: but I just--the past few days have confirmed that John + cocksucking = my new OTP
: oh yes.
: doesn't matter whose cock.
: for him, it's not a means to an end.
: he's not just trying to make the other guy come.
: it's not like a lot of queer boys are like, "okay, I'll suck your dick, but only if I get something out of it".
: no. john just likes having a dick in his mouth.
: Likes the way he keeps licking his lips, because they're chapped and a little bit sore.
: and the way his throat hurts, just a little.
: and his voice is a little husky.
: and sometimes he can still taste it.
: just a little. barest ghost of sense-memory, and he's not sure if it's really there or if he's just ... soaking up the memories, because they're going to have to last him. he can't risk this too often, after all.
: just--sometimes. One or two of the Marines are willing to look past the rank. A couple of the scientists don't care. He's always careful not to let on how much he likes it.
And then there was the one time Rodney was too horny and crazy and full of adrenaline to look past the first person he could touch, and John--he knew Rodney wouldn't notice, wouldn't care, would love to shove into John's mouth until he came hot and thick and fast, and he didn't even say anything about John coming in his pants, just fell straight into sleep.
: And John licked his lips, and slid away in the dark.
And in the morning, Rodney can't quite meet his eyes over the briefing table. Oh, he says all the right things, like "good morning, Colonel," and "nice hair we're having today" and "give me that pen, no, no, that one, you idiot," but there’s a little hitch to it, like he’s thinking of John on his knees with his fingers curled around Rodney's hipbones and not of P5T-912.
John was pretty sure it was going to be awkward, had known even while he was too busy thinking of the taste of Rodney at the back of his tongue, but still, he bumps his shoulder against Rodney's when they're filing out and says "lunch?" and Rodney jumps like he's been electrocuted.
And Rodney gives him sideways looks all through lunch, keeps his feet solely on his side of the table (no “move your enormous feet, Colonel, some of us need room too”), eyes on his own food (“hey, they told me they only had lemon today, where do you get off having chocolate?”), and barely talks. John is busy trying to exorcise the memory of swallowing Rodney's come, and trying to convince his idiot body that no, it isn't going to happen again.
Isn't going to happen again. Isn't. Once was enough, really; enough to satisfy his curiosity, not enough to get a taste for it. He has to be careful about what he picks up the habit of wanting, here. Too easy for wanting to become obsessing over, and that’s the last thing he can afford to do.
Rodney isn't looking at him like he’s wanting. Rodney’s looking at him like John’s a puzzle, some equation that doesn't quite add up because Rodney forgot to account for some obscure variable. John isn't sure how he feels about that; he’s used to being obscure equations, but Rodney has the expression like he’s trying to solve them.
He contents himself by rubbing one finger along the side of his mouth, where he can still feel the way it had rounded as he swallowed Rodney down. He doesn't look out of the corner of his eye to see if Rodney’s following the motion.
"We'd better get back from P5T-912 in time for the diagnostic runs Zelenka's been planning," Rodney says finally, almost desperately.
John lets himself think about saying something, thinks about I liked it. I always like it. Let me do it again tonight.
He’s played that game sometimes. Thought about saying it to someone. Thought about going up to a muscled private, a commanding officer, hooking his thumbs into belt loops, I want to suck your cock, and sliding right down to his knees.
He never lets it go too far. But he doesn't often do it with someone he's already had.
“We will be," he says, instead, and he knows he's not imagining the slight rasp to his voice, the way he sounds when he's been on his knees and full up all night. He shouldn't be, not from just Rodney, but he's out of practice. And Rodney hadn't been shy about fucking his mouth, pushing into him, one hand thumbing the edge of John's mouth while the other left bruises on John's shoulder, digging in, pushing, using—
John has to shift his hips in the chair, because the sense-memory shouldn't be so strong.
Rodney drops his eyes and fiddles with the pen he's holding. "And I had plans to recalibrate the power consumption curve in hopes of actually managing to keep us in enough hot water for once."
John could do it. Right here, right now, in the mess hall, slide under the table like his spine's turned to liquid and undo Rodney's pants with his teeth.
And he could really, really use a cold shower right now—"Sure, Rodney. Recalibrate to your heart's content." He breathes carefully.
Now Rodney's looking suspicious, and thank God, more normal. "Do you know something I don't? Are the natives of P5T-912 renowned for kidnapping visitors and suspending them over cauldrons of boiling water? Or drugging them into hallucinations of pink elephants? Because let me tell you, I do not have time to be made a sex slave this week." He snaps his mouth shut, a second too late, and color flushes high on his cheekbones.
John takes a breath and doesn't remember P4X-892 or M3X-720. Or—he stops. He can feel Rodney's cock like it's still on his tongue. He remembers coming last night, hot and wet and airless, full mouth and empty mind.
But the one thing he learned, years back, years ago, was how to shove it all into that part of his head where it only shows when he lets it, and so he puts it away (full hot wet right complete blessed blessed silence) and only smiles. Rodney's watching his mouth again, pretending like he's not. It's comforting to know he's not the only one who's having trouble getting back to the script. "I thought every healthy red-blooded American—all right, Canadian -- male was supposed to make time for sex slavery," is all he says, mild and stripped of innuendo.
"Canadians are too polite for sex slavery," Rodney mutters. "The people of this galaxy, on the other hand, are obsessed with sex."
We're in this galaxy too, Rodney, John thinks. Maybe some of it shows on his face, because Rodney flushes a little darker and slams the pen down as though he's punctuating some obscure point of debate.
"My point is," says Rodney, before John can think of something mild and drawling to infuriate him with, "that I have a lot of work to do. And if you want hot water at all—ever—you will please get us through P5T-912 as efficiently as possible. If you want, you're free to offer yourself as a sex slave. After all, you'd be--"
—good at it. Rodney stops, the flush fading to white, as the world slows down a little and John pushes himself carefully away from the table. "Thank you for your permission," he says precisely, and turns to leave.
"I—" says Rodney, but John is breathing, and can't hear the rest.
Getting out of the mess hall is automatic. He's down in the armory before he can hear past the rush of his blood in his ears.
This, then, to lose himself in. He's not used to being here in the warmth of daylight, is far more used to putting in his time in the dark and silent, but everyone's busy right now and it's almost as quiet as it would be at four in the morning when he just can't sleep for all the noise in his head. Yeah, it's sublimation, but sublimation's always worked for him before and Teyla might meditate but John's always found his revelations in blowing a piece of paper to shreds. He's got an hour before they have to gear up. It'll have to be enough.
good at it good at it echoes through his head, as his hands move over the pistol, automatically, neatly, checking, re-checking, lifting and firing and feeling the kickback of recoil in his arms and chest. An offer. A challenge? A dare, maybe, because Rodney dares the universe on a daily basis, and he knows John well enough to know that John can't let a dare go by without standing up to it.
He's never found out what kind of a person he can be when he doesn't have that endless denied need clawing him apart from the inside. It almost scares him to wonder about it.
He fires. Once, twice--he can almost picture it, in between shots, a sun-drenched planet where he lives his life on his knees, sucking. Where his food is drugged and his memory is fuzzy and no one will notice if he breaks.
He fires, and he doesn't have to look to know it went wide. His hands are shaking. He puts the safety on, concentrates, waits a second. Lifts the gun, and fires, and kills the paper guy.
He needs to stay away from Rodney.
Yeah, that'll work well. What with them being on the same team and all.
you'd be good at it, whispers his mind as he kills the paper guy again.
Someday they're going to find a planet where he has to, where (or maybe this is only in his fantasies) there'll be a treaty waiting to be signed or supplies waiting to be traded for and someone's going to need to make the gesture of kinship and honesty. Or the one where they get thrown into prison for disobeying some sacrament, some commandment nobody could ever hope to piece together, and one of them is going to have to make reparations. He thinks about it sometimes, the "I wouldn't ask someone under my command to do something I wouldn't do myself" defense quivering and waiting to spring to action (because in his head that's how it always starts).
Ronon will have to walk him home, his uniform covered in sweat and dirt and come, his knees unsteady from having spent the day (night) (no, day, he wants to be able to see what he's doing for once) on them. There'll be something smeared across his cheekbone, something he doesn't want to think about, and just before they go through the 'gate Rodney will stop them and lift a hand to his mouth, lick his thumb (mouth, mouth, John's mouth waters just thinking about it) and scrub it across John's skin. And John will walk through the 'gate and keep his eyes facing front and ignore all the whispers, explain to Elizabeth what happened in a rusty dry voice, and before he even gets out of the shower, everyone on Atlantis will be muttering did you hear what he had to do did you hear what he went through.
And none of them will realize that all he wants is to go back.
Fuck, he shouldn't be thinking about this. Not here. Not now.
His hands are shaking again. He fires anyway, because he knows there's no way in hell he's going to get out of this before they have to go and he'd damn well better know if he's capable of hitting a target in this condition.
Twenty minutes before gate time, Rodney shows up, and clears his throat. John would have sworn that Rodney would rather commit seppuku than talk to John again today, but obviously John was wrong—or, maybe, he just couldn't get any Marines to hand over a knife. John holsters his gun, turns.
"I wanted to apologize," says Rodney. He's not stuttering, and he doesn't look nervous, even. "I didn't mean to imply anything that made you uncomfortable."
He sounds—confident. Rodney is not confident when he is sorry for something. Ergo, Rodney is not sorry. John locks his knees. "Not a problem," he says.
"Good," and it's that special Rodney brand of smug.
John's breath is speeding up, and Rodney can't miss that with his eyes sliding over John's mouth.
And Rodney's not stuttering and John's not stupid, so he says, making sure it's the John Sheppard Lazy Drawl and not the breathless slide he'd like it to be, "If you still feel bad about it, though, you can lend me season two of Babylon 5 to apologize."
His eyes say more, but someone could walk in at any second. His eyes are saying and you can bring it over to my quarters tonight, and I'll have the lights off and I'll be on my knees waiting for you.
Rodney closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than a blink. "Bastard. I was saving that for a big favor."
When he opens his eyes again, John can read yes.
When Rodney comes in that night, he isn't crazy and he isn't breathless, but he does shove hard into John's mouth, cock thick and heavy and almost choking him. John's eyes water and his hands shake and he can feel Rodney's thumbs stroking his forehead, tilting his head just right. He swallows, and can almost hear Rodney's low monologue—yesthat'sright, take it, John, godthatfeelsgood—around the white noise in his ears. He can't breathe and he doesn't care, and his cock jerks every time Rodney thrusts, and Rodney's hands are the only things keeping him upright.
When Rodney comes, so does he. He doesn't notice.