Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Notes: Inspired by oxoniensis' porn challenge. There's also now a well-done prequel, written for remixredux: Strawberry Juice (The Forbidden Fruit Remix) by randomeliza.
Rodney stopped at the condiments table to pick up a couple of sachets of chili sauce to put on his sandwich, and some sugar packets to make the instant coffee drinkable. It was late, after midnight, and the mess was nearly empty. All the food was do-it-yourself, the lights were low, and the few people scattered about were mostly late-shift tech staff, or workaholic scientists like himself. It was really only habit that had him scanning the room for familiar faces as he scooped up sachets and napkins, so he was a little surprised to realise that John was sitting just a few tables away--not their usual table--eating what looked like one of those big, purple-skinned, mango-type fruits they'd scored on PX4-6I9.
Rodney lifted a hand--still clutching the chili sauce--and smiled a greeting, but John wasn't looking at him; wasn't aware of anything but the fruit. As Rodney watched, he unselfconsciously slit open the not-mango's rind with a smooth criss-cross swipe of the knife, yellow juice instantly welling up through the cuts and sliding down his fingers.
John leant forward and sucked the juice off his skin, the lines of his face serene and uncomplicated in the dim light, his expression full of simple joy.
The sharp, plastic edges of the chili-sauce packets bit into Rodney's suddenly sweaty palm, and he could feel his pulse in his tongue, his throat, the tips of his fingers, and in the unexpected press of his half-hard cock against the seam of his pants.
After peeling back the rind, John opened his mouth and licked the soft, fuzzy-looking pulp; he ate without his usual neat, restrained, military precision. He ate as though he were alone, indulging in a private pleasure, and the fruit smeared over his lips and down his chin and all over his fingers.
Rodney tore his gaze away, hurriedly scanning the mess, a pang of terror rushing through him in case he'd been seen... but no. The lights were dim; it was late. Dr. Manitobee was glued to the screen of her computer, Dr. Singh had left sometime after Rodney had arrived, and the late-night maintenance staff were sitting up the back near the open windows, far away from him and John. No one was behind him either, the self-service platters lying forlorn and unwanted in the refrigerated section, the urn murmuring quietly to itself.
And because it was safe, because it was so rarely safe, Rodney let himself look again, his blood thundering through him in not-quite counterpoint to every too-fast breath; his blood all iron, and John completely magnetic.
Most of the purple-blushed skin was off the fruit now, the pulp exposed and ready for John's mouth. John put the knife down diagonally across his plate and slid the seed between his lips. Then, oh-so-slowly, he pulled it back out, letting his teeth scrape over it, just a bit, just enough.
John's eyes were closed.
Rodney's eyes were so open it felt like they'd been peeled back and stuck to his eyebrows; he was so hard he could feel it everywhere. He pressed against the solid side of the condiment table, hiding, even though there was no one to see...
Changing his grip a little, John carefully took one hand away from the pulpy seed and raised it, so that, for a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask a question. But then his tongue flicked out, pink and shocking, and he licked the juice from the inside of his elbow, all the way up to his wrist in one long, hungry swipe. When he reached his hand, he bit at the skin of his palm, scraping pulp off it the way he'd scraped it off the seed.
A low, throaty belly-laugh broke the hush, sudden and boisterous: it came from one of the female techs at the back of the room. With a flick of the eyes, Rodney confirmed that it wasn't aimed at him, that the techs were still wrapped up in their own affairs and totally oblivious to anything else; but even so, Rodney had never been more aware that he couldn't have this. John. None of this was for him.
He wanted it anyway.
Rodney looked back just in time to see John peel away the last piece of skin and flip the seed over, uneaten side up.
It slid into John's mouth: slick, pulpy, soft. The seed was cylindrical and a little tapered, just like the crown of a cock (Rodney's cock, which was throbbing now, and god John's mouth was like an invitation to sin).
John sucked the seed long and slow... and the look on his face. Oh, the look on his face! Like...
Rodney wasn't even sure what it was like; he'd never seen that look on anyone's face before. It was hungry and ecstatic and maybe just a little bit angry, or... no, not angry, but something sharp and needy in a way John never was, never let himself be. And, oh, Rodney wanted John so fucking much. Wanted to drop his tray and the handful of condiments (which wouldn't taste like anything but cardboard and disappointment after this) and walk over there and say to John, "I can give you that. Please let me give you that."
He didn't move; just stood there, hard-on pressed against the side of the table. No doubt wearing an expression a bit, but not much, like anger on his own face, if only there were anyone to see.
With one more gentle suck, John took the seed from his mouth and let it drop onto his plate. Then his eyes flickered open, as though he was waking from a dream, and when they were all the way open, John was looking right at Rodney.
Rodney's skin was tight with a feeling of torturous, treacherous bliss; the kind that was part humiliation at being caught out after four years of successfully pretending to ignore the unspoken mutual tension between them, and part terror that he'd imagined the tension in the first place and John was going to be really pissed. He tried to drop his gaze, look away, but he couldn't; there was nowhere else to look but at John, whose eyes were drilling into him.
John's gaze was still fixed on Rodney's face as he slid his sticky fingers into his mouth.
John's cheeks hollowed as he sucked.
Rodney could feel the phantom pressure of John's tongue swirling on his cock; swirling in time with the suck: pop, suck: pop of John's fingers sliding in and out of his mouth as he cleaned them.
It didn't feel real, watching John lick himself, when John was watching him right back. Rodney couldn't move, couldn't look away, his breath coming in jerky little puffs of near-terror.
John kept right on sucking his fingers; his eyes dark and glittering, full of something Rodney couldn't read in the dim light. Middle finger; index finger; thumb... and then he was done.
Wiping his hand on his t-shirt, John stood, graceful and unhurried and still watching Rodney. One corner of his mouth twitched up a little as he took a step backwards, towards the door. He hesitated for just a moment, just long enough for the lip-quirk to turn into a real smile, and then he tilted his head in that way he sometimes did during missions; the head-tilt that meant, Don't say anything, Rodney, just follow me right now.
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, a sharp military turn, and walked away...
...and Rodney was left, staring after him, a hot, oh-my-god feeling pooling in his belly as he realised that all of that had been staged for his benefit, and that after four years of foreplay, John had just deliberately, knowingly, publicly, seduced him.
On to Windfall.
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