[ seeing stars ]

The images keep passing through his head, like he's flipping through a photobook.

Teyla, her tan bronzed glistening with sweat. Hair fluttering around her head as she bent and arced and kicked. Lips that were soft under his but body a livewire of tension and tightly tuned. There were things he hated about the time he almost turned into a goddamn bug, but knowing what Teyla tasted like wasn't one of them.

This usually worked, it almost always worked, but it just wasn't, he was so close but not there, just not there yet, and damnit, damnit, what the hell is wrong with him, because it's never been this bad before, the push to orgasm had always been easy for him, the slide of skin, hand against cock, had always been good, easy, efficient, and sometimes the mental porno wasn't even needed, but now, here, this time, it just wasn't working, and he was going insane with it.

Chaya then, and in his head she always glowed. White smokey aura surrounding her and beautiful smile, and he's not sure if he loved her or if the power around her made him think he did. He's always thought in the back of his head that his gene had something to do with it, because he's never felt so viscerally drawn to anyone before, he'd never believed in the pull of two people before that. He doesn't have to imagine her naked to get hard, just remember what it felt like to share, what it felt like to be engulfed in white light with her, and sometimes it's enough just to think about it, sometimes he doesn't even have to touch himself.

He's starting to get desperate because he's been going at this for way too long, been on the precipice for too long, the slick oil underneath his fingers and his cock so hard, so damned hard, and from nothing, no reason he can think of, just hard and throbbing so incessantly that he'd had to come here and close the door, touch himself, get himself off, because Rodney might call him Kirk but he's only had sex twice in two years with other people, and the only regular satisfaction he gets is this, his hand on his cock, and from wrapping his fingers around the butt of a gun and firing just to feel the recoil.

It changes here, because he's not in control anymore, just pleading please, please, let him get off, and the image that filters through his mind is Rodney, and his hand stills. Because no, no, he can't think about Rodney, the only reason he's thinking about Rodney is because he was just with him, teaching him how to fire. How to wrap his fingers around the gun and fire, how to aim, how to not flinch, poker face, how to draw it out quick and fast an efficient and get that first shot off before your opponent has the chance to realize it's even in your hand.

And Rodney was good with his hands, he'd always been good, at computers, fingers flying over the keys so fast, faster than the eye can even see, faster than the brain can possibly comprehend. At gesturing, and pointing, at eating, licking the juice from his fingers. Those long, agile, strong fingers wrapping around a pencil as he works an equation. Hands that never staying still, were always moving, always fluttering, always bending and pointing and flying around in circles.

He'd stood behind Rodney and wrapped his fingers around Rodney's, they'd twined together, his body pressed up against him as he looked over his shoulder, aimed for him, whispered in his ear, good, easy, take it slow, learn how to do it first, learn precision first, learn how to hit the right spot, how to make it sing for you, his fingers pressing between Rodney's on the trigger, and they were both so still, so comfortable, warm and quiet and no one else around, and it hadn't even dawned on him, hadn't even registered that he was standing so close, that he could feel the heat of Rodney's body all the way through him.

And god, god, he was so stupid, so fucking stupid, because he'd barely left the range before he was hard, hadn't even occurred to him what it was that made him hard, just that he had to get back here, had to get off, hand to wrap his hand around himself and stroke until he came, because he was hard, so damn hard, and god, Rodney, it was Rodney, it was Rodney's fingers he wanted wrapped around him, Rodney's hand he wanted to feel, Rodney's lips he wanted on his neck, Rodney's moans he wanted to hear.

He comes so hard he can't even breathe, moan ripping out of him unbidden, and that doesn't happen, he's always quiet, always has been, but this time he can't help it, it just rips out of him. Everything swims in front of him, blurs and shapes and colors, and all he can see is Rodney's mouth, Rodney's eyes, Rodney's hands, god, his hands, his fingers, his fingernails, the pad of his thumb, the way they wrap around the gun, the way they felt under his hand as they twined together around the gun, pressing on the trigger.

He's just come but he's still hard, he's still hard, still stroking, and he can feel a second orgasm building up, can almost hear Rodney's voice in his head, whispering his name, calling him Major, because he's been Colonel for almost a year but he was Major for years before that, and he hates it when Rodney calls him Colonel and he's never understood why, but it's starting to make sense now because he's still hard, and it's like he had an itch and scratched it but it's only gotten worse because he acknowledged it's presence and now it won't go away.

When he comes a second time he hits his knees hard on the floor when he falls, hand clutching at his bed because he hadn't even reached it yet, had been leaning up against the wall, but now he's kneeling and his fingers are clutching into the bedspread and he's breathing hard enough to almost be hyperventilating and his eyes are closed, and this is when the panic comes, because he knows he's never come this hard, never twice in a row like this, not by himself, not just from thinking about someone.

This is so bad, this is horrible, this is seven kinds of no good, because he knows himself. He knows what will happen now. He's so good at ignoring things if he never acknowledges them, he's so good at pretending he doesn't know what's inside of him, because for him it's always been true that if you don't say it out loud it's not true. But once he has, once he's admitted it to himself, he'll never get over it, he'll never stop thinking about it.

And it's not funny, it's not, not at all, because this is important, it's important that he doesn't get distracted because this is life or death, this is missions off world that almost always go bad, and this is him needing to be on the top of his game, him needing to be looking at anything and every thing, not at Rodney's hands, not at the way his fingers wrap around the gun, not at the way his hands gesture and dart through the air as he speaks, but he knows he will be, knows he'll be distracted.

Somehow though, right now, at this very moment, it's so funny he's crying from how hard he's laughing. Later he'll be pissed, later he'll go running with Ronon and he'll challenge Teyla with her sticks, and he'll try to forget that the image of Rodney's hand wrapped around him is what made him come, but right now he's just going to go to sleep.

Because, funnily enough, coming so hard he sees stars twice in a row is awfully draining.