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[imagechild.livejournal.com]

My entry for the July hot. hot. hot. challenge at parrish_lorne (xposted there and at my LJ)
and a part of my Parrish Smut Table

Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Title: Heat
Characters/pairing: Lorne/Parrish
Prompt: "heat"
Rating: Pg-13
Summary: Lorne's doing his job...Parrish makes it hard.
Author's Notes: mmmm slashy--feedback is <3 and makes me squee. Ask Maria and Azi.


Major Lorne leaned close to the warm exterior of hydro lab 3, his breath fogging only slighlty against the glass. This particular lab had been set aside a week ago for the subtropical species, flowering and creeping vines from some of the more exotic planets he'd had to slog through. He'd had other plans today, though none so pleasant, perhaps--a run with the newly-assembled offbase team, a few hours of paperwork. When the labs had asked for a marine to watch over while a few botanists serviced the newly-restructured lab, he'd thought to just pass it off on someone else, someone with more time than he. Some strange force compelled him to take the assignment himself, and now, hours later, the decision still proved to be a good one. Three botanists had started the job, a squat, dark-haired woman named Samira, a large, red-haired man who spoke little but laughed often, as if he somehow found everything his colleagues did amusing, and an unexpected suprise. Dr. David Parrish.

Lorne had seen the man only a few times, and had only been with him offworld once, but the memory stuck in his mind. Parrish was young, inexperienced, and though a little nervous offworld, seemed to have a strange curiousity that overwhelmed all else on his mind. He'd led Lorne a merry chase all day long, dragging him from one copse of green-grey plantlife to another, expounding at length upon the astounding diversity of the planet's flora. Lorne had stayed bemusedly silent most of the time, just watching the young man dig with long, clever fingers at the dark soil, and keeping a stern eye out for whatever might threaten his assigned scientist. Any other man may have run away, or at least seemed frightened by the dead wraith at his feet--but Parrish, while wide-eyed and astonished, had seemed more curious than anything else. Lorne could still hear the breathless quality of the botanists' voice as he'd called his name...he'd silently wished he could afford to be so openly moved by the sight of the fallen alien. His job was to report, to react, and to retreat if necessary. He hadn't missed his own thick fingers wrapping themselves in the botanist's loose tan jacket as he'd pulled him away--afterward he'd silently berated himself for the slip.

As the hours passed, the other botanists had pulled themselves from their work, one by one, dripping and smelling rather pungent from their hours in the humid hothouse. Lorne had expected Parrish to follow soon after--he could see the way the young man's shirt darkened at the back, a line of deep blue against light, trailing from his nape to pool at the small of his back. His blonde hair had darkened to brown hours ago, and as he watched, Lorne could see the faint motion of sweat droplets dripping from his nose to patter on the cementlike floor below. He knew the job had been mostly to make sure any malfunctions were called in promptly, and to assure the absent-minded botanists didn't spend so long in the sweltering heat they'd collapse. The other two had gotten the hint and gone home to shower and rest. True to form, Parrish remained behind, lost in his work.

His chronometer reads 5.5 hours since mission-start when Lorne pushes at the lab door and slips inside, his breath momentarily taken by the overwhelmingly humid air. His hair immediately feels wet, and tiny beads of sweat pop out along his upper lip and nape. He licks the salt from his lips and breathes a short sigh as he allows himself to adjust to the new environment. Parrish is still in his own world, one of sensor pads and sprayer housings and irrigation lines. From where he stands, Lorne can see the young man crouching at a long table that will eventually become home to beds of climbing, growing things. His hands work quickly and surely, his suprisingly muscled forearms exposed by the pushed-up sleeves of his shirt. His jacket lay long-discarded over a second empty table. Lorne takes a moment to take in the sight of the man's bowed head, the graceful arch of his nape, vulnerable and glistening with sweat. The way his wet hair wisps across that tight skin, the way his shoulders and arms, honed by hours of what really amounted to glorified gardening, flex under his damp shirt.

"hey Doc...I think your air conditioning's broken..."

Parrish lets out a startled gasp, blue-grey eyes framed by short moisture-spiked lashes turning toward the voice. The botanist grins widely and waves at him with a small wrench in his hand, and rises to his feet, letting out a soft groan as muscles long-stiff unwind. Marcus Lorne has never really considered himself a lover of men....and though he's had women, the experiences were more for stress relief than any serious pursuit. The Corps has always been his life--brotherhood, teamwork, something greater and larger than himself. But watching David Parrish arch his back and lift long arms over his head, exposing a flash of taut, pale stomach has his body responding in a way that should be at the very least disconcerting. He blames the warm trickle of sweat down his back, the way the humid air coils around his mouth and nose, making each inhalation a near-struggle. The damp air works it's way into his uniform, caressing his sweaty skin with thick, blanketing strokes.

Parrish finishes his stretch and lets his body relax, letting out a soft sigh of either weariness or contentment, Lorne's not sure.

"this lab.." he begins, his head tipped back, eyes turned to the sprayers and hoses overhead. "this is the product of six months of combined effort between botany and engineering...it's going to be a marvel..."

Lorne can't help but grin at the dreamy quality of the man's voice, the way he wobbles just the tiniest bit on his feet.

"well it's hot...and it's wet...and you've been at it nearly six hours...I think it's probably time to put it to bed for the night...and yourself too."

Parrish nods his head absently, still eyeing the tubing overhead, and makes as if to step toward the glassed-in door. The place is damp and dripping from top to bottom, and precarious footing for the most alert...a half-exhausted botanist is no match for the slippery concrete underfoot. Parrish's eyes go wide and lucid as he flails a moment, heel skidding in the shallow patch of standing water. Lorne's hand shoots out, grabbing at the botanists's wet shirt, at his arm, anything he can reach to aid the scientist's battle with gravity. For his trouble, he ends up with a fist in the shoulder and an armfull of wet botanist. He has one hand balled in the man's damp shirt, causing the front to ruck up, exposing a full view of the pale belly he'd only glimpsed earlier. His other hand is wrapped around Parrish's back, steadying him. His face is so close he can see the fine beads of sweat on Parrish's top lip, can watch, mesmerised as a single droplet treks down his jaw to his neck, following the line of tensed tendon. He wants to bite there, to feel the tensed muscle beneath his teeth, to taste the salt-sweet sweat, lick it away with the flat of his tongue.

the heat he thinks..God, this had better just be the heat..

"whoa.....whoa there Doc....careful.."

the words are muffled and soft in the thick air surrounding them, somehow more intimate-sounding than he'd intended. Parrish nods, sending further trickles of sweat from his wet hair down his temples to coast along the tensed column of his throat. He smells musky and sweet, like clean sweat and warm skin--and Lorne is lost, lost as he tracks Parrish's eyes, notes the widening pupils, the way his eyes seem riveted on Lorne's mouth.

"s'...s'wet in here..." Lorne murmurs again, brain slowing to less than half speed as Parrish licks his lips.

"and...hot..." Parrish comes back almsot immediately, his hand tightening in the back of Lorne's tac vest, as if he might pull away.

As if he would...as if he could. Parrish's mouth is looming closer, he can see the slick of wetness across his lower lip....and as he's drawn down toward that wet mouth, Lorne closes his eyes...and gives himself over to the heat