Under The Blankets

Rating: Light NC-17
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Word Count: ~2,800
Summary: Team movie night, fluff and PWP, set during S2.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, nor to I derive any profit from them.
A/N: Many thanks to sp23, who betaed this.


John Sheppard brought a collection of some of the dumbest action movies known to man back with him from Earth.

He instituted Movie Night as a team building thing, and even though Rodney said it sounded awfully like high school, he wasn't going to turn down a chance to spend two hours a week in a dark room with John. Teyla and Ronon came that first time, and both John and Rodney spent the whole of The Fast and the Furious explaining cars and street racing and attempting to explain L.A., and then trying to convince Teyla that no, it wasn't a love story between the two male leads, which she flat out refused to believe.

"One saves the life of the other, and leaves his entire life behind, and this is not love." She shook her head slowly.

Rodney jumped in. "Well, it's love, but it's not love love. It's manly male bonding love. It's also a really dumb movie. Isn't there an easier way to steal? If I were a master criminal--,"

"It's a fun action movie, McKay," said John. Then to Teyla, "You just have to suspend disbelief." She nodded and frowned, as if this could be accomplished with more concentration and not less.

"He's not that tough. I could take him," said Ronon, flicking his eyes at Vin Diesel.

"Well, duh, he's just an actor," said Rodney.

They all lay sprawled on John's bed—or rather beds, plural, because he'd dragged another one in from an empty room so they'd all have enough space. Teyla sat cross-legged on the end of one; Ronon had his feet planted firmly on the ground, wary and ready to flee if the situation required, but still, relatively relaxed for him. John and Rodney sprawled out over the rest of the surface, and Rodney couldn't think about the ins and outs of even as simple a plot as The Fast and the Furious, because John's shoulder, ever so casually, leaned against his.

It meant nothing, of course, Rodney knew that. Still, the fact that John would consent to let his arm stay in contact with Rodney's was a pretty big deal. John was sleek and touchable, and Rodney could see that people wanted to stroke him and pet him whenever they saw him, but he moved like a cat, and would slide away from a friendly tap on the shoulder so automatically he probably didn't even realize he was doing it. You didn't touch John Sheppard unless he wanted you to.

So that was nice, and Rodney went back to his room and jerked off to the thought of John's shoulder lean turning into something else.

***

Rodney didn't have an ulterior motive for turning off the heat in the living quarters—it just seemed like the best way to conserve energy, since no one was in them during the day, but it worked in his favor, because during their next movie night, John got out the blankets. Rodney had brought some hot chocolate from the mess to contribute to the festivities. Of course, he only brought enough for himself, but then John gave him a look, and after some arguing back and forth, Rodney went back and got more.

John had blankets that they'd traded for on some world or other—made of a thick fabric with short fibers, like a big pad of felt. It was soft and stiff at the same time, and felt unlike any Earth material, but it was still warm. They spread out the blankets over themselves and put The Rock into the DVD player.

Then John had to pause it and explain Alcatraz, James Bond, terrorists, and streetcars in San Francisco to Teyla and Ronon. At least Ronon could explain black ops missions and government cover-ups to Teyla—Sateda had similar problems as well, although it usually had to do with secret alliances with the Wraith, not the toppling of unfriendly South American regimes.

Lorne and Parrish joined in this time too, making the bed even more crowded, and they all had to huddle and smush together to fit. Rodney wondered briefly why Lorne and Parrish were always glued at the hip, but not for long. What botanists got up to concerned him not at all and what Lorne did concerned Rodney only when he was responsible for Rodney's well being.

"Wow, Nicholas Cage is even more high-strung than you, McKay," said Lorne when they got to the scene early in the movie where there was some chemical agent inside a doll, and Cage's character had to diffuse the disbursement mechanism before it killed them all.

Rodney gave him a look—he was too distracted to come up with a sufficiently sarcastic and cutting response, because John shifted slightly from where he lounged on the bed and brought his thigh right up against Rodney's, the whole length touching.

To be fair, Lorne's elbow was digging into Rodney's other leg, and if he moved his feet just a little, they'd hit Ronon, but all he felt was John's leg, warm and firm and up against his own.

His sister Jeannie used to have movie nights like this in his parents' basement when she was in high school. Rodney would yell at them for distracting him from his projects, because sometimes the giggling and pillow fighting got out of hand. His parents never seemed to mind that it was mixed sex, because everyone would go home after, and at least they weren't drinking. Good clean fun, that's all.

Sometimes they wouldn't bother Rodney at all, but he'd sneak down anyway and sit at the top of the basement stairs and watch the oh so casual touches exchanged, and the blankets, always blankets even in the summer, with unidentifiable movements going on underneath. It was stupid, why should he care? Why didn't they just make out if they wanted to make out or do whatever else? Why the subterfuge?

John's leg moved a little against Rodney's, and his stomach turned over a few times, pleasurable and nerve-wracking. Did it mean anything, or not? Rodney left his leg where it was.

On screen, Nic Cage was getting ready to dive with the SEALs, and handling the whole thing even worse than Rodney would in a similar situation. He took some comfort in that, although he knew Nic would become much more badass and heroic than Rodney had any chance of ever being by the end of the movie.

John pulled the blanket up to his chin, and since Rodney was sitting next to him, the blanket now covered him as well. He felt drowsy and warm.

The men in Russia had been more physically affectionate than Americans or Canadians, and although they mostly hated Rodney when they were sober, when they got stupid on vodka they became affectionate and put their arms around each other and him. He missed that casual touching on occasion, although that team would never have had movie nights—instead they had give-yourself-a-heart-attack nights involving vodka and overheated bars, then headlong rushes into snow banks.

Under the blanket, John's fingers lightly brushed the inside of Rodney's arm, and Rodney smiled, oblivious to the mayhem on screen where all the SEALs were being brutally killed. John's touch happened once; it must be a mistake, thought Rodney. He was just flexing his hand and it happened to brush across Rodney's arm in that sensuous way. Then John did it more deliberately; his index finger trailed along the soft sensitive skin of Rodney's forearm.

Rodney got instantly hard. If John ever touched him more than this, he'd come so fast his head would spin. Rodney stole a glance at John, but he was watching the movie, and even pulled his hand away to cheer when Sean Connery delivered one of his growled one-liners.

Rodney leaned his leg against John's a little harder—he didn't speak this language, hopefully that was the right thing to do. It must have been, because John lightly traced his fingers along and between Rodney's under the blanket, and who knew his fingertips and the palm of his hand could be so sensitive? They were hidden under the thick cover of the blanket, and it wouldn't look like anything to anyone else.

At least Rodney hoped so. He felt so flushed and quivery—surely someone would have to notice—but they continued watching the movie. Nic Cage found a rocket and disarmed it, and it was very suspenseful; even Ronon, who half-scorned these movie nights, asking "why would you want to watch other people's killing?" was leaning forward with his eyes fixed on the screen. Much more suspenseful for Rodney was the question of what John would do next.

He didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, and his face revealed nothing as he and Rodney twined their fingers together. The movie went on, and Rodney had time to get used to it, to let the flush settle from his face, although the nervous flutter never quite left his stomach.

By the time they got near the end where Nic yelled at Sean Connery to stay and try to save his daughter, Rodney wondered if John had any sort of agenda or whether they'd just hold hands under the blankets and that would be it. No, there had to be something else. John couldn't just be playing with him; he had to be as painfully aroused as Rodney. He could feel a bead of sweat gathering on his upper lip, and he licked it off.

Then Nic Cage said "It's you, you're the Rocket Man," they had to pause and explain Elton John to Teyla and Ronon, which didn't work very well. Rodney couldn't add anything to the conversation, because John had let go of his hand and was instead tracing patterns on the inside of his thigh, and Rodney turned pink and bit his lip some more. Ronon gave him an odd look, but Ronon always gave him odd looks, so that was nothing new.

They watched the rest of the movie in peace, except for Rodney who was squirmy enough that Lorne said, "For God's sake, McKay, would you settle down?" Rodney saw John smile at that in profile. Rodney was going to kill him when he got him alone, except not; he had better ideas for what to do with John alone.

The movie ended, Lorne stretched and stood up, and said it was bed time, and Parrish trotted after him. Rodney saw John raise his eyebrows at that.

John stood up to be the good host and see Ronon and Teyla out, but Rodney couldn't stand up yet, not without some serious embarrassment. "You just go on," he said at Teyla's questioning look, "my leg fell asleep."

"Standing up is best for that," she said. "It will pass if you walk around a little." Rodney gave her a dirty look, and she shrugged and left as well.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Rodney asked John after he shut the door, not because he minded, but because annoyance was his default position and better than awkwardness.

"Yeah, that's what I was trying to do," said John sarcastically but a look of worry crossed his features. John, nervous? He crossed back over to the bed, and Rodney sat up and came to his knees, so they were almost eye to eye, except John's wouldn't quite meet his.

Rodney felt unbearably awkward, and didn't know what to do, how to get things going again, because this was John, and should there be kissing or not? Should he be down on his knees giving him a blow job already or not? Rodney really wanted to kiss him, because John had the most beautiful lips Rodney had ever seen, and he wanted to find out what they tasted like. He was probably just staring at John like an idiot when John reached out, put his hands on either side of Rodney's head and drew him in for an open mouthed kiss that made the hairs on the back of Rodney's neck stand up.

John's lips tasted as smooth and perfect as they looked, but his kisses themselves were hard and insistent, and for a while Rodney enjoyed the ride and let John taste his mouth all over.

"Two hours of teasing," said Rodney against his lips, when they pulled apart a little so their mouths were barely touching.

"Try two years," said John. His voice had gone low and serious, and it sounded like Rodney shouldn't talk anymore. He could take a hint. John's hands were laced through his hair like he didn't ever intend on letting go. So Rodney put his hands up to John's face, and god his hair felt good, soft and sleek like a cat's but even better. Rodney tugged on his neck, and John let Rodney pull him back into a bed that suddenly felt huge.

"I'm not going to make it very long," said Rodney when John slid his hand down Rodney's body and started rubbing him through his pants, but it didn't seem like John was going to either. Rodney undid John's pants enough to get his hand into John's boxer briefs and around his thick cock.

He was incredibly hard, and Rodney could feel a drop of pre-come on the tip of his penis so he spit in his hand and rubbed him in a rhythm he would like. Then John thrust into his hand clumsily and then came. "That's just for starters," Rodney said against John's mouth. "Just to take the edge off." He didn't want John thinking that was all he was capable of.

John undid Rodney's pants, and Rodney helped him slide them off, and his boxers too, and then Rodney's cock was in John's mouth and wow, if that thought alone wasn't enough to make him come right then and there—except it wasn't because he didn't know what the hell John was doing.

Adept-at-everything-John was doing something enthusiastic, to be sure, but half gagging and with teeth scraping where they weren't supposed to be, and he almost fell over where he knelt between Rodney's legs.

Still, it was John's lips and mouth, and Rodney's dick was pretty happy about that, and he thrust a little bit, even though he knew it was rude, but it wasn't like John was helping out much. "Now. Now," he said in case John wanted to get out of the way, and he did, so Rodney finished himself off with a sharp stroke of his hand.

Coming felt good, ‘cause when didn't it, but Rodney still frowned. Did John think that was how it was supposed to work? Maybe he was so pretty no one had ever told him differently, or maybe it was lack of experience. How did he bring this up in a way that wouldn't guarantee that he'd be kicked right out of this bed and never invited back? John could certainly kiss like a champ, and it's not like he hadn't wanted to go down on Rodney, but what accounted for the rest of it?

John scooted back up next to Rodney as Rodney cleaned himself off with the washcloth John handed him from the bed-side drawer. Rodney wondered what else he might have in there, but first things first. "Have you ever done that before?" he asked.

John stared up at the ceiling. "That bad, huh?"

"Um, not the best, no." Rodney rolled over on his side to face John. "Let me guess, usually you're the one getting blow jobs?"

"Something like that." John didn't look at him. "I understand the theory, at least." He sounded aggrieved, like he expected to be as good at this as everything else he'd ever done. Rodney could sympathize, and really, it was pretty exciting to find out that he was better than John at something besides physics and engineering.

He put his hand up to John's jaw and tilted his head over for a long slow kiss. John was tense at first, but relaxed into it after a moment and then put his hands up to cup Rodney's head again and bring him closer. "You're lucky," said Rodney, with his hand still on John's face. He loved that he could touch him like this, that John wanted it too. "You are in the presence of an expert."

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes, you are. So pay attention this time. You might learn something."


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