SGA Ficlet: More of The Brazil Misadventure
LJ went on the blink yesterday just as I was getting ready to post this little bit of porn. It continues my Porn Battle entry in which falsely accused John has kidnapped CSI genius Rodney to help him prove his innocence. I am planning to write more of this--at least, more porn. Maybe I'll just have to put in brackets where there's supposed to be, you know, actual story: [blah, blah, plotcakes] *g*
I'm reposting the first part here as well, cut-tagged separately for your reading convenience.
Title: The Brazil Misadventure Fandom: SGA Pairing: John/Rodney Rating: NC-17 Summary: An AU in which Rodney McKay, world famous forensics expert, gets more than he bargained for when he goes to Brazil to speak at a conference.
Day three of Rodney's Brazil misadventure, and it's another squalid flophouse for the night. The place reeks of fried food and stale booze, overpowering until Sheppard moves closer, and then all Rodney can smell is him, a mingling of sweat and determination and gun oil.
"Send a list of demands to the San Francisco PD," Rodney begs, for the countless time. "I'm sure they'll--"
"I told you what I want." Sheppard's gun makes an unnerving thunk as he lays it down on the room's lone table.
I don't want to hurt you. I just want you to prove I didn't kill my commanding officer. That's what Sheppard said when he kidnapped Rodney from the Sao Paulo airport.
"You have no idea who might want to frame you. No physical evidence. No particular interest in answering my questions. I'm a criminalist. Not a magician!"
Sheppard's jaw visibly clenches. "It's late. Better get ready for bed."
Rodney sighs, but heads off to the bathroom nonetheless, trying not to look around as he pees and brushes his teeth. If the place has ever seen disinfectant, it was before Rodney's lifetime.
Sheppard has the handcuffs out when he comes back.
"Come on. Can't we just--"
"You sleeping in your clothes?" Sheppard threatens.
Rodney mutters, and turns his back to strip down to T-shirt and boxers, and tries not to think about Sheppard watching.
"You know the drill." Sheppard nods toward the bed.
A flash of panic, and Rodney tells himself: It was just a fluke. He lies down and reaches for the headboard. Sheppard rests a knee on the mattress, leaning over Rodney to secure the cuffs. The warmth of Sheppard's body, and the cool metal around Rodney's wrists, and his reaction is just as embarrassing as it was the night before, quite clearly no fluke.
Sheppard notices this time and narrows his eyes. Rodney prepares to plead insanity, which may actually be true. He's still crazily aware how good Sheppard smells.
The light touch of Sheppard's palm to his chest is more startling than any blow. "Seems I'm not the only one with demands, huh, McKay?" Sheppard's hand glides downward, cupping Rodney's hardening dick through his underwear.
Stockholm Syndrome, Stockholm Syndrome, a voice urgently shouts in Rodney's head, but that doesn't keep his gaze from fastening on Sheppard's lips, full and pretty and wet-looking, as if he's always just licked them. Sheppard smiles faintly, because everyone must want his mouth, and he nudges up Rodney's shirt to kiss his belly.
"Be good to me, and I can be good to you." He demonstrates this quid pro quo approach to life by pushing Rodney's underwear down over his hips and taking Rodney's cock in his mouth.
He's dangerous, not hot, dangerous! Rodney's mantra is even more ineffectual now that Sheppard is doing such inspired things with his tongue. Rodney should certainly be more disturbed than he is that a probable murderer is making his thighs tremble.
Sheppard meets Rodney's gaze, that pretty mouth of his practically owning Rodney's cock, his eyes at once too dark and too bright, a look suspiciously like lust. Rodney strains against the cuffs, his hips surging forward. Sheppard strokes the skin behind Rodney's balls, hesitates, and then lightly rubs his hole. Rodney sucks in a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and comes and comes in Sheppard's obscenely beautiful mouth.
Afterwards, Sheppard goes and comes back with a washcloth, cleans Rodney up, fixes his clothes. Rodney can't help noticing the bulge in Sheppard's pants, and his mouth goes dry thinking of Sheppard getting hard just by sucking him. He pulls at the cuffs. "Let me-- I can--"
Sheppard's expression shutters closed, and he turns on his heel, back to the bathroom. Rodney hears the shower, and when Sheppard returns, his hair is damp and he's not hard anymore.
He settles into the chair next to the bed, gun in easy reaching distance. "We've got an early morning. Better get some sleep."
He stretches out his legs, and shuts his eyes, and annoyingly enough, is soon snoring. Rodney stares up at the ceiling half the night, wishing he'd never come to Brazil for some stupid conference, wondering how he's supposed to solve a case with no evidence, and more importantly, what he thinks he's doing having sex with the primary suspect.
It's not going to happen again. Rodney keeps telling himself this. Maybe he even believes it in the harsh light of the dust-choked days, being dragged from one ramshackle location to the next, a bar, a pawnbroker's shop, a desperate hovel that appears to be someone's actual home, places that figure prominently in Sheppard's narrative of murder and mayhem and being falsely accused. Rodney runs through the checklist of heat stroke symptoms every, oh, thirty seconds and puts on a show of searching for phantom clues whenever Sheppard insists there must be something that can help them, if Rodney would only look. Sheppard always touches the gun tucked into his waistband when he hectors Rodney about not trying hard enough, and Rodney can't decide if that's merely an instinct or intentional intimidation. Not going to happen again, he thinks emphatically, because clearly Sheppard is insane or guilty or quite possibly both.
The trouble always starts when they stop for the night, when Sheppard unlocks the door to their grubby room and motions Rodney inside. It's as if Rodney has been conditioned to the tick of the lock, because once Sheppard shuts them in for the night, pictures spring to life in his mind, lying naked on the bed, a dark head bent over him, eagerly working.
He's already hard by the time he strips down to his underwear. Sheppard casually brushes Rodney's T-shirt, words sweltering against the back of Rodney's neck, "Are you sure you want to keep this on? It's hot."
Sweat trickles down Rodney's chest as if to emphasize the point. Hot, God, so hot. He pulls the T-shirt up over his head, a clumsy mess of elbows. The room is quieter than he's come to expect from these places, the only sound the harsh rasp of air in Sheppard's lungs, in his own.
Sheppard lays a hand on Rodney's hip, the weight of it like an anchor, and maybe that would feel like a power play, a reminder of who's in charge here, if Sheppard weren't absently stroking his thumb along the bare skin at Rodney's waistband.
"Come on." Sheppard's voice is quiet, right next to Rodney's ear, the soft rumble of it vibrating electrically all down Rodney's back, making him shiver.
Sheppard takes out the cuffs, and Rodney gasps out loud when Sheppard clicks them into place around his wrists, no less an erotic tripwire now than the first time. Rodney still hasn't figured that one out. Maybe he never will. Maybe he doesn't even want to.
Sheppard kneels on the mattress at Rodney's hip, ghosts his hand over Rodney's rib. The air is a humid simmer, and Rodney can see Sheppard's cock straining against the fly of his pants.
It's always been quick and dirty, Sheppard's mouth, Rodney's cock, a simple enough equation, so he isn't expecting the hot swipe of tongue across his nipple. He yelps. There's really no other word for it. Sheppard's smile is hard and pleased and not a little unnerving, but then, he bends his head again, and Rodney forgets all about that, about everything. Sheppard doesn't so much kiss his nipples as work them over, and by the time he finally starts mouthing a path downwards, Rodney is shaking and begging.
Sheppard nudges his nose into the curls at Rodney's groin, almost playfully, and this would be the moment, right now, to say one of those cutting things he practices in the harsh light of day, you really get off on prostituting yourself, don't you or it's going to take more than a blowjob to get me to manufacture evidence for you, something that would make Sheppard stop and never start again.
Funny how that always seems like a better idea when Sheppard isn't kissing the insides of his thighs.
Sheppard slides Rodney's boxers all the way down his legs and off and tosses them carelessly on the floor. It's the first time Rodney has been completely naked for one of Sheppard's blowjobs. His chest dips sharply, his belly trembles, and Sheppard hasn't even touched him yet.
Sheppard darts a grin up at him, and then goes down, and it's all mind-blowing heat and the tug of Sheppard's mouth and the pounding of Rodney's own pulse in his ears. So impossibly good, and every time they do this, Rodney can't help thinking that any moment now Sheppard is going pull back and climb on top and push inside, because all giving, no taking is not anything that exists in nature. Maybe Rodney even spreads his legs a little wider to encourage him. Just like every other time, though, Sheppard keeps going, keeps sucking, and Rodney does what he always does, jerks futilely at the handcuffs, desperately bucks up, and comes so hard in Sheppard's mouth he thinks he's gone blind, just for a moment.
Sheppard is panting when stumbles to his feet, beautifully carnal, come smearing his mouth, his cock visibly outlined against his pants, eyes a little wild.
Want hits Rodney afresh, sweat not even dry yet on his skin, the sizzle catching him squarely in the gut. He spreads his hands, as much as he can in the restraints, a gesture that he hopes looks as supplicating as he means it to be. "Let me--" Take care of you, touch you, suck you, anything, just, please.
Sheppard's shoulders stiffen, and his expression reverts to its normally harsh blankness. "I got you off, McKay. Don't push it."
"But I just want to," he's drowned out by the slamming of the bathroom door and directs the rest of the sentence uselessly up at the ceiling, "reciprocate."
He sighs tiredly. It's going to be another long night, apparently.