What it's Worth
1600 words, NC-17, John/Rodney. For JD, because she asked.
John likes the way Rodney looks fucking himself on John’s dick. He likes the stutter of Rodney’s breath, the way his round white ass bruises red under the press of John’s fingers. Loves the way his dick opens Rodney up when Rodney pushes back onto it, sweat and lube slick contact wherever they touch. John doesn’t have to do anything but brace his thighs and give Rodney a jump off point; it’s always Rodney showing John what he wants, taking John along for the ride.
John wouldn’t have expected it, not with Rodney always in motion like he is, but Rodney likes sex slow, protracted. He wants the drag of John’s fingertips everywhere, all over his skin, zones erogenous and not. He’ll go down on John for as long as John will let him, drag it out until John’s cursing, shoving blindly towards the back of Rodney’s throat and his own orgasm. More torture than pleasure, every time, and John comes so hard he’s blind and deaf for interminable seconds. Every time.
It’s not anything; is John on his knees, Rodney braced against a wall; is we’re-not-dead, adrenaline-laced fear blown wide. John likes that, too. It’s easy and uncomplicated, cheap like semen bitter on his lips and dirty asphalt under his knees. He can almost smell spilled liquor and back-alley rot when Rodney shoves him naked onto his bed and follows him down; rubs his dick slow and insistent along the crease of John’s groin and thigh. His breath gusts hot over John’s collar bone. “I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
“Less talk, more action.”
Rodney snorts derisively. His weight shifts, and John’s thighs are being pressed up and back. He lets it happen, goes with the upward curve of his spine and, “Jesus, McKay,” because Rodney just pushed two spit slicked fingers into his ass. God that’s good, just like, fuck, like that, he’s going to-
“Come on,” he pants, and Rodney laughs, the bastard, and curls his fingers. John groans and pushes up again, tries to get more of Rodney inside him. “McKay.”
“And they call me pushy.” Yeah they do, with good cause, and John would say so but Rodney’s fingers are going, pulling out with a rippling twist that lights up John’s nerve endings. If he opened his mouth he’d probably be making all kinds of embarrassing noises so he’ll just keep it shut for now.
Rodney’s reaching past John; he fumbles for a second, straightens up holding a tube. He drops back onto his knees between John’s splayed legs. “You’d think-” the cap pops “-that as military as you are you’d be-” Rodney’s breath catches when he wraps his lubed hand around his dick “-you’d be used to waiting, oh God, Sheppard,” he chokes on John’s name.
There’s pressure, cool and insistent against his hole. He pushes into it, the head of Rodney’s dick breaches him, and Christ yes, he loves this, loves feeling himself stretch open around another guy’s hard cock. He needs the tiny thread of burn to remind him he’s alive; he might not be tomorrow, but he is now and it’s a damn good place to be.
Rodney fucks into him, not slow, but neither of them is up for slow. Not when they’re on this side of the Stargate, breathing, and as of 1500 today there are two Marines who aren’t either of those things, and John can’t think about this yet. He thinks about Rodney’s dick instead, thick and screwing hard into him. He likes fast and he’s all for hard; that’s how he does Rodney after Rodney’s already come, just shoves him down and shoves in until he comes like blacking out. Rodney rarely returns the favor unless there’s something driving him to it, but John’s not thinking about that, he just wants to get fucked.
Orgasm hits when he’s not looking; he’s too into the quick slide of Rodney inside him, the smack of skin against skin, he’s not even touching himself and suddenly he’s coming. He bites down on the groan trying to crawl up his throat. His semen is wet and warm on his abdomen, and he drops his head back down on the bed and breathes.
It feels good to lie back and let his ass get pounded while his orgasm is still sparking under his skin. He spreads himself out and lets Rodney do whatever. And then Rodney is curling forward over him, Rodney’s hands are knotting the sheets just under his armpits and Rodney’s coming, his body jerking against John’s, his mouth shaping a sound he never makes. John’s legs slide off his shoulders and he puddles over John, most of him limp, his forehead resting on John’s sternum.
“Your face is in my come,” John offers. Rodney’s reply is faint and unintelligible, part so?, part ew. He doesn’t move. John smacks the back of his head.
“You are a demanding, unfeeling bitch,” Rodney slurs, but he pushes himself up off John and the bed and stumbles towards his clothes.
“That’s Colonel Unfeeling Bitch to you.”
Fabric rustles. The mattress sinks under Rodney’s weight, and John cracks an eyelid and watches him pull his shoes on. “Mission briefing tomorrow.”
“Hello, I’m the one who suggested the planet. I don’t think I need a reminder.”
“Just saying.”
Rodney glances at him, annoyance evident. “Yes, well, don’t.” His face is half in shadow, half illuminated; he’s frowning, more abstracted than angry. “I guess I’ll see you then.”
“Yeah,” John says around a yawn. He expects Rodney to leave, that’s how this usually goes, but Rodney’s still sitting, still frowning. He shifts, the mattress shifting with him under John as he leans forward, his gaze steady on John’s face.
John yawns again, “What?” and Rodney rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet.
“I can take a hint. Good night, Colonel.”
“‘Night,” John tells his closing door.
He reaches over the side of the bed, groping along the floor until his fingers touch his pillow. He tucks it and his arm under his head, relieving the strain on his neck. He scratches absently at his abdomen; his come is drying, adhering hair to skin, and Rodney’s come is trickling out of his ass. He should get off his ass and clean it and the rest of himself up. He trails his finger through a line of almost dry semen and stays where he is.
He thinks about the half-lit expression on Rodney’s face. The way Rodney bent down, almost as though…
John was sure, just for a second there, that Rodney was going to kiss him. Something in his posture, the tilt of his chin. John wonders, idly, what it would have been like. He’s kind of surprised he doesn’t already know.
There’s not a lot they won’t and don’t do to and with each other. Neither of them has much in the way of sexual boundaries. Kissing-it’s not like they consciously decided not to, they’ve just never gotten around to it. John remembers the first time; Rodney shoving him against the wall of his quarters and dropping to his knees; it was fast and satisfying and it set the standard for every time since. John sees no reason to change the status quo, but kissing Rodney-it’s an idea with potential.
Rodney’s mouth, his wide smartass mouth that feels so perfect wrapped around John’s dick; John doesn’t have to guess, he knows how good it would be to have that mouth against his. He licks his lips and he can almost taste his own come on Rodney’s tongue, Rodney kissing him slow and sure, the same way he just sucked John off.
It’s the tamest fantasy he’s had since junior high, when Jill Curtis’ lip-glossed mouth was the end-all of his ambitions. He can barely remember what it’s like to want with that kind of single-minded intensity. He’s not sure he wants to, but McKay’s frowning focus seemed pretty serious. John’s going to get a quick and dirty refresher course whether he wants one or not.
For all of one minute he considers calling everything off. US military regs aside, he’s stuck to guys-civilian guys-for the last few years because they’re less work. He wants to get off, the other guy wants to get off, talking’s optional and usually unnecessary. That’s why he’s screwing Rodney rather than, say, Cadman. But if Rodney’s changing the rules, John’s sex life is going to start sucking-which brings him back around to Rodney’s mouth and how he wants to suck on Rodney’s lower lip sometime just to see what happens, so maybe Rodney’s thinking something along those lines as well. John decides to go with that theory until proven otherwise. Beats option one.
He likes dick too much in general, and Rodney’s dick in specific, to cut himself off. Tits are right up there with flying and disintegrator beams on the cool-o-meter, but he has this feeling that after having Rodney’s hands and dick and unbelievably inventive mind to himself, he’d be bored in less than a Barghenian month. And that’s only three eight day weeks. Of course, they’ve got longer days; John starts calculating by seventy-five minute hours and sixteen month years and gets distracted by all the cool numbers, and how the hell did he end up all the way over here in the left part of his brain, anyway?
Sometime after McKay’s dick, around the three-hundred-odd day mark, but unfortunately before Cadman’s boobs, he falls asleep without noticing.
John likes the way Rodney looks fucking himself on John’s dick. He likes the stutter of Rodney’s breath, the way his round white ass bruises red under the press of John’s fingers. Loves the way his dick opens Rodney up when Rodney pushes back onto it, sweat and lube slick contact wherever they touch. John doesn’t have to do anything but brace his thighs and give Rodney a jump off point; it’s always Rodney showing John what he wants, taking John along for the ride.
John wouldn’t have expected it, not with Rodney always in motion like he is, but Rodney likes sex slow, protracted. He wants the drag of John’s fingertips everywhere, all over his skin, zones erogenous and not. He’ll go down on John for as long as John will let him, drag it out until John’s cursing, shoving blindly towards the back of Rodney’s throat and his own orgasm. More torture than pleasure, every time, and John comes so hard he’s blind and deaf for interminable seconds. Every time.
It’s not anything; is John on his knees, Rodney braced against a wall; is we’re-not-dead, adrenaline-laced fear blown wide. John likes that, too. It’s easy and uncomplicated, cheap like semen bitter on his lips and dirty asphalt under his knees. He can almost smell spilled liquor and back-alley rot when Rodney shoves him naked onto his bed and follows him down; rubs his dick slow and insistent along the crease of John’s groin and thigh. His breath gusts hot over John’s collar bone. “I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
“Less talk, more action.”
Rodney snorts derisively. His weight shifts, and John’s thighs are being pressed up and back. He lets it happen, goes with the upward curve of his spine and, “Jesus, McKay,” because Rodney just pushed two spit slicked fingers into his ass. God that’s good, just like, fuck, like that, he’s going to-
“Come on,” he pants, and Rodney laughs, the bastard, and curls his fingers. John groans and pushes up again, tries to get more of Rodney inside him. “McKay.”
“And they call me pushy.” Yeah they do, with good cause, and John would say so but Rodney’s fingers are going, pulling out with a rippling twist that lights up John’s nerve endings. If he opened his mouth he’d probably be making all kinds of embarrassing noises so he’ll just keep it shut for now.
Rodney’s reaching past John; he fumbles for a second, straightens up holding a tube. He drops back onto his knees between John’s splayed legs. “You’d think-” the cap pops “-that as military as you are you’d be-” Rodney’s breath catches when he wraps his lubed hand around his dick “-you’d be used to waiting, oh God, Sheppard,” he chokes on John’s name.
There’s pressure, cool and insistent against his hole. He pushes into it, the head of Rodney’s dick breaches him, and Christ yes, he loves this, loves feeling himself stretch open around another guy’s hard cock. He needs the tiny thread of burn to remind him he’s alive; he might not be tomorrow, but he is now and it’s a damn good place to be.
Rodney fucks into him, not slow, but neither of them is up for slow. Not when they’re on this side of the Stargate, breathing, and as of 1500 today there are two Marines who aren’t either of those things, and John can’t think about this yet. He thinks about Rodney’s dick instead, thick and screwing hard into him. He likes fast and he’s all for hard; that’s how he does Rodney after Rodney’s already come, just shoves him down and shoves in until he comes like blacking out. Rodney rarely returns the favor unless there’s something driving him to it, but John’s not thinking about that, he just wants to get fucked.
Orgasm hits when he’s not looking; he’s too into the quick slide of Rodney inside him, the smack of skin against skin, he’s not even touching himself and suddenly he’s coming. He bites down on the groan trying to crawl up his throat. His semen is wet and warm on his abdomen, and he drops his head back down on the bed and breathes.
It feels good to lie back and let his ass get pounded while his orgasm is still sparking under his skin. He spreads himself out and lets Rodney do whatever. And then Rodney is curling forward over him, Rodney’s hands are knotting the sheets just under his armpits and Rodney’s coming, his body jerking against John’s, his mouth shaping a sound he never makes. John’s legs slide off his shoulders and he puddles over John, most of him limp, his forehead resting on John’s sternum.
“Your face is in my come,” John offers. Rodney’s reply is faint and unintelligible, part so?, part ew. He doesn’t move. John smacks the back of his head.
“You are a demanding, unfeeling bitch,” Rodney slurs, but he pushes himself up off John and the bed and stumbles towards his clothes.
“That’s Colonel Unfeeling Bitch to you.”
Fabric rustles. The mattress sinks under Rodney’s weight, and John cracks an eyelid and watches him pull his shoes on. “Mission briefing tomorrow.”
“Hello, I’m the one who suggested the planet. I don’t think I need a reminder.”
“Just saying.”
Rodney glances at him, annoyance evident. “Yes, well, don’t.” His face is half in shadow, half illuminated; he’s frowning, more abstracted than angry. “I guess I’ll see you then.”
“Yeah,” John says around a yawn. He expects Rodney to leave, that’s how this usually goes, but Rodney’s still sitting, still frowning. He shifts, the mattress shifting with him under John as he leans forward, his gaze steady on John’s face.
John yawns again, “What?” and Rodney rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet.
“I can take a hint. Good night, Colonel.”
“‘Night,” John tells his closing door.
He reaches over the side of the bed, groping along the floor until his fingers touch his pillow. He tucks it and his arm under his head, relieving the strain on his neck. He scratches absently at his abdomen; his come is drying, adhering hair to skin, and Rodney’s come is trickling out of his ass. He should get off his ass and clean it and the rest of himself up. He trails his finger through a line of almost dry semen and stays where he is.
He thinks about the half-lit expression on Rodney’s face. The way Rodney bent down, almost as though…
John was sure, just for a second there, that Rodney was going to kiss him. Something in his posture, the tilt of his chin. John wonders, idly, what it would have been like. He’s kind of surprised he doesn’t already know.
There’s not a lot they won’t and don’t do to and with each other. Neither of them has much in the way of sexual boundaries. Kissing-it’s not like they consciously decided not to, they’ve just never gotten around to it. John remembers the first time; Rodney shoving him against the wall of his quarters and dropping to his knees; it was fast and satisfying and it set the standard for every time since. John sees no reason to change the status quo, but kissing Rodney-it’s an idea with potential.
Rodney’s mouth, his wide smartass mouth that feels so perfect wrapped around John’s dick; John doesn’t have to guess, he knows how good it would be to have that mouth against his. He licks his lips and he can almost taste his own come on Rodney’s tongue, Rodney kissing him slow and sure, the same way he just sucked John off.
It’s the tamest fantasy he’s had since junior high, when Jill Curtis’ lip-glossed mouth was the end-all of his ambitions. He can barely remember what it’s like to want with that kind of single-minded intensity. He’s not sure he wants to, but McKay’s frowning focus seemed pretty serious. John’s going to get a quick and dirty refresher course whether he wants one or not.
For all of one minute he considers calling everything off. US military regs aside, he’s stuck to guys-civilian guys-for the last few years because they’re less work. He wants to get off, the other guy wants to get off, talking’s optional and usually unnecessary. That’s why he’s screwing Rodney rather than, say, Cadman. But if Rodney’s changing the rules, John’s sex life is going to start sucking-which brings him back around to Rodney’s mouth and how he wants to suck on Rodney’s lower lip sometime just to see what happens, so maybe Rodney’s thinking something along those lines as well. John decides to go with that theory until proven otherwise. Beats option one.
He likes dick too much in general, and Rodney’s dick in specific, to cut himself off. Tits are right up there with flying and disintegrator beams on the cool-o-meter, but he has this feeling that after having Rodney’s hands and dick and unbelievably inventive mind to himself, he’d be bored in less than a Barghenian month. And that’s only three eight day weeks. Of course, they’ve got longer days; John starts calculating by seventy-five minute hours and sixteen month years and gets distracted by all the cool numbers, and how the hell did he end up all the way over here in the left part of his brain, anyway?
Sometime after McKay’s dick, around the three-hundred-odd day mark, but unfortunately before Cadman’s boobs, he falls asleep without noticing.