sgafic: broadcast signal

Title: Broadcast Signal Author: jenn (jenn@thegateway.net) Codes: McKay, McKay/Sheppard Rating: NC-17 Summary: It's not that Rodney blames himself--exactly--but he does wonder if perhaps making Sheppard wade into the foggy residue to rescue his laptop was maybe a bit of a mistake. Author Notes: I thought Ami might need the porn. And I feel clichéd today. Warnings: Some implied potential dubcon. When Rodney finally tracks him down, John's managed to block off a significant portion of the two approaches to his room and convinced Atlantis that he qualifies as a non-sentient being. Stuffing the life signs detector in his pocket, he surveys the barrier for a second before stepping closer. "Colonel," Rodney says, climbing onto a pile of strategically stacked furniture and bracing his hands on the edge of a desk, trying to catch a view of John. "Sheppard--" Staring into the barrel of John's P-90, he rethinks his approach. Bracing a knee between a sofa from the lounge and the dresser from Miko's room, Rodney carefully lifts both hands. "John. I'm here to help." John's gun doesn't waver. Rodney thinks of the good old days, before today, when John's gun was most likely to be pointed at someone not him--aliens, Wraith, Kavanagh, air--and sighs. "Really." "That's what Elizabeth said," John answers darkly, but the gun barrel move slightly to the left. Instead of instant death, a slower, more painful bleeding out. It might count as an improvement. "And Ronon. And Teyla. And *Zelenka*--" "Stop there." Because of all the pornographic images he's seen today, he can honestly live without the memory of Zelenka trying to run Sheppard down like a cheetah after a gazelle. It hadn't been pretty. "Okay, proof. I do not want your ass." "That's what Kavanagh--" "Shh! Repression!" Glancing behind him, Rodney leans forward. "Look. Here's the thing. I'm *your best friend*. I? Know the city. And they? Are *offering me bribes*." There are some things, Rodney reflects as John grudgingly steps back, moving a desk, chair, Ancient recliner, one screen, and a small pile of--Jesus, grenades?--to crawl inside the barrier that currently separates John from The Entire Fucking World. Literally, the last part. Staying on his knees seems like the better part of valor; John's far too armed right now. "What the hell did you do?" Rodney says, staring at ordinance and boxes of bullets and what could be, might be *can't be*, but is a rocket launcher. When John's protecting his virtue, he goes *all out*. "Where are they?" John says, stacking the pieces back in place before securing the former entrance with a carefully placed grenade. "How far behind you?" "Messhall," Rodney says briefly. He has to admit, the engineer in him is a little impressed. For fortifications built with furniture, duct tape, and pure luck, it's fairly stable. "Planning their strategy." There are things you don't really expect to happen on a given day. Coffee, sure, lab explosion, right, Sheppard and marines coming to see what the explosion was, of course. Sheppard suddenly becoming the Pegasus galaxy's answer to an irresistible aphrodisiac? Not so much. It's not that Rodney blames himself--exactly--but he does wonder if perhaps making Sheppard wade into the foggy residue to rescue his laptop was maybe a bit of a mistake. Maybe. On the other hand--and Rodney's really beginning to understand this whole bright side concept--without explosion, fog, or Sheppard on a laptop-rescue mission, he would not have ever seen his team leader scream like a girl before climbing on the messhall table and getting out by way of inspirational Frogger memories. Or now, sweaty and flushed, t-shirt askew, one prominent hickey, bruised knuckles on both hands, and wearing enough weapons to conquer the Genii and possibly some small solar system. Survey says--hot. Very hot. Yeah. Bad, but also, hot. Rodney's okay with that. "McKay." Hmm? Rodney follows the line of tight pants, strip of bare stomach, shirt, shoulders, narrowed green eyes--and a gun. Or six. Right. "Okay, sue me. I want to fuck you." Before John's extremely trigger-happy finger can make a move, he waves both hands. "Not new here. That out there? New. Also. Note how I am not trying to hold you down and murmur sweet nothings--or you know, blatant and frankly terrifying promises--in your ear." "Rodney--" John starts. "I think they're dividing you up in the messhall *right now*." Sheppard shivers, and Rodney does too, because he doesn't think he's ever seen anything more disturbing than Elizabeth in a bustier and thigh high stockings with the three hundred something residents of Atlantis dividing up who gets John when, written on Rodney's whiteboard into neat one-hour appointments. Before Rodney fled, he'd been trying for the twelve to one slot before he was beat out by Kavanagh and remembered he was sane. Mostly. Right. He's on *John's* side, evil dark sexfog aside. Evil dark-- "Are you nuzzling my boots?" No. Rodney straightens with careful dignity and wipes his mouth. "Just checking the integrity of the floor." Glancing around the makeshift barriers, Rodney considers the fact that while he might be a little--distracted--most of Atlantis is acting like they've gone into heat and spares a second to wonder why. "This isn't going to last," he says a little regretfully as John paces his perimeter, glancing at John's open room door and the open windows that John had obviously decided would be Plan B. "Zelenka was making noises about the transporters--" "Are you here to watch me *kill myself in horror* or help?" John says testily, finger far too close to the trigger and walking far too close to far too many grenades. "Help," Rodney says promptly, aware he's knee-walked close enough to Sheppard to smell the combination of sweat, aftershave, and soul-shattering fear coming off his skin. "I'm thinking." "Can you think *faster*? John hisses in a fair approximation of blind rage. If Rodney hadn't seen John whimpering when Teyla and Ronon had cornered him in the messhall--and that image is moving to the top ten list of Rodney's fantasy life, no question--then he might be able to take it a little more seriously. "They're--they're *selling me* out there!" "There's no money here." From the sounds coming down the hall, Rodney thinks that just maybe, the negotiations are done, if the excited voices arrowing in on them are any indication. "You know, I think they're coming." John stares in the general direction of the noise with the look of a man who has seen the face of hell, and Rodney has a sudden, vivid memory of John spread out on the messhall table with Elizabeth straddling his lap, her hands sliding up under his shirt with a purring sound that Rodney hadn't known she could even *make*. Eyes flickering to the window, he clips the P-90 onto his belt and stares down at Rodney. "Okay. Do you have a plan?" Rodney thinks of himself as the last single barrier between John's virtue and the entirety of Atlantis. Being John's sole defense against criminal sexual assault is yes, worth amazing amounts of brownie points for the future--but then again, Rodney doesn't want to die before collection can commence. "We need to get to my lab and find out what happened to make you--" he stops at John's glare. Tact is in order. "Irresistible." John nods shortly. "Okay." Glancing at the window, John straightens. "I have an idea." ***** The thing is, Rodney hadn't really noticed at first. "New aftershave?" Rodney asks as they sit down to dinner, vaguely aware that people slowing every time they passed their table, eyes flickering to John with expressions that make Rodney wonder if he could spay and/or neuter the entire expedition. John gives him a weird look. "No." Reaching for his bread, he continues in oblivious bliss while Rodney becomes more and more uncomfortably aware that everyone seems to be sitting near them today, crowding onto the two tables on either side of them, trays before them, some without actual food. "Did you find out what that fog was?" John asks, pushing a small piece of bread between soft-looking, pink lips, chewing with a kind of slow sensuality that makes Rodney want to trace the muscles of his jaw with his fingers, feel them bunch and release, touch the stubble-prickly skin and lick his cheek with the tip of his tongue. Not, Rodney thinks, particularly normal thoughts for dinner in the messhall, but he finds himself shifting closer anyway, thigh pressed into John's. John gives him a weird look, but they're team and John got over his touch aversion with his team a long time ago and Rodney's perfectly willing to use it. Lifting his fork in one graceful hand, John dips it into the mashed potatoes, and Rodney's utterly speechless with lust at the way John's lips close around the fork, pulling it out with a quiet click of teeth on metal. Ronon and Teyla, who at some point materialized across from them, are looking at John in a way that Rodney's pretty sure isn't legal, even in the Pegasus galaxy. John's head turns sharply, giving Rodney an irritated look from huge, limpid green eyes. God help him, Rodney thinks. *Limpid*. Right. "Um, no. Water vapor, some chemicals--no, really, new aftershave?" He leans closer to sniff, and John's hand catches his wrist as it falls naturally to John's thigh. "Huh?" "Rodney?" John says, irritation fading for something softer that, when Rodney's very drunk or very tired, he sometimes imagines is fondness. "You don't look too hot." Hot. Rodney breathes in John's smell and slides his hand to John's inner thigh, making John jump with a sound that could, maybe, be interpreted as a whimper. "It's just--" "It seems humid tonight," Teyla says suddenly, leaning over the table, and Rodney stares as Teyla's finger traces a line from eyebrow to chin on John's surprised face. "You seem--flushed, John." John leans back, just out of her reach. "I'm fine," he says, eyeing them, and starts to push his chair back. "Guys, listen, maybe you should get checked by Carson--" Who is absently spooning up corn that never makes it to his mouth. Rodney makes himself pull his hand back, reaching for a glass of water--there's something wrong here, he can feel it. He's just not sure what it is. "Perhaps some rest," Teyla says, standing up, her shirt somehow coming unlaced. To the waist. "Ronon and I will escort you to your quarters, John." John gets his chair back another inch before he stops short, and Rodney turn in time to see Ronon appear behind him, large hands coming down on John's shoulders. "Rest," Ronon rumbles, leaning down to push John's shirt aside, burying his head against warm skin. Teyla, in a single graceful movement, slithers over the table, straddling John's lap with a smile, one hand pushing up his shirt to slide beneath. Rodney finds himself moving too, one hand sliding between Teyla's thighs to press against the hardening cock beneath John's pants, the other sliding into John's hair as Teyla kisses him, mouth open and licking John's lips in a way that is making Rodney two steps from coming. "Teyla," John manages, both hands going to her shoulders. "Look, something--" Rodney presses his teeth into the side of John's neck and feels John jump, cock hardening more, and that's when Elizabeth walked in like an ad for Victoria's Secret, and everyone started getting a lot more naked. ***** Jumping from balcony to balcony is a lot less fun than even Rodney had imagined, and he hadn't imagined it was fun to begin with. "What I don't get," John grits out as they land on the third to last balcony on the west side--far enough away that they have a fighting chance to get to a lab that has Ancient locks, and with any kind of luck, far enough away for Rodney to have some time to figure out what in the name of God has happened to Atlantis. "Is why you're not--as affected." Rodney snorts, but he sort of wonders that, too. John's solid punch to Teyla, he remembers, hadn't so much as slowed her down until he'd finally knocked her out. Rodney's still not clear how John managed to get away from Ronon, though he suspects a few forks might have been involved. Rodney, however, had snapped out of the worst of it when John's booted foot came down firmly on his instep. "Trust me, I'm affected," and Rodney thinks on the fact that he's jumping balconies while so hard he feels dizzy, pressed up against John's back as he evaluates the balcony for a second before sliding the door open and going in the empty room. Rodney follows, unable to help staying as close as he can, narrowly missing stumbling over John's heels. They're in a fairly deserted part of Atlantis, Rodney thinks as he follows John into the hall, pausing while John scans for sex-crazed maniacs and open doorways. Pulling out his life signs detector, Rodney notes he's the only one showing in their position. Nice trick. "Okay, I need to get to one of the labs," he says, going to the wall. This part of Atlantis isn't activated normally, but it comes on happily enough at his touch. "Okay, there's a transporter there that I can wire to send us here," he points, aware of how close John is to him. He can't help it; reaching back, he touches skin and something in him relaxes. John stiffens, but he seems to get the necessity of it, because there's no gun pressed against Rodney's head and John isn't running away. Shaking himself, Rodney traces a line. "Close enough. There's a first aid kit I can use to take samples there, too." Pausing, he glances back and realizes his hand's migrated to John's hip on a steady route south and John's looking a little panicked. "Right." Pulling himself back, he gestures. "Transporters, that way." "Rodney." Rodney jerks his gaze back to John, flushed and sweating, wanting him so badly he can taste it. "What?" John's mouth quirks slightly. "Thanks for the messhall." A big hand drops on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and if he keeps that up, Rodney thinks dizzily, he'll come just from this. "Sure," Rodney says breathlessly, leaning into the touch like a cat even as John pulls away. "Anytime." ***** Rodney surfaces again at blinding pain in his foot, washing out the lust-addle, watching in surprise as John vaults the table, holding a fork and the broken edge of a plate like something out of a terribly clichéd prison movie. Ronon's moaning on the floor, and Teyla looks unconscious on the table, which argues of the three of them, he got off the easiest. God, wrong choice of words. "John?" he says, standing up, needing skin and touch and scent like air, but more than that, needing an explanation, because there's nothing normal about this. "Get back," John's saying, backing toward the wide messhall balcony, looking a little desperate and a little trapped and a little homicidal, and Rodney tries to work out what's wrong with this picture as two marines and Elizabeth approach--that's *Lorne* Rodney thinks in horror--catching John in a running pass and oh, wow, he had no idea Elizabeth could move like *that*. And he's never seen that look on John's face before, and he realizes he never, ever wants to see it again. Stepping over Ronon, Rodney gets to the door and flips the lights off, drowning the room in darkness. ***** Seated on a stool with his gun pointed directly at the quadruple locked Ancient doors, Rodney pulls up his chemical analysis of the Ancient tech and the fog. He's unable to get more than a few inches away before he needs to touch again, brushing his fingers against wash-soft cotton across John's chest as he takes a skin sample, a sweat sample, limiting himself to seconds when every instinct in his body is screaming for touch and taste and take. Press John against a lab table and swallow his cock, turn him around and slide inside him smooth and easy, lick his neck and his chest and his ass, kiss away words until there's nothing but panted breath between them. "Rodney," John says softly, and Rodney realizes he's pressed up against John, cock rubbing against John's back, hands holding his shoulders tight enough for his knuckles to go white, nuzzling his hair and ear. "Rodney. Focus." "It's not that easy," he says, almost getting why everyone else seems mindless with this--it's hard to think around it, around him, pulling on everything in Rodney to *have this*, and share if he has to, no, never, keep John to himself and kill whoever comes in this room and tries to take him-- "Huh. That's different." Pulling back brings a somewhat clearer head and an ache like losing a limb. John twists around, enough to look at Rodney and still keep an eye on the door. "What?" First stage, mindless lust. Second stage--aggressive possessiveness? Oh fuck, this cannot, cannot, cannot end well. "Nothing," he says quickly, making himself go back to his analysis, thinking how much he wishes Carson were here to do this messy biological shit--chased by murderous rage at the thought of Carson in this room, close enough to touch John, look at him--fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Lust was easier to deal with than this. "I need a second," he says, and leans his head onto the lab table, because this could apparently get worse, and suddenly the arrival of the expedition at the doorstep in a frenzy of lust is overwhelmed by images of fights to the death over John. "Maybe with you out of--range, it'll slow down or something." Or stop completely, he can hope but he doubts it. Coming back, he presses a thumb against John's lower lip. The green eyes go wide and dark, pupils dilating to hungry black, and Rodney can feel his arousal on every inch of his skin. "It might," John says after a second, lip moving against Rodney's thumb in a way that makes them both close their eyes, "have done something. To me." Both hands are clenched around his gun, now pointed down and away from accidentally shooting off any important Rodney-parts. "You think?" Rodney murmurs, trying to remember why he made the unbelievable mistake of coming this close to John's mouth. A little more pressure and John's lips part, pink skin, wet and warm waiting inside, and Rodney presses in a little farther, breath strangled in his throat as John's mouth closes over his thumb and begins to suck. Rodney can actually feel the second they sync up, flaring hot and bright in green eyes as John pushes Rodney's hand away, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss that's messy tongue and sharp teeth and Rodney's about to come against John's *knee*, pressing firmly to his cock. "John." "No." And like that, Rodney's shoved feet away, a P-90 across John's chest like a barrier. John looks *wrecked*, mouth smeared rose and so soft that Rodney takes a whole two steps before he can stop himself, something hard and plastic digging into his clenched fist, suddenly clearing his head. Looking down, he remembers--he needs a saliva sample. He doesn't dare go a step closer. "Here," he says breathlessly, shoving the glorified q-tip at John. "Saliva sample. Put it on the end of the lab table." The room feels hot, and Rodney can feel himself starting to sweat, stepping out of his shoes and toeing off his socks almost dreamily as he goes back to the laptop. His shirt itches like millions of tiny needles scraping his skin. John's got his gun back on the door, and from the look on his face, it looks like he's spoiling for a fight. Sex, violence, Rodney thinks a little dizzily, making himself read the chemical names that aren't anything new except--maybe-- "You're producing an amazing amount of testosterone," Rodney says, and wonders when that became such a filthy, filthy word when rolled on the tongue, sliding around his mouth slick and wet and slow. "Testosterone," he says again, letting it shape to his lips. "And--something in your--sweat." Thought, his mind offers up. If you're done with the panting. Smell and taste and touch and-- "The fog," John says, and has his voice always been that husky? "What did. It. Do?" "Changed the chemical composition of--or activated something." Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Rodney pulls at the collar of his shirt, running it over his mouth. He can feel every rough fiber of cotton, harsh as sandpaper against the overheated, oversensitized skin of his lips, his shoulders, and somehow, he finds himself pulling it off, letting it fall to the floor beside him with a sigh of relief. It's still hot--too hot, like the environmentals just went down in a big way--but almost bearable. "It looks like--" This is why medicine is voodoo, Rodney thinks, trailing off. Carson, he thinks, then shakes away the rage. "ATA." "What?" When Rodney looks up, John's absently running a hand over his own stomach, and Rodney thinks he can *hear* his fingernails running over moist, tender skin. God. God God God. "Not sure yet," Rodney says, tearing his gaze away from golden flesh and staring at his laptop. Just--watch the door. I'll figure this out." ***** He does one more complete examination, just because he's *not* a geneticist no matter how much he's had to work with them, and even so, he knows he's getting maybe a tenth of the voodoo that's currently masquerading as science on his screen. But if he's right--and he probably is--well. "Just spit it out," John says, barefoot and moving restlessly through the room, gun clutched in his hand like it's a part of him, glistening under Ancient lights that keep trying to respond to the mood of the room and drop to something more atmospheric. Rodney sighs, leaning back into the table, wondering what happened to his pants but not terribly interested. His cock feels *bruised*, the head rubbing into the cotton with every movement of his body, and he stares at John because he can't *not*, all long, smooth movement, graceful and beautiful and dangerous right now, in that way that makes Rodney want to go on his knees and offer up his throat, his mouth, his ass, whatever John wants. Just *want*, want now, want everything he can get. "I'm not a doctor--" "God, shut *up*," John says, turning on his heel in a movement so fast Rodney doesn't have time to move before he's pinned to the lab table, hot breath against his mouth, John's hands on his shoulders like a vise. Tilting his head back, Rodney breathes him in, his body arching up and into John, thigh sliding between his and pressing up. "Heat," Rodney murmurs as he leans down enough to lick the sweat from the hollow of John's throat, sliding his hands up his back beneath the shirt and coming down with his fingernails hard enough to feel John shudder, melting against him. "You're in heat." John jerks back, cold space opening between them that feels utterly wrong. "What?" "It's like--" Rodney forces himself to draw a breath, but can't stop himself from following John as he retreats. "Like this sign. That you're--" Broadcasting from every cell, so loudly that Rodney can't hear anything else. "Yelling. That you want to fuck. Now." John's stopped by the lab wall, flattening against it like he'd melt straight through if he could, like anything less will have him on Rodney before either of them can think. "Fuck." Rodney gets another step closer, torn between John's bare throat and the gun between them. "I'm producing it now, too. Exposure," Rodney says, and God, even he sounds hot, gravelly and broken and needy. "If everyone else is--" "Wow," John murmurs, and they both glance at the door, wondering if somewhere out there, Atlantis' first orgy is already in progress. When John looks at him again, Rodney sees something breaking--resistance, anger, or maybe sanity, but that's as good as a yes, and he's pressed against John, cock rubbing insistently against one hip while he swallows down John's moans, callused hands running roughly down his back and jerking him so close he can feel John's chest move with every breath. Some part of Rodney thinks that there's something else they should be doing--something important and meaningful to the future of Atlantis--but he just can't bring himself to give a shit. John turns them around with a bite on his lower lip that draws blood, sweet and thick shared between their mouths. Prying John's t-shirt up to get hot, slick skin, Rodney wraps an arm around John's neck to jerk him closer, opening up for every rough thrust of tongue, bite of teeth. John, he thinks dizzily, then. More. More is John on his knees, and Rodney's cock jerks painfully when he looks down, boxers jerked down and kicked away before John goes down on him with no finesse, raw heat, not bothering to watch the teeth. Rodney's moaning through it anyway, lacing both hands in thick hair and holding on for every scrape of teeth and trail of tongue, suction on the head that's so good his knees go out, and John's holding him up while blowing his mind. "John," he gasps when John pulls off, tongue on his thigh, his balls, drawing symbols and words, *mine* shaped against his skin with every breath, and he says yes, yes, yes please yes. "God, yes." John's brutal, slamming him back into the wall when he takes Rodney back into his mouth, biting the sensitive, swollen head with sharp teeth. Rodney knows he screams something when he comes in John's mouth, feeling tears in his eyes from the pressure finally, God, finally easing into bearable, John lowering him to the floor and spreading him out on cool tile, hands rough on his inner thighs as he draws up Rodney's knees. Opening his eyes at the feel of rough cotton against his inner thighs, the press of a something blunt and insistent against his ass, he lets himself go limp as John slicks himself--God, from the come in his mouth. Rodney watches it drip from mouth to palm, watch dazed as John runs it over his cock, then pushes two fingers into Rodney's ass, a quick prep that makes him hard again so fast he sees stars. Then John's pulling up his thigh and pushing inside, huge and blunt and welcome, and Rodney opens himself up as much as he can, reaching for strong, bare shoulders, fingers slipping on sweat-slicked skin. "Yes," he murmurs with every thrust, John's tongue buried in his mouth and eating every word that Rodney says, taking them in like Rodney takes his cock. Thick, musky air fills his lungs with every panted breath, and it's like he never came at all. Every cell is screaming for John, John, John, getting closer, bending in impossible ways to get more touch, clench tight around him on the downstroke, live inside his taste and smell, feeling every thrust in his teeth. He'd be screaming if he had the breath to waste, but it's all panting, groaning need rising between them like steam, and if this is what sex is supposed to be, he never wants anything else, anyone else, never wants to come out of this and do anything but offer up his ass and his mouth and give it up for the rest of his life. He can feel John's teeth break the skin of his shoulder, licking frantically at the sluggish drip of blood, hip bones blackening in finger bruises, nail scrapes and the too-fast stretch of his ass adding something sharp and burning, and John's muttering into his neck, his ear, his mouth, Ancient and English and nonsense all at once. He can feel the second John comes, heel digging into the small of John's back, the rippling shudders that start beneath Rodney's clutching hands, convulsing against him before he goes limp and pliant, and Rodney can't wait another second. Rolling John over, hissing at the burn in his ass as John's cock slides free, come slicking his inner thighs as he stumbles to his feet and drags a drawer right off the hinges to break on the floor, looking for--oh thank God, lab lubricant, and he's slicking himself between John's willingly-opened thighs, pants long gone, John's own fingers buried in his ass before Rodney slaps them out of the way. John's already hard again, dark red and leaking steadily, and Rodney feels like he hasn't come in years. He slides into John as easy as a knife into butter, and John's breathless, surprised groan is lost beneath Rodney's moan when slick, hot tightness closes around him. And God, if John's ever had a man inside him before today, Rodney will eat a lemon without a protest. "John," he whispers, pulling out to thrust again without even meaning to, and Christ. He bites down on John's collar, his shoulder, twists his fingers in John's hair to get to his raw red mouth, still able to taste himself there, surprised all anew by the sharp need to *have*, wanting to be in John's body and his mouth and under his skin, mark every inch of him that he can touch with fingers and tongue and teeth and cock, and when he thinks of Atlantis--God, they have to, have to, have to do something about, about--he hates her, the city, the people that get any part of John at all. They don't deserve him, they don't want him like Rodney does, skin and face and body and mind, don't need him, don't love him, they wouldn't do anything for him, they don't--they don't-- "Yeah," John says breathlessly, like something broken and split apart, growling low in his throat every time Rodney thrusts. Rodney realizes he's been talking the entire time. "Yes. Rodney--" Hot pain flashes along Rodney's back from the angle he's bent, and he pulls John's legs up higher, getting deeper, pushing more, running a hand down John's side to cup his hip, his ass, reaching between them to feel himself slide inside John, leaning back enough to watch for a second how John takes it with rolling thrusts of his hips. John's legs tighten, jerking him back again to that hot, addictive mouth, fingernails making burning grooves down his spine that flash heat that in another life might have been pain. He feels John come, startling heat against his belly, smearing between them with every staccato thrust, and the world goes red and black when John tightens around him, thrusting short and sharp three more times before he comes in John's tight ass, wrapped around him as close as his clothes, tongue in John's mouth, no part of him not Rodney's down to his bones. For seconds, Rodney can almost think, and he pries himself from hot, wet flesh, looking down into glazed, sleepy green eyes that stare back, dilated and focused. Between them, Rodney can feel John's cock stirring, lengthening in the come that slicks their bellies, and John's limp hands tighten. Rodney shivers as John rolls on his side, Rodney's hardening cock sliding slowly from John's ass. "I want you on your belly," John whispers, low and dark and thick, and Rodney rolls over on sweaty tile, spreading his legs wide for John to kneel between, John's fingers lacing between his, pinning him to the floor before he thrusts inside, hard and fast and so welcome Rodney feels tears slick his face as he pushes back. ***** "…which set off a chain reaction," Carson says tiredly from the other side the table, looking like he went a few hundred rounds with someone much bigger and much more flexible than Rodney could ever dream of being. "Once the Colonel was out of range, we--reacted to each other in substitution." The senior staff is careful not to look at each other too closely. That can only lead to things they really do not need to know about each other. Ever. Forty-eight hours, a physically impossible sixty orgasms, and a foraging mission to the mess hall later (where Rodney engaged in his first bare knuckle brawl with--God--Cadman when John wandered in behind him, looking so fuckable that Rodney had him over one of the tables almost as soon as he'd taken Cadman down), no one on Atlantis is fit for anything but sleeping and slinking in inconspicuous corners, bruised and battered and sex sated. Though even now, John makes the room react, all attention jerking to him every time he shifts in his chair, with the hungry, despairing look of people who know there is no way they could do a damn thing with him even if they caught him. But John's looking hunted again, so Rodney slides his hand down John's inner thigh as he leans back in his chair, daring anyone to say a goddamn thing. "So it's wearing off?" Elizabeth says, sitting so painfully straight that Rodney's working not to imagine what she could have done to make sitting so difficult. Even Teyla looks exhausted, and Ronon's been listing to port ever since he sat down, sleepy and darkly unhappy, probably because he had to be woken up from between two marines and a biologist to come listen to Carson's explanation. "More or less." Carson's eyes cut to John mid-word when John shifts his elbow on the table, and Rodney forces down the proprietary growl and moves a little closer, tempted to give up on even the vague appearance of discretion, crawl into John's lap, and dare anyone to even try to come near him. "The--effect will dissipate within the next few days." Carson's eyes fix on John's mouth. "It would probably be best if we--avoided interaction. And Colonel, I'd suggest staying--away from other people." Carson's hands clench on the edge of the table, and Rodney knows he's fighting the urge to just crawl across--he knows because his fingernails are scraping trails up John's thigh, unable to help himself, and right now, he couldn't get it up if he had to do it to save humanity. "From my tests, about two more days should suffice before the--effect is gone." Elizabeth takes a few more minutes to tell them that the gate is locked down for the next two days and minimal skeleton staff will be running on short shifts to keep whatever needs to be kept running, running, dismissing them with her eyes flickering between John and Ronon. Rodney twists a hand in John's shirt, looking back just long enough to see Ronon and Teyla lingering behind, Ronon leaning into the table with one hip inches from Elizabeth's dilated eyes as Teyla moves behind him, one hand trailing down Ronon's back. "Jesus," John mutters, and Rodney jerks his gaze away, crossing the almost deserted gate room for the transporter, marines averting their eyes from the way Rodney's slid his fingers into the back of John's pants. He can't stop himself from growling at the first glance up, stopping on John with raw, unconcealed want, before he pulls John in the now empty transporter and pushes him up against the wall, fitting his teeth over an earlier bite that breaks beneath his teeth. "McKay," John says, some cross between annoyed and resigned, and John hooks a hand in the front of his pants. There's no way they can have sex again--their bodies gave up hours ago, raw and exhausted and miles beyond movement of any kind--but Rodney needs the touch almost as desperately, sliding his hands up the back of John's shirt and holding on when John's head tilts for a kiss. Stumbling into John's room, they go down on the bed in a tangle of limbs, impatiently prying clothes away to get to skin, and Rodney practically crawls into John's skin, touching chest to ankle, head pillowed on John's shoulder between wet, endless kisses from raw, painful lips. John's arms around him tighten briefly, then he sighs. It's not a sex-sated sigh, or a happy sigh of learning something totally new about Rodney's tongue, or even the sleepy one that Rodney's grown to crave, because watching John's face go sleep-soft has turned into one of his favorite things ever. "We're not going to discuss this, are we? Because we're still under the influence." To punctuate, he presses his hips into John's and feels a little frisson of pleasure that tells him that his refraction time is still running on nitrous-level hormones. He's really beginning to appreciate the various aspects of cuddling, and he has no idea what that says about him. Tilting his head up, he sees John's slight frown clear, the beginnings of a smirk curling up the corner of his mouth. "Right," Rodney says, turning his head away before he sees something he'll regret. "And after, we will never speak of this again." He pauses at the silence, looking up in time to John's smirk soften into something familiar, something that when Rodney's been very drunk or very tired, he would have mistaken for fondness. "Right," John says, and Rodney's tumbled onto his back, John stretching out on top of him like he's the most comfortable mattress in the world. John kisses him slow and hard and deep, touching something that's warm and flaring bright in his chest when John pulls back, forehead pressed to Rodney's, sharing breath between them. "But that doesn't mean we can't do it again," Rodney says quickly. John sits back on his heels, staring down at Rodney's cock with a thoughtful expression. "You know. Afterward." One eyebrow arches in amusement before John braces both hands on Rodney's hips and grins. "Exactly."

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