straight guys
Title: Straight Guys
By: Cesare (almostnever)
Rating: Not worksafe.
*
John leans back against the wall. His mouth still tastes like sour plaster, like oyster snot, like every kind of disgusting thing he can think about to make himself stop enjoying it: like come.
McKay slides down to kneel next to him, his long goddamn hand closing around John's; his pinky slides over the lip of John's dick, his index finger strokes down against John's sac, his hand is huge, everywhere at once, unbearable. And then, of course, of fucking course, McKay tries to kiss him.
John tips his head back, evading as smoothly as he can. It ought to be enough. All McKay has to do is take the fucking hint--
"Seriously?" McKay asks. "Seriously?"
He really should've known that wasn't going to happen.
"Okay, whatever," McKay mutters, and he strips John's hand off himself, replacing it, squeezing and pulling so quickly that John curls helplessly forward, trying to cup his hand over and catch it all, too late, he's already shooting so fast and so hard it makes his gut feel a little hollow after, a little achy.
All he wants to do is clean up and go, but McKay's not backing off at all, pushing a bunch of travel-size tissues into his dripping hands. There's no room for John to stand.
"So," McKay says, "you don't kiss."
"Neither of us is gay," John answers, tucking himself back into his clothes and zipping up.
"Speak for yourself," McKay snaps. "Or actually, don't, because you know what, sucking a guy off and then refusing to kiss him? That's just about the gayest thing ever."
McKay's still kneeling too close, too much in his way. John can move him; hell, if he just stands up he'll bowl McKay right over. But this is already out of hand, he needs to settle it now, and with a minimum of fallout. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't get the wrong idea."
"What, because blowing someone is just sex, but kissing a guy is too meaningful? Ga-ay," he singsongs. "Whatever, Princess Vivian."
"Calling me a whore really helps your case, here," says John.
"Recognizing a Pretty Woman reference, wow, you really must be completely straight. I don't know how my dick in your mouth could've possibly made me think otherwise," McKay says snidely, rocking up to stand, finally.
John scrambles to his feet, but McKay's still too close to make an easy escape and still yammering away.
"Of course," McKay's continuing, "actual straight guys will let you kiss them all you want if it means they'll get an orgasm out of it. They're a lot more likely to balk at, oh, say, cock."
"What do you want, McKay," John says. He's tired, he regrets the frantic adrenaline-fueled impulse that drove him to follow McKay to his room after the mission and drop for him. He's tired.
All the sarcastic ire falls from Rodney's face all at once, and he looks tired too. Worn out and disappointed, the left side of his mouth drooping steeply.
"Nothing," he says, stepping out of John's way. "Get out of here."
Such a stupid mistake, risking years of friendship, the best working relationship of his career, for what? Two minutes of Rodney hot and alive in his mouth, two minutes of relief from the desperate panic that struck him during the mission at the sight of Rodney with a knife at his throat.
One well-timed shot from Ronon and the entire situation was defused, Rodney hadn't even been scratched. They've had closer calls.
He doesn't have any idea why he did this, doesn't know either why he won't kiss Rodney. Just because he never has before, in all the decades of keeping quiet, not telling-- that doesn't seem like much of a reason now, with the taste of Rodney still lingering in his mouth.
A stupid slip. There was just something about the look on Rodney's face, the terror and worse, the resignation... and the look on his face now, the defeat. And worse, the resignation.
John steps into his space and grabs his shoulder and kisses him artlessly, just his lips tagging Rodney's for a couple of seconds. Rodney's lips part, to breathe or to say something, and John presses in again, catching at his mouth this time.
By the time he pulls back and leans his head against Rodney's, they're both breathless and Rodney's mouth is even, as close to horizontal as it ever gets. John never wants to see it pull down like that again.
"Anything else I should know," John asks, "from your vast experience with straight guys..?"
"Ah, no," Rodney clears his throat. "I just... inferred. I've never actually fooled around with straight guys."
John swallows. "No," he agrees. "I guess you never have."
By: Cesare (almostnever)
Rating: Not worksafe.
*
John leans back against the wall. His mouth still tastes like sour plaster, like oyster snot, like every kind of disgusting thing he can think about to make himself stop enjoying it: like come.
McKay slides down to kneel next to him, his long goddamn hand closing around John's; his pinky slides over the lip of John's dick, his index finger strokes down against John's sac, his hand is huge, everywhere at once, unbearable. And then, of course, of fucking course, McKay tries to kiss him.
John tips his head back, evading as smoothly as he can. It ought to be enough. All McKay has to do is take the fucking hint--
"Seriously?" McKay asks. "Seriously?"
He really should've known that wasn't going to happen.
"Okay, whatever," McKay mutters, and he strips John's hand off himself, replacing it, squeezing and pulling so quickly that John curls helplessly forward, trying to cup his hand over and catch it all, too late, he's already shooting so fast and so hard it makes his gut feel a little hollow after, a little achy.
All he wants to do is clean up and go, but McKay's not backing off at all, pushing a bunch of travel-size tissues into his dripping hands. There's no room for John to stand.
"So," McKay says, "you don't kiss."
"Neither of us is gay," John answers, tucking himself back into his clothes and zipping up.
"Speak for yourself," McKay snaps. "Or actually, don't, because you know what, sucking a guy off and then refusing to kiss him? That's just about the gayest thing ever."
McKay's still kneeling too close, too much in his way. John can move him; hell, if he just stands up he'll bowl McKay right over. But this is already out of hand, he needs to settle it now, and with a minimum of fallout. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't get the wrong idea."
"What, because blowing someone is just sex, but kissing a guy is too meaningful? Ga-ay," he singsongs. "Whatever, Princess Vivian."
"Calling me a whore really helps your case, here," says John.
"Recognizing a Pretty Woman reference, wow, you really must be completely straight. I don't know how my dick in your mouth could've possibly made me think otherwise," McKay says snidely, rocking up to stand, finally.
John scrambles to his feet, but McKay's still too close to make an easy escape and still yammering away.
"Of course," McKay's continuing, "actual straight guys will let you kiss them all you want if it means they'll get an orgasm out of it. They're a lot more likely to balk at, oh, say, cock."
"What do you want, McKay," John says. He's tired, he regrets the frantic adrenaline-fueled impulse that drove him to follow McKay to his room after the mission and drop for him. He's tired.
All the sarcastic ire falls from Rodney's face all at once, and he looks tired too. Worn out and disappointed, the left side of his mouth drooping steeply.
"Nothing," he says, stepping out of John's way. "Get out of here."
Such a stupid mistake, risking years of friendship, the best working relationship of his career, for what? Two minutes of Rodney hot and alive in his mouth, two minutes of relief from the desperate panic that struck him during the mission at the sight of Rodney with a knife at his throat.
One well-timed shot from Ronon and the entire situation was defused, Rodney hadn't even been scratched. They've had closer calls.
He doesn't have any idea why he did this, doesn't know either why he won't kiss Rodney. Just because he never has before, in all the decades of keeping quiet, not telling-- that doesn't seem like much of a reason now, with the taste of Rodney still lingering in his mouth.
A stupid slip. There was just something about the look on Rodney's face, the terror and worse, the resignation... and the look on his face now, the defeat. And worse, the resignation.
John steps into his space and grabs his shoulder and kisses him artlessly, just his lips tagging Rodney's for a couple of seconds. Rodney's lips part, to breathe or to say something, and John presses in again, catching at his mouth this time.
By the time he pulls back and leans his head against Rodney's, they're both breathless and Rodney's mouth is even, as close to horizontal as it ever gets. John never wants to see it pull down like that again.
"Anything else I should know," John asks, "from your vast experience with straight guys..?"
"Ah, no," Rodney clears his throat. "I just... inferred. I've never actually fooled around with straight guys."
John swallows. "No," he agrees. "I guess you never have."