Dec. 24th, 2007 06:48 pm
Fandom: SG: Atlantis
Warnings: Slash, language
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: John is not his usual self after rescuing Rodney.
Author's Note: So, after I finished Promises Writ in Indelible Ink, ferret_kitty pointed out that there needed to be a porn-y follow-up. And I figured...well, it'd kind of be like a x-mas present, just for my flist. So! Here it is. Porn! With quite a bit of plot thrown in as well. I'm not sure how that happened.
Rodney was blaming it on being sent off-world with the Team of the Little People. Seriously, he hadn't realized that apparently no one on Major Lorne's team was above five foot tall or that they were all built like prepubescent girls until they'd already stepped through the 'gate to the Planet Desperately In Need of Manual Labor.
He's still not sure exactly why he'd been along, something about failing shields and radiation and Christ fucking wept but when had dealing with that become something he could do with his eyes closed? And, also, why was apparently no one else likewise skilled? He was going to have a long talk with his minions when he got back.
Because he would get back. It was just a matter of time. Surely, Lorne or one of his miniaturized little flunkies had managed to get back through the 'gate by now. They'd be showing up with Jumpers and reinforcements and he would badger them until his throat was hoarse and they would take him home and he would lie and say that he'd maxed out his radiation exposure for at least three lifetimes and next time they could send Zelenka to fix the faulty tech of their erstwhile neighbors.
He thinks, bitterly, that if they would have sent Zelenka, none of this would have happened, anyway. Radek is every bit as doll sized as the rest of Lorne's half-grown misfits. He thinks furious, angry thoughts about his stunted compatriots, and shifts his grip on the man dying noisily in his arms, and makes himself keep walking.
He struggles, internally, for his lost topic, because he's sure that he had one, the building block of an epic sized rant... And, yes. Little people. And why he was never going off-world with a team thin enough that they could all smash together and turn sideways and you still wouldn't be able to see them. Bastards.
Because the natives, and he should remember their names, it was always important to remember the names of the people who took you hostage to work in their fucking mines, if nothing else so you could get Sheppard to come back and kill them all later, had taken one look at him and decided that their radiation problem apparently wasn't as bad as they'd made it out to be. Although, in hindsight, he's starting to think that maybe it wasn't so much a radiation problem at all, as some freak slave trading thing.
It doesn't matter. What matters, he's sure, is that they'd surrounded his temporary team, poking at his shoulders and arms and started babbling about the mines. And then he'd been pulled along by unfamiliar hands, and had lost Lorne, tiny, tiny, baby-sized Lorne, and the rest of his similarly petite team in the press of the crowd.
He hoped they'd all been chosen as sex slaves. Well, not really. But he had at the time, struggling against his captors, fighting and resisting because what the hell was wrong with these idiots, anyway? Of course, it was just as he'd managed to get an arm free, going for one of the knives that Ronon insisted he carry, when something big and heavy had cracked into the back of his skull.
That had been a week ago .A week. Six nights. Seven days. Days that he spent, not fixing faulty radiation shields, which could still be faulty and killing him right now, slowly, in increments, but mining. In a mine. Underground.
He imagines Lorne as a scullery wench, because it makes him feel a little better, and continues stumbling forward. The man in his arms, the man that is dying, slowly and noisily and messily, all over him, makes another of his increasingly muffled whimpering noises, and Rodney snaps, "Shut up, just shut up, I'm going as fast as I can."
Which is the truth. He's going as fast as he can, up the steep grade of the mine shaft, though he doesn't know what he intends to do at the entrance. Somehow, he doubts that his captors are just going to let him use the rickety elevator there to haul his wounded burden up to the free air and potential medical care above. In fact, he's pretty sure that the armed guards aren't really going to take well to him being away from his post.
The sound the man makes is bubbly, wet, and Rodney grits his teeth and tries to ignore it. Hopes the man isn't doing anything so monumentally stupid as drowning himself in his own spit, but wouldn't put it past him. He can't be positive, of course, but he's fairly certain that the mine workers are actually the most idiotic people he's ever had the misfortune of being incarcerated with.
Because they're the biggest, strongest people on this planet. They're huge compared to the fragile little flowers guarding them. They've spent most of their lives hitting walls of stone with big, heavy, pointy, picks. Rodney tried to explain, multiple times, that the three guards by the elevator didn't really stand a chance, guns or not, if they decided to revolt.
It wasn't like they had automatic weapons. Rodney had ran the scenario over and over in his head, and figured that at most they'd be able to get off three shots each in the time it took the miners to close from shooting distance to beating-you-over-the-head-with-my-pick distance. Even assuming the guards were crack shots, which he didn't think they actually were, that's a worse case scenario of nine dead.
But no, oh no. None of the miners had looked anything but irritated and baffled when he'd pointed out, again and again, that they didn't have to keep doing as they were. That they could rage against their oppressors, and rise out of the depths of the earth like the angry wave of retaliation and revenge and justice that obviously they were meant to be.
He'd given up on them days ago, when he'd been met with baleful stares and nervous shifting and not so much as a spine among the ranks of pale, dirty men. So far, none of his other brilliant escape strategies had worked out all that well, either, but he was holding out hope. Cause, hey, genius here. Sooner or later he'd have came up with something.
Which was all good. And fine. And also the only thing that had been keeping him sane, these last seven days without sun. But then, of course, there'd been an accident. And he'd happened to be there to see this bastard, this man that he'd never even met before, go down under a cartload of lamp oil, the torch he'd been holding spilling sideways as he went.
He remembers the ignition of the oil, the sudden snap of heat against his skin, as a painfully bright intrusion against his unprepared vision. He also remembers having to tell everyone around him how to put out the fire, because, again, he wasn't dealing with the sharpest tools in the shed. So to speak.
But they'd gotten the fire out, and he'd been left with the writhing, twisting mess of a man not even smart enough to realize he was already good as dead. And everyone else had stepped back, had faded away, had went back to work, and Rodney realized that he'd had enough.
The man was heavy, and smelt like burnt hair and steak and made tiny little noises every time Rodney so much as shifted, but there was nothing else for it but to lift him and go towards where he might potentially find help. That had been two hours ago, and Rodney's shoulders, back, neck, arms, whole body are killing him, cramping and aching and screaming their protest.
He ignores them, takes another step, and another, and another, because he has to. The man shifts against him again, makes a soft, whispering sound, and then goes still. Completely and totally and Rodney sways sideways, bumping his shoulder into the stone wall and cursing. He hisses, "You bastard, you stupid fucker, if you were going to die couldn't you have done it before I carried you all this way?"
The man, not surprisingly, does not respond.
He shifts his hold, lets some of the strain in his shoulders and arms relax, lets the man slide towards the ground. His muscles burn, stretch, pull, and he hisses because he's never liked pain, not at all. He contemplates continuing forward, which is insane, because, well, firing squad that he now has no pressing reason to face. Considers going back, which seems stupid and bovine and also, a really long way.
The only other option is sitting here with the dead guy, and wow, he'd forgotten how much he hated no-win situations. Can't go forward, can't go back, can't stay here. And Rodney's just thinking that, hey, nine bullets aren't so bad, really. He's been shot at by more than nine bullets before and never been hit. Which is crazy and stupid and he wonders if perhaps there's a gas leak down here somewhere that's been steadily killing his brain cell because as far as plans go this one is completely Sheppard-esque, and by that he means suicidal, stupid, and ill-thought through.
Unfortunately, suicidal, stupid, and ill-thought through happens to be his only plan.
He sighs, makes himself lean away from the wall, and it's then that a big hand closes on his shoulder. He startles and whips around and finds himself staring open-mouthed at the tunnel behind him, where the miners are packed together, shoulder to shoulder, row after row after row of them. They're all holding picks or big heavy pieces of rock. They all look angry. He snaps, "Well, it's about time."
And the man that had grabbed his shoulder smiles, and waves the mob behind him forward, towards the guards and elevators and sunlight and freedom.
Which is how Rodney comes to be standing under the sweet, sweet blue sky, frozen beneath the big sun, wrapped up by the movement of the air around him, never ever wanting to go inside anything, ever again. He's vaguely aware of the miners running around, screaming war cries and bludgeoning people. Mostly, though, he lost track of why it was important the second he set foot above ground.
He stares up, not into the sun, because that would be stupid, and he needs his eyesight. Basks in the marvel the sky, the sky that is just everywhere. He'd forgotten how big it was, and he wants to turn in a circle, wants to flop down on his back and just stare until the stars come out to tilt and whirl around him.
Someone calling his name distracts him, and he turns absently towards the sound, still staring upward. Because, wow. Sky. The sky is awesome. There's still shouting, "McKay! McKay! Rodney!" and he blinks, drops his gaze and finds himself staring straight at John Sheppard.
John Sheppard, who is moving towards him with a tight, angry look on his face. Rodney cocks his head, aware that the endorphins in his system have to be messing with his brain when he says, thrilled beyond measure, "John! Look! The sky! Isn't it--"
And then Sheppard is there, grabbing him by the arm, fingers biting into his skin, hard and painful. He yelps, tries to twist away, but Sheppard just tightens his hold, pulls faster. And then Sheppard disappears in front of him, just vanishes, and he has a half-second to think that of course they brought a Jumper, before he's inside, too.
He casts a look back, protests, "But the sky--" and Sheppard ignores him, shoves him down into one of the seats, and marches stiff backed towards the cockpit.
And Rodney looks around the Jumper, because, fine, if the Colonel is going to have a random hissy-fit then he can go right ahead. There'll be plenty of sky back on Atlantis that no one will be able to man handle him away from. He finds himself staring across at Major Lorne, and blinks, for a second robbed of the power of speech.
Lorne senses his focus, somehow, even leaning forward with his face in his hands. The man mumbles what sounds like, "Don't ask."
Beside him, smirking, Ronon reaches out and adjusts the ruffles on the Major's apron, smoothing the plaid fabric of the other man's dress in the same motion. Ronon rumbles, sounding like he's just been given the best present ever, "We found him in the kitchens. Cooking. Pies."
Lorne makes a tiny, pained sound, and beside him one of his team mates, also wearing a dress, pats his shoulder companionably. The other two, and Rodney thinks that under all that heavy makeup that's Parrish, are wearing thin, gauzy silken fabric. With their bellies showing. There's even veils. And bangles.
Rodney smirks, regaining some of his inner balance, feeling some of the adrenaline bleeding out of his skin, "So, I see you were fitting in well, Cinderella." Lorne whimpers, slouches further in on himself, and Parrish is opening his ruby red lips, cheeks either flushed or ridiculously heavily rouged and Rodney talks over him, "And you, did you learn the dance of the seven veils? Have lots of fun with the henna?"
He's pretty sure that Ronon is laughing, if the way the other man's shoulders are trembling is any indication. And he knows that Teyla would be, as well, if she wasn't sitting in the front with Colonel Sheppard, and the big huge stick up his ass. He's feeling giddy, light headed, full of himself to the bursting point. He turns back to Lorne, "Make friends with some field mice, did you? Is that who sewed your dress?"
Lorne's voice is sharp, irritated, "Jesus, McKay, and what exactly did you do?"
And Rodney blinks, thinks to those seven days of oppressing darkness, of wet earthy smells and dirty bodies and fire. He blinks, down at his battered, bloody, blistered hands, feels the Jumper lurch around him, the air suddenly too tight and close. He says, "I--" and has to stop, blinking around the vertigo. He closes his eyes, gulping at stale, recycled air.
And Sheppard snaps, voice sharp from the front of the Jumper, "Teyla, go sit in the back. McKay, stop irritating Major Lorne's team and get your ass up here."
He stumbles to his feet, and tries to convince himself that the Jumper is not actually bobbing and weaving under him. He manages with limited success, falls hard into the doorway, and Teyla passes him with a worried look and a hand on his shoulder and he tries to smile back at her, wondering why she came. He can see the swell of her stomach now, everyone can, soft and rounded and full of another life.
Sheppard's staring hard out the view screen, and Rodney throws himself into the passenger seat, the blessedly still seat, with giddy relief bubbling up in his chest. He swallows at the still too tight air, and then looks forward and, oh, sky. There's the sky, laid out in front of them beautiful and open and he leans forward involuntarily, braces his protesting hands on the view screen, tilting his face up to it.
He says, "Oh. Oh."
Beside him, Sheppard makes a sound he can't translate, one he can't tear his eyes away from the view screen to try to read. A second later Sheppard's hand is ghosting across the side of his face, fingertips warm and rough against his skin, and he almost, almost, almost drags himself away from the indescribable beauty of the sky. Almost.
And Sheppard says, "Yeah," his voice low and curiously rough, and then, "How about I fly us around for a while?"
Rodney is only distantly aware of nodding, watching the clouds stream by around them, until suddenly they're above the fluffy whiteness, and there's nothing but unending blue and the sun. He leaves bloody fingerprints all over the glass, but John doesn't complain.
Carter and Keller are both waiting in the Jumper room when they get back, identical expressions of worry and frustration on their faces. Rodney blinks at them, feels dirty and tired and out of place looking at their smooth blond hair and perfectly arranged uniforms. Carter's stepping forward, eyes focused on Sheppard, "What happened? We expected you a half-hour ago."
Sheppard shrugs, and Rodney can feel his body heat, all along his right side. The movement translates itself into him, and he sways, because he's tired, bone tired, and just starting to realize it. There's a hand on his lower back before he can do something completely embarrassing, like keel over, and he can feel Sheppard's fingers curling into his shirt.
Sheppard says, tugging, tugging, tugging on Rodney's shirt, "Yeah. Sorry about staying out past curfew. Gonna ground me?"
Carter snorts, and some of the stress lines around her mouth ease. And then she shifts it to Rodney, and all the lines are back, and they brought their friends. She says, "Jesus, McKay, who'd you piss off?"
He grins, can't not, because he's had time to think about it and, "I started a revolution. No doubt, led by my sterling example of bravery and forward thinking, they'll be storming the capital and overthrowing the government any minute now. I expect at least the mine uprising to be named after me." And he does.
Carter gapes, opens and closes her mouth, and then shakes herself and focuses on the rest of the passengers of the Jumper, disembarking behind them as John continues slowly but surely dragging him off. He wonders, vaguely, where the other man thinks he's taking him, and casts him a look over his shoulder, scowling, "Where are you taking me?"
Sheppard shrugs, the movement slides his hand up and down Rodney's back, says, "You're a mess."
He scowls, waves a finger up towards Sheppard's face, but doesn't actually resist being pushed towards the hallway, "Oh, and I'm sure if you had spent a week underground, lugging rocks around for twenty hours a day, you'd be you're usually immaculately up kept self. Oh, wait, they wouldn't have wanted you anyway. Your eating disorder would have--"
Carter interrupts, apparently finally catching on to the fact that John is making off with him, "Where are you two going?" She sounds like she just wants to crawl back into bed, which, well, Rodney figures is completely understandable. Seeing Lorne and his team in drag is enough to make him want to claw his own eyes out. Not that he would. God. His fingers are filthy.
"McKay needs a shower. I'm just going to make sure he doesn't fall over and drown himself before he can give you his report." And John's voice seems unreasonably tight. Rodney squints at him, trying to figure out what, exactly, it is that's got Sheppard's jaw clenched up all tight and angry like that.
Mostly, though, "I'll have you know I am actually capable of taking care of myself. I led a revolt. I toppled a government. Revolutionaries don't need babysitters."
And instead of lightening Sheppard's expression, the man's face gets even tighter, he grinds out, "Rodney." His next push is harder, and Rodney glares, because Jesus, fine, he was going. He tries to shift away from the other man's hand and Sheppard's fingers curl into his shirt, twist into a fist and he rolls his eyes.
He looks at Carter, somehow behind them now, still standing by the Jumper, "I'm just going to--" he waves a hand at John, now propelling him out into the hallway, and Carter waves back, half her mouth twisting up into a smile that makes her look completely confused. It's a good look on her.
And then the door is swishing closed behind them, and he expects Sheppard to release him, but the other man just starts walking faster. He doesn't bother trying to free himself, he can feel the long lines of Sheppard's fingers, curling against his lower back, just says, "What the hell, Sheppard?"
He only gets a grunt in answer, and rolls his eyes again, because, of course, Sheppard is positively full to the brim of bullshit, but when you want him to talk he shuts up tighter than his Uncle Earl's pants after Thanksgiving dinner. He blinks, surprised by the slant of his own thoughts because he hasn't thought about his extended family for years. And certainly not about the condition of their zippers.
He says, "You know what I want? Mashed potatoes. And gravy. And deviled eggs, you know, with paprika. And some stuffing, the wet kind that you cook inside a turkey?"
Sheppard grunts again, and Rodney is about to point out that if John can't manage distracting conversation about food then he should just go away. He's been eating nothing but hard bread and stale cheese for a week and he wants cakes and pastries and meat. He opens his mouth, gets distracted by wondering if he could convince Sheppard to swing by the Mess, and doesn't get the chance because then the other man is shoving him through the door into the communal shower.
They hadn't been able to figure out why, exactly, the Ancients had designed a big, huge, shower in the middle of the city, along with one in every room. There was no logical reason for it, and Rodney was privately convinced that it just proved his theory that the Ancients had been hedonistic perverts who were probably looking for opportunities to get up to naked hijinks with each other when they should have been thinking about how to keep their various creations from going psycho and setting out to kill millions of people.
Which is really beside the point. The point being that the showers had kind of been remodeled into a locker area for off-world teams. It was closer than their living quarters to the Jumper bay, it came fully stocked with all the disinfectant soap a man could ask for, had first aid kits everywhere, and big fluffy white towels that he'd managed to get through threats and outright bribery.
He shifts, because Sheppard has frozen beside him, is twisting his hand back and forth against Rodney's back without moving another muscle. "Well, Colonel, I have been successfully delivered to the showers. You can leave go of me now."
And Sheppard does, releases him and Rodney takes a step towards the showers because hot water beating down on his aching, abused body sounds suddenly like the best idea he's ever had. He doesn't even get the chance to set his foot down before Sheppard is grabbing him again, hands gripping tight at his shoulders, shoving hard, driving him back into the wall.
Pain lashes up from his lower back, shoulders, and he's sure he'd have made a protesting sound, but Sheppard is slamming into his chest, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and so all he manages is a soft grunt. Sheppard is warm and heavy against him, fingers winding into his shirt, eyes sharp and burning with some emotion that Rodney doesn't understand.
He twists, ignoring the protests from his shoulders, back, legs. "What is wrong with--"
And then Sheppard is grunting, kicking his booted feet into the space between Rodney's legs like they have any right to be there, knees banging hard against his. His hands, balled in Rodney's shirt, jerk and tug and Rodney's aware that the cloth is tearing, that John is ripping his clothes off, but mostly he's aware that John is rock hard, where he's shoving their hips together.
His mouth snaps shut with a click even he can't hear over the suddenly thunderous pounding of blood in his ears. John's not looking him in the face anymore, expression desperate and hungry and directed at his chest. Where John is running his hands, fingers warm and rough over dirty skin, tangling with the chain around Rodney's neck.
John's voice is so rough, so low, that it's almost unrecognizable, "You wore them."
Rodney tries to swallow, but his throat is painfully dry, and so he shrugs, and tries to ignore the way Sheppard grunts almost helplessly at the movement, the way the other man's hips move without apparent thought or intention against him. He licks his lips, clears his throat, "I—you told me to."
John growls, it's more a vibration than anything, transferring itself directly into Rodney's skin. He's got one hand flat on Rodney's chest, pushing the tags into Rodney's skin, hard enough that he can feel the edges of the metal, that he can feel the tiny raised letters and numbers on the surface. That he imagines, between one breath and the next, that when John pulls away the words will stay behind, etched into his skin, Sheppard, John carved into his chest.
He says, "Oh. You?" John nods, hard and jerky, raises his eyes and it feels like a challenge and a dare and all the words that no ones ever said to Rodney, naked and writ large in his gaze. And Rodney can feel, hear, taste all the protests he should be making. What comes out of his mouth is, "Okay."
John doesn't wait, doesn't ask if he's sure, just shoves forward, breathes, "Christ, Rodney, mine." and then their mouths are sliding together. John kisses like he's desperate, like he's trying to crawl into Rodney's mouth. And Rodney would let him, if he could.
He does what he can, gets his hands on John's body, on his hip, on his shoulder, sliding up to the juncture of his neck, all the tense, angry tendons there. John rumbles, shoves his hips harder against Rodney, and then his hands are sliding up Rodney's neck, fingers curling around the back of his head.
Rodney thinks about returning the favor, about winding his fingers through John's hair, and disregards it almost immediately. Because his hands are screaming protest even just resting against the other man's skin, against the fabric of his BDUs. He doesn't want to think about what all the individual strands of John's hair would do to his damaged skin.
He shifts, instead, winding his stance and letting John slide even closer, lets him settle between his thighs, good and solid and warm. John bites and sucks at his mouth, the wet, hungry sounds wreaking havoc on what little control over himself Rodney has left. Not that there's very much to begin with, not with John's fingers moving restless against the back of his neck, with the way he keeps shifting, grinding their bodies together like he can't stop himself.
He tightens his grip on John's hip, winching involuntarily when his hands point out that they're nothing but a bloody mess at this point. John feels it, can't miss it with how they're sharing space, and he's pulling back, sucking Rodney's bottom lip until it slides out of his mouth with a dirty wet pop.
John doesn't pull back very far, his breath is warm and dizzying against Rodney's mouth, "Rodney?"
He leans forward, can't not, kisses John hard before bothering to answer, "What?" and then kisses him again, because he'd like to see if John could paint his answer across the inside of his mouth. John does that rumbling thing some more, shoving back forward so hard the back of Rodney's head slams into the wall, and he hisses.
And then John's moving backwards, dragging Rodney with him, grinding out, "Shit, shit. Got distracted. Shower. We were going to shower."
Rodney opens his mouth to protest that he really hadn't actually been minding the distraction at all. Not that he'd expected it, not that he'd ever considered John feeling anything like this towards him. But, honestly, smartest man in two galaxies, here. When faced with all the evidence he didn't exactly have to buy a clue.
And while, okay, yes, he'd never really thought about doing this with John, he'd have to be considerably less intelligent than, well, anyone he'd ever met, to say that it was anything but a really good idea. Really, they should have obviously been doing this for years.
Apparently John agrees, because he's dragging him, hauling him towards the showers proper. Not that he has to pull very hard. And then John stops suddenly, and Rodney feels a sudden flash of dread low in his gut, thinking that this is where he finds out this was all some huge misunderstanding.
But instead of launching into his escape spiel, John is grinding out, "Clothes. Clothes off. Now." And then he's dropping his hands to the waist of Rodney's pants, not waiting for permission before popping the button free, yanking the zipper down and wrestling them down his thighs.
Rodney opens his mouth, because hey, shoes, and he'd really rather not get tangled up and fall on his ass right now. But John's already ahead of him, shoving him hard against the wall again, hands scrambling desperately at shoelaces, ripping his boots off before they're really loose and it's one more sharp flare of pain, but at least it doesn't last very long.
Not when John is pulling his socks off, fingers rubbing slow circles over his ankles, before he's back to the mauling of Rodney's wardrobe. He's vaguely aware of his pants being flung off to the side, and John dragging down his boxers so quickly that John's short fingernails scratch down his thighs, leave behind trails of fire in their wake.
There's a pause, and Rodney tries to focus through the daze of exhaustion and pain and arousal and John. John, who is staring up at him from his knees, eyes dark and hungry, whose gaze is an almost physical caress, whose voice is nothing but low dirty promise, "Mine."
Rodney hears himself make an inarticulate noise, reaches out and grabs handfuls of John's hair, and damn the consequences anyway, hauls the man up his body. John comes willingly, crushes their mouths together, and Rodney can feel the other man squirming, twisting, unfastening his own shirt and then sliding it over his shoulders, never breaking the kiss.
And then it's marvelously naked skin against his own, John's strong body against his. He slides his hands down, traces the curve of John's shoulders, finds the dip of his spine and follows it down until John twists. It takes him a half second to realize that John is jumping up and down to expedite the fall of his pants down his legs.
John kicks his own boots off, they make twin bangs against the wall. And Rodney gasps, "Oh," because John is naked and so is he, and he doesn't know what he wants to touch first. He decides on John's ass, because he's never been subtle, and because it allows him to drag John hard against his own body.
John grunts, almost overbalances from the force that Rodney jerks him forward with, hands coming up to slam hard into the wall on either side of Rodney's head. He expects John to kiss him again, but for a long moment the other man just stares, and when he does finally lean forward it's to brush their mouths softy together.
The sudden shift of gears, the gentle slide of John's tongue over his bottom lip, the way the other man is supporting some of his weight, no longer just crushing Rodney into the wall, makes his heart stutter and skip in his chest. He hadn't—he hadn't expected sweetness. God. Hadn't realized he'd wanted it.
He moans, wanton and needy, and John makes an answering sound, kissing him soft and slow and lazy like a minute ago he wasn't ripping all Rodney's clothes off. And he's not sure why or how this is as good as it is. He doesn't care.
When John slides his mouth, dropping kisses across his jaw, Rodney tips his head back and to the side automatically. John mouth is hot and wet and smiling, tracing patterns down his neck, teeth a ghost of pressure over his skin. Rodney gasps up to the ceiling, aware that his hands have migrated up John's back, that he seems to have anchored himself by grabbing John's hair, "John, John, I'm covered in, like, coal. You don't have—you shouldn't--"
John hums, and the vibration follows Rodney's spine. And then John pushes him hard into the wall, abandoning supporting himself in favor of wrapping his hands around Rodney's jaw, the back of his head, holding him in place. It's all the warning he gets before John is biting down, hard, right below his tattoo.
His hips jerk, helpless, mindless reflex, and John sucks. Rodney can feel his skin sliding into John's mouth, sliding against teeth sharp and sweet as a promise. John's tongue is rough set in contrast with the pearl smoothness of his teeth, a comforting balm to his skin. He whimpers, and John bites him again, hard enough that Rodney's sure his skin must break.
A second later John pulls away, and there's a slow slide of wet heat down his skin and he thinks that yes, Christ, he's bleeding. John's eyes are fixed on his neck, he's moving one thumb, sliding it over the skin, expression nakedly fascinated. He moves his hand, slides his index and middle fingers over the bite as well, like he can't stop himself.
John pulls his hand away, holds it between them, and Rodney can see the smear of red across John's fingers, his blood bright and wet on the other man's skin. His breath escapes in a ragged shudder, as John slides his fingers into his mouth, tongue pink and visible, curling against skin.
It's only then that John looks at him again, all hunger, all want, all naked need, striped bare of everything else. John says, "Mine," and Rodney can only nod, And then John's grabbing him, dragging him towards the showers again. Which. Yes. Showers. He'd been temporarily unable to remember exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
John can't seem to stop touching him, and so Rodney figures it's probably a good thing that the showers, like everything else in Atlantis, are desperate to please John. They're only a step into the room and there's water everywhere, hot and wet and perfect and Rodney turns his face up to it helplessly.
He's aware that John's still dragging him, but he's not really paying attention. Each drop of water is the answer to a prayer, each slow slide of each individual line of water is heaven. He loses himself, in the water, in John's hands around his arms, closes his eyes and lets John lead where he will.
When they stop, when he sways in John's grip, he still doesn't open his eyes. Just keeps staring up into the pounding of the water, his mouth open just enough for some to slide in his mouth, to coat his tongue and creep down his throat, to wash him inside, too.
John's voice cracks, "Jesus, Rodney, look at you."
He blinks, surprised by how heavy his eyes feel, how bone deep tired he's suddenly remembered he is. He looks at John, standing in front of him, all his want showing through. John's every bit as wet as he is, hair still impossibly spiky, body hair flattened close to his skin, which makes the jut of his cock, heavy and thick, even more noticeable.
Rodney's reaching out without thinking, and his skin slides over John's cock, burning hot everywhere he touches. John thrusts up into his grip, makes a low sound in the back of his throat that Rodney barely hears over the water, pounding down all around them. He says, "John. I want--"
And then John's there, sliding up against him, slick and perfect and his mouth is hot and inescapable, closing over Rodney's. John's hands are gentle, careful, sliding over his shoulders, down his arms, and Rodney's beginning to think that he can't actually keep up with the way John goes from desperate and rough and hungry to soft and gentle and needy.
John says, into his mouth, "I'm going to fuck you later."
Which, okay, Rodney's not about to argue. Even a little. It sounds like a wonderful idea. He has just one slight suggestion to the overall plan, "Fuck me now." He'd been pretty sure that was where this was going. He leans forward into John, grinds their erections together in case John has somehow forgotten about the fact that they're, well, having sex.
John groans, and there's the desperation back, his hands closing hard around Rodney's arms, fingers digging into skin. He nips hard at the corner of Rodney's mouth, rocks back into him, hard. "Can't. Lube. No lube."
He doesn't even bother trying to not be completely thrilled that he's got John unable to form coherent sentences. He slide his hands back to John's ass, skinny and narrow as it is, still the best handhold to drag the other man into him at, oh God, the right angle. Gasps out, undoing himself with each thrust against John's wet, perfect skin, "So?"
John gasps, "Christ." His hips jerk up, three hard thrusts against Rodney, his head bowing forward, mouth sucking desperate and open across Rodney's shoulders. And then John shakes himself, rocks back, hands sliding back up to brace themselves on Rodney's shoulders, holding him at arms length..
His eyes are nothing but dark shadows, his mouth open as he pants. His mouth his swollen, kiss bruised, his hands on Rodney's skin trembling slightly. It takes Rodney a half-second to realize that John's trying to get control of himself, and the knowledge is a flood of glorious, impossible heat in his gut. Because he did that. Him.
And then John takes a deep breath, and his hands steady, "No. Later. With lube and a bed. Now I'm going to blow you."
Which is apparently John's idea of giving a guy some warning, because then he's on his knees. Rodney has time to shift his gaze down, to register John's fingers closing around his hips, to note a warm puff of breath across the head of his cock, and then his brain short circuits.
John's mouth is hot and wet and perfect, the stretch of his lips obscene and miraculous. He tries to think of something, anything, that he's supposed to do. All he can marshal the will power to accomplish is to fist his hands into John's hair, and Jesus Christ, but he's not going to have any skin left undamaged by the time this is over.
It doesn't seem especially important, because John is sucking his cock, is making these little pleased noises around it, is petting at what he can reach of Rodney's skin. He stares down, aware that his mouth is hanging open, but powerless to close it, even as water slides down his face, runs into his mouth and floods back out.
He gasps, he's not sure if he's managing words or not. It doesn't matter, and he just stares, stares at his hands in John's hair, at the stretch of John's mouth around him. Dirt is streaking down his arms, down his chest, leaving little black trails all across his skin. There's red, too, mingled with the dirt on his chest, he wonders if it's his or that dead guy from the planet, so distant for all that it barely happened three hours ago.
John's hands are clean and strong on his hips, no dirt under his fingernails when he flexes his fingers, pressing with bruising pressure. John's skin is glowing, is shiny and slick with water, his eyelashes heavy with drops, fanned across his cheeks.
Rodney tries to remember how to breath, touching, touching, touching. John's slick hair, his forehead, his nose, his hollowed cheeks. All John's skin, burning hot under the slick of the water, and he makes a sound even he can't understand and tries so, so, so hard not to thrust into the perfection that is John's mouth.
And then John is swallowing around him, firm wet pressure, and his orgasm is a surprise, is white fire down his spine and in his gut and pouring out of him. He locks his knees, sways, and John is climbing his body like a tree, pulling himself up and wrapping around him like he's made of arms.
John's hard, pressing against the curve of his stomach, and his manages, through his brain's misfiring synapses, to move. His hand slides across their slick skin, and then he's there, John's cock bumping into his palm and he curls his fingers around it and pulls and twists and tries to figure out how to make this angle work.
John makes a hoarse sound against his shoulder, his whole body just shaking and Rodney tries to tighten his grip, ignoring the way his fingers have gone all stiff and achy. John's thrusting into his grip, into him, full body each stroke. It's knocking him off balance, even more than he already is, and he wraps his free arm around John's shoulders, holds on and holds them up as best he can.
He gasps, "John--"
And against his shoulder, words dancing hot and heavy across his skin, John grunts, "God, just like--" and bites down hard on his collar bone, cock jumping and twitching in his hand, come streaking across both their bellies, washed down their thighs by the incessant pounding of the water around them.
John slumps against him, for just an instant, mouthing kisses over the bruises he has inevitably left. It's only when John stands straighter, takes his own weight back, that Rodney allows himself to sink towards the floor. The tiles are cool and smooth beneath him, and he lets his legs splay out, braces his hands on the floor and bows his head and lets the water run down across his aching back.
He thinks that it's somehow unfair that he is now even more tired, hurt, and dirty than when John saw fit to drag him out of the Jumper bay. He figures that possibly that's at least partially negated by the fact that he's also significantly more laid than he was.
But still. He's exhausted, his hands are a mess, his entire body aches and he's covered with layers of dirt with sex laid over top of it. He wants to sleep. He wants to go to the infirmary. He wants to scrub and scour and dig at his skin until it feels something like clean again.
Sleep almost wins out, because his body is so heavy with it that even the shower floor is looking like a viable option for a sleeping surface, and then John is dropping to his knees beside him. There's a washcloth, sliding across his shoulders, and he can smell soap, feel the bubbles that stretch across his skin. He arches instinctively into the touch, whimpers, because God, it hurts. Everything hurts.
And John makes a soft sound beside him, follows the line of the rag with his fingers, brushing away the suds. And when John leans forward, when he presses his mouth against Rodney's temple, lips warm and intimate against skin, he whispers, "Mine."
::back to index::