I actually started this back when I was still doing coursework so, March maybe? I was scrolling through my WIP folder at the weekend and said to myself "Self: why not doing something useful for a change and actually finish a story?" So here it is:
Title: Stubble on My Sticky Lips
Rating: NC-17. Oh so very NC-17. It's a PWP.
A/N: Huge thank yous to janne_d for beta-ing this and keeping the boys in their places, even though she's poorly. Also, bluebrocade is having a sucky day so this can be for her.
[Disclaimer: So totally not mine; I barely own the shirt on my back.]
The party is the result of the combined plotting of Drs Heightmeyer and Weir. It’s part of their cunning plan to help the new arrivals settle down and make the old hands, most of whom still work with the ingrained franticness born of ever-encroaching doom, relax.
Kate suggested that the senior staff only make brief appearances so as not to make their staff self-conscious. Or as Rodney read it, so the underlings could make out without any snide comments the next day.
But Rodney knows Cadman is sneaking Carson in, so he doesn’t feel bad that he’s currently sitting on one of the hideously uncomfortable benches lining the back wall, Zelenka on one side and a large bottle of lab-distilled moonshine on the other; Rodney’s learned the hard way to always stay between Radek and alcohol if he wants there to be any left for him.
“Look at them,” Radek sighs, nodding at the throng of sweaty people writhing together on the dance floor. “Should not have been legal for us to take so many beautiful people out of the galaxy. I’m sure we have done something irrevocable to the gene pool.”
Rodney rolls his eyes and pours Radek another drink. “There’s no reason why you can’t try your luck. You’re no one’s boss, and you’re not that bad looking.”
Radek glares at him then shakes his head sadly; he’s a maudlin drunk. “I do not dare. You would be amazed how many people wish to use me to get on your good side. They seem to be under mistaken impression that you have one.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Rodney says without any real venom behind it. Rodney knows that’s not the reason and he counts himself lucky that his own unrequited crush doesn’t come with any stupid hang ups that stop him getting laid.
“So,” Radek says after a lot more alcohol and some morose mutual appreciation of the beautiful, young people frolicking in front of them and making Rodney feel very, very old. “When are you going to admit your mad, passionate love to Colonel Sheppard?”
Rodney is drunk enough that he doesn’t choke at that question, but sober enough to make a rational decision to reply. “About the same time you admit yours to Elizabeth?”
Radek goes silent long enough for Rodney to consider apologising. Then he offers up a tight little smile. “Ah. In that case I think we both deserve more alcohol.”
“Yeah,” he’s reaching for it when Radek suddenly elbows him hard in the side and he temporarily forgets the alcohol in annoyance.
He looks up, and oh God, there’s Sheppard. Sheppard, who’s wearing tight black jeans, whose dogtags glitter exotically against an even tighter black t-shirt and who, quite possibly, has a smudge of kohl around each glowing green eye. He looks stunning. More than stunning. He looks like sex.
Rodney groans. He’s half-drunk; he shouldn’t have to deal with this right now. But then Sheppard stops right in front of him, one hand on his hip, the other held out to Rodney and a crooked grin on his stupidly luscious lips.
Rodney looks down at the hand Sheppard has thrust in front of him then back up at Sheppard’s face. “Yes?” he asks, trying for scathing.
Sheppard’s grin doesn’t falter. His eyes are wide and dark and Rodney doesn’t think he’s the only one who’s been sampling the alcohol. “C’mon, McKay. Can’t be a wallflower all your life.”
“Sorry, Colonel,” Rodney says in a way which he hopes conveys how very sorry he isn’t. “I don’t dance.”
“You do now,” Sheppard tells him, smile turning fixed. He gets his hands under Rodney’s arms and Rodney suddenly finds himself on his feet. Whoa. He lurches a little, but he’s not that drunk and Sheppard steadies him. There’s something in Sheppard’s expression that isn’t normally there, something predatory and Rodney feels his heart start to beat faster. He looks back at Radek, but he’s obviously seen an opportunity to nab the moonshine for himself and is no help at all.
“Come on, Rodney,” Sheppard’s voice is husky in his ear. He has to be that close, Rodney tells himself, what with how loud it is in here. “One little dance, what can that hurt?”
Rodney wants to tell him that there are a million things it can hurt. Their reputations; Sheppard’s career; Rodney’s heart, but Sheppard’s hand is firm on the small of his back and Rodney finds himself steered through the crowds and into what has is normally an anteroom off the rec room.
It’s darker here and crowded. It’s like the staff-only party from Dirty Dancing (what? Patrick Swayze was hot and Rodney was very impressionable in 1987); people aren’t so much dancing as writhing and the people who aren’t writhing are making out. People, Rodney realises, whose faces he can’t see, who won’t be able to see his face, won’t be able to see Sheppard’s face.
Whatever’s happening can’t be what Rodney thinks is happening because he and Sheppard have been dealing with the attraction between them just fine by ignoring it for the past three years; if they were changing the rules now surely he would have gotten a memo or something.
“Okay?” Sheppard asks, stopping just behind Rodney, hand warm on the small of his back.
“I, yeah, maybe.”
“Just relax,” Sheppard’s voice, whisper soft and intimate, makes Rodney shudder. He lets Sheppard guide him into the throng and doesn’t let himself jump when Sheppard turns to face him and hands land on his hips, moving him gently in time with the music.
Rodney’s never been comfortable dancing, he has enough grace and rhythm for normal life, but it’s always gotten smothered by the embarrassment of being made to gyrate in public like a trained monkey. He’d be awkward and his arms would be crossed even if this wasn’t Sheppard he was dancing with, but because it is Sheppard it’s twice as humiliating.
But Sheppard doesn’t seem to mind; he’s smiling at Rodney, expression his usual mix of affection and mild exasperation. He’s swaying gracefully with the beat, narrow hips moving in odd little half circles that look astonishingly good. Rodney doesn’t know how it happens, but he finds his arms have come uncrossed and his hands are fitting around Sheppard’s waist, just above the juts of his hipbones.
Sheppard takes a half step forward and slips his arms around Rodney’s neck, body all but plastered against Rodney’s, heat building between them.
Rodney feels himself flush and stares resolutely at their feet, but Sheppard, exasperating man that he is, won’t let Rodney get away with that for long.
“Hey,” he breathes, putting his lips on Rodney’s ear. His breath smells of alcohol. “Do you know how hot you are?”
Rodney looks up in surprise and Sheppard swoops, nudging their lips together, kissing Rodney slowly and deliberately and unbearably hot.
Rodney gives up. He doesn’t care about anything but the feel of Sheppard’s hot lips and scratchy stubble on his mouth, and Sheppard’s hips, loose and sexy, bumping and grinding against his. He slides his hands up Sheppard’s sides, feeling the press of soft, sweaty cotton against his palms. Sheppard deepens the kiss and Rodney’s hands slide up his chest, letting the pads of his fingers brush Sheppard’s erect little nipples, making them both moan.
“Fuck, Rodney,” Sheppard pants, his forehead resting on Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney tweaks his nipples again and his hips stutter forward, desperately. “Rodney, please.”
“Yes,” Rodney breathes. “Yes. Where?”
Sheppard’s fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him across the room. Rodney expects them to go back to one of their rooms, but Sheppard leads him into a small alcove and through a door Rodney recognises all too well.
“Oh no,” he says, pulling up, “We are not having sex in a bathroom. Do you have no self-preservation at all? We can’t do this here, someone might come in.”
Sheppard’s eyes when he looks up are so dark that Rodney temporarily loses his train of thought. “Please, Rodney.”
And okay, Sheppard wants this, clearly has a kink about something in this situation. Rodney really shouldn’t agree to this, one of them has to be sensible, but he lets himself be led through the – thankfully empty – bathroom and into one of cubicles.
Ancient bathrooms are different from Earth ones, but they still have cubicles with lockable doors, which are still cramped and really not big enough for two grown men.
Sheppard shoves him hard against the door the moment it closes behind them. His hands are frantic and rough as they tear Rodney’s shirt out of his pants, and fumble with his belt. Rodney mimics the motion and, when they’re both bare-chested, shirts pushed up under their arms, Sheppard crowds up against him, both of them groaning in relief when naked chests and stomachs touch.
“I, yes,” Sheppard moans. “Fuck.” He’s flushed and drunk and aroused and beautiful and Rodney can’t resist pulling him in and kissing him. Sheppard melts against him and lets Rodney turn him around so he’s the one with his back pressed to the door. Rodney's knees give out almost by themselves, but when he finds himself kneeling in front of Sheppard, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Sheppard’s fly is zip, which is good; Rodney’s shaking fingers probably couldn’t cope with buttons at this moment. The little metal tag is too inviting and Rodney catches it with his teeth, vaguely aware he looks stupid, but not caring, Sheppard’s smell is strong and musky this close to his body and he’s making helpless little jerking movements as Rodney pulls down with his teeth and pauses to nuzzle the line where crotch meets thigh.
Sheppard’s whimpering by the time Rodney sits back, and Rodney slides his hand inside the open fly, not pausing to release the top button. Sheppard’s cock is full and dark and the sharp little zipper teeth gleam silver and dangerous around it, perilously close, but Rodney has no intention of letting him get hurt. His tongue snakes out to taste and Sheppard makes a breathless keening noise.
“Shh,” Rodney hisses, but he does so around his first mouthful of cock and it doesn’t really have the right effect.
He hasn’t sucked cock in far too long, but he easily remembers how. He spent many teenage nights training himself out of his gag reflex, and it’s obvious Sheppard appreciates the effort when his cock hits the back of Rodney’s throat and he tenses, fingers scrambling frantically at Rodney’s shoulders.
Rodney reaches up and grips one of Sheppard’s hands, guides it into his hair, giving permission. Permission which makes Sheppard’s cock swell impossibly more, but which he doesn’t take advantage of. Sheppard’s fingers comb through Rodney’s hair, but he seems content to let Rodney control the pace.
Rodney draws back, almost all the way, catching Sheppard’s cockhead on his tongue just as it’s about to fall from his mouth, then sinks slowly forward again. Sheppard’s cock is wet and smooth and glides easily in and out of Rodney’s mouth. Sheppard is making hot little moans, strangely muffled, and when Rodney looks up, he sees Sheppard has a hand stuffed in his mouth, trying not to make any noise. It’s so hot that Rodney’s own cock presses even harder against the front of his pants.
He keeps looking at Sheppard, unable to look away, Sheppard’s eyes are open and when they lock with Rodney’s they grow wider and then he’s coming down Rodney’s throat.
When the pulsing subsides, Rodney swallows, licks him clean, and carefully tucks him back into his jeans. Rodney stands up awkwardly and finds John just opening his eyes. He looks drunk and dizzy and Rodney grips his upper arms, planning to lower him down onto the closed toilet lid.
John though, John seems to have other ideas. He sways into Rodney, mouth going to Rodney’s neck, licking sloppy kisses up his throat, biting at his jaw, hard enough that Rodney flinches.
“Fuck me,” John says in his ear, breath warm and voice low and growling, like he’s been swallowing gravel or drinking whiskey on some dark porch with cicadas chirping in the background.
“What? No.” Rodney means yes; he means God yes; he wishes he were drunker.
John bites his earlobe, sharp incisors catching delicate skin. “Don’t you want to fuck me?” he asks.
John steps back bumping the wall; there’s no room for this in here. He undoes the jeans Rodney has just fastened, letting them slide off his hips and pool at his feet. His boxers follow and he kicks them away, then takes a sauntering step back to Rodney, pressing against him, naked skin so hot Rodney can feel it through the denim of his own pants.
Rodney stares at him, stupid with lust and want and shouldn’t-have. John smirks just before he kisses him, before he fucks Rodney’s mouth with his tongue, slow and languid, takes Rodney’s hand and guides it to the curve of his, John’s, ass.
There are two ways they can do this in here: he can bend John over the toilet, fuck him from behind, or John can take Rodney’s hand, push on his shoulder until he sits down and John can straddle him, take the tip of his cock inside and push down slowly. John goes for the second option, so slow and controlled that Rodney’s heart threatens to burst and his hips push up uselessly, helpless against the weight of John’s thighs pinning him down.
Rodney moans when he’s all the way inside John. It’s hot and tight, and for all that John is behaving like a barroom slut Rodney doesn’t think he can have done this often. John’s head falls back like his neck can’t support it any more and Rodney catches his shoulders, holding him up, leans forward and runs his teeth down the exposed line of John’s neck, not biting just catching the tiny hairs with his teeth. John shivers.
John’s cock is soft and sticky between his legs, balls bumping against Rodney’s stomach. Rodney cups his hand over it, playing softly and John hisses when it starts to fill. Rodney thinks this has got to hurt, it’s too soon after John came, but John’s hips press up to meet him, sliding up into Rodney’s hand, up and down Rodney’s cock. It’s slow and lazy, too slow to make Rodney come but too good for him to ignore.
Finally, he snaps, grabs John’s hip with his free hand, fitting his thumb in the concave hollow shadowing John’s hipbone, stilling him.
John moans a protest, then stops suddenly when Rodney starts stripping his cock in earnest, groaning low and fervent, letting his head roll drunkenly on his shoulders. He comes easily, sighing out his pleasure, and what might be Rodney’s name.
He’s lax and pliant and half asleep but Rodney isn’t, he needs to come right fucking now, and it’s a good thing John doesn’t protest when Rodney shoves him off, presses John’s hands against the smooth, grey wall, only stopping to check he can support himself before pushing back inside and fucking him, hard and fast, pressing his mouth to the ridges of John’s spine while John makes a low rumbling sound in his throat and Rodney thunders into his orgasm.
It’s awkward, afterwards. John is red-faced and debauched, he winces when he bends to pick up his pants and there’s a splatter of come on his inner thigh; Rodney doesn’t know where to look. He clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “If you’re done with your fantasy of drunk, seedy sex, I think I’ll go to bed.”
John looks up abruptly, head snapping up with a little popping noise. “No.” His voice is still scratchy; he could almost be someone else. “Come back to my room.”
Rodney shakes his head. “You’re pretty drunk.”
John looks down and away. “I can’t do this when I’m sober,” he tells Rodney, eyes losing some of their shine.
Rodney can picture it: John Sheppard at twenty-one, twenty-two, a year or so into the Academy. Going to a bar, drinking too much, discovering a boundary he hasn’t tested, pushing against it and finding it matters. Running away from it because John doesn’t like knowing things about himself: other people matter to John Sheppard, John Sheppard never has.
“My room?” he asks, because he honestly isn’t drunk enough and sometimes he’s too soft for his own good.
Rodney hadn’t expected John to stay the night, even when he was finally falling into an orgasm-induced coma some time around five hundred hours, he’d expected John would be gone when he woke up.
Instead, John is sucking his cock.
Rodney cracks his eyes open and groans, it starts as an Oh my God, the light, the light kind of groan and rapidly morphs into a Nothing has ever felt as good as the mouth on my dick one.
John looks up at him from under dark eyelashes and Rodney knows he’s smirking even if his lips don’t change position. Considering their position is stretched and shiny and wrapped around the head of his cock, Rodney is not complaining about this.
John gives blow jobs like he fucks, slow and lazy, messy and wet, inexperienced but enthusiastic. It frustrated the hell out of Rodney last night, but now it’s exactly what he needs and when he comes it’s a surprise, almost an accident.
He reaches down and strokes his fingers over John’s cheek bones. John has pulled off and is lying quietly, face pressed to Rodney’s groin; Rodney feels like he’s petting his cat, except Hawking and he never had that kind of relationship.
Rodney can feel John hard against his leg and as he pets him John begins to move, gentle, unhurried thrusts that bring him off slowly and give Rodney plenty of time to learn the shape of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the different textures of his eyebrows, cowlicks and eyelashes.
John’s quiet afterwards. He sits up and brushes the hair out of his eyes. He offers Rodney a smile and Rodney feels light, looser than he knows is smart. “I thought you couldn’t do this sober?” he says.
The look on John’s face makes Rodney wish he’d kept quiet. It isn’t annoyed or embarrassed or caught out or any of the things Rodney was hoping to see. It’s stricken.
John gets off the bed and fumbles through his clothes.
Rodney forces himself to lie back in bed, to stretch like he doesn’t care and say, “Zelenka's rot gut packs a punch; you shouldn’t fly today, it’s probably still knocking around in your system.”
The relief on John’s face makes Rodney feel sick in a way that has nothing to do with his low-grade hangover.
Rodney watches John as he gets dressed and gets ready to go; he’s putting up walls as he pulls on clothes. Rodney hadn’t realised how open John was last night until he sees him now, until he realises that this isn’t John with walls, this is John; the person last night was the novelty.
“Do you think you might be getting drunk again?” Rodney wants to bite his tongue out, but he’s already said it, and anyway it would be a waste to science if he couldn’t get his ideas out as efficiently as possible.
John doesn’t turn around, but he stops and he shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Rodney.” The hard line of his back looks miserable, but that isn’t any conciliation.
It takes six days; Rodney has just about given up. His last bottle of whiskey has been on the side board all the week, two tumblers beside it, just waiting.
When John arrives, it’s past midnight. They get drunk and they fuck. It’s another four days before he’s back again and nearly two weeks after that. They still drink before every time, but after two months, it’s down to one shot, one drink.
The day John comes to his room and walks past the side table, doesn’t even look at the whiskey, just strips off his shirt and crawls up the bed to straddle Rodney’s thighs and kiss him, Rodney feels drunker than he ever has before.
Notes: Title from Michael by Franz Ferdinand.