Work Text:
John had totally, totally, been holding out on Rodney.
It was their first leave together, and instead of heading for the nightmare of Vancouver and Jeannie's vegan pantry, or John's godawful WASP brother, they had wisely elected to take seven days and nights on M5Y-352 — otherwise known as Planet Caribbean, for its endless white-sand beaches, blue surf, and peaceful frozen-drink loving natives. They’d bartered a week’s accommodation in a quiet beachfront bungalow in exchange for a gross of daiquiri mixer, which was a bargain by Earth resort standards.
Anyway, John — yes, totally totally — had been holding out on Rodney. It wasn’t just the first morning, when Rodney woke to discover that John had smuggled in pancake mix and real maple syrup, and had made a complete Canadian breakfast for him, down to the bacon. And it wasn’t just that John had a heretofore-unsuspected flair for liberally applying sunblock to Rodney’s delicate skin. It wasn’t even that John had spent three days in a row now methodically drinking his inherited Irish alcohol resistance into submission, so that by sunset he was noodly and full of beneficent smiles and unusual flexibility.
No, it was that John – John was goddamn noisy. John, who pressed his lips together and looked stern whenever Rodney raised his voice a little in a meeting. John, who seemed to think that stoic silent endurance of either pain or pleasure was a virtue, and not a sin. John, who in the most ecstatic throes of passion had only once ever made the smallest of groans.
*That* John had apparently stayed behind on Atlantis, because the first night they were alone in their bedroom on Planet Caribbean, John hooked his knees over Rodney’s shoulders, threw his head back to expose his gorgeous lean neck, and began to shout with every thrust of Rodney’s hips.
“Are you okay?” Rodney had said, stopping abruptly, sweat dripping from his forehead, terrified.
“Don’t I sound okay?” said John, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, I see,” said Rodney, scowling and beginning to move again, “this is a joke? Some kind of weird Sheppardesque sarcasm or” – and he stopped again, because almost immediately, John had started making noise again. “You’re not funny,” said Rodney, wishing he could work up enough anger to actually pull away, but it was difficult to be properly incensed when John’s calves were framing his head.
“Who’s being funny, jesus?” gasped John, and dug in his heels like Rodney was a recalcitrant horse. “Are we fucking or talking?” he demanded, and, well – there was really only one sensible response to that question, so Rodney had drawn back a little, readjusted his grip on John’s legs, and started really giving it to him, pounding away mindlessly and endlessly while John arched his back and shouted and generally made Rodney feel like an utter sex god.
John had been a little hoarse over their pancakes the next day.
And so it had gone on for the next two days, like all that had ever been holding John back had been the certain knowledge of the other Atlantis personnel nearby. Like John was naturally vocal and greedy and pleasure-hungry and like he had to tamp down on all his enthusiasm while they were on base.
Rodney thought for sure John would at least lapse into silence when he blew Rodney, but even then he managed to be surprisingly expressive, humming and moaning around Rodney’s cock while his cheeks hollowed and Rodney gripped him tight by the shoulders, shuddering and gasping.
Now Rodney couldn’t stop thinking about this new facet of John, couldn’t stop imagining what it might be like if John were like this back home on Atlantis, if John were shouting and groaning and swearing loudly every night when they fucked, his voice seeping through Atlantis’s most soundproof walls and doors.
“You’d like that?” said John, looking back over his shoulder, hazel eyes sex-glazed and mouth hanging open with panted breath, and Rodney realized he may have been thinking aloud. “You’d like that, if everyone heard us like this?”
Rodney’s hips snapped inward reflexively as he processed the notion, making John utter a sharp startled cry. “Everyone would hear,” Rodney said, getting into it now, “and they’d be so surprised that you could be like this.” He slowed for a moment, getting John by the hips and readjusting John’s thighs a little so he could move deeper, longer. “They’d hear me fucking you like this and they’d all – god, fuck – they’d all want to see what I was doing to you, to make you call my name.”
“I don’t call your name,” said John, but he was lying because he’d been chanting Rodney, Rodney, fuck me, Rodney not one minute ago, and he was getting into this, Rodney talking about this – his ears were going red and sweat was popping out all down his naked back.
“And no one would say anything, but they’d know,” said Rodney, picking up the pace, going harder, “they’d look at us in the halls and they’d remember listening to us fucking and they’d blush but they’d give anything to – to “—
John was obviously trying to hold himself back again so he could hear Rodney’s words but three days’ habit was proving hard to break, and he kept bursting out with little shocked “ha” noises whenever Rodney’s cock drove across the right place. It was shaking Rodney’s concentration but he forced himself to focus, to continue, because John was going to shivery pieces under him and it was crazy sexy.
“They’d give anything,” Rodney continued, pulling himself back from the brink, limiting them both to sharp shallow rapid motions that weren’t quite enough, “anything to see this, to be here and watch you like this, naked under me with your legs spread, making these amazing noises and – and,” Rodney gasped, slowed himself down further, closed his eyes, “and loving it, loving having my cock in you, in your ass, my hands holding you still, my –”
And John – who had totally totally been holding out on Rodney – wrenched up and back and forced Rodney onto his haunches while John desperately fucked himself on Rodney’s cock, hands hard and bruising on Rodney’s head, his forearms, making wanton obscene sounds. Rodney was so startled it took him a moment to realize when John started to come, cock untouched, the abrupt warm wet striping upwards, catching the back of Rodney’s hand when he ran his palm down John’s chest. “I didn’t know you could do that,” said Rodney, stupidly, because always before John had needed Rodney’s hand to come, and sure – Rodney’d heard of guys who didn’t need a reach-around but he’d never met one in person.
John, meanwhile, had gone limp and quiet, his perspiration-damp back slumping against Rodney’s chest while he caught his breath. “Give me a second,” he said weakly, “just a second, I’ll finish you off.”
Rodney tipped John forward onto the mattress, following along with him so they wound up with Rodney’s belly flat against John’s back, John’s one thigh drawn up a little so Rodney could stay inside him. Rodney didn’t have much leverage from this position, but found quickly that he didn’t need it – a few experimental thrusts and Rodney realized he was very close. John made soft contented humming sounds while Rodney shifted in him, deep and hard and slow, a handful of times, and then Rodney stilled, buried in John, nose pressed to the nape of John’s neck, and came.
“Holy shit,” said Rodney muzzily, some minutes or hours later, rolling away from John.
“You’re telling me,” said John, voice muffled by the pillow under his face. He turned his head, still flushed from climax, glowing and sleepy-eyed and smiling slightly. “You’ve never fucked me like this before, not on Atlantis,” John said appreciatively. “You’ve totally been holding out on me, asshole.”