Notes: A silly little fic for my darling friend Rina on this, her day of birth
October 25, 2005
Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I’d be watching them do this sort of thing all the time instead of just writing about it.
This was what hell felt like. Rodney McKay, astrophysicist, genius, and all around bane of many people’s existence, was sure he’d finally solved one of the greatest religious mysteries of all time. Because he was there. In hell, that was.
His grey matter was roughly twenty sizes too large for his cranium, and Rodney was fairly certain that there were a number of nasty little demons dancing jigs upon it while wearing pitons on their dancing shoes. His mouth had obviously had about half the Sahara deposited in it, and his tongue was wearing more than one pair of fleece long johns as evidenced by the extreme fuzziness of it. Rodney was fairly certain that someone had shoved a pair of old sweat socks in his mouth as well, just for the flavor.
His skin had obviously been peeled away because there was no way that just lying on a bed with sheets covering him could hurt this much otherwise. His hair hurt, and his teeth, feet, toes, nails, eyelashes, god, even his cuticles were in pain!
What on Earth, or in this case in Pegasus, had happened to him?
Oh yes, that was right.
Sheppard had found out it was his birthday, the bastard. He’d probably gone snooping or had Elizabeth rat him out, that loose-moraled, political call girl!
And then the bastard, Sheppard of course, had rounded up Beckett, Zelenka, Dex and Lorne in order to use the one day of the year Rodney tried desperately to forget in order to have a ‘guys’ night.
Okay, so the food had been excellent and so had the company, especially... Rodney yanked his mind off of that road with all the alacrity of someone approaching the turn off to dead man’s curve and realizing he didn’t have the breaks to stop if he needed to.
Yes, right, where was he again? Ah, the so-called party that was in fact nothing more than a drunken bacchanalia without the sex, goddamnit all. Sheppard had flown over to the mainland and had come back loaded with enough of Holling’s hooch to give all the attendees of the little soiree alcohol poisoning for life. Then Zelenka had turned up with his home brew on top of it. Dex and Beckett had been in charge of the food, and Lorne had come up with their cover stories so that no one—like Rodney—would be suspicious until it was too late.
Rodney blamed every last throb of his temple and gurgle of his less than healthy stomach on the sadists he called friends. He ignored the fact that he’d had the most fun he’d had in... a very long time until he realized he could blame it all on being shanghaied and plied with alcohol which had in turn loosened his inhibitions to the point where he’d... what?
Let’s see, he remembered watching that stupid football game again, drinking and eating, laughing and making crude jokes. He remembered Zelenka leaving first, then Dex and Lorne. He also remembered getting pulled into a game of strip poker with Sheppard and Beckett after that. But from that point on... God, he couldn’t remember what happened after he’d lost his final hand and had had to give up his boxers to...
A soft groan beside him had Rodney’s head whipping around and the world tilting sickeningly. Breathing heavily through his nose, eyes closing to stop the vertigo from making him heave, McKay finally managed to get all parts of him under enough control that he could crack his eyes open to take a peek.
Okay, he’d been wrong before. The whole hangover thing had just been purgatory; this had to be hell. God, he was in bed with... NAKED!!! Oh sweet Jesus Christ on a crutch, he was naked and... sticky. And it wasn’t the too hot, covered with sweat, hung over stupor sort of sticky either. Bluntly put, he was covered in cum. Lots and lots of cum. This, according to his less than razor sharp mind, meant only one thing: he’d finally gotten some, despite his earlier disgust at the lack of sex at the bacchanalia. And he couldn’t remember a single scorching detail. Fuck fuck fuck!
"Rodney, yer thinkin’ too loud, luv. Shut up, go t’sleep, an’ when we’re both less soused and more awake, we’ll be more than happy t’refresh yer memory," Carson muttered, rolling to his side and sliding an arm around Rodney’s hips to hold him in place.
"Yeah, what he said," John Sheppard mumbled from the other side of the confounded scientist, his own arm joining Carson’s to trap Rodney even more firmly.
Rodney’s head slowly rolled to the other side. Instead of dreamy blue eyes and a rolling tongue, he found himself looking at dancing hazel eyes, perma-grin and the bed head that just wouldn’t quit.
"If this is a drunken hallucination, may I never wake up," Rodney prayed fervently. And then warm lips covered his mouth, and a hot tongue speared inside, staking its claim while on his neck another pair of lips created a hard vacuum and began to try and suck his blood without the benefit of fangs. Rodney’s hips bucked upwards only to have his morning hard on encased by not one but two callused hands, one from each side of him. In short order the two sadists in his bed had jerked him off, adding yet another layer of cum to the mess already on his stomach.
"So, are you awake yet, Sleeping Beauty?" Sheppard chuckled when he at last let go of McKay’s mouth and cock.
"I think we’ve melted his brains, John," Carson grinned over Rodney’s chest.
"Think that means we can get back to sleep and try to recover a little more?" John asked hopefully.
Rodney, whose brains might have been disgorged through his cock, had enough of his usual acerbity to hit both of his bedmates lightly in the stomach before closing his eyes blissfully.
Okay. Maybe birthdays weren’t so bad after all, because it looked like he actually managed to get what he’d wished for this year.
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