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Rodney heads straight to the bathroom as Sheppard flops on the bed, and he takes a moment to sit on the toilet, cradling his head in his hands. After all Sheppard's questions and his own pathetically visual mind's pictures, he wants nothing more than to order room service, take a shower and jack off. He's pretty sure he won't get any of those things now.

When he collects himself enough to leave the bathroom, Sheppard's kneeling up on the bed, phone cradled between his neck and ear. Rodney opens his mouth to start a brain-bending diatribe when he hears Sheppard's polite thank you and list of possibilities. "Sandwiches, pizza, burgers, whatever's fast and easy," Sheppard's saying, and before Rodney can even get his act together to start ranting, Sheppard adds, "and no lemon or orange. No citrus at all, it's an allergy."

Sheppard hangs up and fumbles his way out of his tux jacket, throwing it off the side of the bed in a crumpled heap. Rodney raises an eyebrow and stalks over to pick it up, dusting it off and hanging it up, and then doing the same for his own. When he turns back around, Sheppard's failing at removing his tie, and Rodney wonders if it might be possible to choke yourself to death. He slaps Sheppard's hands and pulls the tie undone, leaving it dangle from the tux shirt.

"You have two beds," Sheppard says suddenly, flopping back onto one of them.

"Oh, you can count," Rodney snaps, moving over to the second queen bed and sitting down uneasily. He debates whether or not hiding under the covers until morning is a viable plan.

Sheppard rolls onto his side and looks at Rodney seriously. "So what about blowjobs?"

"Excuse me?" Rodney says, his voice high. Sheppard did not just say –

"Blowjobs," Sheppard says with deliberate slowness, managing to get rid of the drunken slur for those two syllables. "Do you like them?"

"Of course not," Rodney says, crossing his arms and giving Sheppard a withering glare. "Who in their right mind wants someone's mouth on their penis? How unsanitary."

"No, no, no," Sheppard says, shaking his head like a toddler having a tantrum. "I meant, do you like giving them?"

The wariness Rodney felt earlier rises to near panic levels. "It depends, I suppose," Rodney answers carefully. "I don't give them to the guys I pick up after concerts."

"Why not?" Sheppard asks, and Rodney does his best to ignore the sadness he thinks he hears in Sheppard's voice.

"Because I don't like the guys that much," Rodney says, and his heart twists a little at the admission. "But with boyfriends, I liked it a lot. You should try it."

"Okay," Sheppard says, and Rodney's jaw hits the floor.

"You want to blow me?" Rodney asks, and the panic is reaching a screaming pitch, but for the life of him, he can't figure out how Sheppard's mouth on his dick could possibly be a bad idea.

"No, I want you to blow me." Sheppard's lying on his side, shirt rumpled and bow tie dangling around his neck. Even disheveled he looks exquisite. Rodney's tempted to get on his knees right then and there, but he can't get past the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

"Why should I blow you?" Rodney asks. "What's in it for me?"

Sheppard thinks about that for a bit, putting his finger up to his lips and looking up at the ceiling in a drunkenly overstated gesture. "I don't know how to give blow jobs," Sheppard says, and Rodney scoffs.

"You could learn."

"Or I could get you off another way," Sheppard says, and that cinches it. Rodney opens the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out condoms and lube.

Sheppard raises an eyebrow. "Expecting company?"

"Did you miss the part about my groupies?" Rodney says haughtily. "I get laid after every concert."

"Glad I could oblige," Sheppard says, though the nonchalance is ruined by his quick glance at the door.

"I think you're a little overdressed," Rodney says, reaching a hand toward John's shirtsleeves.

Sheppard stands and strips off and Rodney claps a hand over his mouth as Sheppard gets caught in his tux shirt when he tries to pull it off over his head.

"I can hear you," Sheppard says, and Rodney stops trying to be polite and laughs out loud. Sheppard's standing in his boxers and socks, his arms over his head and the tux shirt stuck halfway off.

"Hold still," Rodney says, as he stands up next to Sheppard. He yanks on the shirt, but Sheppard's chin is caught, so it won't budge. Sheppard yowls and backs up against the bed, so all it takes to tip him over is the slightest push. He falls onto the bed gracelessly and Rodney laughs again. He hasn't laughed this much in a long time.

"Okay, wait," Rodney says, and focuses his attention on getting the buttons undone. Tux shirt buttons are tiny and he's had enough to drink that he's not exactly Mr. Manual Dexterity. He starts at the bottom of the shirt, and the way Sheppard's stomach muscles tremble when his hand brushes them makes the laughter dry up as lust comes on full force. By the time he gets the button over Sheppard's face undone, all traces of laughter have fallen away. Sheppard looks up at him with curiosity and a tinge of fear, and Rodney settles him by removing the shirt slowly, the heel of his hand floating on Sheppard's skin right behind the material it removes.

The cuffs get stuck, and Rodney has a fleeting thought of leaving Sheppard trussed up in his tux shirt, but Sheppard tenses in what Rodney can only guess is worry about losing control. Rodney wishes he could have more than one chance at this; there's a lot he'd like to figure out about John Sheppard. He unhooks the cuff links and sets Sheppard's arms free.

"Thanks," Sheppard says, pulling his arms down and letting them hang in midair a second. Touch me, Rodney thinks, and wonders why that's not a truth he can let slip after everything else that's gotten past his defenses. Sheppard lowers his arms, resting his hands on his thighs. He stares up at Rodney, looking for direction. Rodney's not sure what the boundaries on this thing are, but it'd be the easiest thing in the world to lean down and kiss...

Sheppard must see Rodney's intention, because he sits up abruptly, nearly knocking their heads together.

"Wh...where, uh," Sheppard stutters. "Where do you want me?"

Sheppard seems surprisingly timid and suddenly Rodney's keeping everything in, afraid he might scare Sheppard off. "Why don't you sit on the edge of the bed and take your boxers off?"

Sheppard sits up, though Rodney's not sure how long that can last, as he's swaying like a punch drunk flyweight. He wriggles out of his boxers in a ridiculous-looking shimmy, and Rodney can't help laughing. Sheppard smiles with self-deprecating good humor.

Rodney grabs a condom off the nightstand and kneels, not particularly gracefully. It's been a long time since he did this, and his knees weren't forty years old then.

"A condom?" Sheppard asks. "Doesn't that –"

"Taste awful?" Rodney asks, and then answers himself. "Yes."

"I was going to say –"

"Diminish the sensation?" Rodney finishes for him. "Yes. But I'm afraid I'm a stickler about condoms, since they also diminish the chance I'll catch something."

Sheppard's mouth opens in outrage. "I don't have any diseases!"

"And I'd like to believe you," Rodney says patiently. "But when was the last time you were tested?"

Sheppard looks mighty pissed off, and Rodney knows he's going to have to do something to salvage this whole venture, or his one chance at John Sheppard is going to walk right out the door.

"It's for your protection too," Rodney says, as close to contrite as he can manage. "I get tested every month, but I have a lot of casual sex. Can't be too careful." The admission seems to mollify Sheppard, and Rodney puts his attention back on getting the condom out of its foil packet.

"Isn't that... I mean, how do you...?" Sheppard looks down at his decidedly uninterested dick. "I'm not exactly ready for this."

Rodney huffs. "I'm an expert at getting condoms on limp dicks," and Sheppard's unguarded look of pity makes him snap. "My own, you asshole. It's been a while since I got terribly excited about sex with the boys that come around."

Sheppard's still looking at him with pity, and Rodney rolls his eyes and looks down to start unrolling the condom onto Sheppard. "Tell me what you like," Rodney says, nipping at Sheppard's thighs.

"I, uh," Sheppard says, and Rodney's inner librarian files away every little bit of information. Thighs, no. Next.

"Nipples?" Rodney asks, and Sheppard shakes his head. "Stomach," Rodney says, and nips at it before Sheppard can answer. Sheppard's dick twitches, and he lets out a dumbfounded 'huh.'

"Ah," Rodney says, and leans in to press his face against Sheppard's abs. He traces the lines around Sheppard's six-pack with his tongue, and Sheppard's dick goes more than half hard in his hand. He rolls the condom all the way down, and he can feel the weight of Sheppard looking down at him as he does it.

Sheppard's hands are fisted at his sides, curled tight and pressing into his thighs. More warning bells go off, but Rodney's committed now, so he braces himself and puts his mouth on Sheppard's condom-clad cock, wincing involuntarily at the taste of rubber. Sheppard moans softly, leaning forward enough that Rodney worries they might tip over onto the floor. He uses his free hand to shove against Sheppard's chest, getting him to sit up straight enough that Rodney can really get to work on the blowjob.

Rodney knows a few tricks, though most of them are nullified by the condom. Sheppard seems to be enjoying it – the whimpering noises escaping from his tightly gritted teeth are enough to make Rodney half-hard. Thinking about what comes next takes care of the rest.

It only takes a couple of minutes for Sheppard to realize that the blowjob can't get much better because of the condom. "Uh, Rodney?" he says breathily, and when Rodney pulls off and looks up, he can see Sheppard's pulse in his neck, beating fast.

"Can I?" Sheppard asks, and reaches for the lube. "I think –"

"I thought you'd never ask," Rodney says, his knees creaking as he stands up. There's an awkward moment as he reaches down to steady himself on the bed, and Sheppard's mouth is right there, within reach. The taste of latex in his mouth makes Rodney forgo the opportunity, but he runs his fingers lightly over Sheppard's stomach before he stands up all the way.

Rodney steps out of his tux pants and boxers and crawls onto the bed, taking the opportunity to bite Sheppard's neck and make a note of the way Sheppard shivers. Before he can try anything else, though, Sheppard stands, wiping a hand down his neck as he looks down at Rodney. Rodney swallows and focuses on getting his cuff links off.

"Can you figure out how to lube me up," he asks, "or am I going to have to do this myself?"

Sheppard blinks, and Rodney lifts one hand and wiggles his fingers. "It's been a while, so it's going to take some preparation."

Sheppard looks down at the lube in his hand. "Okay," he says, but he sounds unsure.

"I can do it," Rodney says, sitting back on his haunches and reaching for the lube.

"No," Sheppard says, his voice stronger now. "I've got it." He shoves Rodney down onto all fours, and Rodney hears the snick of the cap on the lube. A second later, Sheppard drips some on him and he's ready to scream.

"Cold! Cold cold cold!" Rodney reaches around and wipes the lube off his ass. "Warm it up on your fingers first," he says harshly.

Sheppard doesn't say anything but the next thing Rodney feels is Sheppard's finger, insistently pushing into him. "Whoa, slow down," Rodney says, as the stretch turns into burn and then goes the other side of painful.

Sheppard takes instruction relatively well, and he slows down and pulls out, pushing in slower the second time. Sheppard's got one hand on Rodney's hip, the other one prepping him in a brutally efficient manner, and Rodney wishes there was a mirror over the bed. At least then he could see Sheppard.

Sheppard's now got two fingers in him, and Rodney realizes he can't hear Sheppard at all. If this is doing anything for him, it doesn't sound like it. "Sheppard?" Rodney says, and Sheppard makes a strangled noise that sounds a lot more like extreme concentration than Rodney was hoping for. "John," Rodney says quietly, and that gets Sheppard's attention.

"Yes?" Sheppard asks, and his voice is still tight, but he's lost a little of the desperate edge to it.

"Just go," Rodney says. "I'm fine."

Sheppard takes a moment, and Rodney sincerely hopes that he's lubing up his dick, because the condom is going to burn like hell otherwise. When Sheppard finally knees in and sets his cock at Rodney's hole, Rodney's wound so tight he thinks he might split in half when Sheppard finally gets into him.

Sheppard pushes in slowly, his hands tight on Rodney's hips, though there's nothing more in them than practical navigation. Rodney presses back when his body adjusts, taking Sheppard in by inches.

"Fuck," Sheppard says, and the smallest amount of Rodney's tension slips away. "You're so fucking tight."

Rodney would laugh, but Sheppard's almost to his prostate, and in about fifteen seconds, things are finally, finally going to get good. He keeps forcing himself to relax, to take more of Sheppard in, and Sheppard's whimpering noises reappear, less self-conscious this time.

Sheppard finally reaches his prostate, and Rodney tightens up involuntarily, slowing Sheppard's progress. Rodney makes up for it by bearing down, and it's only another inch or two until Sheppard's all the way in. Rodney hears him groan as he pulls out, and then Sheppard pushes in again, one smooth motion. Two more strokes, and Rodney's hard, starting in on the ground floor of what promises to be a really good orgasm.

"Fuck," Sheppard says again. "I can't–" Rodney hasn't even figured out what Sheppard means before it become obvious. He's coming.

"Damn it," Rodney whispers under his breath, the disappointment threatening to choke him. Sheppard pulls out and removes the condom, throwing it carelessly off the side of the bed. Rodney's about to demand a hand job when there's a knock on the door.

"Room service."

"Fuck," Rodney spits out venomously, and scrabbles off the bed as Sheppard falls face first onto the coverlet. Rodney pulls on his pants before storming through the suite to answer the door. He signs the bill carelessly, charging it to his room and telling the kid to add twenty per cent before closing the door in her face.

In the minute and a half that Rodney left to collect the food, Sheppard fell asleep face down in the bed, sprawled across it like Leonardo's Vitruvian Man. He looks so gorgeous like that, Rodney can't bear the sight of him; it feels like someone's put a blender in his ribcage and set it to liquefy. He sets the food down and stumbles into the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as he can stand and jerking off with his face turned into the spray.