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.
They're way out on the westernmost edge of the city, just the two of them, walking through something that looks like it might have been the Ancient equivalent of an open-plan office -- it even has cubicles, though the walls are some sort of frosted glass -- when John pulls a little notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. Not a 'notebook' in the sense of a PDA, but an honest-to-god spiral pad of paper, and Rodney's so struck by the sight of John writing with a pencil that he's a little startled when John hands the pad to him.
Can you be very, very quiet?
Rodney looks at the dark intent on John's face, and swallows hard, and nods.
"Not too much here," John says out loud, and Rodney jumps a little. "We'll just stop and look around a bit, make sure we haven't missed anything," and then, as Elizabeth confirms from back in her office in the center of the city, he takes Rodney's shoulder and presses him back against one of the cubicle walls.
His hand is smoothing down the center of Rodney's chest, and then suddenly he stops and pulls his headset off and drops it. Kicks it under the nearest desk. "Damn," he says loudly. "Can you reach that?" And he goes down on his knees.
Rodney is noticing the weight of his own headset, the shape of the mike in front of his mouth, in a way he hasn't done since the first week here. He could take it off, but it's obvious that's not what John wants.
Rodney's a talker. No surprise there. Also no surprise that, of the two of them, the one who can't keep his mouth shut would be the one with the passion for semi-public places. Rodney's almost painfully hard already, just from knowing that the rest of the city could hear, that he's still on an open frequency.
It's not really that he wants someone to catch them, but it's still hot to think someone could. It's the same kind of hot he gets when John gives him that slow, narrow-eyed once-over in public.
When John's fingers touch his cock through his pants, he almost gasps, but he stops himself just in time.
Can you be very, very quiet?
John glances up, looking amused, but by the time his eyes go back to his fingers undoing Rodney's fly buttons, he's all concentration.
John sucks cock the way a painter paints, with a focused concentration that's deeply serious and joyful at the same time. Rodney figures he probably first learned how to do it as a fuck-you to authority in general or his parents in particular -- at least that's the usual story for these quarterback-with-hidden-depths sorts, and Rodney is very familiar with the type -- but by now he's found the pleasure in the process itself. Rodney bites the side of his hand to remind himself not to make noise.
It can't come out, so it all swirls around in his head, and the words collide like billiard balls, transferring force and altering vectors. When his mind is full of so good, so so good, he can't be sure whether he means John's wet, wet tongue, or John's hand tightening in the fabric of Rodney's trousers, or the strange echoing vertigo in his mind when he thinks of the distance between this and everything he's ever known, or the pure unexpected fact of the existence of one John Sheppard with the stars and stripes on his shoulder and Rodney's cock in his mouth like nothing that even Rodney's imagination could ever have come up with.
It's all good. Everything's good. John's good. John's very, very good.
Rodney can usually resist the temptation to talk about things that John doesn't want put into words, but now, when he can't say anything at all, all sorts of unwise revelations come bubbling up. Things about the perfection of John's soft-hard mouth and the irresistible scent of his neck just under his shirt collar and the lines of his shoulderblade seen through his T-shirt and the things Rodney would do just to taste his sweat and hear his voice break. The things Rodney would do to place his hand on that shoulderblade in the mess, just for a second, and have John not tense invisibly but just look up at him and smile. The things Rodney would do to wake up beside him instead of watching the door slide shut behind him.
He looks down, and John's eyes are closed again, blissful concentration, lashes dark on his cheeks. John's hips are shifting restlessly, but he won't jerk off now; he'll save it for tonight, for time and privacy. Rodney pries up John's hand from its clutch on his pant leg and grips it, palm to palm, fingers interlaced.
John's eyes open, and Rodney has no idea whether he's communicated any of what's in his head, but John watches him until he starts to come, until all those forces coalesce and clench and release, so good, so so good, and then his eyes fall shut again as he takes it all and his hand in Rodney's tightens until it almost hurts.
Rodney's breathing fast and shallow through his nose. He has no idea whether he made a noise, but no questions are coming over the headset. John sits back on his heels and presses one hand flat over his own cock, through his pants, eyes shut and head tilted back. And then he opens his eyes and grins up at Rodney. "Ah, there it is," he says out loud, not even out of breath, and he fishes his earpiece out from under the desk and puts it on.
Rodney stops him with a hand on his chest and brushes his fingers over his mouth, a soundless substitute for a kiss. When they walk on, Rodney can feel how John's body bends to his, so that their elbows brush.
Rodney's been very, very quiet for some time, but he's not sure how much longer he can manage it.
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Back to in medias Res
November 16, 2005