Bday Smut-a-thon: Freefall (SGA)
Title: Freefall
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Note: I was in the mood to write something dirty, and the lovely folks on my friendslist helped me out with suggestions, and I'm going to write as many of them as I can in a smutty celebration of my birthday next week. Last year, people wrote me stories. I figure this year it's my turn!
Summary: This prompt came from ladycat777. John has a rape-fantasy and he's convinced Rodney to role-play it. Which can be funny and awkward at first but gets really hot towards the end when John stops struggling and -- um. yes. Not exactly as ordered, but I hope you like it, doll!
Warnings: Bondage, dubious consent, not for people who are sensitive about such things.
Freefall
by Lenore
John goes three days after his rescue from the Miardans without doing anything about it. Three days of feeling like there's a live wire, white hot, cutting him in the gut. Three days in which every syllable, every workday everything takes an effort of will just to concentrate.
On the fourth day, he lures Rodney to his room under false pretenses, a convenient lie about pre-mission data for their next offworld visit--and his restraint just snaps, what he wants tumbling out of him, all of it, urgency and details messily intertwined.
Rodney narrows his eyes, and John realizes belatedly the tactical error he's made not cutting off the escape route. Rodney has an air of ready-to-bolt-and-bring-back-Carson-and-possibly-Elizabeth. "You said they didn't do anything to you." The edge in his voice is as hard as metal.
Anger flares in John. He's tired of insisting. "They didn't!"
The Miardans were more annoying than dangerous--John still maintains this--taking offworld visitors hostage for ransom simply a fact of their thuggish existence. They kept John tied up in a barn, hands pulled above his head, rope lashed to a beam in the ceiling. They'd wanted him to feel his helplessness certainly, but no one had shoved a weapon in his face or even stood guard over him. Occasionally they'd send a kid to check on him, to make sure he was still there. Their demands were for supplies, not C4, so John knew Elizabeth had plenty of room to negotiate. If Ronon didn't get there first and blast him free. The way John figured it, he didn't have much to worry about.
This was what caught the interest of the Miardan leader. Not long before John's release, he paid a personal visit out to the barn.
"You have been a most cooperative guest. So very calm," he said, slowly circling around John, taking his measure. "Don't you think about it even a little? That we could do anything we want with you, that anything could happen?" He pressed himself against John's back, stroked a hand down John's stomach. "I could do anything."
John's senses went suddenly into overdrive. He could smell sweat and the peculiar dustiness of the homemade rope, feel heat and breath and the razor touch of the bonds around his wrists. He didn't flinch.
"Such courage." The leader chuckled against John's ear. "Or perhaps you don't entirely mind being at someone else's mercy?"
For three long days, John has been able to think about little else.
"Why me?" Rodney's eyes are bright with indignation and more than a little hurt. "What? Do I just seem the most likely to want to--"
"No! Rodney. No. It's just--"
I trust you is the closest John can get to a reason, although it's not all of it certainly. Even admitting that much makes him feel too exposed. He's already confessed enough.
Rodney gives him a long, assessing glance. "If I say no, you'll just ask someone else?" John doesn't answer, but apparently he doesn't need to, because Rodney sighs. "You need some ground rules. And a safe word."
John shakes his head. "That wouldn't--"
Any control is too much.
Rodney throws his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. You don't want to set limits? Then I will. We practice safe sex. There's no rough stuff. If I think I'm hurting you, and I don't just mean physically, it stops."
John opens his mouth to protest, and Rodney shuts him up with a look.
"You want me to fuck you against your will. Those are my terms."
The bluntness of the statement pings every nerve in John's body.
"I've got," he nods toward the supplies laid out on the dresser, "everything we need."
Rodney goes to inspect the items with an air of I'll be the judge of that. Apparently, John's preparations pass muster because Rodney says, voice clipped and imperious, "Get on the bed."
Just the tone is enough to make John shiver, but still, "I haven't told you what--"
"I know you. I can figure it out," Rodney cuts him off. "Get on the bed. Do it now."
Just a few steps there, but each one feels as slow and ponderous as moving underwater. John lies down on his belly. It's not warm in the room, but he's sweating beneath his clothes.
"Up on your knees. Head down. Arms stretched out in front of you."
The position feels awkwardly prayerful. Rodney rustles around over by the dresser, and then the bed dips beneath his weight.
"You can fight if you want, but the more you pull at this, the tighter it's going to get." The rope flashes in Rodney's hands, and a moment later, there's a strong, sturdy knot securing John's wrists to the headboard. The realization that Rodney has done this before--maybe even often--makes John shiver harder.
Rodney binds John's ankles too, ties the ropes to the corners of the bed frame. The last thing is the gag, and Rodney shoots him a questioning look. John nods. He knows Rodney, knows if Rodney hears "no" or "stop" or "please," John won't get what he needs. Rodney ties the bandanna across his mouth, tight enough that none of these words will be able to slip out.
The mattress shifts again, and Rodney moves away, and nothing happens, nothing happens, nothing happens. John turns to look, and the rope bites into his wrists, and he realizes what a strategic minded bastard Rodney is. The way he's tied John leaves a blind spot in the room.
John takes a breath and lets it out and thinks, I'm ready. Just do it. I'm ready. The first touch, when it finally comes, is only a glancing brush along his arm. John practically jumps out of his skin. Rodney moves away and comes back, again, again, waging a guerilla war of caresses, fingers landing unpredictably on John's body, brushing just above his collar and molding to the curve of his knee and resting flat against the small of his back. Even through clothes, Rodney's hands feel hot.
John is just getting used to the randomness when the quality of the touches changes, rougher and more possessive, dragging across his face and digging into the muscles of his thighs and grabbing his crotch. "I can touch you anywhere. Do anything I want."
Maybe there's just no predicting something like this, because John would not have guessed how hard this makes him. He expects Rodney to keep talking, but after this declaration, he falls unnervingly silent, just the sounds of his footsteps, over to the dresser and back again. The next noise is the soft rending of fabric, followed by a rush of air up John's back. Rodney works quickly, the knife flicking up one sleeve and then the other, slicing cleanly, easily. John sharpened the blade himself. Rodney pulls away the tattered T-shirt, throws it to the floor, and John's pants are next. The steel never so much as touches his skin. By the time John is down to his boxers, he's panting and a little light-headed.
"I'm going to take you, have you, use you, whether you like it or not," Rodney sounds strangely matter-of-fact as he cuts the underwear off John's body.
John has never been self-conscious about nakedness, but then, he's never had Rodney's gaze moving over his skin like a pair of hands. His cock rests against his belly, wetness smearing his skin. Rodney strokes his palm very slowly down John's back, and John is all too aware of the ropes around his ankles, forcing his thighs lewdly apart.
"You're a pretty toy." Rodney presses a kiss to one cheek and then the other. "I'm going to like playing with you."
Then he's gone again, and John flails against the ropes, trying to turn, to look, but Rodney wasn't kidding. Struggling just makes the knots pull tighter. It feels like it takes forever for Rodney to come back, John's heartbeat huge and percussive in his own ears, and then finally they're touching again, the smooth, warm glide of skin against skin this time. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that everything John knows he's learned by stepping out into nothing and freefalling. It doesn't matter that the best things are always the most terrifying. Both of them naked is too much, and John can't do this, can't, won't. He goes into a panic, thrashing and calling Rodney's name into the gag. Rodney calmly strokes his thumb up and down the crease of John's ass.
"You can fight, but you know you want it." He reaches around John's body and fondles his hard on.
John closes his eyes and sucks in a shaky breath, trying to concentrate on the taste of spit-soaked cotton in his mouth, not what Rodney is doing to him. Slick touch between his cheeks, and John can't even close his legs against it. Rodney pushes a finger inside, and John's stomach clenches. He tries again to pull away, but there's nowhere to go, and Rodney strokes inside him. John trembles, and Rodney pushes in another finger, and it's too overwhelming, the burn of being opened up and the sense of intrusion and, oh God, pleasure when Rodney finds this one spot that lights him up.
Rodney pulls his fingers out, and John tries to catch his breath, but there's no time, the touch of latex against his ass robbing his lungs of air again. Rodney goes slow, taking John over inch by little inch, making it clear who owns whom here. If John could, he'd scream, "Just fucking do it!" But wordlessness was his choice.
When Rodney is finally, finally inside, he just…stops. John breathes in harshly, aware of only two things, the flutter of his own pulse and Rodney's huge damned dick cleaving him apart. He thinks maybe it would be easier if Rodney would just move, but then Rodney does, and it isn't easier. It's fucking. John is being fucked, and he lunges away, but the ropes blister his ankles. Rodney holds him still, works him over, not hard, not fast, but steadily, fucking and fucking and fucking him.
Rodney rubs his hand over John's hip. "Come on. Just give it up to me. It's what you want."
John takes a shaky breath and lets it out and makes himself relax the death grip he has on the pillowcase.
"That's it," Rodney murmurs. "Just let me have you. Let me take you."
Flying and fighting and all the other important things, it's always been about defying gravity. John closes his eyes and lets go of "don't, no, please" and lets himself have what he's never been able to afford, to be at someone else's mercy.
Maybe it's just a coincidence, or maybe that's just the way things works, but when John stops fighting, Rodney's cock starts hitting that place, tendrils of pleasure unfurling all through him. He pushes back onto Rodney cock, hard, for more, more, God, more.
"Yeah, yeah," Rodney says, sex slurred and arousing. He stretches up along John's back, kisses his shoulder, and fumbles the gag off. "Tell me. You want to tell me."
"God," John moans, voice rusty and desperate. "Fuck me. Rodney."
"John."
It's the first time Rodney has said his name since they started this, and that's just-- hot, yes, but better yet, personal.
"Come on, come on," John demands.
Rodney's hot, broad palm closes around his cock, and it all blurs together, getting fucked and getting jerked off, the desperate build, almost, almost, almost, there. Zero gravity.
Afterwards, John feels pleasantly empty, tapped out. He closes his eyes and drifts, distantly aware of Rodney cutting him loose, lying down beside him. When he does finally open his eyes again, he's tucked along Rodney's side, and Rodney is idly stroking his hair, regarding him with concern. "I can still wipe Miarda off the face of the universe, if I need to."
John shakes his head, although it's strangely touching as offers of genocide go. "It wasn't them. It was just--"
Me.
Rodney sighs. "Why do you always have to do things the hard way?"
John shrugs and kisses him. "Next time, we can do it your way."
"Next time?" Rodney kisses him back, though, so John assumes that means yes.
"It's like flying," he explains.
Maybe Rodney really does know him, because he nods and actually seems to understand.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Note: I was in the mood to write something dirty, and the lovely folks on my friendslist helped me out with suggestions, and I'm going to write as many of them as I can in a smutty celebration of my birthday next week. Last year, people wrote me stories. I figure this year it's my turn!
Summary: This prompt came from ladycat777. John has a rape-fantasy and he's convinced Rodney to role-play it. Which can be funny and awkward at first but gets really hot towards the end when John stops struggling and -- um. yes. Not exactly as ordered, but I hope you like it, doll!
Warnings: Bondage, dubious consent, not for people who are sensitive about such things.
Freefall
by Lenore
John goes three days after his rescue from the Miardans without doing anything about it. Three days of feeling like there's a live wire, white hot, cutting him in the gut. Three days in which every syllable, every workday everything takes an effort of will just to concentrate.
On the fourth day, he lures Rodney to his room under false pretenses, a convenient lie about pre-mission data for their next offworld visit--and his restraint just snaps, what he wants tumbling out of him, all of it, urgency and details messily intertwined.
Rodney narrows his eyes, and John realizes belatedly the tactical error he's made not cutting off the escape route. Rodney has an air of ready-to-bolt-and-bring-back-Carson-and-possibly-Elizabeth. "You said they didn't do anything to you." The edge in his voice is as hard as metal.
Anger flares in John. He's tired of insisting. "They didn't!"
The Miardans were more annoying than dangerous--John still maintains this--taking offworld visitors hostage for ransom simply a fact of their thuggish existence. They kept John tied up in a barn, hands pulled above his head, rope lashed to a beam in the ceiling. They'd wanted him to feel his helplessness certainly, but no one had shoved a weapon in his face or even stood guard over him. Occasionally they'd send a kid to check on him, to make sure he was still there. Their demands were for supplies, not C4, so John knew Elizabeth had plenty of room to negotiate. If Ronon didn't get there first and blast him free. The way John figured it, he didn't have much to worry about.
This was what caught the interest of the Miardan leader. Not long before John's release, he paid a personal visit out to the barn.
"You have been a most cooperative guest. So very calm," he said, slowly circling around John, taking his measure. "Don't you think about it even a little? That we could do anything we want with you, that anything could happen?" He pressed himself against John's back, stroked a hand down John's stomach. "I could do anything."
John's senses went suddenly into overdrive. He could smell sweat and the peculiar dustiness of the homemade rope, feel heat and breath and the razor touch of the bonds around his wrists. He didn't flinch.
"Such courage." The leader chuckled against John's ear. "Or perhaps you don't entirely mind being at someone else's mercy?"
For three long days, John has been able to think about little else.
"Why me?" Rodney's eyes are bright with indignation and more than a little hurt. "What? Do I just seem the most likely to want to--"
"No! Rodney. No. It's just--"
I trust you is the closest John can get to a reason, although it's not all of it certainly. Even admitting that much makes him feel too exposed. He's already confessed enough.
Rodney gives him a long, assessing glance. "If I say no, you'll just ask someone else?" John doesn't answer, but apparently he doesn't need to, because Rodney sighs. "You need some ground rules. And a safe word."
John shakes his head. "That wouldn't--"
Any control is too much.
Rodney throws his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. You don't want to set limits? Then I will. We practice safe sex. There's no rough stuff. If I think I'm hurting you, and I don't just mean physically, it stops."
John opens his mouth to protest, and Rodney shuts him up with a look.
"You want me to fuck you against your will. Those are my terms."
The bluntness of the statement pings every nerve in John's body.
"I've got," he nods toward the supplies laid out on the dresser, "everything we need."
Rodney goes to inspect the items with an air of I'll be the judge of that. Apparently, John's preparations pass muster because Rodney says, voice clipped and imperious, "Get on the bed."
Just the tone is enough to make John shiver, but still, "I haven't told you what--"
"I know you. I can figure it out," Rodney cuts him off. "Get on the bed. Do it now."
Just a few steps there, but each one feels as slow and ponderous as moving underwater. John lies down on his belly. It's not warm in the room, but he's sweating beneath his clothes.
"Up on your knees. Head down. Arms stretched out in front of you."
The position feels awkwardly prayerful. Rodney rustles around over by the dresser, and then the bed dips beneath his weight.
"You can fight if you want, but the more you pull at this, the tighter it's going to get." The rope flashes in Rodney's hands, and a moment later, there's a strong, sturdy knot securing John's wrists to the headboard. The realization that Rodney has done this before--maybe even often--makes John shiver harder.
Rodney binds John's ankles too, ties the ropes to the corners of the bed frame. The last thing is the gag, and Rodney shoots him a questioning look. John nods. He knows Rodney, knows if Rodney hears "no" or "stop" or "please," John won't get what he needs. Rodney ties the bandanna across his mouth, tight enough that none of these words will be able to slip out.
The mattress shifts again, and Rodney moves away, and nothing happens, nothing happens, nothing happens. John turns to look, and the rope bites into his wrists, and he realizes what a strategic minded bastard Rodney is. The way he's tied John leaves a blind spot in the room.
John takes a breath and lets it out and thinks, I'm ready. Just do it. I'm ready. The first touch, when it finally comes, is only a glancing brush along his arm. John practically jumps out of his skin. Rodney moves away and comes back, again, again, waging a guerilla war of caresses, fingers landing unpredictably on John's body, brushing just above his collar and molding to the curve of his knee and resting flat against the small of his back. Even through clothes, Rodney's hands feel hot.
John is just getting used to the randomness when the quality of the touches changes, rougher and more possessive, dragging across his face and digging into the muscles of his thighs and grabbing his crotch. "I can touch you anywhere. Do anything I want."
Maybe there's just no predicting something like this, because John would not have guessed how hard this makes him. He expects Rodney to keep talking, but after this declaration, he falls unnervingly silent, just the sounds of his footsteps, over to the dresser and back again. The next noise is the soft rending of fabric, followed by a rush of air up John's back. Rodney works quickly, the knife flicking up one sleeve and then the other, slicing cleanly, easily. John sharpened the blade himself. Rodney pulls away the tattered T-shirt, throws it to the floor, and John's pants are next. The steel never so much as touches his skin. By the time John is down to his boxers, he's panting and a little light-headed.
"I'm going to take you, have you, use you, whether you like it or not," Rodney sounds strangely matter-of-fact as he cuts the underwear off John's body.
John has never been self-conscious about nakedness, but then, he's never had Rodney's gaze moving over his skin like a pair of hands. His cock rests against his belly, wetness smearing his skin. Rodney strokes his palm very slowly down John's back, and John is all too aware of the ropes around his ankles, forcing his thighs lewdly apart.
"You're a pretty toy." Rodney presses a kiss to one cheek and then the other. "I'm going to like playing with you."
Then he's gone again, and John flails against the ropes, trying to turn, to look, but Rodney wasn't kidding. Struggling just makes the knots pull tighter. It feels like it takes forever for Rodney to come back, John's heartbeat huge and percussive in his own ears, and then finally they're touching again, the smooth, warm glide of skin against skin this time. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that everything John knows he's learned by stepping out into nothing and freefalling. It doesn't matter that the best things are always the most terrifying. Both of them naked is too much, and John can't do this, can't, won't. He goes into a panic, thrashing and calling Rodney's name into the gag. Rodney calmly strokes his thumb up and down the crease of John's ass.
"You can fight, but you know you want it." He reaches around John's body and fondles his hard on.
John closes his eyes and sucks in a shaky breath, trying to concentrate on the taste of spit-soaked cotton in his mouth, not what Rodney is doing to him. Slick touch between his cheeks, and John can't even close his legs against it. Rodney pushes a finger inside, and John's stomach clenches. He tries again to pull away, but there's nowhere to go, and Rodney strokes inside him. John trembles, and Rodney pushes in another finger, and it's too overwhelming, the burn of being opened up and the sense of intrusion and, oh God, pleasure when Rodney finds this one spot that lights him up.
Rodney pulls his fingers out, and John tries to catch his breath, but there's no time, the touch of latex against his ass robbing his lungs of air again. Rodney goes slow, taking John over inch by little inch, making it clear who owns whom here. If John could, he'd scream, "Just fucking do it!" But wordlessness was his choice.
When Rodney is finally, finally inside, he just…stops. John breathes in harshly, aware of only two things, the flutter of his own pulse and Rodney's huge damned dick cleaving him apart. He thinks maybe it would be easier if Rodney would just move, but then Rodney does, and it isn't easier. It's fucking. John is being fucked, and he lunges away, but the ropes blister his ankles. Rodney holds him still, works him over, not hard, not fast, but steadily, fucking and fucking and fucking him.
Rodney rubs his hand over John's hip. "Come on. Just give it up to me. It's what you want."
John takes a shaky breath and lets it out and makes himself relax the death grip he has on the pillowcase.
"That's it," Rodney murmurs. "Just let me have you. Let me take you."
Flying and fighting and all the other important things, it's always been about defying gravity. John closes his eyes and lets go of "don't, no, please" and lets himself have what he's never been able to afford, to be at someone else's mercy.
Maybe it's just a coincidence, or maybe that's just the way things works, but when John stops fighting, Rodney's cock starts hitting that place, tendrils of pleasure unfurling all through him. He pushes back onto Rodney cock, hard, for more, more, God, more.
"Yeah, yeah," Rodney says, sex slurred and arousing. He stretches up along John's back, kisses his shoulder, and fumbles the gag off. "Tell me. You want to tell me."
"God," John moans, voice rusty and desperate. "Fuck me. Rodney."
"John."
It's the first time Rodney has said his name since they started this, and that's just-- hot, yes, but better yet, personal.
"Come on, come on," John demands.
Rodney's hot, broad palm closes around his cock, and it all blurs together, getting fucked and getting jerked off, the desperate build, almost, almost, almost, there. Zero gravity.
Afterwards, John feels pleasantly empty, tapped out. He closes his eyes and drifts, distantly aware of Rodney cutting him loose, lying down beside him. When he does finally open his eyes again, he's tucked along Rodney's side, and Rodney is idly stroking his hair, regarding him with concern. "I can still wipe Miarda off the face of the universe, if I need to."
John shakes his head, although it's strangely touching as offers of genocide go. "It wasn't them. It was just--"
Me.
Rodney sighs. "Why do you always have to do things the hard way?"
John shrugs and kisses him. "Next time, we can do it your way."
"Next time?" Rodney kisses him back, though, so John assumes that means yes.
"It's like flying," he explains.
Maybe Rodney really does know him, because he nods and actually seems to understand.