Archive of Our Own ^beta

The shooting range is deserted. God knows Rodney wouldn't be here himself tonight if he had a choice. It's just that Sheppard strongly suggested they come -- that is, dragged him here, muttering under his breath about moronic physicists who take insane risks with crazy natives.

"You're better than you used to be, but if you're going to be pulling crap like you did today, you've got to get your accuracy up. You've been slacking off on practicing," Sheppard had finally said in his most serious voice, which was when Rodney sighed and gave up, because he knew nothing would stop this except him actually going to the stupid shooting range and breathing in the acrid smell of firearms and probably getting burns on his valuable fingers and being subjected to Sheppard's lectures about gun safety and field procedure for who knew how long. He'd have no problem doing this tomorrow -- hell, he knows gun proficiency's important -- but tonight?

What Rodney doesn't think about until it's too late is how long it's been since they've had time together, and how determined Sheppard can get when there's something he gets really bothered about, which granted, happens about once a century, but still, when it happens, it's...inexplicably arousing. Rodney also hadn't taken into account the effect of a night and a day without shaving and two days in the field on Sheppard. Adding the maniacal gleam in his eye to his Hollywoodish stubble and sweated-in clothes, Sheppard looks, well, hot.

Rodney himself is tired, so very tired, but his body's still buzzing with the energy a person gets after they've almost died which, granted, happens out here so regularly he'd thought he'd get used to it, but no, apparently it's not something he's ever going to get used to. Nor, it seems, do you get used to being kind-of-together with someone who looks like Sheppard, and god, obviously Rodney's not doing too well at this shooting stuff tonight because John is glaring at him, hands on his hips, probably upset about some arcane requirement having to do with holding a gun or shooting a gun, because here he comes to torture Rodney by adjusting his finger one millimeter this way or his shoulder one centimeter that.

The hotness factor, it turns out, is not diminished by proximity. So even though Rodney can't see John any more, or not much of him, he finds his body zinging with the kind of energy that comes only with the really good porn or a possible Nobel nomination. John's standing right behind him, almost but not quite pressed up against his back, warm breath in his ear, arms around Rodney, hands sliding down Rodney's outstretched arms, then cradling his now-sweating hands in his own.

"Steady," he breathes into Rodney's ear. "Remember: breathe, sight, breathe, squeeze."

"There wasn't exactly time for that today," Rodney says, voice a little rough.

"Which is why it has to become habit," John almost-growls, the heat from his body leaching through Rodney's clothes.

Rodney swallows, focusing on John's strong, tanned forearms pressing over his own. His eyes are caught by the sweatband near John's wrist and his mouth is suddenly dry: it's what he sees when John sights down the barrel of a gun, that black band, tight around his muscled wrist. Rodney can feel his body relaxing back into John's, seeking it out against the advice of his higher brain functions. "Uh," he manages.

"Come on, Rodney," John says softly. "Focus."

"Right, yes," Rodney says, and breathes, squeezes, releases. The recoil of the pistol pushes him back sharply into John, who is obviously braced for it; he supports Rodney briefly.

"You're not focusing," John says, pulling away and squinting at the target, which shows a little shredding on the edge of the paper. "If that were the enemy, you'd be dead, or worse."

Up close, John smells like sweat and cordite and smoke and some alien-world things Rodney can't immediately identify. He doesn't know when he began to link the smell of guns with Sheppard, but it's a powerful association now; he's half-hard, and a lot of it is the faint smoky smell from the pistol, and the remnants of that smell on John's hands and clothes from what had happened on the planet today.

Rodney squirms a little. "I'll try." Did his voice just squeak? God, he's pathetic.

He feels John stiffen behind him, then a huff of laughter in his ear. "You're...?" John's voice, gently amused, with maybe a hint of something darker underneath.

"No, no, don't be--of course not." Rodney takes a breath. Stares at John's long fingers grasping the 9 mil competently. Competent, long fingers that...

"You are! You're turned on by this!" John crows triumphantly.

"No, no, that would be. No. I mean, it's a gun! It kills people! That's, no. Plus, I'm already enough of a cliche with the whole brilliant scientist with the hot military, uh, thing, so I--"

"Turned. On." John intones seriously directly into Rodney's ear.

"Oh my god, I'm so sick!" Rodney blurts.

John laughs, full-throated, and it's good to hear him laugh after a day like today. "This," he abruptly palms Rodney's erect cock for just a second through his BDUs, "really is. Kinda sick."

Rodney sighs. "Yeah," and moves to separate himself from John.

"And also hot," John whispers right in Rodney's ear, pulling Rodney back against him with one hand, and using the other to take the pistol from Rodney's now-weak fingers and empty it of its clip with practiced movements. "Really, really hot," he continues, pulling back the slide and removing the chambered bullet. John holds the pistol asssessingly in his hands for a moment, then quickly rattles off the command codes that lock the shooting range to anyone else.

"What...?" Rodney's voice sounds hoarse.

"Shhh," John breathes into Rodney's neck. His exhale stirs the hair on Rodney's temple and Rodney shivers. John pulls in an audible breath and starts to run the now-empty gun slowly up the bare flesh of Rodney's forearm. Rodney feels gooseflesh rising in its wake.

Rodney gasps and his head falls back against John's shoulder. John makes an appreciative noise and shoves his hips hard up against Rodney's ass. The gun's still moving up Rodney's arm, and Rodney has a moment of dislocation: how did he end up here anyway, in the shooting range of a flying city in another galaxy, yes, that's one question, but an even more amazing question is, how did he end up here with John Sheppard, flyboy military slacker, cupping Rodney's now rock-hard cock through Rodney's very own military pants and sliding a gun inch by excruciating inch up Rodney's right arm?

"I, that's, you--" Rodney attempts half-heartedly. He barely recognizes his own voice; it's gone deep and raspy.

"Relax," John says, voice gravelly. "It stops any time you want it to. Or I do. Why not? We deserve it."

Since that's more words than John's strung together about their -- for want of a better word, relationship -- in, well, probably ever, and yeah, he wants John to have any brief respite he can, Rodney figures, okay. "Okay?"

"Cool," John says, then reaches to gather Rodney's hands in his left hand, grasping them loosely against Rodney's left side. "Let's try..."

Rodney's hips are already canting forward with little thrusts, and it's frustrating as hell; there's nothing to provide any friction. He's about to say something, but John slides the gun up over Rodney's shoulder, the metal warm from his hand, slides it slower and slower, until it's barely moving, and Rodney's suddenly bereft of words. He tilts his head back further and gasps as John uses the handle of the gun to just barely stroke the sensitive place under Rodney's ear. "Nrgh," Rodney says, but it comes out choked and breathy.

John makes a sound deep in his chest and his left hand tightens around Rodney's wrists. Rodney's stomach drops, half out of lust and half out of something like fear, when he realizes John's going to keep going, going to stroke the pistol up to his face. Rodney's heart feels like it's going to explode, and his breathing is so loud it's embarassing. In fact, this whole thing is embarrassing, and he feels his face heat with the knowledge of how ludicrous this is, and how revealing. "I. It's embarrassing," he pants, unable even as he says it to still the restless movement of his hips.

John kisses Rodney's cheek, slides his lips dry across the stubble, then trails a line of warm wet kisses up his jaw, murmuring against Rodney's skin. "No, I'll, I want this, I'll. Tell you something I like. Embarrassing. If you'll--"

"Okay, deal," Rodney pants, knees weak, as John brings the gun around Rodney's neck, trails it lightly over his jugular and then up to his cheek.

Rodney makes an involuntary whimpering sound when John runs the smooth, cool metal over his lips, and he can't help it that they part a little; he needs the air. "You, your fingers, always smell like. Like smoke and, and guns, and--"

"Lick them," John whispers into Rodney's ear. Rodney's hips spasm forward again, and he's pretty sure a humililating sound just left his mouth. "Lick. Lick my fingers." John's panting too, which makes Rodney feel slightly better, and he lets his tongue dart out, just a little. Oh god, he can taste the salt of John's skin, and over it, something metallic and deadly.

John gasps, then licks the shell of Rodney's ear, tongue striping it with heat and wet. By the time John's tongue slides into the center, Rodney needs to lean into the arm John's using to hold his wrists to stay upright. "Lick the, lick it, lick--" John's voice is breathy and frantic in Rodney's ear, and Rodney does, closes his eyes and licks the barrel of the gun tentatively. It's cool on his tongue, metallic and bitter all at the same time.

"Fuck." John's hand jerks tighter on Rodney's wrists. "Jesus."

Rodney can feel John's chest heaving behind him, so he figures if there's going to be humiliation and embarrassment afterwards, it's going to be mutual, and plus he almost died today -- again -- so, what the fuck. He licks the gun again, then opens his mouth a little and slides his lips sideways around the barrel, mouths the gun a little.

John groans into his ear, a deep desperate sound, and Rodney tongues the gun more seriously, making a sound in the back of his throat when he thinks of John's cock in his mouth, long and powerful and salty.

Rodney's getting frantic for contact; his cock aches, and the hard ridge of John's dick pressing into his ass isn't making it any better. "John," he manages to say in spite of his tight throat and dry mouth. "I need..."

John whines a little, then squeezes Rodney's wrists with his hand, whispers harsh in his ear, "If I let go, will you keep your hands still?"

"If you, whatever you--" Rodney pants.

"I want you to. Keep them still. Don't move," John breathes.

"Oh god," Rodney says, panting around the cool barrel of the pistol, shocked by the naked need in John's voice.

John's hands release Rodney's wrists, and he works hard to remember to keep them still, not move them, though he's frantic to grab for his dick, or touch John. "Stay there," John says, and Rodney does. His hands twitch with the need to move; consciously trying to hold them still takes effort and concentration, and he can feel sweat break out at his temples. He hears John rustling around, then quiet--

"Over here," John says, low and harsh in his ear, hands on Rodney's shoulder and waist.

Rodney lets him push him forward; he's still hard, so hard it's almost difficult to walk. A thread of sanity's returning, though, and he says, "Are you--Because we don't have to--"

"Yes." John shoves Rodney towards a table near the gun cabinet. "Unless you don't--?" he says, the note of uncertainty creeping into his voice that Rodney's worked months to try to erase; it'd taken Rodney an inordinately long time to see what was right in front of him.

At least the brief pause in the action has restored Rodney's voice. "As if I'm going to turn down kinky sex with my stunningly hot, uh, person. The only thing better would be if I could brag about it. Can you imagine what it would do to my cred?"

John laughs and shoves him face down on the table. Rodney turns his head to one side, feels the cool table under his cheek. "In your dreams, McKay." Then John's hands are on Rodney's hands, pulling them them up above his head on the table, and John's lean, strong body is on top of him, pressing him down, and oh god, John's still hard too; he can feel it through two layers of clothes.

John groans in Rodney's ear when their bodies make full contact, and he kisses Rodney's eyelid, then licks his cheek, licks on down to Rodney's neck. "Jesus," John says, then transfers Rodney's wrists to one hand and reaches back into his pocket. The gun reappears next to Rodney's face; John lays it carefully on the table next to him.

John's tongue is back on Rodney's jaw, tantalizingly close to his mouth but not quite there, and the fingers of his free hand trace Rodney's lips. Rodney opens his mouth and moans, and John presses the tips of his fingers inside his mouth. Rodney licks them, and it's still there, the faintly acidic taste. Want curls impossibly tighter in his belly. He mouths at John's fingers, then sucks them in. John hisses in his ear and pushes his fingers in further, licks at Rodney's distended lips. "Again," John whispers, panting for breath and moving the gun right up next to Rodney's mouth. "Do it again."

Rodney has to suck in a harsh breath of air for a moment, and then he does it, puts his lips on the closest part of the gun; it's the handle, smooth and imprinted with John's sweat. John's tongue swipes towards Rodney's, and Rodney moans; he's licking the gun and John's tongue at the same time. Rodney's hips surge, frantic, against the table, and John curses in his ear. Rodney fights one last faint surge of embarrassment, because what if this is a big mistake, what if John decides it was a bad idea, Rodney's a pervert, the whole thing is too weird...

"God, fuck,Rodney," John growls into his ear, and reaches down to fumble with the fastenings on his BDUs, then Rodney's, cursing under his breath.

"Oh, god," Rodney says when John presses against his naked ass, the rigid length of his cock burning into his skin. He doesn't recognize his own voice; it's slurred, deep, choked.

John moans in his ear. His hand tightens on Rodney's wrists almost painfully, and he ruts up against Rodney for a few undisciplined thrusts.

Rodney's frantic, and his hips rock down into the table and back into John. John's fingers are still tracing his lips, and the gun is still right there. Only then it's not, because John's hand -- it's shaking, Rodney can see John's hand actually shaking -- grabs the gun and it's disappearing out of Rodney's line of sight and--

"Oh," Rodney groans, guttural and harsh, as John runs the gun, metal-cool and solid, up the back of his thigh slowly, then traces the line where his ass meets his leg, runs it up and over the curve of his ass. Rodney's panting like he ran a sprint, and his hands are scrabbling against the table.

"God. Jesus," John breathes, voice smoke-dark. "Rodney, yes, you, your ass is so--fuck," and that's more sex-words than Rodney thinks he's ever heard from John, John who presses his lips together and doesn't talk much in bed, though Rodney's seen his eyes go dark enough times to--

John puts the gun back on the table next to Rodney again, less carefully this time, and presses down hard on Rodney's wrists. "Don't move them." Rodney nods frantically, because he's not insane, he's not doing anything to interrupt whatever program John's got going, and--

There's the sound of a container being opened, then a little drizzle of something wet down his crack. John's finger, slick and cool, circles his hole, no preamble, and Rodney tries to squirm back onto it, but it stops there, right at the opening.

"What--" Rodney manages to choke out.

John whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "Gun oil. It's okay, it's safe, people in the military--"

"Yes, yes," Rodney says, and when nothing happens, he adds, "Okay. Okay, yes, are you tracking here, John, yes," because he knows John, and it'd be too easy for him to start thinking too much right about now, and that's not--

"Tracking is one word for it," John bites out.

Rodney laughs, but it turns into a gasp, because John pushes two fingers into Rodney, not even pausing like he usually does when they actually fuck, which isn't that often, just one solid long push in. He slides them out a little, then in, works him for a little while. John doesn't ask, doesn't say anything like he usually does when they do this, and suddenly there's another finger shoving into Rodney, and he has to breathe hard and clutch at the table against the sudden stretch, careful to keep his hands where John put them, which, yeah, that's unbearably arousing, too, fighting the compulsion to move them, keeping them there because John wants him to. And it's so good, so incredibly good -- it always is, but this is something else, something more, John showing him something Rodney's betting no one else has seen--

"Ready?" John asks, but he's already got his cock lined up; he's already pushing in. John's hand, slick with oil, grasps his hip, hard, and Rodney can feel him shaking, or maybe it's him shaking, he can't tell anymore. His mouth feels too dry to talk so he nods, and John shoves, steady but strong, into Rodney. The table's got no give, and Rodney has no choice but to take it, take all of it, and that just spirals the want higher. He feels his body relaxing around John's solid length, feels the stutter in John's hips. John gasps and freezes, hisses, "Hold still," in the voice he uses right before he's going to come.

It's excruciatingly exciting that this is all it takes, that John's struggling not to come just from pushing inside Rodney; he hasn't even moved yet.

John's hand reaches for something on the table next to Rodney, and then Rodney remembers: the gun. John bends down and licks at Rodney's ear again, then presses hot kisses down his neck, sucking hard on his nape. He pushes Rodney's t-shirt to one side and sucks hard on the top of his shoulder; Rodney knows John's got a thing for his shoulders. John's tongue licks circles on the muscle where his back meets his arm, and then he picks the pistol back up and runs it slowly over Rodney's shoulder, then down his back.

John starts thrusting into Rodney, maddeningly slow at first, and the gun -- where is the gun?-- oh god John's tracing it down Rodney's naked flank, along the side of his ass, while he fucks him, not slow any more, fucks in and fucks in and slides the hard cool metal up and down over his ass.

"Jesus, Jesus," Rodney pants. "Please, please, I--" and he moves his hand, one of the hands he's kept in place for so long, frantic for contact on his aching cock, starts to reach for it.

"No," John says, voice hard and full of command. "No. From me. From this."

Rodney arches and moans, lost to everything but John's body, John's voice. He puts his hand back where it was. His cock, his belly, his back, his whole fucking body, aches and aches and needs.

"Good," John says. "Good. Think about. I could." John's thrusts grow frantic, arrhythmic. "I could hold you like this. I could, I could, oh god..."

"Sentence!" Rodney gasps, desperate on the want driving his hips down into the table, driving them back onto John.

"I could fuck you with it," John says, low and dangerous in Rodney's ear. "I could bend you over this table and slick it up and put it in you and watch as it--Oh. Oh, shit..."

Rodney's balls draw up and he's gasping to breathe and John's left hand, the one that hasn't been inside him, snakes over Rodney's face. John's fingers find his mouth, open his lips a little, slip inside. John whispers in a broken voice, "I could fuck you with the gun, fuck you open and--"

Rodney convulses, every part of his body suffused with heat, the taste of smoke in his mouth, the taste of John; everything's being drawn out of him. This is the John he knows exists inside the steady guy they all see; demanding, intense, daredevil, risk-taker, and it's that as much as the incredible push of John's cock inside him, rubbing him inside in all the right ways, that more than anything, that tips him into coming without his dick being touched other than where it's rubbing against the table. His orgasm rocks him, rocks the table, and then John's grabbing his hip again with bruising fingers -- and Rodney thinks, good, I want bruises from his hands. John grabs Rodney's shoulder in his teeth through his t-shirt, growls and bites, then jerks and rams into Rodney hard, deliciously hard, for a few more thrusts.

For a long time, the only sounds are their panting breaths, and Rodney slowly becomes aware of their surroundings again. The shooting range. Atlantis. Military commander. Chief scientist.

John makes a sound on top of Rodney and Rodney suddenly knows with startling clarity that this could all go wrong right now. John doesn't like it when he's raw, exposed; draws back when he is. Rodney's not too keen on it himself, actually, now that he thinks about it; seen in one light, this whole thing is horrifyingly embarrassing. Rodney's throat aches a little; this could fuck things up.

John pulls out slowly and Rodney winces a little, careful to hide it; yeah, he's going to be feeling this for a few days. John grabs for the table to support himself when he tries to stand, and then Rodney's pushing up, too. His legs are wobbly; so wobbly he stumbles, can't stand straight.

Strong arms catch him and hold him from behind. "You okay?" Rodney definitely hears doubt creeping into John's voice, and no, it's not something he wants to hear. It'd taken them so long to get on the same page; they're still figuring things out, but damnit, no.

Rodney turns in John's arms. Rodney's voice comes out a whisper; his throat is still tight. "So okay," he says. "So very, very okay. You?"

John's forehead wrinkles and he looks away. "I--"

Rodney feels the words pushing out; he can't stop them. "Are you going to, you know, freak out? Because I'd really. I really hope you don't freak out, because, that, you, it doesn't matter, we don't have to do anything like that again, but I just. You..." He grinds to a halt and feels like rolling his eyes at himself. Great job, McKay, he thinks. He closes his eyes.

"Hey," John says, and Rodney feels John's hand land on his cheek for a second. "Hey. Now who's freaking out?"

Rodney tips his chin up and opens his eyes. "No." He shakes his head a little, then swallows. "Absolutely neither of us is freaking out. You said it yourself. We deserve it. We can do what we want. Or not. And in fact..." Rodney raises an eyebrow at John. "You owe me a kinky dirty embarrassing fantasy."

"Well," John shuffles his feet and looks away. "I don't, that is, I--"

Rodney grabs John's face between his hands and turns him back to face him. "You promised. And also, I want to kiss you. Do you think you can postpone the freakout long enough so I can do that?"

John looks down. "I'm not going to freak out."

"Right, sure, and you have a bridge in Arizona to sell me," Rodney huffs, and leans forward for John's mouth. It's still smoky and warm and passionate, and Rodney tries to tell him with his lips and his tongue, tell John that it's okay, better than okay, this--whatever just happened.

Rodney laces his hands in John's hair before he breaks the kiss, forces him into the forehead lean of the Athosians, but for them, it's something different. "Listen to me, Sheppard," Rodney whispers. "We're both terrible at this, but, look. This is--" Words desert him, which is pretty ironic considering how easily words usually flow out his mouth.

"Did I hurt you?" John whispers.

Rodney shakes his head. "No. No, no, no, no. Listen to me, it's, it's embarrassing, I mean, I don't think I'll ever be not embarrassed, but seriously, I'm pulling that one out, like forever, any time I need a little inspiration, because I've never, you're, you have no idea how fucking--"

John pulls back and raises an eyebrow at Rodney. "You're telling me this is now your jerk-off material? That's the best you can do? No wonder all your other relationships--Uh."

Rodney raises his eyebrow back at John. "Because you are so great at interpersonal relations."

After a breathless moment, John's mouth quirks, and Rodney breathes an internal sigh of relief.

"Point," John concedes. "So I guess you won that one."

"I really did," Rodney says, then bends down to pull up the mess of his boxers and pants, feeling a twinge in his ass that zings straight to his spent dick. His voice comes out a little breathless. "Which means I set the terms next time we're in the mood for," he straightens and sees that John's eyes have gone a little smoky again. Rodney lowers his voice to the timbre he knows is a hot-button for John and lets his mouth quirk into the closest thing to a sexy smirk he can manage. "...for a little target practice."

"Guess you're right," John says, looking a little scared, a little turned-on, and quite a bit happy.

"Always," Rodney says. "You can count on that." He smirks at John.

"Yeah, well, don't get too full of yourself." John fastens his BDUs. "Now that I know your secret, I'll be able to shut you up any time I want."

Rodney's about to protest when he realizes what John's doing: he's bent over a little and is showily adjusting the thigh holster he's apparently been wearing this whole time.

Rodney's mouth goes a little dry, then a lot dry, when John carefully unfastens the top buckle and then tightens it, staring up at Rodney through his eyelashes the whole time. John reaches for the gun, his gun, the gun they just used for...

Rodney's heart rate kicks up.

John isn't done: he slides the gun, achingly slowly, back into the holster, hand curled lazily around the handle, then quirks an eyebrow at Rodney expressively.

Rodney swallows and bites his lip. John's eyes lower to Rodney's mouth, then raise again to Rodney's eyes. He's obviously fighting a smile; his lips are quirking, but it still comes out a little shy. "I thought of something else you can do. Next time."

Rodney can see it like it's already happened, can imagine what it would taste like on his tongue, warmed by John's body and years of use. He's literally speechless, and he has to clutch the table behind him for a moment. "Not fair," he finally manages. His voice sounds raw.

John straightens finally and grins at him, the full-out sincere John Sheppard grin that's all too rare. "Who said anything about fair?" He gets some towels from the dispenser and proceeds to clean the table.

Rodney's chest feels warm. An answering grin pulls up his own mouth. "Fine with me. Just remember, it's my turn next."

John finishes cleaning up and gives the command to unlock the door.

"After you," Rodney says, motioning John through. He's pretty sure he can guess what John's kinky fantasy is: he's been watching the guy for a long time, and sleeping with him for a few months. Not to mention that he's a genius. As John walks out, he slaps his ass, pretty damn hard.

"Hey! Jesus!" John rubs the spot showily where Rodney's hand connected.

Rodney raises his eyebrow expressively at John, and with a rush of triumph sees John's face turn a little pink.

"Not fair!" John protests after too long of a silence to be very convincing.

"Who said anything about fair?" Rodney says airily, motioning to John to fall in step next to him.

"Ha, ha," John says, but Rodney can tell he's fighting a laugh.

"Always. Right," Rodney says.

John's ridiculous laugh curls around Rodney, warming him from the inside. "Whatever you want to believe, buddy. If it gets us, uh," he looks around as if realizing for the first time that they're walking down Atlantis's corridors and have no guarantee of privacy, "nights like tonight."

Rodney smiles. He couldn't agree more.