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.porny ficlet: Unified Field (McKay/Sheppard) NC17
Just a pornlet... c. 1900 words.
Title: Unified Field
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for... well, you know.
Disclaimer: Not mine x 10 (to the seventeenth power).
Advertisements: Physics. Sex. First time with the McKay/Sheppard porn-ness, for both me and them. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #35 (PWP).
Quick spoiler note: Takes place after "Epiphany."
Notes: Porn for lunch. Mmm, porn.
UNIFIED FIELD
The potential energy in the human body, if released, would be roughly equivalent to that produced by thirty hydrogen bombs. It’s true.* And right now he feels like all he is is energy, kinetic, enough in him to power a small city, and he can’t ever remember feeling like this before.
Except maybe once, barely on the other side of yesterday, when he’d seen Sheppard standing in that field, and he’d allowed himself to entertain – briefly – the relief that they hadn’t come back through that force field thingy to find Sheppard eighty years older with grandkids and a bad hip. And then that girl had told Sheppard he could ascend with them if he wanted, and for a terrifying second Rodney had thought John was actually going to go, but then he hadn’t and there was relief again.
Yes, relief. Because he had been worried. Perfectly logical, to be worried about one’s teammate. However, that theory does not account for certain subsequent events, i.e. the ones happening right this instant.
There is, he knows, a logical explanation for this, a series of causes and effects as neat and inevitable as relativity. At the moment, though, he’s not quite sure what that explanation would be, and if it weren’t for the distraction of John’s forehead pressed between his shoulder blades, sliding along his spine, he’d be able to find it.
He would, of course. He’s Rodney McKay.
Only right now he’s Rodney McKay with a very naked John Sheppard draped atop him, and that (as we have said before) makes thinking kind of difficult.
Okay, very difficult.
Fine. Impossible.
But you’d figure Rodney’d be able to think despite that distraction, because – let’s face it – he’s gotten used to thinking under pressure in the past couple of years because you really can’t save Atlantis or your teammates if you’re easily distracted. But somehow the Wraith, the Genii, horrible evil nanoviruses, or whatever have never managed to be as distracting as John’s mouth and tongue trailing down his spine, the hands – calluses on the fingers from fighting and flying – working across his chest, over his nipples, his ribs, down and down and down and –
God. And that’s so not his voice, this choky and desperate voice, and that’s not John laughing, a vibration Rodney can feel pretty much everywhere, hot breath against his neck, hitch and press of flesh all along his back. And he’s not supposed to be thinking about this, how really fucking great this feels, because this is not supposed to be happening, there’s no way he can account for it, it’s completely illogical and wonderful and please, God, John keep doing that thing right there.
Only John stops, and Rodney is most certainly not going to beg him to start again, because Rodney McKay most emphatically does not beg anyone, certainly not John Sheppard, to do something. The heat and pressure of John’s body vanishes, and Rodney’s wondering dazedly where it went, slide of cool air across his back making him shiver.
“C’mon,” John says, voice low, rougher than usual. “Turn over.”
Obediently Rodney does, because at the moment? He’s not really sure he can do anything except follow basic instructions. He props himself up on his elbows, blinking up at John and wondering what the hell he’s doing, why he’s asked this, because Rodney felt infinitely more comfortable staring at the weave of his pillowcase. Now, though, the light in his quarters is absurdly bright, even though the Ancients seem to have had a penchant for low mood lighting, and he thinks that they really need to turn it off because if anyone walked in they’d see... see this.
Not that having the lights off would make that much of a difference, but still.
“Stop thinking, Rodney,” John says, bringing Rodney back from the edge of digression. Stern, with an edge of Sheppardian humor that usually drives Rodney crazy. It doesn’t this time because John’s hair is plastered to his forehead and spiking up raggedly in the back, and his chest is damp and bright with sweat, arms and side like they’re painted with wet light. Naked and aroused and completely unashamed of both these things, and he looks really, really good, staring at Rodney intently like he likes looking at Rodney as much as Rodney likes looking at him.
Self-consciousness floods over him, because really, he’s a scientist not a supermodel, and he’s still not quite in shape, little reservoirs of fat and his mouth is kind of weird-looking and he knows his eyes get kind of big and crazy-looking when he’s nervous and he’s sure his hairline is receding by the second. But John’s looking at him,looking at him like none of that matters, cataloguing but not assessing, and there’s that smile that manages to be warm and sarcastic and teasing, John’s ‘I can read your mind’ smile, and Rodney wonders what the hell it is that John is seeing.
“Stop. Thinking,” John says again, very slowly as though he can impress the words in Rodney’s brain. Normally, Rodney would reply with something like that’s asking the impossible, but this definitely not normal, because John is naked and John is sliding low across Rodney’s body, pushing him back into the pillows, effortlessly moving between Rodney’s legs like this is the easiest thing in the world.
And why the hell is it so easy? John’s kissing him, no big deal, tongue in Rodney’s mouth and stealing breath like they do this every day, like they’ve had time to get used to each other. He’s already found out that Rodney’s ribs are a sensitive spot, and that biting him dangerously close to a nipple will make Rodney yelp in the most embarrassing way, and that for all Rodney’s off-the-charts IQ his brain has very little space invested in self-control. Because... God, Rodney, you really shouldn’t be this easy. And stop writhing, goddammit.
It doesn’t help that Rodney’s so terribly awkward – but give him a break, he doesn’t do this every day (though he could, if he wanted to) – trying to think and touch and kiss all at the same time. John’s making these small approving noises low in his throat, chest vibrating with them when he presses closer against Rodney, falling into a rhythm of hard, steady thrusts and encouraging Rodney to come along.
Which Rodney does, because John makes it seem so simple, and once he finds that rhythm it’s utterly, perfectly simple, inevitable, one more thing they have between them, maybe the only thing that isn’t complicated. John’s saying something that Rodney shouldn’t be able to understand but somehow does, a low fervent tumble of words and breath.
He’s so caught up in it, mind blank of anything except the tension in his lower body, the pleasure already spiking up along his spine, rhythm second nature now, that when John’s hand closes around both their cocks, firm and relentless pressure, he almost jumps off the bed. Definitely loses the rhythm, breathless and embarrassed, but John doesn’t seem to care, only kisses him deeply enough to pull his mind away from anything that doesn’t have to do with John’s hands and John’s mouth, the smell of both of them folded together.
“Good, fuck, great,” John murmurs against Rodney’s mouth, harder thrust definitely positive reinforcement, pulling Rodney along and it’s like trying to resist a black hole. No choice but to go with it, go with John and help the two of them along because he will explode, he’s certain, if something doesn’t happen soon.
John twists down into him as he twists up, burn of hot skin together, friction that he can’t believe, too good and too unreal, and John’s watching him – Rodney can tell even though his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t know how he knows this – like he’s something important, like there’s a reason for what’s happening right now. The reason Rodney can’t find because his neurons are shorting out, and it’s clichéd and dumb but he thinks he might actually die from this if John doesn’t save him, doesn’t pull him back
And maybe that’s why this is happening... because they’ve gotten so used to saving each other’s lives, it’s sort of expected. That, if they can’t save anyone else, they can at least save each other.
Way too much in that thought to contemplate, now or ever, but especially now with John watching him, knowing that something’s on Rodney’s mind that doesn’t have anything to with quantum mechanics.
“C’mon, Rodney,” coaxing and low and really hot, and the way John says his name... Rodney can’t describe it, can’t do anything except give up because this is way, way too much for him to handle, and when he comes it’s sudden and sharp and unexpected, sweep of white light and fire. He can feel his own come sticky against his chest, mixing with his sweat and John’s.
When John comes it almost hurts, hard press of his hips against Rodney’s inner thighs, hand tightening on the two of them, and yeah that hurts but it’s also good, and God they’re going to stick together, scent different now – sweat and come, the weird, indefinable scent that hides in the humid curve of John’s neck.
Hard breathing around skin, and with John on top of him, but Rodney manages. His heart is kabooming alarmingly, about to break out of his chest, and he can feel the echo of John’s heartbeat – also satisfyingly fast, and Rodney doesn’t feel so pathetic. Absently his fingers drift up and down John’s body, hard and flat planes very unlike Rodney’s (but, as we’ve said, he’s a scientist), twitch and jump of muscle that Rodney likes.
And it’s nice, touching John like this. Much nicer than it should be, but Rodney doesn’t stop until John comes back to himself and rolls off to laze next to him, sprawled elegant and unselfconscious across Rodney’s bed in a way Rodney knows he’ll never be able to manage, gaze warm and intimate on Rodney’s skin, watchful despite that. Briefly, he wonders what the hell John’s doing here, because saving lives and having sex are two entirely different things and because there are tons of hot pre-Ascension women in the universe. And men too, he supposes.
Speaking of which, he has to ask.
“Were you really thinking about going with them?” Rodney asks when it becomes clear John will wait all night until he breaks, still careful to keep anything remotely resembling worry from his voice. John probably hears it anyways, from the appraising look the question gets and the silence that’s unexpectedly thoughtful, like John is taking this – this weird midnight post-mission whatever-it-is – seriously.
“Nah.” John shrugs. “I’d have to give up hot, dirty sex... I don’t think you get to have that after you’ve Ascended.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What? I like hot, dirty sex.” John pauses. “They probably don’t have football, either.”
“Or hockey.”
“Or hockey,” John agrees, habitual half-smile sliding flawlessly into place. Softer look in his eyes, though, that takes the edge off the teasing, and that’s something Rodney’s never seen.
“So... the next time you’re planning on being sucked into a time warp, you’ll give me advance notice, right?” Very careful and casual, Rodney, because there’s a lot more in this question than you want John to answer.
John, though, is inconveniently perceptive.
“Promise,” John says, easy as that.
-end-
* = according to Kip S. Thorne. What a cool thought. Kaboom!
On the title: According to my admittedly limited knowledge of physics (hey, I study English Lit.) a Unified Field Theory, should it be found, would unify the four known forces (gravity, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear forces) that govern pretty much everything in the universe, premised as it is on the belief that these forces can all be accounted for by some underlying unifying structure or concept. No one's actually been able to come up with it so far, though I seem to recall that Rodney makes a passing reference to his own attempts to find a UFT in "The Hot Zone."
In other news: The WaT porn shall come very, very soon... It's almost done, and I need to send it out for some translation stuff. cos there is the Spanish.
Title: Unified Field
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating/Warnings: NC17 for... well, you know.
Disclaimer: Not mine x 10 (to the seventeenth power).
Advertisements: Physics. Sex. First time with the McKay/Sheppard porn-ness, for both me and them. Written for
wordclaim50 challenge #35 (PWP).Quick spoiler note: Takes place after "Epiphany."
Notes: Porn for lunch. Mmm, porn.
UNIFIED FIELD
The potential energy in the human body, if released, would be roughly equivalent to that produced by thirty hydrogen bombs. It’s true.* And right now he feels like all he is is energy, kinetic, enough in him to power a small city, and he can’t ever remember feeling like this before.
Except maybe once, barely on the other side of yesterday, when he’d seen Sheppard standing in that field, and he’d allowed himself to entertain – briefly – the relief that they hadn’t come back through that force field thingy to find Sheppard eighty years older with grandkids and a bad hip. And then that girl had told Sheppard he could ascend with them if he wanted, and for a terrifying second Rodney had thought John was actually going to go, but then he hadn’t and there was relief again.
Yes, relief. Because he had been worried. Perfectly logical, to be worried about one’s teammate. However, that theory does not account for certain subsequent events, i.e. the ones happening right this instant.
There is, he knows, a logical explanation for this, a series of causes and effects as neat and inevitable as relativity. At the moment, though, he’s not quite sure what that explanation would be, and if it weren’t for the distraction of John’s forehead pressed between his shoulder blades, sliding along his spine, he’d be able to find it.
He would, of course. He’s Rodney McKay.
Only right now he’s Rodney McKay with a very naked John Sheppard draped atop him, and that (as we have said before) makes thinking kind of difficult.
Okay, very difficult.
Fine. Impossible.
But you’d figure Rodney’d be able to think despite that distraction, because – let’s face it – he’s gotten used to thinking under pressure in the past couple of years because you really can’t save Atlantis or your teammates if you’re easily distracted. But somehow the Wraith, the Genii, horrible evil nanoviruses, or whatever have never managed to be as distracting as John’s mouth and tongue trailing down his spine, the hands – calluses on the fingers from fighting and flying – working across his chest, over his nipples, his ribs, down and down and down and –
God. And that’s so not his voice, this choky and desperate voice, and that’s not John laughing, a vibration Rodney can feel pretty much everywhere, hot breath against his neck, hitch and press of flesh all along his back. And he’s not supposed to be thinking about this, how really fucking great this feels, because this is not supposed to be happening, there’s no way he can account for it, it’s completely illogical and wonderful and please, God, John keep doing that thing right there.
Only John stops, and Rodney is most certainly not going to beg him to start again, because Rodney McKay most emphatically does not beg anyone, certainly not John Sheppard, to do something. The heat and pressure of John’s body vanishes, and Rodney’s wondering dazedly where it went, slide of cool air across his back making him shiver.
“C’mon,” John says, voice low, rougher than usual. “Turn over.”
Obediently Rodney does, because at the moment? He’s not really sure he can do anything except follow basic instructions. He props himself up on his elbows, blinking up at John and wondering what the hell he’s doing, why he’s asked this, because Rodney felt infinitely more comfortable staring at the weave of his pillowcase. Now, though, the light in his quarters is absurdly bright, even though the Ancients seem to have had a penchant for low mood lighting, and he thinks that they really need to turn it off because if anyone walked in they’d see... see this.
Not that having the lights off would make that much of a difference, but still.
“Stop thinking, Rodney,” John says, bringing Rodney back from the edge of digression. Stern, with an edge of Sheppardian humor that usually drives Rodney crazy. It doesn’t this time because John’s hair is plastered to his forehead and spiking up raggedly in the back, and his chest is damp and bright with sweat, arms and side like they’re painted with wet light. Naked and aroused and completely unashamed of both these things, and he looks really, really good, staring at Rodney intently like he likes looking at Rodney as much as Rodney likes looking at him.
Self-consciousness floods over him, because really, he’s a scientist not a supermodel, and he’s still not quite in shape, little reservoirs of fat and his mouth is kind of weird-looking and he knows his eyes get kind of big and crazy-looking when he’s nervous and he’s sure his hairline is receding by the second. But John’s looking at him,looking at him like none of that matters, cataloguing but not assessing, and there’s that smile that manages to be warm and sarcastic and teasing, John’s ‘I can read your mind’ smile, and Rodney wonders what the hell it is that John is seeing.
“Stop. Thinking,” John says again, very slowly as though he can impress the words in Rodney’s brain. Normally, Rodney would reply with something like that’s asking the impossible, but this definitely not normal, because John is naked and John is sliding low across Rodney’s body, pushing him back into the pillows, effortlessly moving between Rodney’s legs like this is the easiest thing in the world.
And why the hell is it so easy? John’s kissing him, no big deal, tongue in Rodney’s mouth and stealing breath like they do this every day, like they’ve had time to get used to each other. He’s already found out that Rodney’s ribs are a sensitive spot, and that biting him dangerously close to a nipple will make Rodney yelp in the most embarrassing way, and that for all Rodney’s off-the-charts IQ his brain has very little space invested in self-control. Because... God, Rodney, you really shouldn’t be this easy. And stop writhing, goddammit.
It doesn’t help that Rodney’s so terribly awkward – but give him a break, he doesn’t do this every day (though he could, if he wanted to) – trying to think and touch and kiss all at the same time. John’s making these small approving noises low in his throat, chest vibrating with them when he presses closer against Rodney, falling into a rhythm of hard, steady thrusts and encouraging Rodney to come along.
Which Rodney does, because John makes it seem so simple, and once he finds that rhythm it’s utterly, perfectly simple, inevitable, one more thing they have between them, maybe the only thing that isn’t complicated. John’s saying something that Rodney shouldn’t be able to understand but somehow does, a low fervent tumble of words and breath.
He’s so caught up in it, mind blank of anything except the tension in his lower body, the pleasure already spiking up along his spine, rhythm second nature now, that when John’s hand closes around both their cocks, firm and relentless pressure, he almost jumps off the bed. Definitely loses the rhythm, breathless and embarrassed, but John doesn’t seem to care, only kisses him deeply enough to pull his mind away from anything that doesn’t have to do with John’s hands and John’s mouth, the smell of both of them folded together.
“Good, fuck, great,” John murmurs against Rodney’s mouth, harder thrust definitely positive reinforcement, pulling Rodney along and it’s like trying to resist a black hole. No choice but to go with it, go with John and help the two of them along because he will explode, he’s certain, if something doesn’t happen soon.
John twists down into him as he twists up, burn of hot skin together, friction that he can’t believe, too good and too unreal, and John’s watching him – Rodney can tell even though his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t know how he knows this – like he’s something important, like there’s a reason for what’s happening right now. The reason Rodney can’t find because his neurons are shorting out, and it’s clichéd and dumb but he thinks he might actually die from this if John doesn’t save him, doesn’t pull him back
And maybe that’s why this is happening... because they’ve gotten so used to saving each other’s lives, it’s sort of expected. That, if they can’t save anyone else, they can at least save each other.
Way too much in that thought to contemplate, now or ever, but especially now with John watching him, knowing that something’s on Rodney’s mind that doesn’t have anything to with quantum mechanics.
“C’mon, Rodney,” coaxing and low and really hot, and the way John says his name... Rodney can’t describe it, can’t do anything except give up because this is way, way too much for him to handle, and when he comes it’s sudden and sharp and unexpected, sweep of white light and fire. He can feel his own come sticky against his chest, mixing with his sweat and John’s.
When John comes it almost hurts, hard press of his hips against Rodney’s inner thighs, hand tightening on the two of them, and yeah that hurts but it’s also good, and God they’re going to stick together, scent different now – sweat and come, the weird, indefinable scent that hides in the humid curve of John’s neck.
Hard breathing around skin, and with John on top of him, but Rodney manages. His heart is kabooming alarmingly, about to break out of his chest, and he can feel the echo of John’s heartbeat – also satisfyingly fast, and Rodney doesn’t feel so pathetic. Absently his fingers drift up and down John’s body, hard and flat planes very unlike Rodney’s (but, as we’ve said, he’s a scientist), twitch and jump of muscle that Rodney likes.
And it’s nice, touching John like this. Much nicer than it should be, but Rodney doesn’t stop until John comes back to himself and rolls off to laze next to him, sprawled elegant and unselfconscious across Rodney’s bed in a way Rodney knows he’ll never be able to manage, gaze warm and intimate on Rodney’s skin, watchful despite that. Briefly, he wonders what the hell John’s doing here, because saving lives and having sex are two entirely different things and because there are tons of hot pre-Ascension women in the universe. And men too, he supposes.
Speaking of which, he has to ask.
“Were you really thinking about going with them?” Rodney asks when it becomes clear John will wait all night until he breaks, still careful to keep anything remotely resembling worry from his voice. John probably hears it anyways, from the appraising look the question gets and the silence that’s unexpectedly thoughtful, like John is taking this – this weird midnight post-mission whatever-it-is – seriously.
“Nah.” John shrugs. “I’d have to give up hot, dirty sex... I don’t think you get to have that after you’ve Ascended.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What? I like hot, dirty sex.” John pauses. “They probably don’t have football, either.”
“Or hockey.”
“Or hockey,” John agrees, habitual half-smile sliding flawlessly into place. Softer look in his eyes, though, that takes the edge off the teasing, and that’s something Rodney’s never seen.
“So... the next time you’re planning on being sucked into a time warp, you’ll give me advance notice, right?” Very careful and casual, Rodney, because there’s a lot more in this question than you want John to answer.
John, though, is inconveniently perceptive.
“Promise,” John says, easy as that.
-end-
* = according to Kip S. Thorne. What a cool thought. Kaboom!
On the title: According to my admittedly limited knowledge of physics (hey, I study English Lit.) a Unified Field Theory, should it be found, would unify the four known forces (gravity, electromagnetism, and the strong and weak nuclear forces) that govern pretty much everything in the universe, premised as it is on the belief that these forces can all be accounted for by some underlying unifying structure or concept. No one's actually been able to come up with it so far, though I seem to recall that Rodney makes a passing reference to his own attempts to find a UFT in "The Hot Zone."
In other news: The WaT porn shall come very, very soon... It's almost done, and I need to send it out for some translation stuff. cos there is the Spanish.
no subject
Then, write more!!
And thanks for your reply to my comment. Cheers!
no subject
I shall do my level best! Already have a couple ideas that just need proper fermentation :)