Some days Rodney feels like a master of the universe. Today is not one of those days. He lets Sheppard drag him through the event horizon by the arm, knowing he's earned the displeasure writ large across that handsome face.

In the gate room, Sheppard waves a hand at Teyla. "Go ahead and start the debriefing with Weir. Rodney and I need to speak for a moment."

Teyla nods and Ronon follows her out.

Rodney opens his mouth to protest and shuts it quickly at the black look he gets from Sheppard. A tug at his arm, fingers surrounding his bicep like steel, and they're moving down the corridor to a storage room, the door slamming shut behind them.

Rodney gasps when Sheppard lets him go, the absence of that hard touch letting the air out of him. He makes another, softer noise when he's grabbed and spun, his hand flailing for the edge of a shelf, his back to Sheppard.

"What the..."

Sheppard crowds in, his chest tight to Rodney's back. "Don't," he growls. "Don't talk, McKay. I think you said quite enough on the planet." His voice is harsh, angry; his fingers dig into Rodney's hips, pinning him between Sheppard's body and the steel and wood of the shelving unit.

Rodney's only a little surprised that this is turning him on like...something that won't turn off.

"You always have to tell them how fucking smart you are, don't you?" John says, pressing even closer. "No matter how many times they try to kidnap you and keep you."

"I..." Rodney says. He shuts his mouth when John slams him against the shelf, rattling boxes and causing a small avalance of paper products. He moans through clenched teeth when he feels impatient fingers at his belt.

Within seconds, his belt ends are swinging free and John's got his button and zipper open; hot, callused fingers stripping pants and boxers down to where they bunch against the forgotten thigh holster. John curses, and Rodney feels the straps give way, the weight of belt and sidearm pulling his trousers to the floor. John shoves his boxers after them and Rodney kicks one foot free so he can spread his legs, pretty sure he knows what John's going to do to him.

John straightens, pressing their bodies together front to back, the rough cotton of his BDUs scraping against Rodney's bare ass, his breath gusting against the back of his neck.

"Yeah, Rodney," he says. "You think maybe I can fuck some sense into you?"

John's voice makes Rodney shiver and try to bend over further - he feels like the biggest slut in two galaxies, and he so. doesn't. care.

"God, I can't," John groans. "I don't have anything. Don't want to hurt you."

They're panting in tandem, and Rodney's so far gone he's ready to tell John to just do it, to take him rough and let him pay the price. He thinks he might die if they stop now. John steps back a little, moving to the side, and Rodney hears wet sounds he can't place until he feels spit-slick fingers slide down the cleft of his ass, rubbing roughly at him before one pushes in.

It hurts. Spit's not the best lube and John's fingers - as elegant as they sometimes look - are a man's fingers, thick and hard. It hurts, but - god - Rodney wants it. He grinds back, feeling John's knuckles against his ass, moaning when a second finger goes in and they move inside, pressing down just right and finding his prostate and making him cry out.

"Don't make me, Rodney," John groans, rubbing his uniform-covered cock against Rodney's bare hip, abrading the skin. "Don't make me have to come back without you. Don't make me lose you."

Somewhere in the anger and the threat, Rodney hears the plea, and he doesn't know what to do, what to say. He's saved from answering by John's other hand, reaching around to strip his cock at a perfect counterpoint to the fingers driving him wild. Rodney can barely manage to stay upright and hold onto the shelf, while John's mutlitasking - finger-fucking him and jerking him off and rubbing off against him at the same time.

"Don't make me," John gasps again, and Rodney clenches his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the wooden edge of the shelf.

"I won't," he manages to grit out. "I pr...promise."

At that, John does something with both hands that makes Rodney white out, coming hard, his knees turning to water as he feels his come spill over John's hand, his muscles clenching on John's fingers. Before he can even catch a breath, Rodney feels John's hips press and stutter, and he's coming - jesus, coming in his pants - with his teeth digging into the vest over Rodney's shoulder.

John pulls away slowly, wiping his hands on his already-stained pants and not looking at Rodney, not watching him find paper towels on the shelf to clean up with. Rodney's surprised when he feels a hand on his shoulder and John leans close for a second, pressing them together, before stepping back, tugging his vest down and leaving, closing the door softly behind him.

Rodney pulls himself together and gets ready to go to the debriefing, where he'll be the only one who knows that John's pants are wet with come and that John let something slip in that storage room. Rodney's pretty sure that John has no idea either, but Rodney understood something - a change in the atmosphere of this thing they're doing - when John briefly rested his forehead against Rodney's sweaty neck and let him in just a little.