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Entry tags:
.fic: Script (John/Rodney) NC17
Script (John/Rodney, NC17) ~5600 words
.notes: porn with the flimsiest excuse for a plot, written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unamaga's kamasutrathon. Featuring positions 7 and 6, in that order, along with a whole lot of frustration.
Hugest thanks todogeared, sheafrotherdon, and siriaeve for audiencing, and amberlynne, who is very fun to tease :>
Script
For a year now the Hyparines have behaved themselves, a year of excellent and flourishing trade in control crystals for Rodney and, for the Hyparines, a specially-engineered wheat that can withstand the volatile weather the sea kicks up in the summer. Today, though, the sea is calm and warm, breathing salt air over the village and the people, Hyparine and Lantean alike, who have come to celebrate.
Inike the gatekeeper – stupid title, considering the Hyparines haven't had a shield on their gate for two thousand years – looks on benignly as Rodney chews on a pastry, a Hyparine delicacy Inike calls sauia, like Rodney cares what its name is. It's sort of a cross between baklava and tiramisu, even to the pastry soaked in coffee Sam had sent along as a gesture of continuing goodwill and the local honey drizzled on top.
Something in Inike's benignity penetrates the haze of sugar. Rodney licks his lips and puts the sauia down and starts looking for John and everyone else, prays to God they're in earshot and haven't been taken captive already. Inike's expression becomes fond almost, and oh God, that isn't a good sign.
"You have been good allies, Dr. McKay, and now it is time for you to die."
"No!" Rodney frantically searches through the crowd for his teammates – his completely useless, very-likely-now-captive teammates. "Nononono, that is not fair. It isn't right, and for that matter, not only is it very very wrong, it contravenes even the extremely sketchy ethics of the Pegasus galaxy, and in fact – "
"I am sorry, Dr. McKay, truly; I did not realize such an invitation would be perceived as an insult."
Rodney stares at Inike, who is not summoning heavily-armed Hyparines to subdue him, or summoning the resident Wraith, or loosing the local equivalent of tigers on him, but is standing with her head bowed, palms held up in the traditional Hyparine gesture of submission and apology. He replays the last few moments, comes up with a blank save for the sudden ker-thud of adrenaline jolting his system into overdrive, and asks her to repeat herself.
"I must have misheard," he mumbles, and picks up his pastry again.
"I must have misspoken," Inike says, and bows again; the Hyparines are big into apology and bowing – unfortunately for Rodney, who is terrible at both, especially in conjunction. When Inike straightens, she reaches for a pocket in her robes – Rodney tenses, because God only knows what she keeps in there, ally and reassurances be damned – and produces not an energy weapon or tranquilizer dart gun, but a small leather book.
Possibly it's an explosive. Rodney keeps a suspicious eye on it as Inike removes a key from the bracelet on her wrist. (There's another key there for the DHD, from back when the Hyparine stargate had a shield and that shield was literally turned on by the Ancient equivalent of sticking a key in the ignition, and Rodney aches to get the thing working again, and he'll hotwire it if he has to.) She doesn't unlock the clasp, but merely hands Rodney the key along with the book; he takes it without thinking, almost surprised by the smooth slide of leather across his palms.
"Do not open it here," Inike says, placing a quick hand on his when Rodney tries to open the book. "The Camae must be read only in solitude and contemplation."
Great, a religious text. Teyla would be proud, Rodney decides, because he doesn't say the first thing that comes to mind, which is No, I don't feel the need to accept your favorite Ancient as my personal savior. He stares at the book, knowing that if he looks at Inike he will say No, I don't feel the need to accept your favorite Ancient as my personal savior, but would that be his fault? Really? He's never had to enter into trade agreements with Baptists or Hare Krishnas.
"These are the Camae," Inike says, barely on the logical side of reverent so Rodney can't roll his eyes. "They are among our most sacred writings, and initiation into its mysteries is granted to few, save those who seek it with their whole heart – " Rodney opens his mouth to say that he is not one of those people, but Inike keeps going, " – and those who have brought benefit or prosperity to us."
"Um, I'm already an, uh, initiate of Mensa," Rodney tells her. "Very mysterious, very selective. Only two percent of the people from my world can be initiated into it."
"I… see." Inike performs the apology bow again. "The rituals of the Camae are not done in the worship of the Ancestors, and they are not intended to slight the great, all-powerful Mensa; they are a celebration of worldly things and visible forms, and it would be a great honor to all the Hyparine Aretien McKay, if you would consent."
"And all I have to do is read this." Rodney quickly calculates how much work might be involved; the book isn't thick, possibly two hundred pages, and if there's one thing graduate school has taught him, it's speed reading. And maybe, he tells himself, reading the Camae is the equivalent of being knighted, or given the Nobel.
"In solitude and contemplation," Inike says, and cups her small hands around his and bows.
* * *
In the solitude and contemplation of his room – the hard-won solitude and contemplation, because John had been insistent about checking in (he'd been suspicious of the Hyparines' good will, too) – Rodney collapses into bed with the book and a couple of baklava/tiramisu hybrids.
The key slides smoothly into the lock and the clasp clicks open, the supple leather strap falling away. Rodney takes a bite of pastry, ignores the ritual warning to those who seek to wrongfully reveal the secrets contained in these sacred pages, and flips to the first page.
"Oh," Rodney says, and drops the sauia and stares.
* * *
"You have the look of one who has spent much time in meditation," Inike says to him the next morning, and looks pleased.
Rodney makes a small, helpless noise, barely audible from the depths of arousal and humiliation. He knows he's wearing circles under his eyes, and he's pale and shaking a little, unshaven because he didn't trust his hands to hold his razor, and apparently that's what "spending much time in meditation" means: exhausted, strung out on wanting and the fierce ache in his groin and the half-dreams where he'd merged with the illustrations on the page and instead of the stylized face of his partner, John's dark, dark, burning eyes stared up at him.
Worse than that is John, who's sitting close and smells sharply of dust and sweat and honey, like the verse under the diagram of Two Waves Meeting, the curve of his ear is a cup of perfume, his neck a pillar of spices, and seriously, there should be no excuse for that sort of ridiculous description – a pillar of Aqua Velva, maybe, for Sheppard – but Rodney twitches anyway and moans.
"The oatmeal's that good, huh?" John asks, and reaches across Rodney's plate to snag some fruit. Inike smiles, and oh how Rodney wants to claw the smile right off her face.
"You must eat," Inike says, pushing a wedge of cheese onto Rodney's plate and refilling his winecup. Even after trading for better water purification systems the Hyparine prefer wine – also understandable because it's good stuff. "It is one thing to read," she says, as though this is something she has said a thousand times – Rodney recognizes the tone, mostly because he uses it himself – "but it is another to apply."
"Oh my god." The mixture of arousal and humiliation tips in favor of humiliation, spiced with horror, and it's enough – almost – to dull the edge of the ache that's preoccupied him for the length of a sleepless night. Then, oh god, then, it roars back, a flood of hot memory and anticipation and ruthless imagination that turns ink strokes into flesh and stylized Ancient verse into moans, and the things John would say, breathe, fluid and flexing under Rodney's hands, and –
"What's she talking about?"
"I can't tell you," Rodney whimpers, and crams a piece of cheese into his mouth.
"Such mysteries are beyond words; even the Ancestors admitted failure when it came to their description," Inike says. Rodney stares at his plate and can feel her staring at him, and he knows her words are as good as a gag order; he plows through his cheese and lets her redirect the conversation, even though John's silence is hollering for Rodney to explain himself.
It's just a stupid sex manual! he wants to shout, so stupid he'd shoved it in his duffel and refuses to open it again ever, only it would offend Inike and probably make John question Rodney's sanity and then things would become awkward for real. And it isn't just a sex manual, or the equivalent of porn for intellectuals; one night and his entire body's memorized the text, no way except in retrospect to disengage himself from the words or the drawings, to look at them clinically or muse about the top's improbably-sized cock, or the toys, the incredible hotness of two women kissing, the labels attached to the illustrations: Two Waves Meeting, two heads bent close and belly pressed flush to back (Rodney could feel the undulation, the ladder of John's spine); The Stairway, one foot braced against chest, other leg hooked over hip (the calluses of John's foot, bony pyramid of his ankle under Rodney's hand). Ridiculous, but they make him press a hand hard against himself, pleasure-pain, and he hopes no one sees.
By late afternoon, Inike doesn't need much to convince him away from the day's work; John and Ronon are shirtless as they help the villagers re-rig the water filters in the aqueduct, John's scent now cocoa-butter sunscreen and salt and clamoring for Rodney to bury his face in John's neck, to lick and lick until it's only John underneath Rodney's tongue. He's aware of John watching them go, and John knowing something's up, and he knows John's curiosity is going to kill them both when he asks what's going on.
"Did you follow the commandments?" Inike asks, as though asking if he's followed a recipe.
Rodney manages to say that he has – "Yeah," and nothing more, because he can't bring himself to say he's been hard for a day almost, hasn't come, hasn't been able to come, or even jerk himself off. That had been another thing, not only him and John in X-rated Technicolor, but the warning, the one who comes to us must come untouched, and he'd laugh at the bad puns except every time he'd tried to touch his cock he couldn't, mindfucked by goddamn parchment. He'd even tried touching his nipples, hand up under his shirt, but all he'd been able to do was rest his hand over his galloping, frustrated heart.
Inike nods. Her movements are rational and precise – almost the image of Teyla, down to the reddish hair and small, graceful form, yeah, almost precisely Teyla except she runs a sex cult and has given him a book that's made him fifty kinds of frustrated. His body throbs once, hard, a fierce pulse synchronized in veins, nerves, bone. If Inike notices – and, Rodney thinks hysterically, how could she not? – she gives no sign of it, striding serenely along, gripping her skirts to keep them out of the worst of the dust.
They're walking toward the temple precincts, shady groves of silver-leafed trees and decapitated columns; the trees are so thick it's late evening under them. It's where Inike lives, where she sleeps, Rodney realizes, and somewhere in their interminable reports, the anthropologists said that the Hyparine don't have sex (or "sexual intercourse" or "intimate relations" or whatever) in their bedrooms, or even in the home; they have it in the temple.
He adds that in with the earlier talk about applications, and the life of Rodney McKay is nothing but the illustration of the application of theory in the real world, with potentially disastrous consequences where they aren't advancing human scientific knowledge by light years.
Unless Inike is willing to talk topology and wormhole geometry with him, he's leaning toward "potentially disastrous."
"Your shoes," Inike says before Rodney can come up with anything intelligent. She slips off her own sandals, waits while he struggles with double-knot laces.
"I – this – " he stammers, trying to explain himself and take his boots off at the same time. His voice bounces around the dome of the antechamber, vanishing into timid smallness. "I'm very honored," even though what he's feeling is more terror than honor, seriously, "and it was a very, um, enlightening experience…" And she's still looking at him, large dark eyes made darker with expectation, "but I think I've had enough initiation for today." For forever. "And you're very attractive – really, very attractive, but I – "
She lets him babble as they walk down tiled hallways, it's – you have to understand, I'm sure you're a wonderful person and normally I'd – well, I'd jump at the, that is, are you familiar with the concept of platonic friendship?, guides him into a room that isn't his with a gentle touch on his arm. He shivers under her hand, the first time anyone's touched him today, flesh on flesh too shocking, but it translates into nothing more than surprise, no wanting to hike her skirt up and pull her soft thighs around him and – no, no, not soft, hard, hot friction of rough skin and hair, giving way under his hands, or maybe like The Mountain, John's heels scraping the top of his ass, the rest of him stretched out and gleaming and open and Rodney's fingers pressing bruises into the long run of thigh muscle.
He doesn't notice Inike leaving.
* * *
Inike's left him in a large room, empty except for the bed and a few furnishings, himself, his duffel bag. The room stretches thirty feet by twenty, alternating blue and white square tiles, cool, the entire room cool from the breezes that lace the cliffs. The remaining heat from the day doesn't reach inside – or if it does, it's nothing next to the heat that burns away even the simple calcuation of how many four-by-four tiles are needed to fill six hundred square feet of space.
Something, he tells himself, trying to pace out his thoughts. It's a stupid book, a sex book, with hand-drawn illustrations at that. Something in the parchment, chemicals; something subliminal, coded either into the ink or the words. He can't even imagine giving the book to Keller for testing, or the orgy in Linguistics if he gave the book to them.
He looks at his duffel, tells himself he's not going to open it to see if the book's still there, or if he does look (which he is, already pulling back the zipper) he isn't going to pick it up, which he does, the leather utterly familiar under his fingertips. The key is still in the lock; he turns it, the clasp loosens, and he ruffles the pages like shuffling cards, looking at the time-dark edges of parchment. For a moment, he considers sniffing the pages to see if they've been coated with… with something, he has no idea what, but there's no way he's that crazy.
Clearly, clearly, he tells himself, setting the book down on the bed, the rational conclusion is insanity precipitated by sex deprivation. It's been over a week of disasters, the city ruthless in its demands for attention, John and Ronon offworld and John exhausted and Rodney stressed trying to plead the city into cooperating with him. The last time John had touched him with intent had been three days ago, two days before coming here, and that had been during a strategic retreat back to the gate, and John's intent had been to shove him facefirst into the wormhole before they got shot with what had turned out to be weapons the Tagar had stolen from the Genii and which the Genii had stolen from Atlantis.
Bad week. Bad, bad week. Rodney shakes his head.
Back to the room: a bed spread with white linens, amphorae lining the wall and unlit lanterns hung here and there, a distinct absence of blood or other signs of violent and painful death; instead of a gore-encrusted altar there's a table set with low, almost flat bowls of wine and water. Rodney eyes the bed, tries to work out if he'll actually be able to jerk off now, if he's worked off the worst of whatever the book's done to him. It's probably a further symptom of his anxiety, contemplating masturbating in a holy place.
Then again, considering one of their most sacred books is a how-to sex book, the Hyparines would consider it an… Rodney forces himself to think the word: offering.
He shudders, but that can't push him away from the throbbing heat in his gut, or cut the fog in his brain. Mersenne Primes slip away from him into wondering how long Inike's been gone and when she'll be back, numbers soft like footfalls, coming closer – and no, no, those are footfalls, two sets: a woman's lighter step and the thud-thud-thud of Sheppardian feet that are too used to the weight of combat boots.
All of his body leaps in response, and he tells himself he's not smelling John half a hallway away (and coming closer), he's going insane; it's a narrowly better answer than swearing he can smell sweat and what he knows John smells like after sex, something heavy, telling. John's voice rubs roughly around him, a lick of sound like John's rough hands on him.
"Look, if this is about something he's done," John's saying, and of course John would pin the blame on him, and they will, Rodney decides, have words about that. Inike doesn't say anything; John promises they'll work it out without resorting to bloodshed. Soft and heavy footfalls come closer, John's voice trailing off, and then they're there, here, Inike fading to insignificance next to John with his black t-shirt and crazy hair, and Rodney can smell him now, sunscreen and sweat and temple incense.
It hits Rodney, hard, that Inike knows about them, or suspects, or simply doesn't care, having decided. She leaves, pulling heavy bronze doors closed behind her, and they fall shut with a final sound that resonates in Rodney's bones.
John stares at him.
"Rodney?" The sun pours through the columns, filling the room with light, swallowed up by John, John who's pulling everything to him – light, air, Rodney. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he tells John, and he is finally, better than fine, coralling John against the door when John tries to be noble and say Rodney's under alien influence and they should get him checked out. Contemplating John's skin is more important, darkened despite the sunscreen, of a piece with the metal that warms against Rodney's forearms. He touches the side of John's neck, sighs when John's pulse jumps and skitters out of its normal rhythm.
"Did Inike tell you anything?"
"Only that you were waiting." And John's voice is a hoarse whisper, and his knees tremble, lock for a moment before he shifts, thighs opening for Rodney to slide between them.
Was he waiting, oh god was he, yes yes, he mutters against John's neck, I've been waiting for ages practically, come on come on come on, John's shirt not unbuttoning fast enough and John still useless with surprise. The nylon of his holster scratches across Rodney's thigh, rasping over fabric, heavy buckle of it stubborn until Rodney can get it undone. It his the floor with a clatter.
"Rodney," John says sharply, coming to.
"Shut up," Rodney orders him, staring up and praying that John would just get it already. "Please, please be quiet." John's eyelids flicker open-shut when Rodney presses a palm against his cock, breath whistling on the inhale. "What are you… Rodney," John moans, hips rolling up into Rodney's hand, and "I said shut up," Rodney says.
He grinds down harder, gentler, probably rougher than he needs to be; he wins a protesting moan, John's wonderful mouth thinning in annoyance before opening in a gasp Rodney swallows, licking over John's lips, his teeth, pushing in so John has to answer him. It's okay, it's okay, Rodney mutters, alien hypnosis aside, but everything's okay with John giving way under his mouth, growing harder, growing to want this as much as Rodney's been wanting for almost a day.
"You have no idea," he tells John when he pulls back. John looks at him, nods hazily, mouth moist and swollen, licks at the bite Rodney's left on his lower lip. Maybe whatever's infected him has gotten to John, because the next kiss is all him, his body curving, swaying into Rodney's and it's John opening him now, scrape of untended stubble and tasting of sunscreen and hot like the day had been. He's salt and fire on Rodney's mouth, tongue sly against his, and pressed this close Rodney can feel him harden, press of his cock along Rodney's thigh, good good good.
So good, getting John's shirt undone, careless with buttons just for the pleasure of sliding fabric off the strong curve of his shoulders. John's spine bows as he pulls his shirt off, fighting with the sleeves, better to do it that way than stop kissing, and better so his shoulders tense, flow loose under Rodney's hands, when John wins and gets his shirt off all the way.
They do have to stop kissing for Rodney's t-shirt, soft blindness when John tugs it up and over his head and then the shock of John's body against his, if it's been a week and he's forgotten or the book's influence Rodney has no idea, "Fuck," he whispers, traces out the etching of muscle, nipple, hair. John shivers and tugs at him, eyes gone ink-dark like the illustrations, sumi-e wash of his hair in the half-light, and Rodney comes, helpless, moving John back and back until the backs of John's knees hit the bed, and then John's hands are on his wrists, pulling, and then they fall together.
He races to get John's pants off, noting distantly how the fabric's thin around the top button of his BDUs, wear and tear of four years, innocent next to the wear and tear of John's body, scars, marks, things for Rodney to trace when John's fully naked and stretched out beneath him. Fragments of the book flicker through him, drink in his beauty as rich wine, too late, he's already drunk on John's too-long body, his hairy belly and broken nose, way gone even before he bends over John's cock.
Callused fingers tighten in his hair, John's legs falling apart so Rodney can shoulder between them. John is hot salt on his tongue, hard and urgent already as he twists against the hands Rodney's settled on his hips. "Christ," John whines, demanding despite the break in his voice, the abandoned sprawl of his body across the sheets.
Arousal is familiar now, like learning to live with earthquakes, a sudden rise-and-fall that makes Rodney moan, want, want to keep wanting with John's knees hooked around his shoulders, the hair on his thighs delicious friction over Rodney's biceps, and he's fucking perfect in Rodney's mouth, his hips shifting in the space and rhythm Rodney gives him, cock sliding along the flat of Rodney's tongue. Eyes half-shut he watches John fall into it, hands wandering aimlessly over his nipples, down his side to cup Rodney's cheek. It's… given up, given over, the way John almost never is.
Maybe they're both on it now, John drugged-out and keening quietly, telling Rodney how much he likes this, his cock brushing the back of Rodney's throat, Rodney's fingers pressing carefully in, not slick and only playing, you know what I want, precome slicking bitter across the roof of Rodney's mouth. The hot grip of John's body around his finger makes promises John's sudden moan says he'll keep, his scent sex-heavy and pulling Rodney down, as far down as John's gone, where instinct and what the book says are the same thing, knowledge racing its burning way through Rodney's blood.
He twists his finger in and down and god the sound that drags from John, his own moan muffled around the thickness of John's cock filling up his mouth. Tremors chase up and down John's thighs, building in the cradle of his hips and spreading, spreading, building toward climax.
When Rodney pulls his mouth from John's cock, careful, it pulls a soft sound from John, screw of his body into Rodney's hands, his back coming up off the mattress, a sine wave so perfect Rodney has to touch it, support it, keep John open with hands placed on the powerful curve of his ass. The Mountain, he thinks, watching John slowly come to, aware he's still hard, his cock curving blood-dark and wet from Rodney's mouth.
"Rodney?" John focuses on him, keen in the soft-edged shadows, collar bone and tendon standing out in relief as he rests his weight on his elbows. He's shaking in Rodney's hands, sweat-smooth but roughening into impatience. "Rodney, I swear to god…"
"Yeah." He has to let go of John to get his own pants off, evening air surprising against him; he sighs unsteadily when he works his boxers down his hips, the awkward dance of pulling them off all the way when the last thing on his mind is coordination or standing up. His cock is damp already, and when he touches himself now he feels orgasm rush at him like a white wall, the slick of his sweaty palm enough to send his mind galloping ahead to the grip of John's body. He thrusts once, helpless judder of his hips, cockhead sliding through the circle of his fist, oh god, and he doesn't know who says that, him or John.
The oil's there on the low table next to them, next to the wine they don't need. Rodney thinks of pouring it into the cup of John's navel, drinking from it, does it because it's good, John's surprised squeak-curse-shift that spills wine down his side so worth it, more to lick off, to lap deep red script from John's belly, slicking his tongue into John's navel.
John murmurs something impatient, drawing himself up again, cock nudging Rodney's chin., a whimper from John when sensitive flesh rubs over Rodney's stubble. The wine fades out next to the salty bump of his hip, the precome Rodney still tastes in the back of his mouth, the air between his legs laced with sex. The bowl of oil almost falls off the table, Rodney flailing for it blindly, not wanting to look away from John looking at him, John's tongue tracing the line of kiss-swollen lips.
Rodney slicks his fingers, buzzed and high, tripped out between the day and John's drugging presence, bracing John's ass on the slope of his knees. Finally, John mutters, opening to him, like the book says he would, thank God there hadn't been any tripe about opening the cave of wonders, which makes Rodney snicker and John look at him incredulously. John's stomach muscles ripple when Rodney replaces fingers with thumbs, pressing almost on the wrong side of too much, drying rivers of precome, oil, wine shifting with the changing topography of John's body.
"Up on your hands," Rodney orders, but John's halfway there already, muscles tensing as he pushes his palms into the mattress, body rising up and his thighs sliding around to clasp Rodney's, first step of the mountain: building curve of his body, cresting like a wave with the support of Rodney's hand low on his spine to hold, hold him steady as Rodney guides himself in.
It's – it's – Rodney's brain stutters around the thought, John overwhelming, so hot and tight and everywhere as Rodney flexes slowly, carefully in, his body taking Rodney, a slide that ends in the pure, strong arch of spine and ribcage and John's eyes shut, mouth wet and open to gasp out his pleasure. Rodney balances in the apex of John's hips, buried deepdeepdeep, god so deep, bent over to study the architecture of John's torso, his chest muscles stretched and luxuriously tense, complexity of tendon and bone in his neck and arms. He thrusts once, feels the answer in the tightening of John's ass under his fingers, concentric circles running up and up, breaking in a sigh that shakes John around him.
Again, and John pushes up and in, Rodney's cock across his prostate so John twists, does it again, low, rough, sound that leaves Rodney dazed. John's cock bobs, jerks, slicking fresher lines across his stomach, so close John whimpers, straining up, fuck me, "I am," Rodney says, shoulders burning, all of him burning, he'll be seared past being ashes.
"I need to come," John husks. His eyes are shut, voice rough like he's drowning in the pleasure he takes from Rodney's cock, body relaxing, Rodney pulling out, a tightening when Rodney thrusts back in and stays, holds down to pull a long, hard moan from John's throat.
John gets off on speed, any kind of it, F16, puddlejumper, fucking himself on Rodney's cock when he can set the pace and it's blinding. Rodney watches as John's body describes a frustrated near-helix, wanting a pace Rodney can't give him. They can't go fast like this, but slow and deep and hard, not enough for John to get off, or even Rodney despite a day of needing John naked and wrapped around him. Like a building charge, working toward release, the potential there, so close and John's making noises Rodney's never heard from him before, and probably Rodney is too.
"Okay," he whispers, barely hearing John's thank God, and eases them down, watching John melt back onto the bed, his spine smoothing down, arms sliding carelessly above his head. Rodney slides down off his knees, weight on his own hands now, and this pulls him out at first, John's hips flexing in automatic answer to keep him in.
"Hard," John says, hard edge of command despite how gone he is, and Rodney gives it to him, head bowed over John's chest so he drips sweat on a nipple, John's body mostly covered in the shadow of his but still beautiful, and Rodney can see every line of it clear as black in on a page. Hard, John growls, legs coming up so his hips tilt and Rodney moves deep and hard again.
And from there it's easy, even though his palms threaten to slip and his heart rackets madly in his chest and he wants to explode. He finds enough leverage though to thrust and keep thrusting, no breath now to ask is this fast enough? and no need to ask, because he knows, without even having to see John's need-dark eyes: it's John giving himself up to Rodney like he gives himself over to flight, everything, absolutely everything, centered on one sensation, on Rodney, on Rodney fucking him and that –
Rodney comes hard, pours himself out and out and forever, buried so deep in John and The Bridge forgotten, his arms laced under John's shoulder blades to pull him up, so Rodney can hide in the sweaty curve of John's neck when he tells John everything he can't and shouldn't say, how perfect he is, amazing, god, fuck, John, and that last might be a sob. John's thighs grip him, keep him in, hips rocking as he rides the pulses of Rodney's orgasm toward his own finish, his cock finding the groove of Rodney's torso, the friction and pressure enough that John twists once and shudders hard, and come stripes both their chests, spills up to John's collar bone for Rodney to lick; another throb and it's John's belly, smaller pulses of heat between them.
Rodney catches himself on the edge of crushing John, pulling out and wincing at John's frown. John's still splayed across the bed, arms still stretched above his head, fingers of one hand twitching with unspent kinetic energy. His eyes flicker open, green-edged night; he wears more shadows than light, light edging only his chest, a cheekbone, a patch of stubble on his chin. His hair on the pillow is wet ink, dripping in his face.
Rodney touches the come on his chest, smiles as John moves into his hand, uninhibited. He makes a noise about possibly cleaning up. John ignores it.
"That…" John shakes his head. Sweat glitters in the end of his hair, even more disreputable and unforgivable than ever. He rolls onto his side, pulls Rodney into a kiss that's mostly air and short of breath, gentling into something slower, mouths together longer by the end, John chasing out the tastes of wine and come and sweat. "What'd Inike give you?"
"Hmmmph," Rodney says blurrily.
John's body against him doesn't seem to expect an answer, drape of satiated muscle and liquid laziness, a long slow breath that says John's settling in to sleep and Rodney should come too.
The book, Rodney thinks distantly, forgotten in their haste and shoved, unnoticed, to the edge of the bed. John draws a leg over him, the inside of his thigh still sticky, Rodney's saliva drying there along with oil and come. He mutters something nonsensical; Rodney mutters something nonsensical back, sleep, but before he turns back to John, opens the book's cover with one finger, traces its edge down to the corner of a page.
-end-
.notes: porn with the flimsiest excuse for a plot, written for
unamaga's kamasutrathon. Featuring positions 7 and 6, in that order, along with a whole lot of frustration.Hugest thanks to
dogeared, sheafrotherdon, and siriaeve for audiencing, and amberlynne, who is very fun to tease :>Script
For a year now the Hyparines have behaved themselves, a year of excellent and flourishing trade in control crystals for Rodney and, for the Hyparines, a specially-engineered wheat that can withstand the volatile weather the sea kicks up in the summer. Today, though, the sea is calm and warm, breathing salt air over the village and the people, Hyparine and Lantean alike, who have come to celebrate.
Inike the gatekeeper – stupid title, considering the Hyparines haven't had a shield on their gate for two thousand years – looks on benignly as Rodney chews on a pastry, a Hyparine delicacy Inike calls sauia, like Rodney cares what its name is. It's sort of a cross between baklava and tiramisu, even to the pastry soaked in coffee Sam had sent along as a gesture of continuing goodwill and the local honey drizzled on top.
Something in Inike's benignity penetrates the haze of sugar. Rodney licks his lips and puts the sauia down and starts looking for John and everyone else, prays to God they're in earshot and haven't been taken captive already. Inike's expression becomes fond almost, and oh God, that isn't a good sign.
"You have been good allies, Dr. McKay, and now it is time for you to die."
"No!" Rodney frantically searches through the crowd for his teammates – his completely useless, very-likely-now-captive teammates. "Nononono, that is not fair. It isn't right, and for that matter, not only is it very very wrong, it contravenes even the extremely sketchy ethics of the Pegasus galaxy, and in fact – "
"I am sorry, Dr. McKay, truly; I did not realize such an invitation would be perceived as an insult."
Rodney stares at Inike, who is not summoning heavily-armed Hyparines to subdue him, or summoning the resident Wraith, or loosing the local equivalent of tigers on him, but is standing with her head bowed, palms held up in the traditional Hyparine gesture of submission and apology. He replays the last few moments, comes up with a blank save for the sudden ker-thud of adrenaline jolting his system into overdrive, and asks her to repeat herself.
"I must have misheard," he mumbles, and picks up his pastry again.
"I must have misspoken," Inike says, and bows again; the Hyparines are big into apology and bowing – unfortunately for Rodney, who is terrible at both, especially in conjunction. When Inike straightens, she reaches for a pocket in her robes – Rodney tenses, because God only knows what she keeps in there, ally and reassurances be damned – and produces not an energy weapon or tranquilizer dart gun, but a small leather book.
Possibly it's an explosive. Rodney keeps a suspicious eye on it as Inike removes a key from the bracelet on her wrist. (There's another key there for the DHD, from back when the Hyparine stargate had a shield and that shield was literally turned on by the Ancient equivalent of sticking a key in the ignition, and Rodney aches to get the thing working again, and he'll hotwire it if he has to.) She doesn't unlock the clasp, but merely hands Rodney the key along with the book; he takes it without thinking, almost surprised by the smooth slide of leather across his palms.
"Do not open it here," Inike says, placing a quick hand on his when Rodney tries to open the book. "The Camae must be read only in solitude and contemplation."
Great, a religious text. Teyla would be proud, Rodney decides, because he doesn't say the first thing that comes to mind, which is No, I don't feel the need to accept your favorite Ancient as my personal savior. He stares at the book, knowing that if he looks at Inike he will say No, I don't feel the need to accept your favorite Ancient as my personal savior, but would that be his fault? Really? He's never had to enter into trade agreements with Baptists or Hare Krishnas.
"These are the Camae," Inike says, barely on the logical side of reverent so Rodney can't roll his eyes. "They are among our most sacred writings, and initiation into its mysteries is granted to few, save those who seek it with their whole heart – " Rodney opens his mouth to say that he is not one of those people, but Inike keeps going, " – and those who have brought benefit or prosperity to us."
"Um, I'm already an, uh, initiate of Mensa," Rodney tells her. "Very mysterious, very selective. Only two percent of the people from my world can be initiated into it."
"I… see." Inike performs the apology bow again. "The rituals of the Camae are not done in the worship of the Ancestors, and they are not intended to slight the great, all-powerful Mensa; they are a celebration of worldly things and visible forms, and it would be a great honor to all the Hyparine Aretien McKay, if you would consent."
"And all I have to do is read this." Rodney quickly calculates how much work might be involved; the book isn't thick, possibly two hundred pages, and if there's one thing graduate school has taught him, it's speed reading. And maybe, he tells himself, reading the Camae is the equivalent of being knighted, or given the Nobel.
"In solitude and contemplation," Inike says, and cups her small hands around his and bows.
In the solitude and contemplation of his room – the hard-won solitude and contemplation, because John had been insistent about checking in (he'd been suspicious of the Hyparines' good will, too) – Rodney collapses into bed with the book and a couple of baklava/tiramisu hybrids.
The key slides smoothly into the lock and the clasp clicks open, the supple leather strap falling away. Rodney takes a bite of pastry, ignores the ritual warning to those who seek to wrongfully reveal the secrets contained in these sacred pages, and flips to the first page.
"Oh," Rodney says, and drops the sauia and stares.
"You have the look of one who has spent much time in meditation," Inike says to him the next morning, and looks pleased.
Rodney makes a small, helpless noise, barely audible from the depths of arousal and humiliation. He knows he's wearing circles under his eyes, and he's pale and shaking a little, unshaven because he didn't trust his hands to hold his razor, and apparently that's what "spending much time in meditation" means: exhausted, strung out on wanting and the fierce ache in his groin and the half-dreams where he'd merged with the illustrations on the page and instead of the stylized face of his partner, John's dark, dark, burning eyes stared up at him.
Worse than that is John, who's sitting close and smells sharply of dust and sweat and honey, like the verse under the diagram of Two Waves Meeting, the curve of his ear is a cup of perfume, his neck a pillar of spices, and seriously, there should be no excuse for that sort of ridiculous description – a pillar of Aqua Velva, maybe, for Sheppard – but Rodney twitches anyway and moans.
"The oatmeal's that good, huh?" John asks, and reaches across Rodney's plate to snag some fruit. Inike smiles, and oh how Rodney wants to claw the smile right off her face.
"You must eat," Inike says, pushing a wedge of cheese onto Rodney's plate and refilling his winecup. Even after trading for better water purification systems the Hyparine prefer wine – also understandable because it's good stuff. "It is one thing to read," she says, as though this is something she has said a thousand times – Rodney recognizes the tone, mostly because he uses it himself – "but it is another to apply."
"Oh my god." The mixture of arousal and humiliation tips in favor of humiliation, spiced with horror, and it's enough – almost – to dull the edge of the ache that's preoccupied him for the length of a sleepless night. Then, oh god, then, it roars back, a flood of hot memory and anticipation and ruthless imagination that turns ink strokes into flesh and stylized Ancient verse into moans, and the things John would say, breathe, fluid and flexing under Rodney's hands, and –
"What's she talking about?"
"I can't tell you," Rodney whimpers, and crams a piece of cheese into his mouth.
"Such mysteries are beyond words; even the Ancestors admitted failure when it came to their description," Inike says. Rodney stares at his plate and can feel her staring at him, and he knows her words are as good as a gag order; he plows through his cheese and lets her redirect the conversation, even though John's silence is hollering for Rodney to explain himself.
It's just a stupid sex manual! he wants to shout, so stupid he'd shoved it in his duffel and refuses to open it again ever, only it would offend Inike and probably make John question Rodney's sanity and then things would become awkward for real. And it isn't just a sex manual, or the equivalent of porn for intellectuals; one night and his entire body's memorized the text, no way except in retrospect to disengage himself from the words or the drawings, to look at them clinically or muse about the top's improbably-sized cock, or the toys, the incredible hotness of two women kissing, the labels attached to the illustrations: Two Waves Meeting, two heads bent close and belly pressed flush to back (Rodney could feel the undulation, the ladder of John's spine); The Stairway, one foot braced against chest, other leg hooked over hip (the calluses of John's foot, bony pyramid of his ankle under Rodney's hand). Ridiculous, but they make him press a hand hard against himself, pleasure-pain, and he hopes no one sees.
By late afternoon, Inike doesn't need much to convince him away from the day's work; John and Ronon are shirtless as they help the villagers re-rig the water filters in the aqueduct, John's scent now cocoa-butter sunscreen and salt and clamoring for Rodney to bury his face in John's neck, to lick and lick until it's only John underneath Rodney's tongue. He's aware of John watching them go, and John knowing something's up, and he knows John's curiosity is going to kill them both when he asks what's going on.
"Did you follow the commandments?" Inike asks, as though asking if he's followed a recipe.
Rodney manages to say that he has – "Yeah," and nothing more, because he can't bring himself to say he's been hard for a day almost, hasn't come, hasn't been able to come, or even jerk himself off. That had been another thing, not only him and John in X-rated Technicolor, but the warning, the one who comes to us must come untouched, and he'd laugh at the bad puns except every time he'd tried to touch his cock he couldn't, mindfucked by goddamn parchment. He'd even tried touching his nipples, hand up under his shirt, but all he'd been able to do was rest his hand over his galloping, frustrated heart.
Inike nods. Her movements are rational and precise – almost the image of Teyla, down to the reddish hair and small, graceful form, yeah, almost precisely Teyla except she runs a sex cult and has given him a book that's made him fifty kinds of frustrated. His body throbs once, hard, a fierce pulse synchronized in veins, nerves, bone. If Inike notices – and, Rodney thinks hysterically, how could she not? – she gives no sign of it, striding serenely along, gripping her skirts to keep them out of the worst of the dust.
They're walking toward the temple precincts, shady groves of silver-leafed trees and decapitated columns; the trees are so thick it's late evening under them. It's where Inike lives, where she sleeps, Rodney realizes, and somewhere in their interminable reports, the anthropologists said that the Hyparine don't have sex (or "sexual intercourse" or "intimate relations" or whatever) in their bedrooms, or even in the home; they have it in the temple.
He adds that in with the earlier talk about applications, and the life of Rodney McKay is nothing but the illustration of the application of theory in the real world, with potentially disastrous consequences where they aren't advancing human scientific knowledge by light years.
Unless Inike is willing to talk topology and wormhole geometry with him, he's leaning toward "potentially disastrous."
"Your shoes," Inike says before Rodney can come up with anything intelligent. She slips off her own sandals, waits while he struggles with double-knot laces.
"I – this – " he stammers, trying to explain himself and take his boots off at the same time. His voice bounces around the dome of the antechamber, vanishing into timid smallness. "I'm very honored," even though what he's feeling is more terror than honor, seriously, "and it was a very, um, enlightening experience…" And she's still looking at him, large dark eyes made darker with expectation, "but I think I've had enough initiation for today." For forever. "And you're very attractive – really, very attractive, but I – "
She lets him babble as they walk down tiled hallways, it's – you have to understand, I'm sure you're a wonderful person and normally I'd – well, I'd jump at the, that is, are you familiar with the concept of platonic friendship?, guides him into a room that isn't his with a gentle touch on his arm. He shivers under her hand, the first time anyone's touched him today, flesh on flesh too shocking, but it translates into nothing more than surprise, no wanting to hike her skirt up and pull her soft thighs around him and – no, no, not soft, hard, hot friction of rough skin and hair, giving way under his hands, or maybe like The Mountain, John's heels scraping the top of his ass, the rest of him stretched out and gleaming and open and Rodney's fingers pressing bruises into the long run of thigh muscle.
He doesn't notice Inike leaving.
Inike's left him in a large room, empty except for the bed and a few furnishings, himself, his duffel bag. The room stretches thirty feet by twenty, alternating blue and white square tiles, cool, the entire room cool from the breezes that lace the cliffs. The remaining heat from the day doesn't reach inside – or if it does, it's nothing next to the heat that burns away even the simple calcuation of how many four-by-four tiles are needed to fill six hundred square feet of space.
Something, he tells himself, trying to pace out his thoughts. It's a stupid book, a sex book, with hand-drawn illustrations at that. Something in the parchment, chemicals; something subliminal, coded either into the ink or the words. He can't even imagine giving the book to Keller for testing, or the orgy in Linguistics if he gave the book to them.
He looks at his duffel, tells himself he's not going to open it to see if the book's still there, or if he does look (which he is, already pulling back the zipper) he isn't going to pick it up, which he does, the leather utterly familiar under his fingertips. The key is still in the lock; he turns it, the clasp loosens, and he ruffles the pages like shuffling cards, looking at the time-dark edges of parchment. For a moment, he considers sniffing the pages to see if they've been coated with… with something, he has no idea what, but there's no way he's that crazy.
Clearly, clearly, he tells himself, setting the book down on the bed, the rational conclusion is insanity precipitated by sex deprivation. It's been over a week of disasters, the city ruthless in its demands for attention, John and Ronon offworld and John exhausted and Rodney stressed trying to plead the city into cooperating with him. The last time John had touched him with intent had been three days ago, two days before coming here, and that had been during a strategic retreat back to the gate, and John's intent had been to shove him facefirst into the wormhole before they got shot with what had turned out to be weapons the Tagar had stolen from the Genii and which the Genii had stolen from Atlantis.
Bad week. Bad, bad week. Rodney shakes his head.
Back to the room: a bed spread with white linens, amphorae lining the wall and unlit lanterns hung here and there, a distinct absence of blood or other signs of violent and painful death; instead of a gore-encrusted altar there's a table set with low, almost flat bowls of wine and water. Rodney eyes the bed, tries to work out if he'll actually be able to jerk off now, if he's worked off the worst of whatever the book's done to him. It's probably a further symptom of his anxiety, contemplating masturbating in a holy place.
Then again, considering one of their most sacred books is a how-to sex book, the Hyparines would consider it an… Rodney forces himself to think the word: offering.
He shudders, but that can't push him away from the throbbing heat in his gut, or cut the fog in his brain. Mersenne Primes slip away from him into wondering how long Inike's been gone and when she'll be back, numbers soft like footfalls, coming closer – and no, no, those are footfalls, two sets: a woman's lighter step and the thud-thud-thud of Sheppardian feet that are too used to the weight of combat boots.
All of his body leaps in response, and he tells himself he's not smelling John half a hallway away (and coming closer), he's going insane; it's a narrowly better answer than swearing he can smell sweat and what he knows John smells like after sex, something heavy, telling. John's voice rubs roughly around him, a lick of sound like John's rough hands on him.
"Look, if this is about something he's done," John's saying, and of course John would pin the blame on him, and they will, Rodney decides, have words about that. Inike doesn't say anything; John promises they'll work it out without resorting to bloodshed. Soft and heavy footfalls come closer, John's voice trailing off, and then they're there, here, Inike fading to insignificance next to John with his black t-shirt and crazy hair, and Rodney can smell him now, sunscreen and sweat and temple incense.
It hits Rodney, hard, that Inike knows about them, or suspects, or simply doesn't care, having decided. She leaves, pulling heavy bronze doors closed behind her, and they fall shut with a final sound that resonates in Rodney's bones.
John stares at him.
"Rodney?" The sun pours through the columns, filling the room with light, swallowed up by John, John who's pulling everything to him – light, air, Rodney. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he tells John, and he is finally, better than fine, coralling John against the door when John tries to be noble and say Rodney's under alien influence and they should get him checked out. Contemplating John's skin is more important, darkened despite the sunscreen, of a piece with the metal that warms against Rodney's forearms. He touches the side of John's neck, sighs when John's pulse jumps and skitters out of its normal rhythm.
"Did Inike tell you anything?"
"Only that you were waiting." And John's voice is a hoarse whisper, and his knees tremble, lock for a moment before he shifts, thighs opening for Rodney to slide between them.
Was he waiting, oh god was he, yes yes, he mutters against John's neck, I've been waiting for ages practically, come on come on come on, John's shirt not unbuttoning fast enough and John still useless with surprise. The nylon of his holster scratches across Rodney's thigh, rasping over fabric, heavy buckle of it stubborn until Rodney can get it undone. It his the floor with a clatter.
"Rodney," John says sharply, coming to.
"Shut up," Rodney orders him, staring up and praying that John would just get it already. "Please, please be quiet." John's eyelids flicker open-shut when Rodney presses a palm against his cock, breath whistling on the inhale. "What are you… Rodney," John moans, hips rolling up into Rodney's hand, and "I said shut up," Rodney says.
He grinds down harder, gentler, probably rougher than he needs to be; he wins a protesting moan, John's wonderful mouth thinning in annoyance before opening in a gasp Rodney swallows, licking over John's lips, his teeth, pushing in so John has to answer him. It's okay, it's okay, Rodney mutters, alien hypnosis aside, but everything's okay with John giving way under his mouth, growing harder, growing to want this as much as Rodney's been wanting for almost a day.
"You have no idea," he tells John when he pulls back. John looks at him, nods hazily, mouth moist and swollen, licks at the bite Rodney's left on his lower lip. Maybe whatever's infected him has gotten to John, because the next kiss is all him, his body curving, swaying into Rodney's and it's John opening him now, scrape of untended stubble and tasting of sunscreen and hot like the day had been. He's salt and fire on Rodney's mouth, tongue sly against his, and pressed this close Rodney can feel him harden, press of his cock along Rodney's thigh, good good good.
So good, getting John's shirt undone, careless with buttons just for the pleasure of sliding fabric off the strong curve of his shoulders. John's spine bows as he pulls his shirt off, fighting with the sleeves, better to do it that way than stop kissing, and better so his shoulders tense, flow loose under Rodney's hands, when John wins and gets his shirt off all the way.
They do have to stop kissing for Rodney's t-shirt, soft blindness when John tugs it up and over his head and then the shock of John's body against his, if it's been a week and he's forgotten or the book's influence Rodney has no idea, "Fuck," he whispers, traces out the etching of muscle, nipple, hair. John shivers and tugs at him, eyes gone ink-dark like the illustrations, sumi-e wash of his hair in the half-light, and Rodney comes, helpless, moving John back and back until the backs of John's knees hit the bed, and then John's hands are on his wrists, pulling, and then they fall together.
He races to get John's pants off, noting distantly how the fabric's thin around the top button of his BDUs, wear and tear of four years, innocent next to the wear and tear of John's body, scars, marks, things for Rodney to trace when John's fully naked and stretched out beneath him. Fragments of the book flicker through him, drink in his beauty as rich wine, too late, he's already drunk on John's too-long body, his hairy belly and broken nose, way gone even before he bends over John's cock.
Callused fingers tighten in his hair, John's legs falling apart so Rodney can shoulder between them. John is hot salt on his tongue, hard and urgent already as he twists against the hands Rodney's settled on his hips. "Christ," John whines, demanding despite the break in his voice, the abandoned sprawl of his body across the sheets.
Arousal is familiar now, like learning to live with earthquakes, a sudden rise-and-fall that makes Rodney moan, want, want to keep wanting with John's knees hooked around his shoulders, the hair on his thighs delicious friction over Rodney's biceps, and he's fucking perfect in Rodney's mouth, his hips shifting in the space and rhythm Rodney gives him, cock sliding along the flat of Rodney's tongue. Eyes half-shut he watches John fall into it, hands wandering aimlessly over his nipples, down his side to cup Rodney's cheek. It's… given up, given over, the way John almost never is.
Maybe they're both on it now, John drugged-out and keening quietly, telling Rodney how much he likes this, his cock brushing the back of Rodney's throat, Rodney's fingers pressing carefully in, not slick and only playing, you know what I want, precome slicking bitter across the roof of Rodney's mouth. The hot grip of John's body around his finger makes promises John's sudden moan says he'll keep, his scent sex-heavy and pulling Rodney down, as far down as John's gone, where instinct and what the book says are the same thing, knowledge racing its burning way through Rodney's blood.
He twists his finger in and down and god the sound that drags from John, his own moan muffled around the thickness of John's cock filling up his mouth. Tremors chase up and down John's thighs, building in the cradle of his hips and spreading, spreading, building toward climax.
When Rodney pulls his mouth from John's cock, careful, it pulls a soft sound from John, screw of his body into Rodney's hands, his back coming up off the mattress, a sine wave so perfect Rodney has to touch it, support it, keep John open with hands placed on the powerful curve of his ass. The Mountain, he thinks, watching John slowly come to, aware he's still hard, his cock curving blood-dark and wet from Rodney's mouth.
"Rodney?" John focuses on him, keen in the soft-edged shadows, collar bone and tendon standing out in relief as he rests his weight on his elbows. He's shaking in Rodney's hands, sweat-smooth but roughening into impatience. "Rodney, I swear to god…"
"Yeah." He has to let go of John to get his own pants off, evening air surprising against him; he sighs unsteadily when he works his boxers down his hips, the awkward dance of pulling them off all the way when the last thing on his mind is coordination or standing up. His cock is damp already, and when he touches himself now he feels orgasm rush at him like a white wall, the slick of his sweaty palm enough to send his mind galloping ahead to the grip of John's body. He thrusts once, helpless judder of his hips, cockhead sliding through the circle of his fist, oh god, and he doesn't know who says that, him or John.
The oil's there on the low table next to them, next to the wine they don't need. Rodney thinks of pouring it into the cup of John's navel, drinking from it, does it because it's good, John's surprised squeak-curse-shift that spills wine down his side so worth it, more to lick off, to lap deep red script from John's belly, slicking his tongue into John's navel.
John murmurs something impatient, drawing himself up again, cock nudging Rodney's chin., a whimper from John when sensitive flesh rubs over Rodney's stubble. The wine fades out next to the salty bump of his hip, the precome Rodney still tastes in the back of his mouth, the air between his legs laced with sex. The bowl of oil almost falls off the table, Rodney flailing for it blindly, not wanting to look away from John looking at him, John's tongue tracing the line of kiss-swollen lips.
Rodney slicks his fingers, buzzed and high, tripped out between the day and John's drugging presence, bracing John's ass on the slope of his knees. Finally, John mutters, opening to him, like the book says he would, thank God there hadn't been any tripe about opening the cave of wonders, which makes Rodney snicker and John look at him incredulously. John's stomach muscles ripple when Rodney replaces fingers with thumbs, pressing almost on the wrong side of too much, drying rivers of precome, oil, wine shifting with the changing topography of John's body.
"Up on your hands," Rodney orders, but John's halfway there already, muscles tensing as he pushes his palms into the mattress, body rising up and his thighs sliding around to clasp Rodney's, first step of the mountain: building curve of his body, cresting like a wave with the support of Rodney's hand low on his spine to hold, hold him steady as Rodney guides himself in.
It's – it's – Rodney's brain stutters around the thought, John overwhelming, so hot and tight and everywhere as Rodney flexes slowly, carefully in, his body taking Rodney, a slide that ends in the pure, strong arch of spine and ribcage and John's eyes shut, mouth wet and open to gasp out his pleasure. Rodney balances in the apex of John's hips, buried deepdeepdeep, god so deep, bent over to study the architecture of John's torso, his chest muscles stretched and luxuriously tense, complexity of tendon and bone in his neck and arms. He thrusts once, feels the answer in the tightening of John's ass under his fingers, concentric circles running up and up, breaking in a sigh that shakes John around him.
Again, and John pushes up and in, Rodney's cock across his prostate so John twists, does it again, low, rough, sound that leaves Rodney dazed. John's cock bobs, jerks, slicking fresher lines across his stomach, so close John whimpers, straining up, fuck me, "I am," Rodney says, shoulders burning, all of him burning, he'll be seared past being ashes.
"I need to come," John husks. His eyes are shut, voice rough like he's drowning in the pleasure he takes from Rodney's cock, body relaxing, Rodney pulling out, a tightening when Rodney thrusts back in and stays, holds down to pull a long, hard moan from John's throat.
John gets off on speed, any kind of it, F16, puddlejumper, fucking himself on Rodney's cock when he can set the pace and it's blinding. Rodney watches as John's body describes a frustrated near-helix, wanting a pace Rodney can't give him. They can't go fast like this, but slow and deep and hard, not enough for John to get off, or even Rodney despite a day of needing John naked and wrapped around him. Like a building charge, working toward release, the potential there, so close and John's making noises Rodney's never heard from him before, and probably Rodney is too.
"Okay," he whispers, barely hearing John's thank God, and eases them down, watching John melt back onto the bed, his spine smoothing down, arms sliding carelessly above his head. Rodney slides down off his knees, weight on his own hands now, and this pulls him out at first, John's hips flexing in automatic answer to keep him in.
"Hard," John says, hard edge of command despite how gone he is, and Rodney gives it to him, head bowed over John's chest so he drips sweat on a nipple, John's body mostly covered in the shadow of his but still beautiful, and Rodney can see every line of it clear as black in on a page. Hard, John growls, legs coming up so his hips tilt and Rodney moves deep and hard again.
And from there it's easy, even though his palms threaten to slip and his heart rackets madly in his chest and he wants to explode. He finds enough leverage though to thrust and keep thrusting, no breath now to ask is this fast enough? and no need to ask, because he knows, without even having to see John's need-dark eyes: it's John giving himself up to Rodney like he gives himself over to flight, everything, absolutely everything, centered on one sensation, on Rodney, on Rodney fucking him and that –
Rodney comes hard, pours himself out and out and forever, buried so deep in John and The Bridge forgotten, his arms laced under John's shoulder blades to pull him up, so Rodney can hide in the sweaty curve of John's neck when he tells John everything he can't and shouldn't say, how perfect he is, amazing, god, fuck, John, and that last might be a sob. John's thighs grip him, keep him in, hips rocking as he rides the pulses of Rodney's orgasm toward his own finish, his cock finding the groove of Rodney's torso, the friction and pressure enough that John twists once and shudders hard, and come stripes both their chests, spills up to John's collar bone for Rodney to lick; another throb and it's John's belly, smaller pulses of heat between them.
Rodney catches himself on the edge of crushing John, pulling out and wincing at John's frown. John's still splayed across the bed, arms still stretched above his head, fingers of one hand twitching with unspent kinetic energy. His eyes flicker open, green-edged night; he wears more shadows than light, light edging only his chest, a cheekbone, a patch of stubble on his chin. His hair on the pillow is wet ink, dripping in his face.
Rodney touches the come on his chest, smiles as John moves into his hand, uninhibited. He makes a noise about possibly cleaning up. John ignores it.
"That…" John shakes his head. Sweat glitters in the end of his hair, even more disreputable and unforgivable than ever. He rolls onto his side, pulls Rodney into a kiss that's mostly air and short of breath, gentling into something slower, mouths together longer by the end, John chasing out the tastes of wine and come and sweat. "What'd Inike give you?"
"Hmmmph," Rodney says blurrily.
John's body against him doesn't seem to expect an answer, drape of satiated muscle and liquid laziness, a long slow breath that says John's settling in to sleep and Rodney should come too.
The book, Rodney thinks distantly, forgotten in their haste and shoved, unnoticed, to the edge of the bed. John draws a leg over him, the inside of his thigh still sticky, Rodney's saliva drying there along with oil and come. He mutters something nonsensical; Rodney mutters something nonsensical back, sleep, but before he turns back to John, opens the book's cover with one finger, traces its edge down to the corner of a page.
-end-