[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.
Heady and reckless, still zinging, Rodney licks the shadow under John's jaw, lets his fingers dip down into John's crease and wrings one more wild shudder out of him.
John slides to the side, insinuates himself between the back of the sofa and Rodney's body, a leg hooked over Rodney's thigh. "Knew you'd - " He licks his lips, pulls in a long breath and sighs. (John looks, Rodney realizes, wrecked). "Saw you once. Talking." John gestures, then lets his hand go lax, smacking gently back against Rodney's stomach. "Lecturing."
Rodney's still not sure what he means, but the idea that John (full-lipped, rough-jawed John) saw some potential in him, that John's seen him, as more than the guy in the ratty t-shirts who signs for all the boxes of books, makes something achy press against Rodney's breastbone.
"At the - " John lifts his head and frowns. "Um. Thing. In the spring. With the lecture."
Rodney swallows - spring; the prize lecture at the University - 1200 people crammed into an auditorium, most of them so stupid they shouldn't be allowed to breathe, and John was one of them. "The Schmitts-Devon Prize Lecture in Physics?" he says, and his voice never used to sound so insubstantial before, he's sure of it.
John's face breaks into a dazed, happy grin. "Yeah." He sets his head back down on Rodney's shoulder. "You were . . ."
Rodney waits for him to supply any number of the usual adjectives - petty, arrogant, bad with people.
Several things try to crowd their way out of Rodney's mouth at once: "Oh my god!" and "So you knew I was a supergenius!" and "You're hot!" and "Oh god, math, really? How much do you know?"
But what he says to the dark, mussed top of John's head is, "I'm, um, I'm giving another lecture next week."
Rodney hums happily, dips his head so the tips of John's hair brush his nose. "And see, I was right. About the couch. It is a good couch. Don't you think?"
Rodney feels good. He feels energized; maybe he should spend a couple of hours with his latest equations . . . except John's breathing deep and slow and steady, and Rodney shivers through an enormous, jaw-cracking yawn, and he's actually amazingly comfortable, even though John's using him as a mattress, and okay, okay, maybe the thing to do is just to stay right here.
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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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Rodney swallows - spring; the prize lecture at the University - 1200 people crammed into an auditorium, most of them so stupid they shouldn't be allowed to breathe, and John was one of them. "The Schmitts-Devon Prize Lecture in Physics?" he says, and his voice never used to sound so insubstantial before, he's sure of it.
John's face breaks into a dazed, happy grin. "Yeah." He sets his head back down on Rodney's shoulder. "You were . . ."
Rodney waits for him to supply any number of the usual adjectives - petty, arrogant, bad with people.
"Hot," John murmurs. "Math's hot."
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But what he says to the dark, mussed top of John's head is, "I'm, um, I'm giving another lecture next week."
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