I never named this…

John rests his forehead on McKay’s shoulder, hands drift down to his thigh. Sliding roughly on sweat slick crease, the gun callused hand moves upwards. Over softly curving stomach, finely muscled abs, His hand arches. Just tips of the fingers, oh so gently, walking up the centre of the sternum. Falling into the dip at the base of the throat. Head bending, tongue licking lips. Breathe tickling across flesh. Kiss pressed to the end of the hand’s path, dragged up over soft cheek to ear lobe. He bites down. Harsh. Possessive. Releases. Soothes. Pause. Whispers. Grasping bollocks he slides down.


The silence is deafening, above me I can feel him hovering silent, still, patient, waiting hours, minutes and weeks all at once.

A whine threatens but scientists do not whine so I force a groan. Suddenly he moves smoothly. That movement after predator stillness shocks me, a slap in the face and a caress at the same time.

A hand. I don’t jump, yet my heart races like I’ve run a mile then fucked for three hours. Fingers, lips, teeth in a sudden glut. Then violent stillness before words hit my ear like sharp, precise, knowledgeable daggers

“Stop thinking Rodney”.