Removed scene from the vaguely almost-finished FBI Rentboy Thing. Rodney takes John clubbing. And-then-there-is-porn. I do not subscribe to this new-fangled "realism" thing in fiction. Pah.
Warnings: Drug use.
Teyla and Ronon, with various traumatized FBI rookies looking like a bad night at Rocky Horror, are waiting for them outside the door. Rodney has to stop and stare at her. "Is that even legal?" he says, looking at the line of gold tape that apparently is supposed to represent an outfit.
Teyla shrugs; Rodney pities the person who tells her it isn't. The normally brown hair forms tight, cherry-red sausage curls around her face, blue-lined eyes dusted with metallic gold and black, a gold ring in her eyebrow and her nose, and boots Rodney can't see how she can possibly walk in. In contrast Ronon, in jeans and some kind of black mesh shirt, looks almost mundane.
Rodney watches their faces as John appears beside him; Teyla's black-lined mouth drops before she laughs in delight, giving him a slow once-over that goes on for a small but impressive geological era. "I remember those pants," she says, flashing gold on her tongue (God, Rodney thinks. If only he'd had time to get John to a professional), turning her finger in a circle, probably because she's human and wants to get a good look at John's ass encased in very, very tight leather. John turns obedient, pushing black hair behind his ear, trying to pretend that the silvery shirt that they raided Zelenka's office for isn't three sizes too small. Staring at them both, Rodney has no idea how he's going to make it through this evening sane.
"You should; you bought them." John pauses, eyes narrow. "And sewed me into them."
"And that is the reason we both learned to love rice cakes," Teyla says, nodding in agreement.
John smiles, showing his teeth. "Job-required anorexia. Nice--" John tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes stopped just below her navel. "New ring?"
"Just something I had lying about," she answers, tossing her head casually. Reaching for Ronon (who is doing his best not to look as freaked out as he seems to want to), she pulls him toward the bouncer, who's been watching the show with the look of someone wishing desperately he was off the clock. She smiles her way inside, a company of appalled FBI agents in tow. Turning to John, he finds himself weirdly nervous, hands locked together behind his back. The last time they were here, there was Chaya, and the first time, he was trying to buy John's very skilled services. It might be, he admits, not exactly what John needs to remember.
"Ready?" he asks, trying not to sweat and feeling vaguely boring in his jeans and ripped shirt compared to John. He's got to go shopping, or at least, get the rest of his clothes shipped from LA.
John looks at him from behind black bangs, expression unreadable, then reaches out, hooking two fingers in Rodney's jeans. "I feel like a cliché. From a afterschool special. A bad one." Towing Rodney to the door, he flashes a smile with rose-red lips and the bouncer looks like he's trying to avoid having an embarrassing moment. Rodney reaches to hold onto the low waist of John's pants, feeling the rough flesh-colored tape he'd used to cover Kolya's tattoo; also, to make the guy very, very envious.
"How do you feel?"
John pauses as the bouncer stumbles over his own feet to open the door. Wrinkling his nose at the flood of music that hits them like running into a brick wall, John considers the world. "Pretty good." Grinning back at Rodney, he tightens his grip. "Come on."
Lorne and Ford show up to look stoic and a little amused, directing the other agents to act less conspicuously suspicious and more like they're here for a night of debauchery and wild, crazy fun. It's not working, but at least it's entertaining to watch them try.
"How did you get them to come?" Rodney asks Teyla as he leans back between John's legs, bracing an arm on one leather-coated thigh while motioning toward the various earnest-looking men and women trying and failing to blend in.
"I told them it was a training exercise." Taking a shot with an elegant flicker of her wrist, she considers her charges with a critical eye. None of them can dance at all. "Their instructor did tell me they needed wider experience. I think he was correct."
Tilting his head back, Rodney catches sight of John's smile as he finishes his beer. Two stools down, Ronon flirts with someone very tall and extremely androgynous. Ford tries to look casual and calm while a pretty girl in a variety of transparent scarves in lieu of clothing backs him into a wall. He doesn't necessarily look like he wants to get away.
"How long did you come here when you started working undercover?" Rodney asks; they're far enough away from the main speakers that he almost doesn't have to yell. Teyla leans over, resting her chin on John's shoulder, gold bracelets jangling merrily, like they're having as good a time as she is.
John thinks, then looks at Teyla. "A month?"
"To establish our personas," Teyla says firmly, running an hand down John's arm, dark blue nails vivid against his skin. "It was a time-consuming process that required many hours of hard work."
"You got trashed every night and were paid for it," Rodney answers flatly, shifting her other hand from John's thigh with a frown. "My tax dollars at work."
John tilts his head curiously. "Do you even pay taxes?"
"That's not the point." Rodney does his own taxes. So far, not a dollar paid. He loves being a genius. "And for that matter--"
Teyla reaches out, grabbing his collar to jerk him forward and John kisses him--messy, wet, all tongue and teeth, so fast he's dizzy when John pulls back, mouth smeared and shiny. Teyla leans over, taking another shot before kissing John, slow and dirty and with lots and lots of tongue. When she pulls back, John looks a little glassy and Teyla licks her lips before sliding to the floor. "Come on," she says, taking John's hand and giving Rodney a bright smile. Rodney almost thinks about protesting, but John hooks a hand into the front of his jeans, fingers pressed against the head of his cock teasingly; Rodney swallows hard and shuts his mouth, following the pull of John's hand and the sway of Teyla's fantastic ass.
She clears the men's bathroom with a barked command while John kicks open closed stalls and sending various half-dressed people running for their lives, frowning at the inhabitants of the largest one. "You have any idea how unsanitary that is?" John says, looking inside with an appalled expression. "Seriously. You shouldn't be anywhere near his mouth. Go drink something to kill the germs."
Two disturbed looking male-like figures depart so quickly that Rodney's still blinking when John goes one stall over, pulling Teyla in behind him. Warily, Rodney follows, leaning into the open entrance as Teyla straddles John's lap, bracing one booted foot on the wall just at the level of his head. "Dear God," Rodney breathes, so very, very glad he's alive to see that.
The bathroom door eases open; Rodney turns around, ready to bark out a threat of maiming or torture, but it's just Lorne, who nods like this is something he sees every day. "Keeping watch," he tells Rodney, and goes back out. Turning, Rodney watches Teyla slide a hand into her boot and pull out a flattish metal bottle, tipping a white line the length of her thumb.
"Uh." Junkie, he remembers, then, "Oh my God. You used to pick up tricks together."
John looks up briefly before wiping his nose, picking up her hand to lick away the residue. "We were *investigating*. Weren't you my pimp?" He takes the bottle from her, laying a line along his wrist.
"Not that time." She bends her head, then comes up abruptly and shakes herself. "I am out of practice."
John gives her a syrupy smile. "Rehab," he agrees, then looks speculatively at the bottle. "One more."
She braces both elbows on his shoulders, head bent, murmuring in his ear. Rodney watches John's hands circle her waist, sliding slowly down to rest on her ass. "It was before I met Chaya," John says as he slides a hand up her spine. "Rodney, come here."
Rodney takes one step, then another, watching Teyla tilt her head back, flushed and startlingly beautiful. John gestures at him to pause, one hand splaying to support her as Teyla arches her back. Belatedly, he catches her, looking down the length of her body as John makes three lines on the smooth copper skin of her belly.
"We picked this up from a couple that used to work this area," John tells him, holding her hip with one hand and lazily pulling a twenty from the silvery edge of her--he can't seriously call that a skirt. He's not even sure it qualifies as underwear. "They knew who we were. They taught us who to watch in a crowd, who was dangerous, who would talk for money and who would talk for free." Rolling the bill lazily between his fingers, John leans down, a fall of black hair hiding his face.
Teyla opens her eyes, reaching to wrap her hands around Rodney's forearms. "You asked," she says breathlessly, "about me and John. They taught us how to be noticed and invisible, how to let people see us and never realize what we do. Our first assignment was to find a dealer who killed fifteen children at a rave with cyanide laced ecstasy; we brought down his whole cartel." She closes her eyes as John lifts his head, grinning at Rodney before he leans down and licks away the remainder. "No one asked us how. They didn't care."
John eases her up, forehead braced against hers for a second. "To be fair, we get everything from Carson now. That cyanide thing kind of scared me."
Teyla runs her fingers through John's hair and straightens, lifting slightly as John slumps down in his seat. Teyla unfastens two silvery buttons, peeling the metallic cloth away from his collar and off one shoulder, pouring thin, ruler-straight lines on John's skin. John closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It was difficult to draw our lines, choose how far we could go," she says, then frowns. Rodney wonders if she's having some kind of sudden epiphany, but she just plucks the rolled twenty from John's hand. "But we could. This is not who we are."
John opens one eye; barely leashed energy seems to vibrate through the stall. Leaning against the door, Rodney watches Teyla lower her head, watches John watch him, perfectly clear eyes and small, secret smile. When she draws back, she licks her lips, then fastidiously wipes her nose. Letting her leg slide down the wall, she twists around, and both of them are looking at him speculatively.
Rodney's pretty sure whatever they tell him to do, he'll do. Anyone would.
Sliding off John's lap, she ruffles his hair, fingering the blue-black spikes. "I like this better. Find me when you're done." She passes Rodney, breasts sliding over his arm before she goes out, heels clicking on the bathroom tile.
Rodney leans back against the door, staring at the elegantly debauched rentboy who wears John Sheppard's body, who learned with Teyla to use it as a weapon. This is what Chaya tried to take from him, and it's awing, amazing to watch him slowly taking it back. "Who else knows?"
"Ronon, Lorne, Ford. Elizabeth might, but she won't ask, not unless we fuck up. And we don't make mistakes." John smiles at him lazily. "Come here."
Rodney's not sure what John has in mind; he's not even sure John does. One step gets him in range of John's boot; a quick, professional sweep has him straddling John's lap, hot tongue pushing greedily into his mouth and a hand shoved down the front of his pants, tracing blunt fingernails across his stomach, teasing the head of his cock.
"John," Rodney starts, but forgets where that sentence was supposed to go; reaching down, he fits his hand to the bulge in the soft leather. John bites his lip sharply, nails scratching down Rodney's back sharply. "Jesus, I—"
Sliding off John's lap, Rodney drops to his knees to push the leather-clad thighs apart, lean forward to nuzzle John's cock through the thin material. John gasps, arching, fingers curling in Rodney's hair while Rodney works the button loose, the zipper down far enough to pull John's cock through the gap and go down in a single swallow.
"Oh Jesus, Rodney," John whispers, tensing luxuriously, melting onto the toilet seat. Rodney uses his nails on the insides of John's thighs and holds him in his throat. John twists like he means it, groaning like he doesn't care who hears him, lacing his fingers through Rodney's hair and taking the rhythm Rodney gives him, quick thrusts of his hips before he comes with a surprised shout and kicks one boot through the stall wall. Rodney holds him there, swallowing around him before sucking off, licking the bitter taste from his lips.
John's flushed and glazed over, fingers knotted in his hair and panting, his mouth smeared out its perfect shape; he's perfect. "Want to fuck me?" John breathes, lounging on the toilet like he's sitting on his very own throne.
Rodney gets John's hand loose and pulls him to his feet, boneless and liquid. "I've waited for you all my life," he says and means it. Squeezing his ass, Rodney sucks a hickey into the side of his neck, feeling dizzy and high just looking at him. "I can wait a little longer."
"Maybe I don't want to." Pushing him back against the bathroom door, John licks his lips, leaning close to breathe four words in his ear: "Don't stay a word."
Rodney swallows, bracing a hand against the door before John pulls him toward the toilet. A push sits him down hard, but Rodney barely notices, watching as John works the soft leather down his thighs, cock red and half-hard already in its nest of dark hair. Rodney never sees John get the condom out; all he gets is a shocked breath when John slides it between his teeth, ducking his head to work it down his cock before turning around with a flickering smile. "Don’t move."
Rodney couldn't move right now if he'd been sitting on a bomb. Mouth dry, he watches as John lower himself onto his lap, one hand wrapped around Rodney's cock as he slides on, tight and hot and a little slick (God, Rodney realizes, he did that before we left the apartment; he planned this), sinking down in teasing inches. After an eternity that's nothing but slick heat and his own helpless sounds, John's straddling his lap, leaning back against Rodney's chest with a satisfied sigh. Crisp hair brushes Rodney's cheek as he turns his head, hazel eyes dark and a little feral. "Good."
Rodney licks his lips. "I—" Want to touch you. Jesus. Please. "I—John, please—"
John reaches for one of his hands, pulling it around his waist, sliding it over smooth leather and his flat, hard belly; Rodney takes the hint and reaches for his cock, wrapping his hand around the hard, damp length, burying his head in the crook of John's neck as he starts to move.
It's impossible to get any leverage, hips pinned to the toilet and John murmuring in his ear, filthy promises of all the places John will fuck him, where he'll fuck John, in his lab and Elizabeth's office, out in the middle of the club, in the alley with everyone watching, "When I'm done with you, the only name you'll remember is mine," and Rodney says yes, please, now, anything and means every fucking word.
It doesn't take long; John's high and Rodney's been waiting for him forever. John moans, rhythm off as he begins to shake, and Rodney grabs his hip, arching once as John comes shuddering in his hand with a long, low groan, black spots dancing before his eyes as he comes in the tight, clenching heat, almost coming again when he feels John reach for his hand, licking the wetness from his fingers
He's still limp, shocky when John pulls off, condom stripped professionally and tossed into the trash, jeans half-fastened before John straddles his lap, licking his mouth open and sharing the taste of his come.
What feels like forever later, John pulls back, forehead resting against his. "Hey."
Rodney forces his eyes open, feeling sated and exhausted and almost frighteningly happy. "Hey."
John grins, nipping his nose. "Come on. Teyla'll be pissed if we don't get out there soon." Standing up, John reaches for the toilet paper, doing a quick spot cleaning before he opens the bathroom door, all liquid grace and barely-checked energy like the flaring of the sun; Rodney can't take his eyes off him.
Cleaning himself up, Rodney stands up on shaky legs, catching himself on the bathroom wall. "I need a drink." God does he need a drink; he's getting hard again just looking at John, flushed and mussed and painting his lips flawless red. He looks like sex, like good sex; staring at the face being painted back to pretty blankness, Rodney comes up behind him, gets a flashing, mischievous grin and falls in love all over again.
"Want me to show you how we get suspects to talk?"
Rodney rests his hands on John's hips. "I'd tell you anything you want to know."
Vivid green eyes meet Rodney's in the mirror. "I'll hold you to that."