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A Pointless Story

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They've been kissing for ages, deep, wet kisses, with lots of tongue, just how John likes it when he's tired. Rodney doesn't mind doing most of the work, although he expects equitable payback at a later date. He's been pushing his fingers through John's chest hair, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over John's nipples, and kind of massaging John's shoulders. These are all things that John likes; Rodney's sure of that, having spent many hours on research and experimentation in the past. In fact, at this very moment, John is making some warm growly noises that are an absolute indication of his arousal, so Rodney cracks open an eyelid and peeks at the clock. Okay, so it's been less than ages, but it's definitely time to get this show on the road. He's been up for a little less than forty hours, and John spent all day helping to rototill the newly turned fields on the mainland – except, without the rototiller.

John had returned to the city a damp, sweaty mess, and he'd come straight to Rodney's private lab, still wearing his tac vest. Bending over, he'd propped his elbows on Rodney's desk, and practically waggled his ass. He'd definitely over-exaggerated a couple of eyebrow lifts, and then he'd nudged his way closer and closer until Rodney had turned to him, exasperated, and snapped, "What?"

"What what?" John had asked, expression completely deadpan, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. Then he'd leaned in, and Rodney's nose had been assaulted by the smell of John's sweat, a stink that Rodney might have, at one point, found distasteful. Certainly he wasn't a prissy man, someone who refused to get his hands dirty, but neither had he ever found the strong tang of freshly dried sweat to be a turn-on.

Now, however – and John damn well knows this – Rodney associates sweat with action, with trembling desperation and split-second decisions made in the heat of a moment, with pressure and intensity and, most importantly, with one or the other or the both of them saving lives. It's probably some psychiatrist's analytic wet dream. It's probably a little sick that the thought of beating death turns Rodney on. He's always known that John's an adrenaline junkie, playing fast and loose with his own life, but Rodney never expected to learn the same truth about himself.

Anyway, John had crowded in close and then stretched out sleekly, and Rodney had stared at John's forearms, and he'd been enveloped in a haze of smell and memory and need. He'd turned away from John, whipped all of his scratch papers into a stack, tucked them into a desk drawer and stuck his tablet under his arm. "Well?"

John had looked him over, his mouth curved into a half-smirk and said, "You might want to carry that a little lower."

Rodney put the tablet down, yanked his lab coat up from where it hung on the back of his chair, shrugged into it and buttoned it all the way to the top. He glared death rays at John for making him wait. "Presentable, now?" he'd asked impatiently, and John's smirk turned into a grin.

"Overdressed," John said quietly, and if Rodney thought he could get away with it, he'd have pushed John back against the desk and gone down on him right there. Privacy in a private lab was annoyingly difficult to achieve.

So they'd tromped back to Rodney's quarters, and John had peeled off his vest, t-shirt and pants while Rodney jerked off the lab coat and everything else down to his boxers. John smelled mouth-wateringly good and Rodney had been rock hard the whole time. He'd launched himself at John and they fell onto the bed, rolling over once and then settling in for kisses and foreplay.

Not like Rodney's timing it or anything but he's dying to get his mouth on John's cock, to push his nose right in next to John's balls, to lick and suck and rub off on John's leg and generally show them both a good time. His stomach is already tight with anticipation of how John will smell there, all that sweat and energy and physical strength; Rodney's ready to kick the tripwire of Pavlovian response and enjoy.

Only – when he sticks his hand down John's shorts, it's... just John. There's nothing to – that is, he's... soft. His cock is soft.

When Rodney pulls away, kneeling up, John moans, sounding disappointed. Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. He knows how John feels.

John opens his eyes. "What... where'd you go?"

"Where did- where did I go? Where did you go?" Rodney demands.

"What're you talking about?" John asks, and he looks honestly confused.

"You obviously went somewhere that's not here," Rodney bites out. "I'm so sorry, am I boring you?"

"No," John says. "Rodney?"

Rodney points.

They both look down.

"Oh," John says, and he sounds relieved. "I'm just really tired. Like, phenomenally tired."

"You're just- why- then why did you-" Rodney splutters.

"I know you like it when I'm all," John says, "you know, post-manual labor," and he has the gall to smile shyly, and damn it, when did that look start to work on Rodney?

"Oh," Rodney says, sinking back down to lie next to John. "But I really wanted to..."

"I'll suck you off," John offers. "Come on, you can be on top, just put your knees over my shoulders."

That position would put Rodney's face right where he wants it, tucked into John's crotch, but it seems like a lot of work to get the stance right, and now that the initial wave of fervor has crested and washed past, Rodney doesn't want to move. He's really comfy, and John's warm, and they're both dressed for bed anyway.

Rodney wraps an arm around John's torso and kisses his neck. "Maybe I could just sniff you," he says, and snuffles and then licks the stubbly skin under his mouth.

"Uh, yeah, okay," John replies. He wriggles around a little and Rodney tightens his hold on John's waist.

They lie in near silence for a few minutes, listening to each other breathe.

"Well, that doesn't happen every day," Rodney murmurs, and John's abs tighten and then relax under Rodney's arm.

"Whaddya mean?" John slurs out, probably close to falling asleep.

"Not everyone can say that they've performed with Flacido Domingo," Rodney answers, and he's waiting, he's just waiting for John to fully process the words.

"Mmmhmm," John hums, and then he makes a questioning noise.

"Nothing, just a music reference," Rodney says innocently. "You know, I heard they'll be serving boneless pork in the mess tomorrow night."

"That sounds good," John says sleepily.

"Yeah, just about one hundred and eighty degrees shy of Heaven." Rodney's trying not to laugh, but a snicker escapes. "I guess you could say it's the Null Monty."

"Wait, what?" John asks. His fingernails rub and then scratch lightly against the back of Rodney's neck. "I didn't know you saw that movie."

Rodney laughs. "There's a movie of it?"

Next to him, John moves around, shifting from near-comatose back to drowsy. "Yeah, they showed it at Movie Night a couple of times," he says. "It's funny."

"I like toy trains," Rodney says.

"Okay, odd change of subject," John says, but he sounds more alert.

"Not really. It's hard to play with them when you're a few parts shy of an erector set."

"What are you-" and he cuts off, and Rodney knows that John's finally bought a clue.

"Oh, that is it," John threatens. "As soon as I've had six hours of sleep, you are going down."

"With pleasure," Rodney snipes, and he kisses John's collarbone. "It's not your fault you have Ascension Deficit Disorder."

There's a brief, apprehensive pause during which Rodney holds his breath and tries to remember where John's other hand is and whether or not it can do any damage.

Somehow John slips out from under Rodney's arm and pounces, flattening Rodney into the bed, all within a few seconds. Rodney's heartbeat pounds in his ears.

John leans in close, brushing his mouth against Rodney's, slowly, once-twice, and then tilts his chin up and says, silkily, "I should make you suck me until I do get hard," and the dark promise in his tone makes Rodney shiver, his cock jerking with arousal. He stares up into John's eyes, pulse hammering away, and then John yawns widely, right in Rodney's face, and grins. "But not tonight."

Moving down, John cushions his cheek against Rodney's chest and lets out a contented sigh.

"Nothing tonight," Rodney grumps.

"Nothing but being here with you," John says, suddenly serious, and Rodney swallows, hard.

"Okay," he admits, grudgingly, "I suppose that will do." He palms John's shoulder, squeezing it in an apology.

"Wish ten'r are you," John mumbles. "Pav'rott or the other guy?"

Rodney's mouth drops open. He would have sworn John had been almost asleep during that exchange.

"Heh," John says. "Tha' got your ascension."

Rodney groans. "Go to sleep, John."

"With pleasure," John says, echoing Rodney's earlier sentiment. He's dropped off within the space of a few breaths.

Tucking one arm under his head, Rodney shuts his eyes. He has to think up some new material before breakfast.