Seperis (seperis) wrote,

sgafic: crimes against humanity 8

Honestly, a fever is the only way I could think this was a good idea.

When we last left our heroes, John got a haircut, Ford gets a hit, Rodney gets to be the good cop, and Elizabeth reevaluates her position on suriviving Atlantis. Yes, it's that time again--Crimes Against Humanity.

Okay, for those who have read only from the webpage, the last part was never posted there because--I really don't know. I think I forgot. Anyway, last posted part is here, under tag here.

This is mostly for ltlj, who has had a not so great week there. I thought some mindless violence and porn might be an appropriate offering. Consider this your warning. Though honestly, if you read this far, there's nothing I can do that could surprise you at this point.

Part 7

Warnings: Please see this entry for series warnings.

When John Sheppard was twenty-three, he was pulled in for the first of a series of special assignments--SGC code for assassinations, bombings, and specialized kidnappings and interrogations. Usually it was high level diplomats or sect leaders from people like the Tok'ra, who didn't acknowledge the Asgard-Nox-Human triumvirate as the leading force in the galaxy after the Goa'uld had been exterminated, and later, Jaffa who didn't respect the authority of Teal'c. The SGC and John had gotten along well for almost ten years, but like most long-term relationships, John had found, they had fallen out. With the rise of Dr. Samantha Carter and General O'Neill to the top of the SGC, there'd been a switch in policy that had dumped John back into regular Air Force, invisibly marked as dangerous, and quietly sent to Afghanistan to live out the rest of his time in the most boring backwater in the galaxy along with most of his team.

John hadn't taken that very well, and now that he thinks about it, destroying the country they'd assigned him to had possibly been an overreaction.

The thing is, John doesn't mind too much. When he thinks of Afghanistan, he doesn't think of dust and heat and incredible, mind-numbing boredom. He doesn't think of the lack of reliable internet or reliable running water, or the fact that he'd been chained to the ground.

Mostly, he remembers Rodney, Dr. McKay, the ZPM paper that led to the development of the first ZPM based bomb. He remembers late nights at cheap internet cafes on short, grudging leave, reading in fascination as they spoke of McKay like they spoke of Oppenheimer, awe and fear and breathless horror, this device that could, in the right hands, destroy a world.

And sometimes, he thinks of the view of Afghanistan from the air, hours after he set off the first ZPM bomb on a forgotten road in the middle of nowhere, flat countryland turned to dead soil that would never grow anything again.

In retrospect, John thinks he should have known all along that he was in the wrong line of work.


They're fifteen minutes on Athos, and John already knows something's wrong. Touching his radio, he makes eye contact with one of his team, a nod sending them into the brush that surrounds the SGC compound. He can feel Teyla coming up behind him, catching her narrowed gaze from the corner of his eye. "Lorne? Hold up. Something's up."

A mission that starts wrong usually ends worse; John learned that the hard way, leading to three weeks as a guest of the Asgard before extradition to earth. Intergalactic crimes were usually tried in space, outside planetary jurisdiction, but no one had wanted to risk John Sheppard in something that could fly.

He can't blame them. "No patrols," he says, studying the obvious clearing that the SGC had made in the forest, leading from gate to camp. They hadn't been trying for subtlety. Hell, they were the SGC. Absolute power didn't *need* subtlety.

"No gate security," she answers, frowning. "There were--six when I was taken." Her mouth tightens. "I do not like this."

John doesn't either, likes it less as the scout returns, looking grim. "Nothing."

Flying ships that transported people away. Sheppard motions for his and Hallings' teams to get under cover--all that bare sky is suddenly very, very worrying. "Okay, total of eighty personnel are helping the Athosians set up self-government." The way her mouth tightens almost makes him laugh. He thinks the Goa'uld had probably looked a lot like that once upon a time. "Right. How many of your people are still locked up?"

"Here? Thirty were not taken through the gate."

"Any executions?" He doubts it, with Asgard peacekeepers checking in every so often, but Pegasus is a long way from Earth. They could manage.

"I do not think so." As they come under the cover of the forest, Teyla's frown deepens. "There have been reports of cullings, but not on Athos for many years."

"Huh." The path looks less worn than it should; dead leaves are scattered over it, like it hasn't been used in several days. "What do you call them?"

"Wraith." If possible, she tenses even more, hand tightening on the hilt of her gun. "There have been reports on other planets, but--" She shrugs. "I have never seen a culling. I only know what I have heard on other planets, and the stories of my people."

Pegasus galaxy legends, which is probably why Elizabeth hadn't bothered taking it seriously. Tightening his grip on the P-90, John considers the possibility this is something else entirely. Something's happening on Earth, and a hyperdrive ship could have come here, picked up whoever they wanted to keep if they were cutting free of the Pegasus galaxy. John was in the military long enough to know it's possible. It's just not *likely*.

And frankly, if there'd been a full evacuation, Sumner would have been on the first wormhole or ship *out*.

The forest is silent around them as they approach, and the uncomfortable feeling continues to grow. John catches himself glancing up through the canopy of trees overhead, twitching at the movements of the people behind him, finger too close to the trigger.

The compound itself is nothing to write home about; John rolls his eyes at the square stone design that tries and fails to mimic Ancient architecture, but the lack of guards is disturbing. The SGC could be stupid, but they were rarely *this*stupid. Motioning to Teyla, he touches his radio. "Lorne, anything?"

Lorne's voice is flat; John can hear his own unease reflected back at him. "Nothing."

Taking out the lifesigns detector, John looks on the screen again, but nothing's changed. No lifesigns except their own. Either they really are alone here, or that building has better shielding than anything John's seen outside a warship-class spacecraft. "Perimeter sweep," he says to Lorne and Cadman. "Halling, back entrance. We'll take the front." Without waiting for acknowledgement, John motions to his team, circling warily just inside the forest edges, eyes on the building.

The front entrance door is completely gone, and at this distance, John can see the marks on the stone around it, black smudges in unfamiliar patterns. He can feel Teyla stop behind him, close enough to breathe the scent of fresh leather and sweat. "These marks were not here before."

"Hmm." Looking around the quiet woods, the clean green grass surrounding the compound, he pauses. "Were all your people kept in here?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Teyla nods shortly. "Yes. A small group of defectors were also present, as your people had promised them assistance in taking the rest of the planet."

John smiles. "Not my people. Where are the others?"

Teyla hesitates. "We had a--several camps. They were beyond the edges of SGC claimed territory…."

"Right." Gun in hand, John approaches the door, studying the broken wood frame, the impact lines. Brute force after weapons, splintering the door, a hole like a fist higher than his shoulder. "Tell me about the Wraith."

Teyla's voice is soft. "I do not--sense them." Then the flashlight flickers over something, and as John brings it back, Teyla's breath lets out in a low rush. "But they have been here."

The smell hits John before he can quite comprehend what he's seeing, and he thinks, just maybe, that he wasn't prepared for this.


Before the trial, he had some good years.

The thing they forgot, the thing that made him good, the best at what he did, was they trained him to it. He knew the passwords and the people, who could be bribed and who needed to be silenced, knew the secrets because he's the one they always called to bury them. And if they still called, off the books, then the difference was these days they paid him better than they had before. And John really has to wonder what made him stay regular for so long, when he could have been doing this all along.

A troublesome Asgard here, a Tok'ra dissident there, a few planets not bowing to Nox peace efforts on the side. Sometimes he just played, for the fuck of it, because he loved his work.

When the news talked about his crimes, it was always hushed voice and shocky, like they couldn't comprehend what they were reading, seeing, hearing.

Three years and seven hundred thousand and eighty-five deaths later (not that he counts, but Lorne does), John still finds it funny that anyone could be surprised by anything he'd done.


They find bodies everywhere--shrunken and small, impossibly old, and John can't quite make himself understand what he's seeing yet. The control room is almost empty, papers and laptops spilled like garbage on the ground, fewer bodies. They were caught unaware.

"Teyla?" John says, pushing a body over with one boot. The wizened face that looks back at him isn't like anything he's ever seen. "What the fuck do they *do*?"

"They take life." Coming up beside him, she kneels, pulling aside the too large uniform shirt. John stares at the scar on the man's papery chest. "Here. This is how they feed."

Well, fuck. "Spread out," John says sharply, seeing the hesitation. "Get a body count, see if there are survivors. *Now*." John moves to the computers, looking at the display for a second, then touches his headset. "Dial Atlantis," he tells Markham at the gate. John sweeps the room, fingers twitching against the P-90 at the sight of every wizened body, tiny and skeletal and horrifying in some way that John can't quite get over. *Eaten*. Christ.

"Wormhole established," Markham reports, and John makes himself turn away, sitting down at the keyboard.

John takes a slow breath, then keys a private channel. "Rodney?"

The silence on the other end gives John enough time to run through a dozen scenarios that would prohibit Rodney from answering--and every one of them ends with Elizabeth dying very slowly in a holding cell while he watches. Then, "John? Everything okay?"

John breathes out, keeping his eyes on the console and not the dead body at his feet. He really, really doesn't need this shit. "You okay?"

Rodney snorts softly. "Just finished the prototype for the implant." A pause, then Rodney's voice, lower. "What's wrong?"

John fixes his eyes on the screen. "I need two of your people over here "

"Is everyone--. I mean, did you--"

"Everyone's dead. So not a lot of activity over here but counting bodies. Teyla is taking a team to go find her people." Leaning back, he watches Teyla as she circles the room, checking every body with a thoroughness he approves of. Never take anything for granted.

"Everyone?" Rodney's voice rises in pitch, and John wishes to God he knew how to adjust the volume on this thing.

"Pretty much. I want your people here to salvage what we can of their tech and those last databursts."

A thoughtful pause. John can see where this is going. "I can--"



"There is no way in hell I'm letting you touch foot on this planet." Just thinking about it makes him reach for the trigger, and it's a physical effort not to pull it. The only things here to shoot are walls, and they wouldn't satisfy him anyway. Keeping his voice even, John continues. "Choose who you want and get them prepped. I'm leaving two teams here; they'll be under orders to get whatever the scientists want." After another pause, John flicks the radio, opening to a general channel. "Elizabeth."

"Sheppard? Report." She's not happy with being out of the loop, but John's really beginning to think that they could live without her.

"Ten minutes, tops. I'll leave two teams here to investigate." Motioning Lorne over, John leans back in the chair, turning enough to stare down at the body again. "I'm bringing some bodies back for analysis," and isn't that going to be interesting. "Inform Carson he's doing some autopsies. The Wraith didn't leave anyone alive."

"Was anyone taken?" Elizabeth asks.

Standing up, John kicks the body out of the way. "I'll need a manifest of who was on Athos," John says, glancing at the screen of one of the computers before turning away. "One of the scientists should be able to find out."

The short silence is fucking annoying.. "What aren't you telling me?" Elizabeth asks finally.

"Exactly what you neglected to tell me. It looks like we're not alone in the galaxy. Tell Carson to be ready in fifteen minutes. Sheppard out." Pausing, John looks between Teyla and Lorne. "Your teams stay. Get a count, compare against whatever manifest Rodney's people can pull up." Seeing Teyla's frown, John smirks. "Or did you plan on reclaiming Athos now that these Wraith know there are humans here?"

Teyla's frown deepens. "I will assist you in your--investigation." For now, she doesn't say, but that's really the best he can hope for. Calling in the other teams, John gives out assignments, not least of which is securing any remaining supplies. If the Wraith use humans as food, there's a better than good chance they didn't bother with any of the provisions left. His team collects three bodies, and John stares around the control room one last time. Anti-climactic, to say the least. Fucking *annoying*.

"Report every two hours," John tells Lorne, as much an order as a warning to Teyla. "Make sure the scientists have whatever they need to get this place stripped."

"What about the rest of the bodies?" Lorne asks, brows raised. "You want them disposed of or--"

Sheppard shrugs. "Let 'em rot."


After they finally caught him the second time, the last time, John had a lot of time to think.

John cut the throat of his first lawyer when he recommended John throw himself on the mercy of the court. Afghanistan made his reputation, but it was the tip of the iceberg, comparatively speaking, to what could come out if they decided to really investigate, and he knew earth didn't want another Rodney McKay to create new rumors of Earth instability. Or the fact that the SGC program seemed to be breeding some of the most skilled psychopaths ever released on a general population.

But he was John Sheppard, and his second lawyer wasn't as stupid, with a forcefield between them as he explained how John was fucked, reading the list of crimes with awe, Asgard and Tok'ra assassinations for hire, intergalactic terrorism, list growing longer and longer until John cut him off and asked if he wanted to know everything.

Funny thing, the man did. Two months later, John was standing in front of a wormhole in Colorado, chained to the ground, but alive.

The SGC had more to lose than he did, when all was said and done, so when the death penalty was stripped from the table in exchange for his silence, it wasn't like he was surprised.

He just wonders, even now, if they really believed he wouldn't find a way out. Knowing them, he thinks that they did.


Rodney's practically hovering at the gate when John gets back, looking a vague unhappy that changes to startled nausea as the three bodies are brought in. John catches him before he can go too close, putting his body between Rodney and the medics. "Trust me. You don't want to see."

Rodney frowns. "But--"

"No." Wrapping a hand around Rodney's wrist, he gently pulls him away, giving Elizabeth and Bates a short look before leading Rodney out the door to the transporter. He can feel her eyes drilling into his back with every step before the door cuts them off.

"She'll want a report," Rodney murmurs.

John shrugs, resettling the P90 as they step into the transporter. "You said implant?"

Rodney's frown flickers, changing into something that John can't quite recognize, but looks strangely like satisfaction. "Finished the implant procedure right after you called." Rodney pauses as they get inside, pressing in the sequence for the medical section. "I thought you might want to watch the first round of tests," he says casually, leaning into the wall, and John fights the urge to touch him, contenting himself with watching Rodney's quick, sharp gestures, the curve of his mouth. "You. Five minutes, Wraith. What did you find?"

"Everyone's dead." Rodney's eyes widen. "Lorne's investigating and getting a count to see if anyone was taken." John turns it over in his head. On one hand, that's less SGC personnel to deal with. On the other-- "How is it that Athos has been occupied for eight years and we never heard about them?"

Rodney shrugs. "SGC isn't known for its fair and impartial treatment of alien civilizations that are less advanced than they are." John thinks of the way Elizabeth had dismissed Teyla's warnings and nods slowly. "Neither are the Asgard, or the Nox, which often begs the question of why they allied with us in the first place--" Rodney waves it aside, leaning into the wall with a frown. "And hello, since when do you decide where I go? That's fairly sensitive equipment--"

"On a planet that was just relieved of at least part of its human population," John points out, holding the scowling blue eyes. "No."

Rodney's frown deepens. "John--"

"Are you actually arguing to go to a planet with proven hostile alien activity? That doesn't even make *sense*." John tries not to smirk as Rodney's mouth opens, then shuts abruptly. Right. "Rodney."

Rodney waves it aside, but John's lived with Rodney for nearly six months and knows a hell of a lot better. This isn't even close to over. "Come on," he says, touching the control panel so the door will open."

"So implant…" John says, almost jogging to catch up.

"We have a test subject," Rodney says, leading John into the infirmary, past some random medic, currently studying something gelatinous and flesh-colored on an isolation bed. "I just--" He stops, looking uncertain, and John tries not to smile. "Well, we have him in the room you interrogated Ford in," Rodney continues briskly as he palms open the door. "He should be--yeah."

Walking to the wide observation window, John stares down at the man, manacled at one end of the room, two of John's men watching him with bored attention. John freezes inches from the glass, chest going tight and hard. "Sumner."


John doesn't remember a lot that happened with Sumner.

He knows there were sometimes guns, sometimes knives, something hot that burned through skin to char bone. There was rope and there was wire and sometimes there were needles. He knows there was sex, violent and strangely simple, and that it got Sumner off to get him off. He knows he was in the infirmary for too long sometimes, because he'd read it on Rodney's face when he got back, terrified and angry, coalescing into something hard and frozen.

But he doesn't remember what *happened*.

It could have been the drugs they were giving him, or regeneration amnesia from being too often thrown into the machine to be put back together, or whatever delayed trauma shit that psycho Heightmeyer always mumbled about before they put her in isolation when she talked one too many prisoners into messy suicides.

The truth is, John thinks that maybe he just doesn't want to remember. He'd wake up in a corner of their room and not recognize his body, new tissue and regenerated bones, teeth, cheek, face. Whatever Sumner fucked up, they would fix. And so little of it felt like him, new skin and new blood and new fingers and new toes, a stranger living in his own body.

He does remember Rodney.

Every morning after he was brought back, warm hands and gentle touches that skimmed new flesh with careful fingers, measuring size and depth and width and everything that had happened when John had been taken away. John learned his body through Rodney's hands, skidding over repaired hips and reconstructed thigh, spots of new growth from gouges that still smelled of disinfectant and smoke, the shattered spine that he remembers only in a pain that went on forever and could have driven him crazy.

Had. Maybe.

Rodney would say, "We'll make him wait for it," into his ear, hand on John's hip to ground him into the room, *their* room. "Slow starvation. We could do that. Vacuum, at five second intervals. He'll live like that for a long time while his organs slowly shut down. He'll rot from the inside out."

John would close his eyes and listen to Rodney's voice, soft and gentle when he told John how they'd watch Sumner die. But first, they were going to enjoy it.


"I thought you'd like it," Rodney says softly, and John breathes out as Rodney rests his chin on his shoulder, voice close to his ear. "Carson fixed his knees and got him hydrated. Mostly. So he'll last a long time."

John feels the remote that Rodney presses into his hand, lighting up at the activation of the ATA gene, warming his skin. No part of his body doesn't feel this, humming along every nerve, bringing him alight. "Ancient," he hears himself say. "How--"

"I needed to thread it through the main processors," Rodney whispers. "Soon, I'll get it so refined you won't even need a remote. You can think at them and turn it on." Rodney's hand covers his, guiding his thumb. "This controls sensitivity. This controls sensation. And this?" Blunt fingers trace across the remote, and John has just enough comprehension left to recognize the layout of the LCD screen. "Press that to wake him up. It administers a low level shock to his cerebral cortex--in case he passes out."

John's mouth is completely dry. Licking his lips, he murmurs, "Have you--"

Rodney presses a kiss behind his ear, a brush of teeth behind it. "No. This is for you."

Jesus. John knows he's shaking by the way Rodney plasters himself against John's back, arms sliding soothingly around his waist, and John makes himself breathe again when Rodney's hand moves under his shirt. Slow, gentle circles on his belly, soothing, reminding John of hours in their cell after--well, after.

John takes a deep breath, then touches his radio with his free hand. "Keep your distance from him," he says, voice already thickening. Rodney's fingertips press just beneath the waist of his pants, nails scratching gently. Keying off, he tries another breath. "Can I--"

"Jesus, yes." Rodney's fingers press against his on the controls, and John's eyes jerk to the floor when Sumner convulses suddenly, jerked off his knees, mouth a silent o of shock and pain. "You want sound?"

"Christ." Rodney moves away eternal seconds, and the sound comes on in a scream that John can feel in his bones. He's suddenly unanchored, adrift in the vision of Sumner writhing on the floor and his screams echoing through John's head.

Then Rodney's back, warm and grounding, and John leans back into him gratefully. Pressing, John ups the sensitivity, the scream choking off halfway through as Sumner loses breath, and John can feel Rodney's hands quick and efficient on his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping so his warm--God, hot--hot hand slides inside.

"No underwear," Rodney says thickly, and John half wants to close his eyes to feel Rodney's hand better, but he can't look away from Sumner, writhing on the floor in front of him, mouth drawn up in a tight rictus of pain. "You can change the sensation. I only have one setting for most of the remotes, but yours is--special." Teeth close over the side of his throat, and John bucks into Rodney's hand when Sumner lets out a breathless scream. "Yeah. That's it. I told you. We'd get him."

Rodney's hand is amazing, slow and deliberately cruel, too tight then too loose, using fingernails and the rough sides of his fingers, pinching the head of his cock to make John bite his lip against a moan. Sumner manages a scream then, and Rodney presses down on John's thumb, upping the level.

John licks dry lips as Rodney lets go, raising his arm as Rodney ducks beneath to lean against the glass in front of him, blue eyes half-closed and smoky with arousal. Just over his shoulder, John can see Sumner choking back another scream, and Rodney strokes one hand down the front of his own pants, pausing over his cock, before he goes down on his knees.

"Fuck," John whispers. Strong hands cup his hips, thumbs digging into the hollows as soft lips tease the head, tongue wet and soft and amazing; Rodney sucks cock like he's solving an equation, methodical and so certain he's right, and he is. He know John's body because he learned it, the old parts and the new, scraping with teeth as he goes down, and God. God. Rodney. With his free hand he braces on the glass, watching Sumner fall apart in front of him while Rodney's mouth puts John back together, pulling the disparate pieces into a single whole. "Yes." When Sumner can scream, John flicks his thumb over the button, and Sumner convulses into a hard arch, back leaving the floor, feet flexed painfully. He's going to hurt when this is over, John thinks breathlessly, Rodney licking him slowly, gently, one hand moving to cup his balls. He's going to hurt.

It's like nothing John's ever felt, and he can barely hear Sumner screaming over the hard beat of his heart, watch Sumner writhe and whimper breathlessly and die a little every second that passes, seconds that have to feel like years. "Rodney--" he hears himself say, voice hoarse, but Rodney hears him, hand taking the place of his mouth as he pulls back, head tilted up in question. "Fuck me."

Rodney blinks, mouth opening briefly before he nods, and John shivers as Rodney gives him one more stroke before he gets to his feet. One hand cups around the back of John's head, pulling him into a kiss, gentle and almost sweet, edged with John's taste on his tongue, teeth pressing quickly into his lip before he withdraws. The blue eyes are blown, pupil leaving a narrow band of electric blue, and John thinks he's never seen anything hotter in his life.

"Get on your knees," Rodney says softly, fingers stroking the back of his neck. "And watch Sumner. I'll be right back."

John does it, lowering the level a little, giving Sumner a chance to breathe. You can adapt to anything, John knows, even pain. He doesn't want Sumner adapting too fast.

On the other side of the room, the two men are watching, bored and a little fascinated. John reaches for his radio, considers checking in, then abandoning the thought as Sumner rolls onto his knees--regenerated, John thinks with black satisfaction. Both hands braced on the floor, the familiar face comes up, looking toward the observation window. Even from here, John can see him sweating, lines of agony drawn into his face, shuddering with every flare of pain. Just because he can, John lowers it again, then more, watching Sumner try not to relax and doing it anyway, slumping into the floor in a loose, very unmilitary sprawl.

Then Rodney's kneeling behind him, and John comes up on his knees so Rodney can pull down the pants, spreading his legs as much as he can so those clever fingers can trace the line of his ass, sliding beneath the curve to press against him for a breathless second before pushing one finger inside.

Regeneration always heals him too tight, and he hasn't had anyone since the last time they took him out of the infirmary. John closes his eyes at the slight burn, feeling Rodney's hand on his shoulder, a warm mouth on the back of his neck, slowly licking up to his hairline. One hand slides around, gently bracing over his stomach, rubbing soothing circles. "This is going to hurt."

"I know." John ups the level, just a little, enough to watch Sumner start in shock, before dropping it again. Watch him pant into the metal floor, satisfying to see in a simple, predictable way.

Rodney's slow, methodical, taking his time to stretch John, two fingers scissoring slowly, and John makes himself relax, trying not to melt into Rodney's mouth when he brushes soft kisses onto his shoulder. He loves Rodney's mouth, loves how he uses it, the contrast between hard fingers and soft lips, the shock of pleasure when Rodney finds his prostate, glittering bright and fading too fast.

"Come on," he murmurs when Rodney's mouth brushes his jaw. The fingers twist again, and John shudders at the pressure, glittering arcs of sensation that catch the breath in his lungs as Rodney's knees move between his, a hand on his hip slowly guiding him down. He can feel the head of Rodney's cock press, pausing, soothing hands trailing down his side, and John opens his eyes on Sumner and presses down the button as he opens himself and takes Rodney's cock.

"Jesus," Rodney whispers against his skin, Sumner screaming loud enough for John to feel it in the glass pressed against his fingertips, and it *hurts*, but it's Rodney against his back, pressing wet kisses against his neck, murmuring into his ear as John adapts to the burn. Rodney feels huge inside him, filling him up, *grounding* in this place. Bracing himself against the glass, John pulls up, then takes him in again, settling on Rodney's thighs as Rodney gasps into his back.

It's good, slow like this, Sumner's sounds trailing off to panted, ragged breaths, wet sounds that sound like bubbling blood, and he loves, fucking *loves* the sounds Rodney makes, gasped into his shirt, loves the marks Rodney's leaving on his hips, finger-shaped bruises that won't be erased by a regeneration machine, loves how Sumner shudders and curls onto his side, face wet with tears and snot and sweat while he convulses.

John may not remember what happened, once a week, every week, but he can learn it from Sumner's body, a tendon-snapping stretch that leaves him gasping for air while Rodney's hand wraps around John's cock, jerking him off with rough, even strokes, palm slick and hard and perfect.

"Watch him," Rodney whispers, and pushes John forward to the glass, getting enough leverage to thrust, and John shivers into it, skin alight with pure pleasure. "Come on, John," Rodney says, biting into his shoulder through his shirt, hand moving faster, molten heat crawling down John's spine. Fingers thread gently in his hair, pulling his head back just enough for Rodney to get to his neck, tongue drawing patterns that John recognizes from his last regeneration cycle, new skin to replace what had been torn away, muscle ripped from bone, choking…choking…

John presses down with his thumb just as Rodney does something amazing to the tip of his cock, going back down in a fast, hard stroke just tight enough, just wet enough, and he's coming with Sumner screaming silently into the ceiling, Rodney warm and real against his back, and he's shuddering, twisting through it, wanting to keep this feeling forever, feeling Rodney's hand on his hip go rigid, and the spread of heat inside, cock pulsing as Rodney comes with a whispered benediction in John's skin.

When John opens his eyes, he can still feel Rodney inside him, trembling with aftershocks of sensation when Rodney runs blunt fingernails up his back beneath his shirt before withdrawing carefully, pausing for fingers to slide between his thighs, brushing him with another spike of heat. "Good," Rodney says breathlessly. "No bleeding." John feels Rodney gently ease up his pants, tucking his soft cock away, zipping and buttoning with quick fingers before kneeling up, leaning into John's back, peering at Sumner over John's shoulder. "I think he fainted," Rodney says, sounding surprised. John unclenches his thumb from the button and smirks, tilting his head back for a slow kiss, all exploring tongue and warm familiarity.

Pulling back, John leans his head against Rodney's as he studies the remote. "This is pretty fucking cool," he says, tasting blood where he bit his lip. Touching his radio with his free hand, he smiles at Rodney's look of wide-eyed attention. "Take him to Carson, get patched up whatever needs fixing. We're going to have him around for a while."

When he meets Rodney's eyes, he sees amused understanding. "You want to do it next time?"

Rodney kisses him, open mouthed and thorough. "Maybe next time, we'll even ask him a question."

Part 9
Tags: fic: stargate:atlantis 2006, sga: crimes against humanity
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