contentRating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard.
"There's no particular rush on getting to the planet, is there?"
"Not really; I mean, if the game is -"
"Well, then, if I could have a word with you before we leave. That would. Be, um, appreciated?" Rodney stutters, which always cracks John up, a little.
"Sure," John drawls, carefully extending the word to two syllables and slowing his pace, just to make Rodney flail his hands in annoyance and try to hustle him along.
Rodney guides him off down a corridor away from either the corridor where their quarters are, the locker room, or anywhere else marginally related to what they're supposed to be doing. John thinks about commenting, but opts for silence instead, just because waiting for Rodney's big reveal of... whatever... will probably be funnier than getting it in bits and pieces.
"What the hell was that?" Rodney demands as soon as they're very, very far away from the rest of Atlantis' population, in an area John's pretty sure they're actually supposed to notify Elizabeth before entering. "Are you actually trying to kill me? Because that little display at breakfast could have done it, you know."
"What - " John starts, but Rodney stops him via the simple expedient of shoving him against a wall. This John knows how to deal with, so he starts to lean forward only to find that Rodney won't let him.
"Keep your hands against the wall," Rodney says, voice oddly quiet. "And don't you even dare think about kissing me."
John, with a hot ache building in his stomach, licks his lips and gets it as sticky-sharp orange spikes across his tongue. If they'd kissed...fuck. "I didn't - " he's not sure where he's going with this statement, what he means to say, only that he could have -
"Didn't what? Think? That's apparent." Rodney looks furious, but also strangely flushed, and John realizes with a start that McKay's hard against his thigh. "Just - don't move, okay?"
John nods, torn between panic that's useless now and a spiralling, wonderful tension in his spine.
Rodney goes silent, obviously contemplating, and John kind of wants to make a suggestion. Unfortunately, he's also turned on enough by Rodney's proximity that anything he says will probably be "please fuck me," and he's not sure that would go over at all well right now.
Thank God, though, Rodney doesn't seem in a mood to punish them both, because he presses a hand against the left side of John's neck, tilting his head back into the wall and holding him there.
Rodney bites his neck on the bared right side, first gently and then harder, a burning kind of pressure that means there will be a bruise later, if not an outright hickey - which would be silly and awkward, but mostly kind of hot. And they're leaving for a mission in under an hour.
It's not that he won't let Rodney mark him; that idea is almost laughable. Rodney will do whatever he damn well pleases, and John will take it and beg for more. It's humiliating but true, that Rodney is utterly in control of every facet of this relationship, and that John craves it.
Somewhere, his stomach is doing four-g turnovers at the thought of getting caught, but right now his mind is wrapped firmly around Rodney's mouth, hands, cock - he can't imagine asking Rodney to stop.
Rodney's tongue presses down the line of his throat and he shudders, hands pressed against the wall hard enough to hurt. "Rodney," he moans, soft, hating and loving how easily Rodney can break him open. "Please, Christ, just - "
It's a trigger of some sort, because the next thing he knows is the rough fumbling of Rodney's broad hands at his pants, before there's warm wet good around his cock, and it's insane that he's forgotten, in the twelve hours since Rodney last sucked him off, how very perfect Rodney's tongue feels against the big vein underneath the head.
Rodney's free hand, the one not pressing more marks into his hip, slides around his thigh, scraping over wiry hair until he takes John's balls carefully in hand, feather-light pressure because John's really fucking sensitive there, and it makes him feel fragile and vulnerable and, God, so good, because it's not a threat - Rodney's not like that - but it's the possibility of one.
John's embarrassingly close, clinging to the least sexy images he can conjure - Darth Vader in a three-way with Tarkin and Palpatine, Wraith mating rituals - and hoping Rodney will ease up for a minute.
No such luck, and he's not surprised; Rodney gets off on John's hair-trigger response to him. Still, he's doing okay - panting like a racehorse and making humiliating whining sounds, but not outright sobbing yet - when Rodney looks up at him, eyes burning electric, doing something, fluttering the back of his throat against the head of John's cock, and John's sure there are hookers somewhere who'd pay good money to learn that little trick.
It's his last really coherent thought until Rodney's impatient hands are pushing him none-too-gently around to face the wall, earning a still-breathless moan from John, who's sort of given up on dignity.
"Ask me for it," Rodney murmurs low in his ear, "tell me you want it."
John shudders, ice and fire skittering up his spine.
"Ask me to fuck you," Rodney insists, and John presses his forehead against the cool metal wall.
"Please." He doesn't recognize his own voice, rasping like he's the one with the allergy, throat achingly tight and desperate for just a little more air.
Thankfully Rodney only makes him ask once, two fingers stretching into him immediately, nothing but spit and some of John's own come for lube but it's enough, as John deliberately tightens around Rodney's fingers. Rodney huffs out a breath that tickles John's neck and crooks his fingers before twisting them, making John's knees buckle as Rodney carefully hits every spot except his prostate for a while, worse than teasing - he's just fucking with John's head now, which is so... well, humiliatingly hot, actually.
Almost casually, Rodney replaces fingers with cock, driving into John with a suddenness that makes him hiss and clench his hands into fists, knuckles stinging against the wall, his skin still tingling from his orgasm.
Rodney fucks him greedily, moving his hands only when he wants to reposition John and get a better angle; the only points of contact between them are Rodney's hands on his hips and Rodney's cock in his ass. John doesn't think it should be hot, except it totally is, the way Rodney's cock is leaving him raw and aching even as Rodney's hands treat him like a blowup doll.
It's all too goddamn much, but also not nearly enough.
It’s not about what John wants, anyway, not really. That’s not the point. The point is that John hasn't said no. That he's braced against a wall with Rodney's cock in his ass, which is not only fucking with his spine but killing his shoulders. That he'd tilted his head back and let Rodney mark him, begged for it, even though it’s too dangerous, not worth the risk of getting caught.
That he’d let them get caught, if Rodney wanted.
Which is just - something, hot or frightening or both, maybe.
John's thirty-nine years old, and there's no way in hell he could get it up again right now even if he were drugged, but the fast burn in his ass is actually kind of better like this, when he's already come and everything is still oversensitized, when the only actual purpose is to get Rodney off. Plus, the degree of disconnect here - Rodney, who usually plays with John's balls or cock or nipples the whole time they're fucking, keeps not touching him - is really doing it for John.
When Rodney comes it's sudden, from John's perspective, and pretty quiet - there are just a series of escalating gasps as Rodney shoves into John like he wants to meld them together, hard and deep enough that John will probably feel it for days.
The best part, though, is that Rodney loses whatever deliberate control has kept his hands away from John, sort of collapsing forward, body curving to enfold John's bent frame. The sudden heated shock of full-body contact is almost orgasmic in itself, as Rodney runs his hands slowly and firmly over John's waist and around his stomach.
It's like being petted, or maybe checked over, and John leans gratefully into the touch, wishing he could touch back.
"Okay," Rodney says against his neck. "Okay. Mission."
"Yeah," John agrees. "Mission."
They get dressed fast and efficient, used to this, at least, the mood-killing comm buzzes in the middle of the night, the sudden lurching shift from arousal to desperation of a different sort. This isn't quite so bad, but John has to pause a minute after he tugs his shirt on to just breathe, containing the skittering emotions in his throat.
He has to look Elizabeth in the eye, after all.
Tucking the radio against his ear is the last step in making himself back into a guy who could be somebody's CO, not a guy who's just been fucked.
He doesn't look at Rodney, who grips his arm for a minute before ducking out the door. John waits a minute or two, sticks his head out, glances both ways and jogs towards the nearest transporter.
For the rest of the day, his arm burns, lemon-sharp.