I'm not! I'm getting mine from Amazon at whatever time the poor woobie UPS guys manage to make it to my house :D Awww. I love my UPS guys. Maybe I should bake them cookies.
I am passing my time writing more Iowa. And reading my second of five books about smokejumpers :>
"A supergenius," Rodney says, relieved to be talking about his intelligence. It's familiar ground, and safe, even though he can see the teasing behind those ridiculous aviators.
"Oh, super," John says. Rodney can't quite tell whether he's impressed or not. He notices the patch that reads "SHEPPARD" on John's brown shirt. He's not quite sure why he wants the delivery guy to be impressed.
"Yes. Super. Super - super - I . . . okay, I have to go now. I have very important books to read and you are quite largely unclothed and bad for my brain. In a good way. I mean - something. Yes. Nice to meet you and - " Rodney shuts the door and rushes to his computer, orders four books by next-day delivery.
Later on, after he manages to rid himself of John Sheppard and his crazy dark hair and sunglasses and his stupid brown shorts, he thinks about canceling his order.
He sends the cursor skittering around the screen, hovering over the CANCEL ORDER button, tells himself he really doesn't need these books (because they're utter crap) and it's not like he's obsessed or anything, but then again he kind of does need these books (because they're utter crap and their authors need to know it) and, well...
"Oh my God," Rodney says to his faint reflection in the monitor. "Oh, my God."
He has a crush. He has a big, ridiculous, hairy crush on the delivery guy - John. John the barely-clothed UPS man of doom. John the leg-flashing book handler of lewdness. John the scorching-hot, aviator-sunglass-wearing strumpet.
The problem with his crushes, Rodney knows, is that they tend, very rapidly, to develop into what most people would call "disturbing obsession."
And John, in whose mouth package becomes something other than three-day ground from the University of Chicago Press, has just set the new speed record.
The problem with being a genius (a supergenius) is that Rodney remembers things really well. Things like John's mouth, moist like he'd licked it when sweat beaded on his upper lip. Also things like John's tongue, which Rodney really hadn't seen but can imagine very clearly, licking salt water away.
And John's stubble, which would be rough against Rodney's thighs, and John's breath, which would be warm.
Rodney swallows and gathers his dignity around him - he is not going to jack off, again, alone, thinking of John the Beyond The Telling Of It Hot Delivery Guy. He's going to get a good night's rest - after drinking two, three beers - and tomorrow this will all be a bad dream.
At least it will be a bad dream until John shows up wearing that grin and his... his tarty brown shorts, carrying his electronic clipboard and Rodney's absolutely very necessary books.
Maybe, he thinks, he should switch to hard liquor. Vodka-induced amnesia would almost be worth the hangover. But the problem with that is that vodka makes him stupid and horny (which he already is, but this is completely beside the point), and so it'll be a horrible vicious circle of drinking and imagining John's moise mouth wrapped around his cock and jerking off and drinking and imagining and jerking off until it finally stops at unconsciousness.
Bad unconsciousness. The kind he experienced on that exchange trip to Siberia in '92 when he woke up without his shirt and 'I love Ivan' written across his nipples in lipstick.
He shivers. Maybe if he just stays awake all night and watches - something. On TV. He has 1286184 channels of cable and -
"Ignoring. Ignoring!" Rodney stomps into the living room and is about to graft himself onto the couch when he realizes it's quite possible that, in his John-induced fugue state, he'd ordered pizza or flowers or something and had forgotten about it. He's done weirder things under far less influence.
Hoping he's at least ordered something palatable and not involving citrus, Rodney pulls open his door.
"Oh," he says, because there's not really anything else to say.
"It's a bit unconventional," John says, hitching one shoulder in something Rodney supposes is nonchalence. "But you looked like a guy who could use a beer." He lifts the six pack in his hand.
John's decently covered up now, in indecent dark jeans that hang off his ass and a shirt that hints delicately at the long torso underneath it. It's weird, seeing him holding a pack of--Rodney squints.
"Nah," John says. "Local microbrew-it's got raspberries in it." He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Rodney can feel his face scrunch up.
"I think that's actually worse. And also, really surprisingly girly."
John looks like he's possibly slightly irritated now, or maybe he's just worn out from a long day of delivering things to people, but he sounds exceedingly bland when he says, "Well, Rodney, I can take my girly beer and go home if that's the way you - "
"No! No, I mean, I have a couch. It's a really nice couch."
I am passing my time writing more Iowa. And reading my second of five books about smokejumpers :>
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"A supergenius," Rodney says, relieved to be talking about his intelligence. It's familiar ground, and safe, even though he can see the teasing behind those ridiculous aviators.
Reply
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Later on, after he manages to rid himself of John Sheppard and his crazy dark hair and sunglasses and his stupid brown shorts, he thinks about canceling his order.
He sends the cursor skittering around the screen, hovering over the CANCEL ORDER button, tells himself he really doesn't need these books (because they're utter crap) and it's not like he's obsessed or anything, but then again he kind of does need these books (because they're utter crap and their authors need to know it) and, well...
"Oh my God," Rodney says to his faint reflection in the monitor. "Oh, my God."
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And John, in whose mouth package becomes something other than three-day ground from the University of Chicago Press, has just set the new speed record.
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And John's stubble, which would be rough against Rodney's thighs, and John's breath, which would be warm.
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Maybe, he thinks, he should switch to hard liquor. Vodka-induced amnesia would almost be worth the hangover. But the problem with that is that vodka makes him stupid and horny (which he already is, but this is completely beside the point), and so it'll be a horrible vicious circle of drinking and imagining John's moise mouth wrapped around his cock and jerking off and drinking and imagining and jerking off until it finally stops at unconsciousness.
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He shivers. Maybe if he just stays awake all night and watches - something. On TV. He has 1286184 channels of cable and -
Why is the doorbell ringing at this hour?
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Hoping he's at least ordered something palatable and not involving citrus, Rodney pulls open his door.
"Oh," he says, because there's not really anything else to say.
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John's decently covered up now, in indecent dark jeans that hang off his ass and a shirt that hints delicately at the long torso underneath it. It's weird, seeing him holding a pack of--Rodney squints.
"Please tell me that isn't Budweiser. Please."
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"I think that's actually worse. And also, really surprisingly girly."
John looks like he's possibly slightly irritated now, or maybe he's just worn out from a long day of delivering things to people, but he sounds exceedingly bland when he says, "Well, Rodney, I can take my girly beer and go home if that's the way you - "
"No! No, I mean, I have a couch. It's a really nice couch."
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