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c/o Doctor Rodney McKay

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c/o Doctor Rodney McKay

Rodney's brushing his teeth with one hand and pushing off his pants with the other when the door chimes, so he struggles back into his pants and goes to open it. It's John, and he looks nervous, the cause of which becoming clear as Rodney takes in what John's wearing. His toothbrush falls from his limp fingers, and Rodney swallows down a mouthful of cinnamon paste.

"Are those Ronon's shorts?" Rodney asks, staring at the brown leather cut high on John's thigh.

John clears his throat. "I, um, have a package for, uh –" he looks down at his tablet, "– a Doctor McKay." He looks at Rodney, then pushes up the rim of his visor with his pen. "That you?"

Rodney gapes. "Are you out of your mind?" He grabs John by the wrist, pulling him inside. "This is a joke, right? Lorne's taping it?"

Stepping back, John puts the tablet on the closest shelf, then leans up against the closed door, hooking his thumbs on his belt, and Rodney's suddenly too-aware that his own zipper is down. John smirks at him, then licks his lips, and Rodney's struck with the memory of a particularly revealing game of Truth or Dare on Planet New Trading Partner last month after many, many, many mugs of basically-beer. "Oh," he says. It's all fun and games when it's Teyla who has to steal a pair of Woolsey's undies, but right now Rodney's certain that he let too much slip when it was his turn.

"Oh," John repeats. "So how d'ya want your delivery? With the uniform?" He runs one hand up the front of his brown T-shirt, plain cotton, which should look ridiculous paired with – and here Rodney's brain stutters over the words – what are practically hot pants, but as usual John could be wearing a paper sack and make it look good. "Or without?"

So Rodney has a thing for postal carriers. Starting with the mailman of his childhood, because there's just something about a punctual worker bee in a thick fur hat; at university, the Canada Post guys may or may not have been especially good-looking, but Rodney's always associated them with good news, given the multitude of acceptance letters and recruitment offers he's received; employment in the States introduced the practical yet sexy brown uniform of UPS workers, and dammit, the combination of alcohol and John's great wide laugh have rooted out Rodney's secret.

"Doctor?" John asks, and Rodney stares as John takes off the visor, strips out of the T-shirt, watching Rodney intently between movements. "I can deliver anything you want." His voice sounds smoky, seductive, and Rodney figures it's a good thing that his pants are open, one less step to think about when he could be thinking about John's mouth on his dick or what it would feel like to rub his hands up the skintight leather covering John's thighs.

Actually, Rodney's kind of proud that John's so good at the double entendres, because he's not sure he could choke out a single sentence with a lot of hysteria.

"It's a great package," John says, leaning forward, sounding like everyman's dialogue lifted from soft-core porn, "but before we go any further, I'm going to need your John Hancock... right... here." He cups his hand over his own crotch and squeezes, and Rodney bites his lip because the fantasy's just gone from lustful to hilarious.

Rodney shakes his head. "No, no, no, unh uh." He points at the bed. "Put it there, so I can make sure everything's in order."

Huh, he's not so bad at this, and then he almost loses it again when John waggles his eyebrows. "Sure, Doc, whatever you say."

John crawls up onto the bed, staying on all fours as he looks over his shoulder at Rodney, the lean line of his sun-tanned back bowing as he settles his weight forward, ass up, and just like that, it's hot again, so fucking hot. Oh yeah, Rodney's going to put his hands all over that merchandise, and he's going to start by yanking down those tiny leather shorts – they can't be Ronon's, no way would Ronon share, so where did John get them, and why didn't Rodney know – and then he stops cold, frozen in place as he catches sight of a glimmer of metal circled around John's balls. That is it, no time to waste. Rodney jerks his own pants down and grabs at John's hips, sliding his dick along the crease of John's ass and between his cheeks, transfixed by the back and forth, by the feel of warm leather against his legs; in his peripheral vision, he sees John collapse down onto his elbows, his body shape like a slanted 'A.' John groans Rodney's name and everything blurs, Rodney's shouting something wordless. He's got a good grip on John's leg, but he still falls sideways onto the bed, landing with a thump and a satiated sigh.

"Great delivery," Rodney mumbles, smearing his come into John's back, the feel of it a distraction until John flips over, legs spread. His dick's still hard, the head glistening wet. It's hot to the touch and John hisses when Rodney strokes him, the traces of come on his hand not enough lube for a smooth glide. Rodney taps the base of the cock ring just to watch John arch up, his hands fisting in the sheets.

"It's what you wanted," John grits out, and he's a little wild around the eyes, so Rodney speeds up his strokes, encouraging John to thrust against the steady pressure of his hands.

"With bonus leather," Rodney says. "So what's next? Biker twink? Greek slave boy? Prisoner turned gladiator, forced to fight in the ring for a senator's attentions?"

"You'd look great in a toga," John says. "One of those, those short ones. Spartacus." He's having trouble talking, gasping between the words.

"Kirk Douglas or Goran Visnjic?" Rodney asks, reaching up to pinch at John's nipple.

John's eyes squeeze shut. "Oh, god, Rodney, uh, um, K- Kirk, that, yeah, oh, I'm, I'm –"

"Gladiator it is," Rodney says, grinning, tightening his hand on John's cock, little jerks until John's shuddering, and then he licks at the come on John's stomach. It's the only time that John's relaxed enough that he doesn't double up with laughter when Rodney touches him there; he's so ticklish, and Rodney's determined to figure out more ways to turn John into a loose-limbed sprawl of satisfaction.

"You're not the only one who takes deliveries," John rumbles, stretching, kicking off the shorts.

"Mmmmm," Rodney says, content with his head resting on John's belly. "Wait, what?"

John laughs. "Milk run to M5X-920," he says. "Their whole industrial service sector is materials, remember?"

"Huh," Rodney says. He licks at John's belly again, watching the controlled flex of muscles. "So, can I expect another package soon?"

"Neither rain nor snow, nor gloom of night," John intones, carding his fingers through Rodney's hair.

Rodney presses a kiss to John's bellybutton. John doesn't flinch.