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Class 6

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Rodney had to hand it to them: the military knew their liquor.

Scotch whisky, single malt: Glenlivet, Glenmorangie. Double malt scotch, the good stuff: Johnnie Walker Black Label. The vodka selection was crap, because Absolut may as well have been stilled in a lead coated radiator, but Stolichnaya wasn’t bad. He passed right over the Crown Royale because his father had sipped from a never ending glass of it for twenty years, and the smell made Rodney gag. The Mezcal was ridiculously overpriced, but Rodney wasn’t there to play it cheap – he had a bank account ripe for the picking, and he planned on picking it all the way to a drunken stupor.

Plus, he’d never actually eaten the little worm, and if there was ever a time to be bold, brash, and live on the wild side, now was it.

Well... not now now because Rodney happened to be wearing less than was strictly appropriate for eleven o’clock shopping at the Class 6, but let someone say something to him. Let them. He was so very not in the mood that he wasn’t altogether sure he wouldn’t rip someone’s head off, cobra style. Tense, coil, spring, attack! Faster than lightning -- they wouldn’t even know they’d been deballed until ten minutes after he left. Possibly fifteen, if he didn’t stop to take a breath.

The neon lights above flickered annoyingly. Combined with a broken freezer case near the back of the store that buzzed... stopped... buzzbuzz... bzzzzzzz... bzzzzzz... and the sound of someone flip-flopping annoyingly on the linoleum, in the Antarctic, for Christ’s sake, there really was an idiot on every corner, and the ping of the cash register, and the clink of bottles as some Private green as grass loaded his arms with enough beer to drown in... Rodney was sure, for a second, that his brain would explode.

He just needed an outlet.

Rodney peered at the kid, glaring. "Hey. You."

The kid looked up – had Rodney ever been that young? – with wide, dark brown eyes. "Yes’sir?" He still had that raw, boot-camp terror new recruits lost within six months of enlistment, especially at a posting like this. It was McMurdo, after all; the only people they sent here were babies and men who’d managed career suicide.

American military politics gave him such a headache. Speaking of which...

"Did you know that if you drink too much beer over an extended period of time, say, a year, your balls will shrivel and fall off?" The kid stared at him, though whether in terror, disbelief, or raw stupidity was impossible to tell, and Rodney said, "No, seriously. Potassium Sorbate." Rodney nodded sagely, wearing an expression General O’Neill would have been proud of. "I knew a guy."

The kid was so skinny Rodney could see his Adams apple bob as he swallowed. "No way. You’re joshing me. Sir."

Rodney glared sharply. "Do I look like the type to josh anyone, especially about something so precious to a man as his coin purse, Private?"

The kid stared at him like deer in headlights. "No, sir!"

"Then drop and give me twenty."

Good conditioning. The kid didn’t even question the fact that he wasn’t on duty and Rodney wasn’t wearing dog tags. He fell to the linoleum and god bless his shiny bald baby head, gave Rodney twenty five before he jumped back to his feet, eyes wide. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Rodney glared at him. "How long have you been in the service?" And for a moment there Rodney thought he’d outed himself because American’s never said ‘been’ correctly, but the kid just blinked at him.

"Three weeks, sir!"

"Let this be the first and last time, Private."

"Yes, sir!" Another hard swallow. "If I may ask, sir, how much did he drink, sir? Your friend, sir?"

Rodney gave him the fish eye. "Thirty four liters a month. Nine gallons," he amended, when the kid's eyebrows furrowed. "Two twelve packs every weekend. Within six months, he’d consumed fifty four gallons of beer, enough to swamp his body with enough Potassium Sorbate to permanently destroy his sperm production and kill all the living tissue. And you know what the human body does to non-living tissue, Private," Rodney said, eyeballing him seriously.

Rodney had the distinct pleasure of seeing him go white around the edges.


"Yes, ‘oh’. So go, binge drink with your buddies, but remember – you’re risking your balls, Private, and if there’s one thing you need in this mans army, air force, what have you, it’s your balls." And with that, Rodney picked up his basket, threw off a sloppy salute, and headed down the aisle.

Mmm. Beer. Black Sheep Ale, and bottled Guinness, which was never quite as good as tap, and Radeberger, and a man standing there, Flip Flop Man, staring at him with something akin to amusement.

Rodney rolled his eyes, picked out a nice ale, and stuck it in his basket next to his other pickings.

McMurdo, God bless the brass, had placed their Class 6 smack dab in the center of their shoppette, the only place on base to get real food, so it was just a matter of passing through double doors to all the junk food Rodney could ever imagine. Little Debbie beckoned him coyly, and in his younger days Rodney may have been able to resist, but he was thirty five years old. and he needed his sugar, dammit. He finished off his fine selection with a visit to Chester Cheeto, or would have, anyway, but Flip Flop was right there, reaching for the same bag.

Rodney thought he might have bared his teeth a little because Flip Flop raised his hands in surrender and took a step away from the Chester. Smart man.

"Hey, sorry."

"Whatever. You try working for thirty nine hours straight and tell me how you’d feel about someone taking the last bag of cheetos in Antarctica," Rodney snapped, smushing the bag into his basket with a violent relish.

"Yeah," Flip Flop said, blinking. "Seeing how that might be a problem. Look... I couldn’t help overhearing you and that Private." He grinned, slow and easy. "The pushups were a nice touch."

Rodney was pointedly not looking at the man, considering it was A: Antarctica, B: the middle of the night, C: the fortieth hour in what should have been an eight hour shift, and D: in the middle of a deserted shoppette. "Yeah well, the way to a young man’s heart is through physical labor and danger to his manhood. I couldn’t very well tell him his liver would rot out of his body. I doubt he even knows he has a liver."

"I don’t know about all that. Not all servicemen are stupid grunts."

"Three fourths?"

"Maybe one fourth."

"Now that’s just being generous, which leads me to believe you’re a stupid grunt."

Flip Flop smiled and offered a hand. "John."

Rodney’s deeply ingrained manners were going to get him killed one day, and this, shaking a stranger's hand in the middle of the night when he was alone and liable to get killed, his body stashed and not found till the spring thaw, was proof of it. "Rodney McKay."

"You wouldn’t be the same Rodney McKay who had Supply ship a crate of Oreos, would you?"

Rodney sniffed delicately. "And if I was?"

"I’d have to ask you your secret, because Supply won’t even let me through the door."

Yes, well, that particular fiasco had, in fact, ended with a firm talking to from the base commander, but it had been worth it. Oreos and an endless wait for clearance for whatever special project they wanted him on kind of went together like chocolate and peanut butter, and reduced his homicidal tendencies tenfold. "I just happen to have dirt on everyone that stands between me and real food," Rodney said, a little smug when John grinned at him, all dimples and wild hair.

"Sounds like you’ve got the right idea about things. The mess hall here isn’t the best."

"Which is why I stick to MREs."

John’s face twisted. "You have some kind of death wish?"

"I like MREs. They’re refreshingly bland, and they say everything that’s in them right on the package." He glanced up, saw the question in the man’s face before he could even ask it, and sighed. "Citrus allergy. One taste, and my throat closes up faster than Hilary Clinton’s legs."

John’s mouth curved, and he arched a brow. "Interesting analogy, there."

"Yes, well, Canadian. I can say these things." Rodney watched, with more than a little fascination at the interest that lit John’s eyes, the way those same eyes glanced over Rodney’s neck, his mouth, then away to the selection of chips.

And well, Rodney was an idiot when it came to social relations, but he wasn’t that stupid.

"You’re hitting on me, aren’t you?"

Rodney watched the blood run out of the man’s face. John darted a look around the abandoned shoppette. The only person there was a burly sergeant working the Class 6 register, clear across the store. Granted, he was too busy picking his nose with a fascination not shown since he groped his first tit to overhear anything, but John still looked just a shade panicked as his eyes locked on Rodney’s face. "Would you believe me if I denied it?"

"Not with that hair."

John ran a self conscious hand through his artfully tossed mop. "Low blow, McKay."

"I could get lower."

Under the neon lights, Rodney could see John’s brown eyes narrow suddenly, attractively, and a burn built in Rodney’s gut that he hadn’t felt since Urena Jaburov pressed her cleavage into his arm and asked him if he’d mind taking a look at her radiator. He couldn’t help the smirk. "Speechless?"

"It’s not everyday that I get propositioned in a Class 6."

"Well, it's not just any day, is it? It’s the day you met Rodney McKay," Rodney answered. He set his basket down on the floor, bottles clinking, and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, snapping his fingers absently. "Pen?"

"Uh... oh, yes," John said, digging into the pocket of his coat. "What’re you–"

"Don’t be dense," Rodney said. He scribbled the address of the base hotel and his room number. "The door will be unlocked for a while," Rodney said, handed the paper over, and picked up his basket again. "If I don’t see you, well then," he said, and walked away. He prided himself on the fact that he only looked back once.

He had the pleasure of seeing John standing there, in jeans and flipflops and parka, staring after him with the paper in his hand.

- = - = -

The hotel base was pathetic in its own right. Of course, once one took into consideration that McMurdo took its "Ass end of the world" reputation seriously, then it all kind of evened out. The only people who ever came to McMurdo, outside of the military, were diplomats or scientists, and the hotel was designed accordingly, i.e. it wasn’t a shithole, but it was close.

But, Rodney had to admit, it had a bed, and a desk for his laptop, and a TV. Granted, it only picked up military channels (Republican, conservative, not nearly enough flesh), and the odd soap opera from Argentina, which kind of reminded Rodney of growing up, only with less French and more Spanish. Besides, after a couple of sips from his worm-flavored alcohol beverage, it was kind of engaging.

It took his mind off his cock, anyway.

Maybe he was insane, hitting on a military officer, but Rodney was fresh off the Siberian tundra and he didn’t have a lot left to lose. The moment he dared insult Samantha Carter, who didn’t have two brain cells devoted to logic to rub together, that had been it for him.

What was worse, infinitely so, was that he was stuck between a rock and a hard place – he had top level clearance for the most secure areas in the world, which essentially made him a puppet for the SGC. He couldn’t go elsewhere with what he knew, and he couldn’t disappear as he sometimes fantasized, because he had a feeling the SGC would find him in whatever hole he managed to hide in. No, in fact, the SGC had helped him disappear by sending him to this place. Forget his brilliant work, his IQ of 220, his logical mind, his top marks from every top level institution in Canada. He’d never find another days work because no one would touch him with a ten foot pole.

The damning thing was, his father had warned him against this, and Rodney had been too arrogant to listen, too high on his brilliance to hear the man out, God rest that old fucker.

Rodney took a good swallow of tequila, and it was sometime between that and Lucinda either proclaiming her undying love for Roberto or possibly telling him she was having his love child that he realized his door was opening, and John was stepping through.

Tall. Dark. Handsome. Rakish, old enough not to be stupid anymore (outside of the flip-flop thing), and young enough to wear his hair that way and his jeans that tight. All in all, Rodney had to hand it to himself for bagging someone that gorgeous, who actually wanted him.

Rodney rose and turned the television off. "Hi."

John’s hand rose, his eyes locked on Rodney’s face. "Hey."

"Lock the door, will you?"

He knew how to do this. They both did. It was like a dance – once Rodney had learned the steps of the One Night Stand, it was only a matter of applying them. There were rules for this type of thing, rules between men that upheld the masculine standard. By the little ‘what the hell am I doing, I wish I could stop myself but I can’t’ smile curving John’s lips, he was fully aware of it, which just made it all the easier.


"It’s Rodney. Do as you’re told, soldier," he ordered, prowling around the side of the bed. "Or is that why you’re here?"

John looked stunned, a look of shocked pain crossing his face before it hardened, and those dark eyes went flinty. "Fuck you."

"I’d make the prerequisite joke, but since we’re adults here, I’ll hold off. Suffice it to say, you wouldn’t be here for any other reason," Rodney said, smirking.

He felt wild, and a little drunk, because yeah, it seemed like he was about to have sex, when it had been so long Rodney couldn’t think about it without imaging rusty Russian radiators. Sex, with a man, with the cock and the muscles and other masculine bits, fit in just fine with Rodney’s mood, which happened to be seasoned with wormy liquor.

He decided to keep that last bit to himself, and set the bottle down on the desk, shoving his laptop to safety.

It didn’t hurt that John looked pissed off, which ironically just made him sexier, sneer, righteous anger, shark-like lust and all. The little curl of his upper lip was the clincher. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, that’s so," Rodney said, ignoring the fear, and the worry, and the niggling little voice in his head which was not going to prevent him from getting laid, dammit, whispering about STD’s and safe sex and the penis rotting disease.

He put on his most sexy, yet concerned, look, and said, "You clean?"

"Stupid question, McKay, considering I pee in a cup for my country every week," John said, a touch of amusement seasoning the anger on his face, even though he was being a condescending, smug jackass. Which, again, shouldn’t have been so hot, and yet... "You?"

"I work for the military. I pee in a cup for their own amusement every week," Rodney said.

"Oh." If John’s hands hadn’t been shaking, Rodney would have pegged him for every other officer he’d lured over to the butt sex, but this one was different... and fascinating.

Rodney hadn’t seen this man in the idiot he had met wearing flip-flops, in what amounted to the corner store. Now, he looked horny, dangerous, and idiotic. Thankfully, those first two things managed to keep Rodney more than interested, and he circled the bed, perfectly aware that they were dancing around each other.

"I needed to be sure," Rodney said, excitement thrumming through his body, down his chest and across his groin, which tightened almost unbearably. It didn’t help that John stared at him as he slowly turned the bolt on the door.

The last thing Rodney had time to think was, his eyes aren’t brown, before the world as he knew it turned inside out.

One Night Stands, especially between men, had rules. Regulations. In a lot of ways, it was more strict than any military code could ever hope to achieve. No excessive touching. Lube -- lots of it, and condoms, and a good, solid fucking over the nearest flat surface. Maybe a reach-around, if the top was feeling generous, but Rodney had experienced this enough times to know just how to bring himself off with only one hand braced to whatever surface he was bent over, and how loud to bellow if he couldn’t. No post coital touching, save for a pat on the shoulder. It was choreographed, practically memorized by any man who knew how to get his pleasure, especially in the closed ranks of the military and those owned by it.

Rodney had only a second to realize that Flyboys who got sent to Antarctica didn’t play by the rules. It should have been obvious, what with the hair, and the flip-flops, and the stupid wrist bands. The clues had been there, but Rodney had been too busy looking at other, much more interesting aspects of the design to put it together.

His professors in Grad school had always told him he had a one track mind.

Rodney had no way to prepare himself because just as suddenly as John had showed up, he was kissing Rodney so hard Rodney was sure his lower lip was going to split.

John’s mouth was hotter than the hottest depths of hell. His tongue, forked for all Rodney knew, did things to his mouth that Rodney had forgotten existed. Hell, had never known existed, considering his experience included geek make out parties and freaky, horny Russian women. Kissing like this wasn’t meant for One Night Stands; it was for other things, loving things, things that brought memories better left buried to the surface and made Rodney’s fingers fist tight in John’s parka. That mouth took, and devastated, and Rodney hated him, just a little, when he finally wrenched free. "What... the you... think you’re doing?!"

"Kissing you," John said, mouth bruised and red. He smirked, smug, defiant. "Got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do! Have a problem, that is! Just... get on with it!"

"I don’t think so. In fact, I think I’m going to kiss you some more," John announced, and with more strength than Rodney thought that wiry, skinny body had, held Rodney’s head just so and took him under again.

It was worse than drowning, and Rodney had done that. John’s clever, clever mouth opened Rodney up, less like a butterfly or rose or other insert-your-own-cliche, and more like a knife slicing through unresisting flesh. Rodney thought once maybe he wasn’t this transparent, but here he was, getting kissed, oh, kissed so good and... he couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking. Something about kissing?

He groaned in John’s mouth, for once not caring that someone did that half chuckle, half breathy moan thing into his lips. John was doing a standup job of exploring Rodney’s tonsils, lazily thrusting his tongue in Rodney’s mouth to invite him back for a taste, and oh, oh, oh.

It seemed really wrong that no one had ever really taken this much pleasure in Rodney’s mouth, but he supposed those who knew him longer than John did had a reason to dislike his mouth. It was a shame, because Rodney had so much to share, from every tug of that full lower lip to that slow, slick caress in, tentative but smooth. He was a good kisser, if he said so himself.

It was just a mistake to enjoy this.

He tried to pull away again, but those hands had him faster than super glue, holding his head, cupping his face, in a way that was just as devastatingly new to him as the surprise of this kiss. Rodney realized between one kiss to the next that he hadn’t, in all his thirty five years of living, ever been this hard.

He tried to pull away again, but John growled, and anchored one of his arms around Rodney’s hips, dragging him harder against the answering erection currently doing a dance in John’s pants. Rodney could feel every twitch, every shake, every achingly slow thrust, and this time the breathy moan was all his.

He didn’t try to pull away again. He could have this, right? Just for a little bit. Rodney knew if he fought this John would leave without a backward glance, and Rodney... Rodney didn’t want him to leave, didn’t even want to risk it, not when he hadn’t felt this warm and alive since before he’d been deployed to Russia with a ‘Fuck you’ and a salute.

It was just this once. He could let himself have this, even if afterward... afterward would come, but right now, right now, Rodney had liquor and a man who wanted to fuck him into next week, and he could pretend.

He was good at deluding himself.

John smelled good. Well, as good as someone can smell when they’ve been buried in layers of clothes for any prolonged period of time, but it was earthy and clean, like soap, and work, and yeah, he smelled a little, but it just made Rodney want to bury his face in every crevice and breathe him in. Not that he’d ever admit it. Or do it, when his mouth was occupied, because God almighty John could kiss.

He smelled wholesome, like soldiers were supposed to smell. Safe, and a little bit like boot polish, and something else Rodney always compared to the way bases themselves smelled, like work and cleanliness and efficiency, and something distinctively male.

It was so hard. So, so hard to deny himself this, when he had it right here, lean and strong and looking down at him with hope through green, green eyes that glowed like a cats in the dark.

Rodney didn’t know if he did it purposely, or if it was some outside force doing it for him, or it maybe he just got tired of fighting it.

He yielded.

The groan that came from John was positively agonized, and the race to get naked was on. It was "Uh!" and "God, yes, Jesus", and stumbling over bottles and clothes and shoes and those fucking flip-flops. It was Rodney’s blood roaring, and John hitting the bed with the backs of his knees and sitting so abruptly Rodney didn’t have a chance to see what was happening until John was undoing Rodney’s fly and swallowing him whole.

He squeaked – that was all there was to it. Rodney squeaked, and John laughed, stretched around his cock like he was, his soft, hitching breaths tickling Rodney’s pubic hair. Hands, gentle hands, led Rodney’s fisting hands from his sides to John’s hair and shoulders, and God, God, Rodney’s head swam, the rush so unexpected his knees sagged straight into the strong, waiting arms clamped around his thighs.

Fingertips dug into his bare ass, nails scraped down, down, and, and hot suction, and teeth, and the most talented tongue, bless that tongue for what it was doing right now, worked his cock over, and over, and over. Rodney ran his fingers through that mess of hair, stiff with whatever John had used to coax it into looking like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket.

That mouth was a national treasure, drawing pleasure out of Rodney’s body like he hadn’t felt... like he’d never felt. No one had ever devoted so much attention to pleasuring him, but maybe it was because John didn’t know what a jerk Rodney was, which made it better, and worse, and ohmygod he’s humming.

Those scraping fingers dug into his ass, squeezing, pulling Rodney’s involuntary thrust into that gorgeous mouth, and it was likely John realized he was with a very willing and energetic if unsteady man. As if he could forget. The fingers squeezing Rodney’s butt cheek moved around once to brush against the insanely sensitized base of Rodney’s cock, where the spit always gathered, and then back around.

Rodney didn’t have much of a warning before his leg was suddenly moved forward just enough so twin fingers could brush his asshole before pushing in, and he said so. Loudly. And with more expletives and prayers than was strictly necessary, most of those to the glory that was John’s mouth.

John looked up at him, smiling around Rodney’s cock, his eyes bright with that drugged out pleasure Rodney always felt himself when giving head, and a healthy dose of amusement. It was all Rodney could do, staring down at him, to cram a fist in his mouth when John ruthlessly crooked his fingers and rubbedrubbedrubbed against that sweet spot that made Rodney try to pull free and thrust in deeper at the same time.

Rodney had the good sense to bite into the fist in his mouth before the sound that came out of him woke the entire base. He tried to pull free, to give John some kind of warning, but John only held harder, dug deeper, and Rodney, Rodney saw a full choir of angels.

If there was a God, at that very moment he had to be in Rodney’s hotel room, smirking and wriggling his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Eh? Eh?’ Rodney didn’t believe in God, hadn’t since he was twelve, but he had to admit, at the moment, that the idea was perfectly logical, provable in fact, what with the whole flying on cloud nine bit.

And suddenly wham, like hitting 130 on the autobahn, the head rush of orgasm itself, especially orgasm standing up. Pleasure, all over, hitting deep and low and steady, forever, pulse after pulse until Rodney sobbed out loud, and sagged, and John crushed him close.

That beautiful mouth was a mess, swollen and red. "Rodney, please, I–"

"Yeah. Yes," he gasped back, fingers knotted in all that dark hair. "Come on."

The look of starvation that crossed John’s face was painful to witness.

Being around something Rodney wanted so much and couldn’t have but for nights like these, rushed and heavy and full of need, was like waking up to torture, some days. Rodney couldn’t imagine what it was like for someone in the military, didn’t want to.

It was pain that drove them, and want, and a hunger so deep nothing could sate it but this, rough hands and rougher mouths.

John bent over, retrieved a small tube of sun screen from his pants. "I... are you–"



"Yes. Now!"

John groaned, low and deep, and the sound was exquisite. He pulled Rodney’s thighs open right there where he stood between John’s knees, tugged him until he could press his face into Rodney’s belly, and slick fingers replaced spit soaked ones.

Only another man could sympathize with this, the slow, slow screw inside, how good it felt, how conflicting the emotions it brought to the surface really were. Rodney loved this, and hated this, and he didn’t much care who knew it.

"I’m ready," Rodney whispered tightly.



"Not wearing a condom, Rodney!"

"I don’t care. We’re both clean. Now get in!"

"You’re fucking batshit insane," John groaned into Rodney’s belly, spreading his fingers inside Rodney’s ass with more control than Rodney thought possible, more control than Rodney could have had.

It just went to show what kind of night this was that he didn’t deball John right there. No, instead he let John, sitting there on the edge of the bed, pull Rodney onto his lap, let John, bracing them against one bed post, lead his cock deep between Rodney’s cheeks and hold himself there, waiting, waiting.

Rodney stared at him, and John stared back. This was insane. They were insane.

And that was pretty okay.

Brutal pain, sharper pleasure, and a mouth that tasted like salt and come pressed into Rodney’s. Then it was all movement, slow and easy, up and in, down and out. It was a cock filling him, John filling him, his hazel eyes struck wild with pleasure and something else, something Rodney felt clogging his throat right now.

"Good?" John said, his voice low, scraped clean with pleasure.

"Yes, damn you," because John knew, he knew.

"It’s okay, Rodney," he whispered.

"It’s not," and it wasn’t, not by a long shot. It was a cock driving so deep Rodney could swallow around it, and those arms holding him tight. It was one wide-palmed hand braced against Rodney’s ass, as if John could feel himself in there, and hell, maybe he could, because the moan was low and pressed into Rodney’s neck.

Rodney didn’t question it when John hauled him closer, rolled and finally let Rodney lay flat against the bed, pinned as he was. Eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, and those restless hands ran over Rodney’s body.

John was fucking him face to face. Rodney had already had his orgasm. John wasn’t wearing a condom.

Alarm bells went off in Rodney’s head. That this was not a One Night Stand, this was something else, something more, something Rodney didn’t want, not now, not when he was this vulnerable.

But instead of pushing, shoving him away, Rodney held on harder, tighter, lifted his legs up to wrap tight around a smooth waist. John sank in all the deeper for it, and they moaned together, even as John braced himself, babbling too low for Rodney to hear, but suddenly – "Uh!" fuck he was in deep, digging right into the center of Rodney’s entire being.

It was all the sign John needed, Rodney guessed, because he seemed to wrap around Rodney, fold him right up, and press as much skin as he could. It was new, and different, because John was fucking him so slow, so smooth, so perfect, and Rodney wasn’t wildly aroused like he always was during this part. It hurt less, then not at all, and suddenly he got what other men whispered in the dark about flying just like Rodney, right now.

He went out of his mind with it, stunned into pleasure. His cock hardened and John smiled, all teeth and hazel eyes and delight.

He fucked Rodney harder, deeper, until Rodney forgot about everything but John and his body. The sharp back and forth of his hips were almost lazy under Rodney’s hooked ankles, the way they moved, like John couldn’t be forced to use more muscles than were strictly necessary, even in pleasure. Rodney couldn’t help the laugh that built in his throat, partly hysterical, all pleasure, and John laughed with him as if he got it completely, chortling softly where his face was pressed into Rodney’s neck.

And on a night where all the rules were broken, Rodney broke the last one, when he gripped John’s hair and demanded, "Touch me."

And the damning thing was, John did, as if all he’d been waiting for was permission when he’d had it from the moment he kissed Rodney like it was the last kiss in the world. He touched Rodney’s body, touched his nipples and his love handles and the broad muscles of his shoulders, touched his thighs and hips and his legs, where they were squeezing tight around John’s waist. He touched him everywhere, then touched him with his mouth.

No man had ever kissed him during sex, never had their tongue a counterpoint to their cock, or ever made it so good for Rodney. No one, not even the women he’d had, had ever pleasured him like this, or taken much care so long as they got theirs. No one had ever been so devoted to making him feel this good, but then, he’d never been so devoted to making anyone else feel this good, like he knew he was doing to John right now.

Rodney kissed him. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t hope to, not when they were just like this and Rodney had so much to share. They kissed as John fucked him, as John took Rodney’s cock in hand and began that ageless, slow touch that every man knew, up and down, squeeze and release.

They moved, and rolled, and rocked, slow and sweaty, into a position Rodney had never done before, half on their sides, with just enough room to thrust. Rodney had his thigh thrown over John’s hip, their bodies pressed so close John barely had room to touch him, as he moved like he had forever for this. Rodney was drugged with it, mute with it, which should have been the first clue This Was Important, but John didn’t know him.

But then, he thought, that was a lie, wasn’t it? John knew him better than Rodney knew himself.

When orgasm came, Rodney thought it was as if his entire life had centered on getting to this place right here, under John’s shuddering body.

And when they came down, sinking into the lumpy mattress, neither of them dared to move.

John stared at him, his eyes big and glassy and stunned. "Hey."

"Hey," Rodney whispered back.

"You okay?"


"I’m not."

"Me either."

John smiled, just this side of goofy, as sweat ran down his forehead and over his temple. Rodney watched it, mesmerized. "What’s your last name?"

John fingertip traced Rodney’s cheek. "Sheppard."

"Like, with the sheep?"

"Mmm. Just spelled differently."

"You must have gotten teased in school."

"Nah. Too cool for that," John said, smiling softly. Rodney noticed he had laugh lines fanning out from each corner of his eyes, and for some reason that made something in him warm. "Your eyes keep falling."

"Mmm. I’m not known for anything strenuous, post coital. Or anything, post coital, really."

"Go to sleep," John murmured, closing his own eyes.

"You’ll be gone when I wake up," Rodney whispered.

"Yeah," John said. There was nothing in his voice, but Rodney knew, he just... he knew.

"For what it’s worth, thank you."



"Shut up and go to sleep."

The soft lull of John’s breathing, and the warm arm around him, so tight in counterpoint to John’s words, sat heavy on Rodney’s eyelids until they fell, all on their own.

When he opened his eyes, shafts of sunlight burrowing under his eyelids, he was alone, his heart pounding a beat against the sharp stab of grief.

He didn’t see the note on the bedside table until after he’d showered and damned John to the furthest reaches of hell.

I’m off on Tuesday. Address is down below. Bring the Oreos.

Rodney sniffed, stuffed the note into his pocket, and didn’t feel at all bad about wishing John got frostbite against his flip-flopped toes.

But, if he was practically smiling as he bitched the Marines out at In-processing over his clearance, no one dared comment on it.