Good Timing
I wrote a kiss fic! A long one! God, first fic I've managed to post for months. Thank you, mcsmooch.
Rated NC-17, 2,386 words (I know!), no spoilers. It's the most insane thing John's ever heard, and he's lived in the Pegasus galaxy for three years.
It's the most insane thing John's ever heard, and he's lived in the Pegasus galaxy for three years.
"Fine, you don't believe me, your loss," Rodney says dismissively around a mouthful, waving a hand and shoving the last of the fries in his mouth. He's got a smear of ketchup on his chin, and John kind of wants to laugh outright, but it’s catching in his throat; Rodney had been so matter-of-fact about it, like it was something he did every day, as if it was, was fucking long division or something else he could do in his sleep, and John knew Rodney did guys, but not - and how the hell had they got onto the subject anyway? And now John's thinking about it. In the mess hall. Jesus, he fucking hates McKay.
"Yeah, not so much," John manages. Rodney shrugs, like he couldn't care less.
"I guess you'll just never know, will you, Colonel?"
John kicks the leg of the table and scowls into his sandwich, because now Rodney's too far across the mess hall for him to yell a retort without getting some very strange looks. Goddamnit, there’s no way he’s getting any work done today.
"Okay," he bites out at one in the morning, arms crossed outside Rodney's door. "Try me."
Rodney blinks, then his eyes widen and he squeaks, "Really?"
"I haven't got all day, McKay. Let’s see what you’ve got."
Rodney ushers him inside, hands fluttering everywhere, making John even more nauseous. He can't believe he's doing this. Jesus Christ. It was the low, hot certainty in Rodney's voice, the way his eyes didn't even flicker like they always do when he's not telling the absolute, entire truth, the way he stuck his chin up as his face started flushing and stared at John like he was daring him to contradict him. He's the worst liar John's ever met, but John believed him for a second, even though it was crazy, it was McKay.
In John’s fantasies (when he lets himself have them, which isn’t often, so he tries to take them slowly, but he usually comes before he even gets them naked), it’s been him who pushes Rodney up against the console, the wall of the jumper, pushes his legs apart and kisses the shocked sounds out of his mouth. John’s not an idiot, he’s kind of known their - okay, flirting, for want of a better word - was going to get somewhere eventually, but that was the way he’d always assumed it would happen, that one day John would just snap. He never expected McKay to be so... direct. It had made him feel a little weak and shivery, like looking at Rodney's competent hands move on controls and wires and guns pretty much always has, but he never knew that Rodney could do that intentionally. Switch it on and focus it like a beam. God.
Now, though, Rodney looks a lot less sure of himself, and it makes John conversely feel better about the whole situation. He slouches against the wall, and likes the way Rodney's eyes flicker down over John’s body and away as he swallows.
"Right," Rodney says, looking at the wall over John's shoulder, and making a vague gesture towards the bathroom, "I'm just going to, um, brush my teeth, then. Just, just stay there."
John wonders, for a second, if calling Rodney's bluff wasn't a good idea, because if it doesn’t work out now - he thinks they’d be good together, but you can’t tell, really - it's going to be really fucking embarrassing, and Rodney doesn't deal too well with embarrassment. John doesn't want this to be it, and they have to work together, anyway. He's doing a really good job of talking himself into just walking out of there, when Rodney strides out of the bathroom, undoing the strap of his wristwatch. This time it's his get-out-of-my-way-while-I-fix-this voice that he uses, and John's rooted to the spot.
"Okay," Rodney says, "Stand right there and put your hands in your pockets. Keep them there."
"What if I don't?" John says, going for a little aggression, trying to keep some sort of hold on the situation.
"That’s the way it works," Rodney says, like he’s an idiot. "Do you want to test it or not?"
He holds the watch up so John can see the timer set at zero, then he presses a button and the numbers start jumping up.
While John's still trying to think of something smart to say, Rodney steps into his space, catches one of John's hands and strokes a callused thumb over his palm, and with his other hand strokes firmly down John's bicep into the crook of his elbow. He leans forward, holding John like that, and brushes a soft, dry, close-mouthed kiss to John's lips that leaves his mouth tingling. Then Rodney's squeezing John’s hip and stroking up along his side, once over his t-shirt, then quickly slipping his hand under it to do the same, this time with a light scrape of nails over John's ribs. John shivers, tightens his hands into fists in his pockets, and croaks, "Jesus, McKay, you got a ten-step program?"
"Shh, no talking," Rodney snaps. "I told you I had a method."
John twitches as Rodney's lightly scraping fingernails find his nipple, but Rodney doesn't hang around; he spreads his other hand over the small of John's back, warm and strong, and tugs him in, while running his other hand through the hair on John's stomach under his t-shirt. Rodney hums, pleased or disapproving, John can't concentrate right now enough to tell, then catches him unawares with another soft, dry kiss. John licks his own lips as Rodney pulls away, but it doesn't help the tingling from Rodney's stubble, the way John's finding it increasingly hard to look away from his mouth, while Rodney's hands drive him crazy.
"One minute," Rodney says, matter-of-factly, and John gasps, "Jesus," as Rodney suddenly goes back to his nipples, both of them at once, and strokes over them too lightly, making him feel like his whole body's building up a static charge. Then Rodney's hands are out from under John's t-shirt and he's manhandling John, pushing him back a few paces, strong hands and long fingers tight on John's shoulders, and turning him to get him right where he wants him as John goes, helplessly. John looks for a reason they went from one part of the middle of Rodney's room to another, and he has no idea why Rodney wanted him here, but he feels turned-on and off-centre, which is maybe why he makes such an embarrassing noise when Rodney cups his head in both his hands, licks his own lips and kisses John so fucking gently again that John thinks he's going to die if he doesn't get Rodney's tongue in his mouth in the next thirty seconds. This time Rodney comes back for more, and John tries to lunge forward, tries to coax Rodney's mouth open against his, groans and licks Rodney’s lower lip and scrapes his teeth against it, but all he gets is the slow movement of Rodney's lips against his as Rodney keeps John at a distance with the press of fingers on his jaw and cheekbone.
Then Rodney's mouth is gone, and John takes a sharp breath as Rodney jerks him closer by the belt loops so they're pressed together, shoulders to thighs, and runs his hands more firmly over John's upper body. He drags his mouth up John's neck in a move that's less like kissing and more like just rubbing his face there, so that John's half crazy from the scratch of stubble and nothing else when Rodney suddenly licks a wet half-circle on his ear and blows into it.
"Fuck!"
John's whole spine turns to water and his legs feel wobbly; he feels like a piece of Ancient tech, he feels like he's being worked on, rewired until he does exactly what Rodney wants. He flicks a glance over at the watch. Two minutes. Oh, god. His fists are clenched so tightly in his pockets that the fabric of his pants is stretching taut across his groin, making his hard-on even more blatant, and he's having to fight the urge to buck forward, get some friction.
"Two minutes," Rodney murmurs in his ear, making him shiver again.
"Yeah." John really wishes he sounded less happy about it.
"Take your shirt off."
John so grateful to be able to get his sweating hands out of his damned pockets and ease up the press on his cock that he doesn't hesitate. When the t-shirt’s halfway over John's head, Rodney licks one nipple, and John gasps and nearly elbows him in the head. Rodney ducks without even looking.
Then he’s right there again, his shirt rubbing against John’s sensitised bare chest, and John just wants Rodney’s hands all over him, but Rodney won’t do it. John gets a stroke here, a scratch there, a hot, damp breath against his cheek, and he’s leaning into Rodney as much as he can without overbalancing, fists balled against his thighs in his pockets, going insane, trying to kiss any part of Rodney, just to fucking taste him a little and stop his mouth watering. Rodney’s tracing a line with his tongue around John’s ear again, though, and all John can reach is the side of Rodney’s head, so he kisses him there desperately, tries to bend his head a completely unnatural way to lick at Rodney’s neck, then gives up and just breathes and shivers into Rodney’s hair. His whole body’s thrumming.
“Three minutes,” Rodney mutters, then sticks his tongue right in John’s ear, and John’s vision actually blurs for a second. Rodney’s arms come up to hold him steady, and John presses against him blindly, tries to grab at Rodney’s hips while his hands are still in his pockets, but doesn’t even succeed at humping him like a teenager.
Rodney makes an urgent noise that makes John shudder with anticipation, but then Rodney just presses his closed lips against John’s again, kissing him, lush and soft and he’s still got all his fucking clothes on, he’s right there kissing John and John still doesn’t know what he tastes like. He wants skin, he wants everything, he’s starving for it, and if he doesn’t get it right now, he’s going to -
“Rodney!”
He sounds like he hasn’t drunk anything for a week, and he’s panting like a freight train. Jesus.
Rodney draws back, the beginnings of a smug grin spreading across his too damned fucking clever face. “Was there something you wanted?”
John lets his eyes fall shut in despair. Four minutes. In retrospect, he was an idiot to doubt him. “Yeah, you know there is, McKay, just - ”
Rodney’s voice is sharp and clipped, oh, god, it’s still his experiment voice, and it’s so hot. “Say it.”
John shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I want to blow you, okay?”
“Oh my god, I am just so good,” Rodney says, and John nearly breaks his wrist getting his hands out of his pockets to grab his face and kiss him. Rodney’s mouth opens up under his this time without hesitation and with three years’ worth of sneaked glances and fake-casual touches and want, until the day when Rodney looked at John in the mess hall across his burger and fries and told him, that he, Rodney, could make John beg to blow him in under five minutes.
John sucks on Rodney’s tongue and licks his mouth and scrapes his teeth along Rodney’s lower lip until he’s drunk with it, then drags him to the floor, because there’s nowhere better he can see right now and damned if he’s getting down on his knees. Rodney blinks up at him, mouth wet and eyes glazed. John grins. He likes this. He pitches his voice low, just to see Rodney’s eyelashes flutter. “Please may I suck your dick, Dr. McKay?”
“Nngh,” Rodney says, intelligently, as John starts unbuttoning his pants, fingers only shaking a little, throat still dry and aching with want, and John thinks maybe they’ll try his method, next time. As he sinks his mouth wetly over the head of Rodney’s cock, Rodney’s watch beeps from the dresser, and Rodney’s fingers finally flutter to rest on John’s hair, like the five minute mark means John really isn’t going to chicken out this time, leave the movie night early, let the transporter doors close in Rodney’s face, switch tents at the last minute. John leans down on his elbows and lets his lips slide down around Rodney, filling his mouth, then sucks hard, getting a hitching groan from Rodney. He can’t believe he let this get away from him so long, when five minutes was all it would take to get here. And all the reasons he thought hopping into bed with his best friend and colleague was a bad idea - the fact that they probably wouldn’t both be around in even a year’s time being pretty high on the list - seem to melt away when he thinks about that hypothetical year as containing fifty two thousand, four hundred and fifty two blocks of five minutes. Rodney sucks in a breath above him, and his fingers tighten in John’s hair. It feels like he’s close already, and that gives John a bad, cruel, brilliant idea that makes him grin around Rodney’s cock, and he shuffles up to tug off his own watch before sliding his mouth off Rodney, getting some quick tongue action in on the way up that makes Rodney whine and arch up.
“Hey, Rodney,” he says, and Rodney raises his head off the floor to look at him, flushed and breathing hard and still wearing his shirt with the top three buttons undone, and, god, John wants so many five minutes with him, and, actually, he realizes, with a hot, sweet feeling that’s not unlike a blow to the solar plexus, he doesn’t want to count them at all. He doesn’t want to watch them disappear.
“Oh, you’re killing me, what?”
John tosses his watch under the table and says, “never mind,” as Rodney’s hands in his hair tell him to take as long as he likes.
Rated NC-17, 2,386 words (I know!), no spoilers. It's the most insane thing John's ever heard, and he's lived in the Pegasus galaxy for three years.
It's the most insane thing John's ever heard, and he's lived in the Pegasus galaxy for three years.
"Fine, you don't believe me, your loss," Rodney says dismissively around a mouthful, waving a hand and shoving the last of the fries in his mouth. He's got a smear of ketchup on his chin, and John kind of wants to laugh outright, but it’s catching in his throat; Rodney had been so matter-of-fact about it, like it was something he did every day, as if it was, was fucking long division or something else he could do in his sleep, and John knew Rodney did guys, but not - and how the hell had they got onto the subject anyway? And now John's thinking about it. In the mess hall. Jesus, he fucking hates McKay.
"Yeah, not so much," John manages. Rodney shrugs, like he couldn't care less.
"I guess you'll just never know, will you, Colonel?"
John kicks the leg of the table and scowls into his sandwich, because now Rodney's too far across the mess hall for him to yell a retort without getting some very strange looks. Goddamnit, there’s no way he’s getting any work done today.
"Okay," he bites out at one in the morning, arms crossed outside Rodney's door. "Try me."
Rodney blinks, then his eyes widen and he squeaks, "Really?"
"I haven't got all day, McKay. Let’s see what you’ve got."
Rodney ushers him inside, hands fluttering everywhere, making John even more nauseous. He can't believe he's doing this. Jesus Christ. It was the low, hot certainty in Rodney's voice, the way his eyes didn't even flicker like they always do when he's not telling the absolute, entire truth, the way he stuck his chin up as his face started flushing and stared at John like he was daring him to contradict him. He's the worst liar John's ever met, but John believed him for a second, even though it was crazy, it was McKay.
In John’s fantasies (when he lets himself have them, which isn’t often, so he tries to take them slowly, but he usually comes before he even gets them naked), it’s been him who pushes Rodney up against the console, the wall of the jumper, pushes his legs apart and kisses the shocked sounds out of his mouth. John’s not an idiot, he’s kind of known their - okay, flirting, for want of a better word - was going to get somewhere eventually, but that was the way he’d always assumed it would happen, that one day John would just snap. He never expected McKay to be so... direct. It had made him feel a little weak and shivery, like looking at Rodney's competent hands move on controls and wires and guns pretty much always has, but he never knew that Rodney could do that intentionally. Switch it on and focus it like a beam. God.
Now, though, Rodney looks a lot less sure of himself, and it makes John conversely feel better about the whole situation. He slouches against the wall, and likes the way Rodney's eyes flicker down over John’s body and away as he swallows.
"Right," Rodney says, looking at the wall over John's shoulder, and making a vague gesture towards the bathroom, "I'm just going to, um, brush my teeth, then. Just, just stay there."
John wonders, for a second, if calling Rodney's bluff wasn't a good idea, because if it doesn’t work out now - he thinks they’d be good together, but you can’t tell, really - it's going to be really fucking embarrassing, and Rodney doesn't deal too well with embarrassment. John doesn't want this to be it, and they have to work together, anyway. He's doing a really good job of talking himself into just walking out of there, when Rodney strides out of the bathroom, undoing the strap of his wristwatch. This time it's his get-out-of-my-way-while-I-fix-this voice that he uses, and John's rooted to the spot.
"Okay," Rodney says, "Stand right there and put your hands in your pockets. Keep them there."
"What if I don't?" John says, going for a little aggression, trying to keep some sort of hold on the situation.
"That’s the way it works," Rodney says, like he’s an idiot. "Do you want to test it or not?"
He holds the watch up so John can see the timer set at zero, then he presses a button and the numbers start jumping up.
While John's still trying to think of something smart to say, Rodney steps into his space, catches one of John's hands and strokes a callused thumb over his palm, and with his other hand strokes firmly down John's bicep into the crook of his elbow. He leans forward, holding John like that, and brushes a soft, dry, close-mouthed kiss to John's lips that leaves his mouth tingling. Then Rodney's squeezing John’s hip and stroking up along his side, once over his t-shirt, then quickly slipping his hand under it to do the same, this time with a light scrape of nails over John's ribs. John shivers, tightens his hands into fists in his pockets, and croaks, "Jesus, McKay, you got a ten-step program?"
"Shh, no talking," Rodney snaps. "I told you I had a method."
John twitches as Rodney's lightly scraping fingernails find his nipple, but Rodney doesn't hang around; he spreads his other hand over the small of John's back, warm and strong, and tugs him in, while running his other hand through the hair on John's stomach under his t-shirt. Rodney hums, pleased or disapproving, John can't concentrate right now enough to tell, then catches him unawares with another soft, dry kiss. John licks his own lips as Rodney pulls away, but it doesn't help the tingling from Rodney's stubble, the way John's finding it increasingly hard to look away from his mouth, while Rodney's hands drive him crazy.
"One minute," Rodney says, matter-of-factly, and John gasps, "Jesus," as Rodney suddenly goes back to his nipples, both of them at once, and strokes over them too lightly, making him feel like his whole body's building up a static charge. Then Rodney's hands are out from under John's t-shirt and he's manhandling John, pushing him back a few paces, strong hands and long fingers tight on John's shoulders, and turning him to get him right where he wants him as John goes, helplessly. John looks for a reason they went from one part of the middle of Rodney's room to another, and he has no idea why Rodney wanted him here, but he feels turned-on and off-centre, which is maybe why he makes such an embarrassing noise when Rodney cups his head in both his hands, licks his own lips and kisses John so fucking gently again that John thinks he's going to die if he doesn't get Rodney's tongue in his mouth in the next thirty seconds. This time Rodney comes back for more, and John tries to lunge forward, tries to coax Rodney's mouth open against his, groans and licks Rodney’s lower lip and scrapes his teeth against it, but all he gets is the slow movement of Rodney's lips against his as Rodney keeps John at a distance with the press of fingers on his jaw and cheekbone.
Then Rodney's mouth is gone, and John takes a sharp breath as Rodney jerks him closer by the belt loops so they're pressed together, shoulders to thighs, and runs his hands more firmly over John's upper body. He drags his mouth up John's neck in a move that's less like kissing and more like just rubbing his face there, so that John's half crazy from the scratch of stubble and nothing else when Rodney suddenly licks a wet half-circle on his ear and blows into it.
"Fuck!"
John's whole spine turns to water and his legs feel wobbly; he feels like a piece of Ancient tech, he feels like he's being worked on, rewired until he does exactly what Rodney wants. He flicks a glance over at the watch. Two minutes. Oh, god. His fists are clenched so tightly in his pockets that the fabric of his pants is stretching taut across his groin, making his hard-on even more blatant, and he's having to fight the urge to buck forward, get some friction.
"Two minutes," Rodney murmurs in his ear, making him shiver again.
"Yeah." John really wishes he sounded less happy about it.
"Take your shirt off."
John so grateful to be able to get his sweating hands out of his damned pockets and ease up the press on his cock that he doesn't hesitate. When the t-shirt’s halfway over John's head, Rodney licks one nipple, and John gasps and nearly elbows him in the head. Rodney ducks without even looking.
Then he’s right there again, his shirt rubbing against John’s sensitised bare chest, and John just wants Rodney’s hands all over him, but Rodney won’t do it. John gets a stroke here, a scratch there, a hot, damp breath against his cheek, and he’s leaning into Rodney as much as he can without overbalancing, fists balled against his thighs in his pockets, going insane, trying to kiss any part of Rodney, just to fucking taste him a little and stop his mouth watering. Rodney’s tracing a line with his tongue around John’s ear again, though, and all John can reach is the side of Rodney’s head, so he kisses him there desperately, tries to bend his head a completely unnatural way to lick at Rodney’s neck, then gives up and just breathes and shivers into Rodney’s hair. His whole body’s thrumming.
“Three minutes,” Rodney mutters, then sticks his tongue right in John’s ear, and John’s vision actually blurs for a second. Rodney’s arms come up to hold him steady, and John presses against him blindly, tries to grab at Rodney’s hips while his hands are still in his pockets, but doesn’t even succeed at humping him like a teenager.
Rodney makes an urgent noise that makes John shudder with anticipation, but then Rodney just presses his closed lips against John’s again, kissing him, lush and soft and he’s still got all his fucking clothes on, he’s right there kissing John and John still doesn’t know what he tastes like. He wants skin, he wants everything, he’s starving for it, and if he doesn’t get it right now, he’s going to -
“Rodney!”
He sounds like he hasn’t drunk anything for a week, and he’s panting like a freight train. Jesus.
Rodney draws back, the beginnings of a smug grin spreading across his too damned fucking clever face. “Was there something you wanted?”
John lets his eyes fall shut in despair. Four minutes. In retrospect, he was an idiot to doubt him. “Yeah, you know there is, McKay, just - ”
Rodney’s voice is sharp and clipped, oh, god, it’s still his experiment voice, and it’s so hot. “Say it.”
John shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I want to blow you, okay?”
“Oh my god, I am just so good,” Rodney says, and John nearly breaks his wrist getting his hands out of his pockets to grab his face and kiss him. Rodney’s mouth opens up under his this time without hesitation and with three years’ worth of sneaked glances and fake-casual touches and want, until the day when Rodney looked at John in the mess hall across his burger and fries and told him, that he, Rodney, could make John beg to blow him in under five minutes.
John sucks on Rodney’s tongue and licks his mouth and scrapes his teeth along Rodney’s lower lip until he’s drunk with it, then drags him to the floor, because there’s nowhere better he can see right now and damned if he’s getting down on his knees. Rodney blinks up at him, mouth wet and eyes glazed. John grins. He likes this. He pitches his voice low, just to see Rodney’s eyelashes flutter. “Please may I suck your dick, Dr. McKay?”
“Nngh,” Rodney says, intelligently, as John starts unbuttoning his pants, fingers only shaking a little, throat still dry and aching with want, and John thinks maybe they’ll try his method, next time. As he sinks his mouth wetly over the head of Rodney’s cock, Rodney’s watch beeps from the dresser, and Rodney’s fingers finally flutter to rest on John’s hair, like the five minute mark means John really isn’t going to chicken out this time, leave the movie night early, let the transporter doors close in Rodney’s face, switch tents at the last minute. John leans down on his elbows and lets his lips slide down around Rodney, filling his mouth, then sucks hard, getting a hitching groan from Rodney. He can’t believe he let this get away from him so long, when five minutes was all it would take to get here. And all the reasons he thought hopping into bed with his best friend and colleague was a bad idea - the fact that they probably wouldn’t both be around in even a year’s time being pretty high on the list - seem to melt away when he thinks about that hypothetical year as containing fifty two thousand, four hundred and fifty two blocks of five minutes. Rodney sucks in a breath above him, and his fingers tighten in John’s hair. It feels like he’s close already, and that gives John a bad, cruel, brilliant idea that makes him grin around Rodney’s cock, and he shuffles up to tug off his own watch before sliding his mouth off Rodney, getting some quick tongue action in on the way up that makes Rodney whine and arch up.
“Hey, Rodney,” he says, and Rodney raises his head off the floor to look at him, flushed and breathing hard and still wearing his shirt with the top three buttons undone, and, god, John wants so many five minutes with him, and, actually, he realizes, with a hot, sweet feeling that’s not unlike a blow to the solar plexus, he doesn’t want to count them at all. He doesn’t want to watch them disappear.
“Oh, you’re killing me, what?”
John tosses his watch under the table and says, “never mind,” as Rodney’s hands in his hair tell him to take as long as he likes.