.porny fic: Redshift - McKay/Sheppard (NC17) 1.1.
Title: Redshift
By: HF
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for the sex
Spoilers: Takes place the night before 2.14 "Grace Under Pressure," with some references to 2.13 "Critical Mass."
Disclaimers: Not mine. Other people's.
Advertisements: Porny thing for svmadelyn's kink/cliché challenge. Mine = Kink: Guy Being Penetrated? On top. Also for wordclaim50 challenge #46 (Writer's Choice); my word is 'find.'
Series: Follows Unified Field.
Notes: Hooray, kink! Speaking for myself, my real kink is sarcasm as a form of foreplay, but eh, that's me.
REDSHIFT
Rodney McKay’s Law 1: If it doesn’t have a couch and a particle accelerator in the same room, it isn’t science.
Rodney McKay’s Law 2: They are definitely going to have sex tonight.
They, and by ‘they’ Rodney means himself and John, have been building toward Number Five for the better part of the day, and Rodney half-expects to see the energy registering on the sensors he’s been testing for the past six hours.
Which, on further reflection, would be incredibly embarrassing.
Levels of thwarted potential sexual energy radiating from operations. Spiking dangerously. All personnel advised to stay in quarters. Elizabeth, get back in your office. Draw the blinds.
“Have I ever mentioned that I find nervous twitching really unsexy?”
“If the stupid internal sensors were working properly - Zelenka - I wouldn’t - hey! I am not twitching.” Rodney freezes mid-twitch and frowns at John, who smiles back, unfazed. He ignores Zelenka’s glare from a few terminals away, though Radek’s glasses magnify his dangerously narrowed eyes, making his displeasure impossible to miss. “If you want the Goa’uld to come waltzing back into Atlantis, Colonel, be my guest.” Elaborate gesture of invitation in the direction of the sensor array.
John’s expression is eloquent, that condescending, sarcastic half-smile, the one Rodney really wants to smack off John’s face some day. And he’d do it too, if he knew how to kill people with his bare hands like John does. John doesn’t do anything, doesn’t move, only stands in his corner of the gate room and smirks, because he knows what Rodney wants and knows Rodney won't be able to get it, which is enough to elevate Rodney’s irritation threshold through the roof.
“No? Okay.” He very pointedly ignores John and goes back to work.
They do this, this back-and-forth, because they can never just have sex. A dysfunctional form of foreplay, probably, not that Rodney minds it. And he probably shouldn’t be thinking about this at all with Elizabeth hovering nearby.
Zelenka, under a cloud of Czech profanity, has gone somewhere else, on some errand only he knows about, and Elizabeth (who can be incredibly dense for a negotiator, as now) steps in to smooth things over. Doesn’t realize, of course, that the last thing Rodney wants is smoothing over, that it’s probably the last thing John wants, too. Rodney wants the exact opposite of smoothing over, in fact, and he opens his mouth to deflect Elizabeth and nip her calm reasoning in the bud when she raises a hand to cut him off.
“It’s obvious we’re not getting anywhere today,” she says. “Rodney, you have the diagnostics on that repaired puddle jumper to run tomorrow, don’t you?”
Rodney nods grudgingly. Stupid Zelenka, afraid of a puddle jumper.
“Why don’t you take a break, then?” It’s not really a suggestion, for all Elizabeth’s reasonable tone. “You’ll need to be fresh when you head out in the morning.”
“He’ll be fresh as a daisy,” John adds from his corner, and his smirk is positively blinding when Rodney wheels around to glare at him.
“Get some rest, Rodney,” and yeah, that’s an order right there. “You can pick up on the sensor tests when you get back. Look at them with fresh eyes.”
This is positively the most useful suggestion Elizabeth’s had all day. Rodney offers a few token protests about how he’s Really Really Close to The Solution and how The Safety of Atlantis depends on him, but Elizabeth rides effortlessly over them, and before Rodney knows it Elizabeth’s shuffled him off to his quarters for a shower and sleep.
Or not sleep.
“You were really convincing back there.” John materializes by Rodney’s side, feet cat-quiet on the hallway floor. “‘The Safety of Atlantis depends on me’ - I think that’s my favorite. Actually, no…” John pauses thoughtfully. “I think I liked ‘If I don’t fix the sensors tonight, we’re all going to die horribly in our beds’ best.”
“How do you know we won’t?” It’s very possible. And further, the safety of Atlantis does depend on him. He ignores John’s soft, ironic snort, and in his peripheral vision he can see the same sarcasm on John’s face. He ignores that too, in favor of focusing on the spike of anticipation, an electric current running just under his skin, can practically sense the same anticipation pouring off John.
The walk to his quarters drags on, inversely proportionate to the incomprehensible, unwanted - very much wanted - excitement that hums in him. Rodney has no idea what’s happening, why in the hell they’re doing this - why they’ve done this four times already without questioning it - and, for that matter, what in the hell this is. Because this is their fifth time, not that he’s counting, the fifth time John’s pulled him through the door of his quarters, mouth pushing aside the collar of Rodney’s uniform shirt, hands reaching for the hem and finding the skin low on Rodney’s side.
Fifth time, and Rodney’s no closer to formulating an explanation than he’d been after the first. He’s thought about asking John what he thinks about all of this, but that would be… that would be admitting he didn’t know, which Rodney never does unless it’s a matter of life and death, and besides, something tells him John has no idea either, for all his confidence.
His failure might have something to do with the fact that the higher-order functions of his brain usually start shorting out when John pulls Rodney’s shirt over his head.
“Some help here?” John’s nipping and kissing the flesh at the curve of his neck, underneath his ear - headset off, thank God - and Rodney obediently raises his arms. Moment of blindness and suffocation, trying to breathe through the fabric of his shirt not working so well for him, then cloth and muscle hard, fierce against him, John’s hands back in his hair now, John’s mouth back on his, shaping low, approving words as Rodney, bolder than usual, fumbles with his belt. His hands are very good with keyboards and scientific instruments, less so with buckles, and the first couple of tries don’t work.
Laughter against his lips now, more a smile than anything, tasting vaguely of coffee and more of satisfaction. John doesn’t, Rodney’s come to realize, laugh much. Mostly it’s in his eyes, the way he smiles, soft huff of air against Rodney’s mouth that still manages to be teasing and sarcastic. Irritating enough for Rodney to muster the coordination necessary to get buckle, snap, and zipper undone, pulling down until John’s fatigues catch at the hitch of his hips, low enough for Rodney to get a hand inside, and John’s laughter shifts to something else.
Hard thrust against him, John’s thighs pressing along his, surprised breath hot across Rodney’s ear. He has to smirk at that, watches as John’s eyes darken, black swallowing up the grey and green.
“So you’ve thought about this all day.” One hand in his hair now, the other at his hip, and John’s guiding him to his bed with short, hard kisses, rhythmic, timed to Rodney’s shuffling backwards steps and John’s own ragged breath.
“Since you - ” Rodney’s knees catch on the edge of his mattress, and thank God it’s prescription he thinks hazily as he falls back, sprawling inelegant and half-naked atop his covers.
“Since?” John climbs over him, all sleek and stalking motion, arms and legs bracketing Rodney’s body. The overhead light catches the line of his shoulder, the flattened curve of his arms, one cheekbone. “Well? Since?”
“Since you started playing footsie under the conference table this morning.”
“I was bored.” Hands travel down Rodney’s chest, followed by John’s mouth, hot and unpredictable - bright, hard nips to his collarbone, his chest, fingers playing over Rodney’s ribs right where John knows he’s ticklish, because John knows Rodney can’t do anything about it, body trapped between John’s legs.
“So was I,” Rodney admits. He can’t catch his breath, air too full of lust and John and everything, John’s fingers moving lower now, skating over his abdomen, and anticipation nearly suffocates him.
“We’ll have to have sex on the conference table some time,” John says meditatively. Snap and Rodney’s pants are undone. “That could be pretty hot.”
“Not to mention dangerous.” And pretty hot.
“Aw, Rodney, I’m disappointed. Where’s your sense of adventure?” John rocks up and back, staring down at Rodney in disapproval. Face flushed, though it’s hard to tell underneath the tan, hair even sloppier than usual, with sweat plastering it down in some places, other patches sticking up spiky and disreputable.
And John’s eyes are bright, bright with teasing, breathlessness, pleasure, lust, other things Rodney can’t identify, but he does know he likes John like this, exactly like this right here, likes John and this whole crazy thing of theirs more than is probably good for him.
Besides, this right here - lying flat on his back with John astride him, rocking backward (hard, deliberate motion and Rodney can’t help the low whine-groan in the back of his throat) - is Rodney’s sense of adventure, going where no McKay has gone before.
Mercifully, John doesn’t make him answer, or maybe he knows exactly how far outside Rodney’s comfort zone they are at the moment, for all that they’ve done this before. Kisses him again, something deep, distracting, hard to think enough even to pull at John’s t-shirt, to feel the warm, sweat-damp skin under it.
“Good idea,” John mutters into the underside of Rodney’s jaw, and before Rodney can find breath to say of course it’s a good idea, he’s sliding down, sliding out of his t-shirt as he does, pulling his arms free of the sleeves, leaving Rodney with a handful of empty fabric.
All liquid, a current sweeping Rodney along and he goes with it, goes with John who’s working Rodney’s pants down, encouraging his hips upward to pull them up. Brief awkwardness as Rodney ends up tangled in them, and John laughs when they come off at fucking last, moves back up Rodney’s body, low and hard and purposeful, warm flesh dragging along Rodney’s cock, making him gasp and shake, hands tightening helplessly on John’s shoulders.
“Got an idea,” John says, low and hot in Rodney’s ear, and Rodney shivers.
Sudden lack of presence and Rodney grunts questioningly, watching John lean back, unzip one of the cargo pockets of his fatigues, and Rodney can feel his entire body flush with embarrassment and lust as John pulls out a condom and small bottle of lube.
“Should I ask?”
“Just go with it,” John tells him, and it’s good advice, something he does with John more often than not.
Something to examine later, probably. He’s not a risk-taker, has always considered himself morally opposed to unnecessary danger, but watching John maneuvering his pants off, managing to look graceful even so, the kiss he gets when John bends over him again, tongue sliding against his so easily, is worth a little doubt.
And Rodney’s beauty lives mostly in equations and order, and John is pretty much the embodiment of disorder, chaos, and unruliness. But here, here, Rodney can trace fingers across the plane of John’s chest, his abdomen, hard muscle that he likes, the line of his hips and thighs - small protrusion of bone, long weave of tendon and sinew - run up and down his arms, feeling where tendons make ridges under John’s skin, actually see and feel and admit to himself he likes what they’re doing.
“God, Rodney,” John mutters, voice thick, the last syllable of Rodney’s name cut off on a groan when Rodney’s hand closes around his cock.
“Going too fast?” Rodney’s proud he can find the breath to say that, not to mention the coherence.
John gives him a Look even as he shudders against Rodney’s body, inadvertent revenge as Rodney can’t keep himself from thrusting up, damp heat of sweat and pre-come, and he wants more, a whole lot more, and it’s a good thing John can read minds, pressing the bottle into Rodney’s free hand.
In all their four times together they haven’t done this, or maybe done it this way, and Rodney stares idiotically at the bottle for a moment, like it’s a message in code and he needs to decipher it - never mind that it’s probably the most obvious statement in the entire galaxy - and while it’s not like he doesn’t know how, he could probably keep staring at the bottle all night -
“Any time now, Rodney.” Even disheveled and aroused, naked, kneeling over Rodney’s body, John manages to be imperious.
Sex now, thinking later. Yes. Good idea.
Awkward but nice, running slick fingers down John’s back, feeling the flex and give of muscle, lower, down the ridge of spine, lower still, John grunting as Rodney stretches him. One finger and then two, anticipation almost painful it’s that sharp, hot like John’s body is, covering him, around him, and John’s hands, gun-callused and clever, play down his chest, thoughtful, exploratory, the same careful rhythm as Rodney’s fingers, methodical and strange against the urgency curling deep in Rodney’s gut.
Gone suddenly as John levers himself back, one hand pressed against Rodney’s abdomen, the other wrapped low and firm around his cock.
Fierce concentration on John’s face, something that’s always turned Rodney on, and he’ll probably never be able to watch John thinking again without remembering the slow, inexorable tightening of John’s body around him, John’s thighs hard against his own to control the pace, looking up into John’s face, into the light around him.
Has to close his eyes, everything too bright, too real and immediate, and the only way he can deal with it - with John’s weight on his thighs, John surrounding him, John’s eyes boring down into his - is in darkness.
“Rodney,” John says sharply, bringing him back.
Rodney opens his eyes.
Very strange, terrifying, looking at John like this, seeing all of him - body arcing, light playing all along John’s sides, liquid, and there’s sweat at John’s temples, the muscles of shoulders and chest hard with resistance, and his eyes, dark and empty of their usual irony and teasing - and knowing that John’s seeing him the exact same way, Rodney spread out beneath him, pale skin flushed and hands shaking on John’s hips, not so good at steadying him now.
They find a rhythm and go with it, some negotiation as Rodney tries to find a better grip, fingers laced through John’s now, relentless pace, thrusting up into John hard enough to hurt almost, the bones of Rodney’s hips pressing against John’s inner thighs, John’s slight wince and his refusal to let up making it better.
He can feel John getting close, can feel himself, up against the edge, and his right hand is around John’s cock again, John’s fingers closing over his, sliding into the grooves of his knuckles. Pace jagged now, desperate, like it’s too soon but they’ve been building to this all day and his heart is going to explode, he’s going to explode, watching John’s eyes go glassy, concentration gone and replaced by something else Rodney knows he won’t ever be able to name.
Rodney wants very much to close his eyes again - too much, too blinding, and he’s too exposed, and if he shuts his eyes maybe John won’t be able to see him either. But he can’t is the thing, and he has to watch as John tenses, collapsing forward on a surprised breath, body tight and shaking around him, and when John comes Rodney sees the ghost of his name on his lips.
And this is what he’s never counted on seeing: John briefly dazed, all alertness gone, hazy, faintest smile there, like John can’t believe it either - and that’s what finishes him, what blanks out thought and reason and everything that’s Rodney, seeing John this way.
Dim awareness: a mouth on his, a kiss made of heavy breath, and, suddenly, nothing.
He can’t find John; there’s only cool air above him now, uncomfortable against skin damp with sweat and come. Confused and ready to start being annoyed, Rodney opens his eyes to see where Sheppard’s gotten to.
The light blinds him, not at all the good kind of blindness like before, leaving painful patterns of yellow and red on his closed eyelids. He feels the bed dip a moment later, John’s warmth next to him, then a damp cloth moving across his chest. Slow, meditative, not really John-like at all, and despite what he fears is substantial damage to his retinas, Rodney opens his eyes again.
John stops rubbing, offers him a lazy grin the second he sees Rodney looking at him.
And the cloth, Rodney realizes after staring at John’s hand on his chest, is actually John’s t-shirt.
“Never liked this one anyway,” John says. “You’re out of washcloths.”
Rodney ignores the insinuation in John’s tone, but John laughs anyway. Apparently decides Rodney’s clean enough and tosses his shirt into a corner to join Rodney’s, stretches out atop the covers, length of warm, contented flesh pressed to Rodney’s side.
“So Elizabeth’s got you going in the puddle jumper tomorrow, huh?” John asks after a minute, casually, the question welcome and everyday in the post-sex haze. “I thought Zelenka was going.”
“Radek chickened out,” Rodney, the veteran of many puddle jumper flights, says disdainfully. “Elizabeth has me with one of the pilots from the Daedalus - Griff something-or-other. We won’t be long, just a diagnostic.”
He wonders obliquely if he’s trying to reassure John, and if so, why. It’s not like John needs it.
“The conference table and I will be waiting,” John says solemnly, like maybe he’s heard but Rodney can’t tell, and turns off the light.
-end-
Post-fic notes: The title comes from the phenomenon called redshift, in which the spectral lines of the light coming from galaxies receding from the viewer are displaced to the red end of the spectrum.
If you're curious, the two stories that follow in this timeline are The Exclusion Principle and Invariance.
By: HF
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for the sex
Spoilers: Takes place the night before 2.14 "Grace Under Pressure," with some references to 2.13 "Critical Mass."
Disclaimers: Not mine. Other people's.
Advertisements: Porny thing for svmadelyn's kink/cliché challenge. Mine = Kink: Guy Being Penetrated? On top. Also for wordclaim50 challenge #46 (Writer's Choice); my word is 'find.'
Series: Follows Unified Field.
Notes: Hooray, kink! Speaking for myself, my real kink is sarcasm as a form of foreplay, but eh, that's me.
REDSHIFT
Rodney McKay’s Law 1: If it doesn’t have a couch and a particle accelerator in the same room, it isn’t science.
Rodney McKay’s Law 2: They are definitely going to have sex tonight.
They, and by ‘they’ Rodney means himself and John, have been building toward Number Five for the better part of the day, and Rodney half-expects to see the energy registering on the sensors he’s been testing for the past six hours.
Which, on further reflection, would be incredibly embarrassing.
Levels of thwarted potential sexual energy radiating from operations. Spiking dangerously. All personnel advised to stay in quarters. Elizabeth, get back in your office. Draw the blinds.
“Have I ever mentioned that I find nervous twitching really unsexy?”
“If the stupid internal sensors were working properly - Zelenka - I wouldn’t - hey! I am not twitching.” Rodney freezes mid-twitch and frowns at John, who smiles back, unfazed. He ignores Zelenka’s glare from a few terminals away, though Radek’s glasses magnify his dangerously narrowed eyes, making his displeasure impossible to miss. “If you want the Goa’uld to come waltzing back into Atlantis, Colonel, be my guest.” Elaborate gesture of invitation in the direction of the sensor array.
John’s expression is eloquent, that condescending, sarcastic half-smile, the one Rodney really wants to smack off John’s face some day. And he’d do it too, if he knew how to kill people with his bare hands like John does. John doesn’t do anything, doesn’t move, only stands in his corner of the gate room and smirks, because he knows what Rodney wants and knows Rodney won't be able to get it, which is enough to elevate Rodney’s irritation threshold through the roof.
“No? Okay.” He very pointedly ignores John and goes back to work.
They do this, this back-and-forth, because they can never just have sex. A dysfunctional form of foreplay, probably, not that Rodney minds it. And he probably shouldn’t be thinking about this at all with Elizabeth hovering nearby.
Zelenka, under a cloud of Czech profanity, has gone somewhere else, on some errand only he knows about, and Elizabeth (who can be incredibly dense for a negotiator, as now) steps in to smooth things over. Doesn’t realize, of course, that the last thing Rodney wants is smoothing over, that it’s probably the last thing John wants, too. Rodney wants the exact opposite of smoothing over, in fact, and he opens his mouth to deflect Elizabeth and nip her calm reasoning in the bud when she raises a hand to cut him off.
“It’s obvious we’re not getting anywhere today,” she says. “Rodney, you have the diagnostics on that repaired puddle jumper to run tomorrow, don’t you?”
Rodney nods grudgingly. Stupid Zelenka, afraid of a puddle jumper.
“Why don’t you take a break, then?” It’s not really a suggestion, for all Elizabeth’s reasonable tone. “You’ll need to be fresh when you head out in the morning.”
“He’ll be fresh as a daisy,” John adds from his corner, and his smirk is positively blinding when Rodney wheels around to glare at him.
“Get some rest, Rodney,” and yeah, that’s an order right there. “You can pick up on the sensor tests when you get back. Look at them with fresh eyes.”
This is positively the most useful suggestion Elizabeth’s had all day. Rodney offers a few token protests about how he’s Really Really Close to The Solution and how The Safety of Atlantis depends on him, but Elizabeth rides effortlessly over them, and before Rodney knows it Elizabeth’s shuffled him off to his quarters for a shower and sleep.
Or not sleep.
“You were really convincing back there.” John materializes by Rodney’s side, feet cat-quiet on the hallway floor. “‘The Safety of Atlantis depends on me’ - I think that’s my favorite. Actually, no…” John pauses thoughtfully. “I think I liked ‘If I don’t fix the sensors tonight, we’re all going to die horribly in our beds’ best.”
“How do you know we won’t?” It’s very possible. And further, the safety of Atlantis does depend on him. He ignores John’s soft, ironic snort, and in his peripheral vision he can see the same sarcasm on John’s face. He ignores that too, in favor of focusing on the spike of anticipation, an electric current running just under his skin, can practically sense the same anticipation pouring off John.
The walk to his quarters drags on, inversely proportionate to the incomprehensible, unwanted - very much wanted - excitement that hums in him. Rodney has no idea what’s happening, why in the hell they’re doing this - why they’ve done this four times already without questioning it - and, for that matter, what in the hell this is. Because this is their fifth time, not that he’s counting, the fifth time John’s pulled him through the door of his quarters, mouth pushing aside the collar of Rodney’s uniform shirt, hands reaching for the hem and finding the skin low on Rodney’s side.
Fifth time, and Rodney’s no closer to formulating an explanation than he’d been after the first. He’s thought about asking John what he thinks about all of this, but that would be… that would be admitting he didn’t know, which Rodney never does unless it’s a matter of life and death, and besides, something tells him John has no idea either, for all his confidence.
His failure might have something to do with the fact that the higher-order functions of his brain usually start shorting out when John pulls Rodney’s shirt over his head.
“Some help here?” John’s nipping and kissing the flesh at the curve of his neck, underneath his ear - headset off, thank God - and Rodney obediently raises his arms. Moment of blindness and suffocation, trying to breathe through the fabric of his shirt not working so well for him, then cloth and muscle hard, fierce against him, John’s hands back in his hair now, John’s mouth back on his, shaping low, approving words as Rodney, bolder than usual, fumbles with his belt. His hands are very good with keyboards and scientific instruments, less so with buckles, and the first couple of tries don’t work.
Laughter against his lips now, more a smile than anything, tasting vaguely of coffee and more of satisfaction. John doesn’t, Rodney’s come to realize, laugh much. Mostly it’s in his eyes, the way he smiles, soft huff of air against Rodney’s mouth that still manages to be teasing and sarcastic. Irritating enough for Rodney to muster the coordination necessary to get buckle, snap, and zipper undone, pulling down until John’s fatigues catch at the hitch of his hips, low enough for Rodney to get a hand inside, and John’s laughter shifts to something else.
Hard thrust against him, John’s thighs pressing along his, surprised breath hot across Rodney’s ear. He has to smirk at that, watches as John’s eyes darken, black swallowing up the grey and green.
“So you’ve thought about this all day.” One hand in his hair now, the other at his hip, and John’s guiding him to his bed with short, hard kisses, rhythmic, timed to Rodney’s shuffling backwards steps and John’s own ragged breath.
“Since you - ” Rodney’s knees catch on the edge of his mattress, and thank God it’s prescription he thinks hazily as he falls back, sprawling inelegant and half-naked atop his covers.
“Since?” John climbs over him, all sleek and stalking motion, arms and legs bracketing Rodney’s body. The overhead light catches the line of his shoulder, the flattened curve of his arms, one cheekbone. “Well? Since?”
“Since you started playing footsie under the conference table this morning.”
“I was bored.” Hands travel down Rodney’s chest, followed by John’s mouth, hot and unpredictable - bright, hard nips to his collarbone, his chest, fingers playing over Rodney’s ribs right where John knows he’s ticklish, because John knows Rodney can’t do anything about it, body trapped between John’s legs.
“So was I,” Rodney admits. He can’t catch his breath, air too full of lust and John and everything, John’s fingers moving lower now, skating over his abdomen, and anticipation nearly suffocates him.
“We’ll have to have sex on the conference table some time,” John says meditatively. Snap and Rodney’s pants are undone. “That could be pretty hot.”
“Not to mention dangerous.” And pretty hot.
“Aw, Rodney, I’m disappointed. Where’s your sense of adventure?” John rocks up and back, staring down at Rodney in disapproval. Face flushed, though it’s hard to tell underneath the tan, hair even sloppier than usual, with sweat plastering it down in some places, other patches sticking up spiky and disreputable.
And John’s eyes are bright, bright with teasing, breathlessness, pleasure, lust, other things Rodney can’t identify, but he does know he likes John like this, exactly like this right here, likes John and this whole crazy thing of theirs more than is probably good for him.
Besides, this right here - lying flat on his back with John astride him, rocking backward (hard, deliberate motion and Rodney can’t help the low whine-groan in the back of his throat) - is Rodney’s sense of adventure, going where no McKay has gone before.
Mercifully, John doesn’t make him answer, or maybe he knows exactly how far outside Rodney’s comfort zone they are at the moment, for all that they’ve done this before. Kisses him again, something deep, distracting, hard to think enough even to pull at John’s t-shirt, to feel the warm, sweat-damp skin under it.
“Good idea,” John mutters into the underside of Rodney’s jaw, and before Rodney can find breath to say of course it’s a good idea, he’s sliding down, sliding out of his t-shirt as he does, pulling his arms free of the sleeves, leaving Rodney with a handful of empty fabric.
All liquid, a current sweeping Rodney along and he goes with it, goes with John who’s working Rodney’s pants down, encouraging his hips upward to pull them up. Brief awkwardness as Rodney ends up tangled in them, and John laughs when they come off at fucking last, moves back up Rodney’s body, low and hard and purposeful, warm flesh dragging along Rodney’s cock, making him gasp and shake, hands tightening helplessly on John’s shoulders.
“Got an idea,” John says, low and hot in Rodney’s ear, and Rodney shivers.
Sudden lack of presence and Rodney grunts questioningly, watching John lean back, unzip one of the cargo pockets of his fatigues, and Rodney can feel his entire body flush with embarrassment and lust as John pulls out a condom and small bottle of lube.
“Should I ask?”
“Just go with it,” John tells him, and it’s good advice, something he does with John more often than not.
Something to examine later, probably. He’s not a risk-taker, has always considered himself morally opposed to unnecessary danger, but watching John maneuvering his pants off, managing to look graceful even so, the kiss he gets when John bends over him again, tongue sliding against his so easily, is worth a little doubt.
And Rodney’s beauty lives mostly in equations and order, and John is pretty much the embodiment of disorder, chaos, and unruliness. But here, here, Rodney can trace fingers across the plane of John’s chest, his abdomen, hard muscle that he likes, the line of his hips and thighs - small protrusion of bone, long weave of tendon and sinew - run up and down his arms, feeling where tendons make ridges under John’s skin, actually see and feel and admit to himself he likes what they’re doing.
“God, Rodney,” John mutters, voice thick, the last syllable of Rodney’s name cut off on a groan when Rodney’s hand closes around his cock.
“Going too fast?” Rodney’s proud he can find the breath to say that, not to mention the coherence.
John gives him a Look even as he shudders against Rodney’s body, inadvertent revenge as Rodney can’t keep himself from thrusting up, damp heat of sweat and pre-come, and he wants more, a whole lot more, and it’s a good thing John can read minds, pressing the bottle into Rodney’s free hand.
In all their four times together they haven’t done this, or maybe done it this way, and Rodney stares idiotically at the bottle for a moment, like it’s a message in code and he needs to decipher it - never mind that it’s probably the most obvious statement in the entire galaxy - and while it’s not like he doesn’t know how, he could probably keep staring at the bottle all night -
“Any time now, Rodney.” Even disheveled and aroused, naked, kneeling over Rodney’s body, John manages to be imperious.
Sex now, thinking later. Yes. Good idea.
Awkward but nice, running slick fingers down John’s back, feeling the flex and give of muscle, lower, down the ridge of spine, lower still, John grunting as Rodney stretches him. One finger and then two, anticipation almost painful it’s that sharp, hot like John’s body is, covering him, around him, and John’s hands, gun-callused and clever, play down his chest, thoughtful, exploratory, the same careful rhythm as Rodney’s fingers, methodical and strange against the urgency curling deep in Rodney’s gut.
Gone suddenly as John levers himself back, one hand pressed against Rodney’s abdomen, the other wrapped low and firm around his cock.
Fierce concentration on John’s face, something that’s always turned Rodney on, and he’ll probably never be able to watch John thinking again without remembering the slow, inexorable tightening of John’s body around him, John’s thighs hard against his own to control the pace, looking up into John’s face, into the light around him.
Has to close his eyes, everything too bright, too real and immediate, and the only way he can deal with it - with John’s weight on his thighs, John surrounding him, John’s eyes boring down into his - is in darkness.
“Rodney,” John says sharply, bringing him back.
Rodney opens his eyes.
Very strange, terrifying, looking at John like this, seeing all of him - body arcing, light playing all along John’s sides, liquid, and there’s sweat at John’s temples, the muscles of shoulders and chest hard with resistance, and his eyes, dark and empty of their usual irony and teasing - and knowing that John’s seeing him the exact same way, Rodney spread out beneath him, pale skin flushed and hands shaking on John’s hips, not so good at steadying him now.
They find a rhythm and go with it, some negotiation as Rodney tries to find a better grip, fingers laced through John’s now, relentless pace, thrusting up into John hard enough to hurt almost, the bones of Rodney’s hips pressing against John’s inner thighs, John’s slight wince and his refusal to let up making it better.
He can feel John getting close, can feel himself, up against the edge, and his right hand is around John’s cock again, John’s fingers closing over his, sliding into the grooves of his knuckles. Pace jagged now, desperate, like it’s too soon but they’ve been building to this all day and his heart is going to explode, he’s going to explode, watching John’s eyes go glassy, concentration gone and replaced by something else Rodney knows he won’t ever be able to name.
Rodney wants very much to close his eyes again - too much, too blinding, and he’s too exposed, and if he shuts his eyes maybe John won’t be able to see him either. But he can’t is the thing, and he has to watch as John tenses, collapsing forward on a surprised breath, body tight and shaking around him, and when John comes Rodney sees the ghost of his name on his lips.
And this is what he’s never counted on seeing: John briefly dazed, all alertness gone, hazy, faintest smile there, like John can’t believe it either - and that’s what finishes him, what blanks out thought and reason and everything that’s Rodney, seeing John this way.
Dim awareness: a mouth on his, a kiss made of heavy breath, and, suddenly, nothing.
He can’t find John; there’s only cool air above him now, uncomfortable against skin damp with sweat and come. Confused and ready to start being annoyed, Rodney opens his eyes to see where Sheppard’s gotten to.
The light blinds him, not at all the good kind of blindness like before, leaving painful patterns of yellow and red on his closed eyelids. He feels the bed dip a moment later, John’s warmth next to him, then a damp cloth moving across his chest. Slow, meditative, not really John-like at all, and despite what he fears is substantial damage to his retinas, Rodney opens his eyes again.
John stops rubbing, offers him a lazy grin the second he sees Rodney looking at him.
And the cloth, Rodney realizes after staring at John’s hand on his chest, is actually John’s t-shirt.
“Never liked this one anyway,” John says. “You’re out of washcloths.”
Rodney ignores the insinuation in John’s tone, but John laughs anyway. Apparently decides Rodney’s clean enough and tosses his shirt into a corner to join Rodney’s, stretches out atop the covers, length of warm, contented flesh pressed to Rodney’s side.
“So Elizabeth’s got you going in the puddle jumper tomorrow, huh?” John asks after a minute, casually, the question welcome and everyday in the post-sex haze. “I thought Zelenka was going.”
“Radek chickened out,” Rodney, the veteran of many puddle jumper flights, says disdainfully. “Elizabeth has me with one of the pilots from the Daedalus - Griff something-or-other. We won’t be long, just a diagnostic.”
He wonders obliquely if he’s trying to reassure John, and if so, why. It’s not like John needs it.
“The conference table and I will be waiting,” John says solemnly, like maybe he’s heard but Rodney can’t tell, and turns off the light.
-end-
Post-fic notes: The title comes from the phenomenon called redshift, in which the spectral lines of the light coming from galaxies receding from the viewer are displaced to the red end of the spectrum.
If you're curious, the two stories that follow in this timeline are The Exclusion Principle and Invariance.