"Yes, well," Rodney splutters, "I apologize for the unfortunate freak of genetics that wired my brain to be, oh, let's see, brilliant at matters of physics and rather sub-par at matters of flirting with the delivery guy." He tilts his chin in defensive defiance.
"We all have our strengths," John says, that infuriating smirk flirting with the corner of his mouth. He puts the Power Ranger back and picks up the Supreme Court pencil. Its gavel is mostly gone, and it's dented where Rodney's chewed it.
"Oral fixation, much?" John asks, and twirls the pencil between his long fingers. Rodney ducks his head and tries to order his stomach to stop with the fluttery butterly things. When he looks up, John's leaned in closer, and oh god, that's mesmerizing, the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the flecks of gold in his eyes and and and - "So we are flirting, right?" John asks.
"I--I guess?" Also mesmerizing: John's long, tan arm along the back of Rodney's couch, his shirt that gapes at the collar so Rodney can look down and imagine what John's body feels like under the fabric of it. He swallows. "Genetically deficient, remember?"
"How about I drive, then?" John says, and then he's pressing his mouth to the corner of Rodney's, soft, soft drag of his lip, and when he pulls back a little, Rodney chases the taste of him with his tongue.
And if John's laughing into his mouth, well, Rodney doesn't mind so much, because it feels like he's in on the joke, especially when John opens to him easily, lets Rodney push inside, and this is probably the hottest thing that's ever happened to him, Rodney thinks.
Then his hand lands on John's shoulder—the hand still clutching the remote—and the TV blares to sudden life.
They both flail wildly and beer goes everywhere - down Rodney's shirt, down John's pants - and Rodney can't speak for anyone else but his heart's trying to make a mad escape out of his chest. He thumps the remote against the couch cushions until the TV shuts off again and licks his beer-covered fingers. "Shit, sorry," he says, blushing wildly as he chases the beer that's running down his wrist.
They're plunged into silence again, the smell of malt and hops and raspberries all around them (all over them), and oh god, oh god, John's pinning his arm to the back of the couch and swiping his tongue against Rodney's wrist and saying, "You can make it up to me."
Rodney blinks and makes a small, choked noise because John's licking his skin and, oh, oh god, sucking gently over the heel of his thumb and apparently he really likes beer. Or - or, outside chance, he likes Rodney, but . . . is there any beer left on his skin now? Is he licking up beer or licking up the taste of Rodney and -
Rodney's toes curl and his eyes fall closed before he can finish the thought. Oh, god.
He's not sure what the protocol is—should he offer John the use of his washer? It's small and European, so things come out of the dryer wrinkled, but maybe John's not the type of guy who cares about beer soaking into his jeans, especially not while he's using his tongue to chase salt and beer through the creases of another guy's hand.
His voice of reason is telling him John probably preys on lonely, sexually-deprived scientists and is waiting to kill him horribly, but oh God, John's hands are under his shirt, warm against evaporating coolness, gathering up the fabric, and reason's not so important anymore.
He has a moment of feeling terribly exposed, sitting naked from the waist up on his couch in the dimly-lit den with dark, beautiful John Sheppard, Delivery Man right there, and then John's smoothing down Rodney's hair, fingers tingling along his neck, hand coming to rest heavy on Rodney's shoulder, looking so expectant that Rodney can't help but surge forward, can't help kissing him again and again.
John breathes want and relief into Rodney's mouth, and his fingers paint it across Rodney's face, and all of John--all of that long-limbed, sun-dark body--stretches out (hard, perfect, real) and settles down atop him.
Rodney's never been blanketed by another body on this particular couch, but even if he had, he knows it wouldn't have been anything like this, like John, who's touching Rodney from his ankle bone (wriggling toes) to his earlobe (wandering, wondering fingers), who's watching him and smiling, just a little.
Rodney presses his face to John's throat, wraps his arms around John's back, holds him in place.
"Kind of hard to move," John says, and Rodney can feel the words in Johyn's chest, in the breath across his cheek, his neck, where John traces out his skin with kisses, sharp teeth at his earlobe, but can't quite make himself let go.
But then John kisses right below his ear and it's the most natural thing in the world to loosen his grip, to slide a palm to the back of John's head, to kiss him slow and warm and find when John turns the kiss dirty, he can keep right up. It's natural to let his thighs fall further apart, to welcome the snug fit of John's hips against his own, to rock up into the warm weight of John's body and accept the answering push back, to twine his fingers in short, dark hair and welcome the slide of John's slick tongue.
He's even starting to feel a little brave, since John's still here, since John's breathing hard and Rodney can feel his erection through his damp jeans, and he inches his hand toward John's hip, slips the tips of his fingers just beneath John's waistband and feels hot skin.
John hitches against him, sharp flex of his hips down and in, dragging rough-wet denim across Rodney's cock, and oh fuck, it's electric, it's brilliant, and John's watching him with wide, dark eyes.
Rodney can't help bucking up into John in return, can't help sliding his hand further down the back of John's jeans, and the quiet sound John makes, the way the muscles in his ass tense and relax make Rodney feel tender and powerful all at the same time.
Unexpected is one way to put it, unbelievable another, with John cradled between his legs and John's hands all over him, his fingers (callused, strong) stuttering where they're splayed against Rodney's sides, slipping down his hips, his thighs, into the humid heat between the two of them.
Rodney tries to reach further into John's pants (he wants more, more), but it's just too tight, and before he can get too frustrated, John's saying "Okay, okay, hang on," and sitting back on his heels, snapping open the button on his fly and drawing the zipper down slowly.
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"Yeah," Rodney says, that taste elusive on his tongue and so not enough. "Okay."
"Okay," John says, and leans close again so Rodney can feel that warm, pleased smile against his mouth.
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Then his hand lands on John's shoulder—the hand still clutching the remote—and the TV blares to sudden life.
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Rodney's toes curl and his eyes fall closed before he can finish the thought. Oh, god.
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His voice of reason is telling him John probably preys on lonely, sexually-deprived scientists and is waiting to kill him horribly, but oh God, John's hands are under his shirt, warm against evaporating coolness, gathering up the fabric, and reason's not so important anymore.
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Rodney presses his face to John's throat, wraps his arms around John's back, holds him in place.
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