Some days John just wants to drop the cheerful flyboy act and smash the next person who looks at him right in the face. He wants to bitchslap Kavanagh, to tell Elizabeth to fuck off, to show Teyla exactly where she can shove her fighting sticks and her enigmatic smiles.

Some days, John just wants to fuck something or fuck something up - doesn't matter which.

It's just luck of the draw that today is one of those days, and that Rodney's the one who crosses his path at the wrong time. They meet in the hall outside John's door, and Rodney says something obnoxious. He's got that crooked little sneer on his face that John actually likes on most days - not today.

It takes John less than a second to pin Rodney to the wall with one hand on his throat. He can feel the soft flesh under Rodney's chin against the long tendon that links his thumb and forefinger, can hear the whine of Rodney's startled breath. He leans in close, his other hand braced on the wall, and asks Rodney to repeat what he's said.

Rodney makes a choking sound, then drops the papers he's carrying and grabs John's face and kisses him, hard and rough. The kiss is full of anger and shock, and John's winces when their teeth scrape together. He ends the kiss quickly, then stares at Rodney until he sees a dull flush creeping up past the place where his hand still grips Rodney's throat.

Only then does he think the door open and toss Rodney inside.

John closes the door and grabs Rodney's shoulders, pushing him across the small room and over to the bed, shoving him down face first. Rodney catches himself on his hands and begins kicking off his shoes. John undoes his uniform pants and shoves them and his blue-striped boxers down just enough to free his cock before working on Rodney's pants and underwear.

There's a bottle of lotion on the bedside table, and John gets a handful, dividing it between his dick and his hand. Rodney gets his knees on the bed and stays there, head hanging down, chest puffing like a bellows. John's not nice, not gentle as he opens Rodney up, and he smiles his ugliest smile at Rodney's gasps and moans.

Too soon, he pulls his fingers out and shoves his cock into Rodney with just about as much thought and economy of motion as he'd use to shove a CD into his car's stereo. This shove gets him music, too - the counterpoint of Rodney's high, breathy noises and his own harsh grunts. John knows he can't last, but he gets his hands on Rodney's hips and lets his anger and frustration loose, slamming into him with every bit of rage-fuelled passion he's got.

Rodney takes it, takes all of it, and it's fucking beautiful - his bowed spine; the wet, flushed back of his neck. Neither of them could get a hand down to Rodney's cock and still maintain the pace, but John doesn't care if Rodney comes or not. He shoves himself forward ruthlessly, grinding his hipbones against Rodney's ass, still muttering curses into the air.

John feels the orgasm slamming up from his knees, up to the base of his spine and out through his cock into Rodney, and he knows that his low sounds have turned into Rodney's name, and that his harsh voice has turned softer, needier. Rodney comes then, and the feel of muscles contracting on his cock just extends John's release, pulling all the anger and hate and aggression out of him at once.

They fall to their sides still joined, with shirts rucked up and pants still bunched around their thighs. John waits for it - waits for Rodney to say something sarcastic or mean, but as the silence between them lengthens and becomes something kind of comfortable, he wonders if, just maybe, Rodney gets it - gets him.