Courtship Ritual 8

Watching

by Kylie Lee

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/ask/klee/critual08.php
Summary: Sheppard watches

"How's that?" Sheppard asked, squinting into the sun.

There was a pause, and then McKay's voice came through his earpiece. "Nope. Did you do what I told you to do?"

"No, Rodney, I thought you didn't know what you were talking about, so I just pushed buttons at random," Sheppard retorted. "Of course I did what you told me to do."

"Then it should work."

Somehow, Sheppard could just see McKay as he spoke: he'd frown in that way he had, wrinkle his brow, cock his head, and then words would tumble out, very fast, like his mouth couldn't keep up with his brain. Sheppard smiled, for all that McKay drove him nuts, because he was so predictable--the way he moved, his physical reactions to things.

Sheppard said, "It doesn't work."

McKay would now pace. "Okay, let me think, let me think. Wait, wait, wait. You disconnected the blue thing, right?"

Sheppard sighed. "You didn't tell me to disconnect the blue thing."

"Of course I told you to disconnect the blue thing. Which is called a transceiver, by the way."

"If you'd told me to do it, I would've done it. Hold on." Sheppard clicked his flashlight back on and leaned into the control box. He found a blue handle, plastic still shiny under the thin layer of dust, and tugged at it. It came unhooked, and Sheppard quickly ran through the reset procedure again. "Okay, Rodney, try it again."

"If it doesn't work, I'm coming out there," McKay warned.

"You must be in the mood for a hike." Sheppard wiped sweat from his forehead, but he didn't mind. He liked the heat. Visiting the Athosians on the mainland was always fun--hiking, swimming, running.

"I'd settle for getting the communications grid back up. Okay. Yes. That's it. It's working."

"About time." Sheppard shut the doors of the control box and locked it. "I'm heading back."

"No rush. McKay out."

Sheppard took a long drink of water before pulling his backpack on. The communications console gave the Athosians radio access to Atlantis. They'd discovered that the earpieces wouldn't work over such a distance unless they also left a puddle jumper, so McKay and Zelenka had jury-rigged a power console. There was one in the settlement, and the other one, the one Sheppard had just fixed, was about five miles out of town, in a clearing a stone's throw from the sea. Sheppard, at the edge of a rocky cliff, put up a hand to shield him from the glare of the sun. Light danced on the water, and a breeze was picking up.

"Oh, yeah," Sheppard said. It was always hard to get away to visit the Athosians. Carson Beckett seemed to be shuttling over practically every week, often with Teyla, who had her duties as an Athosian leader as well as a member of the expedition team, but Sheppard had trouble making the time. When he did, he was never sorry. It was like going on vacation--although he had to admit that it was because he didn't work as hard as the Athosians, who seemed to be thriving as farmers.

He slid his sunglasses on and turned to head back to the settlement, but the second he hit the trees, he had to take them off again. The temperature dropped more than a few degrees, but it felt good. When he got back, he'd confirm that everything was offloaded from the puddle jumper, hang around to help out doing whatever, and then leave after dinner. But he was in no hurry. While staring over the water, it had struck him that he should run a line down the side of the cliff, so he could descend in safety. The beach looked rocky, but some nice, flat rocks had beckoned to him. It looked like the perfect place to swim and sunbathe.

Sheppard was planning a big party at Sheppard's Beach, complete with live music, bonfire, and swimming, when he realized he'd taken a wrong turn. He and Halling had blazed the trail months ago by nailing orange bicycle reflectors to trees, so in theory, he shouldn't get lost, but now he realized he'd gone ten minutes without seeing one. "Ah, hell," he groaned. He turned in a small circle, trying to get his bearings. It was so much easier, he thought, to see things from above. Everything was laid out in front of you. You couldn't get lost. But when you were on foot, you couldn't see the forest for the trees. "You're not lost, John," he muttered. "You're just taking the long shortcut." He shrugged his backpack off and unclipped a tiny compass from the zipper pull. "Okay, where am I." He pointed. "That way." He slung his backpack over one shoulder and headed south.

He'd walked about only a few minutes when he noticed that the trees were thinning out. That was new. Maybe it wasn't a clearing but the tree edge by the cliff face. He could follow the cliff face back to the settlement, but it would take far longer. Of course, at the rate he was going, he'd be better off following the cliff. "The clearing it is, then," he said, heading for it. It was a pretty nice day for getting lost, especially since he had his earpiece and plenty of food and water.

As Sheppard headed for the sunny clearing, he caught a flash of movement. He ducked down automatically, his soldier's training taking over. He sneaked closer, using the trees and low-lying bushes as cover, until he could hear voices. He deliberately kept low until he was within a few yards. He really didn't think there were Genii or other hostiles skulking around. It was an awfully nice day: probably some Athosians had cut out of work and were out for a picnic. He peered over a leafy green bush and took a good look. He was partially right: two people were out for a picnic, because he could see remains of lunch. But he also saw two people lying entwined on a blanket, clothing scattered around, and he realized he was witnessing an assignation. Judging by the backpack and color of some of the clothes, one of the two was from Atlantis. He knew he should quietly back up and let the couple enjoy themselves in peace, but now he was curious. He hesitated, wondering whether he could get closer, as one of the couple, the one with long hair, rolled on top of the other and began kissing her way down.

Sheppard squinted. Something wasn't right. Her body seemed disproportionate, with broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist, and the way her back flexed--the musculature struck him as odd.

Sheppard snuck forward a few feet as his hand fumbled for his binoculars. He found another bush. He couldn't get any closer without getting dangerously close. He raised the binoculars, and the couple leapt into focus, suddenly breathtakingly near, and what he'd sensed was confirmed. Despite the long hair, it wasn't a woman. It was a man. In fact, it was Halling, the de facto leader of the Athosian settlement--Halling who was a widower with a young son, Halling who was really religious and had no sense of humor, Halling who had plotted against Teyla, Halling who was now taking the thick head of a red-purple penis in his mouth, Halling who was going down on another man. "Oh, my god," Sheppard muttered, stunned. He couldn't stop looking at Halling, at the way his mouth wide opened to take the dick in, the way he twisted his head and neck on his way up, so he could swirl his tongue around the cap of the dick. Then, as Halling gave a last lick around the cap before lifting his head, Sheppard couldn't stop looking at the cock, because it was impressively thick as it rose, rock hard and slick with saliva, above equally impressively sized balls, and he didn't know why he was surprised, but the dick was uncut. As Halling's hand began to work the cock, Sheppard wrenched his eyes away and followed the dick up to the chest, then to the face, and oh dear lord, it was Carson Beckett, pale skin with dark chest hair, moaning.

Sheppard's brain must have shorted out, because when it clicked back on, the binoculars had dropped an inch or so and the couple was no longer in his field of view. Suddenly it all made sense: Beckett's frequent trips to the mainland, his tendency to stay a night, his willingness to shuttle Teyla over when the other pilots were too busy to accommodate her. How long had this been going on? Long enough for this, obviously. They couldn't do--what they were doing at Halling's place, because of Halling's son. He'd just never imagined any of it. He had never imagined Halling with anyone, male or female, because Halling was so straight up, and how was Beckett gay? Hadn't he fallen in love with that pretty blonde doctor?

As if of their own accord, the binoculars came up, because Sheppard would never do this. He was no voyeur. But the binoculars had a life of their own, and the couple once again sprang into focus, the intertwined bodies, one between the legs of the other, suddenly turning into two discrete people. Halling had pushed his hair back, which had the benefit of providing Sheppard an unobstructed view. Beckett's impressive dick, veined and slick, disappeared into Halling's mouth. Halling had one hand at the base, and he twisted it as he sucked. He had to open his mouth wide. It was almost hypnotic, really. Halling lifted his mouth off and licked down the shaft. His hand moved to Beckett's balls, cupping them gently. Sheppard saw his hand squeeze as he took the broad head of Beckett's dick in his mouth, then licked down, starting a new rhythm.

Sheppard sank to his knees as he lowered his binoculars. He breathed shallowly through his mouth. His groin felt hot. He really needed to leave. Right now. Instead, he crept closer, dangerously closer, until he was just a few yards away, concealed--he hoped concealed--in the low-lying shrubbery. He very carefully was not thinking, because if he thought, he'd have to admit how very, very wrong this was. Now he could hear the sounds Halling's mouth made as he went down on Beckett, and he could hear Beckett's pants and groans. Sheppard's heavy cock twitched in his pants, and he adjusted himself. He could imagine a mouth--not Halling's mouth, because that wouldn't be right, but someone's mouth--traveling then length of his own cock, sucking and licking, wanting to get him hot, the way Beckett was hot. He knew Beckett was hot because of the way he moaned, the way he threw his head back, the way he thrust into Halling's mouth, the way one hand tugged at a nipple, pinching and squeezing.

"Stop, man," Beckett gasped as Sheppard settled in.

Halling gave a long, heavy, slow suck up and off Beckett's cock. Sheppard's binoculars were now good for extreme close-up, although the image jittered. His hands weren't steady. He could see Beckett's cock twitching, and Sheppard watched as Beckett's hand cupped Halling's, so both hands were on his balls, and squeezed hard.

"Carson," Halling said, and, one hand still on Beckett's balls, he took hold of his cock with his free hand. He wasn't circumcised either. He began to rub, the head of his long, thin penis bouncing as he worked the shaft. The fold of flesh around the head was unfamiliar to Sheppard's eye, but the slit at the tip and the bead of liquid at the tip were not.

"For god's sake," Beckett said. "I need you inside me."

Halling stooped over and kissed Beckett on the mouth. "Good," he said, and Sheppard lowered the binoculars because he couldn't take it all in: Halling kissing Beckett as he continued to jack off, Halling's hand moving to rub Beckett's shaft while Beckett manipulated his balls. "I want you to open to me."

"I've been ready all day," Beckett said. "I've been ready since last night, when you went to your bedroom and I went to mine."

"No, I do not think you are ready," Halling said. "You can still speak."

"Bastard," Beckett said.

Halling let go of both dicks and lowered himself atop Beckett. Now he stroked Beckett's jaw, his neck, staring into Beckett's eyes, Beckett staring back, and lowered his head until their noses brushed. Sheppard found himself holding his breath, waiting for Halling's lips to touch Beckett's. Beckett must have wanted it too, because he tilted his chin up, trying to make contact, and Halling laughed and kissed him, mouth on mouth, bridging that gap, and the kiss did what watching Halling suck Beckett hadn't done: Sheppard, in a sudden, pleasurable rush, got fully hard himself.

They weren't doing this for him to watch, Sheppard reminded himself desperately. He should go. It wasn't too late. This was a private thing. He knew both of these men, and it was not right for him to watch them like this, because--as Beckett put his hand up and touched Halling's beard, as Halling looked down at him and smiled, as Halling twisted his head to kiss Beckett's palm, as Sheppard found it suddenly hard to breathe--they weren't fucking. They were making love. Sheppard was not the kind of guy who got off on gay sex, or gay anything. He wasn't sure what he'd been ready for when he'd started watching, but he certainly hadn't been ready for the tenderness, for Halling caressing Beckett's neck and collarbone and shoulder, for Beckett tracing circles in Halling's back, for Beckett straining up to kiss Halling, so their mouths pushed together, Halling holding back and then giving until Beckett moaned. When Halling's hair fell like a curtain over their faces, obscuring Sheppard's view, he had to imagine, from Beckett's restless shifting, what Halling was doing to Beckett: biting a lip, maybe, or using his tongue until Beckett grabbed Halling's hair at the base of his neck and squeezed. Their connection felt palpable. It lay deeper than sex. Sheppard hadn't had that with anyone for a long time. He was actually envious.

Sheppard took in a whole, deep breath when Halling pushed himself off Beckett. "On your knees," Halling said, and Sheppard remembered what Beckett had said about wanting Halling inside him. He got it now: they wanted to be close, so close that they merged. Sheppard understood that. Beckett rolled over and came up on all fours as Halling leaned over and did something.

"Please, Halling." Beckett sounded needy and desperate. "Please."

"Like this," Halling said, and, kneeling, he shuffled closer to Beckett. Halling felt between Beckett's buttocks, pulling them apart, sliding fingers into the crack and trailing down. Then Halling found what he was looking for. His middle finger sank into Beckett, and Beckett made an "uh" noise. "Oh, god," Sheppard breathed, unaware he'd spoken aloud, because nobody had ever done that to him before, what Halling was doing to Beckett. Nobody had ever pushed a finger inside and rotated it around. He saw that Halling's hand glistened. He must have lubed himself just so he could do this to Beckett, just so he could tease Beckett's opening, then dip inside, three fingers now, and whatever he was doing when he was inside, Beckett liked, because he opened himself wider, spreading his knees further apart.

"Christ," Beckett panted. His voice broke, and Sheppard's cock gave a jump, because Beckett sounded like he was ready to come. He couldn't take his eyes off Halling's hand as the fingers pushed in and slid wetly out. "Halling," Beckett managed, and then he could only moan. He pushed his ass toward Halling and lowered his head. "Ah," he said, and "yes, oh yes."

"Hold still," Halling said. He bore down on Beckett's back. Beckett, muscles rippling, put his head on his arms, ass high in the air, totally open, open to whatever Halling wanted to do, and as Sheppard watched, unable to look away, now admitting that he didn't want to look away, Halling slowly slid his hand, his entire hand, inside Beckett. Sheppard watched it disappear up to the knuckles. Beckett was moaning continuously now. Halling did something with his thumb so he could push deeper, and deeper, until he was inside up to the wrist, oh god, the wrist, filling Beckett completely.

Sheppard panted. When he shifted his weight slightly to get a better view, his cock squeezed when his groin brushed against a twig, sending a wave of pleasure through his balls. He didn't want to think, because thinking would be bad. He wanted sensation like Beckett wanted sensation, open and needy and panting and saying, "please, please," full like Beckett was full, because it made Beckett sweat and lower his head. Beckett was being driven insane by the hand inside him as it fucked him, heavy and big and hard and oh, god, filling him, pushing in and touching him deep inside where he needed to be touched. Nobody could take that much pleasure.

Beckett twisted his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, face contorted. "Don't stop," he managed. "Halling, I need--Christ, I--that feels--oh Christ, oh Christ, so good--" and then he was gasping and sobbing and spurting, coming, Sheppard could tell by the way his body trembled and shook, coming without anybody touching his cock, coming because Halling's hand was inside him, Carson Beckett losing it while he watched. Sheppard's hard-on became almost painful, because now Sheppard needed to come.

Sheppard gasped in air. He'd forgotten to breathe. That must be why he was light-headed--because he had held his breath while Halling drove Beckett to the breaking point. Blood pounded through Sheppard's cock, and that was just fucked up, getting so hot watching two guys go at it. What they had just done had been about Beckett, about Halling pleasuring him, about Halling doing things that Beckett liked and that Beckett wanted, and Beckett liked and wanted Halling's hand in his ass, so Halling had done it. Beckett had wanted what Halling had given him so badly that he'd come without a hand or mouth on his dick. And that was what was getting Sheppard hot: the total need for the other, the total trust, giving oneself over wholly.

When Beckett's groans subsided and his upper body relaxed, Halling slid his hand out. His own cock was long and hard, and as Sheppard watched, as Sheppard undid his pants, Halling lubed his cock and, without preliminary, pushed himself inside Beckett. At the new intrusion, Beckett lifted his head. Sheppard could hear the smack of flesh against flesh as Halling began to move his hips. He saw Halling's hands grab Beckett's buttocks, fingers digging deep into flesh, as he shoved Beckett up and down his cock. He could almost feel Beckett under him, spent but still hot inside. It wouldn't be like a woman. It would be tighter, less flexible. Instead of soft, round buttocks, there would be heavy, powerful muscle. Now Halling fucked Beckett, pumped him, squeezed his ass, reached down to stroke Beckett's spine.

"Carson," Halling gasped, and he pulled out suddenly, his cock purple-red and slick and god, he was hard. He grabbed a hip and flipped Beckett onto his back. Halling pulled one hand down the length of his cock, pulling the foreskin tight. Then he covered the top part of his dick with his other hand and began jerking. If he kept doing that, there would be a money shot, with white come spattering on Beckett's body, joining the come already there, the come Sheppard could see now that Beckett was on his back. He hadn't been able to see Beckett's fat cock spurting. He wished he could have. It would have been a physical manifestation of that incredible pleasure and of the connection between them.

But instead of Halling pouring himself out on Beckett's belly, Beckett opened his legs and lifted them up, an unmistakable invitation. Halling groaned when he entered Beckett again. They were face to face now. That had been what Halling wanted--to see Beckett's face, to touch him, body to body. Halling's ass began to dip as he started to thrust. Sheppard's eyes ran up Halling's flexing back to Halling's head, just as Halling tossed his head to flip his hair to one side. Their faces were very close. Halling supported his weight on his arms and rubbed his body against Beckett's, squirming, trying to push inside Beckett's skin, to get even closer.

Halling kissed Beckett. Both their mouths opened, and kissing became devouring, with tongues and lips and teeth and biting and gasping and moaning. Halling began grunting at the top of each thrust, sound muffled by Beckett's mouth. He rocked into Beckett, over and over, and Beckett held onto him. It was all power and push, hard and hot and fast. It couldn't last, because the heat they generated would incinerate them both. It was beyond hot, watching Halling thrust, watching Beckett take him in.

Sheppard's cock felt exquisitely sensitive, and he actually trembled. He couldn't look away, and he didn't want to. When Halling pushed himself in to the hilt and held himself there, when he lifted his mouth from Beckett's and groaned, long and low, when Halling reached orgasm inside Beckett's body, Sheppard fumbled with his briefs. As Halling called Beckett's name, Sheppard grabbed his penis, and when Halling collapsed on top of Beckett, Sheppard fell onto all fours, managed to pull his pants and briefs down enough to free his dick, and began to jack off.

It only took a few strokes. His sensitive shaft magnified his touch. It almost hurt. He buried his face in his arm and bit his uniform, the cloth heavy in his mouth, as he came in a rush, come splashing in the grass, and it felt so good, so incredibly good, like Beckett having a fist shoved up his ass, like Halling's fingers biting deep into Beckett's ass, like Halling's cock twitching deep inside Beckett's body. He was barely aware of Beckett and Halling speaking to each other, murmuring soft words as they clung to each other. He rolled onto his back and sank back in the sparse grass behind the bush. He had just enough strength to do up his pants.

He listened to Beckett and Halling clean up. His brain refused to process their words. Instead, he perceived their conversation as senseless noise, a rising and falling cadence. When they left about ten minutes later, he stayed behind his bush. They walked within two feet of him on their way out. Sheppard didn't move, and they didn't look his way. His heart rate gradually returned to normal, but he didn't get up. He felt wrung out. He had never known this about himself--that he would want to watch, that he would get so turned on by two men fucking that he'd need to come.

Of course, he'd been drawn to more than Beckett and Halling's bodies. He'd been drawn to their need for each other. But now he thought about their bodies. He'd never imagined wanting to see Carson Beckett or Halling naked, much less hard and excited and needy, but the curve of Halling's ass, the round tightness of Beckett's balls--it made him wonder. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes away. If given the opportunity, would he, Sheppard, want to run his lips along, say, Rodney McKay's face, so he could see the curve of McKay's eyelashes up close? Would he want to slide his hand under McKay's silky blue T-shirt and feel skin he knew to be soft and yielding? Would he want to kiss that mobile mouth, just to shut him up?

He hadn't realized he'd been so aware of McKay's body. But now he found he could catalog every part, just as he'd been able to imagine McKay's physical reaction to their problem-solving earlier that day. It struck him then. What he'd just done, watching two men make love: he hadn't been doing anything different, studying bodies, searching for response. It had just been made overt.

He'd always watched.

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