New fic: Throw Away Your Papers
Title: Throw Away Your Papers
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA, McKay/Weir
Rating: NC-17, for language
Spoilers: for The Return I, Echoes
Summary: Hard to find one without spoilers, so instead I give you a snippet:
"Rodney," she'd murmured, a thought occurring to her. He'd grunted something entirely unintelligible. "Rodney, when did you ever encounter Sylvia Plath?"
He'd lifted his head off of her chest, scowled up at her with eyes gone a hazy blue. "I have taken a solemn oath never to relive the horror that was my undergraduate literature requirement, and I don't plan to break that vow tonight. But if I never hear the words 'bell' and 'jar' used in conjunction again, it will be too soon."
Author's Notes: This is pure, shameless smut, written to reward
omglawdork for excellent prose and grace under pressure. (And then she beta'd her own ficlet. How's that for class (on her part, clearly)?) If you haven't read Buffalo Wings, you're missing out. This fic is not, alas, related to that one, but she asked for Rodney/Elizabeth smut, and Rodney/Elizabeth smut she shall have!
The title is a line from "The Poetics of Desire", by Rina Singh. Read it here.
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She's asleep until Rodney barges in and thumps down next to her on the edge of the bed, shaking her by the shoulder. At least, she presumes he barged in, because it's Rodney and he pretty much comes with one setting, although to be fair it's not like she'd have heard him knocking. Carson had let her out of the infirmary under strict orders to rest; had written them down on a piece of paper so there was no possible way she could blame a failure to comply on poor lip-reading skills. Really, though, she hadn't much felt like arguing. She'd been tired even before her symptoms got particularly bad, and according to Carson she'd probably be back to relatively normal by sometime tomorrow, if John and Rodney were any indication. She'd grab some downtime while she could, and manage, in this case, not to feel too guilty about it. So she'd headed back to her quarters and showered the last of the antiseptic smell off of her skin, then wrapped herself up in a nubbly brown robe, a gift from Teyla on their return to Atlantis. She'd curled up with a book while she waited for her hair to dry; now, as Elizabeth stares up at an ornery Rodney, she can feel the indentation in her cheek where she'd fallen asleep and mashed her face against the spine.
He's off on a tear about something, and if she were a betting woman, she'd call it good odds he's repeating Carson's lecture at higher speed and with more invective, but that crooked mouth is moving so fast, and she can't hear him, so it's not like she can say for sure. Elizabeth's tired, though, and it's Rodney, so it's safe to allow herself to get a little cranky. "Rodney," she says, pushing herself into a sitting position, her back against the wall. He winces, which means she must've misjudged the volume, but at least he's paused. She tries again, hoping she's managed to modulate her tone. "Rodney. In case you've forgotten, I can't hear you. Ruptured eardrums will do that. So whatever you're saying, it's going to have to wait - I don't have a pen and paper handy and, should you decide to go find one, I'm not planning on being awake when you come back."
She figures he'll huff and frown and leave. This thing between them is too new for either of them to be entirely certain of each other, and they've been careful to give each other space. The first time had been after they'd beaten the Asurans, once Atlantis was safe, the first time in six weeks that the world had been clear, focused, immediate - that it had felt real. It had been late, but she hadn't been ready to sleep, and he'd found her on the gateroom balcony.
"It's beautiful."
"That," he'd gestured, "is the sight of three fully charged ZedPMs. Atlantis is fully powered for the first time in thousands on thousands of years, and we have no idea what's out there, waiting for us to find." He'd sounded like a little kid under the Christmas tree.
"Like I said, beautiful."
Rodney had snorted. "I thought you were the one who was supposed to be good with words."
"I'm sorry," she'd quipped, looking at him, "you must have me confused with Teyla. I'm the one who's supposed to be good with politics." The twist of bitterness in her voice had surprised her as well as Rodney, and she'd turned back to the view.
"Elizabeth," he'd said, and she could see him from the corner of her eye, big hands spread wide, taking an uncertain step towards her. "Elizabeth, look, whatever happened back on Earth...."
"It's fine, Rodney." She'd kept her tone light and warm.
"Oh, yes, right. Completely fine. Because it's not at all strange for a world-class diplomat to turn into a hermit in the space of three days."
She'd refused to rise to the bait. "I took some time off, that's all, and then I was consulting with the SGC. Georgetown was mid-semester anyway; I had the time."
He'd been uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. "Look," he said finally, "Lie to O'Neill. Lie to the SGC. Lie to Carson, if you have to, even though you know he won't buy it, but do not, and I mean, do not, expect me to believe it." She'd turned to look at him in surprise - Rodney could run through ten emotions in the time most people managed two, but she couldn't pinpoint this one. Careful, her internal diplomat had warned, and he must have seen something in her face because suddenly she was being backed into the corner of the balcony by the steamroller that was an extremely frustrated Rodney McKay. "What the hell, Elizabeth," he'd snapped. "We only just managed to convince you not to kill yourself when you had homicidal robots in your brain, and that was only because Sheppard comes equipped with an overactive martyr gland and a complete lack of common sense, and then you think it's all right to go off and commit suicide by degrees in some little hole of an apartment in Colorado?"
Trapped between the railing and an oncoming McKay, she raised her hands in what she recognized as an extremely ineffectual defense. "Rodney. Don't you think you're exaggerating just a little?"
The glare he shot her would've been called murderous under different circumstances. "No, no, I don't. When both Sheppard and I - who are, I might add, the two least socially adept members of your team - when both of us notice that you've apparently turned your back on humanity in a manner reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, things have gone well past concerning and straight into the realm of entirely acceptable alarm. What kind of idiot just disappears when something's wrong without at least asking for help?"
"That's enough, Rodney." Her tone had been ice cold.
"Actually, no it isn't. It's not even close. Even Sheppard trusts the rest of us enough to know that we won't leave him behind, and he's got so many complexes he'll keep Heightmeyer in spasms of psychological curiosity for decades. Where the hell do you get off thinking we wouldn't do the same for you?"
That's when it really had been enough. "And what, exactly, would you have done, Rodney? This isn't a physics problem, for god's sake; you can't just change my parameters so I fit the damn equations. I'm not the person I was before I left Earth; I - there's - I can't just slip back into the diplomatic world. I don't think like that anymore. I can't just go back to a lab or an infirmary or an away team and pretend things are normal. There's no job for me back there, and there's nothing you could have done to fix that." By the time she'd finished, she really had been angry - with Rodney, with the SGC, or with the Ancients, she hadn't been sure. All of them, maybe. She'd glared at Rodney, daring him to offer some platitude. She should've known better.
His eyes had gone sad; the lines around his mouth had relaxed and shifted as he'd frowned. He'd lifted a tentative hand to touch her arm and she'd shrugged it off, too restless to handle being touched. "No," he'd said, "But we wouldn't have left you on your own if you'd given us a chance. Sheppard may be a stubborn bastard with less sense than evolution gave a duck, but he's right about that. We don't leave people behind."
The fight had gone out of her in a rush; unable to meet his eyes any longer, she had turned her head and dropped her chin, looking out over the city. "You might have to." He'd started to speak, but she'd kept going. "O'Neill's gating back in the morning. We don't know what the SGC's going to do with us. We don't even know that they'll determine the mission's still viable - or that any of us should be part of it. If anyone's going to be the fall guy on this one, Rodney, I'm first in line - I'm already on the IOA's hit list."
"Fine," he'd said, hunching his shoulders, and when she'd glanced over, his mouth had gone stubborn. "Give me their names and within a week Zelenka and I will have made such a wreck of their computers, credit histories, and home electronics that they'll be praying for your swift return. I've already gone renegade; it's not like creative and highly illegal hacking isn't a completely plausible continuation of my descent into the criminal world. The point is, we'd figure it out."
Rodney'd looked so determined that something had knotted tight in her chest, until suddenly an image popped into her head of him and Radek, crouched over a computer in some seedy little apartment, systematically reprogramming the garage door frequencies for the entire IOA. She hadn't been able to help it; she'd started to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, until Rodney's eyes had gone wide and he'd started muttering about the need to hold off on nervous breakdowns until Heightmeyer got back from wherever the SGC had stashed her, which had made Elizabeth laugh harder, until she hadn't been sure if she was crying or laughing or both. Somewhere along the way her knees had gotten too shaky to hold her and she'd grabbed for the railing, still dizzy with whatever had her in its grip. Somehow she'd ended up with her arms wrapped around Rodney instead, her face pressed against his chest, one of his hands on the back of her neck and the other sketching vague and incredibly awkward circles over her back in what he'd probably meant to be a soothing gesture, even if it actually felt more like someone praying very hard that the cat they were petting wasn't going to turn and smack them one, claws out.
Eventually she'd gotten herself back in hand, and they'd both gone quiet. Pushing herself away, she'd started to mutter some kind of stilted thanks. As she'd shifted, though, the hand holding her neck had moved, brushed feather-light against the side of her cheek, and his eyes had been dark and worried and questioning. Elizabeth would never be certain who moved first, but then she was kissing Rodney was kissing her, both of them awkward and uncertain and shy until they hadn't been any longer. Later, when they'd left the balcony and found her quarters, not speaking, as Rodney had moved over and around and in her, as she'd bucked and twisted against him, as she'd held him against her, after, and rubbed his fine, soft hair between her fingers, she'd felt herself coming back from a long way away.
"Rodney," she'd murmured, a thought occurring to her. He'd grunted something entirely unintelligible. "Rodney, when did you ever encounter Sylvia Plath?"
He'd lifted his head off of her chest, scowled up at her with eyes gone a hazy blue. "I have taken a solemn oath never to relive the horror that was my undergraduate literature requirement, and I don't plan to break that vow tonight. But if I never hear the words 'bell' and 'jar' used in conjunction again, it will be too soon." She'd grinned, and he'd grumbled, and they'd drifted off to sleep.
When she'd woken, he'd been gone, but that night she'd headed back to her quarters and found him outside her door, full of nervous energy and hand raised to knock, and she'd opened the door for them both before either of them could overthink it. They'd continued that way for the last few weeks, although, oddly enough, it hadn't affected their behavior during the day. It wasn't every night, and rarely the whole night - Elizabeth was too cautious and Rodney too restless for either of them to be entirely comfortable with that, and they'd hardly had the time (or, if she was honest with herself, the inclination) to have any sort of discussion about what, precisely, was going on.
Tonight, Elizabeth thinks, focusing on Rodney, still sitting next to her on the bed, could've been the night they couldn't avoid the issue any longer, and she's enough of a coward to be grateful for the delay. When Rodney reaches out and smooths his blunt fingers down the dent in her cheek left by the book, she realizes that maybe she does want to know. He looks so tired, and she traps his hand with hers, holding it against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips. It's been a long several days for both of them, and in the end, he'd been part of the plan, but she knows how frustrated he must have been that he wasn't the one to come up with a solution. The concept of team hasn't come easily to either of them, albeit for different reasons.
"Hey," she murmurs, or hopes she does, feeling her lips vibrate against the pad of his thumb. "You did good today." He scowls, like she knew he would, and opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. "Can't hear you, remember? So no arguments." She grins, nips at his thumb affectionately. "You're just going to have to sit there and take it." Elizabeth leans forward, resting a hand on his chest, places a quick kiss at the corner of his still-open mouth. "Consider it character-building."
She's too close to have any chance of understanding what he says, but she can feel the retort growling in his chest. Rodney's eyes go dark and challenging; she'd worry, except she sees the corner of his mouth quirk up into a grin and his palm is hot against the back of her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. When they break apart, she's more than a little breathless and not nearly as tired as she thought; sparks are skittering just under her skin, up and down her spine. She wants to touch, so she does, tugging his shirt free from his belt, running her hands up and under, bending her head to mouth at his nipple through the cotton. It's strange to do this in such silence, and a little disconcerting, although she's pretty sure Rodney's not complaining, given the way his chest hitches beneath her as he drags in a breath. So many of the normal cues are gone, though, that it's a surprise when his hands slide into her hair and the sound of some word reverberates against her cheek.
When he lifts her head, gently, so she's looking him in the eye, her mouth goes dry and her hands go still where they'd been tracing the point of his hip and the stretch of his side. "Elizabeth," his lips say, and Rodney looks amused and turned-on and also just a little disbelieving, so she leans into the hands cupping her cheeks to kiss him again, soft and slow, her hands slipping up to wind around his neck. His hands, meanwhile, leave her face, and she can feel them busy at her waist, but she's too lost in the slide of his tongue against hers to pay them any attention - at least until one creeps up to give her nipple an impudent tweak.
She yelps, and pulls back just enough to glare at him in mock-indignation. Rodney is grinning at her, and he has the same look on his face as when he's come up with yet another brilliant, brilliant plan. She lifts an expectant eyebrow and he raises his hands to show her the belt from her robe, soft and wide, and moves to tie it around her head, over her eyes, which is when Elizabeth pulls away from him in earnest. "Rodney," she warns, and scowls in frustration when he flinches. Too loud. She tries again. "Rodney, I -" He's watching her carefully, and it's unnerving to be the focus of that gaze.
She looks down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. Elizabeth likes sex - has, frankly, missed it, but she's also always been fairly straightforward in what she wants. This is something new, particularly now, when she's already temporarily without sound. Rodney's hand settles on her shoulder; his thumb brushes against her collarbone and she looks up. "Consider it character-building," he says slowly, so there's no mistaking the words, and her own lips curve as she takes in the teasing slant of his mouth. His eyes are clear and wide and watchful, though, and she knows he'll back off if she balks again. The certainty of that knowledge, paradoxically, gives her the confidence to lean forward, grab his ears, and kiss him hard, hard enough that he looks pole-axed when she pulls away and takes the fabric out of his unresisting grasp.
She glances at him one last time as she toys with the sash, and this time she's entirely serious. "Just. Rodney," and she's glad she can't hear the slight catch in her voice, even if she knows it's there, "if I - you have to listen, if I tell you to stop."
He holds her gaze as he nods, pulls her free hand to his throat so she can feel it as well as see it when he says, "Trust me."
Elizabeth shivers, remembering the last time he'd said something like that to her. Rodney's thoughts must follow hers because suddenly he looks terribly uncertain, which isn't fair, because he's not quite that person anymore - and even if he had been, she still would have trusted him in this. She raises the belt and gives him a smile, tying it behind her head even as she tells him, "I do."
It's strange, even so, to be so close to someone without the use of eyes or ears. She can feel Rodney next to her - the heat of his body, the dip in the mattress next to her thighs. But sight and sound are the tools of her trade, the things she uses without even thinking about it to read other people and gauge her response, and it's unsettling to be without them and know someone else is nearby. Elizabeth twists her fingers into the coverlet, waiting for some sense of motion, some clue as to what Rodney's about to do.
She shivers, then jumps, just a little, at the touch of Rodney's hand on hers. He shifts nearer, and his palm is warm against hers as he untangles her hand from the bedspread, his touch firm as he runs his thumb over her palm and down to the tendons in her wrist, massaging some of the tension away until, apparently satisfied, he pulls it forward to rest on his shoulder and begins the process again on her other hand. She can feel the fabric of his shirt under her fingertips, runs her hands along the broad line of his shoulder, brings one to rest against the hollow of his clavicle. She feels him lean forward, feels the heat of his arms along hers as he reaches out, but can't stop a slight jerk backward when his hands come up to cup her cheeks and tuck her hair behind her ears. Elizabeth can feel a rumble in his throat as she jumps, but without sight, without sound, she can't tell what it is, or why, or how to react, and she feels herself start to tense. This isn't - they aren't - she can't -
She feels another noise, and his hands leave her head abruptly; she straightens, moving to untie the belt, to apologize, but Rodney's hands are around her wrists again, gentle, then just around the one, coaxing her hand open, tracing a single finger in a pattern over her palm, careful and deliberate, pausing at the end and starting over again on the same path. It takes a moment, and then she understands: "B," she says, and he squeezes her hand. Turning it over, he starts again: "R". Another squeeze, and so on, each letter inscribed over and over on its own patch of skin, waking the nerves underneath as she focuses, intent, on deciphering the character. "Breathe," she whispers, partway through the letter h, and laughs a little on the exhale. Rodney brings her hand to his lips, kissing the palm, and she traces over his grin. His hand touches her mouth, mirroring her movements, then shifts to her lap, brushing the robe away from her legs.
He starts again, using her legs for a canvas, and Elizabeth's concentrating enough on following the words that she forgets to worry. "You are," he writes, and she says each word out loud as she deciphers it, "very smart for a social scientist." She snorts after she finishes that sentence. "And also," he says, "a remarkably sane leader for this expedition," and she laughs at the backhanded compliment. "But I bet," his finger continues, painting words over her thighs and down her calves, "you have no idea that I am about to do this..." and as the last ellipse fades away on the arch of her foot, Rodney's hand slips up and tickles her side. She shrieks in surprise, doubling over and then shrieks again as he grabs her gently around the waist and tugs her down the bed, then sets to it in earnest, pushing the robe away and batting at her hands as she laughs and tries to catch his merciless fingers. She's laughing so hard she's out of breath when he blows a giant raspberry just above her navel - "Rodney," she yelps, and she feels his shoulders shake under her palms. Then he's sweeping her legs off the bed and tugging her to her feet, holding her flush against him while she finds her balance.
The robe, at this point, is hanging open, and her nipples harden as she presses up against Rodney. They catch on the cotton of his shirt; Elizabeth is still laughing even as she shifts against him, feeling the shock of heat along her nerves. His hands leave her wrists and settle on her shoulders, then move down her arms, tugging the robe off and letting it fall to the floor to pool over her feet. One hand curves around to the small of her back, tugs her in closer; the other starts tracing letters across the ridge of her collarbone. "Hold still," she says, and then Rodney's hands are gone, and she feels the air cool as he steps away from her. A slight draft traces up the front of her body, and the soft weave of the robe brushes gently past her ankles as Rodney pulls it away. Then the heat of his body returns, and she leans toward him, seeking it out. Rodney runs a finger down her nose, over her lips, then writes along the slope of her arm, "I said," and he underlines the second word, "hold still," punctuating the end of the sentence with a gentle poke that makes her grin and murmur, "Yes, sir."
For the space of a breath, nothing happens, and then she feels her skin start to prickle on either side of her neck. She can feel Rodney's hands hovering just above her skin, can feel the warmth of them, and waits for him to drop them that fraction of an inch lower. He doesn't though; instead, Rodney begins to move along the contours of her body, skimming without touching, slowly enough that every inch of skin in his path warms in response. He curves over her breasts and her nipples throb; the slow drift of his palms over her stomach and back, both at once, leaves her vibrating with a pleasant tension, like his hands are magnets pulling her equally in either direction. His hands cup the air around her right leg and she feels the air shift as he crouches, following the column down to her ankle, then ascending along the arcs of her left, and finally pausing, holding, just over her sex, until he stands, and begins the whole process again.
By the time he returns to her legs, Elizabeth is ready to climb out of her skin; it feels too tight, restrictive and almost over-sensitized, hyper-aware of Rodney's progress. Her fingers curl, fighting the urge to reach for him, until he makes the journey up her left leg and then, suddenly, takes her hips in his hands, tracing firm arcs down the sides of her body. The shock of it gathers low in her belly; she drops her head back and fights for breath as her arms stretch up above her head of their own accord. She feels every muscle stretch and release, feels a deep, demanding glow thrumming through her veins. She lets her arms fall, runs her own hands along her neck, needing to touch, to settle the shiver running along her skin; she skims them over her breasts and down her sides to twine briefly with Rodney's before running up along his arms, her fingers tingling and aware.
"Too much clothing," she breathes, and she doesn't know if she makes a noise or not, but the tug of her hands on his shoulders is its own message, and Rodney gets slowly to his feet. When he's standing, she reaches out, sweeps her palms over the crown of his head, feeling his hair ruffle as they pass. She smiles, then, as she traces her fingertips down, slowly, over the planes of his face, smoothing them along the lines that perpetual stress is slowly etching into his forehead, brushing lightly over his eyelids and smiling as his lashes feather over the pad of her thumb. She can feel an answering smile on his lips and she squeaks as he nips at her fingertips, trailing a hand down to poke him as she turns his words back on him: "Hold still."
Elizabeth's fingers move lightly down the line of his neck, brushing under the collar of his shirt, then sweeping firm arcs down the breadth of his chest. She laughs as she feels Rodney inhale sharply, only to shudder as the puff of his exhale trembles along her neck. She's not above a little revenge as she reaches his sides; she laughs again when his hands come up to grab hers, burying her head against his shoulder and feeling the grumble of his complaint. Eventually she tugs her wrists free and moves her hands to his waist, pulls his shirt free. She's impatient as she shoves the fabric up and over his head, leaving him to wriggle his way free of the arms as she maps her way down his torso again. By the time Rodney's stopped twisting and, if the vibrations under her palms are any indication, complaining, Elizabeth's wrapped her arms around him and for a moment she's content simply to lean against him. His body is hot and slightly rough with hair, and her nose is full of the clean, simple smell that is uniquely him; the steady thrum of his heart and rise of his chest resonate through her bones. She bites gently at his shoulder, then smoothes over the spot with her tongue, tasting salt and musk. His arms slip around her, and she feels the boundaries of her own body dissolving. It's almost overwhelming, and she pushes away, needing room to breathe, to reestablish herself.
Elizabeth doesn't know how much Rodney can tell of what she's thinking; she's long past guarding her expression tonight. There's little way to know what he's thinking beyond her awareness of the growing tension along his spine. Still, when she steps back and shifts her hands to his waistband, he lets her go; his only reaction is to run a thumb along the line of her jaw. She tips her chin up, almost in question, and when she feels his lips against hers, they're smiling. The slide of their tongues is almost lazy, but for the sense that they're both holding back a little, listening to each other as best they can. She runs a hand down the placket of his trousers and feels the buzz of his groan against her mouth, his hips canting forward into her touch. Rodney's hands come up to cup the back of her head, sliding through her hair and making her shiver. Elizabeth leans into them for a moment, then rests her forehead against his collarbone as she sets to work in earnest on button and zipper. She can feel Rodney straining against her hand through the fabric of his boxers as she presses against him, sliding the zip down. Rodney's breathing has gone tight and shallow, his exhalations slide down her spine like quicksilver. The muscles in his chest jump as he keeps himself still; she can feel a similar tension settling deeper into her own body as she slips her hands under elastic and pushes both boxers and pants down.
Elizabeth feels his cock jump as she cups his ass and pulls him tight against her, feels an answering pull in the space between her legs as she grinds against him. Rodney's head drops to her shoulder as he shudders, his hands grab her hips, and for a moment they simply sway against each other. Then Rodney mouths a line of hot, wet kisses along the line of her neck and brings one hand up to the small of her back. His finger is less than steady, and it's all she can do to gather enough coherent thought to follow what he's saying. "Hold on," she repeats, and raises an eyebrow he probably can't see, but she wraps her arms around his neck, nonetheless - which, it turns out, is a good thing, because Rodney scoops her up and then deposits her gently on the bed.
He's gone for a moment; she feels the mattress dip next to her, but his attention is elsewhere. "Rodney?" she queries. After a moment he stretches out beside her, and she sucks in air at the weight of his arm on her stomach and the heat of his thigh covering hers.
"You," he writes above her navel, prodding her just below the rib, "forgot about the shoes."
She laughs, she can't help it - the complaint is as clear as if she had her hearing fully restored. "I'll have to make it up to you," she says, but she feels him shake his head no against her shoulder.
"Bed rest," he scrawls, "Doctor's orders," and then any possibility she has of understanding him further is completely gone as his hand trails down her stomach and between her legs.
Elizabeth is aware of many, many things - the fabric under her back, the pillows under her head, the heat and pressure and scent of Rodney's body, curled up against her, the slow drift of air against her breasts, but they all fade rapidly away under the feather-light sweep of Rodney's fingers against her inner thighs. She spreads her legs wider, tilts her head back as she fights for breath, feeling Rodney shift over her, cock hard and slick as it brushes her hip. She arches against him as the heel of his hand presses firmly against her, tries to tether herself to reality with the rough slide of his hair under her fingers as he takes her nipple into his mouth and she cups the back of his head. Rodney's thrusting lazily against her thigh as he slips a finger up and in, pressing his thumb gently against her clit, and her hips curl up off the bed. There's a moment of confusion and cool air where Rodney's body had been, and then her hands are fisted in the covers as Rodney's mouth and fingers begin to take her apart. She can't hear, and she can't see, and all she can feel is him; Elizabeth is entirely at sea, her hands come up off the bed, groping wildly as her body winds tighter and tighter, and she hopes he can hear the edge in her voice as she pleads for him to stop, wait, come here.
Elizabeth nearly sobs in relief as she feels him move up her body, covering her, anchoring her; he kisses her, deep and dirty and incredibly sweet, and she's moving against him as they break apart, moving and muttering please and fuck and now. He's there, there, the head of his cock just barely against her, his body pinning her down, his mouth grinning against her skin as she calls him a bastard and surges against him, and when he slides in deep, all the way, she can feel the noise he makes trembling through her. She's wrapped around Rodney like he's the only fixed point in the universe, and the first orgasm rushes through her so hard it almost hurts as she clenches around him, but somehow it's still not enough. He goes completely, entirely still, and she can feel the catch in his breath, the vibration of the words he's pressing into her skin searing like a brand, and then they're moving again, slow and steady and incontrovertible. When she comes a second time, it's gentler, deeper, a quiet free-fall as she comes completely unmoored. Rodney follows after her with a long low groan that flows over her skin and echoes the pulsing in her veins, and then Elizabeth's lost, drifting away in the warm, silent dark, surrounded by Rodney and utterly replete.
When she resurfaces, Rodney's slipped the belt off of her eyes, and the first thing Elizabeth sees in the almost dark of the room is his face, relaxed and sated and watching her. He says something, but she can't see his lips well enough to make out the words, and she shakes her head ruefully. He shakes his own head in annoyance - at having forgotten, she thinks, not at her inability to hear - and starts to draw on her hip. "Next time," she repeats, "I need earplugs - Rodney!" she growls, and smacks him gently on the ass. As he shifts over to kiss her, Elizabeth can feel the laughter trembling between their lips, and is content.
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA, McKay/Weir
Rating: NC-17, for language
Spoilers: for The Return I, Echoes
Summary: Hard to find one without spoilers, so instead I give you a snippet:
"Rodney," she'd murmured, a thought occurring to her. He'd grunted something entirely unintelligible. "Rodney, when did you ever encounter Sylvia Plath?"
He'd lifted his head off of her chest, scowled up at her with eyes gone a hazy blue. "I have taken a solemn oath never to relive the horror that was my undergraduate literature requirement, and I don't plan to break that vow tonight. But if I never hear the words 'bell' and 'jar' used in conjunction again, it will be too soon."
Author's Notes: This is pure, shameless smut, written to reward
omglawdork for excellent prose and grace under pressure. (And then she beta'd her own ficlet. How's that for class (on her part, clearly)?) If you haven't read Buffalo Wings, you're missing out. This fic is not, alas, related to that one, but she asked for Rodney/Elizabeth smut, and Rodney/Elizabeth smut she shall have!
The title is a line from "The Poetics of Desire", by Rina Singh. Read it here.
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She's asleep until Rodney barges in and thumps down next to her on the edge of the bed, shaking her by the shoulder. At least, she presumes he barged in, because it's Rodney and he pretty much comes with one setting, although to be fair it's not like she'd have heard him knocking. Carson had let her out of the infirmary under strict orders to rest; had written them down on a piece of paper so there was no possible way she could blame a failure to comply on poor lip-reading skills. Really, though, she hadn't much felt like arguing. She'd been tired even before her symptoms got particularly bad, and according to Carson she'd probably be back to relatively normal by sometime tomorrow, if John and Rodney were any indication. She'd grab some downtime while she could, and manage, in this case, not to feel too guilty about it. So she'd headed back to her quarters and showered the last of the antiseptic smell off of her skin, then wrapped herself up in a nubbly brown robe, a gift from Teyla on their return to Atlantis. She'd curled up with a book while she waited for her hair to dry; now, as Elizabeth stares up at an ornery Rodney, she can feel the indentation in her cheek where she'd fallen asleep and mashed her face against the spine.
He's off on a tear about something, and if she were a betting woman, she'd call it good odds he's repeating Carson's lecture at higher speed and with more invective, but that crooked mouth is moving so fast, and she can't hear him, so it's not like she can say for sure. Elizabeth's tired, though, and it's Rodney, so it's safe to allow herself to get a little cranky. "Rodney," she says, pushing herself into a sitting position, her back against the wall. He winces, which means she must've misjudged the volume, but at least he's paused. She tries again, hoping she's managed to modulate her tone. "Rodney. In case you've forgotten, I can't hear you. Ruptured eardrums will do that. So whatever you're saying, it's going to have to wait - I don't have a pen and paper handy and, should you decide to go find one, I'm not planning on being awake when you come back."
She figures he'll huff and frown and leave. This thing between them is too new for either of them to be entirely certain of each other, and they've been careful to give each other space. The first time had been after they'd beaten the Asurans, once Atlantis was safe, the first time in six weeks that the world had been clear, focused, immediate - that it had felt real. It had been late, but she hadn't been ready to sleep, and he'd found her on the gateroom balcony.
"It's beautiful."
"That," he'd gestured, "is the sight of three fully charged ZedPMs. Atlantis is fully powered for the first time in thousands on thousands of years, and we have no idea what's out there, waiting for us to find." He'd sounded like a little kid under the Christmas tree.
"Like I said, beautiful."
Rodney had snorted. "I thought you were the one who was supposed to be good with words."
"I'm sorry," she'd quipped, looking at him, "you must have me confused with Teyla. I'm the one who's supposed to be good with politics." The twist of bitterness in her voice had surprised her as well as Rodney, and she'd turned back to the view.
"Elizabeth," he'd said, and she could see him from the corner of her eye, big hands spread wide, taking an uncertain step towards her. "Elizabeth, look, whatever happened back on Earth...."
"It's fine, Rodney." She'd kept her tone light and warm.
"Oh, yes, right. Completely fine. Because it's not at all strange for a world-class diplomat to turn into a hermit in the space of three days."
She'd refused to rise to the bait. "I took some time off, that's all, and then I was consulting with the SGC. Georgetown was mid-semester anyway; I had the time."
He'd been uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. "Look," he said finally, "Lie to O'Neill. Lie to the SGC. Lie to Carson, if you have to, even though you know he won't buy it, but do not, and I mean, do not, expect me to believe it." She'd turned to look at him in surprise - Rodney could run through ten emotions in the time most people managed two, but she couldn't pinpoint this one. Careful, her internal diplomat had warned, and he must have seen something in her face because suddenly she was being backed into the corner of the balcony by the steamroller that was an extremely frustrated Rodney McKay. "What the hell, Elizabeth," he'd snapped. "We only just managed to convince you not to kill yourself when you had homicidal robots in your brain, and that was only because Sheppard comes equipped with an overactive martyr gland and a complete lack of common sense, and then you think it's all right to go off and commit suicide by degrees in some little hole of an apartment in Colorado?"
Trapped between the railing and an oncoming McKay, she raised her hands in what she recognized as an extremely ineffectual defense. "Rodney. Don't you think you're exaggerating just a little?"
The glare he shot her would've been called murderous under different circumstances. "No, no, I don't. When both Sheppard and I - who are, I might add, the two least socially adept members of your team - when both of us notice that you've apparently turned your back on humanity in a manner reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, things have gone well past concerning and straight into the realm of entirely acceptable alarm. What kind of idiot just disappears when something's wrong without at least asking for help?"
"That's enough, Rodney." Her tone had been ice cold.
"Actually, no it isn't. It's not even close. Even Sheppard trusts the rest of us enough to know that we won't leave him behind, and he's got so many complexes he'll keep Heightmeyer in spasms of psychological curiosity for decades. Where the hell do you get off thinking we wouldn't do the same for you?"
That's when it really had been enough. "And what, exactly, would you have done, Rodney? This isn't a physics problem, for god's sake; you can't just change my parameters so I fit the damn equations. I'm not the person I was before I left Earth; I - there's - I can't just slip back into the diplomatic world. I don't think like that anymore. I can't just go back to a lab or an infirmary or an away team and pretend things are normal. There's no job for me back there, and there's nothing you could have done to fix that." By the time she'd finished, she really had been angry - with Rodney, with the SGC, or with the Ancients, she hadn't been sure. All of them, maybe. She'd glared at Rodney, daring him to offer some platitude. She should've known better.
His eyes had gone sad; the lines around his mouth had relaxed and shifted as he'd frowned. He'd lifted a tentative hand to touch her arm and she'd shrugged it off, too restless to handle being touched. "No," he'd said, "But we wouldn't have left you on your own if you'd given us a chance. Sheppard may be a stubborn bastard with less sense than evolution gave a duck, but he's right about that. We don't leave people behind."
The fight had gone out of her in a rush; unable to meet his eyes any longer, she had turned her head and dropped her chin, looking out over the city. "You might have to." He'd started to speak, but she'd kept going. "O'Neill's gating back in the morning. We don't know what the SGC's going to do with us. We don't even know that they'll determine the mission's still viable - or that any of us should be part of it. If anyone's going to be the fall guy on this one, Rodney, I'm first in line - I'm already on the IOA's hit list."
"Fine," he'd said, hunching his shoulders, and when she'd glanced over, his mouth had gone stubborn. "Give me their names and within a week Zelenka and I will have made such a wreck of their computers, credit histories, and home electronics that they'll be praying for your swift return. I've already gone renegade; it's not like creative and highly illegal hacking isn't a completely plausible continuation of my descent into the criminal world. The point is, we'd figure it out."
Rodney'd looked so determined that something had knotted tight in her chest, until suddenly an image popped into her head of him and Radek, crouched over a computer in some seedy little apartment, systematically reprogramming the garage door frequencies for the entire IOA. She hadn't been able to help it; she'd started to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, until Rodney's eyes had gone wide and he'd started muttering about the need to hold off on nervous breakdowns until Heightmeyer got back from wherever the SGC had stashed her, which had made Elizabeth laugh harder, until she hadn't been sure if she was crying or laughing or both. Somewhere along the way her knees had gotten too shaky to hold her and she'd grabbed for the railing, still dizzy with whatever had her in its grip. Somehow she'd ended up with her arms wrapped around Rodney instead, her face pressed against his chest, one of his hands on the back of her neck and the other sketching vague and incredibly awkward circles over her back in what he'd probably meant to be a soothing gesture, even if it actually felt more like someone praying very hard that the cat they were petting wasn't going to turn and smack them one, claws out.
Eventually she'd gotten herself back in hand, and they'd both gone quiet. Pushing herself away, she'd started to mutter some kind of stilted thanks. As she'd shifted, though, the hand holding her neck had moved, brushed feather-light against the side of her cheek, and his eyes had been dark and worried and questioning. Elizabeth would never be certain who moved first, but then she was kissing Rodney was kissing her, both of them awkward and uncertain and shy until they hadn't been any longer. Later, when they'd left the balcony and found her quarters, not speaking, as Rodney had moved over and around and in her, as she'd bucked and twisted against him, as she'd held him against her, after, and rubbed his fine, soft hair between her fingers, she'd felt herself coming back from a long way away.
"Rodney," she'd murmured, a thought occurring to her. He'd grunted something entirely unintelligible. "Rodney, when did you ever encounter Sylvia Plath?"
He'd lifted his head off of her chest, scowled up at her with eyes gone a hazy blue. "I have taken a solemn oath never to relive the horror that was my undergraduate literature requirement, and I don't plan to break that vow tonight. But if I never hear the words 'bell' and 'jar' used in conjunction again, it will be too soon." She'd grinned, and he'd grumbled, and they'd drifted off to sleep.
When she'd woken, he'd been gone, but that night she'd headed back to her quarters and found him outside her door, full of nervous energy and hand raised to knock, and she'd opened the door for them both before either of them could overthink it. They'd continued that way for the last few weeks, although, oddly enough, it hadn't affected their behavior during the day. It wasn't every night, and rarely the whole night - Elizabeth was too cautious and Rodney too restless for either of them to be entirely comfortable with that, and they'd hardly had the time (or, if she was honest with herself, the inclination) to have any sort of discussion about what, precisely, was going on.
Tonight, Elizabeth thinks, focusing on Rodney, still sitting next to her on the bed, could've been the night they couldn't avoid the issue any longer, and she's enough of a coward to be grateful for the delay. When Rodney reaches out and smooths his blunt fingers down the dent in her cheek left by the book, she realizes that maybe she does want to know. He looks so tired, and she traps his hand with hers, holding it against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips. It's been a long several days for both of them, and in the end, he'd been part of the plan, but she knows how frustrated he must have been that he wasn't the one to come up with a solution. The concept of team hasn't come easily to either of them, albeit for different reasons.
"Hey," she murmurs, or hopes she does, feeling her lips vibrate against the pad of his thumb. "You did good today." He scowls, like she knew he would, and opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. "Can't hear you, remember? So no arguments." She grins, nips at his thumb affectionately. "You're just going to have to sit there and take it." Elizabeth leans forward, resting a hand on his chest, places a quick kiss at the corner of his still-open mouth. "Consider it character-building."
She's too close to have any chance of understanding what he says, but she can feel the retort growling in his chest. Rodney's eyes go dark and challenging; she'd worry, except she sees the corner of his mouth quirk up into a grin and his palm is hot against the back of her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. When they break apart, she's more than a little breathless and not nearly as tired as she thought; sparks are skittering just under her skin, up and down her spine. She wants to touch, so she does, tugging his shirt free from his belt, running her hands up and under, bending her head to mouth at his nipple through the cotton. It's strange to do this in such silence, and a little disconcerting, although she's pretty sure Rodney's not complaining, given the way his chest hitches beneath her as he drags in a breath. So many of the normal cues are gone, though, that it's a surprise when his hands slide into her hair and the sound of some word reverberates against her cheek.
When he lifts her head, gently, so she's looking him in the eye, her mouth goes dry and her hands go still where they'd been tracing the point of his hip and the stretch of his side. "Elizabeth," his lips say, and Rodney looks amused and turned-on and also just a little disbelieving, so she leans into the hands cupping her cheeks to kiss him again, soft and slow, her hands slipping up to wind around his neck. His hands, meanwhile, leave her face, and she can feel them busy at her waist, but she's too lost in the slide of his tongue against hers to pay them any attention - at least until one creeps up to give her nipple an impudent tweak.
She yelps, and pulls back just enough to glare at him in mock-indignation. Rodney is grinning at her, and he has the same look on his face as when he's come up with yet another brilliant, brilliant plan. She lifts an expectant eyebrow and he raises his hands to show her the belt from her robe, soft and wide, and moves to tie it around her head, over her eyes, which is when Elizabeth pulls away from him in earnest. "Rodney," she warns, and scowls in frustration when he flinches. Too loud. She tries again. "Rodney, I -" He's watching her carefully, and it's unnerving to be the focus of that gaze.
She looks down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. Elizabeth likes sex - has, frankly, missed it, but she's also always been fairly straightforward in what she wants. This is something new, particularly now, when she's already temporarily without sound. Rodney's hand settles on her shoulder; his thumb brushes against her collarbone and she looks up. "Consider it character-building," he says slowly, so there's no mistaking the words, and her own lips curve as she takes in the teasing slant of his mouth. His eyes are clear and wide and watchful, though, and she knows he'll back off if she balks again. The certainty of that knowledge, paradoxically, gives her the confidence to lean forward, grab his ears, and kiss him hard, hard enough that he looks pole-axed when she pulls away and takes the fabric out of his unresisting grasp.
She glances at him one last time as she toys with the sash, and this time she's entirely serious. "Just. Rodney," and she's glad she can't hear the slight catch in her voice, even if she knows it's there, "if I - you have to listen, if I tell you to stop."
He holds her gaze as he nods, pulls her free hand to his throat so she can feel it as well as see it when he says, "Trust me."
Elizabeth shivers, remembering the last time he'd said something like that to her. Rodney's thoughts must follow hers because suddenly he looks terribly uncertain, which isn't fair, because he's not quite that person anymore - and even if he had been, she still would have trusted him in this. She raises the belt and gives him a smile, tying it behind her head even as she tells him, "I do."
It's strange, even so, to be so close to someone without the use of eyes or ears. She can feel Rodney next to her - the heat of his body, the dip in the mattress next to her thighs. But sight and sound are the tools of her trade, the things she uses without even thinking about it to read other people and gauge her response, and it's unsettling to be without them and know someone else is nearby. Elizabeth twists her fingers into the coverlet, waiting for some sense of motion, some clue as to what Rodney's about to do.
She shivers, then jumps, just a little, at the touch of Rodney's hand on hers. He shifts nearer, and his palm is warm against hers as he untangles her hand from the bedspread, his touch firm as he runs his thumb over her palm and down to the tendons in her wrist, massaging some of the tension away until, apparently satisfied, he pulls it forward to rest on his shoulder and begins the process again on her other hand. She can feel the fabric of his shirt under her fingertips, runs her hands along the broad line of his shoulder, brings one to rest against the hollow of his clavicle. She feels him lean forward, feels the heat of his arms along hers as he reaches out, but can't stop a slight jerk backward when his hands come up to cup her cheeks and tuck her hair behind her ears. Elizabeth can feel a rumble in his throat as she jumps, but without sight, without sound, she can't tell what it is, or why, or how to react, and she feels herself start to tense. This isn't - they aren't - she can't -
She feels another noise, and his hands leave her head abruptly; she straightens, moving to untie the belt, to apologize, but Rodney's hands are around her wrists again, gentle, then just around the one, coaxing her hand open, tracing a single finger in a pattern over her palm, careful and deliberate, pausing at the end and starting over again on the same path. It takes a moment, and then she understands: "B," she says, and he squeezes her hand. Turning it over, he starts again: "R". Another squeeze, and so on, each letter inscribed over and over on its own patch of skin, waking the nerves underneath as she focuses, intent, on deciphering the character. "Breathe," she whispers, partway through the letter h, and laughs a little on the exhale. Rodney brings her hand to his lips, kissing the palm, and she traces over his grin. His hand touches her mouth, mirroring her movements, then shifts to her lap, brushing the robe away from her legs.
He starts again, using her legs for a canvas, and Elizabeth's concentrating enough on following the words that she forgets to worry. "You are," he writes, and she says each word out loud as she deciphers it, "very smart for a social scientist." She snorts after she finishes that sentence. "And also," he says, "a remarkably sane leader for this expedition," and she laughs at the backhanded compliment. "But I bet," his finger continues, painting words over her thighs and down her calves, "you have no idea that I am about to do this..." and as the last ellipse fades away on the arch of her foot, Rodney's hand slips up and tickles her side. She shrieks in surprise, doubling over and then shrieks again as he grabs her gently around the waist and tugs her down the bed, then sets to it in earnest, pushing the robe away and batting at her hands as she laughs and tries to catch his merciless fingers. She's laughing so hard she's out of breath when he blows a giant raspberry just above her navel - "Rodney," she yelps, and she feels his shoulders shake under her palms. Then he's sweeping her legs off the bed and tugging her to her feet, holding her flush against him while she finds her balance.
The robe, at this point, is hanging open, and her nipples harden as she presses up against Rodney. They catch on the cotton of his shirt; Elizabeth is still laughing even as she shifts against him, feeling the shock of heat along her nerves. His hands leave her wrists and settle on her shoulders, then move down her arms, tugging the robe off and letting it fall to the floor to pool over her feet. One hand curves around to the small of her back, tugs her in closer; the other starts tracing letters across the ridge of her collarbone. "Hold still," she says, and then Rodney's hands are gone, and she feels the air cool as he steps away from her. A slight draft traces up the front of her body, and the soft weave of the robe brushes gently past her ankles as Rodney pulls it away. Then the heat of his body returns, and she leans toward him, seeking it out. Rodney runs a finger down her nose, over her lips, then writes along the slope of her arm, "I said," and he underlines the second word, "hold still," punctuating the end of the sentence with a gentle poke that makes her grin and murmur, "Yes, sir."
For the space of a breath, nothing happens, and then she feels her skin start to prickle on either side of her neck. She can feel Rodney's hands hovering just above her skin, can feel the warmth of them, and waits for him to drop them that fraction of an inch lower. He doesn't though; instead, Rodney begins to move along the contours of her body, skimming without touching, slowly enough that every inch of skin in his path warms in response. He curves over her breasts and her nipples throb; the slow drift of his palms over her stomach and back, both at once, leaves her vibrating with a pleasant tension, like his hands are magnets pulling her equally in either direction. His hands cup the air around her right leg and she feels the air shift as he crouches, following the column down to her ankle, then ascending along the arcs of her left, and finally pausing, holding, just over her sex, until he stands, and begins the whole process again.
By the time he returns to her legs, Elizabeth is ready to climb out of her skin; it feels too tight, restrictive and almost over-sensitized, hyper-aware of Rodney's progress. Her fingers curl, fighting the urge to reach for him, until he makes the journey up her left leg and then, suddenly, takes her hips in his hands, tracing firm arcs down the sides of her body. The shock of it gathers low in her belly; she drops her head back and fights for breath as her arms stretch up above her head of their own accord. She feels every muscle stretch and release, feels a deep, demanding glow thrumming through her veins. She lets her arms fall, runs her own hands along her neck, needing to touch, to settle the shiver running along her skin; she skims them over her breasts and down her sides to twine briefly with Rodney's before running up along his arms, her fingers tingling and aware.
"Too much clothing," she breathes, and she doesn't know if she makes a noise or not, but the tug of her hands on his shoulders is its own message, and Rodney gets slowly to his feet. When he's standing, she reaches out, sweeps her palms over the crown of his head, feeling his hair ruffle as they pass. She smiles, then, as she traces her fingertips down, slowly, over the planes of his face, smoothing them along the lines that perpetual stress is slowly etching into his forehead, brushing lightly over his eyelids and smiling as his lashes feather over the pad of her thumb. She can feel an answering smile on his lips and she squeaks as he nips at her fingertips, trailing a hand down to poke him as she turns his words back on him: "Hold still."
Elizabeth's fingers move lightly down the line of his neck, brushing under the collar of his shirt, then sweeping firm arcs down the breadth of his chest. She laughs as she feels Rodney inhale sharply, only to shudder as the puff of his exhale trembles along her neck. She's not above a little revenge as she reaches his sides; she laughs again when his hands come up to grab hers, burying her head against his shoulder and feeling the grumble of his complaint. Eventually she tugs her wrists free and moves her hands to his waist, pulls his shirt free. She's impatient as she shoves the fabric up and over his head, leaving him to wriggle his way free of the arms as she maps her way down his torso again. By the time Rodney's stopped twisting and, if the vibrations under her palms are any indication, complaining, Elizabeth's wrapped her arms around him and for a moment she's content simply to lean against him. His body is hot and slightly rough with hair, and her nose is full of the clean, simple smell that is uniquely him; the steady thrum of his heart and rise of his chest resonate through her bones. She bites gently at his shoulder, then smoothes over the spot with her tongue, tasting salt and musk. His arms slip around her, and she feels the boundaries of her own body dissolving. It's almost overwhelming, and she pushes away, needing room to breathe, to reestablish herself.
Elizabeth doesn't know how much Rodney can tell of what she's thinking; she's long past guarding her expression tonight. There's little way to know what he's thinking beyond her awareness of the growing tension along his spine. Still, when she steps back and shifts her hands to his waistband, he lets her go; his only reaction is to run a thumb along the line of her jaw. She tips her chin up, almost in question, and when she feels his lips against hers, they're smiling. The slide of their tongues is almost lazy, but for the sense that they're both holding back a little, listening to each other as best they can. She runs a hand down the placket of his trousers and feels the buzz of his groan against her mouth, his hips canting forward into her touch. Rodney's hands come up to cup the back of her head, sliding through her hair and making her shiver. Elizabeth leans into them for a moment, then rests her forehead against his collarbone as she sets to work in earnest on button and zipper. She can feel Rodney straining against her hand through the fabric of his boxers as she presses against him, sliding the zip down. Rodney's breathing has gone tight and shallow, his exhalations slide down her spine like quicksilver. The muscles in his chest jump as he keeps himself still; she can feel a similar tension settling deeper into her own body as she slips her hands under elastic and pushes both boxers and pants down.
Elizabeth feels his cock jump as she cups his ass and pulls him tight against her, feels an answering pull in the space between her legs as she grinds against him. Rodney's head drops to her shoulder as he shudders, his hands grab her hips, and for a moment they simply sway against each other. Then Rodney mouths a line of hot, wet kisses along the line of her neck and brings one hand up to the small of her back. His finger is less than steady, and it's all she can do to gather enough coherent thought to follow what he's saying. "Hold on," she repeats, and raises an eyebrow he probably can't see, but she wraps her arms around his neck, nonetheless - which, it turns out, is a good thing, because Rodney scoops her up and then deposits her gently on the bed.
He's gone for a moment; she feels the mattress dip next to her, but his attention is elsewhere. "Rodney?" she queries. After a moment he stretches out beside her, and she sucks in air at the weight of his arm on her stomach and the heat of his thigh covering hers.
"You," he writes above her navel, prodding her just below the rib, "forgot about the shoes."
She laughs, she can't help it - the complaint is as clear as if she had her hearing fully restored. "I'll have to make it up to you," she says, but she feels him shake his head no against her shoulder.
"Bed rest," he scrawls, "Doctor's orders," and then any possibility she has of understanding him further is completely gone as his hand trails down her stomach and between her legs.
Elizabeth is aware of many, many things - the fabric under her back, the pillows under her head, the heat and pressure and scent of Rodney's body, curled up against her, the slow drift of air against her breasts, but they all fade rapidly away under the feather-light sweep of Rodney's fingers against her inner thighs. She spreads her legs wider, tilts her head back as she fights for breath, feeling Rodney shift over her, cock hard and slick as it brushes her hip. She arches against him as the heel of his hand presses firmly against her, tries to tether herself to reality with the rough slide of his hair under her fingers as he takes her nipple into his mouth and she cups the back of his head. Rodney's thrusting lazily against her thigh as he slips a finger up and in, pressing his thumb gently against her clit, and her hips curl up off the bed. There's a moment of confusion and cool air where Rodney's body had been, and then her hands are fisted in the covers as Rodney's mouth and fingers begin to take her apart. She can't hear, and she can't see, and all she can feel is him; Elizabeth is entirely at sea, her hands come up off the bed, groping wildly as her body winds tighter and tighter, and she hopes he can hear the edge in her voice as she pleads for him to stop, wait, come here.
Elizabeth nearly sobs in relief as she feels him move up her body, covering her, anchoring her; he kisses her, deep and dirty and incredibly sweet, and she's moving against him as they break apart, moving and muttering please and fuck and now. He's there, there, the head of his cock just barely against her, his body pinning her down, his mouth grinning against her skin as she calls him a bastard and surges against him, and when he slides in deep, all the way, she can feel the noise he makes trembling through her. She's wrapped around Rodney like he's the only fixed point in the universe, and the first orgasm rushes through her so hard it almost hurts as she clenches around him, but somehow it's still not enough. He goes completely, entirely still, and she can feel the catch in his breath, the vibration of the words he's pressing into her skin searing like a brand, and then they're moving again, slow and steady and incontrovertible. When she comes a second time, it's gentler, deeper, a quiet free-fall as she comes completely unmoored. Rodney follows after her with a long low groan that flows over her skin and echoes the pulsing in her veins, and then Elizabeth's lost, drifting away in the warm, silent dark, surrounded by Rodney and utterly replete.
When she resurfaces, Rodney's slipped the belt off of her eyes, and the first thing Elizabeth sees in the almost dark of the room is his face, relaxed and sated and watching her. He says something, but she can't see his lips well enough to make out the words, and she shakes her head ruefully. He shakes his own head in annoyance - at having forgotten, she thinks, not at her inability to hear - and starts to draw on her hip. "Next time," she repeats, "I need earplugs - Rodney!" she growls, and smacks him gently on the ass. As he shifts over to kiss her, Elizabeth can feel the laughter trembling between their lips, and is content.