Fic: Good Stuff (McKay/Sheppard, PG)
Title: Good Stuff
Author: dogeared
Recipient: sheafrotherdon
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG
Summary: "Jeannie send the good stuff?"
"Mmmmmmmmmm," Rodney says--moans, really, kind of low and breathy--when John comes looking for him in his room.
He takes in Rodney's haphazard sprawl across the bed, the satisfied curve of his palm over his belly . . . the open tin nestled in the sheets. "Jeannie send the good stuff?"
"Sooooo many cookies," Rodney agrees, patting his stomach like he's particularly proud of it.
John reaches over Rodney's shoulder for one of the puffy meringues with the chocolate chips inside and the blue and green sprinkles on top, but freezes when Rodney yelps, "No, not that one! 'm saving it for later, after, you know," he waves his hand around vaguely before settling it on his belly again, "digesting."
"Oh yeah?" John says.
"You can have a scotch bar--but just one," Rodney offers magnanimously, and John leans in the rest of the way to kiss the smug cookie-hoarding smirk right off of his face. He tastes the powdered sugar dusting the edge of Rodney's lip--Russian teacake--and Rodney's mouth is hot and sweet and spicy, ginger and chocolate and the cinnamon tang of red hots. Rodney kisses him back so wet and molasses-slow that John feels zingy and lightheaded at the same time. It's the best sugar rush, and he has to get closer, has to stretch out and press their bellies together and pant against Rodney's throat while Rodney hums contentedly, the smell of sugar heavy and sticky all around them.
And if there are crumbs in the bed later, well, it's hardly his fault at all.
Author: dogeared
Recipient: sheafrotherdon
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: PG
Summary: "Jeannie send the good stuff?"
"Mmmmmmmmmm," Rodney says--moans, really, kind of low and breathy--when John comes looking for him in his room.
He takes in Rodney's haphazard sprawl across the bed, the satisfied curve of his palm over his belly . . . the open tin nestled in the sheets. "Jeannie send the good stuff?"
"Sooooo many cookies," Rodney agrees, patting his stomach like he's particularly proud of it.
John reaches over Rodney's shoulder for one of the puffy meringues with the chocolate chips inside and the blue and green sprinkles on top, but freezes when Rodney yelps, "No, not that one! 'm saving it for later, after, you know," he waves his hand around vaguely before settling it on his belly again, "digesting."
"Oh yeah?" John says.
"You can have a scotch bar--but just one," Rodney offers magnanimously, and John leans in the rest of the way to kiss the smug cookie-hoarding smirk right off of his face. He tastes the powdered sugar dusting the edge of Rodney's lip--Russian teacake--and Rodney's mouth is hot and sweet and spicy, ginger and chocolate and the cinnamon tang of red hots. Rodney kisses him back so wet and molasses-slow that John feels zingy and lightheaded at the same time. It's the best sugar rush, and he has to get closer, has to stretch out and press their bellies together and pant against Rodney's throat while Rodney hums contentedly, the smell of sugar heavy and sticky all around them.
And if there are crumbs in the bed later, well, it's hardly his fault at all.