Sleeping Well

Rodney was exhausted, which wasn't an unusual state, although the 'hey, I saved the world, again' feeling was still pretty new even after two years in Atlantis.

Unfortunately, the 'saved the world, again' feeling didn't live up to its billing.

Tilting his head to the side, he let the hot water beat down on the muscles in his neck and upper back. It felt good, not good enough to ease all the tension, but still good. He shifted, giving the other side its share of the hot water, his eyes falling shut.

He really needed to sleep. Reluctantly, he turned off the water and stepped from the shower. Someone needed to invent a way to sleep in the shower. Now, that would be a brilliant innovation, brilliant and useful. Maybe he should talk to Radek about assigning someone to it. Credit for the idea would still be his, even if he didn't do the actual engineering. A few charts depicting projected productivity improvements would convince Elizabeth.

Part of his back was still wet, but Rodney dropped the towel onto the counter anyway. He didn't have the energy required for the necessary contortions. He glanced at the bottle of lotion next to the towel. With his sensitive skin it was a bad idea to skip a day, but he didn't have the energy for applying lotion either.

Finding clean boxers was also beyond him at the moment, so he simply dropped face down onto his bed, and closed his eyes.

And lay there, replaying the mission in his mind, then reviewing his notes on the ZPM project, and then returning to the mission. Most of the time, he loved his mind. It was the best thing about him, but there were also times when he wished it would just shut the fuck off.

He just needed to distract it, get it off the track it was on so he could fall asleep. He needed relaxing thoughts. Rodney pulled up his favorite fantasy of Samantha Carter, the one where she told him he was brilliant and he swept her into his arms. Her breasts against his chest, her arms twined around her neck, as she yielded to his kisses…

Definitely better than thinking about the mission, and blood, and Colonel Sheppard's blood.

And there went the mood. Sheppard was going to be fine. Rodney knew this, but him on the ground, bleeding, was one of those things Rodney hadn't ever wanted to see. "Minor wound," Beckett had said.

"Just a scrape," Sheppard had said.

In Rodney's experience scrapes didn't bleed that much.

He wasn't going to think about that. He was going to think about Samantha Carter and the way her breasts would fill his hands, and the way she'd moan when he teased her nipples with his fingers.

That helped. He could almost feel her skin beneath his fingers, so smooth, not anything like Sheppard's, with all that soft hair. Rodney knew it was soft because he'd touched it while applying bandages to the Colonel's ribs. His fingers had slid over John's skin and through soft hair.

His dick went from half-mast to full arousal.

Rodney sighed. That was perfect, and utterly typical. Thoughts of Colonel Carter's breasts couldn't get him hard, but Sheppard's chest hair could. Rodney wasn't surprised. It was just like Sheppard to invade his fantasy life.

Sliding his hand under his hips, he cupped his cock. It felt good and he pushed his hips forward. Pulling his hip back, he did it again, fucking his hand. He held his dick firmly, creating a tug on the skin as he moved.

Carter, for all her strength, would probably cup him too lightly. Women always did. But Sheppard, Sheppard would have a firm grip, almost too tight, and Rodney would have to work to push his cock through John's fist.

His hand tightened in the sheet, and he'd grip John's shoulder with his free hand, feeling him, his muscles, his solidity.

Sheppard would be a reckless kisser. All curvy lips and teasing tongue. And Rodney would capture John's lower lip and suck on it until John groaned and pushed against him.

Rodney would push back, and it would get hotter, crazier, the two of them pressing and pushing, unable to stop kissing long enough to find the rhythm. He'd grab John's cock, stroking it hard and fast, and make John arch back, make him groan. He'd rub right there, that spot. He'd make John feel so good.

John would say Rodney's name when he came, curling in, resting his head against Rodney's shoulder as his fluid landed on Rodney's chest and stomach.

Rodney came. Fuck, it was good, better than any orgasm should be when he was this tired. He stroked himself through it, not caring that he was coming all over his clean sheets.

His orgasm left him drained and he snuggled into the bed, imagining that John was still there with him, sated and warm.

By the time the wet spot had cooled, he was fast asleep.