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FIC: Limit of a Function (NC-17)
Title: Limit of a Function
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The limit of f(x), as x approaches John Sheppard, is…
Wordcount: ~730 words
Notes: So this is not the promised President Fic (it's coming! patience!), but it is a small pornlet for the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chopchia, written with help from my high school math teachers. Never thought I'd get to say that.
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The limit of f(x), as x approaches John Sheppard, is…
Wordcount: ~730 words
Notes: So this is not the promised President Fic (it's coming! patience!), but it is a small pornlet for the lovely
chopchia, written with help from my high school math teachers. Never thought I'd get to say that.It isn’t exactly rare that they can spend this much time together in the daylight – John has an uncanny knack for accurately guessing when the lulls in action will be, and always drags Rodney off to make good use of them – but when they've done this before, it's always been a few quick orgasms in various stages of dishevelment, Rodney gasping curses against John's sweaty temple and letting his body go, letting John hold him up.
This time it's different, and John seems to know it even before they've stepped foot inside Rodney's quarters.
That's different too: Rodney's quarters.
The sheets are turned down and clean, all the pillows fluffed invitingly, and a long length of bungee cord is curled around itself like a snake on the nightstand. As soon as John catches sight of it, his shoulders stiffen and rise protectively around his ears.
“Rodney,” he says.
“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” Rodney glances over at John, notices the flush hiding just below the collar of his shirt. He knows that flush, dreams about it, even though he’s sure John doesn’t realize how telling it is. “But I think you want to, John.”
He has John on his back a minute later, the quick arch of John’s spine that pushes their hips together giving him away when he growls, “Get the hell off me.”
Rodney doesn’t hold him down – he knows better – but John settles grudgingly anyway when their mouths touch and lets Rodney coax him into trading languid, drugging kisses that are just dangerous enough to be interesting: the scrape of John’s sharp teeth on Rodney’s lower lip, the bruising way Rodney’s thumb and fingers are holding John’s chin in place. That, at least, is familiar – everything John gives him is intense and hot, but carefully measured out (this, and no more).
Rodney has never been very good at respecting limits, mathematical or otherwise, and John’s addictive enough that he always wants more.
The limit of f(x), as x approaches John Sheppard, is…
John’s too distracted to notice when Rodney slides his hands up, but when he finds John’s wrists with both hands, trapping them against the bed and pushing until the springs creak, John’s breath stutters out, ragged and shocked. The flush has crept up to his cheeks now, and Rodney kisses it, smiles against the heated skin as his fingers tighten just enough to drag another quiet sound past John’s lips.
The bungee cord isn't in reach, and Rodney’s not positive John’s ready for that right now anyway. They make do with the sheets, not tied, but wound tightly around John’s wrists – or, Rodney does, because John’s too far gone to do much more than obediently strip his clothes off and watch Rodney work with hot eyes that are glassier than normal.
“You look so good,” Rodney murmurs, pressing a kiss to John’s chest. “All mine.”
John’s thighs tremble when he runs the pads of his fingers up their insides; John’s stomach tastes like salt and the sharp bite of Teyla’s topical remedy (Rodney presses his thumb to the purple and black of the bruise, makes it one of his own); the juncture of thigh and hip is slick with sweat and so sensitive Rodney lingers there for long minutes, listening to John’s voice splinter above him. He finds all the parts of John that try stay quiet – like the curved, vulnerable divot just next to John’s kneecap – and makes them sing.
By the time Rodney runs his tongue up the side of John’s cock, John’s begging – unabashed, unashamed. Loud.
Grinning is difficult with John on his tongue, stretching his mouth wide, but Rodney manages it. John doesn’t seem to mind the light pressure of teeth near the crown of his cock at all, rolls his hips up for more in some sinful, liquid way that leaves Rodney lightheaded, clutching at John’s thighs as he comes so damn fast it almost hurts.
When he snaps back into himself, he’s still sucking absently at the tip of John’s cock, and John’s pleading, “Just do something, I – Rodney, please, I swear to god, I’ll. Anything. Make me come, I need –”
“Shh, shh,” Rodney whispers, “I’ve got you. Just,” his thumb finds that spot under the head of John’s cock, rubs slowly, “a little longer.”
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