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The Recklessness of Water
The sun-bleached and sand-scoured building perched on its bridge-like foundations on a spit of land nearly surrounded by water. Time and tide had scraped the surrounding land back into the ocean, and all its neighboring houses had collapsed into the wet sand, leaving vaguely house-shaped mounds empty of life.
The first storey of the house was open, lost to the rising sea levels, annual monsoons, and exceptional high tides, but three more rose above the gleaming water. Potted plants lined the second and third floor verandas: glossy tomatoes shone in the afternoon sun, frothy carrot greens curled around the zinnias, and a faded denim shirt hung limply over a railing. A kayak tugged at a floating pier beside the house. If one happened to paddle the kayak out at dusk, one could bob in the surf and watch the sun set into the gleaming water beneath the house, gilding it until one's eyes burned and teared.
John liked to do that, sit in the kayak right at water level, rising and falling with the waves, resisting the gentle current with a few short strokes of the paddle, keeping the sun centered beneath the house, right through what had been big bay windows. When they'd first moved here, he'd lived on the first floor, and would stand at the back window watching the sunset. Water and wind had blown out the window a few years ago, but he still watched the sunset.
Once John had seen far inland small lights glinting in the deepening twilight. A caravan winding its way to the stargate south of them, he assumed. More people leaving this drowning world. He'd never seen anyone else inland, day or night.
But that was in the evenings; right now, the sun was still high and hot, the air thick with heat and humidity, smelling of salt and iodine. Birds floated right through the lower windows, their beaks open as they panted for air in the muggy afternoon. Even the waves were subdued, rocking slowly as they sloshed their way to shore.
Inside, the house was quiet. No music played, no voices called out, no fingers tapped on keyboards. Not even a breeze disturbed the afternoon, though all the windows were open. On top of their enormous bed, Rodney lay on his stomach, head twisted to one side so he could breathe. He was, John knew, soundly asleep. His breath gusted hot against John's bare shoulder, and for once he was silent.
John stretched and opened his eyes, sighing. His belly was flakey with dried semen he'd been too lazy to wash off, and his ass was a bit sore from Rodney's big hand smacking him -- always a pleasurable surprise in the midst of sex. Rodney claimed never to have done such a thing, so seriously that John half-believed him. He clenched his butt in happy memory and wiggled closer to Rodney.
Rodney's hair was thinner and grayer than ever, but so was John's. They'd both recently shaved their beards in a failed attempt at being cooler, so the lower half of Rodney's face was tender and pale compared to his red throat and chest and his brown, deeply furrowed eyes and brow. To keep cool, they mostly went nude and spent a lot of time on or in the water. But right now, the heavy afternoon air lay on them like wet silk, and the lulling splash of the rising tide matched time with Rodney's breathing.
John nudged even close to Rodney, blowing lightly on his shoulder. When Rodney still didn't stir, John kissed his forehead, then blew again over the damp spot he'd left.
Rodney sighed, shifted slightly, and fluttered open his eyes.
"Hey," John murmured, and raised his eyebrows.
"We're too old," Rodney grumbled, but he smiled and rolled onto his back. "It'll take me forever."
"We've got nothin' but time," John pointed out, and raised up onto his elbows to lean over Rodney and kiss him again, lightly and teasingly: his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, which made Rodney wrinkle it, and finally his lips.
"Too hot," Rodney said, but in slow motion he reached for John, resting his big hand on John's neck and pulling him down. "So hot," he said before kissing him again. Deeply this time, tasting a bit sour, like sleep and thirst, but gradually he woke and kissed John more thoroughly, opening his mouth, sucking on John's tongue. "So, so hot," he said, sliding closer to John until they pressed against each other, hands on each other's shoulders, slow, slow kisses making sticky wet noises in the hot quiet.
Only they existed, John thought; the rest of the world, of the galaxy, had slowed to a stop this heavy afternoon. Sun motionless above the house, beating down on the roof, feeding the solar cells growing on it. The tide was slack, listless, quiet beneath them. The rich scent of water and salt and tomatoes perfumed the quiescent air.
Their kisses slowed, and John rested his forehead against Rodney's throat, feeling the tide of his pulse, their skin slick with sweat. Rodney kissed the top of John's head and yawned. They lay quietly together, sweat pooling above John's lips and on his eyelids. He slid into a light doze, bobbing like his kayak in his bed of dreams until Rodney glided his hand across John's face, wiping it with a corner of the worn sheet. "Mm," John murmured, and lifted his face. Rodney wiped his forehead again and then kissed him, licking at John's lips until he opened his mouth and sucked on Rodney's tongue.
The weight of the afternoon air grew heavier and wetter, as warm as Rodney's hand on John's chest as they kissed, slower, until Rodney sighed and rested his head on John's shoulder. John curled a hand around Rodney's sweaty neck, and yawned. Rodney hummed something, a buzzy sound against John's skin, and abruptly fell asleep.
John sighed, and closed his eyes, and slid back into a half-doze, the sound of Rodney's breathing, his own breath, the slow rise and fall of the tide, the slower turn of this world they'd run to, all blending into John's own heartbeat.
In John's dreams, he saw again he and his team fleeing in a stolen puddle jumper; he saw smoke and steam rising from Atlantis as they circled away, heading to the nearest orbital stargate and into the black of the Pegasus Galaxy, so thick with worlds yet so thin with stars. He never dreamt of their long search for a new home; he never dreamt of their failed attempts to retake Atlantis, to negotiate with the Wraith, to find allies with which to fight. He dreamt that they'd flown straight here, to this empty world of lopsided atolls and shallow lagoons; he dreamt that he'd moved directly from his narrow bed in Atlantis to endless afternoons sleeping next to Rodney.
Dex Drayage
Ronon steered the launch into the rising sun; he had a long way to go for his customers' belongings. They lived on another island lost to the rising seas, but John had found an abandoned settlement on higher ground, so Dex Drayage was slowly moving the families from their engulfed homes.
He was out this early because it was cooler and a slack tide so he could make better time. Returning would be with the tide, with the wind at his back, but so hot. After all these years, his skin was burned deepest brown from the endless sun, despite Rodney's constant applications of his homemade SPF 100 sunblock. Rodney had also built the engine that powered the launch, a silent non-polluting bullet of silver naquadah that Ronon had learned to repair; he'd even tinkered with its performance, finding a bit more power than Rodney had coaxed out of it, much to Rodney's annoyance.
Some evenings, Rodney would come with Ronon for a late cruise along the coast, never out of sight of land. Whenever they went out, Rodney wore his life jacket, specially designed by him to keep him face up even when unconscious. Despite Rodney's unrelenting nagging, Ronon disdained use of them. Ronon would cut the engine and they'd lie on their backs on the bow and study the sky and the few stars that could be seen from this world. On the hottest nights, they would slide overboard into the water, letting it cool them. Sometimes they'd fuck in the water, Rodney clinging to the ladder and Ronon both, grumbling and gasping and knocking the back of his head against the gunnel as he came, their seed spilling into the warm water between them, a tiny galaxy of fading life.
Ronon adjusted his cock in his shorts as he steered the launch, grinning to himself as he remembered. He liked the nights with Rodney. John rarely came with him in the launch, though some mornings Ronon liked to balance himself onto John's kayak, legs dangling on either side of John, who'd sleekly move them through the water, two morning animals out on a hunt for the fish Rodney called salmon that migrated from the ocean up the rivers of the disappearing land. Ronon supposed the fish would disappear, too, eventually, but right now there was still enough high ground for fresh water.
He liked the mornings with John. John, who was quieter than ever, and less impulsive than any of them, was easily persuaded by kisses and soft touches, melting into the affection all of them had been so long starved for. The gray that streaked Ronon's beard was mirrored in John's hair, and the dawn glinted in it when Ronon would take the paddle from his hand and ship it carefully, then run his hands down John's shoulders and arms, smoothing the tension from them.
Tomorrow, Ronon promised himself, shifting in arousal again; tomorrow he'd take John out early, not for fish but for pleasure. They'd both worked enough this week; they'd both done enough for all time; they deserved these mornings together, John slumping back into Ronon, letting his hands move over him proprietarily, until they would need more room and wiggle free of the kayak.
"Waterdogs," Rodney called them, which made Ronon laugh, so he'd named his launch Waterdog. Now the kids on the submerging island shouted its name and his, waving their arms in excitement. The kids didn't mind the move or the encroaching sea.
He eased the craft along the half-submerged pier, glossy and slick with algae. In his opinion, these folks had waited too long to move, stuck in obstinate disbelief that their world would betray them. Ronon knew they'd never been through the stargate and so tried not to blame them, but he also knew that everything betrayed everyone in the end. Even Rodney knew that, the most innocent grown man Ronon had ever known.
"Last load," one of the men called to him. "What doesn't fit this time gets left behind."
Ronon didn't respond; he'd left so much behind so many times. He grunted, and sprang from the launch. "Heavy stuff in the stern," he said, and followed the men to the staging area, kids shouting and circling them like schools of darting fish. The women had their own small boats in this settlement, out in the morning and evening to pry mussels and mollusks from rocks at low tide, but these past weeks they'd ferried lighter goods to their new home. The boats, all painted red and yellow, were tied together in a star, tarps draped over their contents. One woman, old and drawn, stood in the bow of the largest, arms folded across her bosom, staring at the men, who glanced nervously at her. Ronon knew the feeling.
He helped the men carry the last of the beds into the launch, and then three large wardrobes, their doors tied shut with red ribbons. Finally an old cupboard, paint fading and peeling, still glinting with traces of gilt, was wrapped in a yellow blanket and gently settled into the launch.
They stood for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable, and then the old woman shouted something in a language Ronon didn't know. The kids raced toward the star of boats, flinging themselves into the water and clambering aboard; they were waterdogs, too. All but the babies swam, and they stayed strapped to their mothers' breasts, little chrysalises waiting to emerge. Two men went with Ronon, the rest with their wives and mothers and sisters, a flotilla of extended family on a last voyage.
The sun was directly to Ronon's right when he finally steered for home, paralleling the coast. Seaward, he saw distant bobbing lights; fishermen's lanterns hanging from their boats. He passed two more settlements still alive, and three melting into the pewter-slick of wet sand. John had once asked Rodney about the rising sea water, but Rodney had snapped, What, am I climatologist now? and then spent days drawing diagrams of mean and median surface temperature anomalies, and talking with his mouth full about anthropogenic climate change, solar variation, and eustatic and isostatic adjustment. All Ronon knew was that much of this world was underwater, and the longer he lived here, the more that was true.
Three small boats passed him in the opposite direction, up the coast to one of the settlements; the inhabitants slowed, as did Ronon, so they could call across the water to each other.
"Tamorans moved," Ronon told them. "Up north of you all. Their old place is under."
"Azzars are gone through the gate," Hya said. "Back to their mothers' world."
"Better water than Wraith," Coken said, and they all nodded.
"Better get back," Hya said, and they parted. Ronon steered by their white wake for a long time, remembering the Wraith's stringy white hair streaming down their nightmare faces. The Wraith hadn't visited this world in more years than they'd lived here, and why should they? There were so few people left, and so isolated. A culling would be hard work here. Better water than Wraith.
It was full night when he arrived home, and lights gleamed from the second storey, where the kitchen was. He heard laughter fizz onto the water and his heart clutched, a terrible combination of hope and happiness and fear.
He'd lost so much. The world ate everything in the end, and he knew it would eat him and his family eventually. The world ate everything, even itself, and it would eat him.
Infinite Experiments
The top storey of their home, battered by wind and storms, Rodney used as his lab. John called it a penthouse, and maybe technically it was, but the windows had long ago blown out, replaced by sheer cloths to hinder the sun though never the heat. Rodney left the skylight open, even in the rains, to let out the heat; he'd built an aqueduct to channel rainwater to their purification system and into the storage tank clinging to the north side of their home.
He spent the mornings up there, emerging when the heat grew too much or the rain or wind too strong. "In a minute!" he'd shout down when he deigned to hear a call for dinner or help, though he often wouldn't come until someone dragged him downstairs. "I miss powerbars," he grumbled. "Coffee. Even that tea from, where was it? The spicy stuff." He'd say this through a mouth full of fresh fish that John caught, or of the beefy aka that Ronon chased down.
"Yeah, looks like you been missing meals," Ronon would always respond, and Rodney would glare his death-ray glare even though by now he knew that Ronon was immune.
"You can still pick him up," John observed, and Rodney screeched, "No, no, dammit, Ronon --" but he was too late, Ronon was already wrapping his long arms around Rodney's capacious middle and hefting him out of his chair.
"You're next, Sheppard!" Rodney bellowed, and then they were both at John. John was still spry and dodged them, but they cornered him on the balcony off the kitchen, and then all three leapt over the railing, screaming like sidhe, even Rodney laughing and spitting water.
He loved it, Rodney admitted to himself, sweating bullets as he refined the insulation on an oven for bread or inventing a loom that let the worst weaver work without confusing or tangling the weft threads. He loved surprising them with little conveniences and inventions for their trade and their pleasure. He knew them better than he'd ever known another human being, even his sister, and he loved them the way he loved water and air and the rich sweet beans that grew in Yanok, far to the south of them.
Rodney figured out ways to keep the algae from eating their pier, the salt water from rotting the fabric of their sails and spraydeck. He grew solar cells on the roof that powered their lights and fans and water pumps. He purified rainwater and desalted seawater. He developed fertilizer and pesticides for their balcony gardens, and ways to preserve the fruit and vegetables they grew.
Despite the rising tides, the desperate future of this hot world, its melting ice caps and increasing storms, Rodney had never felt more fulfilled or more valued. This odd life he'd stumbled into, this beloved family he'd grown into, enriched him more than he could ever repay them.
This time, in the shade beneath their home, the sun breaking like glass on the shattering surface of the water beyond the walls, he floated on his back, letting the other two play like otters around him, diving and shooting up to try to touch the ceiling of what had been the ground storey. He bobbed like John's kayak in their wake, their laughter echoing from the damp walls.
They'd lived in these rooms when they first found the abandoned settlement, but Rodney had quickly realized they'd need to move upstairs if they were going to stay, so they hadn't spent a lot of time down here. Now the water was six feet deep in places, and the ceiling four and five feet above their heads. Eventually the water would rise higher and they wouldn't have this covered pool to swim in, but for now it was perfect: cool, shaded, protected. Rodney loved it.
Then he felt a hand on his ankle and knew it was John's, sliding his hand up Rodney's hairy leg, over the carapace of his knee to the muscles of his thigh and then around to the inner thigh. Rodney smiled. Behind him, Ronon floated nearer, one hand beneath Rodney's head to hold him in place as Ronon kissed him, water dripping from his dreadlocks onto Rodney's chest and throat. Then John floated between his legs, one hand on each thigh, and nosed his crotch. His hips lifted automatically, helplessly, and he groaned through Ronon's kiss, one hand reaching out for John, the other clutching at Ronon's shoulder.
In their years together, they'd done everything one person could do to another, but Rodney never tired of it, was never bored by their hands, their mouths, their cocks, their asses. Left to himself, he knew he would have devolved into a sexless old fart who grumbled and talked to himself, but his family forced him to be more, and he opened himself to them. He let his legs drift over John's shoulders and tilted his hips again, more purposefully this time, offering himself to John's mouth and hands, while he relaxed into Ronon's hand and let him suck at Rodney's chin and throat before returning to kiss him.
As Ronon pinched his nipple, John slid an enquiring finger behind Rodney's balls, seeking entry; Rodney shivered and groaned and grabbed his cock. John's hand wrapped around Rodney's and guided his dick into John's mouth, so much hotter than the water around them. Ronon towed them toward a window, then flipped him over so his ass, white as the sun beating down beyond the walls, floated to the surface. Ronon, his foot on the submerged windowsill, lifted Rodney onto his knee, water draining off them. "Jesus," Rodney gasped, grabbing at the empty windowframes, embarrassed by his position over Ronon's knee, John still between his legs and fingering his balls. Someone licked his spine, Ronon probably, then licked his asshole, and he cried out.
They licked and sucked at him while John jerked him off and Ronon held him open. He wiggled and cried out, getting water up his nose, and finally reached a position that let them do what they wanted, what he wanted them to do, and then he came, panting and snorting, almost in pain as John milked the last bit of orgasm from him.
"Not bad," Ronon said, and Rodney didn't know if he meant John or himself. He didn't care; Ronon was right. Not bad at all.
Ronon slowly released him so he floated again, satiated and heavy. He pushed away from the window in time to see John and Ronon kiss. So sweetly for two such tough guys, Rodney thought, smiling, and he curled around them, kissing their necks and ears and mouths, John turning to him always, the way he had from their very first days on Atlantis.
But that was an old and bitter thought, and they'd never kissed in Atlantis anyway, so Rodney turned it away with practiced skill and focused on John's softly bowed mouth, its voluptuous curve as sensual as a kouros and still just as mysterious to Rodney. Why John came to Rodney he would never understand, would never stop being grateful for; over the years, through careful research, he knew how to please John, and seeing him smile at Rodney made his heart contract with emotions too powerful for him to name.
Ronon held John, then, for Rodney to touch, wrapping his hands around their cocks, slippery in the water but with enough friction that both men shuddered even while they kissed. Rodney floated behind John, pushing him against Ronon until Ronon's back was against a wall and they shivered against each other. He watched them orgasm, John arching backwards, another bow, his head falling to Rodney's shoulder. Ronon's eyelids fluttered closed and his mouth opened and he shouted.
Rodney watched them, warm salty water sloshing over their shoulders, sunlight bouncing from the ceiling back onto their relaxed faces, Ronon's shout still echoing around them. Ronon opened his eyes and looked at Rodney, who understood his meaning: take care of John. Take care of me. Take care of yourself. He paddled over to Ronon and kissed him, never taking his hand off John's shoulder.
His stomach growled.
"I'm not missing lunch," Rodney said, and swam toward the window, hearing them follow, splashing as one tugged the other under water. He rolled his eyes, and smiled.
Her Story
The three men were waiting impatiently at the stargate when Teyla stepped through. They were in Ronon's launch Waterdog, anchored to one side of the stargate. Water sloshed over the lowest arc of the gate, but this stargate stood firmly, buried and stabilized by some secret the Ancients, to Rodney's eternal puzzlement and irritation, had never revealed. Teyla stood silently for a moment, looking around her, relieved to be home. Then she plunged into the water, splashing out to them. Ronon swung Teyla up while John and Rodney held the launch steady until they could reach her. John hugged her first and she clung to him, her oldest friend now, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, and then his mouth. Rodney seized her next, possessively hugging both John and her.
At last she was able to laugh and wipe her face. "Welcome home," John said seriously, one arm draped over Rodney's shoulder. "We missed you."
"And I have missed you," she said. Ronon pushed off from the sandbar and fired up the engine, gaining speed slowly until she was settled safely in her seat.
"Well?" Rodney said. "Tell us. What's going on in the great big galaxy out there?" He waved one hand toward the receding stargate.
"The good news is that Elizabeth is pregnant again," she said. Rodney beamed, John smiled sadly, and Ronon said, "That Radek, who knew?"
"The better news is that they are thinking of moving here."
"About time," Ronon said.
"Yeah," John agreed. "We should never have split up."
Rodney asked, "But how are they, really?"
"The Wraith are still active and in Atlantis. Elizabeth again tried to negotiate with the Queen, but it is too dangerous. Too many Wraith and not enough humans."
"Pretty soon they won't have anything to eat but goats and cows," Rodney said bitterly.
Teyla squeezed his hand. "You will be happy to have Radek nearby again."
"And you'll be happy to have Elizabeth nearby."
"I will. I have missed her these years."
"How are the others?"
"Few. After the last culling, they scattered." She paused, looking out over the dark water. "The Athosians are a people no more."
"Like Satedans," Ronon said abruptly; Teyla hadn't known he'd been listening.
"Like us," John said, and Teyla thought it was true. The Atlantians should have reunited after their desperate flight from the damaged city. They'd had their reasons that made sense to them, but Teyla had never agreed. Family was family and should remain together.
"We should find them, get them back here," John said.
Rodney said, "Maybe. This place is just gonna get hotter, the water'll keep rising, the weather worsening."
"But at least we'd be together," Teyla said softly.
They lived a long way from the stargate, but Ronon knew his way home even on this sea-level world. Rodney, surprisingly, did well, too, but John was notoriously hopeless and only went out in his little kayak, subjected to Rodney's teasing and Ronon's endless attempts to teach him orienteering. "I can do it from the air," John would say, stopping all arguments. Teyla knew not to reach out to him at those moments.
She tossed her hair back and stared out at the water, deepening grey in the morning. "A storm is coming," she said.
Ronon nodded. "Been building up in the west for a couple days. We'll beat it home, though."
"Storms are getting stronger," Rodney said, resting his hand on John's thigh. "Every year they get worse."
"Just like Earth," John said.
They did beat the storm, but not by much. The winds were knocking the tops off the waves, turning the water greenish white, and Ronon struggled to steer a straight course by the time the house came in sight. Rodney took Teyla's knapsack and steadied her while John and Ronon tied up the launch and checked on the kayak. The pier rocked wildly, and the wind howled around the corners of their home.
"Nothing to worry about," John said when they finally slammed the door shut behind them, but he immediately set about shutting the west-facing windows.
"We'll have to move up another floor if this keeps up," Ronon said, leaning over the balcony to peer down at the roiling water below. He and Teyla took down the hanging pots and windchimes, and she carried in one of John's shirts that had been left draped out in the weather. Sun-bleached and soft as the sand, she pushed it to her face, breathing in the scent of John and home and the wild sea surging around them.
Ronon slid his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly, kissing her cheek and nuzzling her ear. She rested her head on his shoulder, leaning back into his arms. "Go upstairs," he whispered, and licked the back of her neck. She shivered in anticipation. "We'll be up in a minute."
She turned, and they kissed, deeply and, even now, all these years later, she felt the heat between her legs. She shivered again, then turned and went up the stairs.
From their bedroom, she heard his voice calling the others, and their murmurs beneath the wail of the wind and the banging of the shutters. Windows normally wide open to the sea for the breeze and view were closed, their wooden shutters drawn over them. The dark room and the weight of the wind and the waves pushing against the walls and windows, subtly moving them around her, made her feel as if she were back in Ronon's launch.
She stood near the door; their bed took up almost half the floor. The bed was enormous, built by John and Ronon from a design by Rodney, draped in fabric designed and woven by Teyla. For Teyla, this was the center of her home. Not the kitchen, not her balcony gardens, but this room, this bed.
The double doors slid back and the three men entered, Ronon first. He grabbed her up and whirled her around, then fell onto the bed with her. John and Rodney stood watching, Rodney behind John, hands around him, kissing his neck.
"Get over here," Ronon said, grabbing at John's arm and pulling him backwards so he sat on the bed. Rodney crawled over him, kissing John passionately. Teyla had been so happy for them when John had finally succumbed to Rodney and Ronon; he hadn't been raised that way, and a lifetime of self-deprivation had been hard for him to overcome. Each seduction was a small replay of that time, when he'd given up and admitted what he wanted to himself. He'd confided in Teyla, as he always had, and she'd praised his courage even as she herself seduced him.
Rodney and Ronon had been easy, switching from fighting to fucking without a glance backwards, and they loved as they lived: riotously, deeply, powerfully. John behaved as the reckless one, but the other three knew that he really was the cautious one, and Teyla the calm center around which they arranged themselves in ever-changing patterns.
"Pay attention to your wife," Ronon growled at them, and they broke apart, red-mouthed and slick, Rodney's eyes glazed with lust.
"John," Teyla said, holding up her hand. John took it, caught between Rodney and Teyla; where he should be, Teyla thought, smiling at them. "Come to me."
John rolled toward her, Rodney at his back. "Hello," John whispered to her. She rested her hand on his face, warming at his gaze. "You're my family," he breathed, and she knew that, even now, he was still astonished by this fact.
"I am. We are," she reassured him. He raised himself on one elbow and leaned over to kiss her, his lips soft and warm on hers. He was her most tender lover. He rolled closer and cupped her breast, kissing her lightly before sucking on her nipple. She groaned with pleasure. Rodney ran his callused hands down her legs, pushing her open, and nuzzled her pubic hair, nosing open her labia, licking her enthusiastically. She couldn't help but rock against the pressure. Ronon kissed her mouth as he held her other breast, linking his fingers with John's.
She floated in a haze of sensation, pushing against Rodney's fingers and face, holding her breast to John's mouth. Ronon half lifted her up so she could see Rodney's slick face when he raised his head. Ronon leaned across her and kissed Rodney, drawing him up over Teyla's body. She tilted her hips back and John guided Rodney into her; before she closed her eyes, she saw how avidly he was watching them join.
John slid his hand between them, just the pressure she needed where she needed it, as Ronon began to suck her other breast, and she gasped, trying to be quiet, but they felt so good against her. She was sweating heavily, her and Rodney's body sliding easily together, making sloppy noises that pulled her out of herself.
"Wait," she panted, "wait." Rodney groaned and grabbed himself, pulling back and out of her slowly. John immediately began to suck his cock, making Rodney shudder.
Teyla turned onto her stomach, bunching the sheet between her legs to rub against. Ronon kissed her spine, squeezed her buttocks, and then crawled behind her. "Out of the way," he told John and Rodney, and shoved Teyla up the bed so she could grab the headboard. Then he entered her, more roughly than Rodney but easily; she was so wet and open and eager. "Now, Ronon," Teyla commanded, and he began to fuck her, just the right rhythm as she humped the bed. She heard Rodney groan, the noise he made coming, and then his weight across the bed beside her. John appeared at her other side, kissing her neck and ear. Her orgasm was slow and tremulous: quick pulses, a pause, quick pulses, on and on, shaking her profoundly. Eventually she relaxed, pulling John to her to kiss.
Ronon came, motionless deep inside her; from the corner of her eye, she saw that Rodney had crept behind Ronon and was, no doubt, responsible for his sudden orgasm. Ronon fell on top of her and John, hot and heavy. He opened his eyes. "Your turn," he said to John, and seized him with one arm while still on top of Teyla. "McKay!"
"Right here," Rodney said, tickling John, who squirmed and laughed, but the tickling slowed, and Rodney stroked John gently, his face as open as a child's and on it all the love he carried for John. Teyla wiped her face on the sheet and began to stroke John, too, soothing and arousing him, an old pattern that she knew he craved. Ronon ran his fingernails lightly up the inside of John's arm, making him shiver, and sucked his fingers, biting them lightly. The three of them focused on John, making him gasp and groan and pant; he was flushed with arousal and glistening with sweat, his hair matted, his eyelids fluttering, his face contorted.
Ronon slipped away from Teyla to crawl down John's body; he pushed John's legs apart, licking and sucking at his asshole. Rodney slithered over to John and sucked his cock into his mouth, and Teyla kissed and stroked his face and neck, whispering into his ear, "We love you, dear John, dear husband, my love." John took a long time to climax; he always did, as if, Teyla thought, he was almost unable to let go, but at last he made his sad noise of release, trembling through it, until he stretched out on the bed, sighed, and fell asleep.
"Well," Rodney said indignantly, but too quietly to wake John, and his face was soft.
Ronon lightly moved up the bed and pulled Teyla into his arms. "Sleep," he ordered, and Teyla smiled.
"Go to sleep, my dear," Rodney murmured.
She sighed as deeply as John had and closed her eyes. Rodney put his hand on her hip, possessive of them all. She listened to the splash of water against the lower storeys, to the wind slithering around the house, the repeated boom followed by the sudden silence of the gusts. As the men she loved fell into sleep, the rain began to fall; at first a light pattering, but quickly becoming harder, pounding onto the roof and flung against the windows by the howling wind. Surrounded by family, by people who loved her and whom she loved more than anything in the world, though, she felt at peace and unafraid. She felt at home.
