Rodney. "The zipper on your sleeping bag got stuck, off-world, and it was so tight you couldn't reach the fabric to release it from the zip." John pulled himself toward the bottom of the bed, hooking his feet over the edge and inching closer to Rodney's warmth. The hot slip of his hand faltered only slightly as Rodney's fingers dragged across his skin as he moved away from them.

"I reached through the gap in the zipper," John described, worming his other hand under the blanket to press warmly against Rodney's side, skin tingling against the heat where his shirt had ridden up. "You were hard, and you couldn't hide it from me," he said, pushing his hand up onto Rodney's chest, just hard enough not to tickle. His neck started to hurt from watching Rodney's face contort with pleasure, so John rested his head on the mattress and focused his attention fully on what he was saying, on what his hands were doing and how Rodney's body trembled beneath them.

The tricky position of his arm as well as the rasp of fabric against his knuckles were starting to feel a little painful, so John slowed his strokes and gently pulled his hand away despite a mewl of protest from Rodney. John felt a brush of fingertips against his hair and smiled, wondering if Rodney could reach far enough to pull on it if he took too long to replace his hand. John circled a nipple with the pads of his fingers to distract Rodney before taking up the story of his dream again, his other hand following the words he spoke to the letter.

"My hand brushed against the front of your boxers, and your hips thrust up against me. You couldn't help it," John intoned, both hands circling now, one against skin, the other against fabric. "I gave up on the sleeping bag and slid my hand along your leg, up into your boxers."

"God, John," Rodney gasped, arching up into John's hand, his hand gripping the sheet near John's head. John had been ready for this, and his arm moved fluidly with Rodney's hips, pressing down with his upper arm firmly to hold Rodney in place as he started to move his hand again.

"You wanted to touch me, I could tell, but all you could do was lie there while I stroked your cock," John said in a soft, intense voice, just over a whisper. He'd found out how much Rodney liked dirty talk the second time they had sex, when he'd asked John why he'd kept staring at him in a meeting and John had told him the truth. Rodney's boxers were the kind with a snapped front, and John twisted his body sideways to get his free hand down to release the snap. He and Rodney both made a noise at the release of pressure, and John could feel and hear McKay's hand clutching and grasping at the sheet beneath them. John pulled his hand from the leg of Rodney's boxers to widen his range of motion and stretched his other hand up, tightening his fingers against the muscles of Rodney's arm that stood out from the strength of the other man's grip. He could almost taste Rodney's anticipation, the hot flush of desire mixed with curiosity of what John would say next, all spurred on by John's voice and hands. John took a deep breath, and tightened his hand along Rodney's length, his movements slick with precome.

"You lost control," John instructed Rodney, the other man's pants for breath echoing through his body. "You started to fuck up into my hand."

McKay's hips drove up twice, thrilling John with the feel of the power behind his movements, and John rolled his head up onto his own shoulder, meaning to revel in the feeling of holding himself back as he encouraged Rodney to let go. But his eyes were drawn to the joy on Rodney's face as he came, the unguarded quality of his pleasure, and it hit John like the end of a barrel roll—he did that. He could do it again, whenever he wanted.

"What are you still doing down there?" Rodney asked after a few minutes, his voice lacking its usual bite.

"I didn't want to lose an eye," John decided to say, not above teasing McKay for the fact that his hands were as articulate as usual, even during sex. For a tense second, Rodney's face fell, a mask of uncertainty sliding up to replace the happiness. John could have kicked himself—he of all people knew how insecure Rodney could be, how he tried to hide it even at the worst of times. The next instant, however, Rodney had a decisive gleam in his eye, and he hauled John closer to him with surprising strength.

"Nice try, Sheppard, but I'm pretty sure you're putting on that smartassery just to try to get me to shut you up," Rodney said, very deliberately wiping the come from his chest and thighs with a corner of John's blanket.

"Pretty sure that's not a word, McKay."

"Yes, well, think of it this way: I have to invent words to describe your insensitive behavior," Rodney sniffed, leaning over to kiss him, and John's blood pumped relief for a burning second before Rodney spoke again. "Why are you so cold?" John wanted to point out that Rodney's body seemed to be like a furnace after sex, from his limited experience, and pretty much anything would feel cool in comparison, but he'd just been accused of 'smartassery,' and to him, it was a license to kill.

"There was a distinct lack of blanket on my side of the bed this morning," John shrugged.

Shooting him a look, Rodney lifted the blanket carefully and draped it over the two of them, making sure to keep the wet spot on John's side. Then he looked at John seriously.

"What do you want?"

John really wished he could figure out how McKay managed to keep him off-balance like that, but it was hard to be annoyed when Rodney's lips were inches from his, swollen and red from having been bitten to keep from being too loud. It seemed like Rodney always had something in his mouth when he came, whether it was his own fist or John's tongue, or... John's mind followed that thought to its logical conclusion, and he closed his eyes for a minute, the thought nearly enough to put him over the edge.

"I can do that," Rodney said, again proving that smart was hot.

"Too close," John groaned, reaching for him and pulling Rodney's hand down to the front of his boxers, pushing them down even as he pressed himself against the other man's broad, strong palm. "Just touch me."

"I can do that," Rodney repeated hoarsely, pulling the blanket up to their shoulders as he started to stroke. John arched up, his chin rising as he focused his entire body on Rodney's hand, smooth and warm. Rodney buried his head in the space between John's shoulder and neck, not quite kissing. Suddenly John had a thought, and he willed his limbs to move, gathering his focus until he'd turned slightly toward Rodney, nudging the other man's head back with one hand splayed through his hair.

"Rodney, do you—god—usually wake up before the—ungh—good part?" John managed. Rodney looked a little baffled for a second and his hand faltered at the end of a long stroke. The slight change in rhythm was good, too good. John's hips chased Rodney's hand for a few seconds before it was back and he was coming, staring into Rodney's eyes as his brain turned into goo and hoping Rodney understood what he'd been trying to say.

Again, Rodney managed to surprise him, kissing him briefly before lying his head on John's shoulder, his lips moving to dance the heat of his breath along John's skin.

"Not anymore."