Riff, the second
SGA fans, are you reading ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
smittywing's The Best Things In Life Are Free? If no, you should; if yes, you might perhaps be interested that I've jotted down -- with Smitty's Stop Teasing And Start Sharing threat permission -- a little tag for TBTILAF Ch. 5 C -- John/Rodney, NC-17, don't read if this isn't your cuppa.
Slowly, Rodney blinked awake. Crisp sheets under his fingers, a scratchy blanket that felt almost familiar, and -- on the bed next to him, close enough that their fingertips would touch were he to stretch out his arm -- John.
John who'd hustled like a pro, who'd flashed him a smile Rodney had never seen before last night, reckless and true and maybe a little dangerous, who was now murmuring in his sleep, frowning without opening his eyes. His mouth had fallen slightly open, lips looking soft and more inviting than ever, and Rodney shivered, his own body's reaction in sudden, stark focus -- the morning erection in his boxers, heavy-warm and sleepy but waking up with every moment Rodney spent staring.
With every movement John made.
Languid, loose shifts still signalling sleep, or maybe a dream phase -- Rodney tended to wipe AP Biology from his mind as soon as he'd aced the relevant test -- and oh, even with his eyes closed and still dead to the world, John was breathtaking, more so now that the blanket was slipping away due to John stirring softly. Sometime during the night, John must have shrugged out off his jeans; with the cover bunched up as it was, Rodney could stare at the long, lean stretch of John's legs. The black t-shirt had ridden up almost all the way, too, showing an expanse of flat, tanned stomach, its trail of dark hair a thousand times more tempting than breadcrumbs. Rodney's excitement was a hot spark at the base of his spine, and he'd have thought about letting his hand wonder down into his own boxers to relieve at least a bit of the pressure if he didn't feel frozen in place, trying to keep still and keep watching this --
the way the morning light slanting through the blinds was painting John's body in stripes of burnished gold, the way his stubble had only deepened over night, smudging out the high school jock and bringing into sharp relief someone rougher, wilder, someone who threatened to take Rodney's breath away.
An almost inaudible sigh; when John turned onto his back -- eyes still closed -- Rodney could clearly see the bulge in John's boxers and John's hand sliding down towards it, lazily cupping himself -- and finally, there it was, the flutter of these dark, dark lashes.
Rodney squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe evenly. To not give himself away.
Hard, so hard, because the sound of fingertips rubbing over fabric was shockingly loud in Rodney's ears; same went for the rustle of the sheets, the creak of the bed and how it stopped abruptly as John stood up.
So close; Rodney couldn't help but breathe in when John passed him, catching a whiff of stale smoke and sweat and something uniquely John. He didn't know if the corresponding surge of heat made him open his eyes just a sliver, but it wasn't important because the important thing was that John was standing there, only a few feet away, his profile clearly visible, all of him decadently beautiful -- heavy-lidded eyes and mussed hair and softened slope of shoulders. John was staring at something at the other end of the room as if deep in thought or still muddled by sleep, but then -- oh, God, then he started slowly pushing his boxers down, down, down; and Rodney was staring at John's cock, half-hard and lightly curved and catching the sunlight with every slight movement of his hips.
John was -- bending down now, without apparent hurry, idly picking up something from the floor, out of Rodney's range of sight. But John's ass was well within, and Rodney felt his mouth go dry and his own cock twitch in response -- perfectly rounded, muscular ass lightly dusted with dark hair that Rodney just knew would bristle softly against his fingers if he let them stroke from the bottom to the top...
He had to fight to keep down a full-body shudder; good thing that John stretched up again, leisurely rolled his shoulders before making his way to the bathroom, its door closing gently and without a sound.
Rodney exhaled slowly, heart racing and mind going faster than 200mp/h; he was turned on beyond belief, hot and shivery already, and John might be back any minute, so perhaps it'd be best to just grab his jeans and run, only that wouldn't work because he'd run straight into his parents' breakfast reeking of smoke and alcohol and sporting a hard-on and oh, God, don't forget Jeannie, or, no, do forget that plan real quick. But he couldn't just go to another room, one that wasn't John's because getting caught there would be the cusp of humiliation, and --
the shower started running, its sound startling, then soothing Rodney: It'd give him a perfect measure of how long John would be gone, otherwise occupied in the stall, dripping wet and glistening and oh, fuck, Rodney had to touch himself, now; he didn't have tissues, though, couldn't go looking but -- quick glance at the bathroom door, the realisation that no more than half a minute had passed -- right, fine, he could use his boxers instead, going to just slip into his jeans later; no one would notice. Rodney kicked off the blanket with a frantic gesture, pulled down his boxers and yes, that was it; he only had to close his eyes to see John again in his mind's eye, sleep-mussed and aroused, positively dazzling; what if Rodney had held out his hand when John passed, brushing his fingers against this sleek thigh, feeling its muscles move, taking hold of John's cock? And John would have stopped, turned to Rodney with soft, grateful eyes, cock swelling fully, and he'd have made a choked-off sound in the back of his throat.
Rodney's imagination was vivid, but not quite vivid enough to actually hear it.
His eyes flew open, and yes, there was John, standing in the doorframe, the shower still running in the background, and Christ, he was staring at Rodney as if he'd never seen him before; Rodney would have died that moment, curling into a ball from the worst mortification of his life...if it hadn't been for the fact that John was dry, not one wisp of hair curling from exposure to water, which could be because he'd forgotten something in the room, and it could be because he always let the water run for two minutes before entering the shower, but there was the thing about stripping right in the middle of the room in front of Rodney's cot and the other thing about bending down so achingly slow, so maybe there was another chance, and Rodney was crazy, completely insane for taking it -- for biting his lip and tensing up but not stopping, not stopping the rough movement of his hand on his own cock, staring into John's eyes with a defiance he didn't really feel, didn't really --
Rodney didn't really believe it, but there it was, John's gaze sliding down, to Rodney's cock, to Rodney's hand working it. And he'd have been more taken with the way John flushed, again, to the tips of his ears, but Rodney's attention was irrevocably drawn to John's cock, which had been nestled against his balls but was now starting to twitch a little, lengthening and hardening under Rodney's stare -- yeah, okay, he must be looking hungry and maybe a little desperate; Rodney half-feared, half-wished his eyes were already telling John that he wanted nothing more than to walk over to John, sink to his knees in front of the other boy, and take his cock into his mouth.
And for a moment that was fragile and weightless, Rodney saw John shift his weight as if to step forward -- but then, he merely settled against the doorframe and slid his hand onto his cock, starting the same motion, up and down, gripping himself tightly with one hand, the other drifting down, too, cupping his balls, rolling them softly between his fingers. Rodney shivered; he'd have liked to do the same to himself if he hadn't been so awkwardly half-propped up on the cot, but really, he didn't need it, because to just watch this -- watch John's mouth open and his body tighten and his thumb stroke over the glistening head of his cock on the upstroke, to listen to his ragged inhalations of breath, the tiny gasps -- it was enough; with a few hasty jerks, Rodney was coming, coming so hard it was almost painful, sharp and hot and making him see bright spots at the edge of his vision.
John?
John was still looking at him with a strange expression, licked his lips before trembling in a way that made Rodney's feel strangely out of breath, and -- turned away, suddenly, pushing back into the bathroom so quickly that Rodney could only blink, stunned and shocked and with a feeling of dread tickling the back of his neck because this couldn't be good, this could only mean that he was already regretting it, and --
"Rodney." Voice rough, heavy with sex -- and that alone makes Rodney look up -- from the doorframe. "Catch."
He'd always been bad at catching and pitching -- no, no, not giving in to the slight edge of hysteria -- but Rodney's hands managed to snag the small towel John threw him out of mid-air. Swallowing, he began to clean himself up while the shower sounds -- varied, interspersed with others -- indicated John was, lathering and rinsing and repeating, for real this time. Just when Rodney had gathered his clothes, John appeared again, towel slung low around his hips and his hair a mess of wet spikes. He took a look at Rodney, who might have been trying to duck his gaze. Perhaps. A little.
"Hey, wait. I didn't leave because --" A huff, frustrated enough to catch Rodney's attention again, "-- it was just, carpet. Didn't want to explain stains to my father, and the bathroom was right in my back." A vague gesture backwards, and Rodney found the blush on John's freshly-shaven cheeks oddly endearing. "You can have the shower now; I'll be -- downstairs."
When Rodney took the last steps, scrubbed and showered and, underneath his jeans, dressed in -- not really helping, actually -- a pair of John's boxers that John must have laid on his cot while he was in the bathroom, he could already hear the hum of the microwave -- pop-tarts, or hot milk, or oatmeal; for once in his life, Rodney didn't much care.
John was standing at the other end of the kitchen, his tall, dark, and handsome self again, easy smile on his lips when he turned around and gave a lazy shrug at the table, the various foodstuffs. "There you are. Help yourself."
"Thanks. Um." Rodney put one hand on the table as if he needed to steady himself, which he totally didn't, but it was true that his palms were sweaty. Taking a deep breath, he started to walk around the table and over to the microwave…only to find John stepping away just as neatly and without losing a beat, mirroring his movement on the other side so that there was still the table between them, still the amiable homecoming king expression on John's face.
And no, this wasn't good; he'd been playing the different scenarios in his mind -- John being gone altogether and already out of the house, or weirded out and distant, or John coming closer, touching him, letting Rodney touch him, at least. Rodney hadn't counted on John going back to how he'd been before, public persona sliding back into place, acting as if nothing had happened. He knew his voice was spiralling a little higher with every word, but -- "John, I swear, if you're teasing me..."
The answer cut in, fast and harsh. "No! Not any more than I'm --" John broke off, biting his lip, but it didn't take a Rodney McKay to guess the end of his sentence. He tried to quell the wild surge of hope, without success.
"Rodney, listen -- we need to do this my pace, okay?"
"You mean, there is a this?"
Sheppard looked at him with incredulous eyes. "No. I do this every day -- oh, for Christ's sake, Rodney."
The fierceness of this burst made something in his stomach clench painfully, but Rodney thought that perhaps this was John being overwhelmed and frustrated and afraid; it was John being -- not very much in control, and he had to hate that. Still, that was no excuse to say what John said next.
"Just, try to act normal."
Rodney had another free-fall type of moment because this was so stupid, went without saying, didn't take into regard that Rodney, even if he'd wanted to, could hardly have told anybody anyway, and Rodney hadn't ever managed acting normally in the first place, and why didn't John trust him?
Their eyes met one last time, but then John turned on his heel and jogged back upstairs -- fled, really -- and Rodney was standing in the spare Sheppard kitchen, alone with the sweet smell of burning pop-tarts.
A/N:
1. Yes, I gave John a hairy ass. The pics of shaved & glistening naked men circulating in this fandom (forcryinoutloud, I'm looking at you, if with fondness & ;-) may be nice but don't seem very realistic. But of course, I don't mind body hair on others; perfectly normal and natural.
2. Not quite so stream-of-consciousness-y this time, switching the point of view as well as the tense; I'm just experimenting. Much like John and Rodney.
3. Once is a slip-up, twice is en route to a bad habit. Although it occurs to me that, after that happened the last time, I should utter the warning that no one should friend me for my fiction, really; I'm neither proficient* nor prolific enough.
* That said, you must still read auburnnothenna's and my epic when we post it, mmkay? Auburn's talent shines through, I promise.
