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apple_pi (John/Rodney) NC17
Very much needed decompression in the form of pornlet, a companion to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
apple_pi's very very unbelievably hot Thursday porn, from Rodney's POV.
It hits him when he’s crammed into the claustrophobic slot under the console, when he drags in a breath congested with dust, day-old clothes, the dried sweat and come pulling his skin tight and uncomfortable as he reaches for a wire.
He’d had John’s legs hooked over his shoulders, hips held tight and still by Rodney’s hands, sweat-slick and bright and completely, unashamedly gone, and when he’d come it’d been pale, sticky ropes across his belly and chest, smeared to nothing when Rodney had unshouldered him and fallen into a breathless kiss.
Now he’s got John right here, fingers brushing over each other when John hands him tools, and John probably smells as terrible-hot as he does, has Rodney’s come slicking the inside of his thighs, trapped between fabric and skin, the cleft of his ass. Lube, maybe, thick, tacky lines down John’s thighs, fingerprinted here and there on his hips. Another breath, and God, he can smell John, clear and sharp as if his face is buried in John’s neck, or between his legs.
It’s fighting thoughts like this, and fighting exhaustion, that have him glazed and unsteady by the time he saves the day (or the early morning, whatever) and extracts himself from under the console. Radek and Espinoza are running diagnostics – like they need to, he always does quality work, current compulsion to sniff his fingers aside – and saying… saying things irritating and unimportant that get lost in the fog of my come is all over him. And Rodney almost can’t think past the chant of sex John sex John sex that’s become his thought processes, or past the fierce, anticipatory look in John’s eyes, the one that remembers last night and that looks forward to getting back to bed and, and… the hell with bed, Rodney decides.
“Good job,” John says, smacking him on the shoulder, and really, yeah, good – good luck, McKay, because John is close and the two of them are alone and John still smells like the two of them mixed together, and is looking at him and touching him.
He gets the two of them into the nearest supply closet – beautiful things, supply closets – and between his own rough come on and waving them through the door he thinks he might break with feeling John’s warm, sticky hand in his, their fingers threaded together, press of flesh and flesh, but then it’s twisting and crowding John hard against the wall, the quick flash of his eyes, his stupid grin, scratch of stubble under Rodney’s lips. And all of him’s crazily perfect, hard, strong, giving way when Rodney tries to claw and climb his way in, to taste and smell and lick away last night.
Smell you, he says, words half-breathed, half-bitten into John’s neck, his ear, his jaw, the places where the smell stays, where Rodney likes to think it’s permanent, I could just smell you, smell my come on you, yours, sex and sweat and Jesus, I want - and he does, he does, fucking god he does, so much and he has to know, shoves an inarticulate hand down the back of John’s pants, and he’s – words, he’s saying words, fingers circling over, into, slick, mobile flesh, still wet, still ready, still perfect.
“I want to fuck you right now,” he says to John’s belly, to the skin and hair that have trapped John’s come, Rodney’s sweat, the long day of yesterday, alchemized them into something dirty and dizzying on Rodney’s tongue. The hair on John’s thighs brushes his arms, the muscles under them shake when Rodney licks at his nipples (still red, sore from last night), and all of John surges under him when Rodney grasps his cock, and he loves John like this, the sharp, explosive breaths and the judder of his hips, when he wants and wants Rodney to know it, and knows how perfect he looks.
He could stay in that all day, wants to, but he’ll take the next best thing – "I want to smell my come on you all day, want you to feel it all day" – to have him feel Rodney, to smell Rodney on him, to walk and sit and talk with people, and he’s saying this, the words coming to the rhythm of his hand on John’s cock, I want you to feel my come running down your leg when you walk through the halls, and John twists against him, fucking awkwardly into his hand, want you to feel the burn whenever you sit down, and John’s jacking him, hand wet and tight like Rodney knows his ass will be, want to fuck you all day, fill you all day.
Somewhere in that John comes, between Rodney’s fingers in his ass and around his cock, in Rodney’s words. His breath freezes and his body locks, a moment of still still still until he comes, more stickiness, heat, a fresh wash of sex overlaying last night spilling over Rodney’s fingers. John goes lax against him, neck long and slick, perfect to lick and bite and to ask if, seriously, this is okay, because it’s too unexpected, can I?
John’s ass, his almost non-existent ass, curves over the waistband of his boxers, paler though a blush slips from John’s ears down his neck and spine, barely visible under the tan he hoards like he doesn’t mind melanoma at all. Can I? when Rodney pushes come-slick fingers into his hole, watching tremors trace the length of John’s back, his chest pushing out desperate breaths against the wall.
"Is this okay?" He doesn’t want to admit to anxiety, tries to focus on the quivering reality of John’s body, with touching himself, hand slipping along his cock, skin and skin with John’s come thick-wet between them, fingering himself under the head for the brief, gray-out distraction that pulls a soft moan from him, and one from John who is –
who is, oh god, his hands – his hands, the ones that fly and kill and a thousand other ordinary or amazing things – gripping his ass, opening himself, unashamed, thumbs pressing into the divots underneath his hips to anchor his grip. Reddened, damp flesh, dark against the obscene brightness of Rodney’s spit and sweat and thin lines of come and waiting, John’s eye heavy-lidded, a drowsing challenge, and oh God he’s shifting, legs spreading wider, wider, all of him open now.
Rodney surges forward, half-aware of his own sudden, broken moan, more aware of the hot shock of John’s body, his knuckles scraping awkwardly at Rodney’s hips. He presses in, caught at the edge of control, makes himself go slow, this long drag of pleasure that’s pushing into John’s body. Still fucked, still open for him, still wanting – he’s saying words like this, pressed to John’s shoulder, not quite believing it although every breath is old sex and new sex and John is shoving back against him, not wanting to wait either. He forces Rodney along with the rough encouragement of his body, fuck me, fuck me, c’mon fill me, and will, Rodney thinks, almost pushing John up on his toes with one thrust, buried deep and holding a moment before drawing back out and thrusting in again, fighting to breathe, to keep going, to keep going into John and never come out.
He does come, biting John’s shoulder hard, and comes back to himself with John wet and shaking against his chest. He twitches, shudders as he pulls out, hypnotized by pulling free from John’s body, his cock still half-hard and slick. John’s hands are still on his ass, not holding himself open, only touching, a thoughtful finger sliding through the mix of come and spit, and when Rodney can make himself look up, he sees that small, slightly idiotic smile on John’s lips.
"Are you okay?" Rodney asks, to be sure, though John looks okay. He tugs at the disaster of John’s t-shirt, which is wrinkled and damp, wonders if at this point it would be weird to smell it. He tries not to feel spooked because God that was hot, but… His hands twitch, wanting to twist into John’s shirt to pull him close and be sure.
John stumbles gracefully into the kiss, reassuring and solid, his hair spiky from sweat and familiarly messy, his stubble under Rodney’s lips abrasive and assertive. Rodney licks them through the kiss, holding John steady against him until they break apart. John’s grin widens into foolishness as they straighten up, and there’s talk of showers that John doesn’t want but Rodney needs.
"But we might reek too much to be able to sleep," Rodney says to John’s dismissal, palms John’s re-clothed ass, imagining he can feel his come seeping out even on the other side of sturdy cotton, suddenly imagining all the things that could have gone wrong, because he does that sort of thing, worry that something horrible waits on the other side of something so unbelievably good he’ll never be able to get his head around it. "Also, I need to make sure you're okay - make sure I wasn't too rough."
"You weren't," John says, shrugging in the face of Rodney's very legitimate concern, line of his shoulder eloquent under his t-shirt. The storage closet smells of sex; this close to John, Rodney’s practically drowning in it.
He stays drowning on the way back to quarters, John’s body brushing close against his, the small, private shiver in the transporter, more when they undress and collapse for a few more hours, when Rodney slides one hand under the covers, under John’s shorts, to rest.
-end-
apple_pi's very very unbelievably hot Thursday porn, from Rodney's POV.It hits him when he’s crammed into the claustrophobic slot under the console, when he drags in a breath congested with dust, day-old clothes, the dried sweat and come pulling his skin tight and uncomfortable as he reaches for a wire.
He’d had John’s legs hooked over his shoulders, hips held tight and still by Rodney’s hands, sweat-slick and bright and completely, unashamedly gone, and when he’d come it’d been pale, sticky ropes across his belly and chest, smeared to nothing when Rodney had unshouldered him and fallen into a breathless kiss.
Now he’s got John right here, fingers brushing over each other when John hands him tools, and John probably smells as terrible-hot as he does, has Rodney’s come slicking the inside of his thighs, trapped between fabric and skin, the cleft of his ass. Lube, maybe, thick, tacky lines down John’s thighs, fingerprinted here and there on his hips. Another breath, and God, he can smell John, clear and sharp as if his face is buried in John’s neck, or between his legs.
It’s fighting thoughts like this, and fighting exhaustion, that have him glazed and unsteady by the time he saves the day (or the early morning, whatever) and extracts himself from under the console. Radek and Espinoza are running diagnostics – like they need to, he always does quality work, current compulsion to sniff his fingers aside – and saying… saying things irritating and unimportant that get lost in the fog of my come is all over him. And Rodney almost can’t think past the chant of sex John sex John sex that’s become his thought processes, or past the fierce, anticipatory look in John’s eyes, the one that remembers last night and that looks forward to getting back to bed and, and… the hell with bed, Rodney decides.
“Good job,” John says, smacking him on the shoulder, and really, yeah, good – good luck, McKay, because John is close and the two of them are alone and John still smells like the two of them mixed together, and is looking at him and touching him.
He gets the two of them into the nearest supply closet – beautiful things, supply closets – and between his own rough come on and waving them through the door he thinks he might break with feeling John’s warm, sticky hand in his, their fingers threaded together, press of flesh and flesh, but then it’s twisting and crowding John hard against the wall, the quick flash of his eyes, his stupid grin, scratch of stubble under Rodney’s lips. And all of him’s crazily perfect, hard, strong, giving way when Rodney tries to claw and climb his way in, to taste and smell and lick away last night.
Smell you, he says, words half-breathed, half-bitten into John’s neck, his ear, his jaw, the places where the smell stays, where Rodney likes to think it’s permanent, I could just smell you, smell my come on you, yours, sex and sweat and Jesus, I want - and he does, he does, fucking god he does, so much and he has to know, shoves an inarticulate hand down the back of John’s pants, and he’s – words, he’s saying words, fingers circling over, into, slick, mobile flesh, still wet, still ready, still perfect.
“I want to fuck you right now,” he says to John’s belly, to the skin and hair that have trapped John’s come, Rodney’s sweat, the long day of yesterday, alchemized them into something dirty and dizzying on Rodney’s tongue. The hair on John’s thighs brushes his arms, the muscles under them shake when Rodney licks at his nipples (still red, sore from last night), and all of John surges under him when Rodney grasps his cock, and he loves John like this, the sharp, explosive breaths and the judder of his hips, when he wants and wants Rodney to know it, and knows how perfect he looks.
He could stay in that all day, wants to, but he’ll take the next best thing – "I want to smell my come on you all day, want you to feel it all day" – to have him feel Rodney, to smell Rodney on him, to walk and sit and talk with people, and he’s saying this, the words coming to the rhythm of his hand on John’s cock, I want you to feel my come running down your leg when you walk through the halls, and John twists against him, fucking awkwardly into his hand, want you to feel the burn whenever you sit down, and John’s jacking him, hand wet and tight like Rodney knows his ass will be, want to fuck you all day, fill you all day.
Somewhere in that John comes, between Rodney’s fingers in his ass and around his cock, in Rodney’s words. His breath freezes and his body locks, a moment of still still still until he comes, more stickiness, heat, a fresh wash of sex overlaying last night spilling over Rodney’s fingers. John goes lax against him, neck long and slick, perfect to lick and bite and to ask if, seriously, this is okay, because it’s too unexpected, can I?
John’s ass, his almost non-existent ass, curves over the waistband of his boxers, paler though a blush slips from John’s ears down his neck and spine, barely visible under the tan he hoards like he doesn’t mind melanoma at all. Can I? when Rodney pushes come-slick fingers into his hole, watching tremors trace the length of John’s back, his chest pushing out desperate breaths against the wall.
"Is this okay?" He doesn’t want to admit to anxiety, tries to focus on the quivering reality of John’s body, with touching himself, hand slipping along his cock, skin and skin with John’s come thick-wet between them, fingering himself under the head for the brief, gray-out distraction that pulls a soft moan from him, and one from John who is –
who is, oh god, his hands – his hands, the ones that fly and kill and a thousand other ordinary or amazing things – gripping his ass, opening himself, unashamed, thumbs pressing into the divots underneath his hips to anchor his grip. Reddened, damp flesh, dark against the obscene brightness of Rodney’s spit and sweat and thin lines of come and waiting, John’s eye heavy-lidded, a drowsing challenge, and oh God he’s shifting, legs spreading wider, wider, all of him open now.
Rodney surges forward, half-aware of his own sudden, broken moan, more aware of the hot shock of John’s body, his knuckles scraping awkwardly at Rodney’s hips. He presses in, caught at the edge of control, makes himself go slow, this long drag of pleasure that’s pushing into John’s body. Still fucked, still open for him, still wanting – he’s saying words like this, pressed to John’s shoulder, not quite believing it although every breath is old sex and new sex and John is shoving back against him, not wanting to wait either. He forces Rodney along with the rough encouragement of his body, fuck me, fuck me, c’mon fill me, and will, Rodney thinks, almost pushing John up on his toes with one thrust, buried deep and holding a moment before drawing back out and thrusting in again, fighting to breathe, to keep going, to keep going into John and never come out.
He does come, biting John’s shoulder hard, and comes back to himself with John wet and shaking against his chest. He twitches, shudders as he pulls out, hypnotized by pulling free from John’s body, his cock still half-hard and slick. John’s hands are still on his ass, not holding himself open, only touching, a thoughtful finger sliding through the mix of come and spit, and when Rodney can make himself look up, he sees that small, slightly idiotic smile on John’s lips.
"Are you okay?" Rodney asks, to be sure, though John looks okay. He tugs at the disaster of John’s t-shirt, which is wrinkled and damp, wonders if at this point it would be weird to smell it. He tries not to feel spooked because God that was hot, but… His hands twitch, wanting to twist into John’s shirt to pull him close and be sure.
John stumbles gracefully into the kiss, reassuring and solid, his hair spiky from sweat and familiarly messy, his stubble under Rodney’s lips abrasive and assertive. Rodney licks them through the kiss, holding John steady against him until they break apart. John’s grin widens into foolishness as they straighten up, and there’s talk of showers that John doesn’t want but Rodney needs.
"But we might reek too much to be able to sleep," Rodney says to John’s dismissal, palms John’s re-clothed ass, imagining he can feel his come seeping out even on the other side of sturdy cotton, suddenly imagining all the things that could have gone wrong, because he does that sort of thing, worry that something horrible waits on the other side of something so unbelievably good he’ll never be able to get his head around it. "Also, I need to make sure you're okay - make sure I wasn't too rough."
"You weren't," John says, shrugging in the face of Rodney's very legitimate concern, line of his shoulder eloquent under his t-shirt. The storage closet smells of sex; this close to John, Rodney’s practically drowning in it.
He stays drowning on the way back to quarters, John’s body brushing close against his, the small, private shiver in the transporter, more when they undress and collapse for a few more hours, when Rodney slides one hand under the covers, under John’s shorts, to rest.
-end-
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