FIC: The Math of Rodney, Hard R, SGA, McShep
Title: The Math of Rodney
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Notes: 700 words in search of a plot. Yay!
~*~*~
It was a bad idea, and he knew it was a bad idea. Even as he popped the button on Rodney’s pants, he was calculating the odds of getting kicked out over it (4:1 in favor of not getting caught, because at least he’d managed to get them behind a closed door), but John couldn’t stop himself, and if he was honest, he really couldn’t bring himself to give too much of a shit about his career. Besides, Rodney’s zipper was down, and John finally had his hand around Rodney’s dick, and Christ, those noises!
Rodney’s vocalizations tended toward bitching (43%), gloating (55%), explaining why everyone else was a moron (86%), and explaining his many and varied allergies (77%), often at the same time. John couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever heard Rodney grunt, whimper and harder, damn it, fuck, please... It was a goddamn symphony to John’s ears, and he wanted it to be one of the long ones, the kind Nancy took him to during his eighteen-month stint in D.C. The kind he listened to with a pounding heart and eyes wide at the amount of energy coming off the conductor and orchestra.
And yeah, that was fucking great, hearing Rodney lose the words, hearing the hitch in his breath, hearing the little whines creep up in volume and frequency (3 whines to 2 whimpers to a stuttery 4 hitches followed by 1 gasp; start the cycle again). Rodney’s dick was hot and solid and leaking like crazy, and it was fantastic that John was the one conducting this particular symphony. His own dick was just as hard and leaking enough to soak a patch of his boxers, but for the moment, he was too distracted by Rodney’s dick and the way it twitched in his hand.
The moan was new, and John had to stop for a moment, try to remember what he’d done to get that sound out of Rodney’s throat, and then he remembered - his thumb smoothing across the head of Rodney’s dick and down to the side and around - and he did it again (gathering empirical data was a beautiful thing). Rodney moaned a little louder and ended it with a whimper when John did another thing that was a bad idea: he kissed Rodney.
He spared a thought for the lines he’d crossed in the last few minutes, but he decided if he was going to hell for crossing one line, he might as well make the trip worth it. Rodney’s mouth, which moved as fast as his brain, caught up to John in no time at all, and that would have been fine, except Rodney, who could never leave well enough alone and was the mother of all backseat drivers, took advantage of John’s distraction and managed to pin him against the wall.
John might have objected, but 1) Rodney’s mouth was as engrossing as Rodney’s dick, and 2) as Rodney was fond of pointing out (average of 5.6 times per day), he was a genius. And what Rodney was doing with John’s dick should have qualified him for a Nobel Prize in hand-jobs. Too bad he’d never be able to nominate him for it.
But that was pointless, because John needed to hold it together long enough to lose it at the same time as Rodney. It was a close call. John started coming about five seconds before Rodney did, and he thought it was mostly reflex on his part that kept his hand working Rodney’s dick throughout. Still, he managed it, and his hand and Rodney’s were messy and slimy and a little gross, and they were going to have to separate in another minute or five to clean up.
For now though, they just leaned against each other, breathing hard, breathing in each other, breathing themselves back into reality. It was a bad idea, but John had had bad ideas before (3 black marks, 1 failed marriage, don’t even think about the Pegasus count), and one way or another, he’d survived all of them. He’d survive this one, too, which was good, because he’d probably be having this particular bad idea on a regular basis.
Author: Tara Keezer
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Notes: 700 words in search of a plot. Yay!
~*~*~
It was a bad idea, and he knew it was a bad idea. Even as he popped the button on Rodney’s pants, he was calculating the odds of getting kicked out over it (4:1 in favor of not getting caught, because at least he’d managed to get them behind a closed door), but John couldn’t stop himself, and if he was honest, he really couldn’t bring himself to give too much of a shit about his career. Besides, Rodney’s zipper was down, and John finally had his hand around Rodney’s dick, and Christ, those noises!
Rodney’s vocalizations tended toward bitching (43%), gloating (55%), explaining why everyone else was a moron (86%), and explaining his many and varied allergies (77%), often at the same time. John couldn’t think of a time when he’d ever heard Rodney grunt, whimper and harder, damn it, fuck, please... It was a goddamn symphony to John’s ears, and he wanted it to be one of the long ones, the kind Nancy took him to during his eighteen-month stint in D.C. The kind he listened to with a pounding heart and eyes wide at the amount of energy coming off the conductor and orchestra.
And yeah, that was fucking great, hearing Rodney lose the words, hearing the hitch in his breath, hearing the little whines creep up in volume and frequency (3 whines to 2 whimpers to a stuttery 4 hitches followed by 1 gasp; start the cycle again). Rodney’s dick was hot and solid and leaking like crazy, and it was fantastic that John was the one conducting this particular symphony. His own dick was just as hard and leaking enough to soak a patch of his boxers, but for the moment, he was too distracted by Rodney’s dick and the way it twitched in his hand.
The moan was new, and John had to stop for a moment, try to remember what he’d done to get that sound out of Rodney’s throat, and then he remembered - his thumb smoothing across the head of Rodney’s dick and down to the side and around - and he did it again (gathering empirical data was a beautiful thing). Rodney moaned a little louder and ended it with a whimper when John did another thing that was a bad idea: he kissed Rodney.
He spared a thought for the lines he’d crossed in the last few minutes, but he decided if he was going to hell for crossing one line, he might as well make the trip worth it. Rodney’s mouth, which moved as fast as his brain, caught up to John in no time at all, and that would have been fine, except Rodney, who could never leave well enough alone and was the mother of all backseat drivers, took advantage of John’s distraction and managed to pin him against the wall.
John might have objected, but 1) Rodney’s mouth was as engrossing as Rodney’s dick, and 2) as Rodney was fond of pointing out (average of 5.6 times per day), he was a genius. And what Rodney was doing with John’s dick should have qualified him for a Nobel Prize in hand-jobs. Too bad he’d never be able to nominate him for it.
But that was pointless, because John needed to hold it together long enough to lose it at the same time as Rodney. It was a close call. John started coming about five seconds before Rodney did, and he thought it was mostly reflex on his part that kept his hand working Rodney’s dick throughout. Still, he managed it, and his hand and Rodney’s were messy and slimy and a little gross, and they were going to have to separate in another minute or five to clean up.
For now though, they just leaned against each other, breathing hard, breathing in each other, breathing themselves back into reality. It was a bad idea, but John had had bad ideas before (3 black marks, 1 failed marriage, don’t even think about the Pegasus count), and one way or another, he’d survived all of them. He’d survive this one, too, which was good, because he’d probably be having this particular bad idea on a regular basis.