An Ache in My Heart and a Thorn in My Side

~1100 words :: Stargate: Atlantis :: John/Rodney :: 5/16/11
Three times John was unconscious and one time he wasn’t.


The door slides shut behind Rodney and he pads across the room, no shoes. It’s dark, but he knows his way around, knows which side John always sleeps on, and comes around behind him. He places one knee on the bed, one hand to brace himself. He bends down and kisses the back of John’s neck.

John’s breathing is deep and even. Under the covers he is naked, and soon Rodney is naked, too.

Rodney lifts the sheet and stretches out on his side behind John, no room on the narrow bed to do anything else. His chest is pressed against John’s back and his hard-on rests right in John’s crack, a perfect fit. John’s a light sleeper in the field, but he sleeps like a log in his own bed. Rodney knows because John told him.

John told him because he wants this. He is ready, after all.

Rodney lifts John’s knee, holds it up with his own. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s soon inside, and John is quiet still, breath hot against Rodney’s hand when he claps it over John’s mouth.

They lie there like that for what feels like forever until Rodney finally starts to move. Slowly. It can’t be anything but in this position.

In the dark like this there is no one else but them. No Atlantis. No Jennifer.

Rodney’s fingers dig into John’s cheek. He pinches John’s nose shut and waits. John can hold his breath a long time, but Rodney counts it out, keeps fucking him as he struggles for air, as he tenses and comes, pulling Rodney over the edge with him.

John is still shuddering and gasping when Rodney rolls away and wipes himself off on the sheet. Neither of them say a word as Rodney dresses and leaves.


The room is bright. Too bright. But turning off the lights would look suspicious.

Rodney pulls the curtain shut, sits down by the side of the bed, and takes John’s hand in both of his. He bows his head and waits for five minutes, ten. There’s plenty of time. Jennifer is Giving Him Some Privacy and Teyla and Ronon have already been in to see John. He has the infirmary to himself.

He reaches over, pushes down the blanket and slides his hand under the thin hospital gown. John’s dick is warm and soft. He gives it a squeeze and watches John’s face, half-hidden under the oxygen mask. Nothing, not even a flutter of eyelashes, but he knows this is what John would want.

Another squeeze and John’s dick begins to fill out. He lets go, spits on his fingers and wriggles them into John’s crack. John opens up easily, muscles slack and pliant as Rodney pushes in. If he could, he would climb up on the bed, push John’s knees up to his chest. He’d unzip his pants and shove right in with nothing but spit to ease the way. He’d slide his hand beneath the oxygen mask and keep it there until John woke up gasping for breath.

But he can’t. This is risky enough.

Instead he cups his dick through his pants, rocking against his palm, and he comes with his fingers still buried deep in John’s ass.


Rodney curls one tentacle around John’s throat and another around his dick. He uses a third to pin John’s arms to his sides and two more to keep his legs spread.

The tank is shallow enough (or Rodney is big enough) that he can just manage to hold John’s head above water while resting comfortably on the floor. It means he is free to use all three remaining tentacles as he pleases.

He nudges John’s asshole with the tip of the sixth. It slides in easily, its slippery coating acting as lube. He curls the tip into a ball, rubbing against John’s prostate. John’s body is limp, but his dick is stiff and straining. Rodney pulls the tentacle out, twines the other two around it and pushes back in. It’s harder this time, but John’s hole stretches to accommodate the thick bundle of tentacles.

John starts to struggle then, and Rodney tightens his hold everywhere, including around John’s throat. John writhes and squirms, trying to get away. Trying to get more.

Rodney keeps pushing in, impossibly far. He lets go of John’s dick, runs his free tentacle over John’s chest and down again to prod at his slit (too small for even the tip of a tentacle) and squeeze his balls. And then John tenses and stills, arching his back as jizz spurts into the water.


John wakes up hard. Not morning-wood hard, but fuck-me-now hard. His pajama pants are damp with pre-cum and he knows it wouldn’t take more than a couple strokes to get off, but he doesn’t touch his dick.

He’s given up jerking off, or at least jerking off to fantasies about Rodney, which means he’s pretty much gone cold turkey. He’s tried keeping his mind blank, but that works about as well as telling himself not to dream about it. Which is to say, not at all. The more he tries not to think about Rodney, the sicker he gets (weird things may happen on Atlantis, but Rodney’s never going to turn into an octopus).

He takes a cold shower instead, stands under the water until he’s shivering and limp-dicked, sings Athosian lullabies until the last wisps of his dream fade away. That always does the trick. It’s the foreign-language aspect or something; he can’t just slip into auto-pilot.

Rodney is already in the mess hall when John gets there, and John grabs a tray and some food and sits down across from him. He can smile and make small talk, no problem. He can look Rodney in the eye without looking away.

He couldn’t at first, and that was back when all he’d done was think about sucking Rodney’s dick. It’s laughable, really. You’d think it’d be harder to act normal now. What’s a little blowjob fantasy compared to the sort of twisted shit that goes through his head most nights? (Most days, too, if he’s honest.) But that was back when he thought maybe he had a chance.

He’s given up now, even if his subconscious hasn’t. Rodney could break up with Jennifer tomorrow and all that would happen is he’d mope for a while and then find another girlfriend. Any hopes of Rodney being secretly into guys or secretly into John are long gone.

He’s not going to fuck you, John tells himself for the millionth time, but he knows what he’ll dream about tonight, and he knows he’ll wake up hard and aching again in the morning.