sgasesa_admin (sgasesa_admin) wrote in sga_santa,

Fic: non sequitur

Title: non sequitur

Author: vegetariansushi

Pairing: McKay/Sheppard

Rating: NC-17, kink

Warnings: While this can stand on its own, it is also a tag, of sorts, to episode 3x13, Echoes. There are two large but fairly general spoilers for that episode in this fic, and if you avoid spoilers at all costs, you should skip reading this until you've seen the episode.

To: whetherwoman


John is halfway across the room before he realises that Rodney isn't following him in from the balcony.

This presents a dilemma. On one hand, going back is subjecting himself to a lecture on the immaturity of smacking people as a sign of affection, and also more creepy discussion of Sam-the-whale. On the other hand, they just saved the city (okay, saved the city again), and this time, it was all John. He can't help feeling a little bit smug about it, and it seems unfair that he's going to have to drink the traditional celebratory beer himself.

Creepy whale infatuation versus rubbing in that it was his idea -- not Rodney's -- that saved the day.

Creepy whale infatuation; rubbing it in.

Creepy whale infa-- He stops thinking. What's a little creepy whale infatuation when there's beer-drinking of not-deadness to be done?

When he goes back out he finds Rodney still pushed up against the railing, staring out over the water.

"So," John says, "are you coming?"

"What?" Rodney sounds distracted. An hour-and-change of standing on the balcony mooning at whales will do that to a guy.

"Has the view changed much in the hour and a half you've been standing out here?"

Rodney shrugs. "I think Sam's leaving," he says.

"Well, then, I guess that settles it. No more creepy whales to watch, you may as well come have some beer."

"What? No, I'm busy, obviously, I'm -- I'm watching things! Making sure that the whales are gone, that sort of thing. You can go drink alone, you alcoholic."

It's not often that John is issued such an obvious challenge, so he settles in, leaning against the railing and trying to figure out what Rodney's looking at. "Nah. I'll just stay here, then. I don't have anything pressing to do."

The lack of reply doesn't much bother him, because there are two things John Sheppard knows for certain: one, silences are never, ever uncomfortable for him; two, silences are always, always uncomfortable for McKay. He gives it three minutes before Rodney's desperate for something to talk about, and John will be quite happy to provide a topic: his brilliant (if somewhat ZPM-depleting) plan that oh, right: saved the city.

Surprisingly, it's a good fifteen minutes before Rodney cracks.

"Have fun watching the water. I'm heading back to the labs."

Something is clearly wrong. That's not even a little bit the way John pictured this going, and for Rodney to go this long without saying anything is just flat-out weird.

"Hey, what is it?" he asks. "The whale thing wasn't that creepy, I guess."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "There's nothing wrong! The whales are gone, the city is more or less back to normal, the day is saved -- just another day in the Pegasus Galaxy, right? Time to get back to work."

John can't say that he's not a little disappointed at this turn of events: the rule is that whomever had the better plan gets to pick the movie, and he'd just got a copy of The Terminator ("Oh, of course you'd like that! Rod said that was one of his favourite movies and really, it's embarrassing to think that I like that blight of a film in any dimension,") and making Rodney sit through it had sounded like good times. Still, if Rodney's not going to be needled into righteous indignation, it doesn't seem worth it.

"Whatever," John says, deciding to cut his losses. "Have fun." He heads off, smacking Rodney's hip on the way past.

Before he makes it through the door, there's a noise from the water, and he turns just in time to see Rodney shuddering and an enormous jet of water shooting up into the air.

He dashes back onto the balcony in time to catch the shower from Sam's tail smack.

"Aw, Rodney." John grins. "You can't go to the labs all wet. Guess you'll have to come with me after all."

Rodney turns, startled, when John starts talking, but quickly turns back to face the ocean. Even so, John has seen enough to know that being wet isn't Rodney's only problem.

"So," John says. "More than just a creepy infatuation with the whales?"

Silence. John tries again. "I mean, I guess that Sam was kinda cute..."

Rodney shakes his head, a rush of blood staining his cheeks. "It's not about the whales, okay? Just -- don't get weird, and, you know, stop smacking me every time you want to get my attention."

Something rolls over in John's stomach, a slow twisting in his gut.

"What'd you say?" He shoots for casual, but he can already tell that he's missed by a mile.

Rodney looks disgusted. "You heard me. Look, as delightful as this new and embarrassing development is, some of us have actual work to do."

There's a split second to make a decision, and John doesn't hesitate, stepping between Rodney and the door, effectively cutting him off. "It's almost eight at night, Rodney. I'm pretty sure that the labs can manage without you until morning."

Rodney opens his mouth and looks for all the world like he's ready to lay into John, but then he deflates, shoulders slumping.

John steels himself for rejection, feeling like ten kinds of idiot, because coming in cold on something like this is never a good plan, and god, he should have known better; he's already got half of an escape formulated ("Come on, the Terminator waits for no man, and it's your beer supply tonight") so it takes a moment to understand what Rodney has just said:

"Okay, get it over with."

"What?" John says, shocked. Sure, he's not one to turn down the occasional high-risk venture, but sex on a public balcony with another guy is pushing it, even for him.

"Just… not my head," Rodney says, "Don't hurt my head."

John blinks a bit at the non sequitur, taking in the way Rodney is refusing to meet his eyes. Understanding hits like a body blow. "Fuck!" he says. "Jesus, Rodney. That was an offer, not a threat. What the fuck do you think I am?"

Rodney's head snaps up, and he stares at John, wild-eyed and a little feral. "You--"

"Sex!" John stresses, trying to keep his fists from clenching. "Although if you don't stop acting like a moron, I'm not averse to smacking some sense into you."

Rodney's hard-on visibly jerks in his pants.

So. Not so much a creepy whale infatuation thing. John lets out the breath he's been holding. "Not here." He takes a step backwards and lifts a shoulder. Coming?

There's a long beat, in which Rodney just looks at him, and then he nods and falls in at John's side.

They walk to John's room in silence, and for the first time ever, John doesn't feel like Rodney's about to explode from the lack of noise. At the door, he pauses for a moment and glances down the hallway.

"You sure about this?"

Rodney doesn't bother answering, just walks inside. John's whole body goes tight, like he's pulling too many Gs, but following Rodney into the room is like following the laws of gravity.

As soon as the doors close, he smacks Rodney's ass, hard, and Rodney's clothes are still wet enough that he can see all Rodney's muscles tense -- as well as his cock jerking at the impact. John is overwhelmed with the implications. "Bend over, Rodney," he says.

"What, here? Over what?"

John's desk is a mess: mission reports, requisition forms, memos, and they flutter up in a hurricane of paper as John shoves them all aside. He hopes his meaning is apparent, because he barely got out the command to bend over, and he's not sure he can be more specific.

Rodney gets it.

With a grace John didn't expect, Rodney slides onto the desk, his arms folded under his head, his feet planted a shoulder's width apart, his ass clad in wet poly/cotton blend and presented to John.

For a breathless moment, John doesn't do anything. He watches; walks the half-circle of the room and looks at Rodney from every angle he can. It doesn't take long for Rodney to squirm, and John realises that Rodney knows exactly what's coming; this is only new to one of them.

When he strikes at last, the flat of his hand meeting the back pockets of Rodney's trousers makes a sound like sex: hot, can't-stop, do-it-to-me-now sex.

Rodney exhales heavily, not quite a moan; John smacks him again.

And again.


Rodney's actively squirming, pushing himself against the table, clearly looking for friction, any friction, and John pulls away.

"Stop it," he says, and waits, counting to five in his head: one Mississippi , two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi . And then: "Take your pants off."

He's not even totally sure that it'll happen, but Rodney barely hesitates. He doesn't even stand all the way up, just unfolds one of his arms and undoes the button of his trousers, then shoves them down so that they puddle around his calves.

Rodney is wearing blue and white striped boxers, and John peels them off, putting Rodney's ass on display. It's flushed from where John has already hit it. Rodney hasn't quite managed to stop squirming yet, and that's just too much to resist, so John swings again.

It's a flurry of short hits, maybe a dozen, and Rodney is gasping when John stops, pushing his cock against the table and his ass back against the air. His relentless rocking is almost hypnotic, and John never thought that touching someone like this would be arousing or even interesting, but he realises now that it was simply a failure of imagination on his part. It's all that he can think about: the deep pink flush of Rodney's ass, the way his palm stings every time it connects with pale, firm flesh, the way his hand tingles when he stops.

He doesn't even realise that he's been standing still until Rodney starts talking, almost begging. "Sheppard, oh god, please, don't -- John, please --"

John places a soothing hand on Rodney's back. "Shhh," he says, letting both of them breathe, anticipate. He waits until Rodney's making a keening noise in the back of his throat before letting go and swinging again, harder now, more assured.

"Oh, god," Rodney whimpers, hips hitching with each blow. "Yes."

John can watch his body tightening, the muscles tensing. Rodney's clinging to the edge of the desk with one hand, now, and his ass is scarlet. This time, as his blow lands, he reaches around to grab the base of Rodney's cock. "Don't come yet," he orders, and Rodney shudders, but nods.

The tingling in John's hand has started again, so he pulls off his belt and folds it in two, tucking the metal buckle and tip into his fist. "Hold on," he warns, and swings the leather loop against Rodney's ass.

He can tell immediately that Rodney hadn't been expecting that, because Rodney finally breaks into sobs--reckless and violent and full of pleasure.

John never would've picked this -- any of this -- as something that would be a turn-on, but his cock is hard and aching. He drops to his knees behind Rodney, so that Rodney's ass is right there at mouth level, inviting him in.

"Stay still," he says, and swings the loop of leather gently against the crack of Rodney's ass, against the soft stretch of Rodney's perineum. He flicks it gently against Rodney's balls, against Rodney's thick, flushed cock. Without stopping to think, John sets his teeth at the junction of ass and thigh, and bites down hard.

Rodney yowls and babbles, his cock twitching, and John repeats the action on the other thigh, the slight give of the muscle making him want to bite harder; hard enough to break the skin.

"Oh, god, John, this --"

Figuring, what the hell, John drops the belt and opens Rodney up, bending his head to lick at Rodney's hole. At first Rodney goes still, and the only movement is the small muscles beneath John's hands jumping with every touch of his tongue. Then Rodney starts to swear: cursing John, his parents, the military. John just pushes in harder, licking at the thick taste of sweat and dirt, trying to get as far inside Rodney as he can while Rodney twists and bucks beneath him.

Rodney is frantic, rocking against John, against the table, making loud, unselfconscious noises, moaning and still cursing in a low, desperate voice that goes straight to John's cock.

Sucking two of his fingers into his own mouth, John pulls back, enough that he can push them against Rodney's hole, his tongue licking at the entrance; he thinks that maybe he should stop, should ask if this is okay, if this is what Rodney wants, but Rodney groans and shoves himself back against John's fingers, and they're so slick with spit it barely takes anything to get them in. John can't stop staring at the point where his fingers disappear into Rodney's body; he feels light headed, dizzy.

He wiggles his fingers, trying to get used to the sensation, and he skims what has to be Rodney's prostate, because Rodney's hips stutter against John's hand and his voice breaks in the middle of a stream of words that don't make sense.

John undoes the button on his trousers with his free hand and stands, pulling his fingers out of Rodney. There's a lapse, time enough for Rodney to start to whine but not to say more than, "John, plea --" and then John has himself aligned and says "Push back, Rodney."

Rodney does, god, pushing himself back onto John's cock, letting John's cock into his body and rocking himself back and forth on it.

John is still wearing his shirt, still has his trousers and boxers pooled around his knees, and this is the dirtiest sex he's ever had; but he's so close to coming that he doesn't care how fucked up this might seem later.

"John," Rodney is saying, "John, god, touch me, please."

He leans over, pushing up Rodney's shirt and pressing his lips to the smooth skin of his back; he wraps his hand around Rodney's cock, stroking Rodney in the same rhythm that Rodney's fucking himself on John's cock. He barely has time to find the right grip before Rodney shudders and gasps and John's hand is warm and sticky with fluid.

John pulls out and smears the fluid on his cock, then shoves back in, roughly, knocking the desk against the wall. Rodney is still rocking back against him, and John smacks Rodney's ass, making Rodney gasp every time John does it. John pushes in again and freezes, holding himself still as he comes, as his world narrows to the pressure around his cock and the sensation of falling, falling, freefall.

Afterwards, there's a silence, and John wishes that he'd thought to take off his shirt, just so that he could put it back on and have something to do. He settles for studiously avoiding Rodney's eyes and crouching to pick up the detritus from his desk.

"Oh, what," says Rodney, as he pulls up his pants. "You were fine when your tongue was up my ass, and now you're going to freak out?"

John puts down the pile of papers that he's collected and stands up.

"I thought -- you know, you might need to go." He knows he sounds like an awkward teenager, but he has no idea how he'll deal if Rodney gets weird about this.

Rodney, however, looks dumbstruck. "We've been on Atlantis for three years," he says, "and do you know how many times I've had sex?" John doesn't get time to shake his head before Rodney charges on anyhow. "Twice. Twice! And once was when we were on Earth so doesn't really even count anyway. Why would I need to go? Oh, unless you're -- um, unless you're telling me to go, in which case we can pretend like this never happened and --"

Shaking his head, John cuts Rodney off. "No," he says. "Stay."

Later, lying on John's bed and watching The Terminator (because John's idea was what saved the day, after all,) Rodney turns to John.

"You know," he says, "this is a much better saves-the-day celebration. We should consider keeping it."

John smiles. "Yeah," he says. "But next time, let's try and do it without the whale snot."
Tags: genre: slash, pairing: mckay/sheppard

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