By the time they get in the door of their apartment Joe’s back is cramping like hell. Special effects had him in an airborne harness for five hours on Thursday and now, Friday night, his rhomboids and obliques are screaming at him. Screw this season, seriously. It’s already cost him a chipped tooth and a knee sprain.
It was a dumb idea going out with the others when they wrapped the episode, given the state of him, but lately Joe feels like he excels in dumb ideas. Right now he’s too drunk and tired to find somewhere sensible to lie down—his bed, for example—so he flops onto the living room carpet, hoping a horizontal surface will ease his tortured muscles.
Jason being Jason goes straight to the kitchen and cracks a fresh Bud. Joe knows Jason could drink for another four hours and still get up and work if he had to—the advantages of being in your twenties and built like a tank. If it were anyone else it would be goddamn irritating.
Jason makes his way back to the living room and drops onto the sofa, beer in hand. He looks at Joe on the floor and snorts. “That’s fucking pitiful, Flanigan,” he says. “Get up here and I’ll rub your back.”
Joe throws Jason a scornful glance. “Not interested in your amateur chiropractics, Momoa. Remember David after you cracked his back? He was limping for a week.”
Jason laughs and takes a swig. “David’s body and your body are very different things,” he says. Joe’s not really sure what Jason means by that but he’s glad he’s on the floor because he can feel himself flushing. “Anyway—” continues Jason, “—I didn’t say ‘crack your back’, I said ‘rub your back’.”
Joe can’t argue with that and for some reason he doesn’t want to. A distant part of his brain seems vaguely alarmed at the idea of physical proximity with Jason while inebriated but his prefrontal cortex, which is both louder and drunker, thinks it’s a great idea.
He gets up onto his knees, swearing under his breath as his muscles protest, and then Jason’s reaching out a hefty arm and literally hauling Joe up onto the couch, between his knees.
“C’mere, old man,” Jason says, roughly affectionate, and then he’s swinging both of them so that they’re lying lengthwise along the couch, Joe bracketed between his legs, his back to Jason’s chest.
“Jesus, ow, that fucking hurts,” complains Joe, though the twinges of pain shooting from somewhere near his kidneys up to his shoulder blades aren’t quite enough to distract from the muscled heat of Jason’s big body, cocooning him on all sides.
“Lean forward, moron,” says Jason, sounding amused, and Joe does what he’s told, because his back really does fucking hurt.
Jason touches him lightly at first, broad palms and long fingers feeling up the length of his spine and over Joe’s shoulders, then down around his biceps, his shoulder blades and flanks. The touch feels good, firm and sure through the thin cotton of his shirt, and Joe sighs with relief. It gets even better when Jason increases the pressure and starts his circuit again, this time rubbing and kneading Joe’s aching flesh as he goes.
“Ohhh, yeah—” says Joe, groaning with satisfaction, “—yeah, like that.” He presses back against Jason’s hands, trying to get more of that deep, soothing pressure. “Fuck, that’s good,” he says, breathily, and it’s not until he registers the hard triangle of heat at his lower back that he appreciates quite how close his sounds of relief are to sounds of pleasure of another kind.
If Joe were thinking straight this would be the moment to call a halt to the whole thing, make a dumb joke about sex noises and stumble off to bed. But he’s not. There’s too much alcohol in his system, mixed with a truckload of endorphins, mixed with a new, tight ache in his groin that has nothing to do with sore muscles.
Besides, Jason’s fingers haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped circling and rubbing, spreading warmth in all the right places, and it’s far too easy to just lie here, enveloped by Jason’s muscled heat and beery scent, and take what’s being given.
“Lean back,” Jason rumbles, casual as ever, easing Joe’s pliable body back against his chest and moving his hands from Joe’s shoulders to his upper arms. He keeps them there for a long moment, squeezing lightly like he’s testing the tension in Joe’s biceps, then works them slowly down his forearms, nice and easy, until he reaches Joe’s hands.
It’ll stop here, Joe thinks, and lets out a shaky breath. But Jason’s fingers are moving again, finding Joe’s palms, massaging, encircling, holding fast.
And there’s no mistaking it now, the line they’re about to cross. It’s as unambiguous as Jason’s hard-on, swelling thickly against Joe’s lower vertebrae. Men don’t touch each other’s hands. Not roommates, not buddies.
Jason pauses for a long moment. His lips graze Joe’s temple when he asks, “Any other muscles that need attention?”
Joe laughs outright at that.
“Um—” he says, voice sounding low and strange to his own ears, “—might need to take my shirt off to check.”
Stunned by his own recklessness, Joe lifts his hands to his shirt buttons. Behind him he feels Jason’s chest heave deeply, unsteadily.
Time seems elongated but eventually Joe’s shirt is undone and he’s leaning forward, pulling his arms awkwardly out of the sleeves, dropping the rumpled cotton onto the floor. Minutes earlier the movement would have crippled him but there’s no pain in his back now, only the bright blaze of adrenaline, the blood-pulse of want.
Then Jason’s left hand is cradling his shoulder, anchoring him, pulling Joe in close against the broad shield of his chest. His right hand settles low on Joe’s belly, long fingers spanning the dip between his hip bones right where the dark hair starts to curl.
And it’s so long since Joe’s felt anything this. The startling intimacy of first touch, the breathless anticipation of whatever comes next. It’s a high like no other and Joe’s floating on it—the beginnings of sex.
Jason rubs his thumb slowly over Joe’s navel and Joe grunts, breath catching in his throat. Surely Jason can sense his desperation, the way Joe’s muscles are twitching under his hand, ribs surging with every breath.
“Higher or lower?” breathes Jason, warm in Joe’s ear.
“What?” asks Joe, hoarsely.
“My hand,” says Jason. “You want it higher or lower?”
This is it, then.
“Lower,” says Joe. “Jesus—lower.”
And there it is, Jason’s big hand, cupping Joe’s hard-on through his jeans, strong fingers tracing the size and shape of him. Joe’s never felt anything as electric and he strains up against the touch, hips moving restlessly.
“Oh yeah,” says Jason, softly, and Joe can feel the corresponding thrust of Jason’s hips beneath him, the nudge of his erection against Joe’s spine.
“Jesus,” says Joe, again, rocking forward into Jason’s palm and then back against his hard heat. Joe can feel the muscles in the big man’s abdomen clenching with every tilt of his hips. Whatever’s happening between them, it’s happening fast.
Joe turns his head on Jason’s shoulder so his mouth is against Jason’s neck. Jason smells good and intensely male. Shampoo, hops, salty skin. Somehow it’s the most intimate thing so far.
“What the fuck—” says Joe, “—happens now?”
Jason dips his chin and and his beard brushes Joe’s cheekbone.
“I think—” murmurs Jason, “—I should probably undo your jeans and use my hand to get you off. What do you think?”
“Yeah,” Joe says, lips moving damply against Jason’s throat. “Do it.” And then—because why not—he opens his mouth and licks a wet stripe up Jason’s jugular.
Jason gets Joe’s jeans open and pulls his dick out, hard and leaking.
“Fuck,” says Jason, “look at that.”
And even Joe, who never credits himself with anything, can see how good he looks like this— spreadeagled on top of Jason, naked from muscled chest to muscled thighs, rigid cock jutting up from a mess of dark hair.
Jason uses his right hand expertly to pull and jerk Joe into whining desperation. His left hand traces soothing shapes across Joe’s thighs, hips, chest, an echo of the long-forgotten massage. When Jason finds Joe’s nipple he rubs hard until Joe swears and bucks.
And when it’s all too much, Jason takes Joe’s earlobe between his teeth. “Show me—” he growls, “—show me what you look like when you come apart.”
Joe comes in total silence, shaking and trembling for long moments as his body rides a wave of rolling ecstasy, a blinding orgasm that clears his mind of everything.
When he comes back to himself he’s breathing heavily, body damp with sweat and ejaculate, Jason’s hand still drawing lazy circles on his hip bone.
“How’s your back?” asks Jason, sounding relaxed.
“I’ve got a back?” replies Joe, weakly, and they both laugh.
Jason slaps his thigh. “Sit up,” he says, and Joe does. He senses movement behind him and a moment later Jason drops his t-shirt in Joe’s lap. “Use that,” he says simply.
“I’m fine,” says Joe, although he’s goddamn sticky. “Don’t need to ruin your shirt.”
“You’re covered in jizz,” says Jason. “Shirt’ll wash.”
Joe’s too buzzed to complain so he wipes up and throws the soggy shirt across the room.
He turns on his knees, unthinking, and then—fuck. It’s one thing to get a drunken handjob from your friend but it’s another thing altogether to turn around and look him in the eyes afterwards.
Jason holds his gaze, eyes drowned-black.
For a lurching moment Joe thinks maybe this whole thing was a joke. The sickest prank in SGA’s long history of pranks. Any minute now David Hewlett will jump out of a cupboard with a camera—Jesus Christ—and Joe will have to abandon civilization and become a hermit in Tibet because there’s no way in holy hell he’ll ever live this down.
Then Jason puts a hand on his knee. “Flanigan, breathe,” he says.
Relief rolls over Joe as he lets out the breath he’s been holding. He glances down, for the first time registering what’s in front of him.
Jason, hair loose on his shoulders. Bare-chested, muscles glazed with sweat. Fists clenched, breath coming fast. Black jeans stretched across a weighty erection.
“Look like you could use a hand yourself,” says Joe, thickly.
Jason’s mouth twitches into a smile and he lets his gaze drops to Joe’s lips. “Hand or mouth,” he says. There’s a pause. Joe’s face must give him away because then Jason says, “I mean, if that’s something you do.”
“I’m not gay,” says Joe, and hopes it doesn’t sound defensive.
“Neither am I,” says Jason.
“Ok then,” says Joe. “Undo your jeans.”
“You don’t have to,” says Jason.
“I want to,” says Joe, and puts his hand on the inside of Jason’s thigh, to show him. Jason breathes in sharply but doesn’t move. “Come on,” says Joe and moves forward, onto all fours. Jason groans, softly. “Undo your fucking jeans, Momoa,” breathes Joe.
Finally Jason shifts his hands to his waist, unbuttons his fly.
“Arms above your head,” says Joe, because if they’re doing this, it might as well match the picture in his mind.
Jason raises his arms, grabs hold of the sofa behind his head, golden muscles flexing. For a long moment Joe lets himself look, because there’s a good chance he’ll never have this again—Jason laid bare in front of him, wrung out and aching for Joe’s touch.
Then he moves his hands towards the heat of Jason’s crotch, feels Jason twitch as Joe pulls his fly open and tugs down his jeans, lets his heavy cock spring free.
Joe stares, arousal flooding back in.
“Joe, fuck—” mutters Jason,“—fuck, come on.”
So Joe bends down, opens his mouth around the smooth head of Jason’s cock, tasting salt and warmth, like the ocean on a hot day.
Time speeds up after that, or slows down, Joe’s not sure. Instinct takes over and he uses his mouth and tongue in ways he’s never imagined, licking, sucking, soothing—listening for the sounds Jason makes in response as Joe winds him up, tighter and tighter.
Joe’s got his hands on Jason’s thighs, spreading them apart, and he can feel how tense Jason is, body shaking with the effort to contain himself, to keep from fucking Joe’s throat. Sex has never been about power for Joe but there’s something intoxicating about this, about holding so much raw sexual energy in check. At the same time, Joe wants to feel it—if this only ever happens once, God, Joe wants to feel it.
Joe pulls off. “You can move,” he says, roughly. “Move—come on.” And when he goes back down Jason obeys him with short, hitching thrusts against the roof of Joe’s mouth, a rhythm echoed by his near-constant moaning, a crescendo of pleasure that’s getting Joe hard again already.
When it takes him, Jason’s orgasm is the opposite of Joe’s, all noise and physicality, as easy and unselfconscious as Jason himself. Joe keeps his mouth on Jason for long writhing moments, throat working, swallowing every salt-sweet shudder.
Afterwards Joe leans his head against Jason’s thigh to catch his breath, feels the muscles trembling under his aching jaw. Jason reaches down, drags his fingers through Joe’s hair.
“We should shower,” Jason says, dazedly.
“Yeah,” agrees Joe. He’s waiting for something to hit him—guilt, remorse, anger maybe—but there’s nothing, just the pleasant buzz of release.
Jason puts a hand on Joe’s shoulder, shoves him gently off the couch and onto his feet, steering them down the hall towards his room. “My bathroom’s bigger,” he says, logically, and if there’s an assumption there about doing this together, well, Joe’s okay with that.
He’s still half expecting it, the wave of awkwardness or regret, but when they’re standing naked under the shower together all Joe registers is the blissful heat. Jason hands him the shower gel and they soap up companionably, balls and all. When Joe yawns widely, jaw cracking, Jason laughs and pushes him under the water, scrubbing the suds off his back and taking a moment to squeeze the muscles there again.
Jason hands him a towel and they dry off in silence. All Joe’s thinking about is his bed now, and how tomorrow’s Saturday and he doesn’t have to set his alarm.
Jason flicks him with his towel. “You’re asleep on your feet, dickhead. Go to bed.”
Joe throws his towel at Jason’s head. “Night, asshole. Don’t be loud in the morning.” He turns towards the door.
“Joe.” Jason’s voice is a low rumble.
“Yeah?” He turns around. Maybe there’s still time for this to get weird.
“I’ve had a lot of meaningless sex over the years.” Jason’s eyes are warm but his expression is serious. “This wasn’t that.”
Joe nods and for a moment he can’t trust himself to talk.
Then he grins.
“Guess we know why David was limping after you ‘cracked his back’.” Joe makes sloppy air quotes with his fingers. “I’m onto you, Momoa.”
Jason hoots and Joe pads off towards his room.