So, who isn't going to Harry Potter tonight?

[aesc]

Like the subject says, who isn't going (or depending on time zone, hasn't gone) to the midnight release?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Crickets?

Comments

[aesc.livejournal.com]

Sloppy dark hair, tan and kind of sweaty from the warm day. No. wait. Cat. About the cat. Shedding, all over the place. Aviator glasses, the kind that went out in the eighties, and what's going on behind them Rodney has no idea.

"It's spring," he offers feebly, and the delivery guy nods behind his aviators, very slowly as though dealing with someone with brain damage (and he kind of is, Rodney realizes with distant horror).

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

"So. Uh. Yes. Well, nice to meet you, you probably have - you know. A package." He blushes crimson as soon as the words are out of his mouth. "Packages. Other packages. Packages belonging to - oh hell." He looks at the floor.

[dogeared.livejournal.com]

(But not before he swears he sees the delivery guy look down his own body and then shoot a glance at Rodney's, and, wow, really? Wow. Rodney's not entirely sure what to do with that. And he really, really hopes he's expecting another delivery tomorrow.)

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

"Well, I'd best get back to delivering my . . . package," the delivery guy says. "I'm John, by the way. I always do this route."

[dogeared.livejournal.com]

"I'm Dr. McKay," Rodney says. "Rodney. Dr. Rodney McKay." The delivery guy - John - smirks and brandishes his electronic clipboard. "I know. Already got your autograph. Plus, you know, package has your name on it."

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"Yes. Yes. Of course you do. Of course it is." Rodney thinks about smacking himself in the face with John's electronic clipboard, or maybe just dying of terminal humiliation.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

"And I'm very smart," Rodney says. "Seriously. LIke - a genius."

"Like a genius, or a genius?" John asks with a smirk and a tilt of his head.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

[like this one better *g*]

"A supergenius," Rodney says, relieved to be talking about his intelligence. It's familiar ground, and safe, even though he can see the teasing behind those ridiculous aviators.

[dogeared.livejournal.com]

"Oh, super," John says. Rodney can't quite tell whether he's impressed or not. He notices the patch that reads "SHEPPARD" on John's brown shirt. He's not quite sure why he wants the delivery guy to be impressed.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

"Yes. Super. Super - super - I . . . okay, I have to go now. I have very important books to read and you are quite largely unclothed and bad for my brain. In a good way. I mean - something. Yes. Nice to meet you and - " Rodney shuts the door and rushes to his computer, orders four books by next-day delivery.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

(Oh, Rodney.)

Later on, after he manages to rid himself of John Sheppard and his crazy dark hair and sunglasses and his stupid brown shorts, he thinks about canceling his order.

He sends the cursor skittering around the screen, hovering over the CANCEL ORDER button, tells himself he really doesn't need these books (because they're utter crap) and it's not like he's obsessed or anything, but then again he kind of does need these books (because they're utter crap and their authors need to know it) and, well...

"Oh my God," Rodney says to his faint reflection in the monitor. "Oh, my God."

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

He has a crush. He has a big, ridiculous, hairy crush on the delivery guy - John. John the barely-clothed UPS man of doom. John the leg-flashing book handler of lewdness. John the scorching-hot, aviator-sunglass-wearing strumpet.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

The problem with his crushes, Rodney knows, is that they tend, very rapidly, to develop into what most people would call "disturbing obsession."

And John, in whose mouth package becomes something other than three-day ground from the University of Chicago Press, has just set the new speed record.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

Oh shit. He just thought the words "John, in whose mouth" and now it's going to be nothing but cocksucking dreams 'til sunup.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

The problem with being a genius (a supergenius) is that Rodney remembers things really well. Things like John's mouth, moist like he'd licked it when sweat beaded on his upper lip. Also things like John's tongue, which Rodney really hadn't seen but can imagine very clearly, licking salt water away.

And John's stubble, which would be rough against Rodney's thighs, and John's breath, which would be warm.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

Rodney swallows and gathers his dignity around him - he is not going to jack off, again, alone, thinking of John the Beyond The Telling Of It Hot Delivery Guy. He's going to get a good night's rest - after drinking two, three beers - and tomorrow this will all be a bad dream.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

At least it will be a bad dream until John shows up wearing that grin and his... his tarty brown shorts, carrying his electronic clipboard and Rodney's absolutely very necessary books.

Maybe, he thinks, he should switch to hard liquor. Vodka-induced amnesia would almost be worth the hangover. But the problem with that is that vodka makes him stupid and horny (which he already is, but this is completely beside the point), and so it'll be a horrible vicious circle of drinking and imagining John's moise mouth wrapped around his cock and jerking off and drinking and imagining and jerking off until it finally stops at unconsciousness.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

Bad unconsciousness. The kind he experienced on that exchange trip to Siberia in '92 when he woke up without his shirt and 'I love Ivan' written across his nipples in lipstick.

He shivers. Maybe if he just stays awake all night and watches - something. On TV. He has 1286184 channels of cable and -

Why is the doorbell ringing at this hour?

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"Ignoring. Ignoring!" Rodney stomps into the living room and is about to graft himself onto the couch when he realizes it's quite possible that, in his John-induced fugue state, he'd ordered pizza or flowers or something and had forgotten about it. He's done weirder things under far less influence.

Hoping he's at least ordered something palatable and not involving citrus, Rodney pulls open his door.

"Oh," he says, because there's not really anything else to say.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

"It's a bit unconventional," John says, hitching one shoulder in something Rodney supposes is nonchalence. "But you looked like a guy who could use a beer." He lifts the six pack in his hand.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"I could -- yes. Yes I could."

John's decently covered up now, in indecent dark jeans that hang off his ass and a shirt that hints delicately at the long torso underneath it. It's weird, seeing him holding a pack of--Rodney squints.

"Please tell me that isn't Budweiser. Please."

[dogeared.livejournal.com]

"Nah," John says. "Local microbrew—it's got raspberries in it." He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Rodney can feel his face scrunch up.

"I think that's actually worse. And also, really surprisingly girly."

John looks like he's possibly slightly irritated now, or maybe he's just worn out from a long day of delivering things to people, but he sounds exceedingly bland when he says, "Well, Rodney, I can take my girly beer and go home if that's the way you – "

"No! No, I mean, I have a couch. It's a really nice couch."

[aesc.livejournal.com]

(Raspberries! asdjlkf!)

One of John's eyebrows lifts. That's all it does, this speaking, silent arch that makes Rodney hear what he just said (I have a couch, and I think it would be great if the two of us could be on it together) and try to take it back.

"Well, I mean, if you want to watch TV. But if you don't I have chairs. In the kitchen."

"Whichever," John says complacently, tapping his girly microbrewery raspberry beer against one thigh and being absolutely no help at all.

[dogeared.livejournal.com]

And when he stands aside, stops blocking the doorway with his body, John takes it for the invitation it is, steps over the threshold, drifts naturally in the direction of Rodney's den, and all Rodney can do is follow.

[sheafrotherdon.livejournal.com]

John's the kind of guy who has a beer pull on his key chain - of course he is, Rodney thinks a little desperately - and he pops the caps from two beers, falls back onto Rodney's couch, kicks up his feet onto Rodney's coffee table, and all in all makes himself at home as if this is his twentieth late-night visit, not his first.