Fic: Canadian Hazing
Title: Canadian Hazing
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: McShep
Rating: R/NC-17, but really (really, I'm serious) light on the NC-17
Length: 1163
Disclaimer: Not mine, despite my wish to the contrary
Warning: Citizenship!crack, written for lilithilien cause she's almost there...
"There should be a law against this."
"Against what?"
"This..."
Rodney McKay finally looked up to see the frightfully stunning visual antics performed by the hands of John Sheppard, studious prettyboy extraordinaire. 'This' apparently referred to the stacks of books and paper on the console where they once had played The Game and now resembled more college dorm room desk on finals week. And speaking of the panic of finals week, Rodney found himself equally confused (since he never understood the panic. Why panic? Tests written by incompetent morons too pigeonholed in their own ideas to teach much less inspire yet the sycophants hung on their every word, they were beneath panicking. Those tests deserved mockery. They were biased towards the stupid. How was it 'higher education' if you weren't supposed to correct an error in a question and write a complete proof contradicting the professor's research? He should have received full credit and the rest failed, not the other way around. Bastards.). "There should be a law against books?"
"No, this. This ... test. This studying!" John's face planted squarely between Canada for Dummies and Canada: A People's History in defeat, drawing a forlorn sigh from Rodney as he reluctantly closed his game of Spider Solitaire. Four suits, of course. He averaged better than 86% wins, he was certain that was a record. And the interruption might have just put him slightly under that mark. He'd make up for it later, during one of Carson's lectures on safe sex practices when traveling offworld.
"This studying will mark you with a badge of honor all men, women and beavers would be proud to wear."
"Beavers?" John blindly grasped for his mug of coffee, which currently resided on Rodney's console, next to two empty cups of pudding and a Twinkie still in the wrapper, smuggled to Atlantis by some brave soul. Rodney felt a moment of remorse. Only a moment, before it was displaced by the caffeinated contentment of one amused by the loss of fortune for another. Coffee was a valuable commodity. John should have protected it.
"Beavers. National animal. Tell me you knew that."
John's eyes raised over their consoles, bloodshot and glaring. Rodney should have been afraid, he'd seen that glint directed at Ronon after particularly brutal training sessions. But fatigue and hair which had adopted more of a frightened cat, arched back and tail three times as large look was more cute than scary. "You stole my coffee."
Rodney almost felt bad. He got over it rather quickly. John stole the sheets all the time. "You're not focusing. This is not something floccinaucinihilipilificatious. This is citizenship, John."
"Flocci-what?"
"Floccinaucinihilipilificatious. Small or insignificant. Erudite joke by one marginally intelligent student with too much time on their hands. Not important. This..." Rodney gestured at the books, "this is citizenship. Who was the first Prime Minister?"
A finger was all Rodney saw. That wasn't very nice, considering all the effort Rodney had gone through to order the books from Amazon last time he had visited Earth. Rodney wasn't an idiot, however. Time for a shift in method.
After all, his husband deserved it.
"Who was the first Prime Minister?" Rodney repeated, standing from his chair and moving to the other side of the consoles where John still sat, sprawled in the chairs they snuck onto the last shipment from Earth. Comfortable, solid back support, leather, and most importantly, wheels. Chairs aren't chairs unless they had little rollers underneath to roll across the room to demonstrate emphasis on a point. Rodney didn't stop as he spun John around, roughly pushing the chair against the console. He knelt and palmed John's cock through his BDUs, squeezing a warning and promise, "who. Was. The. First. Prime. Minister?"
"John...Sir John Aaaayeee MacDonald." John's voice warbled something pretty as Rodney played with the waistband, deftly flicking open the fastenings. Rodney hadn't even really touched John yet, not for lack of trying as John moved his hips to find Rodney's palm with his dick. He had to give John (and himself) credit, sex was one thing that was never a problem in their relationship. No one ever had headaches, except for that one time Rodney was clubbed by a woman bent on dragging him off to her cave, literally, on M5R-233. He had a headache that night. Concussion. Forgot he was married to John for about 30 minutes and would have forgotten longer since he may have encouraged the girl but Carson's threat of voodoo and John's looming knuckle-cracking brought that memory right back. He had a legitimate headache that night. But that was the only time.
"Name the Great Lakes." Rodney pushed aside John's orange boxer briefs (a joke, apparently. Rodney felt anaphylactic shock coming on just looking at them) and fingered John's cock, twisting his thumb around the head just as John liked. "The lakes. Name them."
Rodney could feel the eyeroll despite being eye-level with John's navel. At first he thought John was going to resist, but eventually he rattled their names off like a good little husband. "HOMES. Huron. Ontario. Mi-ichigan. Erie. Ah, Superior, Superior, fuck, Rodney!"
Rodney smirked around the cock in his mouth, a superior fuck might be in the cards for later, but right now, he was rather enjoying himself blowing the indestructible Colonel within an inch of consciousness. He paused the McKay-patented bob-twist-suck-and-twirl that typically reduced John to a quivering mass to ask another question, "name the provinces and the territories."
Rodney waited with a lick, earning an impatient groan, but as he was the one delivering the blow job, he had all the time on his hands. John, on the other hand, was twisting his hands on the arms of the chair in that utterly endearing fashion with which he usually wrings the sheets as he's just about to come...Rodney figured it was some control freak thing, but at any rate, John couldn't come just yet, he hadn't answered the question.
"Alberta...British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick ah... Newfoundland and Labrador, N-nova Scotia, Ontario...Prince Edward-fuck...Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, NorthwestTerritoriesNunavetYukon!"
With a perfunctory swipe of his tongue, Rodney tucked John's cock back in his pants. He wasn't quite as smooth as he stood, but then his knees weren't 30 any more and that machine Carson keeps touting as the next best thing since Botox scared him, quite frankly. "Eh?" Rodney grinned as he applied the same dedication and husband-appreciation to John's lips as he did John's cock.
"Aboot time. So that's how Canadians study?"
"Call it Canadian hazing. You'll pass, it's easy. And then you'll be officially Canadian."
"I still don't like hockey."
"Nobody's perfect." But really, perfection was relative and this right here, the books and the paper and the studying and the almost-Canadian-flyboy looking properly debauched...well, that was perfect.
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: McShep
Rating: R/NC-17, but really (really, I'm serious) light on the NC-17
Length: 1163
Disclaimer: Not mine, despite my wish to the contrary
Warning: Citizenship!crack, written for lilithilien cause she's almost there...
"There should be a law against this."
"Against what?"
"This..."
Rodney McKay finally looked up to see the frightfully stunning visual antics performed by the hands of John Sheppard, studious prettyboy extraordinaire. 'This' apparently referred to the stacks of books and paper on the console where they once had played The Game and now resembled more college dorm room desk on finals week. And speaking of the panic of finals week, Rodney found himself equally confused (since he never understood the panic. Why panic? Tests written by incompetent morons too pigeonholed in their own ideas to teach much less inspire yet the sycophants hung on their every word, they were beneath panicking. Those tests deserved mockery. They were biased towards the stupid. How was it 'higher education' if you weren't supposed to correct an error in a question and write a complete proof contradicting the professor's research? He should have received full credit and the rest failed, not the other way around. Bastards.). "There should be a law against books?"
"No, this. This ... test. This studying!" John's face planted squarely between Canada for Dummies and Canada: A People's History in defeat, drawing a forlorn sigh from Rodney as he reluctantly closed his game of Spider Solitaire. Four suits, of course. He averaged better than 86% wins, he was certain that was a record. And the interruption might have just put him slightly under that mark. He'd make up for it later, during one of Carson's lectures on safe sex practices when traveling offworld.
"This studying will mark you with a badge of honor all men, women and beavers would be proud to wear."
"Beavers?" John blindly grasped for his mug of coffee, which currently resided on Rodney's console, next to two empty cups of pudding and a Twinkie still in the wrapper, smuggled to Atlantis by some brave soul. Rodney felt a moment of remorse. Only a moment, before it was displaced by the caffeinated contentment of one amused by the loss of fortune for another. Coffee was a valuable commodity. John should have protected it.
"Beavers. National animal. Tell me you knew that."
John's eyes raised over their consoles, bloodshot and glaring. Rodney should have been afraid, he'd seen that glint directed at Ronon after particularly brutal training sessions. But fatigue and hair which had adopted more of a frightened cat, arched back and tail three times as large look was more cute than scary. "You stole my coffee."
Rodney almost felt bad. He got over it rather quickly. John stole the sheets all the time. "You're not focusing. This is not something floccinaucinihilipilificatious. This is citizenship, John."
"Flocci-what?"
"Floccinaucinihilipilificatious. Small or insignificant. Erudite joke by one marginally intelligent student with too much time on their hands. Not important. This..." Rodney gestured at the books, "this is citizenship. Who was the first Prime Minister?"
A finger was all Rodney saw. That wasn't very nice, considering all the effort Rodney had gone through to order the books from Amazon last time he had visited Earth. Rodney wasn't an idiot, however. Time for a shift in method.
After all, his husband deserved it.
"Who was the first Prime Minister?" Rodney repeated, standing from his chair and moving to the other side of the consoles where John still sat, sprawled in the chairs they snuck onto the last shipment from Earth. Comfortable, solid back support, leather, and most importantly, wheels. Chairs aren't chairs unless they had little rollers underneath to roll across the room to demonstrate emphasis on a point. Rodney didn't stop as he spun John around, roughly pushing the chair against the console. He knelt and palmed John's cock through his BDUs, squeezing a warning and promise, "who. Was. The. First. Prime. Minister?"
"John...Sir John Aaaayeee MacDonald." John's voice warbled something pretty as Rodney played with the waistband, deftly flicking open the fastenings. Rodney hadn't even really touched John yet, not for lack of trying as John moved his hips to find Rodney's palm with his dick. He had to give John (and himself) credit, sex was one thing that was never a problem in their relationship. No one ever had headaches, except for that one time Rodney was clubbed by a woman bent on dragging him off to her cave, literally, on M5R-233. He had a headache that night. Concussion. Forgot he was married to John for about 30 minutes and would have forgotten longer since he may have encouraged the girl but Carson's threat of voodoo and John's looming knuckle-cracking brought that memory right back. He had a legitimate headache that night. But that was the only time.
"Name the Great Lakes." Rodney pushed aside John's orange boxer briefs (a joke, apparently. Rodney felt anaphylactic shock coming on just looking at them) and fingered John's cock, twisting his thumb around the head just as John liked. "The lakes. Name them."
Rodney could feel the eyeroll despite being eye-level with John's navel. At first he thought John was going to resist, but eventually he rattled their names off like a good little husband. "HOMES. Huron. Ontario. Mi-ichigan. Erie. Ah, Superior, Superior, fuck, Rodney!"
Rodney smirked around the cock in his mouth, a superior fuck might be in the cards for later, but right now, he was rather enjoying himself blowing the indestructible Colonel within an inch of consciousness. He paused the McKay-patented bob-twist-suck-and-twirl that typically reduced John to a quivering mass to ask another question, "name the provinces and the territories."
Rodney waited with a lick, earning an impatient groan, but as he was the one delivering the blow job, he had all the time on his hands. John, on the other hand, was twisting his hands on the arms of the chair in that utterly endearing fashion with which he usually wrings the sheets as he's just about to come...Rodney figured it was some control freak thing, but at any rate, John couldn't come just yet, he hadn't answered the question.
"Alberta...British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick ah... Newfoundland and Labrador, N-nova Scotia, Ontario...Prince Edward-fuck...Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, NorthwestTerritoriesNunavetYukon!"
With a perfunctory swipe of his tongue, Rodney tucked John's cock back in his pants. He wasn't quite as smooth as he stood, but then his knees weren't 30 any more and that machine Carson keeps touting as the next best thing since Botox scared him, quite frankly. "Eh?" Rodney grinned as he applied the same dedication and husband-appreciation to John's lips as he did John's cock.
"Aboot time. So that's how Canadians study?"
"Call it Canadian hazing. You'll pass, it's easy. And then you'll be officially Canadian."
"I still don't like hockey."
"Nobody's perfect." But really, perfection was relative and this right here, the books and the paper and the studying and the almost-Canadian-flyboy looking properly debauched...well, that was perfect.