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FIC: Imperfections (NC-17)
Title: Imperfections
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~1,000 words
Notes: Comment ficlet (mostly porn) written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chopchica.
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~1,000 words
Notes: Comment ficlet (mostly porn) written for
chopchica. As much as Rodney likes to blather on about ZedPMs and idiots and certain death during the day, he's tight-lipped about what he expects when John's got him in bed at night. There, he's so quiet the rustle of the sheets against their naked skin seems loud by comparison; it's not that he's cold or distant - he's in every movement, blown-wide eyes following John's fingers intensely as they slide down and down and down - there's just this edge to him, this sense of whatever you want that makes John falter, uncertain.
He doesn't know how to get what he wants, because Rodney's only ever on his back, those solid shoulders rounded against the bed in submission. He can't say, "I want you to fuck me," because the words catch in his throat; he can't say, "I want you to hold me down," because that's not it exactly, and Rodney wouldn't understand the difference.
And so it goes for a while - strangely stilted, chaste sex that's only satisfying when John's too tired to want more. Still, he stays.
Rodney curls around him afterwards, warm and heavy, his head pillowed on John's collar bone like he has every right to use John's body however he pleases, and John wants to shout, "This, it's this!" He never does. His tongue is too heavy and big in his mouth, clumsy.
Then John falls off a cliff.
It's an accident, and he's no closer to actual peril than he normally would be on any given Wednesday, but there's a greater gap between 'presumed dead' and 'miraculously alive' than Atlantis is used to. When he steps into the gate room, ragged, dirty, and smelling like a barn, Rodney is so furious with him he actually backs John up against a wall, those big hands of his splaying out on either side of John's head to keep him there.
John's panting and shamefully hard before Rodney even opens his mouth to speak, and their bodies are so close together there's no way Rodney can't feel what's happening beneath his thin pants. He gets one glorious, beautiful moment of Rodney's wide eyes, the spark of wild blue that means his big brain is firing rapidly, coming to conclusions - and then Teyla is gently pushing them apart and guiding John past the startled marines and towards an equally startled Doctor Keller.
John steals a backward glance and catches Rodney – still standing exactly where they’d left him – staring back.
He doesn’t see Rodney that night: Keller keeps him in the medical wing despite his many grumpy protests, forcing liquids and pain pills on him in equal measure. The next night, however, Rodney waylays him just outside the mess hall as he’s heading in for a (doctor prescribed!) midnight snack. The corridors flash by, and then suddenly they’re in Rodney’s room and Rodney has him backed up against the computer chair, and it feels awkward at first – like new, fledgling – but when Rodney presses and presses until John’s forced to bend, gripping the edge of the desk behind him, it’s so good John thinks he might come in his pants.
“Up,” Rodney growls.
John shudders at the sound of his voice and scrambles to obey, pulling himself up onto the desk so Rodney can slip into the space between his legs, press their hips together hard enough John feels the harsh scrape of cotton and denim over his cockhead.
Rodney doesn’t let up, pushes him back and back and down until John’s shoulder blades are aching with the pressure and his spine is arched to maintain the angle he needs to bite and suck at Rodney’s lower lip.
It hurts a little, and John loves it – loves how real it is, how he can feel every skipping, imperfect beat of Rodney’s pulse against the pads of his fingers, how Rodney hasn’t even undone their pants, too frantic for John’s mouth and neck and the delicate shell of his ear.
Their shirts are rucked up under their armpits, chests rubbing together with every clumsy, hasty thrust of their hips. It only registers in John’s mind as important because Rodney whines loud and shaking when he shifts to the right and John’s dog tags catch between them. John reaches up and hauls Rodney down by the back of his neck, and their teeth crash together with a bone-jarring sound, but they keep on kissing and kissing until John’s swallowing Rodney’s wild, hurt sounds – sounds he’s dreamt about coaxing from that mouth for weeks and months and ages – and Rodney’s hips are stuttering through his orgasm.
“Please,” John mumbles, voice slurred and desperate because he can feel it waiting just at the base of his spine, so ready, and Rodney isn’t moving.
He doesn’t wait long, because a minute later the heel of Rodney’s palm is pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his pants, the round ball at the base of Rodney’s thumb below the head right where he needs it, and he’s coming with his head thrown back and Rodney’s mouth on his neck and Rodney’s sweat on his skin and Rodney, Rodney, Rodney above him, around him, holding onto him.
When he remembers how to open his eyes, he’s met with Rodney’s mouth on his as a reward. There’s something sharp digging into his back, a smear of ink on the side of his arm where a pen burst, but he can’t bring himself to move.
“Was that alright?” Rodney whispers.
He sounds nervous, and it’s enough that John makes some connections of his own, remembers the stiff way Rodney used to hold himself, as though afraid he’d do something wrong and John would leave.
“Perfect,” John says sincerely, and fishes out a pair of pliers from underneath him while he drags Rodney down for another kiss.
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