The One Where Aliens Make Rodney Do It with Everyone but John,
and John Takes Matters into His Own Hands

Dec. 11th, 2007 11:33 pm

Fandom: SG: Atlantis

Characters: John/Rodney, Rodney/Everyone (No. Seriously.)

Rating: R

Warnings: Slash, het, language

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Beta: ferret_kitty who is shamelessly enabling me, at this point.

Summary: The title? Yeah, that's pretty much what goes on, here.

Author's Note: So, let's face it, sex is about technique. I mean, enthusiasm will only take you so far. It's a skill that you can learn and practice and if there's one thing Rodney McKay excels at, it's things he can practice. So. I said that to say this: Rodney is apparently Atlantis' resident sex god, and John's finding out in about the most embarrassing way possible.


John would have liked to be able to say that it started small. But Rodney McKay does nothing by half measures, and John gets no grace period, no ease in to the sudden and violent shift of his perceptions about the other man. He doesn't even get a fucking warning.

What he gets is Teyla, telling them in the pre-mission brief, that the Frechosan's are a peaceful people who base pretty much all of their social interactions on a first impression. Ronon looks a little wistful, off to the side, as she outlines exactly what will be expected from them when their party steps through the 'gate. John wonders if Frechon is a world the other man visited while running, if perhaps he's still got some fond memories.

In any case, it doesn't much matter, because then they're being hustled out to the 'gate, Rodney fidgeting with his vest, a pocket of insecurity in the midst of the rest of them. John thinks about saying something comforting, about the relative hygiene of the natives they're going to encounter, or that they'll just sandwich Rodney in the middle of their line up and no one'll notice if he keeps it short and sweet.

He doesn't get the chance.

They step through the 'gate in silence, and sure enough, there's a crowd arrayed waiting for them, just as Teyla had predicted there would be. Of course, it helps that the 'gate is in the middle of the village, which is an arrangement John hasn't seen very often.

He figures that maybe the huge earthen walls that the natives have built on either side of the 'gate, barely an enough space for a man to turn between the surface of the event horizon and the packed dirt, might have something to do with that. It's certainly an interesting idea, and he stares at the mammoth constructs for a long moment, before letting Teyla usher the rest of them towards the welcoming party.

The girl that steps forward to greet them is young, but not overly so. Average height, small without being skinny, sharp featured with a tense mouth, turned down in the corners. The rest of the village has gone silent around them, and she steps up to Ronon on the left flank without so much as hesitating.

She doesn't pull on Ronon, doesn't touch him, just stands expectantly in front of him and after a moment he leans down. For a long moment, they stare, and then one side of Ronon's mouth twitches up and he is closing the distance between them.

He doesn't touch the woman with anything but his mouth, just kisses her soft and surprisingly gentle for a long moment until she steps back. She bobs her head, gives him a smile that pointedly does not include the rest of the team, and waves impatiently for him to move past.

Teyla is next, and for a half second John expects a man to step forward, but the woman is already there. Teyla is quicker than Ronon, perhaps better prepared, leans their foreheads together in the Athosian greeting first, before using her hands braced on the woman's shoulders to ease her back just enough to move their mouths together.

They kiss for a long moment, nothing but soft wet sound and the slow slide of tongue and John somehow hadn't expected that. And then the woman pulls away, rests her forehead against Teyla's again for just a second before motioning for Teyla to join Ronon.

And then there's Rodney.

Rodney, who is fidgeting, who looks awkward and nervous as hell faced with the woman standing before him. John feels a twitch of concern low in his gut, starts cycling through excuses that might, possibly, work to get Rodney out of this. He's coming up blank, and the silence is dragging out, and then Rodney takes a deep breath, and mutters something under his breath that might be, "Oh, this is so juvenile." He reaches for the woman.

There's nothing awkward, now. Not about the way Rodney's big hands are cupping the woman's jaw, fingers threading back into her hair. Not about the way he's kissing her, opening up her mouth and teasing her lips. Not about the way that after a moment the woman moans, loud in the silence around them, and then her hands are on Rodney's shoulders, clinging desperately.

John watches her fingers curl up against Rodney's vest, watches the flush rising in her cheeks as she sways into McKay. Watches McKay brace himself, taking her weight like it's nothing, tilting her head back to gain deeper access to her mouth. Like she isn't already giving him everything.

When she pulls back, after what John is aware of only as an uncomfortably long period of time, her mouth is red and swollen. For a long moment she just blinks dazedly at Rodney, one of her hands coming up as she trials her fingers over her lips. She looks completely wrecked, and McKay looks...well, he looks awkward again.

When the woman speaks for the first time her voice is low, throaty with arousal, "I will take the last kiss for these outsiders from this one, as well." And John wants to protest, if nothing else on principle, but the woman's throwing herself at Rodney.

But then, it's not like he could have compared to what Rodney's doing. The woman is crawling all over Rodney, arms winding up over Rodney's shoulders, fingers sliding up his neck into his hair. She's sliding one leg up, pressing herself against him. John's surprised by the sudden flash of heat in his own gut when Rodney slides a hand down, dragging his hand over the woman's thigh, hooking his fingers behind her knee, pulling her impossibly closer.

And then Rodney's sliding a thigh between her legs.

John's aware that at this point, they're pretty much watching live action porn. The woman is grinding down onto Rodney's thigh, one arm curled up against his head, the other flattened down across his back, fingernails digging into fabric. She's making hungry, needy, desperate sounds against Rodney's mouth.

He can't help but staring at the splay of Rodney's hand across the small of her back, the way he's fucking his tongue into her mouth, in perfect rhythm with her increasingly ragged movements against his thigh. He's hard in his BDUs, watching the slick slide of Rodney's tongue, the flush in his cheeks, the long strong lines of his fingers around her leg.

And then she shudders, gasping, going limp in Rodney's arms. John bites the insides of his cheeks because it's one of the hottest things he's ever seen in his life, can feel himself flushing, body overheating like a furnace inside his skin.

The woman's knees are apparently no longer properly working, because for a long instant she just hangs on to Rodney, sucking kisses into his neck. It's a surprise somehow that Rodney looks completely uncomfortable again, patting awkwardly at her back and trying without any tact at all to disentangle himself from her hold.

Rodney's saying, "Right, well. Um. Yes. I think you should probably go see John now. Over there. Away from me." He's also backing up and squirming, pushing at her, and she finally lets him go with a soft sound of protest.

John's eyes get hung up on the wet spot on the middle of Rodney's thigh, and he's still staring at it, trying to wrap his mind around what just happened, when the woman turns to face the gathered crowd. Her voice is slow and thick, when she says, "Truly, these are a blessed people!"

They end up with a trade agreement that's almost criminally slanted in their favor.


The thing is, a week later, John's not sure why he can't stop thinking about it. It wasn't that impressive. Really. Except for how it really, really was.

John's never had a problem getting women into his bed, and he's never had any real complaints afterwards. But he's sure that he's never gotten anyone off by kissing them, no matter the amount of grinding and groping involved. And Rodney had made it seem effortless, and also, really insanely hot.

He can't stop thinking about it. He manages to convince himself, mostly successfully, that it was just a freak thing. That Rodney had a moment of Zen or the woman had just been really, really horny. He's sure that most of the time kissing Rodney--being kissed by Rodney--wouldn't be like that.

It's just not possible for one person to be that good.

Eventually, he does manage to put it out of his mind. Forgets about it. Mostly. If there's a brief flash of memory when he kisses the high priestess on P93-238, when his teeth catch against her lips and she makes a sound of soft protest at the suddenness with which he pulls away, he barely notices. It doesn't take more than two tight, closed mouthed kisses before she's tumbling him down onto the bed, anyway.


It's been two months since Frechon, and John only catches himself staring at Rodney's mouth off and on, anymore. It's not even staring, really. Just, sometimes he catches a glimpse of Rodney's lips curving down, or shiny after he eats, and gets hung up for a second.

He's pretty sure that Rodney hasn't noticed, and also that sooner or later he'll grow out of this strange fascination. And maybe he would have. Except that's about when they end up on M31-00R.

They go in blind through the space 'gate, after the ever elusive energy readings that John's starting to think McKay just makes up to fuck with them. He'd be sure of it, except Rodney hates everything about off-world travel more than the rest of them put together, and so it doesn't actually make sense for the other man to keep coming up with fraudulent reasons to make them wade through desert, jungle, tundra, or whatever other horrible geography the Pegasus throws at them.

M31-00R actually turns out to be of fairly moderate clime, if a little rainy, and the natives are friendly enough, right up to the point that they're invited inside and Teyla pushes her hood off. And then it's not so much friendly as weapon waving psychosis. It's one hell of a way to find out that a recent sickness had killed all but a handful of the women on the planet, and well, Teyla was pretty much a blessing from the gods.

Teyla's trying to soothe while casting increasingly desperate looks at the door, Ronon's finger is literally caressing the trigger of his blaster, and John's really not looking forward to another blocked 'gate address. And Rodney talks over the rest of them, all twenty highly agitated village elders, "Look, stop, you can't--" The man scowls when no one but John appears to be paying attention, raises his voice another few notches, "She's already married. So back off."

That gets everyone's notice, which is actually kind of a surprise. John hadn't thought that these men would care very much about infidelity, what with the way they were staring at Teyla like she was a piece of meat and all. But they all look mildly ashamed of themselves, and the oldest and most wizened of them is clearing his throat and addressing Rodney, "We...ah, we did not realize. Your wife is very beautiful. Forgive us."

John's reminded once more of why he needs to get a camera from earth on the next Daedalus run, because he's never seen Rodney that particular shade of red before. It's... it's almost... fetching. Rodney's opening his mouth, John can sense a babble coming on, and Teyla throws herself at McKay.

She's got an arm around his waist faster than John had thought humanly possible, and he's pretty sure he's the only one that sees her pinch him hard in the side. She's saying, leaning her head against Rodney's shoulder, "It is quite alright, nothing but a misunderstanding."

Rodney's bobbing his head, and John watches the way the other man's body just orients towards Teyla. Rodney's babbling, "Right. Yes. It happens all the time, she's quite the catch, even for someone like me, you know." John watches her pinch him again, and tries to hide a surprised snort of laughter behind a cough.

The old man is continuing, smiling as though he too is amused by the antics of the married couple, "We will of course require proof of your union."

It apparently strikes everyone else speechless, and so it's John that grits out, "What?" while casting pointed looks at Ronon and trying to communicate his escape plan through eyebrow movements and scowls. If the faintly amused look Ronon's giving him is anything to go by, he's not actually getting through.

It's just as well that Rodney's managed to find his voice again, not that it's ever gone for very long, "We don't exactly carry our marriage license around with us, you know. That's just an unreasonable expectation and--" Rodney cuts himself off, patting at the pockets of his vest viciously, before pulling something out with a little sound of victory, and pushing it at the old men, "There. A picture of our daughter. That's got, I mean, we have a kid. What more proof do you need?"

John wonders if it's Madison, and then figures it must be, because what other little girl would Rodney have a picture of?

The elders all huddle over the picture, cutting quick glances up at Rodney and Teyla every few seconds, murmuring among themselves as they do. And then they're handing the picture back, one of them mumbling almost grudgingly to Teyla, "She has your eyes." This time, it's Ronon choking on his amusement.

Unfortunately, the levity lasts about five seconds, because then the elder is continuing, "We accept your claim of union, and ask that as one of the few wedded couples left on our world, you make an offering to the Mother Goddess tonight, in the hope that she will provide more women for those of us unlucky enough to have lost ours."

John's saying, before he even thinks, "Look, no one's going to be offering anything--" reaching out and grabbing the back of McKay's vest and tugging sharply. "We're real sorry about your problem, but I hear there are plenty of people that make this kind of thing work, so good luck with that. And we're going to be leaving now."

The elders are all shaking their head in some kind of creepy bird-like unison, and one of them is saying, "Oh, we cannot allow that, I'm sorry. Do not worry. No one shall be harmed in the offering. It is nothing they have not done many times before, we are sure."

And that's about when the guards flood into the room and drag them off.


They get thrown in a cell and Rodney throws himself into trying to find a way out with a single-mindedness that is almost enthralling. Teyla follows him as he makes a slow circuit of the cell, looking for God knows what. John listens to their conversation, watching Ronon carefully remove the various weapons from his person that their captors hadn't found in their search.

Teyla's saying, voice low, "It is not that I do not appreciate your solution, Rodney, but I have an idea what they are planning for us, as surely you must as well." John decides against blurting out that the natives expect them to fuck. He doubts that it would be helpful right now.

Besides, Rodney's right there to say it for him, "Sex with an audience? Why, thanks for pointing that out. I hadn't realized it by the way they were all leering and elbowing each other in the side as we were drug off." He makes an aggravated sound, kicking at the wall, "Why do you think I'm trying to get us out of here?"

Teyla's voice is low, John's not sure if she's trying to soothe Rodney or just give the conversation the air of privacy, "You must find a way out. Please."

Rodney stiffens, John can almost feel the hurt rolling off the other man, and very pointedly does not turn to look. The other man's voice is so tight it's barely audible, "Yes, well, I'll do my very best to make sure you don't have to suffer through touching me again. Now, I need to think and you're using what I'm sure is the limited amount of oxygen in this cell to begin with. Go away."

Teyla makes a soft, aggravated sound, says stiff and awkwardly, "It is not...that is not the reason. There is another, Rodney, and I would not do this to him. I am not sure he would understand, and fear it would hurt him very much."

Rodney says, "Oh," and then continues in what John's sure he thinks is a quiet tone, "Who?" John never gets to find out if she would have answered or not, because then the door to the cell is swinging open, and they're being manhandled again.


The elders have...well, it's not even a bed, set up in the main hall they'd been in earlier. The thing in the middle of the floor is at best a cot, and more truthfully a bedroll. Teyla is casting increasingly worried looks between Rodney and the blankets.

And then the guards are letting Rodney and Teyla go, the elder's launching into some speech that John doesn't follow at all. He's focusing on the way that Rodney's leaning close to Teyla, hissing something into the shell of her ear. Teyla makes a puzzled face, looking askance up at Rodney, and he says, loud into the sudden silence of the room as the elder draws to a close, "Look, just trust me. You'll like it."

For a long moment they just stare at each other, and then Teyla takes a deep breath, and reaches out for Rodney. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself tight and flush against him and rocks up onto her tiptoes to push her mouth against his.

It's eerily similar to Frechon, the way all the nerves and tenseness just drains out of Rodney. He slides his hands to Teyla's waist, flattens and slides his palms up her back, flaring his fingers across her shoulder blades. Teyla makes a surprised sound, and John watches Rodney take blatant advantage of her parted lips.

And then Rodney's walking her backwards, sliding his hands up and down her back, sides. John can't help but noticing that Rodney's not touching her anywhere that might be considered inappropriate. Can't help but getting caught up in the contrast of Rodney's pale skin against the dark leather of Teyla's shirt. He feels each slide, each twist, of Rodney's fingers somewhere low in his gut that he doesn't like thinking about.

And then Rodney's got Teyla standing on the bedroll, and John watches the man go to his knees. He slides his hands as he goes, until his thumbs are resting on the curve of Teyla's hips, fingers curled up towards the swell of her waist. He nuzzles at her stomach, pushing at the bottom edge of her shirt with his nose. In the glinting firelight John can see the wet trail his mouth leaves over her bronzed skin.

She gasps, "Rodney," and the man pauses, looks up at her. And then he's tightening his hold on her hips, tugging until she sinks to her knees as well. John's not sure he's ever seen anything quite like Rodney lowering her to the blankets, one hand sliding back behind her head, the other still on her hip.

His view narrows down to Rodney's shoulders, the tight stretch of the man's shirt, the line of his spine, the strip of flushed skin below the edge of his shirt and above his pants. His mouth feels uncomfortably dry, and he's aware that he's digging his fingernails into his palms. That he's hard, terribly so, in his BDUs, and sucks in a desperate, shaky breath.

And then Rodney's sliding down her body again, back bowing over. Teyla's hands follow his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. It pulls the shirt up, reveals inches of Rodney's back, and John's not sure where to look, anymore. The flush of Rodney's neck as the man moves his hands to do something John can't see, the way Teyla's thighs are just falling open on either side of Rodney's hips, it's too much.

When Rodney lifts Teyla's hips, lifts her like it's nothing, John realizes he's been holding his breath. He pants, tries to get himself under some semblance of control, as Rodney wraps an arm under Teyla's waist, holds her tight against him and off the floor and tugs at her pants with his free hand.

It takes seconds for him to get the pants over the swell of her hips, and then he's lowering her back to the blankets, rocking back onto his haunches and pulling off her boots. John watches him press a kiss to the inside of her ankle, watches Teyla's toes curl. And then Rodney's pulling at her pants again, one leg and then the other, taking the time to fold them before carefully setting them aside.

Teyla makes a small sound, loud in the silence that John hadn't noticed, her hands curled around Rodney's triceps, squeezing and pulling. Rodney shushes her, hands still on her thighs, rubbing slow circles as he leans forward, brushes feather light kisses across her stomach.

John catches a glimpse of Teyla's underwear, vaguely noticing that they appear to be Hanes, and also white and conservative. Mostly, though, he's noticing how Rodney looks settled between her thighs, how she's got a hand worked up his sleeve, fingers digging into his back, trapped between skin and cloth. She makes another sound, louder, as Rodney drops one more kiss onto the fabric of her underwear, before lowering his head between her legs.

John can't see exactly what he does, but Teyla's underwear stay on. From the way they end up bunched and twisted, John's willing to bet that Rodney's pushed them aside, that no doubt that's what his left hand has disappeared to do.

Teyla gasps, Rodney's name tumbling off her lips like she can't stop it. Her right leg twitches, heel bouncing against the floor, trembling. Rodney's hunching in a position that has to be uncomfortable, neck crooked what looks like painfully, tracing patterns on Teyla's stomach with his right hand. It takes John a second to realize that Teyla's skin is trembling in the wake of Rodney's fingers.

In fact, upon closer inspection, Teyla appears to be trembling pretty much all over. She's got her hands in Rodney's hair, now, fingers dragging along his scalp and then curling up, in a rhythm that it only takes John a moment to notice. She's making soft sounds, grunts and whimpers, occasionally interrupted by a louder exclamation.

And then Rodney must do something because her hips jerk, and her head tips back, throat bared to the ceiling. She groans out, voice so low and throaty it's barely recognizable as hers, "Please, Rodney," and he makes an answering sound.

It's the first noise he's made since this started, and John feels it with his entire body. He feels strung tight as a bow string, feeling the vibration of Rodney's grunt up and down his spine, through his entire nervous system like electricity. He's not sure there's even a way to describe how hard he is, at this point. He thinks he just needs a break, needs a moment, needs something, anything, to get some kind of control.

But it's not looking very likely that he's going to get it. Teyla's moving constantly now, rocking her hips in tiny little circles, swallowing quick fast breathes, leaving behind three angry lines of red on Rodney's neck when she manages to get her fingernails on the skin there.

John's whole world focuses down to that, the red welts on Rodney's sweat slick skin. He hears himself make a sound, prays that it's quiet enough that no one else notices. And then Teyla is arching up off the blankets, back bowing, legs suddenly tightening around Rodney's head and shoulders, heels locking together over his back.

Rodney's rubbing her stomach, still, with both hands now. John watches as Teyla slowly goes limp around him, breath evening into something deep and slow as her thighs slide off his shoulders, as she continues running lazy, almost uncoordinated fingers through his hair.

And then Rodney's rocking back, pushing himself to his feet and then reaching down and pulling her up. She makes a vaguely protesting sound, sways on her feet and then Ronon's there, wrapping his coat around her shoulders and John's a step behind him, keeping his hands low and close to his body.

Rodney's chin is wet, there are drops sliding down his neck, and John can't seem to stop staring. Especially not when Rodney clears his throat, says, "Well, everyone satisfied then? Can we maybe move on to why we're actually here, if we've completed the local test of sexual prowess adequately enough to be treated like humans?"

John does not point out that by the states of some of the elders robes it's possible that they're really, really satisfied. In fact, he keeps his mouth shut while they're shown to individual rooms, except of course for the happily married couple, and told that they'll be taken to the Temple of the Mother Goddess in the morning, which, hopefully, will actually be the Temple of McKay's Phantom Energy Readings.

He keeps his mouth shut while locking his door, and while scrambling at his BDUs. Bites the inside of his cheeks so hard blood floods his mouth when he finally gets a hand around his cock, and manages to thrust up into his fist a grand total of twice before he's coming so hard he sways heavily into the wall. Slides to the ground and wipes his shaking hand absently on the ground.

It's only then that he pants out, "Christ."


The first time John went down on a girl was Home Coming his junior year. He'd been dating Ann Cooley for three months, and she'd been beautiful in her green dress and fake eyelashes and bubblegum flavored Chap Stick. They'd ended up under the bleachers, under a sky painfully full of stars.

She's smiled at him, soft and shy, and giggled when he'd pressed the soft fabric of her dress up around her hips. Her underwear had been covered in flowers, had already been wet when he'd slid experimental fingers up under the fabric. And things had been good, had been great, right up to that point.

Then he'd been faced with undiscovered territory, not sure where to put his hands or what to do with his nose, not sure when to swallow, or how to breath. Her hair had been everywhere, wiry, coarse under his tongue and lips and he'd just wanted it to be over with.

When it finally had been, when she'd trembled and come apart in his arms, it had been a heady relief. She'd reached for him, for his hips, and he'd dodged because he wasn't even hard, and he didn't know how to explain that. He'd taken her home, and they'd broken up a week later. She'd told all her friends he didn't know what he was doing and that he'd given her beard burn all over her thighs and he'd told all his friends she was a slut.

He'd mostly managed to avoid it, after that. A few long term girlfriends, and his wife, had managed to get him to convince him to try again. He remembers each experience as being every bit as painfully uncomfortable as the first. He'd kind of just assumed that was how it was.

But he can't erase the image of Teyla under Rodney, back bowed up into a perfect arch. Can't seem to close his eyes without seeing Rodney's chin, slick and wet, the red of his swollen mouth, the way he'd absently licked his lips on their way to their rooms. Can't stop seeing Rodney's hands on her skin, every time he looks at her.

He does his best to keep his eyes to himself, and realizes that he's pretty much failed that completely when Rodney storms into his quarters two weeks later. McKay doesn't greet him, just crosses his arms and glares down at John before snapping, "She's in the middle of a courtship with one of the other Athosian's, Sheppard. So just...leave her alone. Don't you have enough other alien girlfriends?"

He sets the comic book he'd been reading aside, says, "Rodney, I--"

But Rodney's having none of it, waves a finger down into his face and continues, "Don't make me bring Ronon in on this." And then he's spinning on his heel, marching out of John's room as quickly as he came. John watches him go, eyes glued to the back of Rodney's neck, the scratches Teyla left there faded over a week ago.


John hasn't actually managed to forget M31-00R, though he has buried it so deep he barely thinks about it, when Ronon gets bitten by some crazy owl-bat thing on a routine trip to one of their more reliable trading partners. At first John doesn't think it's a big deal, Ronon shrugs it off, but Teyla insists they take him back to the city, and of course they do because listening to Teyla always ends better than not listening to Teyla.

It turns out for the best, because by the time they make it back to the gate, Ronon is leaning heavily against Rodney, sweating and breathing hard. John feels kind of bad about making Rodney support the other man, but of the three of them, Rodney's the only one solid enough to not be crushed under the Satedan's weight if Ronon collapses completely, which is looking increasingly likely.

Of course, any relief that John was feeling upon making it to visual distance of the 'gate is effectively crushed when the natives catch sight of them and commence panicking. They converge on his team in a mob, and John's protests are muffled under Rodney's rising voice, "Hey, stop! What do you think you're—Sheppard! Sheppard, what the hell is—John!"

He grabs the man immediately blocking his path and shoves him out of the way, sees Teyla throwing elbows and pressing her way through the crowd. And then the people are parting, and John has time to see them shoving Ronon and Rodney into a tiny metal hut before the door is slamming closed.

He grabs the nearest person, shoves the barrel of his P-90 up under the man's chin and growls, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"


The explanation he gets is so unbelievable that he makes the man repeat it twice just to be sure he understands. And then he seriously considers shooting him. It's Teyla's hand on his elbow that stops him, her low desperate voice in his ear, "John, we do not have time for this, we must get them out of here, back to Atlantis where the doctors can help Ronon."

John grunts, because sometimes he hates it when she's right. He takes the final steps towards the hut where Rodney and Ronon have been sequestered, pounds on the door with the flat of his palm. Rodney's voice is muffled, but audible through the metal, "Sheppard? Teyla? I think—I think you need to get us out of here. Right now."

John shouts back, "Working on it, buddy," and matches words to actions. There's a little control panel beside the door and John squints at it. He wonders how much Rodney's discovered about the situation since shoved into the room. Hopes things aren't moving as quickly as the natives have led him to believe they will.

Ronon's voice, a deep growl, pretty much smashes that hope to splinters, "Sheppard, you need to get McKay away from me. I can't—I—McKay--"

John curses, levels his P-90 on the control panel because sometimes that works fastest, and riddles it with bullets. It starts smoking, but does not, in fact, open the door. From the other side, Rodney is snapping, "Tell me you didn't just shoot my only way out. I swear to God, Sheppard, I'm going to—Hey, hey, wait, Ronon, wait--"

Rodney's voice cuts off into a surprised squeak, and there's a crash. There's a grunt, and then Ronon's voice, even deeper than before, "'M sorry, McKay, I—I need--"

There's a swell of silence, tense, and then Rodney, "Okay, okay, I can, hold on, just--" There's another crash, and he thinks that's Ronon grunting, sounding startled, before Rodney's continuing, "Did you know that there were at least five missions by SG-1 that resulted in fuck or die situations? Two of them involved Jackson and O'Neill, one Sam and Jackson, one Sam and Teal'c and one that involved the entire team."

Ronon's growling, voice dangerous and hungry, "Can think of better things to do with your mouth, McKay."

"Shut up, I'm getting there, just, these pants are ridiculous and if you'd stop trying to grab my wrists it'd go quicker." Rodney sounds like he's working on a problem, and John thinks that he's about to blow Ronon and tries to figure out how the hell he's supposed to stop this from happening.

"Wanna fuck you, McKay, hold you down and fuck your ass, right into the ground, wanna--"

"You don't, you really don't," there's another grunt, and fabric ripping, and that's got to be Rodney's clothes because leather doesn't rip. Rodney sounds winded, "Believe me, you're going to love my mouth. I've never gotten any complaints and--"

There's a soft wet sound, and somehow John can hear Ronon rumbling through the door. And then, Rodney's talking, voice sounding muffled. John wonders if he's talking against Ronon's mouth, "There, there, yes, okay, I'm just going to—you have to let go of my—okay, I want you to know that you owe me big for this, okay--"

And then Ronon's grunting, loud, gasping, "Oh, oh, yes, McKay--"

John tenses, tries prying the door open with brute strength, vaguely aware that Teyla is grabbing people from the crowd and trying to get them to open the door. Ronon's making increasingly loud, needy sounds on the other side of the door, grunting. Rodney's silent, but John imagines that he can hear soft wet suction if he listens hard enough.

He's terrified by the thoughts going on behind his eyes. Because he's imagining things to go along with the sounds, crystal clear visions. And he doesn't want to. Doesn't know why he is. There's no woman involved this time, no soft body for him to imagine, and it's a shock through his whole body to realize that he doesn't mind. That he doesn't mind at all.

He can see the stretch of Rodney's mouth over a cock, and he doesn't even try lying to himself that it's Ronon's he's envisioning. He can imagine Rodney's hands holding hips down to the floor, and doesn't bother trying to pretend that they're not his own.

He shifts, uncomfortable, because he's imagining Rodney McKay blowing him, and he's not even—he's not gay--and behind the door Ronon grunts, rasps out, "Rodneyrodneyrodneyrodney--"

Rodney sounds smug, and just a little bit hoarse, "No need to thank me. No, on second thought, thank me. I heard Zelenka's smuggling in real Swiss chocolate, and I think a few bars of that should be an appropriate start to your campaign to repay me. Also? It wouldn't be amiss if you were to stand threateningly over Kavanaugh whenever you see him for a few weeks."

"Rodney--" Ronon starts, then cuts himself off. There's a wet, sloppy sound, John imagines Ronon hauling Rodney up his body, imagines them kissing. Imagines Ronon taking Rodney's mouth and shivers when his brain helpfully edits himself into the equation, cutting Ronon out of it altogether. "That was--"

"Yes, I know, I give excellent head, it's been said before. Now, if you could just let me go I think I should get to work opening this door, since apparently no one is capable of doing anything without me." He hears shifting bodies, and Ronon makes a rough sound of protest, shortly followed by an impatient snort from Rodney. "Seriously? I don't cuddle, let me—oh!"

"Yeah." Ronon's voice is so thick it barely sounds human, nakedly begging, "Please."

Rodney makes a displeased sound, but John can hear him rearranging himself, "Fine, whatever, just, you know, give a guy some warning this time. It's not polite to shoot your load down my throat without a 'Hey, McKay, you've successfully turned my brain to goo, get ready to swallow' or at least a tug or something."

John shakes himself, trying to clear his mind of the image of Rodney kneeling between his legs, lips red and swollen and parted around the head of John's cock. He can feel his heart rate spiking, the heat bubbling up under his skin, too big for him to contain. He throws himself at the control panel, pulling on wires without any real idea what to do with them.

He can hear sucking, can hear Ronon's voice, whimpering and grunting, growing louder by the second. He grabs wires, twists them together and shoves things aside and rearranges and only realizes that there's a method to his madness when he hears himself talking under his breath. He figures that it's not that much of a surprise that he's figured out how to work this kind of technology. Two years with Rodney was bound to have some kind of osmosis on his computer skills.

Behind the door Ronon is panting and grunting, in a rhythm that John imagines Rodney is setting with tongue and lips and fingers. John grits his teeth, twists viciously on the wires, and the door makes a whining sound and jerks open.

John's through the door without thinking, just in time to see Ronon's face twist up, to see his big hand braced on the top of Rodney's head, like he's holding him down. Ronon pants, "God, Rodney," like he's breaking, like he's already broken, and falls back limp and boneless.

Rodney leans back, rocks up into a sitting position, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. His shirt is torn, John can see now, ripped clean down the middle. John can see bruises on his shoulders where the fabric has been pulled away, the shape of Ronon's hands stained in Rodney's fair skin. Can see the flush high in Rodney's cheeks, the way light catches on his wet, bruised mouth.

He hears himself breath, "Christ," and reaches out for McKay without thinking. He grabs him, fists his hand into Rodney's ruined shirt and pulls him away from Ronon.

Ronon growls, and John can see that he's hard again already, his cock still wet with Rodney's spit. He's moving without thinking, grabbing for Ronon's blaster and leveling it on the bigger man's chest before pulling the trigger. Ronon twitches as the red energy flashes across his body, before going still and limp across the floor.

Rodney snorts, "I suppose I'm going to be expected to haul him back to the Jumper, as well?" He's absently rubbing at his jaw, and John tries to ignore the way it makes him want to push Rodney to his knees, makes him want to beg, if begging is what's necessary to get Rodney's mouth around him.

He settles for grabbing Rodney's elbow, shaking his head, "I've got him." He doesn't want Rodney anywhere near Ronon, and the sudden, insane flash of jealousy doesn't make any more sense than anything else that's been going on inside his head for the last twenty minutes.

Rodney tilts his head to the side, and John can't help but noticing the way his hair is sticking in about a hundred different directions, wants to reach out and smooth his fingers through it. He's relieved, almost painfully, when Rodney says, "Is this some macho thing? Just because I'm capable of giving a better blow job than you've ever gotten doesn't make me--"

John snaps, "Go find Teyla," and tries not to feel like a complete heel when Rodney marches out of the room without another word.


John had never been comfortable with blowjobs. He'd never been able to figure out when it was okay to move, when it wasn't, if you were allowed to tug on hair. By the time he'd found a girlfriend that thought it was kind of cool to give head when she wasn't drunk, he'd decided the safest way to handle one was to stay as still as possible and wait for it to be over.

She'd teased him about it mercilessly, until the day she'd finally walked out on him because he'd fucked up one thing too many. He'd been sorry to see her go, not least because she'd taken his truck when she'd disappeared, and he'd loved the old junker.

He'd had exactly one experience that almost ended in a blow job from another guy. He hadn't realized the man was even flirting with him until his third double shot of Jack, when the little blond had put a hand on his shoulder and asked him if he wanted to head somewhere a little more private. And at the time, with the music pounding his blood in his veins and the whisky warming him up from the inside, it had seemed like a good idea.

They'd made it out to his car, managed one sloppy kiss that could at least be legitimately blamed on drunkenness. He'd been following vague directions to the other man's house when the guy had leaned over in the seat, thin clever fingers opening John's fly and then it had been warm breath dancing over naked skin and John had panicked.

He'd left the poor bastard on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Ignoring the rocks that the man had thrown at his retreating bumper, turning the radio up and nearly driving off the road by attempting to get his zipper back up while doing seventy down the country roads.

Rodney looks like he'd like to throw rocks at him, sitting stiff and angry in the co-pilot's seat and John tries again, "Look, McKay, it's not—I'm not--"

Rodney shoots him a sharp look, mellowing into something marginally less vicious when he sees John's face. There a long moment where he just stares, and then he waves a hand, tired and defeated, "Whatever, Sheppard. Just take us home."


Two months later John's very pointedly not thinking about Rodney every time he jerks off. He thinks about everyone else, jams his brain full of every Playboy picture he can find in the city, of Elizabeth's big soft eyes and Teyla's perfect skin.

Somehow, it's still Rodney that haunts his dreams. He startles awake, just as Rodney is nudging his head to the side, closing his warm wet mouth over John's neck, to Elizabeth's voice over the radio, saying, "Colonel? We have Major Lorne's team inbound, they're back--"

He interrupts, rolling to his feet, fleeing his bed like he can feel the damning dreams as easily, hears himself, "Is McKay—is everyone okay?"

He'd protested Rodney going on the mission in the first place, but he'd broken a few ribs practicing with Ronon the other week and while he was sure they were fine Carson was considerably less certain. And so Rodney had went off to study the weird energy readings Lorne's team had found, and John had tried to ignore the bad feeling in his gut.

Elizabeth's voice confirms his suspicions that McKay shouldn't be left off world without him, "I think you'd better come to the 'gate room, John." He curses, tugs his boots on, and heads for the 'gate room at a run, nearly tripping over his own shoelaces and killing himself when he takes a turn too fast.

Still, he manages to arrive just as the team steps through the 'gate.

Rodney and Lorne step through first. Or, more accurately, Rodney steps through first, Lorne hanging onto him, face pressed up against Rodney's chest. The Major is giggling, as near as John can tell, tracing patterns on Rodney's stomach, watching his own hand with rapt fascination.

The rest of the team is through the 'gate seconds after them, stumbling over their own feet and throwing themselves at Rodney as soon as they spot him. Rodney just rolls his eyes as the two Marines and the other scientist wrap themselves around him. By the irritated clench of his jaw, John assumes this has been going on for some time.

One of the Marines is nuzzling into the side of Rodney's neck, the other pressing lazy kisses against the side of Rodney's head, Parrish attempting to stick his hand in Rodney's pocket. Rodney announces to the room in general, batting at Parrish and shoving ineffectually at the others, "I told them not to eat the fruit salad, but does anyone listen to me? No. No one ever listens to the genius, do they?"

John takes a hesitant step forward, watching Lorne pull and tug on Rodney's shirt till he's exposed enough skin to flatten his hand over Rodney's stomach. The man makes a contented sound, resuming tracing patterns, this time on skin. John says, "Fruit salad, huh?"

Rodney meets his eyes, and John expects the aggravation that's been there for the last few months, but there's nothing except exhaustion. Rodney shrugs, which has Lorne frowning and pinching him, and says, "You're lucky I even got them out of there before the natives had their wicked way with them. Next time Lady Sheba, Queen of the fucking crazy Amazons, asks for a party of our most virile males to dine at her table maybe we should take it under advisement that it's not a good idea, okay? Now. Someone get these idiots off of me."

He's looking expectantly at John, and then slapping Lorne's hand loud enough that the sound echoes through the entire 'gate room, as the Major attempts to unbutton his BDUs. And then he jumps, almost unbalancing the whole mess of them, bracing his palm against the forehead of the Marine by his neck and shoving hard, yelping, "What the hell—did you bite me? You did! You bit me! What's wrong with you?"

And John can just see this devolving into an orgy, and thinks that he's really had about enough of everyone in this goddamn galaxy trying to have sex with Rodney McKay. He scowls, strides forward, shoving Parrish down and out of the way, grabbing Lorne by the front of his vest and hauling him off Rodney.

The Marines are harder to dislodge, and he settles for slugging the one that left the teeth marks in the nose. Simply grabbing Rodney and dragging him away too quickly for the obviously drugged man to follow gets rid of the last hanger on. John's aware that he's holding onto Rodney's shoulders, that his hands are fisted in his shirt, that he's breathing too hard when he demands, "Okay?"

"What? I mean, yes, I suppose by some loose definition I am okay, if you don't consider the fact that I just spent the last half an hour having to promise sex to those cretins back there to keep them from whoring themselves out to--"

And John says, "Good," turns on his heel, and walks away before he loses what's left of his self control.


He's sure it would be easier to go to Rodney's room later if he was drunk, but he's not. He thinks that's probably a major failing in his plans, but nonetheless, there he is. He also thinks he probably should have knocked, but it's not like Rodney ever knocks, and if he knocks then there's the possibility that Rodney will tell him to go away and forcing his way in after he's been ordered away would be, well, it wouldn't be a good thing.

So he walks right into Rodney's room, and then freezes. Because Rodney's sprawled on his stomach, chin supported in one hand, scanning the book spread out on his pillow with a thoughtful expression on his face. He's wearing boxers, a soft, almost threadbare shirt, his hair wet like he'd just jumped out of the shower.

John's painfully aware of how thick his voice is, "Hey, Rodney."

Rodney startles, manages to make sitting up look like a truly complicated movement that he hasn't quite mastered. He blinks up at John, all sleepy eyes, or, as some part of John's brain completely overridden by want insists: bedroom eyes. He continues, "Anything good?" motioning to the book and knowing he's stalling.

There's a moment of silence, where Rodney stares at him with his head cocked to the side, before the man sighs, rubs a tired hand up over his face. "I'm not going to let you fuck me just to get it out of your system, Sheppard. Or blow you just so you feel even with Ronon, or whatever the hell is wrong with you."

John opens his mouth, closes it. It's always uncomfortable to find out that Rodney is more aware of what's going on inside of other people's heads than he lets on. Because that had been what John was telling himself, these last two months. That it would all be better, would all be okay, if he could just get this over with. Just do it and be done with whatever weird phase this was.

And since Rodney's already called him on the lie, he decides to go for broke with the truth, "What if I just wanted to kiss you?"

Rodney blinks at him, t-shirt wrinkled, hands balled in his sheets, asks, "What? Why?"

John's always known that the most troublesome part about telling the truth is that it's sort of addictive, and that if you're not careful it's hard to stop once you start it. He shrugs, shoves his own hands into his pockets. He will never know what possesses him to say, "Just—just let me show you."

He's not sure which of them are more surprised when Rodney shrugs, rolls his eyes and snaps out, "Fine, this is just what I need, by the way. Interruptions by--"

And then John's kneeling in front of him, hands sliding up to cup the line of Rodney's jaw and pressing their mouths together. Rodney's still talking, at first, catches John's bottom lip between his teeth, right before their noses smash together and John pulls back after a long, uncomfortable moment.

Rodney stares for a long moment, before his eyes widen in realization, "You don't—oh my God, you're terrible!" John thinks that really, it's kind of cruel to sound that gleeful about it. He shifts, starts to pull his hands away from Rodney's skin and Rodney reaches up, catches one of his wrists and squeezes, turns his face into John's palm and presses a kiss into his skin.

John shivers at the contact, doesn't mean to, can't stop himself. Rodney's saying, breathe a warm rasp against John's skin, "How are you a bad kisser? You sleep with everybody."

He thinks about pointing out that he's actually slept with exactly three people since he got to the Pegasus galaxy, and none of them had been particularly good experiences. Settles for shrugging, and figures he can't actual embarrass himself any more by admitting, "It never, uh, really matters very much. Usually they just--" he makes a gesture that he hopes adequately conveys 'tear off their clothes and jump all over me'.

He expects insufferable smugness, but he can't read the expression in Rodney's eyes. It looks an uncomfortably lot like pity, and Rodney McKay is absolutely the last person he wants or needs pity from. He scowls, tugs at Rodney's hold on his wrist and Rodney lets him go this time, says only once John's reached his door, "I'll.. if you want, I'll do it."

John surprised by the burst of relief in his chest that Rodney hadn't felt the need to add that he was willing to teach John how to kiss. It's a surprisingly tactful move for the other man, and John finds himself back by the bed embarrassingly quickly.

Rodney looks like he might be trying to suppress a smile, pats the bed beside him and says, "Take off your shoes, John." Again, he's sure that there's something embarrassing about how fast he gets his boots off and gets himself seated on the bed, body orienting towards Rodney like he's suddenly become magnetic north.

Rodney, who snorts, and reaches out, rearranging John without asking for permission. Which is how John finds himself facing Rodney, his legs on either side of Rodney's hips, Rodney's legs curled between them. Rodney's close enough that John can feel him breathing, can feel the heat of his skin, creeping across the distance between them.

He feels suddenly and insanely comfortable, like he could just sink into Rodney and sleep, and blinks slowly at the other man. Rodney smiles, lopsided, and then says, "Okay, you just—let me handle things, okay? You don't know what you're doing and I teach best through demonstration."

And then Rodney's got a hand sliding around the back of his neck, thumb tucked in under his ear. John leans into the warmth of his skin, unable to stop himself, watches Rodney's smile stretch briefly broader before Rodney's leaning in. John keeps his eyes open, not sure if he should close them, if he's supposed to, but Rodney's eyes are open, too, so he assumes it's okay.

Rodney kisses him soft, a tease of pressure until John wants to scream, until he's about to decide that letting Rodney handle things was obviously a mistake. And then he's sliding closer, pushing them into a firmer contact, and John's protest escapes as a shaky breath.

He watches Rodney's eyes flutter closed, long dark lashes laying in stark contact against his cheeks, feels something warm fill up his chest to the point of bursting. Rodney is sliding and moving his mouth, spit slick and warm against John's, and he doesn't mean to tilt his head to the side, realizes only as he does that he's offering better access.

He can feel the quick quirk of Rodney's mouth in a smile.

He thinks about being offended, but then Rodney's pushing just a little bit closer, running his tongue along John's bottom lip. The kiss is different than he'd imagined it would be, the way Rodney keeps moving his mouth, dropping kisses in the corners of John's mouth, sucking on his upper lip, bottom lip, just for a second, so quickly John's not aware he's doing it until he's moved on.

It's curiously intoxicating. When Rodney pulls back, just a bit, John finds himself leaning forward, chasing his mouth without thought except: More. Rodney makes a soft sound, one John can't translate, and his words dance low and intimate against John's skin, "You can kiss back, when you feel comfortable. I'll correct you if you get out of line."

And then Rodney's leaning back in, lips warm and welcoming and for a long moment John lets things continue as they had been before daring to push, slide, move himself. For a second he thinks he messed things up, already, just like that, because Rodney goes still, but then the other man sighs against his mouth, and it sounds mostly happy.

He loses track of time, in the slide of their mouths together. Becomes aware at some point that his hands aren't clenched awkwardly in the blankets anymore, that he's got one hand braced against Rodney's solid chest, the other petting back through Rodney's hair. And then Rodney's pulling back again, dropping two quick kisses onto John's mouth. He sounds deliciously out of breath when he says, "Okay. Okay, that's very good. We're, um, I think we're ready to move on to something a little more complex."

John leans into him, captures his mouth, because that's entirely too many words to say that they're going to kiss some more. He swallows the surprised sound Rodney makes, and marvels in the thrill of achievement down his spine because he's kissing someone and there's nothing awkward or painful about it.

And then Rodney's licking into his mouth, and it's instinct to open for him, to let him in where he belongs. He's aware of the needy sound he makes at the first slow slide of Rodney's tongue against his, aware of teeth and noses and how he always fucks this up, always.

But Rodney makes it easy. There's none of the force that John's used to, no tongue down his throat, or poking into the sides of his cheeks or banging against the top of his mouth like a battering ram. Just Rodney, sliding in and then out, trading more lazy kisses with him before teasing his mouth open again. It's easy and natural as breathing to meet the curl of Rodney's tongue with his own, careful and hesitant.

He groans, feels it vibrate in his chest. He shifts his body closer to Rodney's, gets an arm around him and pulls him close and tight as he can. He's vaguely aware that he's trailing his fingers up and down Rodney's neck, that he's dragging his fingernails intentionally over that spot right below Rodney's hairline that makes him shiver and shake every goddamn time John touches it.

Smiles, can't not, when he anticipates the next slide of Rodney's tongue, and intercepts it en route to his mouth. And when he chases it back into the warm wet heat of Rodney's mouth, when he fights with the urge to just pillage everything he finds there, sloppy and rough, Rodney whimpers and it's the best sound John's ever heard.

But nothing is quite as good as the fact that Rodney's suddenly holding on to him. That he's got his hands anchored in John's hair, like he's holding on. Like he needs to hold on. And then he's sliding one hand down, broad hand moving restlessly across John's shoulders and back, clenching and unclenching in his shirt.

John grunts, scrambles at the hem of Rodney's shirt, gets his hand on burning hot skin and Rodney nips at his mouth. And John's had plenty of inadvertent biting in kisses before, but this is intentional, is like fire down his spine, and he feels Rodney sooth the offended skin with a quick swipe of his tongue and rumbles.

He fits his hand around Rodney's hip, drags his fingernails across that spot on the back of his neck again, and when Rodney pants into his mouth, "Christ, John--" he sounds broken, taken apart, and then he's twisting away.

This time when John tries to follow, hungry for his mouth, hungry for Rodney, the other man tightens his hold in John's hair and holds him in place. And then Rodney's gone, leaving behind cold emptiness, putting all kinds of unwanted distance between them.

John pushes to his feet, reaching for Rodney without thinking, and Rodney jerks away from him, shaking his head. Rodney won't meet his eyes, staring at the ground when he snaps, "There, you're a natural. I'm sure—I'm sure the various high priestesses and Ancients left in the galaxy owe me a huge debt of gratitude."

His voice is gravel rough, "Rodney--"

"Goodnight, Colonel." And Rodney's door is sliding open. John tries to reach for him again, but Rodney's curling away from him, shoulders hunched, arms crossed and John leaves because he doesn't know what else to do.


He's not sure what to make of the fact that Rodney is suddenly avoiding him like the plague. It lasts for nearly a week, where Rodney's just not anywhere he is, no matter that he should be. John thinks that's one of the downsides of looking for someone who knows how to manipulate the city better than anyone else. Atlantis does her level best to give John anything he asks for, but Rodney knows how to convince her to conspire against him.

And then, just like that, Rodney's back and mostly himself again. The thing is, he won't touch John, and he nearly jumps out of his skin anytime they end up standing too close to one another. John had figured that if either of them was going to have a big gay freak out, it would have been him, seeing as he'd been the one thinking he was straight for the last forty years, but apparently Rodney's going through some kind of crisis. And because talking about it is obviously not on the table, he settles in to wait it out.

Unfortunately, Rodney appears to plateau at being able to interact with him without meeting his eyes or touching him. Which would be fine, except that John really, desperately, would like to kiss him some more. And that works better with touching involved.

He's still trying to figure out a way to fix whatever the fuck it was he messed up, when he happens to accidentally walk by the rec room on girl's poker night. It's not that there's any hard and fast rule about men being prohibited from the general vicinity, but no one really wants to get on Laura Cadman's bad side, and so usually it's avoided. John's just thinking that this particular short cut to the mess hall was probably a bad idea when he catches wind of the conversation inside the room.

He thinks it's Cadman's voice he hears first, "—weird, right? I mean, you can't feel bad, Katie. I don't think he's ever had sex with someone he liked. It's kind of compliment that he won't fuck you."

John knows it's a bad idea to lean against the doorframe, but oddly, that doesn't stop him. He recognizes Katie Brown's voice only because she and Rodney go through periods of spending a lot of time together every few months, "Isn't that sad, though? I mean, why would he be like that? He certainly doesn't have any problem having sex with other people." John can't tell if there's a trace of bitterness in her voice or not.

He can almost hear the shrug in Cadman's voice, "I'm telling you, you're better off without him. He's a mess. I'm sure you'll find someone else to have really, amazingly, mind-blowingly good sex with." There's a definite teasing edge to her words, and he's pretty sure that Katie just slapped her, if the giggles and soft protest is anything to go by.

"No one wants to hear about you and McKay's steamy night in the Jumper, Cadman." That's Elizabeth.

"Oh, like you're one to talk, little miss post-traumatic stress made me jump him on my desk."

And John hurries away, head down and jaw clenched tight against the sudden flare of jealousy. He wonders, surprised by the venomous slant his own thoughts have taken, if he's actually the only person on base that hasn't had sex with or been promised sex by Rodney.

It's only after he's back in his quarter's, trip to the mess completely forgotten, that he runs the conversation back through his mind, and manages to beat back the jealousy enough to grasp the more important pieces of the story. And then he has to turn right back around, and march to Rodney's room.


He lets himself in: it's pretty much habit by this point.

Rodney's folding his clothes, and the utter bizarre domesticness of it almost steals the wind from John's sails. He stands in the doorway, watching Rodney humming under his breath while he turns a shirt back right side in and shakes the wrinkles out before folding it. And then Rodney looks up, eyes wide and surprised, says, "John?"

It takes John two steps to cross to him, and another two steps to get Rodney backed against the nearest wall. He growls down into the man's surprised face, "You like me!" He decides not to wait for the inevitably sarcastic rejoinder, plows ahead with, "That's why you kicked me out the other night, and why you've been avoiding me."

The way all the color drains out of Rodney's face is as good as any admission John could have wrangled out of him. He pushes at Rodney's shoulders, shoves until he's sure that the pressure has to be bordering on pain, "What the hell, Rodney? Why would—why would you do that?"

Apparently he left Rodney collect his thoughts for a second too long, because Rodney's slanting his chin up, mouth settling into a firm line, "I don't know what you're talking about. I--"

He really doesn't want to hear the excuses right now, and decides that the most efficient way to cut through the bullshit is closing what's left of the distance between them. Rodney's mouth is every bit as warm and welcoming as he remembers, and they fit together like pieces of the same puzzle.

He kisses Rodney like he means it, like, God, like Rodney taught him. And then Rodney's hands are tightening on his hips, and pulling him closer and Rodney's making the best sounds John's ever heard in the back of his throat. He pulls back enough to take in the glazed look on Rodney's face, and Rodney takes the opportunity to force John back. He tries not to be incredibly turned on by the fact that Rodney just moved him by shoving him away by the hips, that he's holding him there, and pretty much fails.

Rodney's saying, voice low and thick, "I kicked you out because you wanted me to teach you how to kiss, Sheppard. What was I supposed to do? Mention that I'd really like to suck your cock? Or, hey, fucking you would be great, too? And then you kissed me like it meant something, like I was--"

John's not sure he can take hearing what he kissed Rodney like without having an embarrassing incident in his pants, and so he growls, and manages to squirm out of Rodney's hold long enough to plaster himself up against the other man again. He notes, vaguely, that Rodney's mouth tastes kind of like toothpaste and then he's far too preoccupied to notice anything.

Rodney's speaking between kisses, painting the words on the inside of John's mouth, "Like this, like it meant something, like you, God, John, I can't."

Rodney's pushing at him again, on his shoulders and chest and John nips at his mouth, sharp, a warning before he thinks about it. Rodney's hands ball up in his shirt, and John takes advantage of the change of heart while it lasts, kisses and kisses and kisses till it feels natural and necessary as breathing.

And then Rodney's hands are in his hair, just moving him, tilting his head back and to the side and Rodney's mouth is sliding along the line of his jaw. He can't track the burning touches of Rodney's tongue and teeth and lips, can't distinguish which is which as Rodney blazes a path down his neck. He trembles, helpless against it, groaning embarrassingly loudly up to the ceiling.

He's aware, in some distant corner of his mind, that Rodney's walking him backwards. Most of his brainpower seems preoccupied with Rodney's mouth, sucking on his neck, and then the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and Rodney's toppling them both down onto it.

Rodney pulls off, for just a moment, and John reaches for him, worried he might actually go somewhere. But Rodney's just tugging at John's shirt, jaw set and determined and John shudders in response, hears his voice, surprisingly breathy, "What are you doing?"

The expression Rodney shoots him is mildly disbelieving, his voice gruff, "God, you really are bad at this, aren't you? It's called sex, John. Just lay back and let me—let me touch you. You'll like it." And then he's dropping his mouth back to John's throat, continuing the trail where he left off. And there's a big part of John that's willing to take Rodney at his words, that wants to just lay there and let Rodney take him apart.

There's a bigger part that wants to explore all the skin it can reach, that wants to wrap itself around Rodney and crawl inside him and set up camp, and that part wins.

Rodney's trailing lips and tongue and fingers across his chest, mapping scars and muscle and John grabs handfuls of the man's shirt and tugs, because he'd really like to return the favor as soon as possible. Rodney makes a surprised sound that John ignores. He also starts to twist away, and John wraps his legs around the other man's waist, holds him still and wrestles Rodney's shirt over first his head and then off his arms.

He breathes out, surprised by how shaky he feels, running his hands over Rodney's wonderfully naked shoulders, across what he can reach of the other man's back, skimming his thumbs over the curve of his collarbone. He grinds out, "Fucking Christ, want to touch you everywhere."

It's easy to slide one hand up Rodney's throat, to trace fingertips across his face and it's a rush of heat straight to his cock when he slides his thumb over Rodney's bottom lip and the other man's mouth just opens. His mouth is, if possible, even more wet and hot and wonderful around John's thumb, and John's hips jerk up, helplessly.

That appears to stir Rodney into movement again, because he's sliding forward, John's hand falling away from his mouth, curving around the back of his neck to draw in him close and tight. Rodney kisses him, desperate and needy and John lets him take, maps Rodney's back with his hands.

And then his fingers brush the edge of Rodney's pants, and every bit of him is completely on board with the idea of exploring the contents of said pants. He slides his hands into Rodney's back pockets, swallows the broken moan it drags from Rodney's throat, tugs Rodney's hips down hard against his own.

Rodney jerks away from his mouth, just enough to pant out, "No one, no one's ever, I don't, God--" John arches up to him, kisses him hard and cuts off whatever might have followed. Rodney groans, lifts him by hooking his fingers in John's belt loops and shoves him further onto the bed, crawls on after him.

He feels Rodney hesitate, then, the warmth of his hand hovering over the zipper of John's pants like he's waiting for permission. John's hips answer for the rest of him, jerking up into Rodney's touch, and Rodney buries his face against John's shoulder. He can feel Rodney's shaky breath, dancing across his chest, and then Rodney's tugging his pants open with steady, smooth, efficiency, pushing them down his thighs.

He only realizes that his boxers went when them at the first slow stroke of Rodney's hand around his erection. He gasps, feels his fingers curl up against Rodney's arms, trying to draw him closer as Rodney pulls further away. John's eyes snap open, though he's unsure when he closed them, and he opens his mouth to protest.

The words die in his throat at the look Rodney's giving him, all hunger and naked want, dragging his eyes up and down John's body. John feels it like a physical touch, trails his hands up and down Rodney's arms, because there's some kind of terrible sadness, under the need, and he doesn't know how else to soothe it.

There's no warning for Rodney bending over him, for the sudden press of one hand in the middle of his chest, pushing him hard into the mattress. No warning for the burst of warm, moist air across his cock, or the slide of Rodney's lips across his overheated skin.

John curses, though he's not sure if any of the words end up audible, scrambles at Rodney's shoulders, and his hair, and completely forgets that blowjobs are supposed to be awkward. Which, really, is understandable, because he's forgotten everything but the pressure of Rodney's tongue on the underside of his cock, the obscene stretch of his lips.

He pets at Rodney's hair, only vaguely aware that he's doing it, even more distantly aware that he's babbling nonsensical encouragement into the thick air. Rodney's hand on his chest is moving, a distracting counterpoint to the warmwetperfect of his mouth on John's cock, he's rubbing slow small circles into John's skin, fingers each moving in individual, smaller patterns as well. It's driving John out of his skull almost painfully quickly.

He's undone, he's coming apart at the seams, and he reaches up without thinking, grabs Rodney's hand on his chest and threads their fingers together, and holds on. Rodney makes a surprised, questioning sound, and the vibration, combined with the illegally amazing twisting, rolling thing Rodney's doing with his tongue take apart what was left of him.

He tries to grind out a warning, tugging on what he is pretty sure might be Rodney's ear with thick, clumsy, fingers, and everything goes temporarily white behind his eyes. He can feel Rodney swallowing around him, the soft slide of his tongue almost painful against over sensitized skin. He tugs on Rodney's ear again, is ninety percent certain that he manages to vocalize, "C'mere, Rodney, please."

Apparently it gets the message across, because Rodney's sliding up his body, dropping quick kisses as he goes. And then he's got his hands on Rodney's shoulders, dragging him down for a messy kiss that still feels painfully right. He keeps one arm tight around Rodney, on the off chance that he'll try to get away, and works the other one down between them, scrambling desperately at the suddenly terribly complex button and zipper on the front of his pants.

He knows he's been successfully blown into stupidity, when he finds himself wondering if he could have just commanded the Ancient's clothes to fall off. And then it doesn't matter, because he's got a hand in Rodney's pants, and Rodney's whimpering against his mouth, grinding against John's palm as he tries to figure out how to shove the other man's highly troublesome underwear out of the way.

He manages to grind out, because it seems important to make sure Rodney understands, "Tomorrow, you're going to teach me how to blow you."

Rodney makes a surprised, choking sound, and John manages to gets his hand into the underwear and around Rodney's cock. He manages one quick stroke, painfully aware of his clumsy fingers and the fact that he probably should have pulled Rodney's pants down or something, but then Rodney's jerking in his grip, coming all over his fingers.

Rodney collapses mostly on top of him, pants against the side of John's neck, "Tomorrow, huh?"

John shrugs, turns his head so that he can bury his nose in Rodney's soft hair, "Mmm. It'll probably take a while before I'm any good at it, though. Lots of practice, too." He's aware he's coming dangerously close to babbling, wonders if perhaps that's a side effect of having sex with Rodney.

He decides that he can experiment on the theory later, because Rodney's already breathing slow and deep beside him. The only thing he can think to do that makes any sense at all is to wipe his hand on Rodney's pants, sling an arm over his waist, and let sleep reach up and take him.

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