chain reaction by scarletts_awry
Jul. 28th, 2006 11:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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sga_flashfictitle: Chain Reaction
by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scarletts_awry
with: McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Kolya
rated: NC-17
herein: post-ep to “The Storm” & “The Eye”
disclaim: not mine in any universe
note: serious issues of consent.
Rodney’s been awake for forty-six hours straight, but he feels good. The storm’s passed, you don’t need scuba gear to visit the East Pier anymore, and the second round of uppers is still humming through his body. He feels fantastic even. Therefore, he is perfectly justified in dragging a small team out to replace the control panel the Genii shot to hell. The patch job he did in the rain was only to manually release the grounding rod.
“Don’t re-route through there.” He shoves Larsen—Lippman?—out of the way. “Or are you trying to create a chain reaction that will cascade back and overload a naquadah generator.”
But Rodney’s not stupid, and he’s not an addict. Addicts lose their appetite, and he’s very fond of eating. Ergo he will never become an addict. It’s a nice failsafe. He certainly doesn’t need Beckett’s supervision.
The underlings stammer out a round of sorry, and sweat pools at the back of Rodney’s neck. His heart thumps hard as much from the strength of the sun beating down as the drugs.
Now that the storm has passed Beckett wouldn’t consider it an emergency. That is, of course, patently untrue. If Rodney weren’t awake and supervising, these fuckheads would’ve caused more damage than the storm itself. He has to get the city running smoothly again before the next weird energy creature or alien militia declares it Screw-with-Atlantis Day.
Rodney pushes himself to his feet and glares down at the wires and crystals to cover his looping headrush. The deck out here has long since dried, but the air is heavy and soft with humidity. There are boots near his own, holding up a hovering, fidgeting man who allegedly holds a PhD in engineering.
When everyone came back through the gate they looked a little shell-shocked. Still do. It’s not like they were here for any of it.
Rodney advances on Lippman-or-Larsen, backing him toward the rail. “We have enough people trying to kill us all without you pitching in.”
At least Rodney had the decency to get beaten up by a man with a knife. A large man with guns and minions. He’s lucky his ribs are only bruised. Beckett had been concussed by a girl. Too concussed to notice that Rodney was high as that proverbial kite when he finally submitted to having his arm stitched up.
Little shards of light reflect off the ocean far below. It’s nothing like the last time he was out here.
“At this rate you’d be of more use to the city if I bludgeoned you right now, chopped up your body, and gave you to the botany department for fertilizer.”
Hm. Maybe he should tone it down a little. His brain hopscotches back and forth, and Lippman-or-Larsen shrinks away, face sinking deep past the level of fear with which Rodney normally likes to inspire his underlings.
Weir radios in, and Rodney snaps out a few answers, letting his brain coast on automatic as he stares out at the ocean. The sun is high overhead, the sea and sky uncannily bright.
A few minutes later Weir appears with Sheppard, and they hold an impromptu briefing out here in the open air. After Rodney updates them on the repairs, Weir starts rattling on about their relations with the Manarans, and if Rodney weren’t tuning her out he’d snap at her to get to the point. For the most part Sheppard stays quiet, but he’s doing that leaning thing he does—the leaning thing that makes Rodney want to lecture him on posture. Or public lewdness.
Finally Weir shuts her mouth, and Rodney takes a good look at her. Her hair is clean and brushed, and even though dark circles weigh down her eyes, it’s clear the bitch has slept. Maybe only an hour, but she’s definitely slept. Showered.
“Everything’s back under control. Go get some sleep.” She holds on to Rodney’s gaze for a full ten seconds then nods at Sheppard. “Both of you.”
“Fine, fine.” Rodney waves her off. The repairs are essentially finished. Besides, if he starts coming down in public they’re likely to discover just how unpleasant he can be. He’d like to save that motivator for when the Wraith show up one of these days.
Sheppard nods slowly at Weir, and for once his sprawl looks brought on by actual fatigue rather than carefully arranged laziness. “I’ll make sure he gets to his quarters.” And how can the man sprawl when he’s standing upright.
It’s good enough for Weir—who’s clearly going to take her own advice—and Rodney tosses a few more insult-laden instructions at his minions before he lets Sheppard drag him toward the transport.
Sheppard quirks his eyebrows, but his eyes are bloodshot and the skin beneath them looks delicate. Rodney waits for the patented flyboy snark that doesn’t come. Sheppard hasn’t slept yet either, and it’s good to know that even he can’t manage rakish all the time. Sheppard’s hair even looks tired, sort of flat and despondent. He runs a hand through it and Rodney can feel himself staring. Those hands killed over sixty people—though fifty-five of them were scratched off just by pushing a few buttons to raise the gate shield. That hardly counts. Rodney could build a nuclear bomb and kill millions of people—billions even—by pushing a button.
“Did you enjoy playing Die Hard today?” Rodney folds his hands behind his back and frowns. “Yesterday?”
“Yippee-kai-yay motherfucker.” Sheppard leans against the transport wall for a second, hips canting in an obscene line.
“Well, yes. That sums it up nicely.”
Outside Rodney’s quarters, Sheppard pauses and stares down the hall. “Get some rest McKay.” There are more words hanging over Sheppard’s head. Maybe that’s why his hair is so flat. Rodney sighs.
“You want to come in for a minute?” No, he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut, regardless of incentive.
Sheppard nods. The door snicks shut behind them.
“Well? Spit it out Major.” Rodney’s much better at yelling than getting yelled at, and he’d rather not prolong this.
But Sheppard doesn’t yell. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, staring down at Rodney’s feet. “I reviewed the security footage. I saw what Kolya did.”
“Oh.” Rodney’s head spins. He hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t thought of anything but the storm damage. Massive oversight on his part—blame it on exhaustion. The floor in the control room had risen to meet him, had hurt his knees. The acrid taste of jizz had slowly washed out of his mouth when he and Weir sat in the rain. “About that. You do realize that babbling to Kolya was all a part of my plan.”
Rodney tilts his chin up and watches for a flicker of comprehension in Sheppard’s face. He will explain himself step by step if it’s absolutely necessary. Because there had been a plan. Whether he’d put the plan together before or after he’d babbled their secrets to Kolya was a moot point. In the end, there’d been a plan, and it had worked.
His stomach clenches, a potential side effect of the drugs working around his system. Nausea is a potential side effect of everything. He’s fantastic.
“I—” Sheppard’s voice is tight. It brings Rodney back to his bedroom. Half-made bed, half-eaten powerbar on the desk. Half-awake Sheppard staring at Rodney’s feet. “I’m sorry that I didn’t shoot Kolya in the head earlier.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t shoot him in the head too. I’m even more sorry he was in a position to fall backwards and through the event horizon.” Rodney nods, pressing into Sheppard’s personal space. Sheppard backs away—which is a fascinating phenomenon—so Rodney takes another step forward. Now Sheppard’s back is to the wall. Rodney slides a palm up Sheppard’s arm. A patch of fabric is stiff under his hand, and Rodney wonders if it’s someone’s blood or just saltwater.
“Rodney.” It’s a bad imitation of his usual drawl, much too thin and brittle. His eyes slide up, but they get stuck at the base of Rodney’s neck. “Did you tell Beckett? I mean—”
Rodney shrugs. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve had a cock in my mouth. True, it’s a whole lot more fun when there’s not a knife in my face.” Kolya knew better than to threaten Rodney’s hands, but he seemed convinced Rodney could work with one eye just as well as two. For a moment Rodney’s throat closes, and he can’t breathe again. He blinks and focuses on one of Sheppard’s ridiculous ears. “It’s a shame, really. If he hadn’t been so into the intimidation thing, I could’ve kept him occupied while you pretended to be Bruce Willis.”
“I’m still sorry I didn’t shoot him in the head.” Sheppard’s eyes are locked on that spot of neck. Rodney increases the weight of his hand on Sheppard’s shoulder.
Rodney smiles because he feels fantastic. He does. Blood pumping merrily through his body. The fluttering in his stomach is just a part of it. He feels fantastic.
“I can think of a way for you to make it up to me.”
Rodney calculates a sixty-four percent chance of getting a bloody nose if this were a normal day. Whatever passes for Pegasus normal. But Sheppard’s had his fill of blood his week, won’t look for more voluntarily. Worst case scenario, he’ll shoot Rodney a disgusted look and walk out, writing it all off to trauma and exhaustion. Maybe set Heightmeyer after him.
But that doesn’t happen.
Sheppard stares at the hypnotic spot on Rodney’s neck for another minute then sinks to his knees. Rodney bites back a chuckle and runs a hand through the soft mess of Sheppard’s hair, trying to get it to perk up again.
By the time Sheppard fumbles his pants open Rodney’s hard as hell, but there’s just enough blood left in his brain to notice how nice Sheppard’s hand looks on his dick. Sheppard shifts forward, pauses, licks his lips, then finally wraps his mouth around the head of Rodney’s cock. He sets a shaky rhythm, and who would’ve thought that Major John Sheppard—whose body language loudly proclaims him to be the biggest slut in two galaxies—would be bad at sucking cock.
Rodney starts to thrust. He cups the back of Sheppard’s head, and Sheppard stills under the touch, taking it. That’s better. That’s pretty fantastic. Watching his cock shining with spit and slipping through those red lips. Rodney grabs a double fistful of Sheppard’s hair, pumping deeper into his mouth until Sheppard’s making these rough little sounds that make Rodney’s balls tighten.
So close. Sheppard gags, pushing back. So close, and he holds Sheppard there—there—throat muscles spasming tight around the head of Rodney’s cock. White sparks at his eyes, in his fingers, down his spine, and he comes down Sheppard’s throat.
When he’s done, he lets go of Sheppard’s hair and tilts forward, leaning against the wall and breathing hard. Sheppard drops from his knees to his ass, and Rodney closes his eyes.
Rodney hacked into the personnel files before they even left earth. He’s worked with the military long enough to know the chain of command is sacrosanct. Sheppard must’ve bent over and taken it from some lech of a CO to end up down in Antarctica instead of out on his ass altogether. The image is enough to make Rodney’s cock twitch again.
After a moment Rodney opens his eyes, noting the red welts Sheppard left on his hip. He steps back. Sheppard’s still on the floor, head tilted back against the wall. His chest rises in even deep breaths. He stares straight at Rodney for the first time in days. “You’re high, aren’t you.”
Rodney rolls his eyes. “I assure you my occasional use of stimulants is for anything but recreational purposes.” He nudges Sheppard with his foot. “Why are you still down there?”
Sheppard hauls himself to his feet, and Rodney leans against him, pressing him to the wall. Even though they’re inside the light is uncannily bright, but it doesn’t touch Rodney at all. He squeezes Sheppard’s crotch, laughs and squeezes tighter. Sheppard’s soft dick gives a half-interested twitch, but Sheppard himself turns his head away.
“I’m tired.”
Rodney leans in and bites his exposed neck. “Then we should lie down.”
………
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated
by:
scarletts_awrywith: McKay/Sheppard; McKay/Kolya
rated: NC-17
herein: post-ep to “The Storm” & “The Eye”
disclaim: not mine in any universe
note: serious issues of consent.
Rodney’s been awake for forty-six hours straight, but he feels good. The storm’s passed, you don’t need scuba gear to visit the East Pier anymore, and the second round of uppers is still humming through his body. He feels fantastic even. Therefore, he is perfectly justified in dragging a small team out to replace the control panel the Genii shot to hell. The patch job he did in the rain was only to manually release the grounding rod.
“Don’t re-route through there.” He shoves Larsen—Lippman?—out of the way. “Or are you trying to create a chain reaction that will cascade back and overload a naquadah generator.”
But Rodney’s not stupid, and he’s not an addict. Addicts lose their appetite, and he’s very fond of eating. Ergo he will never become an addict. It’s a nice failsafe. He certainly doesn’t need Beckett’s supervision.
The underlings stammer out a round of sorry, and sweat pools at the back of Rodney’s neck. His heart thumps hard as much from the strength of the sun beating down as the drugs.
Now that the storm has passed Beckett wouldn’t consider it an emergency. That is, of course, patently untrue. If Rodney weren’t awake and supervising, these fuckheads would’ve caused more damage than the storm itself. He has to get the city running smoothly again before the next weird energy creature or alien militia declares it Screw-with-Atlantis Day.
Rodney pushes himself to his feet and glares down at the wires and crystals to cover his looping headrush. The deck out here has long since dried, but the air is heavy and soft with humidity. There are boots near his own, holding up a hovering, fidgeting man who allegedly holds a PhD in engineering.
When everyone came back through the gate they looked a little shell-shocked. Still do. It’s not like they were here for any of it.
Rodney advances on Lippman-or-Larsen, backing him toward the rail. “We have enough people trying to kill us all without you pitching in.”
At least Rodney had the decency to get beaten up by a man with a knife. A large man with guns and minions. He’s lucky his ribs are only bruised. Beckett had been concussed by a girl. Too concussed to notice that Rodney was high as that proverbial kite when he finally submitted to having his arm stitched up.
Little shards of light reflect off the ocean far below. It’s nothing like the last time he was out here.
“At this rate you’d be of more use to the city if I bludgeoned you right now, chopped up your body, and gave you to the botany department for fertilizer.”
Hm. Maybe he should tone it down a little. His brain hopscotches back and forth, and Lippman-or-Larsen shrinks away, face sinking deep past the level of fear with which Rodney normally likes to inspire his underlings.
Weir radios in, and Rodney snaps out a few answers, letting his brain coast on automatic as he stares out at the ocean. The sun is high overhead, the sea and sky uncannily bright.
A few minutes later Weir appears with Sheppard, and they hold an impromptu briefing out here in the open air. After Rodney updates them on the repairs, Weir starts rattling on about their relations with the Manarans, and if Rodney weren’t tuning her out he’d snap at her to get to the point. For the most part Sheppard stays quiet, but he’s doing that leaning thing he does—the leaning thing that makes Rodney want to lecture him on posture. Or public lewdness.
Finally Weir shuts her mouth, and Rodney takes a good look at her. Her hair is clean and brushed, and even though dark circles weigh down her eyes, it’s clear the bitch has slept. Maybe only an hour, but she’s definitely slept. Showered.
“Everything’s back under control. Go get some sleep.” She holds on to Rodney’s gaze for a full ten seconds then nods at Sheppard. “Both of you.”
“Fine, fine.” Rodney waves her off. The repairs are essentially finished. Besides, if he starts coming down in public they’re likely to discover just how unpleasant he can be. He’d like to save that motivator for when the Wraith show up one of these days.
Sheppard nods slowly at Weir, and for once his sprawl looks brought on by actual fatigue rather than carefully arranged laziness. “I’ll make sure he gets to his quarters.” And how can the man sprawl when he’s standing upright.
It’s good enough for Weir—who’s clearly going to take her own advice—and Rodney tosses a few more insult-laden instructions at his minions before he lets Sheppard drag him toward the transport.
Sheppard quirks his eyebrows, but his eyes are bloodshot and the skin beneath them looks delicate. Rodney waits for the patented flyboy snark that doesn’t come. Sheppard hasn’t slept yet either, and it’s good to know that even he can’t manage rakish all the time. Sheppard’s hair even looks tired, sort of flat and despondent. He runs a hand through it and Rodney can feel himself staring. Those hands killed over sixty people—though fifty-five of them were scratched off just by pushing a few buttons to raise the gate shield. That hardly counts. Rodney could build a nuclear bomb and kill millions of people—billions even—by pushing a button.
“Did you enjoy playing Die Hard today?” Rodney folds his hands behind his back and frowns. “Yesterday?”
“Yippee-kai-yay motherfucker.” Sheppard leans against the transport wall for a second, hips canting in an obscene line.
“Well, yes. That sums it up nicely.”
Outside Rodney’s quarters, Sheppard pauses and stares down the hall. “Get some rest McKay.” There are more words hanging over Sheppard’s head. Maybe that’s why his hair is so flat. Rodney sighs.
“You want to come in for a minute?” No, he’s never been able to keep his mouth shut, regardless of incentive.
Sheppard nods. The door snicks shut behind them.
“Well? Spit it out Major.” Rodney’s much better at yelling than getting yelled at, and he’d rather not prolong this.
But Sheppard doesn’t yell. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, staring down at Rodney’s feet. “I reviewed the security footage. I saw what Kolya did.”
“Oh.” Rodney’s head spins. He hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t thought of anything but the storm damage. Massive oversight on his part—blame it on exhaustion. The floor in the control room had risen to meet him, had hurt his knees. The acrid taste of jizz had slowly washed out of his mouth when he and Weir sat in the rain. “About that. You do realize that babbling to Kolya was all a part of my plan.”
Rodney tilts his chin up and watches for a flicker of comprehension in Sheppard’s face. He will explain himself step by step if it’s absolutely necessary. Because there had been a plan. Whether he’d put the plan together before or after he’d babbled their secrets to Kolya was a moot point. In the end, there’d been a plan, and it had worked.
His stomach clenches, a potential side effect of the drugs working around his system. Nausea is a potential side effect of everything. He’s fantastic.
“I—” Sheppard’s voice is tight. It brings Rodney back to his bedroom. Half-made bed, half-eaten powerbar on the desk. Half-awake Sheppard staring at Rodney’s feet. “I’m sorry that I didn’t shoot Kolya in the head earlier.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t shoot him in the head too. I’m even more sorry he was in a position to fall backwards and through the event horizon.” Rodney nods, pressing into Sheppard’s personal space. Sheppard backs away—which is a fascinating phenomenon—so Rodney takes another step forward. Now Sheppard’s back is to the wall. Rodney slides a palm up Sheppard’s arm. A patch of fabric is stiff under his hand, and Rodney wonders if it’s someone’s blood or just saltwater.
“Rodney.” It’s a bad imitation of his usual drawl, much too thin and brittle. His eyes slide up, but they get stuck at the base of Rodney’s neck. “Did you tell Beckett? I mean—”
Rodney shrugs. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve had a cock in my mouth. True, it’s a whole lot more fun when there’s not a knife in my face.” Kolya knew better than to threaten Rodney’s hands, but he seemed convinced Rodney could work with one eye just as well as two. For a moment Rodney’s throat closes, and he can’t breathe again. He blinks and focuses on one of Sheppard’s ridiculous ears. “It’s a shame, really. If he hadn’t been so into the intimidation thing, I could’ve kept him occupied while you pretended to be Bruce Willis.”
“I’m still sorry I didn’t shoot him in the head.” Sheppard’s eyes are locked on that spot of neck. Rodney increases the weight of his hand on Sheppard’s shoulder.
Rodney smiles because he feels fantastic. He does. Blood pumping merrily through his body. The fluttering in his stomach is just a part of it. He feels fantastic.
“I can think of a way for you to make it up to me.”
Rodney calculates a sixty-four percent chance of getting a bloody nose if this were a normal day. Whatever passes for Pegasus normal. But Sheppard’s had his fill of blood his week, won’t look for more voluntarily. Worst case scenario, he’ll shoot Rodney a disgusted look and walk out, writing it all off to trauma and exhaustion. Maybe set Heightmeyer after him.
But that doesn’t happen.
Sheppard stares at the hypnotic spot on Rodney’s neck for another minute then sinks to his knees. Rodney bites back a chuckle and runs a hand through the soft mess of Sheppard’s hair, trying to get it to perk up again.
By the time Sheppard fumbles his pants open Rodney’s hard as hell, but there’s just enough blood left in his brain to notice how nice Sheppard’s hand looks on his dick. Sheppard shifts forward, pauses, licks his lips, then finally wraps his mouth around the head of Rodney’s cock. He sets a shaky rhythm, and who would’ve thought that Major John Sheppard—whose body language loudly proclaims him to be the biggest slut in two galaxies—would be bad at sucking cock.
Rodney starts to thrust. He cups the back of Sheppard’s head, and Sheppard stills under the touch, taking it. That’s better. That’s pretty fantastic. Watching his cock shining with spit and slipping through those red lips. Rodney grabs a double fistful of Sheppard’s hair, pumping deeper into his mouth until Sheppard’s making these rough little sounds that make Rodney’s balls tighten.
So close. Sheppard gags, pushing back. So close, and he holds Sheppard there—there—throat muscles spasming tight around the head of Rodney’s cock. White sparks at his eyes, in his fingers, down his spine, and he comes down Sheppard’s throat.
When he’s done, he lets go of Sheppard’s hair and tilts forward, leaning against the wall and breathing hard. Sheppard drops from his knees to his ass, and Rodney closes his eyes.
Rodney hacked into the personnel files before they even left earth. He’s worked with the military long enough to know the chain of command is sacrosanct. Sheppard must’ve bent over and taken it from some lech of a CO to end up down in Antarctica instead of out on his ass altogether. The image is enough to make Rodney’s cock twitch again.
After a moment Rodney opens his eyes, noting the red welts Sheppard left on his hip. He steps back. Sheppard’s still on the floor, head tilted back against the wall. His chest rises in even deep breaths. He stares straight at Rodney for the first time in days. “You’re high, aren’t you.”
Rodney rolls his eyes. “I assure you my occasional use of stimulants is for anything but recreational purposes.” He nudges Sheppard with his foot. “Why are you still down there?”
Sheppard hauls himself to his feet, and Rodney leans against him, pressing him to the wall. Even though they’re inside the light is uncannily bright, but it doesn’t touch Rodney at all. He squeezes Sheppard’s crotch, laughs and squeezes tighter. Sheppard’s soft dick gives a half-interested twitch, but Sheppard himself turns his head away.
“I’m tired.”
Rodney leans in and bites his exposed neck. “Then we should lie down.”
………
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 04:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 04:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:48 pm (UTC)in a queasy, obsessive way;D(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 05:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:14 pm (UTC)(also, i'm totally hypnotized by your icon)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 05:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 08:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 01:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-29 09:57 pm (UTC)and this? is awesome. the characterization is spot-on, it's dark and angsty. i love this.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:55 pm (UTC)um, i did, but i'm not, but i might maybe again?
and this? is awesome. the characterization is spot-on, it's dark and angsty. i love this.
thanks. :D i was worried about the characterization, trying to walk the line between the edge of believable and ooc territory, so i'm very glad you think it works.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 12:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:46 pm (UTC)thanks, that's the effect i was going for. :D i don't know this group of characters nearly as well as csi:ny, so i was
obsessedconcerned with walking that line between believable and too fucked up to still be the character at all.(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 03:22 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-30 04:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 04:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-04 01:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-20 02:49 am (UTC)