This story is rated NC-17 (adults only). It includes explicit male/male sex. If this is what you came for, scroll down. If it isn't, hit the Back button.
John can't keep up the pace. Rodney's had something on his mind all day long, and he's already panting, red-faced, shaking with every touch. John hasn't even gotten his shirt all the way unbuttoned, and Rodney still has his watch on, for crying out loud, one knee on the bed and one foot on the floor, and he's saying, "John, I can't, oh, god, it's too --" and that's it, he's gone, coming in John's hand with his unfastened pants sliding down his hips.
Jesus, John never gets tired of that. Rodney's eyes are squeezed shut, and right at this moment there's absolutely nothing on his mind but this. It just never stops being hot, that John has the power to bring Rodney's brain, and even Rodney's mouth, to a halt.
Not for long, though.
When he's done, he gives John a pained look and scrubs at his pants with his shirttail. "Crap," he says, disgusted, shaking his head. "I don't know, I, damn. Sorry."
"What got you all stirred up?" John undoes his cuffs and pulls his shirt off, and when he looks up, Rodney's still staring at the wall; "Boots, Rodney," he says, and Rodney says, "Barefoot."
"Beg pardon?" Rodney's showing no inclination to take his boots off, so John gets down on the floor and starts untying them. Rodney twitches; he smells like spunk, and if John didn't think it would embarrass him even more, he'd rub his face all over it.
"Barefoot," Rodney says again, and at first John thinks he's talking about his own feet -- John has gotten one boot and sock off and is hauling the other foot into his lap to work on -- but Rodney says, "You've just been walking around with the Noi all day long with no shoes on."
"It was their rule. We were all walking around with --" He looks up at Rodney, and draws an experimental finger down the bottom of his bare foot, and says, "Really?"
Rodney jerks his foot out of John's grasp irritably. "I don't have a fetish." His voice is sharp. Still embarrassed.
"Too bad." John stands up, thumbing his belt buckle open absently. If Rodney doesn't want to tell him, then no amount of coaxing will get it out of him. "Thought I'd found a shortcut."
"It's just," Rodney says, when they've been kissing for a while and John is kind of enjoying the absence of Rodney's usual impatience, even at the cost of sacrificing Rodney's usual focus, "like a little glimpse of you naked."
"Ronon must drive you wild, then." John kisses Rodney's neck, and stops because Rodney's come already, and then starts again because it turns him on. He loves the way Rodney smells.
Rodney snorts right into John's ear. It's an utterly characteristic Rodney noise, and it makes John's hips jerk involuntarily. "Ronon is half naked all the time," Rodney says, and his fingers make a little circle at the small of John's back, sending a shiver of goosebumps over John's thighs. "It's not even interesting; it's all out on the surface. Whereas you've got as many layers on as a Gibson girl, and it's a big deal when you flash an ankle."
"You are just -- ah. Just a treasure trove of arcane references, aren't you?" John tilts his head back, and when Rodney goes right on nuzzling his ear, he actually takes Rodney's head and moves it so Rodney's mouth is on his neck, because it's Rodney and sometimes you have to be direct. But it's Rodney and it's so very worth it, and Rodney's teeth are -- oh, god, Rodney usually only gives his neck a passing salute on his way elsewhere, but now he's, oh. Oh.
"I know a thing or two that you wouldn't pick up from Aircraft Monthly, yes," Rodney says, and sits up so suddenly that John's hand, which was grabbing for his shoulder, waves stupidly in the air. It's a little weird to have Rodney that clearheaded, moving him around. Usually by this time he's only half coherent, able to start sentences but not finish them. John feels self-conscious, like he's on display. Actually it's kind of hot. "Here, grab me that bottle and come here; you want standing up or sitting down?"
Oh, god. John tries to think clearly for a second. The bottle means fingers, and sitting down means Rodney on his knees, which is so hot just to think about, but it also means his time is limited to how long Rodney can kneel on a bare floor without having to complain. Standing up means Rodney sitting nice and comfortable on the bed, which means he'll go on until he gets bored, or until John's legs won't hold him, or -- "Standing up," he says thickly.
Rodney sucks him with singleminded concentration, dry hand cradling his balls, slick hand stroking into him slow and firm. "Oh, yeah," John says. "Rodney, yeah, there, that's -- yeah, gimme three, oh --"
He's almost there, god, he's got a minute left, maybe two if he really concentrates, and Rodney stops. "Rodney --" he whines, but Rodney leans back and looks at him for a second. "Please."
"Yeah," Rodney says, and then it's just hands, both slick this time, and John realizes it's because Rodney wants to watch him come.
So he does.
He's kind of a mess afterwards, but Rodney drags him right down into the bed. John slowly strokes his foot over Rodney's ankle, and Rodney makes a happy noise and snuggles closer.
If this is what it gets him, maybe next time he'll try rolling up his sleeves.
Read the story notes
Back to in medias Res
January 20, 2006