Sidling along the hallway, John stays close to the walls, shying away from the frank, curious glances of the people walking past. He guesses that the graduate physics department doesn't see a lot of undergrads, but he didn't figure on the program being so small as to immediately pick up on an interloper.
The door to room 452 is closed, the blinds drawn, and John shuffles past, wracked with indecision. Making a u-turn at the dead potted plant, he returns, hovering by the door. He looks down at the crumpled paper in his hand, double-checks the number, then swallows his trepidation and knocks.
There's a loud bark from within. "What?"
John takes a deep breath and opens the door. "Rodney McKay?"
At a glance, the room's about the same size as John's room, and it's filled with paper and books. Tall metal bookcases with long shelves take up a lot of the wall space, and a goose neck lamp provides a spill of light for the man tucked behind the desk that's crammed into the far corner.
"What?" The man demands again, not looking up from his work. "Yes, I'm Rodney McKay."
"Hi, I'm John," John says.
"How nice for you," Rodney says, going back and forth between an open textbook and a sheaf of loose leaf paper, his eyebrows drawn in concentration.
All John can tell from the doorway is that Rodney has light brown hair and long fingers; he's pretty sure that the sarcasm is a by-product of work immersion, and maybe it's not the best time to have come by, but it's not as though there's a protocol.
For a few seconds the only sound in the room is the scratch of Rodney's pencil and the flipping of pages. "Are you lost, John?" Rodney asks, flicking a look up and then raising his eyes again, slowly, in a more appreciative manner. John's used to it, he gets that a lot, but when Rodney does it, arousal tingles in John's belly.
"I, uh. I heard you, uh." John hasn't stuttered this much since he told his dad he wasn't going to major in Economics. He hates that he sounds so hesitant, and he stands up straight. "I heard you were the guy to see."
"Am I your TA?" The guy – Rodney – grabs a folder and shakes out a paper, running his finger down the page. "Are you trying to transfer into Professor Sorell's class?"
"No," John says. "You don't know me, and you're not my TA."
"Good," Rodney says. "I was pretty sure I'd been clear about my office hours. Rather, my lack of them." He looks up then, tapping the pencil's eraser in a rapid staccato against a notebook. "Okay, so?"
"The guy to see," John prompts.
"Uh," Rodney says. "Look, I don't tutor underclassmen and I won't write papers for you or anything. You're barking up the wrong nerd."
John swallows, suddenly nervous. What if this is some elaborate practical joke? He's heard rumors, sure, but maybe – what the hell, he's just going to say it, and if he's wrong, well, probably they'll both be embarrassed and that will be the end of it.
"I heard –" He's not sure how to put it.
"You heard..." Rodney stares at him, dismissive, not even really participating in the conversation and dammit if that doesn't rev John up a little, enough to blurt out his next thought.
"That you give really good head." He hopes his nerves won't show through in his tone, and it's a relief that he sounds husky, confident.
Rodney gapes at him for a moment; John's a breath away from tucking tail and running when Rodney says, "Yes. Well, no. I mean, yes. Though give isn't quite the descriptor I'd apply."
Oh thank god. Tension's been building up inside John all damn day, and now that he's sure of his welcome – "I heard your rates are reasonable," John says, fumbling for the lock on the door rather than the knob.
Rodney sniffs. "Grad school's expensive," he says, his gaze never leaving John's, but his hands are busy tucking papers into stacks and whisking them off into a side drawer of the desk.
"You mean TAs don't really pull in the big bucks?" John pretends to sound shocked.
"Not only that, but we have to put up with insufferable undergrads who think they know absolutely everything," Rodney returns, "when in reality they know absolutely nothing."
There's a spark of humor in his eyes, and as he comes around the side of the desk, he says, "Handjob, ten, up to ten minutes, five for every five after that. Blowjob, twenty, up to twenty minutes, five for every five after that. Rubbers aren't optional, so if that's a deal breaker for you, tough shit. You can touch my face and hair, but no pulling it, tugging, jerking, or scratching. I'm not into asphyxiation or roughness, and I'm in charge so I call the shots, which means that we do it my way or not at all."
Crossing his arms, Rodney leans back against his desk and levels a patronizing stare at John. "Were you able to keep up, or do you need flashcards?"
"I'm good," John says, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. A dollar a minute's kind of exorbitant, considering he could get blown for free at pretty much any bar or frat party. But he's already there, and Rodney has a soft-looking mouth and is appealingly matter of fact. John selects a twenty and a ten, and leans close to Rodney in order to lay the bills flat on the corner of the desk.
"And we're on the clock. This generally works better if you unzip your jeans," Rodney says, in a tone that suggests he's talking to a favored pet.
"No," John says. "You misunderstand. I'm going to blow you." He's gratified to hear Rodney's gasp of surprise when John folds neatly to the floor, gripping Rodney's knees.
"What? No. Don't be ridiculous." Rodney grabs him by the shoulders, trying to drag John back up, and John's pleased to see a faint blush staining Rodney's cheeks.
"You're really turning down a blowjob? One that you're getting paid for?" John asks, disbelieving. He wriggles closer, biting at Rodney's thigh through denim. "Don't you like getting your dick sucked?"
Rodney grunts. "No, no, no, yes. Yes, of course I do. But John –" and the way he stresses the word makes it sound like if that is your real name – "I don't think you're grasping how capitalism works." He's stopped trying to yank John's shoulders out of their sockets though, and John takes advantage, shrugging out of Rodney's grip and rubbing his cheek on Rodney's jeans, his mouth tantalizingly close to Rodney's crotch.
John licks his lips and pretends he doesn't hear Rodney's little moan. "Sure I do," he says. "C'mon, how long's it been since you've had a blowjob, Rodney?"
"How long's it – what does that have to do with –" With a put-upon sigh, Rodney relaxes against the desk, holding onto the edge, and John rewards him by smoothing his hands up the backs of Rodney's legs. Rodney stares down at him, and John tries to look attentive, even though he's imagining Rodney unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down just enough so that John could see the press of his dick against the – cotton, probably, Rodney looks like a boxers kind of guy – and then Rodney says, "Fine, fine, this one time, you are rather – um, well. Look, capitalism one-oh-one. I have something. You need it. I get what I want, you get what you want. Everyone's happy."
"This is what I want," John insists. "I'm not paying for what you can provide, well, other than this." He slips two fingers into the waist of Rodney's jeans. Rodney sucks in his gut; whether he's ticklish or it's reflexive, John doesn't care. Rodney's skin is warm and John drags his fingers back and forth, gratified to feel a tremble in Rodney's knees. Kneeling up, John cups his hand over Rodney's dick, giving it a light squeeze. "What I really want is your confidence."
"My confidence," Rodney repeats. He looks at John, assessment written across his face. "If you heard I was the guy to see, then you know I'm a sure thing. So while I appreciate this – seduction, or whatever it is, it's completely unnecessary. Why don't we just –"
"– get to the good part?" John smiles, the really charming one that works on – well, pretty much everyone.
"Yes, exactly." Rodney points at a mountain of books stacked on one wide arm of a worn leather club chair, oversized, the seat low to the ground.
"Perfect," John says, not bothering to stand, just spinning Rodney around and then pushing him down into the seat, ignoring Rodney's flailing arms. Wedged between his knees, John gets Rodney's belt and pants spread open in the next few seconds. "Really perfect," he says in admiration of the build and height of the chair, which puts everything right up close without requiring John to bend too much. "Have you done this before?"
Which is the wrong thing to say, because Rodney's stunned look of wonder disappears, his mouth snaps shut, and the flush on his throat is back, except he looks like he wants to slug John, not have sex with him. He's struggling to sit up, and John hurries to say, "That's not what I meant. I really – it's a great chair." He sounds so lame that he winces. "It's nice that you paid attention to the details." Jesus, why can't he stop talking?
"Shut up, John," Rodney growls, and shoves at John's chest with the heel of his hand. "Oh, stop looking so miserable. You're still going to blow me. I want to take these off."
Rodney pushes down his jeans and boxers, stepping out of one leg, using the arm of the chair for balance. John's fixated on Rodney's cock, the curve of it as he bends and moves, and when Rodney clicks his fingers, John's attention snaps up to find Rodney smiling at him.
"You really want this, don't you?" Rodney asks, an inkling of understanding in his expression.
"Yes," John whispers, shuffling closer on his knees, fighting back a blush. He nuzzles Rodney's thigh, moving closer to blow hot breath over Rodney's balls. "But you can't tell. Okay?" He looks up, not understanding the look on Rodney's face but whatever, he's not there to psychoanalyze the guy. "You're not going to tell anyone, right?"
"I won't tell anyone," Rodney says, and he tugs gently at John's hair. "Wouldn't want to drive away repeat customers, now, would I?"
Whatever tenderness might have sprung up between them in the past few minutes, whatever feeling of connection or solidarity may have manifested itself disappears at Rodney's words. John takes a deep breath; he slapped thirty bucks on the guy's desk and signed himself up for a blowjob between business partners, nothing more.
John slides a rubber out of his pocket, rips it open and slips it over the head of Rodney's dick in a practiced motion.
"Huh," Rodney says.
John loves the thought that Rodney's watching his every move.
The condom's pineapple-flavored and just sweet enough to taste like sugar. Through the latex, Rodney's dick feels warm against John's tongue, and he uses his fingers to roll it further down, grazing Rodney's balls with the back of his hand.
"Mmm," Rodney hums, widening his stance in anticipation.
"Mm-hmmm," John agrees, ducking his head and licking along the underside of Rodney's cock, coming back up and working his way from head to base, taking his time, and then repeating the cycle. Down, under, up and back, long, lazy licks interspersed with sucking kisses until Rodney quivers all over and John hears a soft whimper.
"Yes," Rodney breathes out when John opens his mouth and sucks Rodney in, tonguing the head, slurping, and then going all the way down.
"Oh god," Rodney says, and John wants to smile but he can't, settling for crowding closer and plastering himself to Rodney's leg. It's an anchor and a tease: John's nipple peaks through his T-shirt as he rubs it against Rodney's thigh with every bob of his head, and the drag of sensation feels amazing, makes him want to push harder, take more.
Drawing back, John goes back to the long licks down the sides of Rodney's cock, letting it slap gently against his face, letting his mouth hang open, letting his eyelashes flutter. Rodney says, "Oh, god," again, softer, but his tone carries more weight, and if he hasn't been sure if he should touch John, that's been stripped away. He curls one hand around the back of John's neck, caressing, his other hand kneading at John's shoulder.
Little licks again, stiffening his tongue and tracing smaller and smaller circles at the tip, then opening his mouth wide and sucking hard, and he's matching Rodney moan for moan. Rodney throws his legs open, lifting over the armrest and planting his foot on the seat of the chair. There are about eighty more places that John wants to put his hands now, but he's not sure what the boundaries are, so he wraps his arms around Rodney's leg and shuts his eyes to block out the temptation.
With his eyes shut, every noise is magnified, and the wet stroke of his mouth on Rodney's dick translates into lust thick enough to choke on, making him want this more than he's wanted anything or anyone for a long time.
John's breathing hard now, feeling wanton and hungry, moving his head faster, stretching to lick around the base of the rubber, at the skin where the latex doesn't cover, and Rodney's body jerks. There's a prickle of hair against John's cheek, and he opens his eyes, turning his head, lapping near Rodney's balls and groaning in relief when Rodney presses them against John's lips.
"That's it," Rodney murmurs, his hand still cupping John's neck, the palm sweaty, and John hollows his cheeks and sucks, listening to Rodney's chuff of excitement.
Finally he has to kneel back for a moment to catch his breath. Rodney's red-faced, flushed, his eyes round, and he reaches out, dragging his thumb through the spit drying on John's chin and smearing it across John's mouth. John forgets how to breathe, and when Rodney pushes his cock back inside, John lets him. Rodney thrusts in slowly, and pulls out slowly, and John curves his tongue and tries not to come.
Slow doesn't last long, and the featherlight touch of Rodney's fingers against John's throat causes them both to shiver, and then John splays a hand along Rodney's flank and sucks with intent. Rodney's gasping and swearing, "Jesus, holy, god, god, god," and John goes for broke, sliding one hand around and grabbing Rodney's ass, squeezing and riding out the resulting buck of Rodney's hips. Timing it just as he relaxes, John smacks Rodney's ass, loving the jiggle of it against his hand, and Rodney wobbles but he doesn't protest, so John trails his fingers down, hoping he can get away with a little bit more.
He loses the rhythm completely when he finds Rodney's hand already there, the tip of one finger circling his own asshole, and the shock is stunning, so incredibly arousing that he takes Rodney's cock down his throat, swallowing around it, needing to make Rodney come.
Rodney's fingernails dig into John's scalp, yanking at his hair, and his hips tilt up and thrust forward and John takes it, even though it makes his throat hurt and his eyes water. Rodney stammers out John's name when he comes, followed by a low, throaty growl that makes John wish they could do this for hours. Rodney strokes John's jaw as he pulls out, stripping off the condom and sighing so deeply that it's hard to tell if it's from pleasure or regret.
John's dick is so hard that it hurts, and he can't help the whine that escapes when he kneels up; Rodney looks down at him and grins, pulling him up and then sliding between John and the armrest to sink down onto the edge of the chair. John groans as the blood rushes back into his legs, and his calves tingle, but more importantly, Rodney's yanking down John's pants, and his hair tickles against John's stomach. He barely gets his mouth on John's dick before John's shaking and saying, "Yeah, Rodney, unh, unnnh," and coming.
He trembles all over as Rodney licks him clean, kissing his bellybutton, and then sways a little when Rodney stands up and kisses him.
"What is that..." Rodney says, smacking his lips. He bends down and retrieves the condom wrapper from the floor. "Pineapple?"
John shrugs. "The least nasty-tasting one," he says.
"Did you stand in the store and taste test all of them?" Rodney asks, the earlier acerbity returning to his voice.
John shakes his head. "No, I read it in Cosmo."
They share a laugh together, and then Rodney leans around John and grabs the Monopoly money from the desktop. Folding it in half, he tucks it into John's hand. "Buy yourself something nice, Colonel."
John snorts out another laugh and kisses Rodney again, his lips feeling pleasantly sensitized. "You didn't need to take out loans, did you? Grants? NSA slush funds?"
"Something like that," Rodney throws out over his shoulder as he heads into the bathroom. "Shower? Mission tomorrow. Early to bed, early to rise to blackmail your TA into sexual slavery."
"Hey!" John says. "I paid you, remember?"
"Capitalism at its best," Rodney says, sounding cheerful.