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.
And looking up, oh God, looking up the long line of John's torso, the loosening shell of his jeans as John shoves them down his hips--skinny, slinky hips, powerful thighs pu
He tugs at John's shirt and John doesn't bother with the buttons, reaches for the hem and pulls it off, and Rodney dazedly follows the twist and arc of his spine, the fine weave of muscle at his flank, his shoulders as he shrugs the shirt off and tosses it away. It's eloquent movement Rodney barely has time to process before John presses down into him again, only this time with skin and heat and flesh.
Right away Rodney's hands are back on John—so much skin, so little time—and he's tracing the crease where John's ass meets his thigh. Soft, and hot, hotter because of the way John's eyes flutter shut, the way he lifts his hips up into Rodney's touch like he's aching for it—and it makes something twist low in Rodney's belly.
[eek! crap! what happened?!] for the first paragraph of the comment before Jenn's, read:]
And he looks up, up up up the long line of John's torso, the loosening shell of his jeans as John shoves them down his hips--skinny, slinky hips, powerful thighs pushing Rodney's apart--how John's eyes are dark with brighter flecks, and he wears shadow and the dim yellow light from the side lamp.
[back on track now, picking up with Jenn's last comment: Right away Rodney's hands are back on John—so much skin...]
He's aching for it too, he realizes, someone else stretched out on top of him, someone who's probably not inclined to write on him with lipstick--maybe not just someone, he thinks, as John slides beautifully under his fingertips, firm muscle against Rodney's palms and broken, halting breath on Rodney's chest.
And for the first time since John Sheppard showed up at his door (again), Rodney wishes they were in his bed instead of tucked on the couch—because he'd like to have John spread out under him; he'd like to be able to take care of John, take care of him and take the wheel for a while.
John lays a hand square in the middle of Rodney's chest - steadying himself, or steadying them both, Rodney's not quite sure. But he holds Rodney's gaze and everything stills, just for a moment. "This is - " His voice is rougher now, sandpaper sweet against Rodney's skin.
Rodney watches whatever unnameable thing's flickering over John's face, fits his hands to the warm, smooth hollow of John's lower back and presses down at the same time as he rocks up, murmurs, "Okay, it's okay, come on."
"Okay," John says, the word thick and hoarse, too much behind it for Rodney to identify, to even think about. Then he's kissing Rodney again--fast, thorough, heady with relief, the hand on Rodney's chest back between them again, shaking a little when John reaches for the button of Rodney's khakis.
Rodney drinks him in, breathes him in, groans into John's mouth when John's fingers are finally on him, knuckles bumping his belly, making him want to suck it in even as he's arching to make the touch firmer, to get more.
And John twists down into him, the long curve of him low over Rodney, one hand firm on Rodney's cock and the other at his neck, pressing against his pulse point and holding him still against John's mouth. John's back is smooth machinery of muscle and skin, supple movement Rodney encourages with his body, with oh my God you're so hot and come on come on and please.
John's panting against his throat, tiny, impossibly hot puffs of air that make goosebumps race along Rodney's skin, make him shiver and gasp, which makes John tighten his grip and speed up, which ratchets up Rodney's desperate arousal, makes him dig his fingers into John's muscles, a perfect loop of give-take-give.
Give and take and give, and John is everywhere--over him, in him, everywhere, heat and light and his mouth on Rodney's again to swallow his desperation and give it back to him in breath.
And somewhere in that haze (flashes of bright, of hot, of John's hands, John's hands, John's mouth), Rodney comes; he feels it surge down his spine, electric, feels it spark as his whole body arcs into John, heavy and solid and grounding on top of him.
And John bows over him, head low like it hurts, body locked tight against the rush, twisting down into Rodney, slide of sweat, friction of his jeans against Rodney's thighs, and in flashes of black and brilliance his face is blank of everything except the release that shakes him, and spills heat across Rodney's stomach.
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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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He tugs at John's shirt and John doesn't bother with the buttons, reaches for the hem and pulls it off, and Rodney dazedly follows the twist and arc of his spine, the fine weave of muscle at his flank, his shoulders as he shrugs the shirt off and tosses it away. It's eloquent movement Rodney barely has time to process before John presses down into him again, only this time with skin and heat and flesh.
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And he looks up, up up up the long line of John's torso, the loosening shell of his jeans as John shoves them down his hips--skinny, slinky hips, powerful thighs pushing Rodney's apart--how John's eyes are dark with brighter flecks, and he wears shadow and the dim yellow light from the side lamp.
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He's aching for it too, he realizes, someone else stretched out on top of him, someone who's probably not inclined to write on him with lipstick--maybe not just someone, he thinks, as John slides beautifully under his fingertips, firm muscle against Rodney's palms and broken, halting breath on Rodney's chest.
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