.porny ficlet: Paradox (John/Rodney) 1.1
Last night of freedom *le sigh* So have some porn.
Paradox (NC17) John/Rodney | ~1,470
The mildest of bondage, just some tying up and somewhat dominant!Rodney. (Srsly, this is about as kinky as I get, people, and that is not very kinky.) Instigated and contributed to by siriaeve, with whom I had a very illuminating discussion over YM earlier.
Paradox
John's pretty good at raging against the Man, a low-key guerilla slouch-warfare that sometimes breaks out into full-on disobedience and disregard of orders, but mostly consists of pauses before accepting orders, looks that say more than John's aw shucks, sure, sir drawl ever could. For all that, Rodney's felt the full force of John's presence in the field, a certain set to John's shoulders and tone that cuts off the ten arguments Rodney wants to marshal against his plans.
So, for being pretty good at raging against the Man, John's pretty good at being the Man, or being the Man at raging against the Man, which makes Rodney's head hurt.
The paradox stuns him at odd moments, and leaves him puzzled and wordless when John says something that requires a sarcastic answer, because he needs all his brain to fumble around the Moebius curve of their relationship, John's own strange contours.
They're strange and familiar at once, like the related mystery of how John's entire body, or only his eyes, can carry demand, control, even as Rodney pushes him down and pins his wrists to the bed and uses that leverage to fuck him, or, as now, laces his hands together behind his back, tying them tight with Athosian-woven rope.
He maneuvers John to his knees, and John settles carefully with knees spread to keep his balance. His skin, in the light through the windows, sweat already glazing the precipitate slope of his back, glows gold-toned against the dull black of his BDUs. The shadow of his body hides his cock, pressed hard against the zipper. Rodney wants to see it, pushes his shoulders back, back, so John's spine describes an elegantly shallow arc, hips canting forward and stomach stretching tight, dark path of hair down to the BDUs that ride low on the hitch of hipbone.
And yeah, yeah, that's good enough for Rodney to forget himself and lick his lips, to meet the hazy challenge of John's eyes. Under the fog that's settled his eyes glitter, are dangerous, for all Rodney's bound him as securely as he knows how, the rope a tight and constant reminder around John's wrists.
"Suck me off," he says, not that he needs to, he's got his shorts pushed loose around his own hips and his cock pulled free, cradled in his own hand because he needs some pressure, because it's a cue that comes automatically even though John can read his mind and knows what he wants.
So John, John with his paradoxical brain, obediently leans in, tongue sliding along the underside of Rodney's cock, and it's slick and beautiful to watch John's lips curve to take him in, the settle of suction around him. And the entire time John leans in close, takes him fearlessly deep, he looks up and Rodney can hear whatever you say as clearly as if John's said it, repeated until John gives himself up to it and his eyes slide shut.
God and that might be Rodney's voice, or someone else's, he can't say. The world narrows to John shifting against him, trying to press close; the BDUs scratch the outside of Rodney's leg, flash of a spreading wet patch in the dark cloth as John rocks against him, futilely trying to get some friction going against it, but Rodney's positioned just so, so John's flexing hips brush only air half the time, and John's body is one long, desperate plane of frustration. His tongue works Rodney's cock, the patterns that pull Rodney along into forgetting how they wound up here, hush of John's breath through his nostrils and the bass groan thrumming around Rodney's cockhead when John pulls him deep.
His head tips forward, down to the gilded shadow of John's hair, the slick sounds that are John's beautiful, beautiful mouth and, when Rodney touches John's cheek, the flex of it around his cock. The light is dim, but there enough that Rodney can see sweat slide down the curve of John's shoulders, course adjusted by his muscles shifting has he tries to work himself against Rodney's leg. Rodney's entire being does something impossible, overwhelmed with John trying to climb into his skin, John given over to the rhythm of sucking Rodney, the rhythm of the tidal roll of his body and the erratic shift that says he forgets his hands are bound, he wants to touch himself, get his hands around his own cock because he's utterly and completely needing. And Rodney knows how that is, his nerves and blood know it, that moment when wanting becomes too much, and so he takes pity and guides John's mouth away from his cock, sets one leg so John can push up against it.
John sobs, breath broken against the cushion of Rodney's thigh, thank you or something like it, not that it matters when John falls into a frantic and jacknifed rhythm. The build means it doesn't last long, not nearly long enough for Rodney to watch John shake himself almost to pieces until that terrible pace stops on a dime and John goes still, curling in on himself.
Flex and shudder and pulse and he collapses against Rodney, face turned to the cradle of Rodney's groin, breathing hard and shaking, his fingers frantically, absently rubbing the skin where his hands are clasped at the small of his back. His knees go loose, his mouth falls away from Rodney's cock but Rodney can't bring himself to care because John's forehead rides the pad of Rodney's thigh, rolling as though John's shaking his head against his own orgasm, and his breath comes in a one-two stormwave pulse of heat against Rodney's skin.
Looking down at that, John come apart and held together only by ropes and the now-uncertain strength of his body, Rodney has to brace himself on John's shoulder, shaken himself, John just giving himself up like that, and that's what makes him come--John coming apart, looking down and seeing John's eyes lidded and his mouth moist and slack and red. His body goes briefly tense against it, the fleeting thought that he should hold off, but no, not with John like this, half-sprawled like he's going to break no matter how tightly he's tied, or maybe he's already broken, so forgetful in ecstasy he's forgotten Rodney and Rodney bringing himself off with just John slack and dazed against him.
Orgasm is its own paradox, light and heat and feeling he should remember a moment that stretches out into infinity and snaps him back to the amnesia of muscles that shudder and skip and a heart that beats too fast with disbelief. So good, so good, he might be whispering the words as fast as he can push breath in and out, harsh enough to ruffle John's disordered cowlicks, to make an eyelid tremble when John cranes his head up to look at him. Come ends up on John's cheek, some in his hair, a lot on Rodney's hand and a little more on John's shoulder, and when Rodney collapses at John's side--there's no standing up, not after this--John turns to him and kisses him, sticky, sloppy, breathless, holding Rodney in place as surely as if his arms, unbound, were around Rodney's shoulders.
When he draws back, John murmurs, "untie me," and Rodney needs a moment to summon coherence enough to reach behind John and tug loose the knot. The soft rope falls away, and then John's hands are on his face, holding him while John kisses him down and down and down to the floor. Waterlike his body spreads out over Rodney, covering, practically everywhere, all that Rodney can breathe and see when John presses close, a covering of sweat-slick skin and the accents of John's pulse, his heartbeat, the flicker of it when John twines their fingers together and their wrists rock alongside each other.
I don't get you Rodney thinks when one of John's knees works its lazy way between his legs, slow undulation encouraging him back to life, John's own teasing, promising assertion. No, I seriously don't get you, thought stuck on repeat, John half-hard and his pants soaking wet because he'd come in them, and despite lassitude Rodney just wants those off, wants John naked even though his body can't do anything but enjoy it.
Seriously, I don't. He tries to say it, but John takes his open mouth as an invitation to kiss, licking breath and sense away, everything away except vague astonishment and wanting John to keep being elusive.
When Rodney can speak, he doesn't say that in quite those words; when John finishes kissing him and looks at him expectantly, the thought transforms to something like "you... you," and John just smiles, the mind-reader, and moves to nip and kiss the flickering pulse in Rodney's neck.
Paradox (NC17) John/Rodney | ~1,470
The mildest of bondage, just some tying up and somewhat dominant!Rodney. (Srsly, this is about as kinky as I get, people, and that is not very kinky.) Instigated and contributed to by siriaeve, with whom I had a very illuminating discussion over YM earlier.
Paradox
John's pretty good at raging against the Man, a low-key guerilla slouch-warfare that sometimes breaks out into full-on disobedience and disregard of orders, but mostly consists of pauses before accepting orders, looks that say more than John's aw shucks, sure, sir drawl ever could. For all that, Rodney's felt the full force of John's presence in the field, a certain set to John's shoulders and tone that cuts off the ten arguments Rodney wants to marshal against his plans.
So, for being pretty good at raging against the Man, John's pretty good at being the Man, or being the Man at raging against the Man, which makes Rodney's head hurt.
The paradox stuns him at odd moments, and leaves him puzzled and wordless when John says something that requires a sarcastic answer, because he needs all his brain to fumble around the Moebius curve of their relationship, John's own strange contours.
They're strange and familiar at once, like the related mystery of how John's entire body, or only his eyes, can carry demand, control, even as Rodney pushes him down and pins his wrists to the bed and uses that leverage to fuck him, or, as now, laces his hands together behind his back, tying them tight with Athosian-woven rope.
He maneuvers John to his knees, and John settles carefully with knees spread to keep his balance. His skin, in the light through the windows, sweat already glazing the precipitate slope of his back, glows gold-toned against the dull black of his BDUs. The shadow of his body hides his cock, pressed hard against the zipper. Rodney wants to see it, pushes his shoulders back, back, so John's spine describes an elegantly shallow arc, hips canting forward and stomach stretching tight, dark path of hair down to the BDUs that ride low on the hitch of hipbone.
And yeah, yeah, that's good enough for Rodney to forget himself and lick his lips, to meet the hazy challenge of John's eyes. Under the fog that's settled his eyes glitter, are dangerous, for all Rodney's bound him as securely as he knows how, the rope a tight and constant reminder around John's wrists.
"Suck me off," he says, not that he needs to, he's got his shorts pushed loose around his own hips and his cock pulled free, cradled in his own hand because he needs some pressure, because it's a cue that comes automatically even though John can read his mind and knows what he wants.
So John, John with his paradoxical brain, obediently leans in, tongue sliding along the underside of Rodney's cock, and it's slick and beautiful to watch John's lips curve to take him in, the settle of suction around him. And the entire time John leans in close, takes him fearlessly deep, he looks up and Rodney can hear whatever you say as clearly as if John's said it, repeated until John gives himself up to it and his eyes slide shut.
God and that might be Rodney's voice, or someone else's, he can't say. The world narrows to John shifting against him, trying to press close; the BDUs scratch the outside of Rodney's leg, flash of a spreading wet patch in the dark cloth as John rocks against him, futilely trying to get some friction going against it, but Rodney's positioned just so, so John's flexing hips brush only air half the time, and John's body is one long, desperate plane of frustration. His tongue works Rodney's cock, the patterns that pull Rodney along into forgetting how they wound up here, hush of John's breath through his nostrils and the bass groan thrumming around Rodney's cockhead when John pulls him deep.
His head tips forward, down to the gilded shadow of John's hair, the slick sounds that are John's beautiful, beautiful mouth and, when Rodney touches John's cheek, the flex of it around his cock. The light is dim, but there enough that Rodney can see sweat slide down the curve of John's shoulders, course adjusted by his muscles shifting has he tries to work himself against Rodney's leg. Rodney's entire being does something impossible, overwhelmed with John trying to climb into his skin, John given over to the rhythm of sucking Rodney, the rhythm of the tidal roll of his body and the erratic shift that says he forgets his hands are bound, he wants to touch himself, get his hands around his own cock because he's utterly and completely needing. And Rodney knows how that is, his nerves and blood know it, that moment when wanting becomes too much, and so he takes pity and guides John's mouth away from his cock, sets one leg so John can push up against it.
John sobs, breath broken against the cushion of Rodney's thigh, thank you or something like it, not that it matters when John falls into a frantic and jacknifed rhythm. The build means it doesn't last long, not nearly long enough for Rodney to watch John shake himself almost to pieces until that terrible pace stops on a dime and John goes still, curling in on himself.
Flex and shudder and pulse and he collapses against Rodney, face turned to the cradle of Rodney's groin, breathing hard and shaking, his fingers frantically, absently rubbing the skin where his hands are clasped at the small of his back. His knees go loose, his mouth falls away from Rodney's cock but Rodney can't bring himself to care because John's forehead rides the pad of Rodney's thigh, rolling as though John's shaking his head against his own orgasm, and his breath comes in a one-two stormwave pulse of heat against Rodney's skin.
Looking down at that, John come apart and held together only by ropes and the now-uncertain strength of his body, Rodney has to brace himself on John's shoulder, shaken himself, John just giving himself up like that, and that's what makes him come--John coming apart, looking down and seeing John's eyes lidded and his mouth moist and slack and red. His body goes briefly tense against it, the fleeting thought that he should hold off, but no, not with John like this, half-sprawled like he's going to break no matter how tightly he's tied, or maybe he's already broken, so forgetful in ecstasy he's forgotten Rodney and Rodney bringing himself off with just John slack and dazed against him.
Orgasm is its own paradox, light and heat and feeling he should remember a moment that stretches out into infinity and snaps him back to the amnesia of muscles that shudder and skip and a heart that beats too fast with disbelief. So good, so good, he might be whispering the words as fast as he can push breath in and out, harsh enough to ruffle John's disordered cowlicks, to make an eyelid tremble when John cranes his head up to look at him. Come ends up on John's cheek, some in his hair, a lot on Rodney's hand and a little more on John's shoulder, and when Rodney collapses at John's side--there's no standing up, not after this--John turns to him and kisses him, sticky, sloppy, breathless, holding Rodney in place as surely as if his arms, unbound, were around Rodney's shoulders.
When he draws back, John murmurs, "untie me," and Rodney needs a moment to summon coherence enough to reach behind John and tug loose the knot. The soft rope falls away, and then John's hands are on his face, holding him while John kisses him down and down and down to the floor. Waterlike his body spreads out over Rodney, covering, practically everywhere, all that Rodney can breathe and see when John presses close, a covering of sweat-slick skin and the accents of John's pulse, his heartbeat, the flicker of it when John twines their fingers together and their wrists rock alongside each other.
I don't get you Rodney thinks when one of John's knees works its lazy way between his legs, slow undulation encouraging him back to life, John's own teasing, promising assertion. No, I seriously don't get you, thought stuck on repeat, John half-hard and his pants soaking wet because he'd come in them, and despite lassitude Rodney just wants those off, wants John naked even though his body can't do anything but enjoy it.
Seriously, I don't. He tries to say it, but John takes his open mouth as an invitation to kiss, licking breath and sense away, everything away except vague astonishment and wanting John to keep being elusive.
When Rodney can speak, he doesn't say that in quite those words; when John finishes kissing him and looks at him expectantly, the thought transforms to something like "you... you," and John just smiles, the mind-reader, and moves to nip and kiss the flickering pulse in Rodney's neck.