amific (amific) wrote,
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SGA: Everything Except Temptation, SGA, NC-17, McKay/Sheppard, 1/1

Title: Everything Except Temptation
Author: amireal with large contributions from everagaby.
Rating: NC-17, ~4200 words
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
A/N: Dedicated to z_rayne who is doing nefarious things in exchange for porn. *koff* Also beta'd by z_rayne. Complete coincidence. I swear.

Summary: "Are you kicking me out of my own room?"





"Rodney," Sheppard gasps, "please." His head is down, he's looking slightly away and there's a slow flush crawling up to the tips of his ears.

"What?" Rodney asks, still unbuckling and unstrapping his field gear. He has to sleep in his clothes but he'll be damned if he's going to sleep in that god-awful stuff.

"Go," Sheppard's voice cracks, "for a little while. Commune with Teyla, be afraid of Ronon. Just--" He turns away completely, shoulders high and tense.

"Are you kicking me out of my own room?" Rodney asks, eyes wide and annoyed. "The first planet in the last five to offer us beds that aren't dirt floors or piles of weeds and you want me to go?"

"Damn it, McKay," Sheppard says, sounding tense enough to make Rodney to pause in his rant, "can't you just--"

"Just what, Colonel?" Rodney says, taking a step towards Sheppard. "What's wrong?"

"Just that I can't get any goddamned privacy!" Sheppard is visibly shaking.

Rodney stares at him curiously, the itching feeling in the back his brain telling him that something definitely isn't right. "Sheppard," he calls carefully stepping close enough to put a gentle hand onto his shoulder. He's not a touchy guy, he doesn't know how to do this, but Sheppard just looks…his back looks like a bowstring.

His hand makes contact and Sheppard makes a noise, cut off and sharp and it makes Rodney ache for some reason, but he's too preoccupied by the feeling of Sheppard pushing into his touch, almost desperately.

"Rodney," Sheppard says, voice as tense as the line of his back, "just, please."

Rodney tries unsuccessfully to turn Sheppard around. After a moment of push and pull he sighs, hand leaving Sheppard's back to gesture.

"I don't get it, you were fine at dinner when that space tramp--"

"Leela," Sheppard interrupts.

"Right, Leela. When she was practically feeding you dinner. I mean she even--" Rodney stops there, because the gears are turning, albeit slightly delayed. He remembers the way Leela slid up against Sheppard, remembers the too familiar slide of her hand across the back of his neck, as though it was her right to touch him that way, remembers the way she poured Sheppard's drink, not letting anyone else--

--wait.

Rodney takes Sheppard by the shoulders, forcibly turning him around until he can see the blown-out pupils, the shallow breathing, the slight lack of focus.

"What the hell did she give you?"

"The chambermaid implied a lot of things," Sheppard says, breathing raggedly. "God Rodney, please just--"

"Go?" Rodney interrupts. "What do you think will happen then? Curl up in your bed and jerk off till it's out of your system?" Sheppard makes a choked off noise that dries Rodney's throat. "She'll come here," Rodney continues, watching Sheppard's breathing increase, "she'll come here and you won't be able to say no."

Yeah. That does it. Sheppard twitches hard, shoulders going stiff with anger this time.

"Fuck you, McKay," Sheppard says, eyes glinting as he moves into Rodney's personal space before shoving Rodney back towards the wall. "If you really think I'm that much of a slut for it, then just fuck you."

Rodney puts his hands up, palms facing Sheppard even as he gauges the distance between himself and the wall, does the fast dirty math of how likely it is that he'll be able to get around Sheppard and to the exit. "John," he says, trying for calm, "I don't think--"

The rest of his sentence is cut off by Sheppard's snort. "Bullshit," he says, pressing further into Rodney's personal space. "You think it. You've always thought it. Chaya, Teer, Norina. You think I've fucked them, and those are just the ones you know about. What do you think I do, McKay? Keep a tally, make sure I fuck a woman on every planet? Or--" With that Sheppard pushes him into the wall, arms bracketing Rodney, leaning so far into Rodney's personal space that anything more than a shallow breath will bring the two of them into contact.

Sheppard smiles, the same smile he used on Steve while watching him slowly starve to death, the same smile he flashed Michael even as he held him down for Beckett to drug. It shouldn't be as hot as it is. "Or do you think it's more than just women?" It's breathed into Rodney's ear like some sort of dare. "Men, too, right? Hell, barn animals if that's all that's available. Is that what you think?" Sheppard's hand slides off the wall and down Rodney's chest before cupping him through his pants. "Does the thought of it get you off?"

No. Rodney swallows, his own heart racing, and he can feel the heat coming off Sheppard, sharp and tingling on his front. "Look at yourself." Rodney's eyes are so wide he can practically feel his pupils dilating. "Look. I didn't mean that," he says a little snappishly. He really didn't. "I didn't mean that and you know it."

The heat disappears rapidly as Sheppard pulls away, but Rodney can see it, and he knows that Sheppard was trying to get him to run, probably still is. "Another fifteen minutes, maybe a bit more and anyone offering would seem like manna from heaven."

"Then stand by the fucking door for all I care," John whispers harshly, all the way at the other wall, one hand braced against it as he leans heavily, the other flexing and clenching at his side.

Rodney gestures, knowing he probably looks like he's trying to swat away an annoying bug. "Just. Fine, just, just stay in here and I'll guard the door." Rodney starts to cross towards the door, saying, "Try not to touch anything."

He gets as far as putting his hand on the doorknob before the sound of John's laughter halts him.

Rodney turns to see John leaning into the wall, head resting on his forearms, body shaking from laughing. After a moment John gets it under control enough to turn around and say, between laughs, "God, Rodney, what do you think I'm going to do the second you step out that door?"

Oh, that's just. Oh.

Oh.

"God, can you please--"

Rodney jumps at the dull thud and spins to see Sheppard shaking his hand out.

"Why did you do that?" he asks, staring at the slightly bloody knuckles.

"Because you're so goddamned slow leaving and I don't like the idea of not being able to control myself enough to wait till--" Sheppard stops and closes his eyes. "Seriously, Rodney, leave before I--"

"What?" Rodney asks because he can't really believe that Sheppard would. Drugged or not, it just seems impossible.

"God, even your voice, Rodney," Sheppard grates out, finally turning.

Sheppard's profile is no less tense than his back, only now Rodney can see the fine sheen of sweat licking Sheppard's hairline, the high flush on his cheeks, and the hungry look in his eyes. Most eye-catching of all is the bulge in the front of his pants.

"I--"

"Go," Sheppard pleads and steps forward. "Go or I can't guarantee that I won't--" He stops moving and, with what looks like great effort, crosses his arms tightly over his chest and stands staring at Rodney.

Rodney stares back. He just can't move. Sheppard's hips are swaying in the air, like they can't bear to be still, seeking any sort of release they can get, and Sheppard's fingers are white where they clench his arm.

"I--"

Sheppard cuts off a moan.

Rodney can see it in the way John--and it has to be John, now--how his hips are moving and the way he's two seconds away from drawing blood, he's clawing at his own arm so hard; he can guess just how much this display is costing John. And Rodney wants leave, give him the privacy to get through this with at least a little dignity intact, the respect he would want if their positions were reversed.

However, a small part of Rodney, that dirty little voice whispering from one of the tucked-away regions of his brain, is already imagining John with his pants around his ankles, hand on his cock, jerking off while the line of sweat forming on his forehead slides down his cheek, past his mouth (he'd be biting his lip to keep from begging, begging for Rodney to, oh God), and down his neck to dampen the too-tight black shirt he's wearing.

Just as clearly, Rodney can see himself walking over, covering John's hand with his own, showing John how he likes it, how that little twist on the end of every other stroke is enough to send him over the edge. He can see John coming, hot stripes across his and Rodney's shirt, over both of their hands.

He wants to know what it would taste like.

That's why his voice is husky, lower, when he says, "John, I--"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his apology before John's crossing the room, taking Rodney's face in between his hands and kissing him like he's trying to crawl inside Rodney's skin.

Hot and sloppy and just--out of control, and all Rodney can do is open his mouth because God it's so good and John is holding on so tight. He tilts his head just so and they fall back against the wall, John pressing and gasping and moaning, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and a hooking a leg behind Rodney's and just kissing. Kissing deep and fast and rough.

With a suddenness that leaves Rodney breathless John tears away and buries his face in the crook of Rodney's neck. "Oh God," he breathes hot and humid into Rodney's skin, and then he shudders. He shakes so hard that Rodney tightens the arms that had somehow wound themselves around him in return.

John's shirt is sticking to his back; Rodney can feel the sweat and the muscle underneath it, still shaking. John is going limp against him, breathing hard.

"Sorry," he says in a rusty voice.

Rodney just nods, too turned on to speak for the moment. John is leaning heavily against him, hands running up and down Rodney's back.

"I don't think this is the end," John says, finally pushing back. "Not much use if it goes off that fast." He blushes just a little when he realizes what he said.

"I--" Rodney has no idea what to say. Really. Because, wow. And hot. And wow.

And hot.

"Ready to go yet?" John says, hands still moving restlessly and Rodney has a funny feeling that he's still holding back.

"Yeah," he says, voice sounding almost foreign, desperate and sad and something else he doesn't want to qualify.

He leans into John briefly--foreheads brushing, trying to prolong contact--before stepping out of John's hands and away from his body. It's harder, so much harder than it should be.

Rodney turns, trying to collect himself even as he walks towards the door. Hand on the doorknob, he turns back to John.

"I-- If," he starts. "John, you have to know that I would want to--"

John nods, once again wrapping his arms around himself, barely harnessed energy with all the dangerous potential of a grenade, pin already pulled and seconds from going off.

"What I mean is, when you're not, you know." Rodney gestures towards John, meaning 'fucked up on shit they don't sell in the Milky Way Galaxy.' "We could, I mean, if you wanted--"

"Rodney, please," John says, purposely slamming himself back against the wall in what looks like an effort to keep from launching at Rodney again.

"Right, yes, got it," Rodney finishes lamely before opening the door and stepping through it, leaning heavily against the solid wood and breathing a sigh of relief the second he hears the lock slide into place.

There's a chair in the hall and it even looks relatively comfortable and thank God his PDA is in his jacket, which he slips off and settles over his lap, because John is inside the room. Jerking off, desperate and alone and God Rodney can see it: how John aches to have someone there, but won't. He won't ask and Rodney gets it. He does.

But God he's fucking hard. So he sits with his jacket in his lap, playing some form of Bejeweled till he starts creating twenty-five move strategies.

The footsteps he hears somewhere in his fifth game are completely unsurprising. Light and airy with the brush of fabric.

"Go away," Rodney says to the shadow covering him, not looking up.

"I just want to--"

"I know exactly what you want to do," Rodney says, still without looking up, but making a face into his PDA at her low, whispery voice. Her innocence is so faked that it makes Rodney's stomach sour. "And the answer is no."

"Sure, just--"

"No." Rodney starts another game. "Go away before I explain to your father exactly how illegal what you did is on my world."

"But I--"

"Please," Rodney says, "you're ruining my concentration. Very important work here." Ha! High score! Also if he looks up, he might actually do something really bad. He likes the planet: good food, some nice looking materials for colder weather, some refined metals. He just hates the girl. And he's sort of afraid of what he can do now, now that he's done it before.

"I don't like your tone."

Now Rodney does look up. Her perfect hair and her glossy lips and that amazingly straight kohl outline around her eyes make Rodney's eyes narrow. Because he can see it, see the morning after, mussed and flushed, hair astray and face full of smears. Satisfied look on her face as she waves goodbye.

God, he hates her.

He really hates her, and the vehemence of his own reaction surprises him.

Something must show on his face, a newfound ability to intimidate without words and that's just new and strange.

He's never wanted to hit something more in his life. "Go. Away." He says it in the best impression of Ronon he can muster.

She turns pale, gets back a bit of backbone, humphs, and stomps off.

Rodney sits slowly back into his chair and starts a new game.

"Thank you," John's voice floats through the wooden panels. "Rodney, thank you."

He can hear the gasp at the end, and he knows that John hasn't stopped, he's just not in the bed. Maybe he's kneeling behind the door, one hand on the smooth wood, bent over and stroking madly, gasping--Rodney can actually hear the gasping and, if he strains, the almost wet slick of skin sliding against skin.

"…Rodney…" John says again, breath hitching, and then finally the noise recedes into the background.

God. Rodney closes his eyes and breathes. Okay, new game; the last one is trashed.

******

Something startles Rodney awake, and he nearly falls out of the chair before getting his balance back. God, his back, his shoulders, his neck. Ow.

"Rodney?" John sounds hoarse.

Rodney looks up and John looks worn out and hung-over. "Yes?" And delicious. God is he still hard?

"You can come in," John says, not quite looking at him. "I'm--"

Finished.

"You can come in," John says again, stepping back inside, but leaving the door open.

Rodney stands and listens to parts of him creak, and then slowly walks into the room. The window is open, letting in a cool breeze and letting out the slight scent of sweat and musk. John's bed is made, and he looks wrinkled but washed.

So there was clean up, that's okay. The less for Rodney to get hard over, the better. Because, God, looking at John, bottom lip swollen, deep circles under his eyes, and careful gait and he has to let his jacket drop a few inches to make sure he's covered.

"Thanks for waking me up," Rodney says, moving to his bed, because if he'd slept in that chair all night there would be no moving in the morning; Ronon would have to carry him to the gate, chair and all.

"Not a problem," John says, and suddenly he's right behind Rodney, hands lying carefully on his shoulders. "Least I could do considering…everything."

Rodney lets his head drop as the kneading starts. "Oh wow. Never stop."

A low chuckle and John leads them to a bed. His bed. "Sleep here?"

Rodney stops and wonders if the drug is really gone.

"Not high, or doped or whatever anymore," John says quietly. "But I'd appreciate if-- I'd really like if I didn't--"

Oh. He-- John feels-- God, Rodney doesn't know if he'd never want to be touched again…or if he would find the nearest warm body and cling after that. "Well, the bed is big enough."

Behind him Rodney can feel John relax, and their bodies press together back to front for a few seconds while John slides his hands down Rodney's arms and then hook around his waist, pulling him close. Rodney's hands move to sit on top of John's, the fingers beneath his opening to thread their hands together.

Rodney is shocked at how good just this simple touch feels.

John lets go with a whisper kiss against the back of his neck. They slip into bed without more than a few words. Mostly, "Ow, my back," and, "Watch your knee."

John goes boneless against Rodney, sleep finding him almost the instant his hand snakes back around Rodney's waist and his face mashes comfortably into Rodney's shoulder.

Rodney yawns and lets his eyes close; arousal aside, he slept in a chair for four hours. Seriously.

******

Rodney wakes up to an incessant beeping coming from somewhere near his waist. He cracks an eyelid open and gropes around until his hand settles on a watch and a wrist.

John. Right.

Rodney fumbles with the buttons until the wretched noise stops. He yawns and stretches and notices that John is complete dead weight behind him.

He must be exhausted.

"John," Rodney says, lifting the arm up like a toll gate, sliding out from under it and turning to face him. "Wake up before I pour cold water on you."

"Never change," John murmurs, opening his eyes. He manages to make it look like some Herculean effort.

Something goes all fuzzy and melty inside Rodney's brain, and he goes and gets John's canteen from their packs. "Drink this, you look like hell."

"Don't ask how I feel," John says, gratefully guzzling a few mouthfuls.

"I can't even imagine," Rodney says tightly, angry at the bitch all over again. He reaches out to trace the bruise forming under the pinkness of John's lip.

John puts the canteen down and mirrors Rodney's actions, rubbing a thumb across Rodney's lower lip. They slide into a kiss, soft, sweet and gentle.

"Come on," John says when they part. "Let's get the hell out of here."

******

Their host--and Leela's father--takes one look at John and goes white, beginning to stutter apologies. "Are you ill?" He sounds hopeful. Incredibly hopeful. Too hopeful.

"Something disagreed with me." John smiles. "That's all."

Rodney shoots Leela a dark look, and Dad catches it, eyes widening and then narrowing in what can only be fatherly disappointment. Leela misses the whole exchange, happily burbling with some other young women.

John waves off anything else he's going to say. "I hope we can still get some of that wonderful bean we were discussing."

A lot of vehement nodding and several sample sacks shoved at them. "Please, we are very interested in trade." More sacks.

Well at least someone has some moral integrity.

Ronon and Teyla look at John and Rodney funny, but John just shakes his head and Rodney practices his new grim look. There are looks exchanged, meaning there will be discussions later.

John is limping a little--actually probably more like chafing and a few sore muscles. Rodney remembers one blissful afternoon in early spring when he was 15. He set a record that day. And the next day his stomach muscles hurt like hell, but at least that was a good hurt.

The stargate is a leisurely walk outside the city walls. "Leela drugged me," John announces once they are alone in a field of tall yellow grass, deceptively peaceful all things considered.

Ronon looks like he's ready to turn around and go back and teach that little girl why that sort of thing is impolite. Teyla just looks pissed. "I trust all is well this morning?"

"I feel like crap, but she didn't--" John stops and sighs. "Rodney here sat in a chair right outside the door."

Teyla stops for the span of two foot steps, eyes wide and anger coating her every action. "She actually attempted--"

"Yes," Rodney hisses, "but I don't think she will again." He's still savoring the angry look her father had.

"We can go back and make sure." Ronon sounds incredibly eager.

"No." John sighs, weariness in every action. "Home."

"Home." Teyla nods.

Home.

******

John spends a lot of time behind privacy screens with Beckett, and Rodney begins to fidget and wonder if maybe he shouldn't be waiting. Elizabeth was happy enough with the sacks of stuff and a cursory briefing on the way to the infirmary that they have time until the full debrief. An entire day in fact.

So Rodney could conceivably be in the lab or enjoying a shower he trusts not to infect him with some sort of fungus.

John appears from behind the curtain looking even more tired, more embarrassed, and just a little bit weary. "Let's get some food."

"Sure you probably lost a lot of calories…ah…that is…I wonder what they're serving...." He trails off.

John smiles. "Seriously. Don't change."

God, that warms him in strange and scary ways.

They eat, John chugs a lot of water and they speak of inconsequential things.

It's nice.

Really, freaky-scary, nice.

They walk amiably around Atlantis when they're done, and Rodney isn't sure where they're headed but John seems to know, so he shrugs and continues his rant about the slightly dry air in the center of the city. He has very sensitive elbows.

It's a long time before they stop in front of a set of doors. John's doors. "Come in," John says casually and enters without waiting to see if Rodney will continue following.

Rodney does, without thought. "So--uh--" he starts because he can't do awkward silence.

"Rodney, I'm really not in the mood to have sex," John says, shrugging off his jacket.

Oh. Well then. Wait. "What?"

"Sorry." John turns and smiles shyly, coming up to Rodney, arms sliding around him, lips finding the skin just under his jaw. "Bad choice of words. Let's just say that the idea of friction anywhere near my dick right now is the least arousing thought. Ever."

Well Rodney can get that, but why-- "Okay," Rodney says, at a loss for anything else.

"Sit," John says, maneuvering him to the bed and gently pushing him down. "I need a nap, and you're pretty damn comfortable."

"Oh, okay. Let me just get my shoes," Rodney says nervously. He can do this; it's not a difficult request, and he liked John curling up behind him, warm and solid.

John goes to his knees.

Oh.

"Let me," John says softly, untying Rodney's shoes and then running his hands up Rodney's legs and down his thighs.

Oh yeah.

"I'm sorry, but I really want to--but I just can't--and you are so--"

"Yeah," Rodney nods. "Yeah, please, that's okay."

John nods and licks his lips, and one hand rides up the inside seam of Rodney's pants. Warmth and pressure gently encase his cock and Rodney sighs.

John strokes him through his pants for a few seconds before getting them open, peeling the sides apart and pushing his shirt up just enough so that he can lean forward, between Rodney's thighs, and kiss his stomach.

He gets a hand around Rodney's cock and pulls it out, stroking carefully, and yeah, Rodney's head just drops, eyes fluttering closed, because he's been waiting since last night. Then warm and wet closes over the head and he has to look up, has to see John's lips, bruised and chapped, stretched over his cock. The hollow of John's cheeks as he sucks makes Rodney's muscles clench and his eyes roll.

Rodney watches his cock slide in and out, feels it, anticipates it and needs it by the third slide down.

John's tongue flutters and licks, and Rodney can feel it start at the base of his spine, tingling and scorching. His legs lock and his eyes cross as he stares, and John goes down again, and it just builds until his entire body clenches and goes, white haze settling over his eyes.

He comes back to his own heavy breathing and John crawling onto the bed next to him, pulling him up all the way.

"Yep," John says, kissing Rodney's neck, "not even hard."

"Later," Rodney slurs, already dreaming of John, hot and hard against him, panting, out of control, and not because of some drug racing through his system.

Rodney curls around John, hands digging into his hair, carding through it softy, pulling him in gently to kiss, slow and deep. Then he settles down for a well-deserved nap.

The only thing that will make it better is if there's a sandwich the size of his foot waiting for him when he wakes up.

"Later," John's voice vibrates against his chest. "Definitely."

They both yawn.

"But first, maybe a sandwich."

God, it might be love.

THE END
Tags: fic, mckay/sheppard, sga
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