“Oh, please,” Rodney says, “the only question is whose cock he wants to suck first,” and John, kneeling on the floor, can’t help the way his breath catches, can’t keep himself from rubbing his cheek against the familiar bulge in McKay’s BDUs. Directly in his line of sight, Ronon stretches on the bed, popping the buttons on his leather pants, his hard-on springing free as he shoves them down and off.
John licks his lips.
“I do not think you should make him choose,” Teyla says. “It does not seem quite fair.”
She’s already had her first orgasm of the evening, arching and whimpering under Ronon’s tongue, and now she’s curled sideways on the bed, naked and relaxed, her hand reaching over the edge of the mattress to toy with the hairs at the back of John’s neck. Later, at least one of them will fuck her, they will all apply their hands and mouths and bodies to getting her off as many times as she asks for, but for the moment, she is content to let them play with each other. To direct their play.
“You want to choose for him?” Ronon asks. He’s already leaking, glistening with it, probably has been since Teyla pulled his head down between her legs. If he shifted just a little bit closer, all John would have to do is bend his neck to bury his face in Ronon’s lap. He’s been known to stay right there for hours.
Then again, all he has to do is turn his head, and he could use his teeth to pull down the zipper on Rodney’s pants. Rodney would roll his eyes and call him a show-off, but there would be that shiver beneath the sarcasm in his voice that drives John crazy as much as the warm, dark smell of his cock.
He’s the first to admit, he’s spoiled for choice, and, yeah, that story about the ass and all that hay does come to mind.
“No,” Teyla says, and he can hear the smile tugging at her lips, the naughty, playful, wicked smile that makes his mouth dry and his balls tight, every time, and he knows this will be good, this will be... “I was thinking that choice appears unnecessary when he is surely capable of taking you both at the same time.”
Christ.
“Teyla…” he says, and it’s a protest, it’s meant as a protest, but it comes out more like a really needy moan. Against his cheek, he feels Rodney’s cock twitch.
“She has a point,” Ronon says, looking up at Rodney.
“Definite, definite point there,” Rodney agrees. “All the evidence at hand suggests that it’s a definite point. A point worth exploring.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ronon says, and gets up off the bed.
“Hey,” John says, pulling back slightly from the warmth of Rodney’s body. “You don’t think I should maybe get a say in this?”
“Idiot,” Rodney huffs, but there’s a gentle hand in John’s hair, a thumb stroking his temple, turning the insult into a caress. “You suck cock like it’s an Olympic event and anything but bringing home the gold would be a disappointment to God and Country. You think we don’t know you’d never pass up this kind of challenge?”
“Think about it, John,” Teyla says, and her voice is altogether too close to his ear, the honey-smoothness of it roughened by sex and desire. The air in the room is thick with the scent of her juices. “Both of them at once, just for you. You will love it.”
He will. That’s just the thing. He loves everything they do to him, everything he does to them, all of it, in equal measure. All of them. If he ever really had to choose, or if life chose for him… The more they give him, the more they give each other, the more he knows he would be paralysed, lost and starved and pathetic beyond anything Buridan could have imagined. It’s all made up of choices, everything, life turning on rash decisions and sleepless nights, flashes of certainty and coins that spin through the air; and yet here they are, the four of them, and sometimes he can almost believe that it’s okay to want, to have, no choice required. As if anything were ever that easy.
It seems easy, though, so easy, when Ronon reaches out and cups his face in his hand, when they’re all touching him, and he can press his lips to Ronon’s thumb, his cheek to Rodney’s crotch, arch his neck into Teyla’s stroking fingertips and have them all know, let them all see what he can’t say, what he can’t hide.
“Jesus,” Rodney says, “you’re like a cat in heat. Here, let me…”
And he’s tilting John’s head away, pulling his zipper down, rearranging his clothes just enough to get his cock out, to drag it wet and hard along the side of John’s face. And John purrs, because he can, because shameless reaction is one more thing they allow him, and the noise mingles with Rodney’s moan, with Teyla’s pleased hum, with the groan Ronon gives as he steps closer, sliding his thumb out of the way, and then there is a second cock, slipping against John’s jaw, and John forgets to think or worry, forgets that this is more than he’s supposed to have, because, God, it’s what he needs.
If he’s honest with himself, he has to admit - has admitted out loud once, when he was embarrassingly drunk on that peach-coloured wine they got from M1K-806 - that he’s always been a bit of a size queen. “No, really?” Rodney said. “And here I was thinking that that look on your face the first time you saw Ronon hard was a spectacularly ill-timed religious epiphany. ‘He’s seen the light,’ I thought, ‘Ascension is within our grasp!’” At the time, John felt the need to whack him over the head with his latest issue of Cosmic Capers, repeatedly, but Rodney wasn't that far off, of course. John feels very devoutly about Ronon’s cock.
It’s perfectly proportioned to the rest of Ronon, which means that, well, huge is not an unsuitable word to describe it. Teyla has this sound she makes, this special little moan she’s probably not even aware of, this hum deep in her throat whenever Ronon slides all the way home inside her, as if it takes her by surprise, every time. Just thinking about that sound is still enough to make John hard.
He loves taking Ronon all the way in, himself, all the way down his throat. He had to practice to accomplish that, teach himself how to swallow and push and keep pushing past the point of suffocation until he had every last inch of Ronon inside him, but it was more than worth the effort: for the act itself, the absolute, overwhelming fullness of it, but more than that, for the way it makes Ronon lose control, makes him go loud and uncoordinated and graceless with pleasure. They each have their own ways of achieving that, but this is John’s, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.
But then, he would never give up having Rodney, either. Rodney, whose cock isn’t as long as Ronon’s, but thicker, stretching John’s ass wider, forcing his jaw open at an angle that should be too awkward to feel as blissfully good as it does. Rodney, who can talk his way through fucking any of them, babbling his appreciation and love and hunger from the first stroke to the last, but who goes quiet when John rubs the tip of his tongue against that spot just beneath the head of his cock, who stays quiet until John has sucked him dry. Rodney, who kisses him afterwards as though his mouth has been silent for too long but his brain has yet to rediscover speech.
It’s ridiculous and greedy, but John wants to have all those things, and it makes him dizzy with too much emotion to know that, here and now, he does. He has both these men, and Teyla - God, Teyla - with them, her legs settling around him as she shifts to sit on the edge of the mattress, the inside of her thigh pressed hot against his naked back, her tiny foot nestled against his ass. She leans forward, sighing, and drags her tongue along the trail of moisture left on John’s face by Ronon’s cock, lapping it up, and if anyone ever gave this woman up without the fight of their lives, they must have been insane.
“Open for them, John,” she tells him, breathes it clear onto his skin, and he does, parting his lips to receive what she knows he wants.
Ronon’s cock slides slick along his upper lip, teasing him, and John groans, opens wider. Rodney’s erection touches the corner of his mouth, and he reaches for it with his tongue, tries to urge it inside.
“Ancestors,” Ronon says, and then, low and fervent as he slips in, “Sheppard.”
John’s instinct is to close his mouth, to wrap himself around the hard length between his lips, but he doesn’t. He stays open, as wide as he can, and turns his gaze to Rodney.
“Maniac,” Rodney says, and his fingers tighten in John’s hair. “Are you sure?”
John is in no position to nod his head, but he can roll his eyes.
“Okay, okay, just checking,” Rodney says. “Note to self: sex still extreme sport to Sheppard. Got it.”
But he’s pushing inside, somehow fitting the thick tip of his cock between John’s lips and Ronon’s shaft, and John tries to focus on covering his teeth, on breathing through his nose, but the sheer stretch, the feeling of being stuffed to bursting is making his head swim, is making his own cock so hard it aches, and he has to grab for Ronon’s hip to steady himself.
There is a moment when they’re all simply still, three pulse-beats throbbing in John’s mouth, four people’s breathing filling the room. Then Teyla presses a kiss to John’s cheek, soft and open-mouthed, and Ronon’s body shivers, his hand leaving John’s neck to reach for her, and it hits John, a flash grenade of desire, that she isn’t just kissing him, she’s kissing Ronon through him, tracing the relief outline of Ronon’s cock with her lips on his face. It makes him whimper, makes him groan around the hard flesh filling him, and he tries to move his tongue, tries to drag it along the line where Ronon’s cock is wedged up against Rodney’s, tries to suck them both. There’s no room for finesse, no room for anything but the smallest movements, but the space is so tight that his every breath creates stimulation. The slightest shift from any of them makes them all moan, makes them tremble and stir and moan again, and there is precome spilling bitter-dark onto the back of his tongue, mixing with his own saliva, a thin trail of it trickling down his chin.
He sucks harder, can’t not, and he has to close his eyes against the sound he makes, the wet, sloppy, almost gagging sound that’s cheap porn and the anonymous backrooms of clubs he used to know on Earth. There’s nothing cheap about this, though, nothing anonymous about the way Rodney says his name, the way Ronon growls when Rodney’s hips jerk, shoving him deeper, pressing the two of them closer together, and when John opens his eyes, it’s to see them kissing. Rodney’s hand in Ronon’s dreads pulling his head down, Ronon’s fist twisting the front of Rodney’s shirt, both their cocks lost in John’s mouth, and they’re kissing, hungry and dirty and with that infinite, incongruous tenderness that makes John’s heart seize up, every time, because they mock and glare and call each other names, and he nearly forgets that this is how they feel.
At the back of John’s neck, Rodney’s other hand grabs for Teyla’s, latching on, and she hums, shifting her grip to hold him as his cock jerks in John’s mouth and he starts to come.
It strikes John that they’ve all chosen not to choose.
In this moment, he can’t think why that is not a valid option.
