This story is rated NC-17 (adults only). It includes explicit male/male sex. If this is what you came for, scroll down. If it isn't, hit the Back button.




















by Resonant

for kormantic

"No," Rodney says. "Leave them on."

Jesus. John leans back on the headboard and looks down at his body, at the way his cock is showing through the gap in his boxers. Rodney's looking, too. For a moment, John has an impulse to grab him, distract him, because being seen like this is the nightmare of every guy who's ever lived in a fishbowl, eaten and slept and showered and dressed in public.

And Rodney knows it. Rodney probably hasn't taken off his clothes in public since high school gym, if then, but his wicked look says he knows exactly how this makes John feel.

He leans forward, and John's pulse kicks up at the thought that finally, finally Rodney is going to touch him, but all he does is give the fabric at John's hip a tug, rearranging the folds so John's cock is even more exposed. "Yeah," he says, a little roughly. "Lean back a little. Let me look at you."

He doesn't just look, though. He rearranges John. Nudges one knee into a deeper bend. Thumbs his nipples through the T-shirt, just once, hard enough to make them stand up and show through the knit. Hard enough to make John gasp at the sudden spike of pleasure.

Rodney likes variety. He never does the same thing twice. It's not the usual round of prefab games, either, the blindfold and the handcuffs and somebody calling somebody 'sir.'

Once he made John make him come without using his right hand. Once he knelt behind John on the floor and fucked him without letting him opaque the door, so that John trembled at every footstep in the hall. Once he said, "How fast can you come?" and then he sat there and counted while John jerked himself off, giving him no help but a firm knuckle moving back and forth behind his balls.

Turned out the answer was two and a half minutes.

God. Who would have guessed? Rodney, of all people. Rodney, who can't be bothered to notice that someone is flirting, or trying to ignore him, or wishing he would go away -- somehow or other, he manages to know exactly what will work and what won't, every time. And the number of people he must have fucked just to be able to do all this and never make a mistake --

John finds that he doesn't like to think about that too much.

Anyway, he could just be a natural. Some kind of savant of sex.

"You planning to touch me, or just eyeball me until I come?" John's voice isn't quite as steady as he hoped it would be, because in the middle of saying it, it occurs to him that Rodney could probably do it. Just sit there and stare at him and tell him things. God, he probably could. It would take hours, and by the end he'd be hurting, and it would be so good.

"I thought maybe I'd step out for some coffee. You'll keep for twenty minutes, won't you?"

"Jesus, McKay," John breathes. "I never thought you'd have such a filthy mind."

"I can't imagine," Rodney says crisply, "how you ever expected to be disappointed by my mind."

John thought he was experienced, before all this started. He even imagined himself teaching Rodney a thing or two. God, he didn't have a clue.

Rodney's moving, stretching out on the bed with his head at John's hip, and now he touches John at last. He puts his hand on John's bare knee and slides it slowly upward, fingertips curling around to brush his inner thigh, and John throws his head back, panting, because he's waited so long that this simple touch nearly undoes him.

Good thing his pride doesn't depend on being in control, because he really, really isn't.

Rodney's fingers make their ticklish way up and up until they slide into one leg of the shorts, and then John can't keep quiet any more, because the back of Rodney's hand, as if by accident, is brushing up against his balls.

"Oh, please," John whispers.

The bed shifts as Rodney goes up on one elbow, and when John looks down, he finds Rodney glancing up at him. Rodney never pretends to be unmoved at times like this, never tries to hide the fact that it turns him on to see what he's done to John, and so it's a surprise to find the look on his face so thoughtful, so narrow-eyed and calculating.

He's experimenting, John realizes. That's his lab expression, and, oh, lord, there's one more on the growing list of ordinary things John will never again be able to watch Rodney do without fighting an embarrassing public erection.

Rodney's fingers slide back, and John's hole flutters involuntarily when Rodney touches it. "Yes," John says, "yes, yes, do it." And Rodney has a plan; Rodney's finger goes away and comes back slick, and John makes a sort of growling noise as Rodney goes in, so slow, and he feels Rodney's head move as Rodney looks back and forth between his own hand and John's face.

"What do you -- oh," John sighs; it's only one finger, not enough, but so good -- "do you just lie around at night thinking up things to do to me?"

Rodney takes one finger out and puts two fingers in, and when they're all the way in, his thumb tucks itself up in the crease of John's leg, and it feels so good it's hard for John to concentrate, even though he knows Rodney's talking.


"I said, yes," Rodney says. "I do in fact lie around thinking about things to do to you."

""Nnn." John moves his hips as well as he can, grinding down further on Rodney's fingers, so that the leg of his shorts pulls tight around his thigh and Rodney's wrist. He wonders if it turns Rodney on, thinking about new ways to make John hard. "That's -- that's, uh --"

"Sorry to disappoint you." Rodney sounds -- god, it's too much to ask John to think when Rodney's pulsing his fingers inside him.

"I -- I'm not --" John says, running out of breath. "It's not --"

"But, no, I can't just do this sort of thing off the top of my head."

John realizes suddenly that Rodney is defensive. Like he thinks John minds.

"Rodney," he says. His voice sounds pathetic to him, but he can't help it. "Is this -- this is all for me?"

Rodney looks up at him, eyes opening wide, and then he's scrambling upright, somehow managing not to move his fingers as he gets the rest of his body up far enough that John can grab him and press sloppy, clumsy, heartfelt kisses all over his face, and when their mouths finally connect, John comes all over his clothes.

"Yes," Rodney pants against his face. "Yes, it's all for you. Idiot," he says. He's smiling.

Then he does something with his fingers, and John doesn't smile back because he's too busy gasping.

"The human body," Rodney says, "is a machine -- complex, yes, but ultimately comprehensible --" He's moving downward as he speaks, words getting a little muffled against John's T-shirt. Teeth. God. The rest of the sentence goes a little fuzzy. Something about torque.

John pulls him up for another kiss. He wonders if Rodney might be able to fuck him without having to take off the shorts first.

If anybody could figure out a way, Rodney could.











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November 23, 2005