Kent is never passive in bed. He never just lies on his back, waiting for his partner to come to him; he never lets people spend time touching him. He also never thought he'd end up in bed with Rodney McKay again--for one thing, he'd never expected Rodney to come back from wherever he'd disappeared to--but the word never is starting to fall out of favor in his vocabulary.
He runs his fingertips over the nylon rope tying his wrists to the bedframe, counting ridges. He makes out seven before Rodney brings his teeth down hard on Kent's nipple and Kent's hands clench into fists.
"Jerk," Kent pants.
"Yeah, bite me," Rodney mutters back, hand sweeping down across Kent's stomach. His palm glides over Kent's cock, and Kent pushes his hips up, trying to get more contact. "Bitch. Stop being so greedy."
Really, this makes less than no sense; Rodney's been out of the picture for more than just the three and a half years since he stopped returning Kent's emails. He stopped publishing ages ago. Kent hadn't been surprised, really. Rodney was the kind of guy who couldn't stand not having his genius recognized. Kent sometimes figures that's why Rodney gave in and started fucking him in the first place: at least Kent knows a brilliant mind when he encounters one. Or, as Rodney put it, "You might be blind, but you're not a complete and utter moron."
Rodney grips Kent's cock nice and tight and starts dragging his hand up in quick, heavy strokes. Kent groans, grasping at nothing. "C'mon, c'mon," he gasps, "Jesus, Rodney, fuck me if you want, I'm right goddamn here--"
"Oh, really? I thought you were somewhere else and I was just jerking off someone else entirely."
Kent barks out a laugh. "You," he says, "are still a dick--"
"Come. Right now."
Kent's eyes squeeze shut as he comes, and Rodney keeps making quick, hot passes down the length of his cock, slick and sticky now. Kent groans, wrists jerking hard against the rope. "Lemme up," he says, "lemme up, c'mon, now--"
Thankfully, Rodney does, and he finally lets go of Kent's cock while he's at it. Kent breathes easier, relieved, and he slides his hand up Rodney's arm.
"So do I get to hear why you're working out now, or is that classified?"
Rodney jerks back. "Uh," he says, sounding like someone a tenth as smart as he is. "What, do you want to trade weightlifting strategies?"
"Don't be an asshole. I want to know what you're doing, because if it's field research--" and Kent thinks it is, somehow; it's just a guess, but this is Rodney and he's been working out, and with the bulk of muscle under Kent's hand, the way Kent knows Rodney used to shun exercise, Kent thinks it's a couple years of work and not just something he picked up last summer-- "you're seriously holding out on me."
For a while, Rodney's quiet. "I really would tell you," he says. "But the Air Force morons wouldn't just let me bring paperwork over and have your scanner dictate it; they're printing you out a nondisclosure agreement in Braille."
Kent's grip on Rodney's arm tightens. "They're what?"
"That's what I said! I mean, Jesus, it's not like you don't get print journals that aren't in Braille sent to you all the time and you have a screen reader; like you couldn't read a .pdf like anybody else, but no, there's something about the ADA, I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention--"
"Rodney, shut the fuck up a minute!" Kent snaps. Rodney calms down, and Kent takes a breath. "What are they going to offer me?"
He reaches up so he can brush his fingertips over Rodney's cheek; he feels it when Rodney smirks. "Trust me," Rodney says, "you're about to need some new luggage and a prepaid storage unit."