Thorn Apples by Kat Reitz & tzigane (body modification challenge)

[tzi]

Title: Thorn Apples
Authors: tzi & zaganthi
Pairing: John/Rodney, OMC/Rodney
Warnings: This fic shook hands with raping and pillaging. And maybe even had sex with them. But that's all in the past. Really. We swear.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There were moments John could almost swear that things were normal, and then. Then, there came the other things.
Spoilers: Just consider that it's possible through 3x13. It's easier on all of us that way ^_~
Length: 9,149 words.



He was everything and nothing like he had been before.

There were moments John could almost swear that things were normal -- that Rodney existed merely to frustrate him, or to jump to automatic, brilliant conclusions, and then...

And then. Then, there came the other things. Eyes downcast, palms laid on his thighs, even when he ate with them in the mess hall. Automatic deference to people he would never have given any sort of submission to before, preferring the jerk of his chin as a show of defiance to any sort of giving in.

He wasn't sure what he would have preferred -- if Rodney had come back perfectly okay, or all busted up, but it would have been easier for them all then the in-between world, where Rodney was and wasn't himself, where the moods were different and the shine had been knocked out of his eyes a little.

The worst things, John thought, were the marks.

The need for the marks. The enjoyment of them.

He was seeing Heightmeyer, but that was like putting a screen door on a submarine -- too little, too late, too much water under the bridge for it to do any good. All they could do was try to adapt to Rodney, and it was giving John a hell of a hard time.

Teyla and Ronon seemed to be dealing with it a hell of a lot better than he was. He guessed they'd seen things like that happen before. It was maybe, maybe, acceptable to them. John hadn't asked, hadn't wanted to know, because he didn't want to talk about what had happened to Rodney, and Rodney didn't talk about it. As long as no one was talking about it, then it wasn't there, and Rodney was almost passable as himself.

What Rodney did in his free time was no one's business. The fact that he was spending it behind closed doors with Teyla and Ronon didn't make him jealous at all. Not even a little bit.

Okay. So, lying to himself wasn't working that well, John had to admit. He was jealous as hell, jealous because they spent so much time with Rodney, jealous because he was comfortable with them.

Jealous because he didn't know what to do and it seemed to be so much easier for them.

It didn't take away from anything he did with them, Ronon or Teyla, but Rodney had always been the one to sidle into John's room and ask if he wanted to watch a movie or something, seeing as they weren't dying. Except there was none of that now. Rodney slipped off quietly from the lab on duller nights, and John coincidentally couldn't find Ronon or Teyla hanging around.

It felt a little like a conspiracy against him, except John was man enough to admit that it didn't have a damn thing to do with him, and everything to do with Rodney.

He might not be invited, but he was sure about one thing. He should have been.

And he was damn sure going to find out what was going on.

Teyla's brushes were small, carefully tapered so that they were perfect for their task. The strokes tickled somewhat, making steady, patterned progress.

He closed his eyes, stretched out on his stomach for her. Her room was the perfect place for it, decorated with hand-woven blankets and meditating mats, furs. It felt familiar, soothing, all of the good memories that clung from that place. There weren't many, but there were enough; enough that it had sunk well and firmly into his mind that he belonged stretched out naked like that, with the cold tickle of a brush over his skin.

It was better than the needles. Better than the blood, and he needed it. He needed to be marked that way, needed to have someone's mark on him. It was the only thing that had kept him safe during the long six months he'd been missing. He still had the old mark, it was true -- spiraling ink in black and blue and deep, deep green spreading all along his spine.

The old mark held no meaning, though. It held nothing at all, and Teyla's brush-strokes held the world in each light motion.

He closed his eyes when she did that, assumed the position. Body straight, weight on his elbows, hands palm down on the mattress and he wasn't allowed to tremble but he could hang his head, rest his forehead against furs, knees and ankle and toes pressed flat, too, holding the line while Teyla laid down the mark.

Heightmeyer called it an unhealthy psychological artifact, but she hadn't suggested how to get rid of it, other than that he should, and that was her job to work out, not his.

For the time being, he needed it. Needed the touch. Needed the feel.

Needed her mark.

"Rodney," she said softly, the brush sliding with slick, careful motions just past the small of his back. "I would like to ask you a question. You may refrain from answering, if you wish."

He wouldn't. Lying there, letting her do that like she knew exactly what to do -- it was better therapy then Heightmeyer. It made him feel safe again, made him better for days and weeks at a stretch. "Please, ask."

"Why do you not allow John to speak with you about this?"

Ah. Never the easy questions, were they? She didn't make it easy for him, at least not like that. How could he answer, anyway? It wasn't as if he had a good one to give her, nothing that might actually help.

"He is very concerned. I do not believe that he understands why you choose to come here instead of asking him, speaking with him about the things that have happened to you."

No, he probably didn't understand why, but there was a good chance that he didn't know much of what had happened to Rodney, and Rodney wanted to keep it that way. No emotional breakthroughs, no manly bonding sessions. He couldn't really bond over what it felt like to be fucked and used like that. It wasn't quite hockey, or baseball, or football, was it? And he couldn't explain the minutia of American and Earth cultural taboos to Teyla.

That led him back to the whole reason why he couldn't talk to John about it. Because he hadn't once in the past year reached a hand behind him, or around and between his legs, curled up in bed to finger-fuck his own ass, and not thought about John.

"I wouldn't know what to say."

John had been what kept him sane in so many ways. So many. He couldn't tell him that, though. He couldn't ever let John know. John was his friend, or if not his friend, then at least his team leader. He saved John's life, and John saved his. John even saved his sanity, whether he knew it or not.

It was difficult enough to face John knowing the things he'd thought, the things that he had wanted. It would be impossible if John knew.

He'd never forgive Rodney if he knew.

"I do not think he would be... agitated by anything that you chose to tell him, Dr. McKay."

Except he would be. He was John, and even if John were the most... Rodney pressed his forehead a little more firmly against the furs, feeling the tip of her brush dot dot dot against skin just beside his spine. If John were the most flamingly gay man the military had ever turned a blind eye to, he still wouldn't have been comfortable with the idea that Rodney got off thinking about him like that. That Rodney had committed mental bait and switch on himself while he'd been kept.

That it had helped, made things easier when all he had wanted to do was find his nine mil and shoot himself between the eyes to get away.

"He is waiting. Outside the door," Teyla murmured, and carefully placed another dot. "There. I believe that I am done."

As soothing as it was, done was done and there was no arguing that. He didn't move, though. The paint needed to dry before he could dress, or the marks would be ruined. "Why is he outside?"

"I believe that he wishes to speak with you. That he would like to know what happens here, why we have been taken into your confidence and yet he has not."

We meaning Ronon as well as Teyla. It wasn't as if he'd spoken to Conan. He'd just known, and sort of... kept close. Teyla knew more, knew it because the marks were something he had to have.

"You understood from the start." Since he'd been brought back, since there was talk of sending him back to Earth and questioning whether he'd been compromised and what should be done with him, as if he had no choice in it. Just like being back there. Teyla had stood up for him and had offered to let him stay with the Athosians instead of going back to Earth, because there was nothing that his sister and that tofu-eating English major of hers could do for him.

Nothing anyone could do now, really. He was different. That was all.

"Yes," she said finally, and leaned down to blow a cool stream of air across his back. "But my understanding was inevitable. Our galaxy is, I suspect, very unlike your own. These things...." Teyla paused, almost as if she sought a more delicate wording. "They are more prevalent, I suspect, given the reactions I have seen amongst the others from your world."

"It would've been a huge court case and documentary series and there would have been Geraldo camped outside of my house wanting an interview or something." Not that she knew anything more about Geraldo than the chair incident and that he was a 'tee vee' actor, but it was really all she needed to know. She knew, too, that Rodney would lower his voice when she blew against his skin, and he did, voice pitched to a bare whisper because the slide of air over his skin was enthralling.

"Hm." Just that, just the sound, and then she blew again, a fine, sweet wash across his skin. "Yes. This does not in any way mean that Colonel Sheppard is not concerned, Rodney. I believe you should speak with him."

"Now?" He was still naked and he, he was sure that John hadn't seen the marks yet, any of them. Rodney hoped that he hadn't. Didn't want him to know, to see, to be aware of anything more than the stripped-down narrative of the mission report.

"Perhaps if you were to wait until the pigment has dried, you would be more comfortable."

"I think I'd... prefer to be dressed." And not there. Anywhere but there. He didn't want John seeing him like that. But how long would Sheppard just stand outside and wait?

Why was he waiting at all, actually? That was the real question.

Her hand came down on his shoulder, and Rodney shifted, moved slowly, and laid down flat on her bed. "I will speak to him."

He pressed his cheek against the bedding, closed his eyes tightly. "Okay. I'll..." Wait. He'd wait for it to dry, and he wouldn't go back to his room and shower, really relax and try to make the most of the time he had until inevitably he was radioed for something.

"Rodney." The feel of her hand on his shoulder was distracting, but he managed not to flinch. It had taken five of the six months he'd been gone to keep that reaction from showing. "I believe that this will help you. If you disagree, or would like for me to send John away...."

"No." He closed his eyes a little tighter, reaching to focus on the moment, the markings, the feeling. "It can't get, maybe you have a point."

Maybe. Mostly, he found it difficult to deny her for so many reasons. He had her mark on him, rust-red pigment that dyed his skin, wiped away some of the connections he felt to the ink that had been painfully pushed just beneath. His back, when he saw it, seemed to flower instead of twining with vicious barbs.

For that, he would try to talk to John.

Try. But he'd take a moment; attempt to get his heartbeat down first. He'd faced worse, and that was the stupid part. He'd faced worse every day, fears worse than having to talk to someone. Fears in a world where no one cared about his brain, just about how he could pleasure them until all he had was a head full of thoughts and nowhere to put them.

Rodney would never have thought that he'd be stolen on a trip through the Gate all because some crazy aristocrat liked his ass. He was brilliant; he'd always been brilliant, the kind of child that other parents were envious of when his parents bragged, the kind of teenager who'd gotten his first degree at fifteen, the kind of adult who was valued more for his mind than for his social skills. The fact that someone would take him for something so... so purely fustian, perhaps, worthless and meaningless, as slavery, it had never been more than a distant half-hearted masturbatory fantasy.

He wished it had continued to be only that, but it hadn't been. It had been real, and full of things he never would have anticipated. Not just meaningless fucking, but training with a precision that told Rodney it was an artform among their people. The positions, the postures, came easily to him now, and falling into them tamped down nervousness, helped him cope against all logic and sanity. He should have shunned it all, and Rodney knew that; but like the marking, it was impossible to throw away, shrug aside.

And now it followed him into the few masturbatory fantasies he had left.

"I believe it has dried, Rodney."

It dried so quickly, despite everything, or maybe it was just that his mind went somewhere else while he lay there waiting for it to sink into his skin properly. It would stay; flake off during the day. The longer the pigment remained, the deeper the color of the dye, the longer he had blooms of color that weren't related to bruises and barbs.

"Thank you."

He thanked Teyla for so many things with those two words, and she understood them. Ronon had the same sort of comprehension. They knew.

He couldn't possibly face John.

"John is waiting," she murmured gently, and carefully reached out to him, offering her assistance.

She helped him stand up, shifting out of his position. His muscles were a little stiff, but the rest of him was relaxed, calmer than he should have been when faced with talking to John. "He's still out there?"

"He has been very patient." Patient for longer than the two hours Rodney could tell had passed when he looked at the small clock Teyla kept near her bedside. Patient all the time Rodney had been missing, actually, and ever since he had come back.

Hadn't said anything, hadn't asked. He'd kept Rodney on the team, and it was completely in his right to grill Rodney, to push any issue he wanted to press.

That didn't stop Rodney from slowly pulling his pants back on, didn't stop him from carefully pulling his shirt down. "All right. Thank you, Teyla. Thank you."

She paused beside him, reached up, and touched his cheek. "You are very welcome, Rodney, as always." Her hand moved to cup the back of his neck, and his forehead was pressed gently to hers for just a moment. It was something he had never done before, and the very least he could do now.

That touch of forehead to forehead was thick with meaning, thick as the lines on his back. Rodney let it linger, and didn't move until she pulled her hand again. Then he turned to let himself out, hoping that John could wait until they got somewhere more private.

If he didn't, well. Rodney had actually become marginally accustomed to public humiliation doled out in thick dollops.

The door opened as he neared it, and John was on the other side. The way he leaned against the wall made it look as though he was doing it a favor, holding it up instead of the other way around. "Hey, buddy." Just like that, as if it was easy, as if that was the way he wanted to start things.

Hey, buddy. Like he wasn't full of thoughts and preconceptions, like John probably didn't already have half-thoughts about what went on in that room. "Teyla told me you were out here." He stepped through the doorway, cleared his throat a little. "Do you want to, uh..."

"Yeah." Yeah, even though Rodney could have been offering to play Ping-Pong for all he knew. "We could... maybe..."

It seemed this was going to be difficult.

"Your quarters are bigger." And he hadn't just opened that up to what it sounded like it could be, but he still said it. He liked his privacy; the quiet space that he'd turned his room into since coming back.

If they went to John's place, he could leave when he wanted.

"That's not exactly saying much," John snorted, but he was leading the way already, Rodney half a step behind him. Once upon a time, they would have been side-by-side, walking in stride with one another. Now, Rodney had his place, and he kept to it, mostly.

Mostly. It was easier and it came naturally by now. There was still a lingering fear that if he broke out of step, if he got too close to pretending to be an equal, he'd be punished. He'd been punished for that, he'd had it trained out of him.

Rodney learned his lessons well. "Your Johnny Cash posters don't take up that much space."

"Yeah, well. About as much space as your degrees." He could see the sudden regret show up in the stiffening of John's spine, the way that he seemed to think that he had said exactly the wrong thing altogether. It was the sort of thing that would never have bothered either of them before, not really. Now, things were different.

"They'll be on par if you ever learn to play that guitar." He was still relaxed, bodily, the texture of the paint plying against his skin as he tagged after John. Wasn't much further. Just a few more steps from Teyla's. All of the teams had been moved closer together while he had been gone.

His team was always right next door, now. It was a strange sort of comfort, in its own way.

"Yeah, well, I don't see you trying to play anything." Their teasing was forced, yes, but it was still there. John still didn't know that Rodney played the piano, that he had a ridiculously useless ability to play almost any instrument given three hours and access. Technical proficiencies had their advantages, he supposed.

"Do you want me to play your guitar for you?" Rodney watched John turn his head, watched the eyebrow twitch John gave before he placed his hand on the pad beside his door, and opened it. "Hey, watch me. I could."

"I'd like to see that." Strangely, Rodney thought he really might. He seemed like he would, anyway. "You play?"

It was the kind of thing they ought to know about one another already. Sometimes Rodney wondered about all of the things they didn't know, the things they didn't share. He was a little surprised that Jeannie hadn't said anything about it. She seemed to have told so many of his other secrets.

And he'd gained so many new ones.

"Piano, a little guitar." He could play piano melodies and songs on a guitar with some thought, but it had been a while for him for either instrument. Not as long as it would feel, when he'd had to learn how to play that strange straight board with the strings, and...

Rodney closed his eyes for a moment, and followed John into his room, waiting for the door to close.

"Um."

Um seemed to be a fair summary, because John wasn't exactly good with words, much less emotions. He almost made Rodney look proficient in comparison. It was laughable.

It was wrong, particularly now, in that very moment.

"You waited two hours for me to come out, John." Rodney cleared his throat, and glanced at John, waiting.

The uncomfortable shift of the colonel's shoulders before he sat on the edge of the bed made Rodney stiffen a little. "You, uh. You've been avoiding me. I kind of..." He shrugged. "You don't have to. You know?"

"I haven't been...." Avoiding him, except that he was avoiding him because he didn't know what to do with John anymore. "I'm not avoiding you. Much."

Watching John, watching him lick his lips and then wipe hand over his face as if it would help him think, it made Rodney wish he could fix things. He did. He just didn't know how. "Anything I can do to make it easier?"

Not be himself. Not be the person Rodney had thought about every time they made it feel good, not be the person Rodney had wished would rescue him every time it hurt.

"If I knew, I would have asked." He'd asked, half-asked, Teyla. If she knew about... and she had. She knew and helped him, and John could only... Be John.

"Teyla said I should talk to you about it. That you wanted to know."

"Yeah." Yeah, and his hands were dangling now, caught between his knees, shoulders hunched together. Body language Rodney had been unable to read a year ago seemed so obvious now.

Worry. Fear. Guilt.

He saw them, understood them, but didn't know what to do with them. Didn't know what to do except placate and there were rituals and routines for that, and they were more comfortable than standing with his back to the door full of fear.

Rodney stepped towards John, and the easiest thing in the world was to fall into that role because maybe, maybe if he let himself do that, he could get John to understand. So he knelt down at his feet, palms on top of his thighs.

"Jesus, Rodney!"

Maybe it wasn't the right step, but it made him think a little better. It made him able to focus on John, to cram physics and nuclear engineering and computational chemistry into the back of his mind.

"Rodney. Rodney, please, oh, God, I'm sorry, I just..."

"You asked." Rodney tilted his head up, staring at John's face. "This is what it comes down to."

"Jesus, Rodney..." He said it again, but his hands were shaking, reaching out, cupping Rodney's face as if, as if...

He couldn't think that, couldn't believe that, not with everything that had happened, and if John knew the things he'd thought about, he wouldn't be touching Rodney that way. He wouldn't be touching Rodney at all.

He let John touch him. He let John curl fingers against his jaw, and it was hard not to close his eyes for a moment, hard not to lean forwards and do more. "I used to pretend it was you."

The flinch was as obvious in John's eyes as it was in his touch, but it wasn't what Rodney had expected. Not exactly, and then John said his name and leaned forwards and they were kissing, John's mouth light on his, palm pressed lightly to the nape of his neck.

Not straight.

Rodney leaned into the kiss as much as he ever had been allowed, had been made to. It was half training and half wanting, and he edged forwards on his knees to get closer to John. Closer to touching him. Closer to being touched, and then John pulled away, and the look on his face was just as readable as that flinch, all of that guilt. It was panic, and not over his sexual identity.

Over Rodney.

"God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You've been through...."

"You have no idea." He snapped it, quietly, though, because he was angry only that John was assuming that Rodney didn't know what he'd been through. He'd been through hell, to be very particularly imprecise about it, but he hadn't checked his wits just because some complete control freak had fucked him up the ass more times than he could count.

He hadn't given up on the thought of John, John being the one, John touching him, John curled around him, John leaving his mark.

"Because you won't talk to me!"

Rodney shouldn't have to tell him. It was all in the report, every last bit of it, one written as a whole and another summarized in short, viciously bitten off language that made Rodney's teeth clench.

One for Carson.

One for the military.

"It's in the report. The report that I know you have. The report that I had to give. So either you've read it or you haven't, but you don't need to presume that I'm unaware of the circumstances that I just left. They tried to brainwash me, not give me a goddamned lobotomy, which I'd assume you're aware of since you still allow me to, oh, have the codes that I could self-destruct this place with. Well, half self-destruct, but in theory."

And God, that gleam, that look in John's eyes, all indulgence and softness, something that Rodney didn't get to see, except he did, and then John was kissing him again, soft and sweet and everything those six months hadn't been.

Maybe they didn't have to talk to get this right.

He didn't care if he never got over the training and if he never 'healthily reclaimed his sexuality', which he supposed were Heightmeyer's words for either settling down with a nice girl, or a very flaming interior decorator who wouldn't prove a threat to his manliness. Or an English major, which really made him wonder about his brother-in-law, now that he thought about it, because his sister was sort of, no, she was a McKay, she was overbearing at times, bitchy for a woman and god, John slipped him a little tongue.

A little slip of tongue, and Rodney groaned, melting into the kiss, leaning up towards him as best he could. His hands were still palm up on his thighs, but he was offering, offering everything, and John...

John was taking it.

Taking what he gave, wrapping Rodney up in everything he was, everything he'd wanted for those six months, for years before that, even, and the only fear he had, the only thing Rodney didn't want, was for John to see the marks of possession up and down his back. It had been tightly wound into it, intrinsic to the training. There was comfort in the new markings, comfort in the security wrapped up in them, but he hadn't let the ink finish settling in yet and...

Rodney leaned up, tipped his head back and kissed John harder, pressed his fingertips firmly against his thighs because he wanted John to take more. He wanted John to take everything, and he wanted it to be because John wanted it.

The rough scratch of stubble against his chin made him whine when John pulled away, swollen lips and darkened gaze sure signs that he wasn't unaffected. Not in the least.

"What do you need me to do?"

Everything he could. It could be a perfect solution, if it worked, if he could get John to be everything. Not healthy, no, but healthy was overrated. Healthy was lettuce and a glass of murderous orange juice every morning. "Just be you."

That seemed to be all John needed; all he needed to know, because he reached down, took Rodney's hands, pulled them out of position and tugged him up, up, and it was awkward. The bed was too small, ridiculously tiny, and why anyone expected grown adults to sleep on those things, he couldn't imagine, but then John had him, had his hands on him, and they were side-by-side. They were equal, even if Rodney's knees had parted out of habit, and John wanted him to touch in return.

He could do it. He could, and John would just have to cope with the fact that Rodney was going to be weird for a very long time. They were side by side in bed, facing each other, and John was kissing him again when Rodney finally got his hands to move, got his hands to clutch at John's hips, knotting tight in worn nylon-cotton mix of the utility pants he wore.

Thank God.

Oh, thank God, thank God, because he hadn't thought, he had thought if John knew, if he knew the things Rodney had thought about, wanted, hoped, pretended, then... John knew, though, and he was kissing Rodney anyway, one hand at the small of Rodney's back, the other on his arm, safe places, probably flaking away the drying mixture on his skin, and Rodney didn't care.

He squirmed a little closer, glad that he was dressed, but glad too that he could touch John like that, that he could just lay there and kiss him and enjoy the feel of stubble and his hands. He was intrinsically John, all John Sheppard, asshole too laid-back American who wasn't anything like he seemed and everything like the drawl sounded if that made sense.

It didn't really have to make sense. Not so much, not at the moment, because John's hand was sliding under his shirt, following the trail of dried paint up his spine, and he was stopping, slowing down, looking at Rodney.

"What is it?"

"Paint." Rodney felt the tips of John's fingers catch and peel some of it up, just a flick of motion, and he could tell that John wanted to see. Maybe, no, that was going to be the big hurdle. The one that was so high he wasn't sure John could get over it.

His lips were soft, though. Soft, almost sweet, and the look there, the way that John seemed grateful just to have him there, have him beside him, squirmed into that tiny space... It was gratifying, to say the least. "Later," John murmured, and the reprieve was enough. Enough, for the moment.

"Sure." Sure, whatever, and he shifted his hands against John's hips, fingers sliding up to touch skin, the curve of hard muscle with soft, slightly dry skin over top. Oh, god, he really wanted to get John naked and cover him in lotion, because that was something from that other time he could really enjoy doing for John. "Hnn, you feel good."

"Yeah." Yeah, agreement that he did, or agreement that Rodney felt good, too. Probably both, if Rodney thought about it, because it was obvious that John enjoyed the way he felt. There was proof of it pressed against his hip, and it wouldn't take much to line up their bodies, get both of them into the perfect position. "God, Rodney."

Even if they were still dressed. That was what the laundry was for, and no one would really be surprised if Doctor McKay's clothes came to the laundry with semen and paint on them, would they? "I've wanted you for a long time."

That statement drew a hitch of breath, a further flex of John against him. God, it was... he was beautiful, at least to Rodney. He was everything that had kept him sane, and even before, even then, Rodney had wanted John so much.

So much.

"Wish I'd figured it out sooner."

Except that it would have done nothing for either of them except maybe it could have made things worse. Rodney wasn't sure, but he did figure that it wouldn't have gotten him rescued any sooner than he was and it wouldn't have changed anything that had happened to him.

"This is still pretty good." Rodney shifted his legs, just enough to press his hips against John's, to press John's hips against him with his hands.

"Yeah." The crack in that voice told Rodney just how good it was, so he rolled his hips, pushing forward in a steady, grinding thrust. Just holding on felt good, felt like control, felt like everything he wanted. Everything he had wanted, and if John would just, would just...

With one easy motion, John shifted, rolling Rodney onto his back and sliding into the space between his legs, pressing them together more firmly. If John would just do that, yes, if John would just force it a little, take control and press harder... It made Rodney wish he were naked instead of rubbing cloth against cloth, his dick straining against the fabric.

"Tell me."

Simple words, almost an order, and Rodney could follow orders. He'd gotten good at reading the ones that went unspoken, but John wouldn't do that to him. John would just ask, the way he was now. He would let Rodney know what he wanted.

"Tell you what part? What I want, everything I want, or just the parts that either of us can give?" Because there was a difference and what they were doing there, body against body like that, yeah, he could do that. Dressed or naked, he could do that. He could have John fuck him but then John would see the marks and he wouldn't get it and he didn't want John to not get it.

"Everything you want." It was a whisper against his lips, against his cheek. "Tell me everything you want, Rodney, and I'll do my best to give it to you."

It would have been disturbing, Rodney supposed, if John wasn't making that promise mid-grind. Promises made during sex rarely, if ever, counted.

It made it easier and harder because he meant the things he was going to say and he really wanted them and John would never give them to him, but on the other hand, he'd never have John giving them to him. It cut both ways, that reality, so Rodney just closed his eyes and pulled John tighter, wrapping a leg around one of John's thighs, left one, pulling him closer to rub back. Felt so good, just that stimulation. "I want you to fuck me and mark me and own me and I want that every day when we're not at work and I want to know that you're watching out for me when I'm, oh, god, just like that."

Just like that, because John's hands were digging into his hips, and there was a ripping sound, the seams giving on the old cotton pants he was wearing, and maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. "Jesus, fuck, fuck," John panted, and he was moving, shifting, stripping Rodney bare with shaky, hard movements. "I thought, I wanted, you just had to..."

Ask.

Ask and be rebuked? Ask and be humiliated when he'd had enough for one lifetime, when there were very few hints that it was even viable, or at least any more viable than asking a hobo to write a check for a million dollars and expecting it not to bounce. "So, that's not a no?"

"Not a no." Not a no, and John's mouth was on him, Rodney's shirt shoved up to catch underneath his arms so that John could get at his nipples, and there was no way to stop the flood of sound that was escaping him. Not a no, then, and while teeth and tongue worked on one, thumb and forefinger steadily pinched and tugged at the other. "Mmmn."

And maybe it was too far, too fast, and Rodney didn't know when Heightmeyer had moved into his head, but his brainstem and his dick and that ache in his chest wanted that. Wanted to lose control and wanted John doing it, taking it, letting him try to squirm the rest of his shirt up.

Not caring that he was squirming it, because it wasn't that kind of control. It wasn't that kind of ownership or complete disregard of Rodney himself, it was...

It was John, and John was over him, kissing him again, ruthless in the way he caused pleasure, the way he left Rodney panting and shuddering beneath him. It was fantasy sex, everything Rodney had wanted and wanted and never dared to ask for and he wondered for just a moment if John could read minds, or if he'd just needed to hear Rodney say it because that was what he wanted, too.

Lips against his, leaving him breathing hard, feeling bruised when he finally got half bare, trying to get his pants off despite John's hips pressed against his. He wasn't sure how he was going to get naked, but it was John's decision to make. Fingers roving, marking, twisting his nipples and making his dick ache better than frottage ever had.

"Okay. Okay." John managed to pull away, pull loose, but he didn't get up. Not yet, not right away. "Okay." He pressed his head against Rodney's shoulder for a moment, and Rodney could feel the hot, damp weight of John's breath against his skin. "I'm going to, going to get up. Just a minute. Just to..." Fingers scrabbled at his pants, finishing the sentence without words.

Just to get them naked, and he could do anything he wanted to Rodney because that was what Rodney wanted. It would be easy to get undressed the rest of the way, because he'd dressed for time with Teyla, loose clothes that were all worn and he didn't care about the paint against their weaves, or John's finger impressions pulling at the seams.

"Yeah."

Yeah, and before he knew it, John was up, moving, stripping him with an efficiency that should have been terrifying, but wasn't. Every motion was accompanied by strokes of John's hands, caresses of his lips, and Rodney was bare before he really comprehended any of it. His pants had come off as easily as his shirt, and it was going to be impossible to hide the ripped seams, but he didn't care. Not really.

Not with John looking at him like that, hot-eyed and flushed, mouth swollen, hands clenching.

John wanted him. John wanted him just like Bavual had, that hot and flustered look, except it was John and there was no sick glee, no hand rubbing delight at having him. The tone was different, right, even if John just stood there, watching, when Rodney shifted on his back, taking in what he looked like.

Rodney had always been self-conscious. He hadn't wanted other people to see him, to look at him without his clothes on. He was even paranoid about being without his shirt. The morning he'd found himself naked in Cadman's room a couple of years back, he'd practically sprained something trying to clutch the sheets to himself a little more quickly.

Six months with an alien aristocrat who preferred him naked had done a lot to rearrange that particular priority. He still wasn't confident about it, but the look in John's eyes said that he was enjoying the view, and that was enough to help Rodney relax.

John wasn't a playing it up big kind of guy. If he liked something, then he liked something, and if that something was Rodney on his too-narrow bed, waiting for the next step to happen, then okay. He could wait for John to move.

Wait for John to come back to him.

Wait for John to for God's sake take off his shirt or something, and he was a little surprised when John threw back his head and laughed.

"Okay, okay. You don't have to be so impatient, Rodney."

"Are you reading my mind? Because if you are, this crossed a line between fun and creepy, the line where I veer off into the more sophisticated versions of tin-foil hats." Rodney leaned up on his elbows, staring at John as he pulled his t-shirt up over his head.

"Rodney. You talk in your sleep. It shouldn't surprise you that I can hear when you blurt things out loud while you're awake, too." Ah. Oh, well, then. Huh.

Huh, because he couldn't exactly think when John was half-naked, chest covered in black curls that made Rodney's fingers itch, and then his hands reached for the closures at his waist. Black material slid down his legs, and oh. Oh, right. Underwear was apparently optional.

No wonder John was always so quick to protect his crotch in the field, and that really took commando to a whole new level, Rodney supposed. He shifted back on the bed a little more, eyes lingering on John's stomach, the hair, his dick. His own was excited by it all, hard and yeah, he wanted that, and fuck the little Heightmeyer voice in his head. He wanted John.

He wanted all of the things that had made him hard before, wanted them for himself, and he wasn't going to let some ridiculous alien take that away from him.

"Tell me," John said again, kneeling at the end of the bed and looking at Rodney in a way that made his mouth part so that he could take in a deep breath.

"Fuck me. I want you to fuck me and do anything else you want because I want to be yours..." And John wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't mess him up except possibly by flying another Puddlejumper with a nuke on it, but that was a completely unacceptable messing up that was unacceptable in different ways than being flat on his stomach, face mashed down against a pillow for all the wrong reasons.

It was the right thing, saying that. John hissed, reached down and grasped his cock at the base as if the words alone were almost enough to drive him to coming. "God, Rodney." As if the words alone were enough, making him desperate for Rodney, as desperate as Rodney was for him.

"You keep asking and then acting surprised. The answer isn't going to change." He could roll over onto his stomach, he could reach a hand back and spread himself for John, put on a show, but it didn't seem right just then, didn't seem like what John wanted. But anything to get him to move again. Anything to get him back in the bed with Rodney, skin-on-skin.

"I like to hear it." Loved to hear it, from the reaction, and then he was kneeling at the end of the bed, shifting his way up to Rodney, and they were pressed together again, kissing again, and there was no way to hold back the groan that edged its way into his throat.

A groan, and a mumbled, "Fuck, yes," and he let himself be responsive, let himself wrap his arms around John even though that was no position ever that he was supposed to fall into. It was a new position, Rodney decided as he slid his arms around John's body. "Tell me your radio is off."

For a moment, John fumbled, checking it, and then he nodded. "Yeah. Off." Even if it wasn't, Rodney wondered if either of them would care one way or another if they started broadcasting to the city at large. It was entirely possible they wouldn't, and when John's hands settled at his waist, one leg sliding between Rodney's knees, he could honestly say that he wasn't going to think about it again.

The radio was taken care of, and that was his last lingering worry. Except Wraith attack, but that was, that was something that would interrupt more than sex, so he laid it aside, too, and lifted his hips against John's thigh. "I can move to whatever position you, whatever you like best."

The way John went still at that worried him, but John didn't stop. He just flexed his hips a little more slowly, and then wrapped his arms around Rodney, fingers caressing over the dried flakes on his back. "Just... just like this, Rodney. Just like this. Mine, but..." But. But touching, and caressing, and when John's fingertips pressed against his back, hard, Rodney moaned. If he pressed hard enough, there would be purple fingerprints to help decorate the stylized wire that Teyla modified weekly.

John's, but not in the same way, even if he'd honestly meant the offer, even if he'd honestly meant that he'd do anything John wanted him to do. "Yeah." Yeah, John's fingers pressing hard against his skin, and Rodney rocking his hips firmly up against John's, pressing their dicks hard against each other. The slide and rub of slick cockhead against John's skin, that trail of black hair, it was almost better than being marked.

Almost.

"There are things," John moaned, dick rubbing against the crease of Rodney's thigh, leaking steadily. "Things I want, things I was afraid..." Afraid he'd never get to do. Afraid the way Rodney was, maybe even, and the sound John gave then was one that made its way down Rodney's spine. "Suck you. Lick you, eat you, fuck you, lo..." Yeah. That word, so hard to say, really. "Rodney."

"Yeah. You can, you can do anything, I, I..." He wanted it all, wanted John all over him, rubbing against him, kissing him, anything at all. "Hn, so close."

"Yeah?" Apparently the thought turned John on, because he pressed down harder. "God, yeah. Yeah. Gonna, gonna, gonna do all that. All that and more. Gonna, God, I love it when you, when, talk to me. Talk to me, Rodney."

"Heh, after all the times you told me to sh, sh..." Shut up, all the times John had told him to shut up. He'd missed that, John's mild chastising, the harmlessness of it instead of the harder, more definite orders he'd been used to. The hard grind of John's hips against his was enough, too much, and he was going to be done without anything more than that.

Rodney didn't want it to be over that fast. He didn't, but John's hand moved, coming between them, gathered both of their cocks together and stroked, and Jesus, Jesus, FUCK, it was the best thing he'd felt in months, and there was no way to stop it. No way to keep it from spreading in a tingling wave from his balls up his spine until it felt like his brains had been overtaken entirely.

Pressing and stroking, and he was going to come all over John's hand and he didn't care about the mess because they were naked and it didn't matter before, it was the best, the best heat and pressure and fingers squeezing him when his hips hitched up against John's fingers and spilled over them.

He hadn't come first, hadn't come without permission in... In forever, and even though his mind was numbed by the strength of it, Rodney could feel a well of terror building in the pit of his belly.

"God. Fuck. So, so, so..." And then John came, too, adding to the mess between them, spurts of semen slicking their skin further.

That didn't push down the rising terror, strangely. John slouched down, hips bumping his more lazily, fingers lazy on their dicks, while Rodney tried to catch his breath. He'd come without permission and John wasn't going to beat him. John wouldn't do anything like that, wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't...

"Hey. Hey, buddy. You okay?"

Great. And his incipient panic-attack was obviously derailing the post-coital lassitude they were both due, as well.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm..." Rodney sucked in a shaky breath, spread his legs, tried to force himself to relax, and really, he could. He could just force it and it was too easy for Rodney to do that. "Just, huh, unforeseen hangup, nothing huge..."

"I wouldn't say that." It was mumbled against his skin, and John was still touching him, sending aftershocks of pleasure rocketing through him. "Hm. God. Sorry. Sorry it was so fast, just..."

"Just fantastic," Rodney finished for him. Guys weren't built to last forever, no matter what the lack of speed of a woman's orgasm seemed to say.

"Mmm." Hummed answers weren't so bad, especially when they were accompanied by kisses like that, warm and sweet, and they were sticking together, and Rodney didn't care. "Yeah. Lemme get up, get a cloth. I'll get this off. Wipe off your back, too."

Wipe off his back and see the marks. It would make Teyla's paint last less long, but he could ask for her to do it again. He could ask John to do it, maybe, but he still didn't want John to see, which was stupid and contradictory. "Huh."

"That okay with you?" Of course John knew. John had seen everything he had to offer when they'd come raiding Bavual's stronghold, and probably then some. Rodney still didn't like the fact that John was going to see the mark that was on him.

He'd been moving, and he remembered Lorne throwing a jacket at him, and then someone else had donated theirs, and he'd been able to cover up until they got to the puddle jumper and the huge thermal blanket that hid everything. "I, uh. Sure. Usually the longer it's left on the longer it stays, but it's had a workout tonight."

He could almost feel John pause. "McKay...." Not Rodney. Probably a hard question, then, or one he wasn't sure about phrasing. "Why did you go to Teyla and Ronon?"

In other words, why not John?

"Because I..." Rodney swallowed, cracked his eyes open and looked at John's face, even as close as it was. "Because Teyla seemed like she'd know. And Ronon had the, those marks on his neck, which had nothing to do with what happened to me, but it got me thinking."

"Yeah?" Encouraging. That was... nice. It was better than nice, really, because it was so fucking hard to talk about it at all.

"The marks, it. It was done in a, ritualized way. The marks implied protection, it..." Rodney bit his bottom lip, trying to gauge John's reactions.

"Implied ownership." Yes, okay. That was expected, that was probably common knowledge, but it still made Rodney flinch. "And what Teyla does changes that?"

"A little, yeah. It's... it at least looks different." Teyla's mark overlaid the thorns, muted them, pushed it from the fore of his mind and how was he supposed to explain that to John?

"Hm." Nothing more than that, just a faint sound, and then John rolled away, headed into the tiny bathroom for a moment, and there was the sound of running water. When he came back again, he was clean, and there was a warm cloth in his hand.

Rodney stayed still for him, waiting, watching, and maybe it was a little strange, but he wanted to wallow in the wonder of sex, of orgasm that wasn't immediately twisted up in pain without it involving his right hand.

The cloth felt good, wiping away the evidence of what they'd done, and John hummed faintly beneath his breath while he cleaned Rodney. He was obviously thinking, and for once, Rodney was willing to remain quiet while he did it.

"You want it to look different," he said finally, pausing to look up into Rodney's eyes. "Because that makes you different. Not his."

"I can't just get rid of it. Tattoo removal is.... well, not here in Pegasus, is it?" Carson had suggested he look into it when he got back to Earth. Yeah, because so much could be fixed in two weeks of leave. It just wasn't really feasible.

"Hm." It was a sound that Rodney was really beginning to hate, or at least wonder about. "Maybe, uh. You could modify it."

"Know any tattoo artists?" He couldn't keep the sarcastic scrape out of his voice. He hadn't submitted willingly to the first one, and it had been an agony, and maybe John didn't know that it ran right over his spine. "I'm not, it hurt like hell the first time, thanks, I think one tattoo is enough for me."

"A couple." A gentle push moved Rodney onto his stomach, and the cloth, cool now, continued to wipe, removing the last flakes of Teyla's paint. "You said, uh." John cleared his throat. "You said you wanted me to mark you."

Rodney shifted, closed his eyes tight because he didn't want to see John's reaction to the tattoo. He just knew that Teyla's ink stained, and he'd still have the pattern for a few days before it faded -- more if he did lab work, less if he did fieldwork. "Yeah."

Yeah. He wanted that. He just didn't know how to get it, or if John would want it, or... Or anything.

He heard John's tongue dart out wetly, moistening his lips, shivered as John's hand traced down his spine, and then he felt it -- John's teeth, just at the nape of his neck, biting gently, and then harder, hard enough to bruise, maybe.

By the time he pulled away, Rodney was shaking from head to toe, uncertain, maybe even a little wanton. Maybe.

"Was just thinking, maybe, if things work out...."

If? "It'll work out." Rodney would make it work out, if John would just finish that sentence. If John would just do that again, bite him like that, firm and hot and just hard enough to make his skin and his dick ache, enough to make him want to squirm into a 'ready' position.

"Was just thinking, maybe we could do something to change this." This, fingers trailing down his spine, and maybe it felt less like barbs and thorns when John touched it. Maybe it felt more like something Rodney could live with, if it changed just a little. Had John's fingerprints, Teyla's flowers.

All of that tangled together, the best parts of the Pegasus Galaxy. John's fingers on his skin like that made him shiver in a way that fingers on his dick never had, all anticipation and waiting and wanting. "Please."

He felt John lean down, kiss where he'd bitten before. "Next trip to the Milky Way," he murmured, and Rodney felt relief flood through him, went limp with it.

Maybe John didn't understand it exactly, but Rodney wasn't sure he understood it exactly himself. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing in the world, and he was never going to tell Heightmeyer about it, but if he could have even just one thing that he wanted, or all of those things, there was no reason for Rodney to say no.

"Yeah."