Five ways John Sheppard
isn't the Slut of Atlantis^TM
by Jen

 

He walks through the city late at night, when all except the night watch – and the occasional over-enthusiastic scientist – are long in their respective beds.  As he does so, he sinks into the low hum at the back of his mind that is Atlantis, loving the way it increases in volume and urgency as all else quiets, welcoming him for its very own.  Atlantis isn’t one voice: it’s a multitude of voices, all crying out for his attention, for his love.  If he trails a hand over a console, the walls urge him nearer.  Should he brush against a doorway as he walks through, the lights practically flicker with jealousy.  The floors are the only thing that know they are guaranteed his touch, but when he comes to a turning, both paths call to him with equal urgency and need. 

The voices don’t deafen him.  They’re not shrill, not accusing in their desire for him, but he feels the throb of their need deep down inside, in a place he hadn’t known before coming here.  Coming home.   Responding to them, feeling the way they sigh with pleasure under his hands, makes him happy.

And if by walking the corridors, leaving his fingertips an instant too long on a surface that all but shivers with delight beneath his touch, he can return the favour, make Atlantis happy in return for what he’s been given, he will.

It’s not flirting, exactly.  It’s just what works for him.  He can either try to awe people into submission, which seems to have been Sumner’s approach, bore them (Elizabeth’s), or charm them.  In the right circumstances, a smile can be as disarming as a platoon of marines.  Or Ronon. 

John knows it’s the easiest way all round: show them something to make them think they’re getting to know the man behind the uniform and the gun, and suddenly everyone’s your friend. 

Sometimes they can get a bit too friendly, but that’s still got to be better than being shot at.

And if being charming occasionally requires an extra smile or two, a certain sort of eyebrow raise, or a slightly more inviting saunter when he moves, so be it. 

 He doesn’t want Ronon.  Not in the way he knows others do.  He doesn’t know whether on Sateda sex was used as a weapon, or whether, because of his time alone, Ronon has forgotten subtlety.  What he does know is the size and concentration of the audience that gathers when Ronon is training.  The audience that seems less enthralled with his moves and knowledge of how to fight the Wraith than it does with the way his top regularly parts company with his low-slung leather pants, exposing a strip of skin that just begs to be licked.  John knows this because he heard a conversation in the rec room one night between two of Rodney’s female scientists that he really, really wishes he hadn’t heard.  He always knew, but somehow hoped he was wrong, that women were like men in their predatory instincts, but he hadn’t been prepared for their determination to tie up a member of his team and do things to him that make his hair hurt even to think about.

He’s decided that he’ll call Teyla in to the rec room if there’s a next time.  He’s still not sure whether she and Ronon are together – whether the teasing slow lift of his hips when she had him pinned down on the practice floor that time was a tactical attempt at distraction, or a real tease – but she demands respect from people.  Anybody talking about one of her team mates or friends as though they’re nothing more than a prime slab of beef will feel her wrath.   

John would almost feel sorry for them if only he could burn out with bleach the images they’d put in his mind of Ronon naked and tied down.  Because John doesn’t want Ronon that way, and it does kind of get in the way on those missions when they get caught and tied up.  Whenever that happens, when Ronon starts struggling and his muscular arms start to glisten becomingly with sweat, John finds all he can think about now is sex and how the Ronon Dex Fan Club, Pegasus Galaxy Chapter (ie most of Atlantis) would pay serious money to see this, when what he should be thinking about are ways to get them out of there. 

John doesn’t want Ronon, but there are times he really wishes Ronon would wear more clothes. 

And he’s not doing Elizabeth, no matter what Caldwell thinks. 

He respects her.  He likes her.  He likes that sometimes she flirts with him.  Sometimes he flirts back.  

But she’s not his type.

Rodney’s not his type either.  In fact, he’s not quite sure what his type is but he knows it can’t be Rodney McKay because there’s no such thing as a Rodney-type.  John’s lived in two galaxies now, and he can say, with the level of authority which that somewhat rare experience commands, that Rodney is unique. 

But even if Rodney isn’t his type, he’s still Rodney.  John likes sitting across the room from him in the meetings that Elizabeth keeps calling, just so he can watch Rodney.  It’s got so that some days all Rodney has to do is wrap his hand around his coffee mug for John to start getting hard, watching the possessive way in which those blunt fingers curl and hold what belongs to Rodney.  Rodney sometimes lets go of the mug long enough to make those exaggerated gestures that are pure Rodney, staccato words that occasionally fall over one other because even Rodney’s own mouth struggles to keep up with his brain, and John can’t help but think of Rodney’s enthusiasm, of what it feels like to be the focus of that unrelenting attention.  He finds himself shifting in his seat because really, it’s never happened to him before, getting hard in briefing sessions, and now it seems like it’s becoming an almost regular occurrence.   

He stays behind sometimes, asking for a quiet word with Elizabeth, because he doesn’t really want to stand up quite yet, and he knows once Rodney’s out of the room, things will get easier.  And he knows those times with Elizabeth are part of the reason Caldwell suspects him of ulterior motives, when all he really does is talk about bringing some of the Athosians onto their teams, training, morale, how to handle cultural differences – anything that will get Elizabeth enthusiastic and allow John time to cool down. 

It’s when he starts to get hard sometimes just flying the damn puddle jumpers that he knows he’s got not just a social solecism, but a problem.  All Rodney’s fault, of course.  He keeps coming up with scientific research that necessitates them taking one of the jumpers over to the mainland.  Just the two of them – and the jumper.  Every jumper that’s ever taken a trip out to the mainland with them practically sings in anticipation these days when John’s fingers run over its controls.   

It’s Jumper Three today.  Rodney sits in the seat behind John’s, as he always does when they’re alone.  Well, that’s where he starts out.  It’s usually not too long before he moves, comes to look over John’s shoulder at the pilot’s console.  Or to watch John’s hands on the controls, the slight movements of his arms as he controls the jumper’s flight path.  And that’s when John gets hard; Rodney’s close, he can feel warm breath on his neck, and he knows it’s going to happen as long as he says nothing.  They both know Rodney’s the one in control of this. 

It doesn’t take long even though it seems like an age before Rodney’s hand is on his thigh, warm with promise.  He can’t help himself; his legs fall open under Rodney’s touch and then Rodney’s hand brushes against his cock through his pants and he can’t do anything but push up against it, making a sound that would have embarrassed him in the days before Rodney.  When Rodney’s fingers unfasten his pants, John concentrates on breathing and trying to watch where he’s flying, because he has a feeling that, if the puddle jumper reads his thoughts as well as it sometimes seems to, they run the risk of launching into space on an uncontrolled trajectory.  But no, it stays steady on the programmed course, which is pretty much what Rodney’s hand seems to be doing, as it wraps around him, large and warm. 

He puts the jumper down in one of the roughest voluntary landings of his whole career, and that’s saying something given the number of almost-emergency landings that Rodney’s causing him to make these days.  He doesn’t care about the landings any more; he only cares about turning away from the controls and sliding further down in his seat, legs splayed open for Rodney to kneel between them, and push his wet mouth down on John’s cock. 

Rodney’s got him so hot with his teasing that it’s not long before he comes, and then Rodney’s hands are busy unfastening his holster as he sits there without a working muscle in his body, trying to remember how to draw breath into his lungs.  He’s only just remembered by the time he’s on the floor of jumper, making those sounds again as Rodney pushes deep inside him.  And as John pushes back onto Rodney’s cock, he sees interfaces coming online all over the ship that he’d swear he’s never seen before.  But none of it is as important as Rodney, hard and deep inside him, little spurts of breath against his ear where he’s leaning over John, words falling over themselves as they do when he gets too excited, to form a string that doesn’t make sense to anyone except John: “More”, God, you –“ , and “John”.   

Afterwards they lie there for a while, no matter that the floor’s hard and not exactly clean, given the number of combat boots that it regularly comes into contact with.  John wonders if that’s the way to discover all the secrets of the city – to get Rodney to fuck him all over Atlantis.  He wonders what Elizabeth would say to that plan.   

He knows what he would say.  He can’t say no to Rodney.   

He’s knows he’s a slut for Rodney. 

But he’s Rodney’s slut.

 

End