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"I think," Teyla's mouth was moving, and Ronon watched it idly as he stroked the curves of her muscled back. In repletion her words came tender and soft, like a ripe fruit. She was so sweetly spoken, in fact, so that Ronon almost missed what came next. "I think perhaps something must be wrong with your velvet warrior of love."
Ronon refrained from speech for a moment, and then his brow furrowed as he considered her words. He'd gotten used to Teyla's honeyed rhythm of speech, her obvious thoughts of orange where he felt apple— before he made his move. But sometimes she brought all their differences all back to him, like that Earth saying that she "brought home the bacon."
Really, Ronon thought he could be excused for feeling like those of Earth, though from another galaxy, were more Satedan than this compact puzzle of a woman leader. Once, when the Lantians threw something they called a "barbeque party", Ronon indulged himself in imagining for a second that they were at a Satedan roast; the herbs on the meat and the spicy smoky scent that drifted through the halls was almost the same.
But with Teyla, he could never pretend to immerse himself in the customs of his homeworld. It was a blessing and a curse, a salty-sweet contradiction—and of course, this again was going to be one of those times.
"Velvet warrior?" He said, and wished, not for the first time, that Teyla would just spit out whatever she was going to say, and tact be fucked.
Teyla's eyes flashed as she removed her hand from Ronon's thigh, moving up and over him to balance above him. Ronon felt the fresh caress of her skin over his, her hair—only a few shades lighter than her delicious skin—tingling against his stomach as she moved down and then she nudged his legs aside just a little further and nibbled at the soft skin exposed on his thighs. And then, with all the sudden quickness of a flash in the pan, Ronon understood.
"You mean, my dick's not hard. And it's not getting hard."
Teyla glanced up at him, her hair falling back from her lightly sweaty—salty, Ronon remembered fondly—face, and she nodded. "Indeed, that is the conclusion I have reached. Most depressingly, the ministrations I have taken with my hand and my mouth have had no effect on your throbbing purple spear of destiny."
Ronon nearly laughed at the expression on her face, like it had something to do with her, her fault, somehow—somehow women always thought that—and he did laugh at her description of what he'd always rather bluntly referred to as his dick. But then she glared at him, and he remembered that this indeed was the woman who, after she'd given him that look before, had kicked his ass very nearly across the entire practice room, and he sobered up.
To throw her off, Ronon tightened a few muscles, and what with one thing and another, though she fought, soon it was her who was below him. Teyla's appetizing body was taut with expectation, and Ronon knew she was still a little disappointed, and he so hated to leave his lady disappointed. So he whispered in her ear, "Must mean that it's still your turn."
And then he bit hard at the skin just below her ear, and though Teyla had always been a woman of diplomacy and words, a gasp and her nails stinging as she scratched across his back was her only reply. Yes, good, Ronon thought, and now Teyla's hands were on the back of his head as his journey of nipping and biting and laving continued down her body.
Ronon's last coherent thought, just after Teyla's legs spread and he parted delicate folds with his tongue, was delicious.
"MR. FANTASTIC1," Rodney cried, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking. "NOOOOOOO. I can't believe you've deserted me in my time of need! We've always been so close! Like two parts of the same body! My blood flowing through your veins!"
John was a little confused at what exactly was going on, but that wasn't new. Still, in theory, the problem looked pretty simple—Rodney couldn't pop a boner. But the caveat to that apparently simple problem was that Rodney was reacting to his chief of staff taking a siesta with even less ease than John could've anticipated. "Rodney, jesus christ, man, chill. Maybe we just wore Richard and the twins out, right...? So hey, calm down, ride it out, it'll all be good."
John felt pretty proud of himself for injecting a little note of levity in there with his cocksicle metaphors, but then Rodney stopped cradling his forlorn 21st digit and turned to look at John with something that looked a lot like panic in his blue eyes. Funny, normally Rodney only panicked over near-death experiences and lack of chocolate and/or coffee2. But now, he was all agitated, and his hands were fluttering like butterflies caught in the winds created by the after burst of a rocket. "I CAN'T RIDE IT OUT BECAUSE IT'S HAPPENING TO YOU TOO."
"Uh, what?" John could usually follow Rodney's random spurts of logic, but this one seemed to have flown by all whoosh, bye, we'll bring you back a t-shirt and some novelty condoms.
"Look! I will show you and we will mourn, oh yes, we will mourn together for our fallen soldiers." And out of nowhere, John was flat on his back with Rodney's mass solidly on top of him, and damn, the air had gotten knocked out of his lungs or something because he could swear Rodney had just produced a knife, and was holding it to his neck. "Now, Colonel, we are going to do this the easy way because we can't do this the hard way."
John had never been one to jump to conclusions, really, well, except about Chaya and well, that rescuing downed soldiers was more important than his career and that hey, sitting down on this blue chair in the middle of a secret base cannot possibly be that bad, and y'know, a lot of other stuff that doesn't matter really but here is the conclusion he jumps to now: Rodney is crazy. And that knife Rodney has against John's neck is quite likely very sharp, what with the obsessive—well, let's just be blunt and call it OCD— way that Rodney takes care of all of his important tools.
But huh, sharp cold press of steel against his neck and Rodney on top and now Rodney's other hand was grabbing John's naked ass and grinding and ...
Damnit, Rodney's right. Again. This lack of wood could prove quite problematic.
And any second now John was going to have to admit that Rodney's right, any second now he's going to have to get the man off him and confiscate that knife—for Rodney's own good, of course—but not quite yet. Not quite yet.
Carson looked at the veritable military column of men in front of him and had a hard time keeping his face straight. To be fair, life as a research doctor had never equipped him to deal with these kinds of problems. No bloody gene ever started talking to you about its sex life, that's for sure.
"Maybe it's all psychosomatic, son. I mean, every man has occasional difficulty getting up a good hard salute, if you know what I'm saying. We don't need to be rushing off all half-cocked, heh heh," (no one else in the infirmary laughed) "and looking for a medical solution to a problem that might not even exist! Have you talked to Dr. Heightmeyer, lads?"
"Carson. Have you tried?" was all that one of the men, a Marine with a taut jaw, said.
"Well, uh—" He stopped, blank, and inside his head he felt gears whirring like a vending machine after you've put your change in and pressed F-7, and then you wait with bated breath for your candy but ... it's stuck.
Because the last time Carson can remember getting it up was yesterday, and according to all the men—and the occasional greatly irritated woman standing in for an embarrassed partner—(and there are a lot of people in his infirmary, really, who knew Atlantis had such an active sex-life)—anyway, according to everyone gathered here, the symptoms hadn't shown up until ... quite recently. Today, right about the time everyone on day-shift in Atlantis was winding down for evening, in fact.
Oh lord. It could be—he could have—what would Laura say—how could he—oh, poor Radek, because Laura could be really quite insatiable, which was maybe a tiny bit of the reason he'd been so glad when Radek had agreed to joining them regularly, and Laura was not going to be happy if Radek's pussy-tickler's out of commission, now is she.
He clears his throat, mentally waving away the image of a naked and pouty Lt. Cadman and a naked and downcast Dr. Zelenka, and shrugged. "Now, it doesn't matter if it affects me or not, really. Well, it does matter, but I think we can safely say that most of the men on this base are affected since it seems to be affecting all of you and well, considering how reluctant men generally are to come to their doctors with their—crann—that is, shaft, er, penis... issues."
"Now, I'll get a few people to help me, we'll start takin' blood samples and all, and we'll have this sorted out in no time, really." He added, sotto voce, "we've got to!"
Over the next hour or so, that image of an unsatisfied Laura and dejected Radek still haunted Carson Beckett as he directed the CDC-outlined procedures for a non-lethal epidemic of unspecified origins.
Luckily, that wasn't the case at all.
When they'd discovered the problem, Cadman had indeed pouted for a few moments, but then brightened and dragged Zelenka out of his quarters, intent on getting him to hers.
(Radek considered himself lucky that after only a brief argument in the hallways, Radek managed to convince Laura to let both of them return to his quarters and get dressed. The fact that he ended up going after her in socks with no shoes was, in retrospect, inevitable.)
The reason for her sudden joy was simple.
Laura had an entire case of toys, and Radek couldn't believe she'd managed to get so many personal items through—think of all the scientific equipment that must've been bumped for this collection!— and because of his outrage, he'd been only slightly bemused when she pulled out one that she called "the purple avenger."
It was, indeed, purple. And it vibrated. His curiosity was piqued.
As a scientist, Radek felt it was only proper that he investigate the use of this plastic prick in every conceivable experimental fashion. After all, he was used to his genius being overlooked in favor of flashier alternatives; this sudden performance problem was nowhere near as bad as what went on in the science labs every day.
Plus, Laura was always much more malleable after she'd had a good five orgasms or so, and Radek wanted to talk to her about what to surprise Carson with the next time their schedules all meshed—Radek had had a really good idea when he'd seen that case.
Kate had been nodding off as she read a medical journal, when the knock on her door came.
When she opened it, she was bombarded:
"You see, it wasn't that I wanted to get everyone sick—well, he's just so insufferable sometimes, you know, and it must've been the fifth time that he insulted botany that I just couldn't—"
"He's SO SELFISH, and he only goes down on me, like, once a year, I swear, Kate, you can't blame me—"
"I can't stand his humming! Colonel Sheppard's always humming! It's tuneless! I can't stand it! He HAD TO STOP GETTING LAID, DR. HEIGHTMEYER. Or I was going to snap. I mean, the humming?! Have you heard the humming?!"
Kate looked around at the extremely unlikely conspirators in her quarters. The botanist, the expedition's sous-chef, and the Marine all returned her gaze with varying degrees of remorse—the botanist, with plenty, the chef, with none, and the Marine with a frantic look that Dr. Heightmeyer felt, in her professional opinion, was probably a combination of sheer irritation and maybe a little contrition, mixed with some healthy concern for her career.
"Please, take a seat," she said, her hand coming up to massage at her temples. This was definitely going to be another long, hard night.
"So," Elizabeth Weir pursed her lips, and folded her hands, letting them rest on the desk in front of her. Then she unfolded them, pressing her sweaty palms down against the cool desk, hoping for some relief from the warmth of embarrassment sweeping through her.
Dealing with frank discussion of penii issues wasn't something they covered in Commander's Boot Camp. She thought maybe they should've—after all, Jack O'Neill had cornered her one day and said, hey, you know DADT, well, really, you're going to be in another galaxy, and she said "What DADT?" and that was fine, even Caldwell agreed with that.
Especially after Elizabeth had really, truly given up on Simon. She knew she had really truly given up on Simon when Steven showed up at her office one day shortly after that whole Phelan/Phebus incident. After their—fairly short, all things considered—conversation about how much it really, truly just plain sucked to be taken over by someone else, he'd invited her to dinner and she hadn't stopped to consider anything beyond whether it was improper, and then dismissed it with a brief realization that she honestly didn't care.
It wasn't until she was in her bed alone, after a dinner that was as nice as any mess hall dinner could ever be—he'd practically pulled out some candles—that she realized she hadn't thought of Simon, not once.
Except that nice little fantasy she'd had of Simon and Steven, and that was something she only thought about when she was alone, when the Daedalus was going to Earth and she could imagine that maybe they met up, held hands in some discreet bar some place, and talked about her, and then fucked each other.
Elizabeth liked to imagine that they each had their own reasons for what they did when they left that bar.
She had thought about it for a few minutes before she figured Steven liked to fuck Simon. He liked to fuck Simon to get the feel of Elizabeth out of his head, because she was in his chain of command and she was far too important and this job was too important and his career was too important, all things that he was screwing up by screwing her. Screwing Simon was just another way of getting something back for the way that he'd convinced himself Elizabeth had seduced him.
And Elizabeth could easily imagine (based on fantasies whispered in her ears long distance on one particularly long ambassadorial trip) that Simon liked to blow Steven, sucking Steven's phallus into that disapproving mouth—a mouth now hungry to get any possible taste of the woman he still desperately needed out of Steven's skin— and that? That was usually where Elizabeth came.
The worst part was that Elizabeth had been a sex-positive feminist once, and even though that was 20 years ago and she was so far away from Wellesley now it wasn't even funny, Elizabeth still thought she retained some sense of freedom of sexual expression. After all, it was how she justified that particular fantasy.
And now here she is, wishing she were anywhere but here, desperately trying not to laugh (or cry!) as Drs Beckett and Heightmeyer explain the situation of last night.
Apparently, Dr. Beckett realized that though pervasive, the mysterious illness was not a virus but a herb with a relatively short-term effect at about the same time Dr. Heightmeyer realized that the plan the women were talking about wasn't just a fantasy, but had actually been put into effect.
Elizabeth Weir keeps it together, dissipating some tension in a grimly locked jaw and short nods at how Dr. Heightmeyer has talked the perpetrators into being willing to come forward but also that the psychiatrist feels that giving the perpetrators' names, or indeed, even hinting that it was anything but an accident to the victims, would be a mistake.
She even manages to keep mum through the clinical recitation of symptoms that Dr. Beckett, for some godforsaken reason feels compelled to give her. Elizabeth semi-hysterically boils the symptoms down—roughly—to:
- Mr. Happy becomes Mr. Melty.
- Approximately ten lengthy
incheshours ^ later, the mojo rises again.
After the doctors leave, Elizabeth is quite glad her office is sound-proofed.
While the civilian administrator of Atlantis has some ideas of how to best punish the culprits, there's still a teenage girl inside of her who grew up on romance novels and laughed at the comical appearance of a fur-faced chicken the first time she saw a boy's "quivering member."
And so Elizabeth Weir can't help but dissolve into first giggles, then a few chortles, then real loud guffaws until tears run down her cheeks at the idea of every man on Atlantis simultaneously realizing that their precious hunka-hunka burnin' loves aren't so hot. And so she thinks, perhaps, just this once, she will let the miscreants off easy.
But just this once. She wouldn't want to go soft.
1 You really didn't think that shirt referred to RODNEY, did you?
2Chocolate/coffee=Rodney's OTP. He practically has orgasms every time he has a mocha. John has taken advantage of this on several occasions.
^Ten very very prolonged hours from the perspective of the less inventive men and their partners.