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It's possibly the most boring meeting Rodney's ever been to, and that's saying something. Working for the SGC should mean that meetings are full of lost tempers and imminent danger and they are: too much, certainly, and Rodney's come to value the boring meetings if only as a change from yet another meeting where the main topic of discussion is oh god, oh god, we're all going to die.

However. This is an abysmally boring meeting, one of the botanists droning on about something that is probably going to bite them on the ass later—literally, of course, since this is Pegasus—while the rest of them sit, paralyzed with boredom, unable to interrupt because Carter has the insane idea that everyone should be heard, something Elizabeth had done away with in under three meetings.

Rodney sneaks a glance across the table: oh yeah. Carter's completely asleep with her eyes open.

Bored, bored, bored, Rodney shifts as quietly as he can and curses changing of the guard, which always means the useless, inefficient bureaucracy crap that's been done away with comes back with a vengeance. He's been through it too many times to even be surprised by it, and while he suspects Carter isn't going to last much longer—not even she can be interested in whatever's being discussed, something about wheat yields?—it's not the kind of change one can implement retroactively.

Meaning Rodney is still stuck in this blasted, boring, useless meeting.

Beside him, Sheppard's head drops back a bare inch. He isn't asleep, quite, but he's close and Rodney's curses his pathetic hyper awareness of anything Sheppard does because really, shouldn't they be past the honeymoon phase already? It's been three, no, eight—god, almost a year since they've started this thing and yes, being as discreet as they have to is probably going to elongate the sickeningly gooey part of being with someone, but this is verging on ridiculous.

But still, Rodney's entire body feels the moment Sheppard pushes his hips slightly to the left. To Rodney. And, okay, it's probably just boredom and trying to ease an ass that falls asleep surprisingly frequently when Sheppard sits in regular desk chairs—the dumbest excuse Rodney's ever heard and wildly effective—but Rodney is bored, ridiculously, mind-tearingly bored, and he can't help it if it leads him towards the surest cure for boredom he's ever discovered in not quite 37 years of conscious life.

Rodney's not stealthy. He's not subtle. But he's around people every day who are stealthy and subtle and some things have to rub off, even if it's completely via osmosis. Whatever it is, Rodney successfully gets his hand from his own thigh to Sheppard's and rubs. Softly.

They're sitting close enough that Rodney can hear Sheppard swallowing, wet and kind of crackly, but they're too close to actually look at each other without giving the game away, and Rodney has no intention of letting that happen.

John's hand brushes against his wrist, applying a hint of pressure: Stop it, moron.

Rodney makes sure his forearm is completely underneath the table before placing his hand around the last part of Sheppard's thigh before it becomes knee and squeezes. Hard. Shut up, Sheppard, I'm doing something here.

More pressure. We're in a meeting!

Another squeeze. Bored, Sheppard. Truly, truly bored.

It's a little disconcerting that Rodney can follow the 'conversation' so easily, but he is, and he's determined, jaw lifting up a little, and after a moment or two, Sheppard's hand drops away entirely. Fine, whatever. Another slight shift: But if you get us caught...

Yes, yes, of course. So decided, Rodney bites his lip hard so he doesn't smirk, and carefully slides his hand up to Sheppard's groin, cupping between his legs.

Oh, yeah. Best cure for boredom ever.

Sheppard has a fantastic dick. Big and thick even when soft and while not exactly a monster when hard, it is certainly all that Rodney could ever want, particularly the way Sheppard is so incredibly sensitive right along the vein...

Rodney rubs his palm carefully over the seam of Sheppard's BDUs, getting his bearings. It’s dressed to the right, as usual, but after a few seconds of finger-walking his way over the length of it to tease the head with firmer pressure, he finally figures out why it feels slightly different than he's expecting.

He can't move quickly since people can still see his arm, but as fast as possible he works his hand up to the top of Sheppard's pants and sticks a finger down inside.

No underwear. No boxers, no briefs, not even the bikini-brief that Sheppard swears up and down is for surfing.

Beside him, Sheppard shifts and is probably thanking god and his parents' complexions that he doesn't flush all that much, because the sudden outpouring of heat against Rodney's fingers means if he were as fair as say, Rodney, there'd be really obvious distraction to the meeting.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Moving his hand back around, Rodney stays above the pants as he rubs and strokes, alternating the flat of his palm with the very tips of his fingers, using every trick he can to make Sheppard squirm. That's where the fun really lies, because Sheppard is still slouched in the same position as always, but there's an air of being forced around his shoulders, like he's holding the position, intentionally, instead of just being bored and possessing a spine made of rubber.

If Elizabeth were here, Rodney couldn't do this. She'd know something was up and start raising eyebrows at them. But Carter isn't Elizabeth, isn't a born administrator and anyway, she's staring unfocused at the screen against the wall, utterly dead to the world.

Sheppard's breathing doesn't change an iota, but even with only a thin layer of BDU's between them, Rodney can feel the heavy beat of his pulse, running faster and faster as Rodney works him first hard, then eager, throbbing lightly as Rodney scrapes his nails around the straining head, soothing the—hopefully—sting moments later with a broad stroke of his palm. Rodney's mouth waters, words heavy and thick against his tongue, because Rodney doesn't actually play with Sheppard's cock all that much. The sex is fantastic and mutually gratifying, of course, but there are other things for Rodney to play with, things Sheppard wants to play with and to have played with, and he rarely gives in to his desire to just touch and tease and, coincidentally, tell Sheppard just how much Rodney loves his cock.

Because he does. He loves the thickness of it, moreso than Rodney's own, and the dusky color that doesn't flush red, like most of the cocks Rodney's ever seen, but something nearly blue-purple, like his skin is so thin the actual composition of blood shows through. He loves the taste of it, salty but not particularly bitter, only a little sour, and the way it surges over his tongue, like Sheppard can't help but want more. Rodney suspects there's history there, or rather, a lack of history, but he's never found a good way to inquire if Sheppard just had particularly stupid partners or if he's had some bad experiences with blow-jobs and just forewent them until Rodney finally rolled his eyes and shoved him onto the bed and told him to shut up and just take it already, because hey, here's a concept, he likes sucking dick.

And he does. Not often, because it makes his jaw ache, but the way Sheppard just shatters at the first swipe of his tongue makes Rodney eager, makes him desperate, because nothing makes Sheppard shiver quite so hard, blind and probably deaf because if he knew how high his voice went, needy, yes, but also soft like it's still something he doesn't know how to accept, like he's still fighting it even as he trembles over Rodney's tongue—

The button slips open soundlessly, and the zipper absolutely isn't, but Rodney does a good job of muffling it, mentally thanking the idiot still talking because he's ruffling through his papers anxiously. Down goes the zipper and out comes Sheppard's cock, hot and wet along the head, eagerly pressing up into Rodney's hand. It feels good and Rodney closes his fingers, tight and perfect the way he knows Sheppard loves, inching his way down until he can rub against the head, smearing them both a little wetter.

It's barbaric, what American hospitals do to their boys, Rodney's always believed that, but honestly he finds it hotter that he has to be slightly more careful with Sheppard, has to pay attention and make certain his palm isn't rasping and dry because that'll hurt and he doesn't want that. Oh, it's still incredibly annoying because sometimes Rodney just wants him to come already, but now when Rodney's taking his time, he can slow it down even further as he twists over the head again and again, making certain they’re both sticky and slick.

Beside him, Sheppard is so very still that if anyone were actually paying attention, they'd be staring. It's not that he fidgets, precisely, the way Zelenka does when bored, it's just that Sheppard is unnaturally still.

Or maybe it's just Rodney who would notice, because differences intrigue him and this is most definitely a difference.

Sheppard's cheek flexes—slowly—and Rodney has to stifle his own grin because he knows Sheppard is biting the inside of his cheek and that really shouldn't be hot, but it is. It's incredibly hot, as hot as the skin that slides slickly against his fingers, Sheppard's hips almost totally still, but his cock still managing to arch up higher, trailing after Rodney's hand whenever he lifts up for more than a fraction of a second.

Rodney's shoulder is starting to ache a little and he wants to speed up. Sheppard likes that, really likes that, and so he carefully rearranges himself so even his elbow is underneath the lip of the table and starts flicking his wrist, fast and then faster, listening hard to make sure the sound of wet skin isn't audible to anyone—even himself, which is a pity—and he wants Sheppard to come here, where it's impossible because everyone can see, everyone will know the moment he stands up, but Rodney wants it, wants to feel him come completely undone, to watch it happen in front of everyone. He won’t, not really, but he's tugging even faster now, jacking hard and a little rough when the angle becomes complicated towards the tip, and he knows that works for Sheppard, because sloppy has always worked for both of them and—

"Well," Carter says slowly, into a silence Rodney hasn’t noticed, blinking as she smiles and tries to pretend she hasn't been utterly asleep. "That was fascinating."

There's more talk after that, all of it rough and disjointed as people come back to full awareness slowly. The poor botanist has sat down, shivering under everyone's regard, because he knows a meeting put not-quite-obviously-asleep when he creates one, and if Rodney's wrist wasn't aching from the awkward angle as grips the base of Sheppard's cock, he'd probably feel sorry for the man.

Maybe not; life sciences knew what they were getting into.

The meeting goes quickly, everyone eager for coffee and fresh air to help them fully wake up again, and Rodney forces himself to turn, to whisper low nonsense to Sheppard as everyone files out, the only excuse he can think of to make sure no one questions why they're both still sitting.

The windows go dark as the last heels vanish out the doorway, abruptly opaque and that's probably a tell, but Rodney doesn't care because John is frantically pushing his chair out from under the table, whispering, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," a litany he probably isn't even aware of, "Christ, Rodney, fuck me."

"No. Idiot." Just as frantic, Rodney dives down under the table and ow, his knees are going to be so mad at him for that impact, but that's later, much later when he isn't swallowing Sheppard's cock as far as he can, his mouth as tight and wet as he can force it, sucking hard even as he grips the base of Sheppard's cock and squeezes, as close to rough as he dares, just so he can watch Sheppard's head go back, his throat corded, Adam's apple bobbing as he gives a final wet, broken gasp and comes hard enough that his cheeks finally go pink, body turning to putty as he pours out everything into Rodney's eager, eager mouth.

There's a wet-spot on Sheppard's pants. Rodney frowns at it, absently licking over his gums, as he tries to determine just how obvious it'll be. It's already drying as Rodney does up Sheppard's fly, clearly a side-effect from the earlier hand-job, and Rodney touches it, pressing the damp fabric into the pad of his finger.

"What the hell was that?" Sheppard asks finally, head still hanging off the back of his chair, voice rough in a way that either means sleep or sex. Or both.

"I was bored," Rodney says. "And sometimes, I really like cock. Specifically, yours."

"Okay?"

"What, are you complaining? I'm the one that's going to walk out of here with a hard-on the size of a baseball bat and—"

Rodney doesn't get a chance to say what 'and' is, because Sheppard is diving forward, moving faster than a man who's come that hard just seconds before should be able, hauling Rodney onto the table to kiss and kiss and kiss him, swiping his own taste out of Rodney's mouth which is just not fair, so Rodney kisses back, harder, and somewhere during this duel, Rodney realizes his pants are undone and his cock is covered by nothing but temperature-controlled air.

"Hey," he says, breaking away and wow, panting, his chest feels funny, "I thought you wanted me to fuck you?"

"Takes too long," Sheppard rasps and dammit, the bastard has to show off with deep-throating, which Rodney still can't do very well, but right about then Rodney's brain starts blinking tilt as he comes and comes and comes.

"You can fuck me later," Sheppard says, eventually.

"Uh. Tomorrow? Maybe Thursday." He feels spent, utterly and in the best way.

Sheppard laughs, low and surprisingly sexy, helping Rodney up and kissing him again, tongues tangling as they taste them both, together. "Nah. Tonight."

"Optimist."

"Realist. I can get you hard again."

"Oh, yeah?" Rodney says, challenging. He's nearly forty. He needs the challenge, unfortunately.

Sheppard kisses him again, pressing a lazy, satisfied smile into his lips. "Yup, I can. All I'll need to do is lay down, spread-eagle and naked, and let you stroke me for a while."

He doesn't mean back rubs and dammit, Rodney hates that he flushes so easily, because yes, that will absolutely work, the kind of mood he's in. It's not a common one, honestly, but Sheppard certainly enjoys it when it does happen since he can't walk in a straight line for a few days afterwards, and his grin is perpetually goofy.

"Asshole."

"Maybe I'll let you suck me, too, if I'm not too sore." Sheppard gives him a beaming, closed-mouth smile.

Rodney's mouth waters—again!—at the mere thought of it and he tries to scowl, really he does, but Sheppard is laughing at him and it's impossible for Rodney to stay grumpy when Sheppard is so completely amused and happy so he sighs and grumbles and remembers he has excellent teasing material since he pretty sure he knows exactly why Sheppard was commando, and lets Sheppard kiss him just a few minutes more.