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Jun. 26th, 2008 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyIn case anyone missed 'em, these are the five McKay/Sheppard kisses I wrote for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mcsmooch this go around. :)
Something
"Yes I know, I know," Rodney flaps a hand, too jerky to be quite dismissive, but John has no idea what the hell it does mean; "it means nothing, I realise that, but the fact that it means nothing means something, yes? I mean, the fact that your nothing-meaning thing happened to mean nothing in a way that involved me. That's not nothing."
John just blinks at him.
"Right," says Rodney after a moment, his shoulders slumping, "right. Oh well: nothing is better than nothing, naturally. And I can be discreet." He does a small throwaway mime of locking his mouth closed then looks around a little helplessly, fingers still pinched together, as though wondering where the hell to hide the invisible key.
John distracts him from it: steps forward and places his hand carefully on the side of Rodney's neck before he leans in to kiss him a second time, slow and careful and with a multitude of meanings. John's not sure Rodney gets all of them right away - the one about wishing a slow and painful death (or at least maiming) on anyone who taught him that this could ever be nothing is kind of abstract, admittedly - but John's pretty sure he gets across something.
Off the Map
John's not sure who made the 'Here Be Dragyns' sign, competently decorated with a fierce beast with fiery breath and a receding hairline, but he knows who moved it from the wall outside Rodney's lab to the door of his quarters. It had not been, he had told himself, possessiveness, merely sense; the number of people battering at Rodney's door at all hours of the night had genuinely dropped within the first week of it being there, and it's best for the city that the Chief Science Officer manages to get enough sleep. And - in the interests of the city, of course - John's here to make sure it happens.
He's here to use up any remaining energy that might cause Rodney to stay up all night and run figures and simulations, taking his time and not letting Rodney be until he's beached and helpless on the bed, sprawled out and pleasure slack, eyelids drooping as he barely summons the energy to tug the covers over them. John's here to weigh Rodney down in the middle of the night, to force him to grab a notebook from the bedside table instead of his laptop and make only a quick-scratched map of his thoughts to be navigated by in the morning. He's here to watch him wake, eyes a drowsy sea-blue, slow gentle smile giving the lie to the ragged and fading picture still tacked firmly to his door.
Because the 'dragyns' were only ever figments of sailors' unfamiliarity; John's taking care to gradually map out every part of Rodney's body with fingertips and the gentle pressure of his mouth.
Oldest Trick in the Book
John kept drifting gently up against Rodney's side, staying a little longer every time before Rodney shrugged him back onto a course that pointed vaguely in the direction they were supposed to be heading. Rodney was technically the designated driver, but Ronon and Teyla were still enjoying the party and there was a small and vindictive part of him that wanted to practice his flying - he'd still never quite managed an entirely straight line - when John was feeling the aftereffects in the morning.
"You'd probably find this walking thing easier," he groused, the whole long length of John resting itself against his side and putting him in immediate danger of tripping over one of the apparent multitude of dangling limbs, "if you'd actually look where you were going." He sighed as another arm - John was clearly some kind of cephalopod, and he hated that he'd spent enough time with the biologists to know the term - sneaked behind his back and anchored itself across his shoulders.
"Hmm," John said unhelpfully, and kept looking up at the night sky.
It would be entirely too easy, Rodney thought, to get distracted by the way the moonlight gilded John's profile, lose track of their feet, and sprain something important when they inevitably tripped.
(It would be entirely too easy, Rodney refused to think, to ignore the boundaries that seemed constantly to shift and soften, to take advantage of John's tilted head and attack the lines of his neck with lips and teeth.)
"I should just leave you here," Rodney grumbled instead, because refuge in crankiness was where he excelled.
John was distracted from the stars for long enough to turn his head, even that motion languid and unfocused.
"Nah," he said with a slow grin, "you'd miss out."
"On what," Rodney snapped, "your scintillating conversation?" John just snorted and tilted his head back again. "What is it that's so damned interesting up there, anyway?"
He tilted his head back, following John's line of sight, and couldn't see anything more interesting than a faint cluster of stars, but any scathing comment he might've made was cut off by the sweet warm pressure of John's mouth against his, unexpected and perfect.
Timing is Everything
Rodney hates the way that John kisses him. Or - not the way, but the when of it: snatched kisses in transporters, half-hard and halfway across the city in one moment's movement, emerging disgruntled and discombobulated and inevitably to marines; tugged into supply closets and pressed tight to the door, John's hand just as tight across his mouth as he licks long shivery lines along Rodney's neck; Jesus-fuck-we're-not-dead kisses against DHDs and stargates and behind curtains in the infirmary, just on the knife-thin edges between them and the world, the places they can be seen.
He thinks he would find things easier if it could be blamed on the idiotic dictates of John's moronic government, if it was handjobs and blowjobs and hot but emotionless encounters - and not only because then at least he'd actually be getting to have sex.
Instead there is concurrent too-much and not-enough, the taste of John's mouth ten times as addictive as the best coffee without even the clarity of a caffeine buzz to justify his habit. Just constant distraction, confusion, the aggravatingly human problem of What John wants and Why, and How come they're not having sex already, dammit. There is nothing he hates more than not understanding.
That's why John pulls away and blinks at the transporter doors the next time, apparently bemused that they haven't yet hissed, signaled that they'll open. (Rodney is taking a moment to be smug that it took him at least fifteen seconds to notice.)
"I - where -?" John starts, and Rodney's smug smile stops lurking and makes itself known.
"East pier," he announces, "the part with all the mildew." And, because John doesn't seem to be getting it: "Private."
John's eyes widen a little, reaction still shaping his features around it, so Rodney takes the initiative for once. He leans forward to within a breath of John, whose lips part just the slightest bit, wordless, involuntary reaction. But the kiss, when he takes it, is nothing like the deep hurried kisses that John always steals. Their mouths move together for long moments before Rodney even brushes his tongue across John's lower lip, the soft groan this prompts both startling and - God - the hottest thing he's ever heard.
(Until now, they have always had to do this in silence.)
When he pulls back again John looks raw and confused, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. He runs his tongue across his lips and Rodney - habit - bites back a noise.
"It's - it's not that I - " John's voice is strained and awkward, and Rodney huffs out a snort.
"I didn't bring you here to talk about it," he says and - actions, words, all that - drops to his knees.
"Oh god," John says faintly from above his head, and his hand comes down to cup Rodney's cheek; the gentleness of the gesture almost derailing his efforts to co-ordinate his fingers enough to open John's fly. "God, Rodney." And - oh. The way he says - his voice - Rodney suddenly understands why this has always been done in seconds and silence, what John has been careful not to let him know. He pauses, hands still at John's belt, and looks up to meet uncertain hazel eyes.
"John," he says, hoping it's understood that he's carefully not-saying it back.
Stress Test
Rodney can feel John staring at the side of his head, but there’s a perverse kind of enjoyment in having at least that so he doesn’t look away from what he’s doing, moving his thumb nail another quarter inch up the spoon.
“Y’know, you’re kind of insane,” John tells him, leaning close enough that the words are a discernable air current in the breathless bar.
“Knew that when you married me,” Rodney answers, treading a line that may never have existed before between petulant and snide, closing one eye so he can focus better on bright metal. John huffs out a laugh against his ear and Rodney’s nose crinkles up involuntarily. When it happens, this he won’t miss.
“Marriage would explain why we don’t have conversations any more,” and there’s enough of a hint of an edge of a whine in John’s voice that Rodney’s eyes flicker sideways, the bar swaying around him. John’s expression is odd, hazel eyes strangely intent, so Rodney puts down the spoon and clumsily pats him on the side of his stubbled jaw. This was why he had been avoiding looking at him, of course – now he’s distracted, focus drawn into the black hole of John’s eyebrows, his tempting lower lip.
“We talk,” he protests, half-hearted.
“About your rating system.” John turns his head away and snags his beer, tilting his head back as he swallows, and Rodney is left off-balance by the curving lines of his neck. “How’s that working out for you? Decided who it’ll be yet?”
He’s still not looking at Rodney, eyes fixed on the woman by the bar; Rodney knew she was his type.
“She’s not tall enough,” Rodney informs him, with some level of satisfaction. “She’s shorter than the spoon. You’d get a crick in your neck.”
That gets John’s attention back, and a dull hum of satisfaction makes a home for itself in Rodney’s stomach. Even if the facial expression isn’t quite what he’s wanting.
“I’m replacing you with Thumbelina, now?”
“Perspective.” Rodney picks up the spoon again and holds it in front of John’s face, demonstrating with his thumb. “Bar, woman. Woman, bar. It’s not exactly a challenging equation.”
This facial expression is an improvement, exasperated but with a fondness that softens it.
“Give me a bar tall enough and a spoon with which to measure it, and I shall move the Earth,” Rodney declaims.
“You got it wrong,” John tells him. “She’s not my type,” and it’s genuinely a surprise when he leans forward to press their mouths together. Not enough of a surprise that Rodney doesn’t carefully catalogue the shape of John’s smile as mapped by his lips, the feel, the warm-sweet-slick taste of him, saving the memories in anticipation of the time when he’s eventually right.
For the record, that last is a prequel for the next fic you'll see out of me. :)
Man, I'd forgotten I'd written so many.
mcsmooch this go around. :)Something
"Yes I know, I know," Rodney flaps a hand, too jerky to be quite dismissive, but John has no idea what the hell it does mean; "it means nothing, I realise that, but the fact that it means nothing means something, yes? I mean, the fact that your nothing-meaning thing happened to mean nothing in a way that involved me. That's not nothing."
John just blinks at him.
"Right," says Rodney after a moment, his shoulders slumping, "right. Oh well: nothing is better than nothing, naturally. And I can be discreet." He does a small throwaway mime of locking his mouth closed then looks around a little helplessly, fingers still pinched together, as though wondering where the hell to hide the invisible key.
John distracts him from it: steps forward and places his hand carefully on the side of Rodney's neck before he leans in to kiss him a second time, slow and careful and with a multitude of meanings. John's not sure Rodney gets all of them right away - the one about wishing a slow and painful death (or at least maiming) on anyone who taught him that this could ever be nothing is kind of abstract, admittedly - but John's pretty sure he gets across something.
Off the Map
John's not sure who made the 'Here Be Dragyns' sign, competently decorated with a fierce beast with fiery breath and a receding hairline, but he knows who moved it from the wall outside Rodney's lab to the door of his quarters. It had not been, he had told himself, possessiveness, merely sense; the number of people battering at Rodney's door at all hours of the night had genuinely dropped within the first week of it being there, and it's best for the city that the Chief Science Officer manages to get enough sleep. And - in the interests of the city, of course - John's here to make sure it happens.
He's here to use up any remaining energy that might cause Rodney to stay up all night and run figures and simulations, taking his time and not letting Rodney be until he's beached and helpless on the bed, sprawled out and pleasure slack, eyelids drooping as he barely summons the energy to tug the covers over them. John's here to weigh Rodney down in the middle of the night, to force him to grab a notebook from the bedside table instead of his laptop and make only a quick-scratched map of his thoughts to be navigated by in the morning. He's here to watch him wake, eyes a drowsy sea-blue, slow gentle smile giving the lie to the ragged and fading picture still tacked firmly to his door.
Because the 'dragyns' were only ever figments of sailors' unfamiliarity; John's taking care to gradually map out every part of Rodney's body with fingertips and the gentle pressure of his mouth.
Oldest Trick in the Book
John kept drifting gently up against Rodney's side, staying a little longer every time before Rodney shrugged him back onto a course that pointed vaguely in the direction they were supposed to be heading. Rodney was technically the designated driver, but Ronon and Teyla were still enjoying the party and there was a small and vindictive part of him that wanted to practice his flying - he'd still never quite managed an entirely straight line - when John was feeling the aftereffects in the morning.
"You'd probably find this walking thing easier," he groused, the whole long length of John resting itself against his side and putting him in immediate danger of tripping over one of the apparent multitude of dangling limbs, "if you'd actually look where you were going." He sighed as another arm - John was clearly some kind of cephalopod, and he hated that he'd spent enough time with the biologists to know the term - sneaked behind his back and anchored itself across his shoulders.
"Hmm," John said unhelpfully, and kept looking up at the night sky.
It would be entirely too easy, Rodney thought, to get distracted by the way the moonlight gilded John's profile, lose track of their feet, and sprain something important when they inevitably tripped.
(It would be entirely too easy, Rodney refused to think, to ignore the boundaries that seemed constantly to shift and soften, to take advantage of John's tilted head and attack the lines of his neck with lips and teeth.)
"I should just leave you here," Rodney grumbled instead, because refuge in crankiness was where he excelled.
John was distracted from the stars for long enough to turn his head, even that motion languid and unfocused.
"Nah," he said with a slow grin, "you'd miss out."
"On what," Rodney snapped, "your scintillating conversation?" John just snorted and tilted his head back again. "What is it that's so damned interesting up there, anyway?"
He tilted his head back, following John's line of sight, and couldn't see anything more interesting than a faint cluster of stars, but any scathing comment he might've made was cut off by the sweet warm pressure of John's mouth against his, unexpected and perfect.
Timing is Everything
Rodney hates the way that John kisses him. Or - not the way, but the when of it: snatched kisses in transporters, half-hard and halfway across the city in one moment's movement, emerging disgruntled and discombobulated and inevitably to marines; tugged into supply closets and pressed tight to the door, John's hand just as tight across his mouth as he licks long shivery lines along Rodney's neck; Jesus-fuck-we're-not-dead kisses against DHDs and stargates and behind curtains in the infirmary, just on the knife-thin edges between them and the world, the places they can be seen.
He thinks he would find things easier if it could be blamed on the idiotic dictates of John's moronic government, if it was handjobs and blowjobs and hot but emotionless encounters - and not only because then at least he'd actually be getting to have sex.
Instead there is concurrent too-much and not-enough, the taste of John's mouth ten times as addictive as the best coffee without even the clarity of a caffeine buzz to justify his habit. Just constant distraction, confusion, the aggravatingly human problem of What John wants and Why, and How come they're not having sex already, dammit. There is nothing he hates more than not understanding.
That's why John pulls away and blinks at the transporter doors the next time, apparently bemused that they haven't yet hissed, signaled that they'll open. (Rodney is taking a moment to be smug that it took him at least fifteen seconds to notice.)
"I - where -?" John starts, and Rodney's smug smile stops lurking and makes itself known.
"East pier," he announces, "the part with all the mildew." And, because John doesn't seem to be getting it: "Private."
John's eyes widen a little, reaction still shaping his features around it, so Rodney takes the initiative for once. He leans forward to within a breath of John, whose lips part just the slightest bit, wordless, involuntary reaction. But the kiss, when he takes it, is nothing like the deep hurried kisses that John always steals. Their mouths move together for long moments before Rodney even brushes his tongue across John's lower lip, the soft groan this prompts both startling and - God - the hottest thing he's ever heard.
(Until now, they have always had to do this in silence.)
When he pulls back again John looks raw and confused, cheeks flushed and eyes dark. He runs his tongue across his lips and Rodney - habit - bites back a noise.
"It's - it's not that I - " John's voice is strained and awkward, and Rodney huffs out a snort.
"I didn't bring you here to talk about it," he says and - actions, words, all that - drops to his knees.
"Oh god," John says faintly from above his head, and his hand comes down to cup Rodney's cheek; the gentleness of the gesture almost derailing his efforts to co-ordinate his fingers enough to open John's fly. "God, Rodney." And - oh. The way he says - his voice - Rodney suddenly understands why this has always been done in seconds and silence, what John has been careful not to let him know. He pauses, hands still at John's belt, and looks up to meet uncertain hazel eyes.
"John," he says, hoping it's understood that he's carefully not-saying it back.
Stress Test
Rodney can feel John staring at the side of his head, but there’s a perverse kind of enjoyment in having at least that so he doesn’t look away from what he’s doing, moving his thumb nail another quarter inch up the spoon.
“Y’know, you’re kind of insane,” John tells him, leaning close enough that the words are a discernable air current in the breathless bar.
“Knew that when you married me,” Rodney answers, treading a line that may never have existed before between petulant and snide, closing one eye so he can focus better on bright metal. John huffs out a laugh against his ear and Rodney’s nose crinkles up involuntarily. When it happens, this he won’t miss.
“Marriage would explain why we don’t have conversations any more,” and there’s enough of a hint of an edge of a whine in John’s voice that Rodney’s eyes flicker sideways, the bar swaying around him. John’s expression is odd, hazel eyes strangely intent, so Rodney puts down the spoon and clumsily pats him on the side of his stubbled jaw. This was why he had been avoiding looking at him, of course – now he’s distracted, focus drawn into the black hole of John’s eyebrows, his tempting lower lip.
“We talk,” he protests, half-hearted.
“About your rating system.” John turns his head away and snags his beer, tilting his head back as he swallows, and Rodney is left off-balance by the curving lines of his neck. “How’s that working out for you? Decided who it’ll be yet?”
He’s still not looking at Rodney, eyes fixed on the woman by the bar; Rodney knew she was his type.
“She’s not tall enough,” Rodney informs him, with some level of satisfaction. “She’s shorter than the spoon. You’d get a crick in your neck.”
That gets John’s attention back, and a dull hum of satisfaction makes a home for itself in Rodney’s stomach. Even if the facial expression isn’t quite what he’s wanting.
“I’m replacing you with Thumbelina, now?”
“Perspective.” Rodney picks up the spoon again and holds it in front of John’s face, demonstrating with his thumb. “Bar, woman. Woman, bar. It’s not exactly a challenging equation.”
This facial expression is an improvement, exasperated but with a fondness that softens it.
“Give me a bar tall enough and a spoon with which to measure it, and I shall move the Earth,” Rodney declaims.
“You got it wrong,” John tells him. “She’s not my type,” and it’s genuinely a surprise when he leans forward to press their mouths together. Not enough of a surprise that Rodney doesn’t carefully catalogue the shape of John’s smile as mapped by his lips, the feel, the warm-sweet-slick taste of him, saving the memories in anticipation of the time when he’s eventually right.
For the record, that last is a prequel for the next fic you'll see out of me. :)
Man, I'd forgotten I'd written so many.
