![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
velocitygrass.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sga_flashficTitle: Why Rodney McKay Hated Bad Sex
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
velocitygrass
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard (plus past McKay/OMC bad!sex)
Rating: Light R
Spoilers: up to The Siege Part 3
Wordcount: 1000 (exactly, and it wasn't even on purpose)
Summary: At that moment his life had flashed before his eyes, life as it could have been as a bisexual man.
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis doesn't belong to me. I only do this because I'm obsessed.
Notes: Thanks totriple7lies for going over this :)
Rodney McKay hated bad sex. And it wasn't just the general dislike of it (which would be natural because, really, who liked bad sex?). No, it was a very specific loathing. And it wasn't just any bad sex either (not that he liked other bad sex, but other bad sex at least still counted as sex in his mind). It was the sex he had had with Greg Peterson (tall, dark wavy hair, handsome face, winning smile, gay), when he was 23 (a bit blonder, a lot skinnier, straight, but wondering, and willing to test his orientation once and for all). Rodney hated it so much that a shudder of disgust and anger washed over him when he thought of it- which he really tried not to.
It wasn't how incredibly awkward he had felt asking out a guy he had shot down a month earlier- claiming he didn't swing that way, or that he had been too nervous to follow any attempts at conversation Greg had made on their date.
It wasn't that once inside Greg's apartment, Greg had practically jumped Rodney and showered his face with slobbering kisses, that left Rodney's lips and spots on his cheeks and neck wet.
It wasn't the creepy squeaks Greg had made, when Rodney had jerked him off in the hall, wanting to stay close to the door, so that he could flee as soon as possible- in case it didn't get better.
It wasn't that Greg had come incredibly fast (that had been a relief actually), or that he had come on Rodney's good shirt and the floor, that made Rodney hate bad sex.
It also wasn't that Rodney had to stand on the same wet spot on the floor a minute later, after Greg had fumbled off his shoes and ripped off the button of his good pants in his hurry to get Rodney out of them (Rodney had thankfully worn not-really-good socks, which he had burnt after the encounter).
It wasn't that Greg had scratched him, when he'd ripped open his good (if come-stained) shirt or that he'd pushed him back against the door right into the door handle, which had left a bruise for over a week.
It wasn't even the slurping noises Greg had made when he'd gone down on Rodney, and the way he had tried to say his name while blowing him, only to have it come out as "'og'ey", again and again, until it sounded like "Hey, cock!" in Rodney's mind.
And it wasn't that Greg had been really bad at giving head, using too much teeth and really not knowing how and where to touch him, so that Rodney had to think of a whole group of cheerleaders to get hard.
No, it was the hands. The clammy hands that had wrapped around his dick and ass and spread over his chest like cold, wet fish, leaving trails in their way that Rodney imagined would never come off. At least it used to be that.
It all changed 15 years later, on the day Rodney had the exact opposite of bad sex.
And suddenly he hated bad sex, because it had made him think he was utterly and irrevocably, exclusively straight.
At that moment his life had flashed before his eyes, life as it could have been as a bisexual man. And his aversion to bad sex had turned into downright resentment and frustrated fury.
Not because of the smart and good-looking guy who'd fallen for him, when he got his first job as an assistant.
Not because of the threesome with the hot ex-boyfriend of his then-girlfriend he'd said no to.
Not because of the Russian wonder boy, who'd kept at least half of the guys in the lab in Siberia in a state of bliss, while he'd nearly frozen his dick off alone.
And not even because of the many, many times that he'd had fleeting thoughts about the men he met, thoughts that he'd immediately dismissed, because the mere memory of his only gay experience left him shuddering in the worst possible way.
No, it was because of John Sheppard.
It was how his instant attraction to John had left him annoyed rather than happy.
It was how every time John had made him smile had been tainted by the feeling that it shouldn't feel so good, because he wasn't falling in love.
It was how he hadn't been able to understand what he felt, when John first died.
It was how idiotic he'd felt about his irrational and inexplicable hatred of Chaya.
It was how absolutely, astonishingly ridiculous it had been that John could make his heart skip a beat.
It was how he had berated himself for thinking for a second that, when the light had gone out, some part of himself had died, too.
And it was how his heart had started beating when John had eventually fumbled "Rodney, I..." and he had forced himself to answer "Yes, I... I'm sorry, I'm straight," when he had wanted to say "Yes, I feel exactly the same," and do things with John that straight men did not want to do with their male friends.
It was the way John had looked at him, the weeks after that, and how he was filled with trepidation instead of anticipation when he'd finally given up and realized that he wanted to be with John, even if they never had sex.
Mostly though it was that, when John's eyes had lit up and he'd stepped towards him, Rodney had felt thrilled, but also slightly nauseous because of what was to come, and instead of savoring those first tentative, soft touches, he had thought of clammy hands.
The only single, tiny redeeming thing about bad sex was John's reaction when Rodney had told him about it, after John had asked why he'd turned him down at first:
An incredulous "Bad sex?" and a hearty, open laugh like Rodney had never heard from John before.
Author:
velocitygrassPairing: McKay/Sheppard (plus past McKay/OMC bad!sex)
Rating: Light R
Spoilers: up to The Siege Part 3
Wordcount: 1000 (exactly, and it wasn't even on purpose)
Summary: At that moment his life had flashed before his eyes, life as it could have been as a bisexual man.
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis doesn't belong to me. I only do this because I'm obsessed.
Notes: Thanks to
triple7lies for going over this :)Rodney McKay hated bad sex. And it wasn't just the general dislike of it (which would be natural because, really, who liked bad sex?). No, it was a very specific loathing. And it wasn't just any bad sex either (not that he liked other bad sex, but other bad sex at least still counted as sex in his mind). It was the sex he had had with Greg Peterson (tall, dark wavy hair, handsome face, winning smile, gay), when he was 23 (a bit blonder, a lot skinnier, straight, but wondering, and willing to test his orientation once and for all). Rodney hated it so much that a shudder of disgust and anger washed over him when he thought of it- which he really tried not to.
It wasn't how incredibly awkward he had felt asking out a guy he had shot down a month earlier- claiming he didn't swing that way, or that he had been too nervous to follow any attempts at conversation Greg had made on their date.
It wasn't that once inside Greg's apartment, Greg had practically jumped Rodney and showered his face with slobbering kisses, that left Rodney's lips and spots on his cheeks and neck wet.
It wasn't the creepy squeaks Greg had made, when Rodney had jerked him off in the hall, wanting to stay close to the door, so that he could flee as soon as possible- in case it didn't get better.
It wasn't that Greg had come incredibly fast (that had been a relief actually), or that he had come on Rodney's good shirt and the floor, that made Rodney hate bad sex.
It also wasn't that Rodney had to stand on the same wet spot on the floor a minute later, after Greg had fumbled off his shoes and ripped off the button of his good pants in his hurry to get Rodney out of them (Rodney had thankfully worn not-really-good socks, which he had burnt after the encounter).
It wasn't that Greg had scratched him, when he'd ripped open his good (if come-stained) shirt or that he'd pushed him back against the door right into the door handle, which had left a bruise for over a week.
It wasn't even the slurping noises Greg had made when he'd gone down on Rodney, and the way he had tried to say his name while blowing him, only to have it come out as "'og'ey", again and again, until it sounded like "Hey, cock!" in Rodney's mind.
And it wasn't that Greg had been really bad at giving head, using too much teeth and really not knowing how and where to touch him, so that Rodney had to think of a whole group of cheerleaders to get hard.
No, it was the hands. The clammy hands that had wrapped around his dick and ass and spread over his chest like cold, wet fish, leaving trails in their way that Rodney imagined would never come off. At least it used to be that.
It all changed 15 years later, on the day Rodney had the exact opposite of bad sex.
And suddenly he hated bad sex, because it had made him think he was utterly and irrevocably, exclusively straight.
At that moment his life had flashed before his eyes, life as it could have been as a bisexual man. And his aversion to bad sex had turned into downright resentment and frustrated fury.
Not because of the smart and good-looking guy who'd fallen for him, when he got his first job as an assistant.
Not because of the threesome with the hot ex-boyfriend of his then-girlfriend he'd said no to.
Not because of the Russian wonder boy, who'd kept at least half of the guys in the lab in Siberia in a state of bliss, while he'd nearly frozen his dick off alone.
And not even because of the many, many times that he'd had fleeting thoughts about the men he met, thoughts that he'd immediately dismissed, because the mere memory of his only gay experience left him shuddering in the worst possible way.
No, it was because of John Sheppard.
It was how his instant attraction to John had left him annoyed rather than happy.
It was how every time John had made him smile had been tainted by the feeling that it shouldn't feel so good, because he wasn't falling in love.
It was how he hadn't been able to understand what he felt, when John first died.
It was how idiotic he'd felt about his irrational and inexplicable hatred of Chaya.
It was how absolutely, astonishingly ridiculous it had been that John could make his heart skip a beat.
It was how he had berated himself for thinking for a second that, when the light had gone out, some part of himself had died, too.
And it was how his heart had started beating when John had eventually fumbled "Rodney, I..." and he had forced himself to answer "Yes, I... I'm sorry, I'm straight," when he had wanted to say "Yes, I feel exactly the same," and do things with John that straight men did not want to do with their male friends.
It was the way John had looked at him, the weeks after that, and how he was filled with trepidation instead of anticipation when he'd finally given up and realized that he wanted to be with John, even if they never had sex.
Mostly though it was that, when John's eyes had lit up and he'd stepped towards him, Rodney had felt thrilled, but also slightly nauseous because of what was to come, and instead of savoring those first tentative, soft touches, he had thought of clammy hands.
The only single, tiny redeeming thing about bad sex was John's reaction when Rodney had told him about it, after John had asked why he'd turned him down at first:
An incredulous "Bad sex?" and a hearty, open laugh like Rodney had never heard from John before.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-29 08:46 pm (UTC)Can you tell I'm alone in the office and able to catch up on overdue comments? /g/