They're back on Earth, a place Rodney thought - hoped - he'd never see again except for short visits. But they're fucking stuck here, with someone else in their city - touching her and bringing her back to life. That was Rodney's job, and he's pissed.

However, his brain never stops - hello, genius - and one morning while berating his minions, a thought occurs. A thought that is, like most of his thoughts, brilliant. He goes back to his office and closes the door before picking up his cell phone.

"What are you wearing?" he says, low and dirty.

"BDUs and combat boots, you giant perv," John says, and he probably thinks Rodney's joking. "Oh, and white tube socks."

Rodney laughs, and they small talk a bit - boring third-rate missions for John and boring minion-baiting for Rodney. "You should come out here," Rodney says, apropos of nothing. "There's lots of horrible desert, but Vegas isn't far."

"Well, I dunno," John starts, and Rodney cuts him off.

"Stop being a jackass and get a flight. You know you want to."

"Maybe," John says, but Rodney can hear the throb in his voice. He wants to, all right.

"Flight, Thursday night. Don't keep me waiting." Rodney hangs up while imagining John holding the phone, slack-jawed and hard inside his BDUs. He wonders if John will talk his cock down or go to the bathroom to finish himself off. Smart money's on the bathroom.

Rodney's better at compartmentalizing than anyone thinks so after a long, breathless moment in his own bathroom - the private one, the one the minions aren't ever allowed in - he goes back outside and gets to work. Granted work is a lose term. It should really be more like 'doing nothing at all while talking a great deal' or 'playing spider solitaire when he's sure no one's looking'. No one's called him on it yet so he doesn't care.

He doesn't honestly care about much, these days.

And he doesn't think about John. Not even a little bit.

When his wrist hurts from too much time spent gaming, he wanders around the labs for a while to look over people's shoulders. He likes to watch the way their too-chubby faces go pink or white, depending on their temperament. Everything feels too much here. Too many options, too many choices, too many people crowding around him. They don't know what it is to be half-starved and desperate out of their minds that everyone's going to die.

Rodney's beginning to realize that experiencing that matters. A lot.

Back at home, Rodney's just putting together the pasta he likes so much when the door bell rings.

"It's open," he yells because of course it's John, looking unsure and dopey as he sidles into the kitchen.

"Today's not Thursday," Rodney says over his shoulder, and John actually stops in his tracks. Rodney hides a smile.

"Uh, there was a transport going this way, and you sounded like you needed me." John walks to the pass-through bar that separates the living room and kitchen and tries for a casual lean that is anything but.

"I think you've got that backward," Rodney says, slicing mushrooms.

"I don't know what you're talking about." John's fake-casualness ratchets up a notch toward outright panic.

"Bullshit," Rodney says. "Make yourself comfortable. You okay with pasta for dinner?"

John nods and hoists his duffle onto his shoulder and walks to the bedroom without hesitation. Rodney knows he had to wear the uniform to ride a military transport, and his ass looks great in the pants. He's pretty sure it'll look even better out of them. He has an internal argument about how John will be dressed when he comes back. A tight tee shirt is a given, but will he go for cargo pants? Sweat pants? Jeans?

Cargo pants, Rodney thinks, would be an attempt to call back to Atlantis, to put John in the power position. Jeans would be halfway - depending on the tightness - again putting John in a power position, this one leaning toward the sexual. But sweat pants would be the best outcome. Sweat pants mean easy access; they also mean that Rodney will see John's hard on right away, that John is surrendering to the inevitable. Rodney hears him coming up the hall and waits.

He's trying to be surreptitious as he waits. Really, he is. But the marinara he's slowly heating takes that moment to bubble over and he's distracted, cursing and stirring and lowering the gas flame until it's only the barest flicker of blue. He misses John's arrival.

That's okay. It means he gets to stare, which he takes full advantage of. "You really are a yeti," he says, blankly.

Shorts. John is in shorts, completely outside Rodney's game plan and his brain correspondingly short-circuits. He's only good at on-the-fly moves when it's science or, apparently, there are people's lives at stake.

The khaki-colored shorts are loose around John's thighs - strong, muscular, easy to see and covered in hair that isn't actually yeti-like, but kind of soft looking - exposing only mildly knobby knees and surprisingly narrow calves. And bare feet.

Rodney tries vainly to figure out what that means: the shorts are almost like cargos, a nod to the power-structures he's been thinking of, but shorts implies a looseness he doesn't know how to account for. The bare feet are throwing him off completely, too; John hardly ever goes around without at least socks.

"You got any beer?" John is openly smirking at him, already heading towards the fridge. "And I wouldn't throw stones, Mr. Five Day Growth."

Rodney's slightly thrown. If John had come out in sweat pants, he'd planned to say, 'fuck dinner,' turn off the burners and push him over the couch. He's not thrown enough not to ogle John's ass as he reaches into the fridge.

John comes up with two bottles and opens them both before setting one on the counter next to Rodney. Rodney takes a sip of the beer, then pours a splash into the sauce and stirring. "Secret ingredient," he says.

John huffs out what might be a laugh, and Rodney swings his head around and gives him an up-and-down look. "Set the table," he says, not offering the location of dishes or cutlery.

"You sure do like to tell me what to do," John smirks.

He's way too cocky. Rodney needs to nip that shit in the bud right now. "You have no idea," he says, his voice soft, but with a little bit of a commanding tone.

John lets out a breath and starts looking for plates.

Score, Rodney thinks happily. That's always been the one hiccup in his plans, the only thing he honestly couldn't determine. But John isn't giving him that long, side-ways look Rodney's learned to hate. Actually he's not looking at Rodney at all; totally fixated on finding silverware to go with the multi-colored dishes Rodney still doesn't remember buying.

"You have way too many forks," John says. "And almost no spoons." He glances up, eyebrows raised. "Do I want to know the reason?"

Rolling his eyes, Rodney points back to the table. "Set, funny man. This is almost done." The onions and garlic smell fantastic as he stirs them, mushrooms a meatier richness over top. He tests the penne and decides it's too al dente for his tastes.

John lays the table with a level of concentration that seems excessive to Rodney - until he notices that John's hands are shaking. Oh, yeah. He tastes the penne again, and it's better. He drains it and puts it into wide bowls before ladling on the sauce.

"Get the garlic bread out of the oven," he tells John and they brush shoulders as they pass. Rodney looks at John, who studiously looks at the oven. Okay then. Rodney waits by the table, and when John sets down the plate with the bread, he lets the tips of his fingers trail across the thin sliver of skin between the bottom of John's black tee shirt and the waistband of his shorts. John's skin is slightly sweaty and he tenses at the touch, but otherwise ignores it.

The pasta is good; the beer compliments the rich taste. John moves his food around but rarely lifts fork to mouth.

"Eat," Rodney says. John looks up from his food and he must see something in Rodney's face, because he slowly starts eating his dinner.

Rodney eats some of his own then looks across the table. "Do you even know why you're here?" he asks.

John freezes for just a second before turning on a lazy grin that's probably incredibly charming when used on someone who's not Rodney McKay. "Dinner?" he asks, artless and innocent. He takes a bite, actually chewing and swallowing. "It's good. I didn't know you could cook."

"In small, limited quantities, yes, I sometimes get the urge. And no, John. You're not."

The fingers curled around John's fork tighten, skin spreading with white before he relaxes again. Is it the use of his name? The way Rodney spoke, rolling and firm and with a hint of something else? Whatever it is, two pink spots are starting to burn underneath the wash of stubble that never entirely shaves off. "I'm not?"

"I'm going to make you say it," Rodney says, and his voice is smooth and quiet. He eats another couple of bites of pasta. "I know it was you."

And, oh, John's good. That innocent face, so blank and pretty. It's probably worked on a dozen COs who'd have just as soon killed him as looked at him. It does not work on Rodney.

"In the city." He still can't bring himself to say 'Atlantis.' It hurts too much - it brings too much to the surface.

"Well, yeah," John says, toying with his fork. "I saw you every day."

Rodney looks at him. "And you saw me several nights."

"Sure - the game and team nights and stuff." John can't hold Rodney's blistering gaze, he looks down again.

Rodney pushes his plate away and leans forward. "Say it, John. Tell me what you saw."

John's eyes dart across the table, never raising above chest-level and never needing to. What he's looking at is covered by the chipped birch-veneer.

"Did you think I didn't know?" Rodney continues. "That I don't know when you're around?"

That gets a reaction. "Oh, come on, McKay. How many times have I been in your lab and you never noticed?"

Smiling, Rodney waits until John's eyes meet his, habit override the other man's discomfort. "Never. Tell me what you saw, John." He wants to see the way that soft mouth will caress the words, pursing and ovaling as he shapes them. He wants to hear how John will phrase it, whether it will be demure or blunt, a euphemism or the hard truth.

"You. Fucking." John's voice is hard, belligerent.

Oh, Rodney had hoped for this - for resistance. Much more fun that easy capitulation.

"Fucking who?"

John finally looks up. "Pretty much everybody." This time he's rough, angry.

"Everybody but you." Rodney speaks softly, but he half-expects John to come over the table at him.

John's eyes are burning, turning green the way they do only when he's feeling intense emotions - a rare, rare occurrence. He wants to get up, to stomp away.

That he doesn't makes Rodney swallow down his grin. There was a reason he'd won that acting award.

"Everybody but me," John repeats. "You fucked the whole base."

Well. That's a mild exaggeration since it was actually more like a small stable of regulars who couldn't get enough - but Rodney manages to bite back the defensive protestation. That's not what John wants. It's not what he wants. "Hm. And what did you do?"

The puff of age and too-little sleep around John's eyes makes them almost disappear when he narrows them. "I watched."

No. No he didn't. Rodney leans forward again. "What did you do, John?"

"I watched," John insists.

"Okay," Rodney allows. "Until the last time, with..."

"Don't say her name." John's voice is more plea than order.

"Okay," Rodney says again, a little kinder. "What did you do that time?"

John lowers his head. "I...I jerked off."

Rodney nods. "Yes, you did," he says. "And you made noise, for the first time. I knew you were there, and that's what made me come, not her mouth."

John's throat works. Rodney wants to lean forward and lick it, bite along the bob of his Adam's apple. He will, he knows; John's already halfway there.

"You -" he says. His voice is rough, like he's a two-pack a day smoker, gasping for air enough to fill his lungs. "You knew - "

Leaning back, Rodney crosses his arms over his chest." That you were there, watching. Practically fucking a wall, which I'm guessing had to hurt, while you watched me. And that wasn't the first time you did that."

John swallows again, carefully putting down his fork before he drops it. "You said you only heard m - a noise. Someone. That - that could've been - "

"You. That was you."

John takes a deep breath and pushes his own bowl away. He braces his hands on the table, like he's going to stand, but he doesn't. Instead, he raises his head and looks directly at Rodney. His face is flushed, his lower lip red and wet where he's been biting at it, and his eyes are wide, pupils blown.

"Yeah," he says. "It was me" He smiles then, a small smile with a little edge to it and he blinks slowly once. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Hands on your belly, both of them." It's an incongruous order, not something anyone ever expects.

It's also highly effective.

John's hands are big and broad, dusky from hair that goes up his fingers. They're huge against the tight black of t-shirt, pale with his knuckles too big in comparison, fingers blunt-tipped with nails cut almost to the quick.

He inhales, slowly, eyes widening as the heat from his hands travels down his belly, the pressure against his palms creating sparks of want.

Simple and extremely effective. Every. Single. Time.

John swallows, breath wet and loud. "That's - "

"Don't talk," Rodney orders. "Not unless I tell you to." He leans forward, touching the back of John's wrists. It's a stretch given their positions around the table, but Rodney's a lot more flexible than he used to be. "But you're going to talk, John. You're going to tell me exactly what I'm doing to you."

He hears the hitch in John's breath, watches as his eyes flutter shut. Rodney pulls his hand back and moves slowly to the other side of the table. He pulls John's chair out enough to turn it to the side, giving himself more access. Squating down in front of John, he's thankful for the first time ever to Teyla and her "Athosian exercise" that amounted to endlessly repeated deep knee-bends.

He brushes his fingers along the backs of John's hands where they're stacked, one on top of the other, pressing hard into the muscles of his abdomen.

"First, questions," Rodney says, and John's eyes snap open. "How much have you done with guys?"

John closes his eyes again, his dark lashes fluttering against the flushed skin of his cheeks. "Hand jobs, blowjobs. There were f-fingers."

Rodney hears something in the last, something that sounds like a prevarication. He leans in, his lips an inch from John's ear. "How many fingers?"

John swallows hard. "Two."

Rodney leans just a tiny bit closer. "And what do you want?"

John makes a tiny, broken sound. "Everything."

"When you saw me with other men, what did you like the best?"

John's voice breaks when he speaks. "When you put your hand inside...and when you fucked them."

With a smile, Rodney leans in and slides his lips down John's rough jaw line. "It'll be a while 'til you can take my fist," he says. "But we'll get there."

John moans, a rough noise that sounds almost painful. He's breathing slowly but only because Rodney knows he's forcing himself to remain relaxed.

Shaking his head, Rodney pushes back onto his feet. "Get up. We're going to put the food away."

John's eyes open and his eyebrows rise up in the what the hell he knows better than to voice. Rodney almost tells him how good he's being, but figures this isn't the right time. John's not deep enough in it yet; it's still too easy to throw him out with the wrong phrase, the wrong touch.

"Food," he says slowly. "Putting it away, instead of leaving it to rot? Get up, Sheppard." He puts a touch of bite to his voice.

John lifts up as if drawn by strings, collecting the plates and bringing them over to the sink. Rodney tilts his head and enjoys the way his ass is highlighted, shorts pulled taut by John's erection.

When the last dish is in the dishwasher, Rodney sidles up behind John and slips a hand around to confirm that he's still hard. He is. Rodney only gives him the slightest touch with the heel of his hand while John grips the counter and tries to push forward. Rodney puts his hands on John's hips and presses his own hard on against his ass, pulling away when John arches back into him.

He can't decide where he wants to put John - in the bedroom or on the couch. The couch has a lot of possibilities - over the back; John bent over the armrest, knees on the cushions and head hanging down; John kneeling and holding onto the high back with his ass thrust out, but he ultimately decides on the bed.

He moves back and slaps John lightly on the ass. "Bedroom," he says and, god he wants to make him crawl. But it's too soon.

John gives him a wide-eyed wild look over his shoulder, but complies. This is the test of it, really. John may want this - he's been screaming for it for weeks, as far as Rodney's concerned, no matter if the screams are all in posture and the occasional look - but that doesn't mean he's ready to accept it.

The hallway is long and dark, carpeting swallowing the sound of their foot-falls. John hesitates in the doorway to the bedroom.

Rodney's immediately there, arms wrapped tight enough that it's not a hug, not quite a wrestling move. He hooks his chin over John's shoulder and squeezes. "You get a word. One. And if you use it, this never happens again. Pick it now."

John just breathes for a moment, then whispers, "Ford."

Rodney holds him tighter for a second before letting him go and stepping back. It's a word - a name - that they never say anymore. There's no way that John could use it accidentally, and Rodney suspects he'll go a long way not to say it again.

Rodney catches John's eye and nods, once. "Go stand by the bed, hands at your sides and wait for me." Rodney keeps his voice low and even. He wants to save the commanding tone for when he needs it, and he knows he's going to need it.

But so far, John is as relaxed as a man with a hard on can be, and he obeys readily, walking slowly to the place Rodney indicated and stopping a foot from the bed, his hands motionless at his sides.

The lights stay off. He can see well enough without them, thanks to the parking lot below his bedroom windows, and it reminds him of being back there. When there was little light but the moon through slitted, high windows, the soft blue glow of a city that could never truly go dark.

He stops that train of thought. It's not appropriate - or helpful - when there's an eager, trembling man waiting by his bed.

Rodney circles him, making sure each sweep of his gaze can be felt. John looks like he's concentrating on his slow, even breathing and trying desperately not to move. His fingers twitch every once in a while. "I always thought you'd like it the other way around," Rodney says. "Me clothed and whoever I was with naked. Open. But you liked it before, didn't you. When I was naked and they - when she - wasn't."

John opens his mouth and Rodney's hand is there. "I'm pretty sure you heard me the first time," he snaps. "You have one word. Unless you're going to say it, you shut up. If I want to hear your voice I'll tell you to answer me. Nod if you understand."

John nods, eyes wide and startled.

"Hmmmm," Rodney makes that same little superior sound he makes in the lab when he solves a problem. He doesn't quite know where to start, not that John will ever know it. There's so much - tight little nipples and heaving abs; a long, strong neck that probably has a hundred hot spots. John's hard cock that curves slightly up to his belly. His ass is high and tight, not that you'd know from his habitually baggy pants - and Rodney likes that, being the only one who knows.

John's thighs are just as strong and muscled as he'd thought, even though they're shaking slightly. Or maybe because they are.

He decides and lays his hand softly on the small of John's back.

John starts. A small, pained gasp escapes but then he goes quiet, relaxing enough to push back against the touch, arching like a dog eager to be petted. Rodney obliges, amused. The weave of John's shirt is soft and loose with age - one of his favorite shirts, Rodney guesses. John's wearing one his favorite shirts for him.

Nice.

"If I ask you something and don't give you permission to speak, you nod, or shake your head. Understand?"

John nods. Light catches on the crazed spikes of his hair, refracting into tiny slivers.

A sweep of his thumb encourages another tiny arch of acceptance. "Did you like seeing me naked while she was still fully clothed?"

John nods. Rodney reaches in front of him and unbuttons his shorts. They shift a little, down to his hips, but they stay on.

"Do you want that?" John shakes his head. "You want to be naked and for me to keep my clothes on?" John shakes his head again, and Rodney feels his lips curl up into a wicked smile. So he wants them both naked. John's been very good so far, Rodney thinks. He's done his best to obey, and Rodney wants to encourage that. But part of him doesn't want to give John what he wants. Part of him wants to deny him and see how far he'll go.

Baby steps, he tells himself. He's easing John into this and no matter how much both of them want it in their own way, Rodney knows he can't push very hard until he's got John in that place where his brain and his will turn off.

"Take off your shirt," he says.

John doesn't move until Rodney takes his hand off his back. Then he's quick, eager as he strips his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Stripping is something of a military must - they're the fastest Rodney's ever seen, even faster than his scientists, terrified of being watched by their buffer military escorts.

Shirt off, John returns to his former position. Rodney touches the small of his back again. John shivers but otherwise remains still. Very nice. "Good," Rodney says, then leans forward to place soft, tiny kisses up John's shoulder to his neck.

He'd never done this before. Then, it hadn't been about being nice or tender. It'd been fucking - brutal, kinky, and harsh. What he and his bevy of partners had wanted.

John wants something different, though. So does Rodney.

When Rodney kisses the swell of skin that isn't shoulder and isn't neck, John sighs very softly. Rodney responds by reaching around to touch his stomach, stroking over the soft hairs and softer skin. "Very good."

And there's so much of it - John's torso is long and lean anyway, but the shorts are hanging precariously from his hips, so Rodney can smooth his hand all the way down, far enough down to know that John's naked beneath the shorts. When Rodney realizes it, he bites John very softly on the shoulder and tangles his hand in the hair on John's belly and pulls. John gasps and drops his head forward, then straightens quickly - like he's broken a rule.

"It's okay," Rodney says, smoothing his hand over John's belly to soothe the sting. "I like it when you react. Just no words." He presses a soft kiss behind John's ear and delights in the shiver he gets back: hot spot number one.

Rodney steps back and pulls his own shirt off.

John moans when Rodney comes back, pressing the heat of his chest against John's back. "Thought you might like that," Rodney says, offering it like a gift. John takes it like one too, darting a glance out of the corner of his eye for permission before leaning back.

It's a little awkward. John's taller than he is, lean and slender and still pretty damned heavy. Rodney responds by wrapping both arms around John's waist, feet braced. He kisses behind the ear again, humming to himself when John gasps through a second shiver.

Carefully, Rodney inches forward until his hips are pressed hard and tight against John's ass. John rocks backward instinctively - then freezes, shocked at the slap on his hip.

"You seem to be forgetting," Rodney says in his you are too stupid to live voice, "who's running this. Have you forgotten, John?"

John immediately straightens back up, shaking his head from side to side. Rodney runs a hand over the red spot he's just made. "Good," he says. "You're doing very well."

John makes a soft, humming noise and Rodney decides that that's okay. He slides one hand down and unzips John's shorts. Just as he expected, they slither down his legs to the floor.

"Step out," Rodney says, "kick them away." John does, though it's awkward with Rodney wrapped around him. Rodney slides his hands down and cups John's hipbones, letting his fingertips dig in lightly on the exact spots he's going to leave bruises later.

He pulls back so that he can get a good look, and John whimpers at the loss of contact. Rodney circles him again.

Stopping in front of him, Rodney tilts his head back so he can see everything. John is lean and rangy. His chest puffs out, making his shoulders look particularly knobby, his stomach slightly distended. It's cute precisely because Rodney knows it's normal; John isn't posing for him, he's always this freakish.

It's endearing.

Cupping the underside of John's left pec, Rodney drags his thumb back and forth over his nipple. It grows tight immediately, pink and painful under the rasp of his skin. John's lips are pursed to nothing, held against his teeth. He looks like he's afraid to do anything for fear of speaking.

Which is strange, since normally getting him to speak requires a torturer's art.

Then again.

"Does that feel good?" Rodney asks, and when John starts to nod, he whispers, "Answer me."

"God, yes," John says, biting his lip after the words come out.

"Good," Rodney says. He wants to add "boy" to the end, but it's still too soon. John's turned on, sure, but he's not inwardly focused yet - he's too much in the world. Rodney should have known he'd be stubborn. If it was anyone else, someone even a little bit experienced, he'd put them over his knee and take them down fast, but John would freak, and his word would be out of his mouth in under a minute.

Instead, Rodney pinches his nipple sharply, then lowers his head to lick it.

John immediately stiffens. His heart is beating too quickly for it to be a negative reaction, but Rodney still checks even if he doesn't stop. A quick glance up shows John's eyes scrunched tightly shut, teeth visible as they clamp onto his lower lip.

Interesting. Everyone assumes that Rodney has sensitive nipples since the damned things are always poke out at the most inappropriate moments - and they are. Apparently John's are even more sensitive; his is the face of someone enjoying their torment.

Rodney likes that a lot and bites down hard enough that he can feel John's breath, gusting sharp and heavy against his face as he exhales, the beat of John's blood against his teeth, held back by only the thinnest layers of skin. Mm. Switching to the other one, Rodney doesn't tease, just bites and licks, then bites and licks again.

John makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, the closest a man like John can come to a true whimper. It's incredibly hot. John doesn't make a lot of noise, when he doesn't want to. And even then, it's usually words.

He's going to hear more of those involuntary noises, Rodney immediately decides. A lot more.

"Good," he says when John's nipples are both red. "Do you want more?"

John hesitates half a second then nods his head. Very good boy, Rodney thinks, and purposefully moves on to something else.

Rodney stands straight and circles John again. It's becoming a motif, and he loves watching John fight not to turn his head. When Rodney gets around to the back he can watch all those beautiful lean muscles bunch and relax - from the nape of John's neck to the backs of his calves. John's pulled tighter than a bow-string.

Rodney stops there and steps closer, close, but not quite close enough to touch. He leans in and places soft kisses across the back of John's shoulders, and the muscles relax so suddenly that he's surprised John doesn't fall. Instead, John lets his head drop forward, and he moves his legs further apart so Rodney's mouth is even with his neck.

"Did I tell you to move?" Rodney asks, but it's soft, gentle. John shakes his head and tenses, as if to straighten his posture.

"No," Rodney says. "Stay right there. But don't do it again." John nods.

Rodney places his hands on John's ass, enjoying the way the muscles tense and then forcibly release. John wants to melt back, Rodney guesses, to push himself in a silent request for more. Rodney ignores that in favor of dragging his palms flat and smooth up to John's shoulders. He digs his thumbs in hard, smirking when John lets loose another pained, only half-heard whine.

"Good," Rodney tells him. It'll confuse John, he knows, leave him uncertain as to what will provoke a verbal reassurance - and whether or not John wants one.

With his thumbs still pressing whitened divots into John's skin, Rodney drags them back down, all the way down, until he's pried open John's cheeks, exposing him.

"Do you know why I love it when they're military?" he asks, intentionally cruel and taunting. "You're so flexible. Lean forward."

There's nothing for John to balance himself on, but that doesn't matter. He bends forward at the waist so the muscles of his back tighten underneath the moonlight, silvered shadows highlighting it like a treasure map just waiting for Rodney to follow. He's a perfect L and it has to hurt like crazy.

Rodney presses his thumb hard against John's now-exposed entrance but doesn't actually penetrate. "Have you done this before? Tell me."

"Yes?" John sounds uncertain, and Rodney realizes that he has to be more specific.

"Has anyone ever touched you like this?" he says, pressing just a tiny bit further with his thumb. "Answer me."

"Yes," John says, "fingers."

Rodney looks at John's back, looks at the way he holds himself taut, looks at his own thumb, poised to push in if he wants to. He steps back abruptly and John nearly loses his balance.

"Get on your knees," Rodney says. John does.

"Have you done this?" He opens his pants, drawing his cock between the plackets to rub the head against John's mouth. His soft, wet, very nice mouth, with lips swollen from his own actions - John bites his lips a lot, something Rodney's always watched with enjoyment. Rodney doesn't moan but it takes effort, concentrating on rubbing the head back and forth.

John's eyes stay shut when Rodney pulls back enough to let him speak. "Yes." There's more movement than sound, but Rodney hears everything. "Once."

Crouching, Rodney leans close enough to lick his own bitter-salt taste from John's lips - then bites down, hard. "Liar," he says.

John moans sharply at the bite but he keeps his eyes downcast.

"Look at me," Rodney says. John's eyes slowly life up; they're very green and slightly hazy. Oh, yeah. He's getting there, he's falling into the place Rodney needs him to be.

Rodney grabs John's chin and shakes his head a little. "How many times? Answer me."

"I..." John speaks like he's forcing the words out. "I don't know."

Rodney kisses his forehead, like a priest bestowing a blessing, but he tightens his fingers enough to make John gasp. "So," he says, "too many times to remember." He lets his voice go cold. "Oh, that's nice." He lets go of John and stands abruptly. "Let's see what you've got."

There's a split second where Rodney might have pushed too far. Awareness is sharp and dangerous in John's eyes, confusion making him think instead of just obey.

If this goes wrong...

But it doesn't. John figures it out, mouth dropping with a moan that's wet enough to make Rodney want to echo it. He sways forward drunkenly, missing Rodney's cock by inches and burying his face in the crease between trunk and thigh. His mouth is soft and greedy for all he's missed.

Sighing, Rodney makes sure his grin stays out of his voice. "I know you're an idiot, but that? Is not my cock." Reaching down, he slaps the side of John's head enough to make it ring. It has a two-sided effect - John moans, loud and long and as desperately broken as Rodney's ever wanted, and gets his mouth onto Rodney's cock.

Not that it wasn't good having him there. Rodney's a fan of worship in all forms and he intends to put John through as many forms of it as possible. But right now he wants to know what countless others have. He wants to draw it out, slow it down, because he knows John's never done that before.

"Go slow," Rodney says, and he puts his hand on the back of John's head just to feel the thick fall of his hair against his fingers.

John hesitates, as if he doesn't know how to go slow, but then closes his eyes and ducks his head and Rodney's cock is bathed in wet heat, John's tongue moving slowly around the ridge like he's mapping every centimeter of skin. He's really taken slow to heart.

Minutes have gone by before John gets more than the head inside his mouth. He's struggling to stay consistent; he swallows a lot, catching himself as he leans forward for more. Rodney's amused by his constant need to check himself. It's not just habit that's driving John now but pure eagerness, an instinctive want to take everything he can as fast as he possibly can.

That's what John is, after all.

"Good," Rodney says when he's in as far as John can manage. He caresses the back of John's head, enjoying the cool wash of his hair as he pets and lightly scratches. John shivers each time his nails draw a new pattern. "That's very good, John."

John sucks harder in gratitude. His eyes are shut, head tilted at an angle that says blissful more than relieving the pressure of his neck. It's a good look for him.

Dragging his hand over the curve of John's skull, the long, hard plane of his jaw, Rodney thumbs the corner of his mouth before pressing hard against the soft, hollowed center of his cheeks. "I couldn't be sure, you know. That you really were such a consumate cocksucker. I have something of a talent at discovering them, actually. Particularly the ones that don't realize just how greedy for it they really are. A little bit faster."

John speeds just a little bit, but his eyes narrow slightly. Rodney reads him easily. John's possessive - he doesn't want to know who else has done this for Rodney, who else has had this cock in their mouth. Rodney figures he should be used to it - John watched a number of his Marines suck this same cock eagerly, a few even begging for it.

Rodney has a choice to make here. He has to decide who this is for. Going in, he thought it was himself, but John is so beautiful like this. The wrong words could turn this mean instead of commanding, and he not actually sure that wouldn't have Ford's name tripping off John's angry tongue.

Part of his dilemma is due to the... transitory nature of what Rodney does. He may have a stable of regulars but he never has a specific person two nights in a row. He never wants them two nights in a row and contemplating a third beyond that is boring.

John could never be boring.

Re-bracing his feet, Rodney says nothing as John slips further and further into the rhythms of cocksucking. He's fighting it, a little; he wants an answer. But the slick glide of Rodney's cock over his tongue, the way Rodney will occasionally twist his hips so that the head gags him for just a second - the sheer physicality of it is overwhelming.

Rodney's good with physicality. That's what this has always been about - except once. And Rodney hadn't recognized that for what it was until years later.

Rodney shakes his head, throwing the memories out. He can brood later - right now he needs to be as focused on John as John is on him. He makes his decision.

Rodney reaches down and cups the side of John's face so that his fingers rest lightly just under John's jaw and he can follow the line of John's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

"Good boy," he says.

He times it right. John's too busy inhaling to moan and catching him between both is what Rodney's been waiting for: he strokes, gliding down the slope of his cheek, making humming, breathy noises as he gentles John to an easier pace, allowing him to breathe and still keep Rodney inside his mouth.

Perfect. He's perfect.

Rodney gradually makes his strokes more shallow, easing away from John's mouth in tiny increments. He can't stay there much longer. He's got a hell of a lot of control, but it's John - John on his knees for him, John taking "good boy" like a gift. It's nearly too much.

When he pulls out all the way, John lunges forward to try and stop him, but Rodney tightens the hands still on John's face and the back of his head and holds him in place.

"Stop," he says quietly, and John's instantly back in position, kneeling with his eyes downcast and his hands resting on his thighs.

"Look at me."

It's a mistake, but Rodney doesn't care. He wants to see John know exactly what's going on. He wants John to know what Rodney sees, what Rodney wants, and everything Rodney's going to make him do.

John purses his lips as he obeys, swallowing them back to nothing. Rodney catches the moment, forcing them out and still; they're pink and swollen, living in a face dyed pale and grey.

His pupils are blown wide, only the barest rim of hazel still visible. He's not panting, not anymore. If anything he's calm. Waiting.

And maybe it isn't a mistake after all.

"How many fingers have you taken?" he asks. His voice cracks on the word 'fingers' but he doesn't bother to worry about it; John's almost there, almost completely gone and Rodney showing his own enjoyment won't push him out. "And why only fingers?"

John looks up at him, pleading, and Rodney smiles. Oh, yes - almost there. John's flying high now, heading toward the place of no mind, of only the desire to do whatever Rodney says. Rodney waits for thirty seconds, then quietly says, "Tell me."

John's body eases, the tension of the moment before sliding away when he realizes he's passed a test. He starts to speak, but his throat is dry, so he has to swallow and lick his lips. "Two," he says. "Because I never..."

Rodney nods and opens his mouth just slightly. He's not going to actually say anything, but he wants John to think he might.

"Never in a bed...just during a blowjob. Once." John's voice cracks a little as the words come out.

"Tell me," Rodney says in a conversational tone. "Did you like it?"

John swallows again. "Yes."

Rodney rubs his fingers through John's hair. He remembers the lie from before, when John was trying to slip something by him. "Boy or girl?" he says knowingly.

John goes tense again, face twisting like it hurts him. He doesn't like this game but Rodney does: it's a simple paradox, one of the most common and continually most effective.

Rodney smiles. "Tell me."

"Girl." The word comes out rushed, John dropping his eyes. Ashamed? It's possible. Especially as it clarifies just what kind of queer John's been.

Rodney doesn't bother to figure it out. He simply reaches down - ignoring the strain it puts on his back - until he reach John's nipples and twists one in punishment. "Did I tell you to look back down?" he asks mildly.

John shakes his head, eyes wide and blank as he looks up again.

"Better. How long ago? Tell me."

"College," John gasps. "Junior year."

Rodney cups John's chin in his hand and pulls his head up at an uncomfortable but not painful angle. "Let me make this easy on you," he says, even though he's going to make it anything but. "You've given plenty of blowjobs and handjobs, but you've never let a man near that skinny ass, have you?"

When John opens his mouth to answer, Rodney pulls his head up a bare inch. He watches when John swallows hard and starts panting. He holds him there for as long as it takes him to count to ten, then eases the pressure enough to allow John to speak. "Answer me," Rodney says.

"Yes," John says, his voice rough with tension , and Rodney can hear everything in it - fear and lust and surrender. He's so close.

"Continue," Rodney says. He's not going to make this easy.

"It's...it's what you do in the service. Help a buddy out."

Abruptly, Rodney lets go and steps back. He puts at least a foot of space between them and crosses his arms over his chest. Watching.

John sways almost drunkenly as he's let go, mouth opening on a no or a don't he retains just enough control not to voice. His whole body is canted forward like he can't bear to be away from Rodney. Like he's so desperate for it that he'd crawl, shivering and broken, just to be back at Rodney's feet, feeling Rodney's skin against his own.

"John." It's easy to keep his voice steady when he's like this. Here he's the person he never can be when there's sunlight, sure within the boundaries of his own edges. This is his one shot and he's learned to make the most of it. "Is that what this is?"

John's lower lip is distended as he shakes his head quickly. It's not a pout so much as the kind of jaw-clenching stubbornness that's usually found in the girls he plays with. Seeing it here on John Sheppard is enough to make Rodney grope for the base of his cock, encircling it tightly while he watches.

"Good," he says, stepping back forward. "Have you ever wanted more? With someone other than me?" He glides his hand over John's cheek and chin until his whole head is tilted back at the same uncomfortable-but-not-painful angle. John melts into the position, almost nuzzling into Rodney's hand; exactly the way a good boy should. "Tell me."

"Ju-just you," John says. "God, just you."

Rodney hums a little at that, not giving away just how much he wants to just shove himself back into John's willing mouth. Instead, he thumbs John's cheekbone just to see his head tilt toward the touch.

"Why me?" he asks quietly. "Tell me why it's me."

It's cruel of him, really. John Sheppard has always used his laconic charm, his almost smarmy good looks, and a watchful presence to get around the things he doesn't want to talk about. Rodney knows that. He knows John, for all the other man likes to skate through life, lazily making sure nobody knows him at all.

Everyone always assumes that just because he's bad with people means he never understands them. He does. Most of the time he doesn't care enough to try but here - like this -

Here it's like the whorls and patterns of their fingerprints are numbers he can decode, the pulse of blood under their skin sheet music spinning perfectly in measure before his eyes. He knows them, in this place.

That he happens to know John outside of it as well is just a bonus.

John swallows and shifts awkwardly on his knees. They're starting to ache, Rodney guesses. "I - You were -" He stops, panting like the memory of Rodney is enough to get him off.

It probably is; Rodney's been the stuff of fantasies before.

"It looked so good," John says, whispered and low like he's barely aware he's speaking. "The way you touched them and - and spoke, God, I wanted -"

He gentles his voice while his fingers curve soft patterns through John's hair. "You wanted what, John?"

"Safe." He leans forward abruptly so his head is buried in Rodney's thigh. "It was safe. Free."

Right answer.

Rodney cups his hand against the back of John's head and holds him there firmly - not hurting him, not pressing his face too hard against the unyielding muscle of his thigh.

"I can keep you safe," he says, and he's been in this position with a lot of people who wanted the same thing, but he's never felt this way about them.

They were expedient, a means to an end - they got off and he got off and he bled out some of the anger and heat that he couldn't let out in the labs. If anyone in the lab ever knew what lurked under his bluster and sarcasm, half of them would run and half of them would hit the floor so hard their knees cracked.

But John, John, is different, damn him. Rodney knows that he's dying to unclasp his shaking hands from behind his back and wrap them tight around Rodney's legs. But he also wants more. He wants to give it all up to Rodney, let Rodney take control and make him fly.

"What you need, John. Is it like flying?" Rodney rubs John's head, feeling the sweat at the roots of his hair, feeling John's jaw working but no sound coming out. "Tell me," he says softly.

When John finally speaks there's so much more than breath and heat inside his voice. "Yeah," he says, muffled and true. "Yeah, yes. Please."

Any more and Rodney knows it'll break him; John gives up the pieces of himself the way a miser gives up his few remaining dollars. "Good boy," he says instead. Against him John makes another noise, high and broken and it's nothing at all like another man's name. He strokes John's hair again, nails delicate against a hairline scar he discovers. "Good boy. Undress me."

There's always method to his madness for all few other people see it. John needs to touch right now, to reestablish his connections with Rodney, and there's more harm in denying him that then allowing it. John is stiff as he uncurls, lurching forward eagerly to fumble for the edges of Rodney's pants and tug them down. They bunch around his knees, trapping him there - but that isn't John's goal so Rodney just strokes over John's face again, allowing him to touch and breathe and calm his breathing - skin warm against skin - before John applies himself to Rodney's shoe laces.

John's hands are still shaking and Rodney knows he's got to calm him down more. John can't hold at that level of...fear? want?...tight as a bow-string that long. Once his shoes are off and his pants are kicked away, he cups his hand under John's chin and pulls him up, all the way to his feet, knees protesting from being unbent after so long. John keeps his eyes downcast.

"We'll get there," he says, and he feels John relax just a tiny bit. "I'll make you fly - I promise." And John lets go just a little more. Rodney switches his grip to the back of John's neck and pulls him in, making John lean forward, hands still behind his back, to rest against Rodney's shoulder. His breath is a fast gust against Rodney's skin.

Rodney considers his options. John won't be able to take anything rougher than the small corrective slaps Rodney's given him, but he'll probably welcome restraint. Not having to force his hands by his sides will actually be a relief - at least until Rodney starts really playing with him.

Good thing he always has a few necessities with him. Rodney waits a moment longer, ostensibly to give John a chance to calm down more. In actuality it's because of all the myriad things he's done, of all the kinks he's played with - this is new. He's had men - usually men - who cuddled with an almost ravenous hunger once they'd broken. Rodney learned better than to force them away.

But he's never wanted it before. Feeling John lean against him, giving Rodney his weight and his warmth and the soft brush of another living person - that's new. And a little frightening because Rodney wants that. A lot. Thrills every time John lets him have it.

"There's a chest under my bed," he says. "Go get it."

The chest is made of oak and sanded water-smooth, heavy as it's dragged against the carpet's weave. There are designs around the latch: geometric shapes and rendered equations that only Rodney knows the meaning of. John runs a finger over them as he waits, looking up at Rodney expectantly.

"It's not locked," Rodney tells him. The words sound more like one day than another order.

There are many levels to the chest, like a woman's free-standing jewelry box, and Rodney's grateful that he taken his usual care with his organization. Exposing John to some of his more... interesting toys won't go over well this early on. Rodney doesn't want to shock John into flight. Instead, he points to the black cloth bag that takes up the bulk of the upper level. "Take those out and give them to me."

Simple commands are best. John obeys, patently startled when the bag is heavier than he expects and clinks ominously - but the look he turns up to Rodney as he crawls over is nothing but burning, incandescent heat. He knows. He wants and Rodney is more than happy to give him.

"Put them on the bed and get on it. And then you get a choice." Rodney grins when John blanches, frozen under the implications. "Lie on your back, or lay on your front. Pick one. You won't get the other."

He can see the indecision on John's face. If he lies down on his back, there's a better chance of getting to come. If lies down with his ass up and available, there's a better chance of getting fucked.

He slithers onto the bed and lies down on his belly, spreading his legs slightly. Rodney smiles.

He moves to the top of the bed and arranges the pillows just so - letting John turn his head to one side. He opens the black bag and puts two pairs of black leather cuffs - attached to short, medium-weight chains - where John can see them. At the sharp intake of breath, Rodney picks up one cuff and trails the chain all the way down the center of John's back, down the cleft of his ass, and lets it pool between John's legs.

He gets another sharp inhalation as the chain rests against the back of John's balls.

Temperature? The slick, heavy feel of the metal? Whatever it is, it allows Rodney to fish inside his chest for another toy, one he'd been planning to save for another day. Feeling the cool, gel-like material wrapped around his fingers is another point of excitement as he picks the other chain up and lets it slither down the length of John's long legs.

Above him, dark eyes glint wet and bright as they roll, trying to see what Rodney's doing. "Close your eyes," Rodney says, curt and abrupt. John shivers and only reluctantly obeys. "Good. You don't open them and you don't move until I tell you. Nod if you understand."

John's cheek scrapes against the pillow as he agrees.

The bed is built for this. Cuff and chain slide onto their respective places easily while John is busy trying not to hyperventilate. It's cute, actually. It's been a while since he's gone this slowly. He makes sure there's give in the chain then retrieves the other one left draped snake-like over John's body, following its path with a steady stream of cool air.

John moans - and then again when Rodney slaps the back of his thigh. "Did I give you permission to make noise?" He's not menacing. He's not angry. Both of those are useless emotions better saved for when he needs the release. Now he's only disappointed and John shivers like a recalcitrant child under him.

He shakes his head negatively. No, he hasn't been given permission.

"No noise, boy. Not until I say so."

John jerks slightly - then immediately goes still - at the 'boy' and Rodney makes a mental note to not use the word too much. He hadn't done it much with his people in the city without 'good' or 'bad' attached - didn't really care enough - so John's not used to it. As much as he wants to, Rodney knows he can't deviate too much from what John has already seen him do. He can only go so far with this.

He doesn't know if this is a one-time thing. He doesn't know if, after this, they go back to two guys having a beer or if John will catch a transport each time he needs this, wants this. He can't know what's going to happen when they leave this room, though he can predict what will happen inside these four walls.

Add to that the fact that John is so fucking beautiful like this and Rodney's detachment is starting to get a few chinks in the armor. He puts his hand on the small of John's back and pushes down, knowing that he's grinding John's cock against the bed.

John stays still and quiet, and Rodney rewards him by easing the pressure and trailing his fingertips against John's skin. It's not completely smooth - there are imperfections, tiny divots and scars along the way. They make it feel even better.

He binds only one arm and one leg. As tempting as it would be to have John stretched out like Da Vinci's Virtuvian Man, it would shift the balance into a place John can't go yet. This makes him work for it, reminds him each and every time his free arm or leg moves that he has to obey.

It also gives him the illusion of freedom.

Rummaging around in the chest, Rodney brings out one or two more things. He's intentionally louder than he needs to be, watching carefully - but John doesn't strain to figure out what Rodney's doing. He just breathes, soft and slow, body only arching when Rodney touches it, pushing back for more.

"Normally, I'd have you do this," he says. "I'd strap you down so you were kneeling and bent over, then force you to reach around. It's awkward and very painful if you aren't used to it. And you aren't, are you? But you could be." The snick of the cap's removal is shockingly loud. "You want to be. You like performing, don't you? If the audience is right."

He pours a puddle of lube between his hands and rubs it like massage oil, warming it before adding a little more. His first touch between John's shadowed cheeks is gentle. Almost tentative, although Rodney doesn't feel that way. He stays on the outside, rubbing slow circles until he's sure John is comfortable with this new sensation.

Rodney knows how hard is to not move when being touched this way - whether to move into or away from the pressure - but god bless the stupid US military, they certainly teach their people how to wait it out.

He pushes John's free leg up, his knee sliding higher on the sheet than Rodney'd thought he could manage. It makes all the muscles of John's thigh, back, and ass flex and hold. It also opens John up to his gaze, and Rodney wonders how long John can hold himself still under the weight of it.

He's still rubbing circles around skin that's dark grey from shadows, darker still from hair that Rodney thinks longingly about shaving. He likes smooth, unbroken skin to play with.

Not now, he thinks, and carefully pushes the tip of his thumb - so slick it's hard to keep it still - inside of John.

John inhales, sharp and broken, back muscles clenching, hard and distended, before he forces himself to calm down again. "Good," Rodney says. "Let it happen. You want it to happen."

Rodney waits, poised. He knows that the relaxation is forced, faked. John's ass is closed tight against him and John's breathing is starting to get frantic.

"Easy," Rodney says, moving his hand away just slightly. John's breathing does not change. "What is it?" he says. "Answer me."

John's voice is vibrating with tightness and rough with tension. "Gonna come," he grits out.

Rodney huffs out a small laugh. "I don't think so," he says. He moves John's knee again, into the position he wants. "Lift up," he says.

John does, and Rodney picks up the cockring he'd put on the bed earlier. It's not a heavy duty one, just stretchy gel material. It won't hold John back a lot, but just by being there will help him keep control. Rodney wipes just a little lube onto it and reaches under John.

"Do not come when I touch you," he says, "or this ends." He hears John take in a rattling breath, then he moves deliberately, holding his cock steady with one hand and sliding the ring down with the other. John's breathing goes a little higher, but he's less close to hyperventilating now.

Rodney holds his leg up a little higher, admiring the view - John's heaving stomach and the hard curve of his cock, so dark with blood. He very slowly pulls John's leg back down into the starting position. Once he's settled, he pushes his index finger inside John precisely one inch. John makes a rough, pained noise - like breathing through glass - that he tries desperately to swallow. He's mostly successful and the noise was hot, so Rodney will forgive him this once.

Really hot.

Rodney holds himself perfectly still. John's not fighting the pain, but he's not relaxing into it either. If anything he's -

Narrowing his eyes, Rodney twists his finger to the right. It has to hurt. John is virginal and tight enough that Rodney's actually uncomfortable no matter how much lube he uses. But instead of the half-twitch up and away that no one can ever control, John is pushing minutely back.

It's not a sexual thing. Rodney gets that immediately and reverses his praise of the US military - this is acceptance of pain, preparation for it, not enjoyment. "Shhh," he says. His free hand strokes over the curve of John's ass, fingering the edge of the cock ring, cool and smooth against the blood-hot richness of John's scrotum. "Breathe. Relax for me."

Two shuddery breaths become three and then four before John relaxes enough for Rodney's peace of mind. Another two and there's a half-buried moan in the exhale. "Good," he says again, cupping John's balls lightly and rubbing them even as he twists his finger again, rocking it just slightly.

Another rub leads to another twist and push and John starts to go liquid. The muscles of his back - still sharply in relief - settle and smooth, working easily as he takes the most forceful push yet, rocking into it.

Rodney doesn't correct him for the motion - it wouldn't help anyway, and it would just ratchet John's stress back up. Instead, he turns it around, makes it a command.

"Move for me," he says. "Back and forth, just like that. Take me in."

He looks up John's body, at his knee and opposite palm, both pressing into the mattress to rock his body back and forth. Then he looks back down to see that John has pushed himself all the way down, Rodney's finger completely inside.

He's glad John can't see him and hopes he doesn't hear the way Rodney swallows thickly. This isn't a pretty, faceless girl with her cunt turned up, or an equally pretty, faceless marine who is whimpering - they always whimper - at the idea of giving up and giving in, ass upturned and greedy.

This is John and Rodney's got a finger inside him.

"Easy," he says, grateful his voice is still calm and level. "Take it slowly. Good. That's very good." He wants to say boy again, heavy on his tongue, but he doesn't. His praises stay soft, gentle and cajoling as he sets up a steady rocking motion.

He's not opening yet, his body unable to flower open like Rodney's regulars, but it's clear he isn't hurting any longer. Rodney worms a hand underneath John's body, cupping and caressing his cock. It's not as hard as it was, but a few quick, awkward strokes - timed with the movement of his finger - revive it even more.

Finally, finally, John relaxes for real, and his frantic movements smooth out. Rodney gives his cock one more squeeze and gets back to his kneeling position between John's legs. On the next thrust in, he places his hand on the small of John's back again and slowly slides his finger out.

John bucks back against him, but Rodney thumbs the top of his cleft and makes him stop moving.

"Shhhhh," he says, and John stills. God, he's good. Rodney wishes he could do so many things to John, and he's shocked to realize that some of them have nothing to do with power games at all. He shakes the thoughts off and removes his hand from John's back.

He finds the lube and squeezes more onto his fingers, sliding one back inside without warming the gel at all.

John shudders, hard. He stays quiet but Rodney can see his throat work; he's silent because he's willing himself obedient, not because there's no noise to voice. His hand flexes hard against the bed - a small thing and Rodney finds it hot enough watching those long fingers flex and twitch against his sheets that he doesn't mind.

Defiance's are too much a part of John.

"Ready for more?" Rodney doubts it. John's starting to rock back more firmly, muscles easing, but that doesn't mean he's enjoying the sensation of something inside him. Just the presence of Rodney and what Rodney's doing to him.

Not that that's a bad thing.

"Tell me."

"Y-yes. Yeah."

Rodney bends in a way that would've come with a mountain of complaints in a different setting and nips the top of John's cheek. The mark blossoms red for only a moment. "Don't lie to me."

"I..."

Rodney knows. He knows that John can't find the right words. If he says it hurts, Rodney might stop. If he says it's good, Rodney will do more, hurt him more.

John's body relaxes suddenly, all the fight going out of him. He mumbles something into the pillow.

Carefully not moving his finger out, Rodney grabs John's hip in a hard grip - not enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn.

"Say that again," he says. "Where I can hear you."

John lifts his head slightly. "You decide," he says.

"That's better," Rodney praises, angling his hand just enough that he can smooth a pinky over the strip of skin between balls and hole. Rodney likes the perineum; it so often goes ignored and stimulating it can be something of a revelation: he's had the privilege of playing with men who could come just from the right amount of pressure there.

John isn't that sensitive, but enough that Rodney's stroking is definitely accepted as the reward it's meant. He sighs, melting further into the bed.

Rodney withdraws his finger entirely. It's to add more lube - but the tight clench of John's body around him as he exits is arousing as it is ... interesting. "Greedy," Rodney taunts, slapping him hard on the back of his thigh - not his ass, not yet - enjoying the way John's skin goes white then a flushed, angry pink. "That what you are, you know. You're greedy. You want something back inside you, filling you up until it's not enough. It won't be enough even then, you know. Once you've had this you'll want more and more."

The image of John, tied down on his back, riding against the pressure of Rodney's fist - something John asked for- hits hard enough that Rodney has to grip himself with lube-slick fingers. God, he wants to do that.

It's not smooth, or fast, but Rodney gets two fingers inside without causing too much pain, John puddled on the bed as he eagerly accepts this new intrusion.

John's surrender is a sight to see. Rodney has seen his partners go down, but not like this - not after working so hard against their own will. And just as hard as he's fought is as hard as John falls, dropping into the white space like he belongs there. The words "you decide" have given him permission to fall.

Once the two fingers are moving easily, Rodney crooks them, snugging his thumb up behind John's balls.

John sighs - a sound within the range of acceptable - pushing into the touch with actual enjoyment rising up the ripple of his back. That's what Rodney loves to see most: the moment when the pressure inside one of his pets goes from something they tolerate because it's a prelude for something else to something that's enjoyable for it's own sake. Rodney knows he has very talented hands and he moves them as expertly as he once caressed thin bars of ivory.

"Noises," Rodney says. "No words, and not loud."

John shudders with a lesser kind of release, allowing himself to groan as Rodney flexes in and around him. He doesn't have a good voice - it's too scratchy, too rough, too tenor for the baritone it really needs to be. But hearing it twist and spiral and break as Rodney works him just a little harder, a little faster, is well worth the irregularities.

And then Rodney gives him what he didn't even know he wanted, skimming the fingers inside over John's prostate - just a flicker of motion, then gone, and John makes a noise that could be a sob into the pillow.

"More, John?" Rodney asks. "Can you take three? Answer me."

John pillows his head on his free arm. "God. Uh," he gasps, "if you want me to."

Rodney bends down to scatter kisses along John's back. "Right answer," he says. Once again John clamps down as Rodney pulls free, this time moaning with an aching note of longing.

"I bet I know why you stayed away from this for so long," he says as adds more lube and then presses back in. John is hot and slick from residual lube and so, so smooth. "Because you're going to want this now. It'll be worse when I have my cock inside you, too. You're going to crave it, aware of just how empty you are every moment without fingers or a cock filling you back up."

John lets out another strangled moan.

Rodney starts the painstaking process of getting the third finger inside, going slower than he ever thought he could. But he keeps talking, low and even.

"You're never going to be able to jerk off again without doing it to yourself, without shoving a finger inside," he says. "After I fuck you, after I show you how good it can be, maybe you'll go out and get a dildo - maybe a plug - blushing like crazy when you buy it." He's got the very tips of three fingers inside, keeping them pressed close together, not too much stretch yet.

"You'll go home - you'll go back to wherever it is they've got you living, in some empty room somewhere, and you'll jerk off with silicone inside you, and you'll remember me doing this."

John makes a broken, needy noise and pushes back sharply. Rodney responds without thinking, hand flashing out to turn John's ass-cheeks bright pink. "I didn't say you could move that much," he raps out.

John goes rigid. He's panting hard, now, like he can't get enough air in. He looks frightened and turned on both and makes Rodney wish he had a camera.

What would John do if he knew Rodney had photographic evidence that he'd been here, naked and hard and spitted on Rodney's fingers?

"That's why you never let yourself have this before. You know how greedy you are. Your whole life has been about getting yourself back up into the sky because you've never let yourself know just how good it is to be on the ground, filled and fucked."

John's ass is gorgeous with just a little color on it, and Rodney can't resist leaning forward to kiss and lick the prints he's made. The motion makes his fingers slide in more, and John just relaxes further, letting it happen - only a small lift of his hips betraying any discomfort.

Rodney pushes in a little more - relentlessly - and lets the tip of one finger touch John where it counts. His hips go up again, and Rodney's in more than halfway. He can hardly wait to get his cock into that hot, smooth space. He wants to change up the bonds - tie both hands and free both legs so he can have John on his knees, wanton, legs spread, his face in the pillow and those sharp groans chasing one another out of his mouth.

Still bent over, Rodney twists his hand so his palm faces up. It's easier to move his fingers that way as he places biting kisses up the length of John's spine. It's a deviation from what he knows John's seen but he can't help it. This is John, heaving back as Rodney finally gets his fingers in deep enough that he can use the back of his nail to brush against John's prostate; John who can never be a faceless, nameless figure to get off on.

John, who's about to give himself a heart attack to keep himself from saying Rodney's name.

He can hear the syllables as they're swallowed back and each one makes it that much harder for Rodney to wait - and he has to. John may want it and he may think he's ready, but he absolutely isn't. Rodney can barely scissor his fingers wider than the tight line John's accepting and Rodney knows anything bigger - like, oh, say his cock - is going to send John screaming.

"Easy," he says into John's back, mouthing the letters onto his skin. "You're almost there. You're so eager, aren't you? Just like they were. Do you remember the sandy-haired one? I had him on his back with his legs in the air and I knew you were watching. I made sure you could see while I put my whole hand inside of him and I know you couldn't look away. The way he rippled and tightened around my wrist, the way he sounded like a little boy again, whimpering and almost crying as he came."

And, god, he can almost see the emotions warring in John - jealousy and want. He knows they won't get there today, and not for a long time, not with John so tight and untouched, but it will happen, and when it does, John will be in so deep he won't know anything but Rodney's hand in him. It's an incredibly hot thought, and it makes Rodney push just a little more, spread his fingers just a little further.

John cries out sharply - and abruptly goes totally relaxed. He's still panting, whimpering softly every time Rodney moves his fingers a little bit wider and the hitch of his hips shows a painfully hard cock - but the last remaining tension that's held him so tight is gone. John is as relaxed as he's ever going to be for his first time, and Rodney can't wait any longer.

"Stay," he barks as he pulls his fingers free. John only moans, disappointed, and doesn't move. Rodney's left hand is too slick to open the condom package so he uses his teeth before hastily rolling it on. The condom's also different, but Rodney needs the distance latex will give him - and he doesn't want too much of a mess. For one thing, he'll actually have to clean it up instead of leaving it for someone else.

For another, he's not sure John's ready to be come on quite as much Rodney really, really wants to come all over that smooth, long back. Less mess will give John more time to acclimate.

He moves quickly and purposefully the way Ronon's always telling him to, skin humming as his whole body focuses. John is dead weight but pliable, and once he figures out what Rodney wants he helps as he's pushed onto his knees, bound leg freed and his free hand bolted to the bed with a click that echoes in Rodney's skull.

And then - then Rodney stops. He slows down. He kneels behind John bent form and puts his palms on his cheeks, thumbs widening his entrance even further. John looks debauched, almost obscene like this. It's beautiful the way no Bach concerto, no Degas painting - Rodney's favorite - has ever been.

"Tell me what you want."

"Fuck me," John says softly, as if he's trying out the words, as if they feel weird in his mouth.

"Say it like you mean it," Rodney says, his thumbs digging in just that little bit more, his cock resting against the cleft of John's ass.

"Oh, god, Rodney. Please." John's panting the words, harsh breaths between each one, and Rodney loves it, loves to hear those words in that mouth. "Fuck me."

And he almost forgets. He's lining himself up, ready to push in when he remembers to say it.

"You can say whatever you want."

John is too busy crying out to say anything but as Rodney inches forward - slow, so god damned slow, painfully slow when all he wants to do is slam home - the strained sounds resolve into one word repeated over and over.

"Rodney, Rodney, Rodney."

Halfway in and Rodney has to stop. John is so tight and each repetition of his name is like a bolt of fire coursing down his nerves. "No," John moans. "F - ff," and oh, god. God. He's trying to say 'Ford', Rodney knows it. This is too much, he's gone too fast, and it hurts too much - Rodney knows he's well hung, it's part of his attraction - and John isn't ready for this and this is his friend, someone he has to work with - wants to work with - and -

John whines with almost dangerous neediness and shoves his hips back hard, taking Rodney in deeper. "Fuck me," he gets out. He's owning the words this time, echoing deep in his chest and all the way to Rodney's dick. "Rodney, fuck me, god now, Rodney!"

Oh.

There are probably a lot of people who'd turn over any amount of goods, money, and/or services to hear John say that, and Rodney's always been at the top of that list.

He moans, something he's never done in this type of encounter, mind blanking as he slides all the way in.

He holds there, as much for his own benefit as John's. This is not going as expected - not at all. He's losing his objectivity, and that's dangerous, but he's pretty sure that there's no stopping this.

Suddenly, he wishes that he'd freed John's arms so he could - he's dragged out of that train of thought when John's head goes down even lower and - instinctively or accidentally - John's body clenches down on his cock.

Good freaking god. This is going to kill him.

When Rodney still doesn't move, John huffs an incredibly annoyed - so achingly familiar - noise and starts fucking himself on Rodney's cock. He doesn't have much leverage with Rodney's weight pinning his hips and back but he still manages to slide up and down a few millimeters with each frustrated grunt.

Jesus, Rodney thinks. Does he honestly care that this is different? Of course it's different: it's John. That's made it different from the start, because this isn't like the one-night-stands that made him famous in college, this isn't one of the marines who so diligently appear whenever he shows he's willing - and with sudden, painful clarity Rodney realizes he doesn't want them anymore.

All he wants is John, whether it's for nights like this or more simple, uncomplicated sex, or even no sex at all. He wants John. He probably always has.

Closing his eyes - something Rodney never does during sex, not even kissing - Rodney puts his hands on John's shoulders to hold him down. He needs the leverage since his own back is killing him and if John wants to be fucked, Rodney is just the person to do it.

He slides back out almost as slowly as he pushed in - then slams forward, ignoring the friction that rides on the edge of being too much, too painful. John convulses under him, goes slack and open, breathing out in a sigh that sounds like relief. So Rodney does it again.

"God," John moans. "I...Rodney, I..."

"You what?" Rodney says, pulling out and then pressing back in as slowly as he can, feeling every slick inch of John's tight ass, even through the dulling sensation of the condom.

"I wish I could touch you," John says, his voice breaking.

Rodney knows it then - he is so very fucked.

"Next time," he says, completely without meaning to. Yes, so very fucked.

"Yeah," John says. "Okay."

Rodney has a hysterical moment where he wants to ask if they just agreed to go steady - but John is starting to tighten again. This is different, though. Rodney's fucked his way through this dozens of times and feeling it now makes his own dick harder in reaction: John's not just enduring it anymore.

John grunts, rolling his hips back as Rodney slides deep inside him. "Feels good."

"Yeah," Rodney says. "It's going to feel even better in a minute." He alternates the long, slow strokes with a couple of quick, shallow jabs. He knows he's gotten the angle right when John's arms collapse under him and he makes a harsh sound into the pillow.

All the control and the stamina that Rodney's prided himself on for years is slipping out from under him, gone in a wash of amazement. He's fucking John Sheppard. He's got him bent over on his knees, chained, face buried in a pillow, with a cock-ring holding him back.

There's no one strong enough for that.

He tries, though. He uses as much skill and finesse that he has to make sure John's body is singing with every stroke, drawing it out as long as possible.

When John's moans into the pillow turn into one long whine, Rodney pushes all the way in and reaches underneath to strip the cockring off. No one could withstand the sudden freedom of the release of pressure - especially someone so new to this.

John cries out and comes.

Rodney clamps down hard on John's shoulders. He's so hot inside, clenched down impossibly tight and Rodney's close, so close as he feels John's orgasm leave him to wet the chest Rodney hasn't gotten a chance to play with yet and his own bed - but he doesn't want to come yet.

So he waits, riding through the intensity of John's pleasure until John stops breathing like a bellows and lies quiet on the bed.

"Say yes." Rodney's voice breaks.

There's little leverage with both hands chained, but John pushes until he's balanced on all fours. "Yeah. Yeah, Rodney."

Rodney lets go. He fucks without skill, without control, just a mindless shove of his own hips into the curve of John's ass, his cock into John's body, until he comes hard enough to send sparks showering in front of his eyes, his own groan rattling in his ears.

He doesn't collapse onto John but it's a near thing.

"Jesus Christ," John says quietly, and he jumps a little when Rodney pulls out slowly. When Rodney's hands leave his hips, he falls forward in a boneless sprawl.

Rodney looks down at him with something like awe. He'd always gone into this sort of thing with the intention of breaking the other person - of owning their pleasure as much as his own.

He puts his hand on the small of John's back, realizing that - just maybe - they've broken each other.

John stays quiet as he's unchained and gently rolled onto his back. Normally, Rodney would leave the clean-up for someone else - but this isn't normal. So he gently chafes wrist and ankle, trying to ignore the glistening brilliance of John's come drying on his chest.

It's Rodney who gets a wet cloth, disposing of his condom before returning. It's Rodney who wipes John over his belly and cock and ass - John moans and shifts restlessly when he's touched there, but it doesn't seem to be in pain. "Sore?" Rodney asks.

"Yeah. It's good."

"Being sore is good?"

John's smiles wide enough that his teeth gleam. He doesn't often do that, open-mouthed smiles. Like showing that much of himself physically is a gateway to showing too much - and maybe it is. When John smiles at Rodney now his eyes glow. "Yeah. Sore is good."

Rodney can't help smiling back at him and touching the side of his face with two fingers. He returns the cloth to the bathroom.

When he comes back, John has pushed the spread off the bed and gotten under the sheet and blanket, his hair dark and wild on the bright white pillowcase.

He shouldn't. He never - oh, fuck it. He's broken every damn one of his rules tonight, what's one more?

He slides into the bed and gathers John's pliant body to his chest, dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

"How long?" John asks. "How long were we..."

The clock glows green and faint; Rodney hates bright light in the morning. "It's past one."

John yawns, and Rodney's not surprised at all - he expects the exhaustion. He's coming down himself, sliding into an unusual languor - these encounters usually rev him up, get him going for several more hours in the lab.

"So," John says, sleepy and sated. "What do you want to have for breakfast?"

Rodney glances at the ceiling for a moment, then leans his cheek against John's temple.

"You decide," he says.