Gigi Sinclair

Obviously, someone had told John Sheppard he was a sex god.

Rodney thought it had probably been a woman. Men weren't that effusive. A "Damn, Rodney" was as much as he'd ever gotten from any of the three men he'd ever had sex with, but then again, the five women hadn't been much chattier. And all of them tended to leave as soon as possible after the main event.

Nevertheless, it was clear to Rodney that John had somehow picked up the notion that he was extremely talented and everything he did was exactly what his partner most wanted at that particular moment in time. Rodney couldn't argue with the notion that John was competent in the bedroom. There was no such thing as bad sex, especially when you only got it once or twice a decade, and the hurried hand job in John's quarters right before dinner was surprising, but far from bad. It was the smug, self-satisfied, "of course you loved it and naturally you'll be begging me for more" wink John gave him afterwards, as he stretched languidly and headed out the door, that Rodney could have lived without.

So when John showed up at Rodney's quarters just before midnight, Rodney looked at him coolly. "Can I help you, Major?"

John leaned against the doorframe, like, Rodney thought, a prostitute or a drunk, and raised an eyebrow. "Probably. But I'm more interested in helping you."

"Oh? Well, actually, I was just about to turn in for the night." Rodney forced a yawn.

"I can handle that." The smugness came back, this time in the form of a smirk.

Smooth, Rodney thought. Someone had probably told John he was all kinds of witty, too.

"I don't think so. Good night, Major." Rodney replied determinedly, before he could change his mind. He reached to close his door, only to find John's foot in the way.

"Come on, Rodney." John rolled his eyes and leaned forward. "I want to finish what we started."

"Have you been drinking?" Rodney asked. Which seemed like a reasonable question, given the slightly unfocused look in John's eyes.

"Oh, yeah. I knocked back a whole bottle of Athosian bourbon on the way over here."

Sarcasm, now. Nice. "Leave me alone."

"Why?" John didn't say it hesitantly, or even sincerely. He clearly wasn't taking Rodney's protests the slightest bit seriously, which annoyed Rodney even more.

Rodney pressed his lips tightly together. "Because I asked you to. Good-bye."

"Hello." John stepped into Rodney's quarters.

Rodney was...stockier than John, but John clearly had something on him, because he pushed him back against the wall with embarrassing ease. Rodney could hardly believe it. He felt the beginnings of a headache, one of the squeezing ones that always accompanied intense irritation, and he pushed John as far away as possible---which wasn't very---before he sputtered: "What the hell do you think..."

"I'm doing?" John finished. "Wait and see."

Rodney considered kneeing John in the groin, but was then visited by a vague, not particularly relevant, thought about cutting off noses and spiting faces. Instead he summoned all his withering scorn and said: "My God, but you're..."

"Pushy?" John filled in. "Arrogant?" John raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. "American? Well, if you've got it, flaunt it, Rodney."

Rodney yelped as he felt a hard pinch on his backside. This time, John shut him up more effectively. He slid his tongue into Rodney's mouth. Rodney resisted valiantly until John's free hand, the one not currently clamped to Rodney's ass, slid around to the front and gently squeezed Rodney's crotch, then moved to gently ease open his fly.

Once they'd both gotten off, spreading unhygienic semen all over Rodney's formerly clean bedsheets, Rodney expected John to wink again, maybe stop to admire himself in the mirror, and then leave, like the three men and five women before him. Instead, John came back from the bathroom and climbed into bed, throwing a casual arm over Rodney, and closing his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Rodney asked.

"Mm." John grunted, without looking at him. "Sleeping."

"Here?"

John opened one eye. "Would you prefer me to sleep on the floor?"

Well, no. But: "Most people don't stay with me."

John shrugged and pulled Rodney closer. He was hairier than Rodney would have thought. Hairy chest, hairy stomach, hairy legs and hairy groin. He reminded Rodney a little of his cat, Trudeau, the one he'd had to leave with his next-door neighbour. Rodney missed Trudeau sometimes. He was soft and fuzzy and never made sarcastic comments about Rodney's attitude, intellect, eating habits or physique.

"I'm not most people, Rodney."

Now there was a revelation. "You're much more infuriating."

"Yes," John agreed, which was so surprising Rodney couldn't, for once, immediately think of a comeback. "That's how you like it." He looked at Rodney. "Right?" He kissed Rodney's cheek and lay back down beside him. By the time Rodney figured out that John was exactly right, John was already snoring softly. Rodney hesitated for a moment, then slid down the bed and rested his head beside, but not on, John's shoulder. Instantly, his breathing unchanged, John rolled over and cuddled into Rodney's side, almost like Trudeau used to.

He felt better than the cat ever had, Rodney admitted. John's presence was arousing and comforting at the same time, and as he fell asleep, Rodney thought: he really is a sex god.

And, unlike someone else, Rodney would kiss a wraith, crawl naked over broken glass, and watch a whole season's worth of American football before he'd say so to John.