John walked into his quarters feeling turned-on and happy: the Fruit Plan had gone off way better than he'd let himself hope it would. And if the stunned-mackerel look on Rodney's face was anything to go by, he should be hearing Rodney's footsteps behind him any second.
He left the doors open in a clear invitation and wandered into the bathroom to wash off the fruit pulp all over his face and hands. Once that was done, he went back into the main room and kicked off his shoes, took off his socks and, after a moment's thought, pulled off his t-shirt too. There was no point in being coy now that he'd made his move. And God, John had been waiting so long for this; his body was thrumming, high on adrenalin and arousal.
He glanced over at the doorway, his stomach doing a slow roll of anticipation, and thought, Come on, come on, come on, Rodney! The waiting was always his least favourite part of these kinds of situations, and he'd kind of expected Rodney to be here by now. But then, John had been walking pretty fast, and Rodney was probably trying not to attract attention, so of course he'd lag a little behind. Besides, it gave John a moment to get himself together, because the look on Rodney's face back there in the mess... it had made John's skin feel three sizes too small and he'd barely been able to keep in the need to reach out and touch. He quickly ran his hands up and down his bare chest and sides just to ease the tightness. This was going to be so fucking good.
As soon as the worst of the yayas were out, he went back to getting ready. John took off his watch and put it down on the bedside table, not letting himself look at how much time had passed since he left the mess. Then, feeling obsessive, he ran through his checklist one more time. Lube and condoms in the top bedside drawer: check; the more interesting toys in the bottom drawer: ditto; coffee and chocolate in the little kitchenette area, along with a range of powerbars and MREs: yep. John knew from long experience that a well-fed and well-caffeinated Rodney was a happy Rodney, and he figured a happy Rodney was more likely to stay and mooch around for most of their day off, so that they could, hopefully, get in lots and lots of really hot sex before they had to go out and face the world and act normal again. That was the plan, anyway. John really liked the plan; it was definitely one of his better plans.
Except the plan wasn't exactly going the way it was meant to, because the doorway was still resolutely Rodney-free, and it had now officially been--John left the kitchenette, walked back over to the bed and glanced at his watch--sixteen minutes since he'd left the mess. Which was at least ten minutes too long.
John stood staring out at the empty corridor, one hand pressing against his stomach. A clutch of fear was starting to claw at his insides, and after another long, Rodney-less moment, he sat down on the bed, hard, his legs feeling suspiciously unsteady, and not in a good, I-want-to-have-sex way.
Goddammit! He wasn't going to double guess himself. The Fruit Plan was as solid now as it had been this morning, and yesterday, and last week, and every fucking day that he'd thought about it for the last three months. Even if he'd read the thing with Rodney all wrong--he glanced again at the open doorway--the plan factored that in: he hadn't said anything, he hadn't touched Rodney. Things might be a bit awkward for a day or two, but it wasn't like he'd done anything that couldn't be shrugged off. Turned into a joke. Let fade away, until it disappeared beneath the never-ending panic of saving-the-galaxy and imminent death.
The acid fist in his chest burned and clutched a little tighter, and the after-taste of fruit was sour in his mouth.
No words, no touch. He was safe.
Even if Rodney was totally freaked out, there were no grounds to bring John up on sexual harassment charges. Worst case scenario: Elizabeth would find an excuse to ship him back to Earth and he'd never get promoted again. But that wasn't so bad; he'd already lived through that once, and anyway, he was getting past the whole action-man thing, and at least he'd still be able to fly.
Resisting the urge to look at the doorway again, John got up and went into the bathroom. He picked up his toothbrush, squeezed some toothpaste onto it and began to scrub the taste of fruit out of his mouth.
He'd gotten to the point where his gums were feeling tender when there was a scuffling sound in the other room and Rodney called out, "John?" in a wobbly, uncertain voice.
John looked at himself in the mirror, not sure whether to feel relieved or not. Either way, it was show time. He spat out a mouthful of pink-tinged foam. "Yeah. Just a sec." Rinsing quickly, he grabbed a towel and dried off as he walked into the other room.
Rodney was standing just inside the doorway, looking incredibly ill at ease. He was flushed and panting a little, as though he'd been running.
"Hey," said John, throwing the towel back into the bathroom.
"Uh," said Rodney, his gaze stuttering over John's chest before jerking up to his face.
That was all it took for the fear to melt away, and John knew he was grinning like fool with relief. "Did you discover a secret stash of donuts or something? And if so, where's mine?"
"Sorry, sorry," Rodney said, taking a step further into the room but still jittery with nerves. "Elizabeth came in just as--"
John thought the door shut and Rodney's words cut off as his head swivelled to track the sound. By the time he turned back, John was within touching distance.
Before Rodney could say anything else, John reached out and pressed his hand to the front of Rodney's pants, cupping the semi-hard jut of his cock. It felt so good to finally be able to touch Rodney the way he wanted to; no pretence, no holding back.
Rodney made a strangled sound in the back of his throat that went straight to John's dick, and he was about to drop to his knees and give Rodney the blow-job of his life when Rodney beat him to it, gripping John's waist hard, using him for support as his knees gave way. He landed on the floor with a dull thump. And, okay. John could go with that. A good plan always had some built-in flexibility, and John was nothing if not flexible; so he curled his hands around Rodney's head--enjoying the soft crinkle of hair beneath his thumbs, the blood-heat curl of Rodney's ears in the hollows of his palms--and jutted his hips forward to give Rodney better access to his zip.
That was invitation enough for Rodney; with shaking hands he flicked open the button, peeled the zipper apart, and shoved John's BDUs and boxers down to mid thigh. Hesitating for a moment, he looked up at John with lust-dark eyes, tongue skating over his lips. A puff of his breath brushed against John's cock, making it jerk, and the words fell out of John's mouth without checking in with his brain: "Suck me. Come on, do it, do it, don't stop now, Rodney."
Rodney's nostrils flared and he swallowed hard--the sex part of John's brain sat up and paid attention: Rodney liked dirty talk--then Rodney bent his head, wrapped a hand around the base of John's cock, opened his mouth, and... whoa. Hot, slick, fuck.
John could feel Rodney's jaw moving beneath the tips of his fingers, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from the join of Rodney's mouth and his cock; Rodney's lips pink and stretched. When Rodney pulled back, everything was slick with spit, and when he slid forward, taking more in, John could feel his pulse hammering against Rodney's tongue.
Another couple of passes of Rodney's tongue, of tentative, spit-drenched suction and John couldn't hold back any more. He tightened his hands on Rodney's head, changing the angle, finding that perfect, perfect balance of friction and suction; he rocked his hips, shoving his cock deeper into Rodney's mouth; and it wasn't smooth, it wasn't practiced. It was just rutting: desperate and fast and no finesse at all. The fingers of Rodney's free hand were bruising his hip, his other hand wringing John's cock almost too hard; Rodney's face was red, breath coming fast through his nose, the huff of it irregular against John's belly.
John looked down, staring at the awkward hollowing of Rodney's cheeks, at his cock's off-centre thrusts in-and-out; and with a starburst of erotic shock, John realised that Rodney hadn't done this very much, not enough to get good at it, not enough to be expert. The knowledge sliced through him from his brain to his dick, and without any warning at all he was spilling into Rodney's eager, unpractised mouth, harsh sobs wrenched from somewhere deep in his chest, and it felt like he was going to die of the rushing, gutting, inside-out joy of it.
"Holy shit," he said weakly, once the grip of pleasure had finally loosened. His cock slithered out of Rodney's mouth, leaving a streak of come on his chin. With reluctance, John let go of Rodney's head, which proved to be a mistake, as his legs immediately gave out. He staggered backwards, tripped up on the pants still tangled around his knees, and fell onto his ass, still so high on the endorphin rush that he barely even felt the pain.
John decided to go with gravity and collapsed the rest of the way down, until he was flat on his back. He lazily looked over at Rodney, who was desperately fumbling a handkerchief out of his pocket. As soon as Rodney had it in his hand, he bought it up to his lips and spat into it, John's come leaving his mouth in ropy white strands.
Watching Rodney being all finicky like that made John want to do lots of incredibly filthy things to him, even though his limbs still felt like limp noodles and he barely had his breath back. "Rodney," he said, and even to his own ears it sounded lewd.
Rodney's eyes were big and dark as he looked over at John, his lips still shiny, the handkerchief a crumpled ball in one fist.
John kicked off his pants and spread his legs. "You should come and fuck me now."
The handkerchief fell out of Rodney's hand. "Oh, God," he said, staring at the open sprawl of John's body. Then he was scrabbling at the fly of his pants, thrusting his hand inside the half-open V and gripping his dick so tightly his knuckles were white. In a voice that was nothing but breath, he said, "Really, really not going to happen."
God, that was hot. Holding out his hand, half in invitation, half in command, John said, "Get over here, McKay."
After breathing carefully for a moment, Rodney gingerly took his hand away from his dick. He peeled his shirt over his head, edged himself halfway out of his pants, paused to pull off his shoes and socks, and then twisted around and crawled over to John on all fours, leaving his pants behind like an abandoned cocoon. He crawled straight up between John's legs, and hovered over him, not touching him anywhere. "Is this... can I..."
"Hey," said John, and slid one leg up around Rodney's ass, tugging him down.
Rodney let out a little moan when his cock touched John's skin, but he didn't relax into it the way John was expecting, his body tense with something other than arousal.
John started to ask, "What--" just as Rodney's gaze flicked to his mouth, his expression a mixture of fascination and guilt, and then John understood: Rodney hadn't done this a lot, but clearly he'd done it enough to have learnt the no-kissing rule. Just as clearly, he wanted break the rule, wanted to kiss John.
Even doped to the eyeballs on afterglow, John was aware of something deep inside his head hitching, changing tracks, going with it; because this wasn't what he'd expected... this was so much more than he'd expected... this was Rodney's too-honest face full of yearning as he looked down at John, and Rodney's body thrumming with tension everywhere they touched, telling John everything he needed to know about just how much Rodney wanted him, and God, this was like winning the fucking jackpot without even buying a ticket!
Arching up, John palmed the back of Rodney's head and reeled him in; the promise of another orgasm sharp and cutting and suddenly right on the horizon, the edge of raw pain from his still-hard cock just adding fuel to the inferno of yes, yes, finally that was burning through him. Rodney moaned something that might have been John's name against his lips, and then John's tongue was inside Rodney's mouth and John was taking everything he'd wanted and hadn't thought he'd get.
Rodney kissed way better than he sucked cock: Rodney's mouth was hot and bitter with John's come; Rodney's mouth was bossy and demanding and disrespectful, just the way John had imagined it would be; Rodney's mouth was pushing John's buttons so hard, it felt like something was going to break.
John canted his hips and spread his legs until Rodney was perfectly aligned, his cock thrusting hard and fast against John's. Between one thrust and the next, John slid a hand into the slippery press of their bodies and snared both their cocks in the tight tunnel of his fingers. Then, with a practiced roll of the wrist, he jerked their cocks together, tightening his grip every time he hit the apex of his stroke.
"Oh, God!" said Rodney, over and over, between shallow, breathless kisses.
When John raked the nails of his free hand down Rodney's back, Rodney made a keening sound, pulling away from the kiss to press his face into John's neck. His hips stuttered double-time into John's fist, once, twice, and then he was saying, "John, John, oh God, John," and shuddering and coming, all warm and slick against John's belly. After a couple more erratic thrusts every muscle in his body went limp, crushing John into the floor, as though his Off switch had been flipped.
"Don't stop," John said into Rodney's hair, hips frantic beneath Rodney's unmoving weight, "Come on, Rodney, just... I'm so close. Come on!"
Rodney grunted, slowly shifting his weight onto his knees so that John could thrust up against him; and then his teeth were on John's neck, scraping at the pulse point just beneath his ear, and that was enough, that was all it took, the unexpected pain of it tipping John over into the clenching, heady bodyrush of release.
All the breath went out of John's lungs when Rodney collapsed on top of him again, but he didn't have the energy to protest, so they just lay there, droplets of sweat sliding down their overheated bodies onto the floor.
"You taste like toothpaste," Rodney said at last, still not moving. "I thought you'd taste like fruit."
"Mmmm," said John, and made the effort to grope Rodney's ass, just because he could.
"I can't believe you did that, you bastard," said Rodney, sounding vaguely piqued. "I nearly snapped my dick off trying to hide my hard-on."
John snickered. "You should have seen your face. Like a still-life, full-colour ad for Geek In Heat."
Rodney heaved himself up onto his knees and poked John in the ribs. His face was still flushed with pleasure and his hair was sticking up in a dozen different directions; it made John want to do incredibly lewd things to him all over again. "Don't think you're safe from my vengeance just because of your stupid military rules. I can work around that, you know!"
It should probably have sounded more like a threat, but to John it sounded just like a promise. "I still want you to fuck me," he said, mainly to see that wide-eyed look on Rodney's face again, but also because he really did want Rodney to fuck him at the first possible opportunity.
Sure enough, Rodney's expression went soft and amazed and his hands clutched at John greedily. "How did this happen?" he asked, and John knew exactly how he felt, because he was having another jackpot moment himself.
"The Fruit Plan," said John, snagging one of Rodney's wandering hands and tangling their fingers together, "I was kind of inspired."
Rodney lifted their entwined hands and swirled his tongue around John's thumb. "It had its merits, I suppose," he conceded.
John smirked and raised an eyebrow suggestively, feeling smug and happy and sated, and when Rodney scowled back, his lips going crooked and impossibly inviting, John gave in to temptation and pulled him in for another three or seven or twenty of his bossy, brilliant, rule-breaking, windfall kisses.