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Domesticated

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It takes Rodney 4.4 seconds to realize that someone is in his room when the door to his quarters glides shut behind him. It’s the delicate sound (like a ‘plik plik’) issuing from the bathroom door that tips him off to the fact. Not that it would take long anyway – he has a sixth sense about when somebody is looking at him or when somebody has been through his lab (and sometimes, his bedroom). When he deposits his tablet on his desk and crosses the room, he’s imagining thieves running wild through the majestic halls of Atlantis, pranksters sneaking in to set Rodney’s shower temp to a default setting of “Arctic Blast,” Ronon rummaging through Rodney’s sock drawer to repo the chocolate Rodney totally doesn’t owe him after that Friday card game. He does not expect to open the door with a triumphant “A-ha!” – to find John Sheppard in Rodney’s bathtub, chest deep in mountains of sweet smelling bubbles.

“Excuse me,” Rodney sputters. “That bubble bath comes at a premium, Sheppard. You have no idea what I had to trade Cadman for that stuff. You had better be prepared to cough up some Belgian dark chocolate or Asian medley MREs.”

After a moment of apparent initial surprise (eyebrows charmingly peaked and face attractively darkened), John snorts.

Rodney tries not to be taken in by the way his eyes crinkle when he smirks. Rodney tries even harder not to lose his pique when John moves sideways, the milky water imparting a glimpse of dark hair trailing down John’s chest, a tanned and lanky frame Rodney has just recently been given the right to ogle openly. Rodney steels himself against the trademarked Sheppard allure with arms crossed over his chest and an arched expression.

“Chill out, McKay.” John’s voice is honey, damn him. And he’s gorgeous, leaning back against the rim of the tub, looking amazing and inviting (wet is a good look on him). “There’s plenty of room.”

That’s pretty much all it takes. It’s all the invitation Rodney needs before he’s grumbling and yanking on his uniform. The clothes don’t come off quick enough (his jacket zipper actually snags on the way down) – and there’s an interesting concept, rip-away clothing for practical purposes of efficiency. When he’s naked as a harp seal, Rodney climbs into the tub, lowering himself into water the perfect temperature. He settles back, breathing in wisps of steam scented like lavender that rise off the water. The delicious warm and scent is almost better than being pressed, hip to shoulder, against a wonderfully naked John Sheppard. Almost but not quite.

“Oh my god, I should send you up here more often,” Rodney sighs. For a second, he drops his head back and just luxuriates in the sensation.

John arches one dark eyebrow at him. “Are you saying you want me to draw a bath for you when you come home?” he asks skeptically.

Color rises in Rodney’s cheek. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“You want me to have dinner on the table for you, too?” John asks.

Rodney turns to stare at him, wide-eyed. He can’t quite tell if John is teasing or if he’s offended. “Is that an offer, because if it is—” He breaks off abruptly when John lowers himself into Rodney’s lap, slick and warm skin against skin. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Sorry, McKay,” John’s smirk is as wonderful as the water, “but this is about as ‘domestic’ as I get.” And then John slides against him – a long and sensuous motion. That’s all it takes and Rodney is half-hard and getting harder. John is there already, his cock pressing against Rodney’s stomach.

Rodney grasps John’s hips, trying to control the rhythm of John’s motions, trying to press the cleft of John’s ass firm against his erection. “I can’t see much area to improve on.” His voice is uneven, breathless.

John’s laughter is a breath against his collarbone. The water laps against the rim of the tub as John rises onto his knees and pushes back against Rodney. It’s almost too soapy – the bubbles gliding down John’s stomach and the curve of his ass – so there’s not quite enough friction. John plants both hands on the edge of the tub on either side of Rodney’s head and uses that point for leverage. Up (hard cock rubbing against Rodney’s stomach, against the center of Rodney’s chest), back down (Rodney’s cock slipping between John’s cheeks). “Almost there,” John pants.

“Wait, wait, not yet—”

John grunts and the hard peaks of his nipples brush against Rodney’s cheek as he presses up. “Shit, McKay—Almost—”

Then Rodney opens his mouth, sucks the nipple against his lips, and John clasps the back of his neck with soapy fingers. Rodney’s sucking hard as John bucks against him, knees slipping against the slippery bathtub bottom. And John comes, hot and bright, against Rodney’s chest with a groan. When the tremors subside, John sags back onto Rodney’s thighs, his legs open and relaxed on either side of Rodney.

Rodney is still making tiny movements beneath John, fingers restless on John’s hips (on John’s back). It’s exactly 14.4 seconds before John recovers and swings his leg over Rodney. He slides through Rodney’s grasp like water when Rodney tries to keep him there. Rodney’s protesting, “Wait, wait—” but he stops when he realizes that John is turning around, fitting their bodies together – Rodney’s chest to John’s back.

Then John is moving back against Rodney – one smooth, forceful movement – and his body is perfect, awe-inspiring. Rodney could compose mathematical sonnets to the implausibly amazing feeling of John Sheppard’s ass against Rodney’s cock. John builds Rodney up until Rodney is music (perfect high note suspended on the air). His arms lock across John’s chest as he pushes up, rides that lofty feeling against John until he shudders and he’s spent.

“Welcome home, honey,” John rasps. His hair is spiky and lavender scented against Rodney’s face. It shakes when he snorts and starts laughing.

“What, no meatloaf?” Rodney jokes. He chuckles at the elbow John pokes him with.