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John wasn't sure how it all happened, afterwards. He tried to put it together in his mind—he must have taken his watch off, like he always did when they had sex, had left his wristband on, and they were on the bed, and Rodney's hands were stripping him.
He had tried to undress Rodney, but Rodney was on top and John didn't really mind that—at all. Every time he tried to get a piece of Rodney's clothing off, somehow Rodney distracted him with kisses, or with surreptitious positioning so that one of John's hands was out of commission. Then he'd grabbed John's wrists and held them together over John's head with one hand, and John had lost pretty much every ounce of control he'd had over the situation by bucking up and moaning Rodney's name.
Loudly.
That must have been when Rodney put the leather cuffs on. And the sensation was so foreign to what he had expected to happen that he wasted precious seconds trying to figure out what was going on—plus what with the whole room being in the dark, he hadn't noticed the rope conveniently located around the headboard of the bed that was now holding him pretty damn secure.
And apparently he hadn't noticed the handcuffs either, which were now being used to cuff his ankles together. The cold metal restraints also must have been on the bed by the speed with which Rodney completed his shackling.
John opened his mouth to say "What the fuck!?" but gets out only a "What t—" and then muffled garble, because Rodney's ready for his protests too. He quickly looped a — handkerchief? — around John's head and tied a knot over John's mouth, so that John can't really speak but only mumble around the impromptu gag.
. . .
John was beginning to think Rodney planned this.
Really, it had taken some serious invention on Rodney's part to get the necessary items. Despite having done this sort of thing back on Earth quite enjoyably, he had assumed that here on Atlantis he wouldn't have any time for something so humanly basic as sex.
Before going through the gate, Rodney had read mission reports from the SGC, and, based on their scientists' reports, had presumed research, the occasional terrible enemy to fight off, and cleaning food off his laptop would take up at least eighteen hours of his day. The other six could be spent catnapping and persuading the botanists to grow more coffee.
He had packed accordingly.
Unfortunately, the fact that he didn't bring his equipment along was now a genuine regret. Fantasizing about tying John up—and everything else that went along with that—had been #1 on the guaranteed orgasm play list ever since John had casually mentioned that he had been tired of all his previous partners looking to him for guidance.
"I'm so fucking tired of blushing virgins, dropping their clothes and expecting me to be their long lost Prince Charming. Take care of them; make them see enlightenment or something, for christ's sake."
John rarely made speeches as long as that, or as profanity-laden, but post-coitally he was looser, more relaxed. Rodney loved watching him let go of the cool persona for a while — obviously it was hard to be cool in front of someone who'd "just gave me the best come in my fucking life, jesus, Rodney," he thought smugly.
It was comments like that that made Rodney think John would be interested in what he had in mind. Maybe... really interested.
Still, he couldn't make plans to replace his favorite toys until he was sure that John would enjoy what he had in mind. After all, good scientists always tested their hypotheses.
Once, as an undergraduate, Rodney had stupidly dated a psychology major because she was blonde and smart. The problem with psychology was that you ended up getting stuck in labs waiting for them to run just one more ANOVA statistical analysis, with nothing but soft science crap textbooks. On the plus side, psychologists wrote obsessively about sex, which was good because in Rodney's opinion, that was pretty much the only thing in the human psyche he felt worth investigating further.
This also happened to be where Rodney's distain for the soft sciences came into the picture. After reading all those magazines and "scientific" journals, he came to the conclusion that: psychologists obsessed about why people fuck who they fuck, and how they go about getting laid; biologists obsess about what happens because of the fucking; anthropologists obsess about all the different ways of getting fucked, but call it "cultural mating rituals" because that sounds more academic.
Rodney concentrated his research on how to determine arousal; though implementing his findings in the real world had led him to the conclusion that, in most of the world, sexual arousal was inexorably mixed with aggression arousal. He decided this was why he didn't get laid as often as his genius deserved, as, sadly, 99% of the population must invariably be threatened by his intelligence.
When he'd met then Major Sheppard, Rodney had realized that John wasn't intimidated at all. That'd surprised Rodney; enough to think that getting on John's good side was a useful idea. And though implementation had been ludicrously difficult, the pay-off was well beyond anticipated.
This brought him back to his latest conjecture. To collect data to support or disprove his theory, Rodney had held John's arms down while he slowly slid his cock, tiny increments at a time, out of John's slick ass. John had shuddered, and as he begged with halted breath for Rodney to come back to him, Rodney noted scientifically that John's pupils had dilated significantly.
In his intensive research on the subject of human arousal, he'd learned that pupil dilation and involuntarily held breath were two of the surest signs of arousal. John had them both in spades, plus the way he said Rodney's name when he asked for more sent a signal from Rodney's cock to his brain that yes, please, we'd like to explore this further, very much, thank you.
That answered that question.
So now, for Rodney's brilliant plan to work, he had to get everything ready.
Leather. Leather, or some sort of untearable cloth that wouldn't be abrasive. He could've used handcuffs, but Rodney knew John would struggle, oh god. Struggle and beg, and the metal would chafe his wrists and ... no, couldn't have that, those lovely lickable bitable wrists circled with inexplicable red marks. Even if Rodney did intend to leave some marks in more explainable places.
But no, focus. Leather. Leather and measurements.
A quick side-trip to Teyla's quarters one morning—timed for after her meditation, when Rodney knew she was most amenable— and she assured him that the fabric of which her clothing was made was easily obtainable, and did not blanch at his request for two long — at least the length of his forearm! — strips. God only knew what she thought he was going to use it for, repairs maybe, but there. At least that was done.
Measuring was accomplished while John was taking a tiny nap—though they'd never spent the night, that man was dead to the world for at least 45 minutes after two or three good orgasms in an hour. Rodney wasn't much better, but he still managed to finagle himself to the side of the bed closest to the dresser, reach for the measuring tape, then lightly maneuver John's arms so that he could get a decent measurement of his wrists.
There was a tense point where John seemed to be about to wake up, and Rodney wracked his brain for ideas—um, planning on making you a new shirt? Noticed your sweatband was getting torn to pieces? Surprise!
But John merely mumbled something in his sleep and Rodney was able, with trembling fingers, to replace the measuring tape underneath his dirty socks as he silently vowed to make sure that he returned it to the lab as soon as he woke up tomorrow.
While borrowing the rivet setter and the welding torch in the engineering lab, and employing some creative growling at Radek to get out, Rodney repeatedly wished he'd had the forethought to bring some of the more easily explicable items he'd grown to enjoy. All of this could've been avoided if he'd at least argued more strenuously for a Ping-Pong table for scientific recreation. He could've just claimed that the scientists had managed to lose a ping-pong paddle. Rodney had a hunch that after a few heavy swats, John might very well beg for more, and truly great scientists never discounted the value of an intuitive leap in logic.
But. He wasn't entirely sure, and that's what made his heart race and his palms sweat—what if John fought? What if he couldn't relinquish control? What if he could...?
Rodney tried to keep those thoughts to a minimum, though, as pleasantly shivery tingles going up one's spine did not a steady welding hand make, and he needed those two D-rings on the cuffs, damnit.
He'd been able to procure the rest of the required items without much trouble; rope was the simplest, actually, unlocked in a supply closet along with a few copies of manuals on how to tie knots. Handy, since Rodney hadn't been a part of Scouts Canada— too busy building theoretically workable models of nuclear bombs. Handcuffs were similarly easy— Atlantis wasn't holding any prisoners except Sora, and she was being rehabilitated by Heightmeyer, so the handcuffs— and, of course, keys— were practically free-for-all in another supply closet.
Once everything was set up, he began timing himself at getting the whole rig put together.
Rodney anticipated it would take somewhere around five seconds to get the wrist cuffs on—assuming John took off his watch, but not his wristband— and the rope looped and knotted securely through the D-rings, which were in turn attached to one of the horizontally crossing beams of the headboard.
He counted on John ignoring his legs to struggle with his wrist bonds for a few seconds, and that would provide enough time for Rodney to snap a large size of handcuffs around his ankles.
God, there were so many ways this plan could fail, and his brain helpfully came up with them all, but there was at least an 80% chance it would work. It could work. If John gave it a chance, that is, and Rodney was going to try to make sure John gave it at least a little bit of a chance.
With the idea of silencing John's protests for a short time, just until John had relaxed enough to admit that he did want this, Rodney folded and left a large napkin in a convenient place to serve as a temporary gag.
Rodney did feel confident that even if the experiment didn't work out, John would forgive him. It might just take five blowjobs... or so.
John walked into Rodney's room. It was dark, which was unusual, but before he could think the lights on, he heard Rodney move and then Rodney said, quietly, "Hi."
"Hey," John said, as he wondered why Rodney was sitting in the dark. Maybe he had a migraine, although, actually, that was one of the few things that Rodney had never complained about.
Rodney didn't say anything, which was unusual for Rodney, but then again, as John's eyes got used to the low light in the room, he realized Rodney was much closer to him than he had expected. A few feet away, in fact. If John wanted to, he could've stepped forward and pulled Rodney into his arms.
Instead, he spoke again.
"So, uh, I was going to be sooner, but Ronon got between a scientist and a Marine who were fighting in the kitchen over some pudding, and, well, who knew mace could be cooked up using jalapeños? I had to take a shower to make sure I didn't get any on me . . ."
Rodney was rarely quiet, and John found it — weird — and wanted to fill the spaces. Fill the intervening silence with words, with babble, with —something— so he didn't feel like he was alone.
"Ronon's uh, in the infirmary now. Carson says that he'll be fi—" John cut himself off as Rodney stepped closer, putting his hands on John's arms and gently pushing John back against the door.
Rodney stood deep inside John's personal space, closer than John would ever let anyone else come voluntarily, closer than John really felt comfortable with, and he just ... stood there. John pasted on his best easy smile, hoping that Rodney's eyes were even better adjusted to the light than his, but John was... a little uneasy.
Usually there was a routine, a kind of quick handshake hello, some kissing and some undressing, then sex—which varied between lots of different things, John certainly wasn't complaining—and then talking, then lazy snuggling until one of them was in danger of falling asleep.
After that, one of them snuck back to his room. They didn't sleep together. John had never felt like he could ask Rodney to stay, and he didn't really feel comfortable staying in Rodney's room without asking his permission, which was just awkward and ... yeah.
Sometimes they made dates to watch movies together, or did things with other people. After one memorable incident where Rodney had been jealous when John didn't think to ask him if he wanted to go rock-climbing with John and Lorne, John very carefully invited Rodney along on any excursions that others planned, and Rodney politely declined most of them.
But Rodney obviously appreciated the effort, and although he was deliciously cute when jealous, John preferred to keep the jealousy level as low as possible ever since the volcano planet blew up, which had somehow led Rodney to withhold sex for two whole days while he huffed about Narina. He even brought Chaya up again. John was beginning to think he'd walk on a bed of hot coals if he could be assured that at the end, Rodney would shut up about Chaya.
This—darkness, pushing, invasion of personal space—wasn't the usual, and John's eyes flicked to the darkness that shadowed Rodney's face, wishing for some light to be shed on that face, incapable of keeping a bluff hidden, that face that John's fingers had traced thousands of times in the dark.
And Rodney must have been thinking along the same lines, because his hands came up, releasing John's arms, and there was a soft pressure on John's forehead, the smooth touch of uncalloused fingertips tracing John's forehead, lightly, down the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks, down the rough stubble of John's jaw line and chin and to his throat, casually coming to rest at his collarbone.
Then Rodney touched his lips to John's—warm, inviting—and one hand moved to rest on John's cheek, the other pushed at his collarbone, Rodney's body moving against John's so that John was effectively shoved against the door as Rodney began to kiss him in earnest.
The pressure, the crush of Rodney's body against his, lips and tongues and teeth moving and nibbling and yes, kissing— was unspeakably satisfying, sensual, sybaritic, and something tight and tense in John relaxed—yes, this, this is what he needed, why he came back. Rodney, endlessly inventive and constantly surprising and often irritating and always, always enjoyable.
Rodney's hands moved down to grab John's ass, and then they were grinding together. John was almost surprised to note how hard he was, and that Rodney was rock-hard too. John groaned, deep in his throat.
Rodney pulled back and leaned his forehead against John's, breathless as John was, but while John breathed slow and deep, Rodney began to speak, as calmly as if they hadn't been rampantly making out, hands groping and caressing John's cock, John's ass.
"Do you trust me?"
The light was on. John blinked, repeatedly, and focused on Rodney. Rodney had moved away from the bed.
Rodney smiled slowly, a crooked smirk stealing onto his face. He looked somehow—forceful. Dangerous. John couldn't remember ever associating that word with Rodney before, but then again he'd never been restrained, his hands wrapped in soft-leather cuffs, secured by some complicated arrangement of ropes, his legs loose but constrained at the ankles by a larger than usual pair of handcuffs.
Rodney was crouching down on the floor next to the bed. He watched John, smiling—or maybe smirking—as he noticed John's keen interest in everything he was going to do.
Rodney began delicately trailing his fingers up and down John's stomach. John didn't have the time for crunches to get a six pack, but Rodney didn't seem to care — Rodney's sadistic mouth soon followed his fingers, and gave little nibbles at areas of skin, torturous in their seeming randomness.
As his mouth moved, Rodney's hands began to explore John's thighs. First the outside, with firm, reassuring strokes, and then moving to the sensitive inner thigh, still firm but somehow simultaneously more cautious, slower, more in-depth.
His mouth kept moving, slower, slower until Rodney was licking and biting along the line of John's hipbone, nibbling warmly then exhaling cool air and laughing small murmurs of amusement when John flinched, every sensation more extreme than he was expecting it to be simply because he had no control.
But then John forgave him everything, every last intense touch, because Rodney had moved to lick up and down the shaft of John's dick, torturously never allowing his tongue near the head, just long, slow, warm, wet licks like he had eternity to explore every millimeter of skin.
John moaned through his gag, and arched up, hoping desperately for Rodney's mouth to envelop his cock and ease this ache deep in the base of his spine.
Then Rodney stopped licking. Damnit, Rodney's mouth was gone, and that made John sad momentarily, but Rodney's hand were still touching him, resuming their languorous journey over John's skin.
"Do you know how fucking beautiful you are? Those lean muscles, the jutted line of your hips, your jaw, your hard cock?" Rodney spoke softly.
John can't believe what he's hearing, seriously. Christ, if he'd known Rodney could talk this dirty, he'd have been putting the earpieces to much more inventive uses.
Rodney's hands continued stroking, adding a little scratching here and there, nothing hard but just grounding John in touch.
Rodney's hands had always reminded John of flight, and like wind they seemed to touch John everywhere—he couldn't separate out the touches. Then when Rodney added his mouth again, dry kisses, working his way down John's stomach, John's treacherous cock leaped at the idea of being touched some more.
Please, just some real contact maybe to the sensitive head, just, he had to, he couldn't— Rodney was so expert at this, at this teasing, so clever that John usually didn't let him tease for this long because—because—because— he couldn't think.
Though Rodney's mouth was tantalizingly close to John's insistent dick, his hands were far more focused on the upper part of his abdomen, and John got the sinking suspicion that—oh god, yes, Rodney was licking up the shaft and then he allowed one single swipe of that wicked tongue across the head of John's cock.
As Rodney lifted his head, John could see a little string of his precome still attached to Rodney's mouth and, unbelievably, Rodney then proceeded to lick the slickness off his lower lip with an evil, evil smile.
"I love the way you taste, the way you're so hard, John. You like this, don't you?"
Rodney's voice was low, raspy, and his hands pressed against John's chest, or maybe John just felt breathless. "You like knowing that you don't get to decide anything now, you like being tied up and spread out so I can do whatever I want to you. Whatever..."
Rodney says all this as he's leaning up towards John's ear, his hot breath reminding John how much he wanted that mouth sucking and swallowing, and John tried to tell Rodney, but he'd forgotten about the gag, and John could only let out a muffled moan.
"I know, I know," Rodney said, but he didn't explain himself further, didn't tell John what he knew. John's eyes watched Rodney, a drowning man seeking the faint glimmer of the surface.
Rodney paused for a minute, and that smug look was on his face as Rodney seemed to be considering something.
John's mind was a blur. Just touch me, he wanted to scream, but he couldn't, he knew he couldn't, and he didn't even really want to, he just wanted to make Rodney smile like that, smile like he knew a dirty secret about someone he hated and he had all the time to perfect their downfall; smile like he had just pulled off a particularly brilliant maneuver and John had slapped him on the back, not trusting his voice to say thank you for saving our asses yet again.
"You know..." Rodney said quietly, controlled. Controlled. Something deep inside John writhed in a paradoxical pleasure at the idea that Rodney, Rodney who couldn't stop talking even when he was about to die, was thinking carefully and slowly about every word before it exited his mouth.
"You're always teasing me about my perky little nipples," Rodney continued. His left hand began to concentrate on one spot, lightly tracing circles around John's nipple, and John found himself tensing. Whatever Rodney was going to do, there was nothing John could do to stop him.
"Mmmmph!" John heard himself sounding desperate, unable to speak through the gag, and wished he could be so calm and collected as Rodney somehow managed. Being naked in front of someone fully clothed and fully prepared to take advantage of him was not a situation John'd ever been in his life. Women were always dropping their clothes for him.
"Yes..." Rodney seemed contemplative for a moment, as if John had really been able to make a point. But he added his right hand to the action, instead, and continued to speak, calmly.
"I know that Carson's mentioned it on occasion, as a joke, and once Teyla asked me if it was an Earth custom to make me more attractive to potential suitors. But you . . . You whisper it into my ears on routine missions to make me lose track of what I'm thinking. You brush your hand across them when you're helping me adjust my tac vest at the shooting gallery, and believe me, I know they're nowhere near being in the way. You tease me, Colonel."
John felt like he'd been hit, the combination of his rank and his current position driving him deeper into confusion, and all he knew was that Rodney was the only constant, he knew he could trust him, he knew that but somehow his gut didn't, somehow he was still holding back.
Rodney's hands continued tracing slow circles around both of John's nipples, and then Rodney moved, slowly, letting John watch him, still fully clad, save for his shoes and socks, but with the outline of his erection straining against his slacks. Rodney's hands went to the bulge and briefly caressed his cock while his blue eyes watched John watching him.
He closed his eyes for just a second, visibly collecting himself, and John felt another surge of arousal. That he could affect Rodney like this just made him want-need-desperate-urgent—and then Rodney straddled John's hips and smiled as John instinctively tried to tense his legs.
"John," Rodney said as he sat on John's legs. John felt a little ridiculous, so he didn't answer. He spent a few moments tracing the shape of his naked body ending at the lines of Rodney's clothed thighs straddling his own, then up to Rodney's cock pressing unrelentingly against the material of his blue slacks.
"John."
John swallowed and directed his gaze up towards Rodney's eyes, hoping that was answer enough, since he couldn't speak.
"John. I'm going to take off your gag now. I ... just wanted you to give this a chance, and now I really, really want to hear you beg me for more. I want to hear you tell me that every time I touch you, it feels so good you can't stand it." And with that, Rodney leaned forward, smearing the precome still leaking profusely from John's cock over his slacks, and gently undid the knot holding the cloth in John's mouth. He then leant even further forward and pressed an open mouthed kiss against John's lips.
John was almost too surprised, too many conflicting emotions, but god, this was Rodney, and he tasted of coffee and chocolate and the way Rodney always tasted, and Rodney's tongue moved slow and lazily inside John's mouth, just as in control as the rest of him. Lust burnt inside John's throat, and he tried to seize control of the kiss, but Rodney easily thwarted him, moving to nibble John's lower lip and then the corner of his mouth, and then back to the kiss again, soft warm lips pressed to each other, mouths and tongues moving together and all of it tantalizingly slow, teasing and breathtaking.
When Rodney pulled away, ending the kiss with a quirkily satisfied smile on his face, he had that look that John had come to associate with a breakthrough in some scientific field that either a) was about to kill them or b) couldn't be explained without two hours of headache-inducing interplay between Rodney and Radek.
But, John couldn't—didn't—how was he supposed to know, figure out—what had Rodney discovered that he didn't already know?
And then Rodney shifted again while John was trying to piece it all together, and his warm, wet mouth was sucking on one of John's nipples and John didn't care. He didn't care, because it felt good. Odd. Strange. Good. Good. Except he wanted more, and he made a little noise deep in the back of his throat before he remembered he could ask, and he opened his mouth to say, finally, "More."
Rodney looked up, and said, "Pardon?" with a little hint of sarcasm in his tone, and John's stomach lurched. What if he'd said something wrong, would Rodney stop?
John tried to say something, but Rodney had gone back to licking slow hard strokes across his entire nipple, laving and ridiculously elaborate tracing of tongues—the only question John felt capable of answering right now was that old cliché about someone being able to open a starburst or tie a knot in a cherry stem. Rodney definitely could.
He didn't know how to ask for more. He just... wanted, and he tugged absently at his wrists, still enclosed in the leather cuffs. John's hands closed and opened uselessly, his short-clipped nails digging into his palms just the slightest bit, and he just wanted. He'd never wanted anyone so much. Never craved anyone at all, but goddamn, he did now.
Rodney stopped after an infinite moment by which time John had completely forgotten the question. "I said, what did you say?" Rodney's eyes narrowed, and his right hand slipped up to trace the line of John's jaw. "Does my handsome little Colonel want something?"
There was just enough contempt in his voice to make John blush, feeling like he'd displeased Rodney. Somewhere in the back of his head some tiny little part of himself was saying It doesn't MATTER, it's just some buddy-fucking, he's just playing with you but the rest of him was pleading desperately to ... something. Something. John wasn't even sure he understood where he was, but. Rodney had asked a question. John blinked, once, twice, trying to remember back.
Rodney gripped John's jaw tight in his hand, and forced his head up so that John was gazing directly at him. "Don't make me repeat myself again, or you won't like the consequences."
"... want." John's voice cracked, and god, he felt so humiliated, but at least he'd managed to force the word out through his treacherous closed throat and creaky vocal chords.
Rodney smiled again, and John felt a shiver of arousal run down his spine at the pure joy in that smile. "And what do you want?" The hand on John's jaw stroked his cheek, and Rodney looked almost—protective. Possessive?
John's eyes closed as Rodney's other hand went back to tweaking, stroking, and lightly twisting his nipple, and somehow, though god knows how, John managed once again to say "want. More." John opened his eyes, and met Rodney's blue gaze straight on, waiting patiently, not moving. After another infinity, John licked his lips quickly, his toes curling as he said, "please."
Rodney's hands didn't stop moving, until, abruptly, he spoke. "John, I'm going to take the handcuffs off your ankles."
John nodded, and Rodney produced a key from godknowswhere and quickly undid John's ankle restraints, and then firmly said "Lift up your legs and let me touch you." John relaxed his inner thighs and drew his legs up, fighting an impulse to kick the whole way, fighting his training, no longer overwhelmed by sensation and having to consciously agree so that Rodney could—oh— lightly cup his balls in one of Rodney's skilled hands.
Trust, he trusted Rodney, and god, it felt so pleasurable as Rodney gently stroked a thick line with his fingers down between John's legs, pressing hard on the sensitive area between his balls and his ass.
"Tell me how much you want me to fuck you," Rodney said, and John inhaled sharply. Christ, all the thoughts going through his head were so lewd, so damn raw that John was torn. He wanted to touch Rodney, wanted to give him pleasure like nothing else, but Rodney was still torturing him. How could Rodney expect him to think?
Rodney had one hand easily stroking that area still, going up to the root of John's cock and then holding the weight of John's balls in his hand, totally intent and focused, and then back down to John's asshole. The other hand went into his pocket for... a bottle, lube, god, please be lube, John prayed, and then he heard the click of a cap and cold! Cold!
"Cold," he said, "jeez," but Rodney was already moving, his warm hands almost a shock after the chill of unwarmed lube, but then there was a slippery finger rubbing up and into John, and Rodney's head lowered like he needed a very close look at what he was doing.
"Up. Now." Rodney said, his tone implacable. John sure as hell wasn't feeling like arguing, so he swallowed, trying not to beg for Rodney to hurry, please. He moved, stretching his legs out, balancing his heels lightly on Rodney's back, scooting down and up a little, offering Rodney as much of his ass as he possibly could.
The wrist cuffs offered some resistance to this new position, and John steadied himself against the strain, feeling like he'd just finished a round of stick fighting with Teyla, his muscles meltingly loose.
The finger inside him was slowly warming, but then there was another slick finger, and Rodney must have added more lube, cold again, and John closed his eyes and tried to get back to that place of relaxation, god, he...
Warm? Warm. Hot. Slick, wet, dirty, and John swallowed, thinking of Rodney's tongue, his crooked mouth, his perfect dirty mouth, and his arms tensed and pulled at his bonds, and all he can think is jesus christ, he's—so hot; I can't, just—
"Please," John said, and he surprised himself. Rodney stops. Just for a second, John wishes he could take it back, put Rodney's mouth back. But he couldn't, anyway, because Rodney's already shifted and looking at John.
"Yes? What do you want?" He smirked.
"I want . . ." John's gaze darted away from Rodney's face for just a moment as he gathered— everything, his courage and the pleasure and the way he felt, all of it coming together somehow, and said "I want you to fuck me. I would, um, really, really, really like. That." He breathed out, slowly, and couldn't, he just had to let the rest of his words tumble out. "But I want to suck your cock first. Please?"
"Hmph. I was already planning to fuck you, not like you have a choice. Not like you want to have a choice, because you want my hard cock inside you a whole hell of a lot, don't you. I knew it. I mean, with your legs spread wide open for me, your own dick so fucking hard. . . jesus. You're ready to take me up your goddamn ass, but first you want to suck my cock? Maybe I'm not the only genius around here."
Rodney shifted again, his weight reassuring, and then he was off John, taking off his shirt—and yes, John absolutely did tease those perky little nipples, how could you help it—and his slacks, stained with precome, and god, his boxer-briefs outlining his cock, thickly and vehemently aroused.
Rodney moved without shame, with all the self-confidence in the world. John loved that about him, that he was so secure, that Rodney could take whatever the world dished out and stay focused, stay on track, never easily distracted.
John felt like his focus had been carefully and intentionally shattered. He was almost startled by Rodney moving closer, semi-kneeling with one knee on the bed, his dick so close to John's mouth that John just—wanted, christ, wanted to feel that fullness inside his mouth and the jerk of arousal and know, absolutely know deep down in his bones that he'd done that.
Rodney gently grasped John's head, angling John's mouth so that the position wouldn't be so hard on his neck, and then said, roughly, "Suck it. Suck my cock."
John smiled, taking just a second to enjoy the rush of pleasure at the thought that he had done this, that he had aroused Rodney to this point. He slowly licked his lips and then Rodney brushed the head of his cock over them, allowing John to carefully take Rodney's cock into his mouth.
It was an awkward position, but god, it was fucking hot, and jesus, how could he have ever not done this before? John could imagine, could see it in his head, Rodney's broad back curving into a crouch, allowing his exquisitely proportioned ass to be viewed perfectly as he knelt in front of John. John could imagine how he looked, restrained and unable to protest, even minutely, but obviously enjoying it from the jut of his cock still standing stiffly as John gave his all for this blowjob.
"Christ, your hair, your spiky gay hair, how could I have not known you were such a slut the second I saw you— know you'd love this, love fucking you. Should've been doing this the first night— stupid slutty Atlantis, distracting... oh! . . . me." Rodney said, and John moaned, nodding only the tiny bit he could with the cock in his mouth.
And then, wickedly, he started humming a little of the Canadian theme song national anthem, knowing that always made Rodney laugh. John combined that with a slow twist of his tongue, lingering in the areas he knew were most sensitive, then ever so gently tracing that perfect little dividing line with his teeth, knowing that drove Rodney crazy, but quickly replacing his teeth with his tongue in case Rodney made any sudden movements.
"Christ!" Rodney said, and of course, he laughed, a real laugh, not the little chuckle he sometimes gave when someone else made a joke that he didn't think was all that amusing. Sometimes John thought maybe he'd asked Rodney to be on his team just to hear that laugh.
Rodney pulled his cock out of John's mouth, wet and slippery. He leaned in close to John again. "I know you were trying to make me come, and you nearly did, you bastard. You're not going to get away that easily." Rodney nibbled down John's neck, and said, "I'm going to fuck you until you see the Milky Way again, and then ..."
John moved his legs again as he shifted his shoulders, relieving some tension, and tried to relax, letting Rodney's words wash over him like warm water from the streams of a hot tub after a brutal day.
Rodney continued speaking as he moved into position, and John felt so —good —somehow satisfied, almost, but the idea that he was sated was ridiculous, because his cock was insistently making itself known again and he needed, oh, christ, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much foreplay.
Yessssss, John thought as Rodney slid two fingers inside of him with little warning, and when Rodney answered, "You like that, I know," he wasn't sure if he was thinking it or saying it, or if Rodney was so in tune that he knew what John was thinking. Then again, John was sure his desperation was written all over his face.
Rodney moved John's legs, muttering something about how military training couldn't account for all this flexibility, it was probably the fact that John was in and out of everybody's bed, but that was going to stop now, John, John.
"John, do you hear me?" Rodney said, his cock positioned just inside of John, so easily, could just slip in, oh please, please.
Not another question, John thought, and tried reluctantly to collect his thoughts again. "Yeah."
"You're mine, you know that?" And Rodney thrust in, harder than normal, and John wasn't sure if the hiss and gasp he heard was from Rodney or from himself, because christ, it felt so good, having Rodney's cock in his mouth was a pale imitation of this, he was so fucking turned on.
"How'd it take you so long to figure it out? I thought you were a genius." John smirked, and relaxed into the thrusting, the pleasure, but then Rodney stopped.
Rodney glared at John. He then very calmly withdrew from John, leaning forward to bite John's nipples, hard enough to hurt but soft enough to be pleasurable too, and god, that was going to bruise, hurt worse tomorrow, and . . . damn, John hadn't known he was kinky but he really fucking liked the idea of Rodney's mark on him.
"Shut up, Colonel. You're mine. Mine." Rodney said as he moved back into position and began fucking John again. John's spine tingled with this possessive streak, but he couldn't resist provoking Rodney, just a little. . .
"What about, you know, the occasional Ascended woman?"
Rodney stopped for a second and shook his head. "I should've left the gag on."
John arched his back just the tiniest bit, feeling Rodney's cock deep inside of him and a warm glow of satisfaction made him smile. "I think you like my mouth too much."
"Well," Rodney considered. "Your blowjobs don't suck." Pause. "Or, rather, they do."
John laughed at Rodney's mix-up and Rodney groaned. Then John laughed again, knowing Rodney was feeling the contractions in his muscles from the laughter through his cock, and god, this was so, so good.
"Touch me. Please."
"Hey, you want to come, Colonel? Beg me."
"I thought I was."
"Don't be... stupid."
"Please, Rodney. Please." John's mouth went dry, and he shut his eyes again, feeling the coarse thrust of Rodney's cock moving in and out of him, Rodney's arms holding most of his weight off John, but still supported by John's hips and they just fit so goddamn well. He could probably come just from this, or just by watching the expressions on Rodney's face shift and change but ...
"What do you want, John? Tell me. Tell me you want me to touch you, and where, and how." Rodney's voice was so intense, like it was reverberating through John's skin.
"Please, Rodney. Stroke my cock. Let me come, please." John had never said anything like that before, or let himself force out what he really wanted to say. He couldn't open his eyes for a moment, but a groan of arousal reassured him and then the touch of Rodney's hand on his cock nearly undid what tenuous control he had left.
God, John thought this might even be as good as flying, this whole thing, whatever they were doing was just such a fucking joy, and he'd have to tell Rodney this later, carefully. Not to swell his ego anymore, but the man definitely was Prometheus Society material for this one.
Rodney seemed to be endlessly inventive with the talking, and it was simultaneously reassuring and fucking hot. In the name of prolonging this fucking awesome, well, fucking, John again tuned out and just felt. Just felt, and it was so goddamn good, so right.
John tuned in to hear "and now, those perfect nipples are so bright red and sensitive, and every time your shirt touches your skin, you'll remember this—" and oh, Christ! He couldn't take any more of this, goddamn—
John felt like he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning as he came. He realized dimly that Rodney must be holding him down, because his orgasm was just going on and on and on and he was babbling, something, anything, "so good, so fucking good, oh, god, oh——oh——ah, chriiiiiist, fuck, yes..."
John had barely regained some semblance of conscious thought when he realized Rodney was wordless, his gasps rivaling John's of a moment earlier. Having finally, finally lost control as he pumped into John over and over again, his rhythm almost lost in the fury of finally arriving at the orgasm he'd so relentlessly pursued for both of them, chriiiiiist, knowing that he made Rodney lose his restraint makes John bite his lip. Watching Rodney's expressions changing from ecstasy to pain and back again, feeling Rodney's hands grip John's hips too hard, and then the sounds he makes aren't even words, and when Rodney finally orgasms John feels almost like he's coming all over again.
Five—maybe ten—possibly fifteen minutes later, John revives enough to ask, politely, "Please untie me."
John can feel Rodney's smile as he struggles up from his position where he's been lying smooshed against John's chest. "Oh, fine. If you're going to make me do all the work," he says, and then they both start laughing until Rodney says, sharply, "Stop that! How am I supposed to untie these knots while you're practically laughing me off the bed?"
A few minutes later, wrists undone from the shackles and rope successfully (mostly) untangled, Rodney yawns and says, "Despite your maniacal laughter and obvious attempts to thwart me, I once again overcame all obstacles put into my path, and managed yet another success despite overwhelming odds."
John manages not to burst out laughing again by biting his lip sharply, and says "Yeah, thanks for that. Now I can get my revenge." He opens one eye to gauge Rodney's level of awareness of this (hollow) threat.
Rodney chooses that moment to snore theatrically and loop one arm securely around John's waist so he can't get away. John takes the hint. After a quick plumping of the pillow underneath his head, he snuggles against Rodney and, more relaxed than he can ever remember feeling in his life, falls asleep.