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Wanting Him by Inkscribe
On the third visit, Radek opened up his laptop and showed John the complex equation he’d been working on. John found himself enjoying those visits more and more – actually looking forward to them, and not just because he got to play math with someone who wouldn’t make a big deal about his decidedly non-jockish abilities. No, John realised, he was starting to look forward to spending time with the man. The man who had crawled through the impossibly small space of the wrecked Jumper to rescue him before he bled out. The man who pushed through a snag from a jagged piece of metal, lacerating himself deeply before tearing himself free and losing his own not-insignificant amount of blood. Yet, when Radek had finally reached John, he made no mention of any discomfort, any pain – simply apologised that he would need to get very personal for a minute or two as he worked to help extract him from his bloody prison, huddled tight to John’s crotch. At the time, he was only peripherally aware of the man. Bloodloss had left John pleasantly numb – not quite euphoric, but not entirely conscious of Radek’s touch. He could remember it now, distant as though he had merely viewed Radek’s work on a video feed rather than being physically present the entire time. He remembered Radek squeezing his hand reassuringly, remembered the man squirming and worming through the tiny space, cutting the crossbar trapping John’s leg, then freeing the Jumper seat so John could be extracted through the destroyed windscreen with minimal twisting. In other circumstances – circumstances with less blood, fewer broken bones, and no head injury – it would have been as erotic as all get out. He shook his head for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts. He’d spent too many years pushing away those thoughts just so he could stay flying, and now that staying in Atlantis was in the mix of things he’d rather not risk losing, he knew he could not afford to let his mind stray into those areas, no matter how lonely he found himself in those moments where he wasn’t saving lives or barely escaping with his own. He glanced at Radek, noticing the man watching him, waiting patiently for John to focus on the equation on the laptop. John flashed him a grin, one that said, ”Yeah, I had a head injury,” then looked closely at the laptop screen. His eyes scanned it line by line. “Oh, here’s your problem, I think. You’re assuming this is going to be a rational number here. But what happens if it’s an irrational number?” “That would be impossible, though, wouldn’t it?” “In wormhole physics? Hell if I know. Ask McKay.” Radek looked thoughtful as he considered the equation for a few moments, then began adding lines, modifying, removing bits, almost frantic. John tried not to stare, but failed utterly. Radek’s hands travelled the laptop keyboard with all the grace of a master pianist. His fingers didn’t so much type as ... as ... caress the keys. His eyes, too – they were fever-bright as he tore through the equation, pulling it apart and reconstructing it so quickly that John suspected if he went just a little bit faster, the computer might melt down into a puddle of plastic goo. John wasn’t sure he wanted to think about sticky things right at the moment. Not while watching those hands. Elegant, graceful – even exquisite. Those hands that caressed the laptop and brought forward beautiful math. John knew the touch of hands. Hands that brought forth sticky evidence of completion, hands that brought forth shivers and gasps and sweat. Hands that teased, hands that soothed. Hands that reamed and inserted and tugged and pulled with desperation. Hands that stroked with movements expressing desire, arousal, and want. In the tight-knit community of Atlantis, though, he couldn’t risk the touch of hands other than his – not without endangering his position, not without being recalled to Earth, never to return. Atlantis didn’t have a place where he could slip, anonymous and unnoticed like many of the men there, seeking something they couldn’t or wouldn’t admit to in the harsh light of day, where touch and sensation became the entire boundary of sex, and emotions stayed firmly separate. Sexual relations, not relationships, just like he’d explained to Rodney. John swallowed down the lump of tension beginning to constrict his throat, a tight pang of longing and unformed loss at the memory of that torturous confession to his best friend and team member. John tried again to clear his thoughts, only to hear Radek make a sound deep in his throat. A sound that John had only ever heard made in the middle of sex – in the middle of very very very very good sex. A sound that suggested hunger to be sated, thirst to be quenched, craving to be satisfied. That sound. John found himself growing hard under the thin infirmary blanket at that sound. Soon he was hard and slightly uncomfortable, hardness and discomfort closely matching that of the plaster cast wrapped around his lower leg. “Oh, yes,” Radek almost moaned. “This is ... oh, this is good.” Oh dear god, John groaned inwardly.I am going to die. John’s cock had gone from hard to rigid to straining, the speed of the transition easily rivalling Radek’s swift work with the equation. His work with those hands, those hands and that sound. Oh god, John thought again. “Radek,” John tried to say the name lightly though his body was now so taut from the strain of – of Radek typing and moaning – oh dear god. He tried to force his voice to be smooth, not the strained, husky rasp he knew wanted to scrape its way out of his chest, climbing past his fractured ribs, deep and low as though it came from his cock and not his throat. “If you don’t quiet down, Carson’s going to think we’re having sex in his infirmary,” he finally managed. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that to Radek, of all people. Radek, the man who’d worked to free John from certain death by exsanguination in a mangled jumper, the man who’d endured his own not insignificant injury for that very same rescue. Radek, the man John currently found himself hard and aching for, strain and pain in John’s cock reminding him of just how difficult a path he followed. Zelenka’s hands froze over the keyboard and he peered at John over the frame of his glasses. He smirked. “Oh, I would be much quieter than this if I were going to have sex in infirmary.” John blinked, taken aback. Radek – sex – infirmary. Did Radek, Radek of all people? Did Radek just say something about quiet sex in the infirmary? John blinked again. He tried to follow his thoughts as they ran though dozens of permutations, arrived at dozens of possible answers. Sex. Quiet sex. Quiet sex with Radek, after noisy sex with math. Solve for ‘x’, John thought. Solve for sex. Oh dear god. Radek continued to type, making little pleasure sounds in his throat as he did so. John bit back his own moan, one that threatened to seep from his body from the unrelieved tension, and tried to focus again on the math teasing open before him under the scientist’s elegant, graceful, even exquisite hands. End, Wanting Him Sequel, ...To Eat From His Hand |
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Title: Wanting Him Prequel to: … To Eat From His Hand Pairings: preslash Sheppard/Zelenka POV: Sheppard Summary: John wants Radek. Challenge: Less is More Mini-Challenge by LiveJournal user justbreathe80 Rating: NC-17 Words: ~1300 Awards: Co-nominated for the SHEPPARD/ZELENKA category in the 2007 Stargate DiversiFICation Awards Author’s Notes: A scene remixed, with permission, from the second part of Sgatlantislight’s Having Your Cake … And Eating it, Too. Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning. |
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