Drabble marathon: #8.
#8, for T., who said, If you feel like writing John/Rodney, with restraints and misunderstandings, I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy that :) SGA, McKay/Sheppard, remarkably close to being safe for work but not quite. Also, I feel like this is a good time to remind those of you at home that these are very, very unbetaed, and that the promptees should not be held liable for any of this.
It's after midnight before John heads back to his quarters, leaving the Marines to handle the rest of the mopping up. They aren't the only culprits, but tracking down the remaining guilty parties can wait for tomorrow. Right now, John's so tired that having to stay up long enough yell at anyone else sounds like more a punishment for him than for them.
Buckets of Jello in the rafters. Seriously. It's like Squad 7 went to boot camp run by the Marx Brothers.
"Hail Freedonia," John mutters, headache dropping down a notch as he ducks gratefully into the dark space and activates the secondary locks on the door behind him.
"Well, thank God," a voice says from behind him, very loud and kind of slurred. "I was starting to wonder which limb I was going to have to chew off first."
"Jesus, Rodney!" John yelps, whirling toward the bed and accidentally flaring all the lights on at full strength, and throws a hand up too late to shield his eyes.
"Ow, off, off," Rodney exclaims, and the lights dial back down to one-quarter intensity. He glares at John in the dimness, neck craned awkwardly, and tries to pull up off the bed. The ropes don't give him much to work with. His body is very white against the blanket. "Okay, if that's how you always react to having jerk-off material come true, I'm astonished you ever lost your virginity," he says, the words looping and falling with a lax cadence, and waves a bound hand ineffectually in John's direction. "Don't just stand there, get me out of here already. I have to pee like you would not believe."
John stares blankly for long enough that Rodney tries to snap at him. Tries and fails. "Knife. Knots. Cutting. Sometime before cells start dying from oxygen deprivation and I lose extremities to gangrene," he instructs, still slurring, sounding astonishingly blase about the possibility.
John's brain is still going TILT TILT, but he gets himself moving toward the bed, pulling his knife out of his boot and going for the rope tethering Rodney's right hand.
"... I don't even know what to ask first," John says.
"Isn't it obvious?" Rodney gripes, eyes following the sawing motions with mild interest.
"Not in the slightest." He slices through the first knot.
Rodney pulls his arm gratefully in and then hisses, "Ah, ow, tingling, tingling." He thumps it loosely against the bed. "Of course it is. You told me the very touching story about your inappropriate and involuntary boner the whole time I was tied to the altar on M ... 4 ... whats-her-bucket, we really need some new letters in our designations, I intuited that you were trying to subtly hint at some latent kinky preference, I got Ronon to tie me to your bed."
"You got ..." John starts, unable to imagine how that conversation had gone, and then suddenly he can and really, really, wishes he hadn't. He concentrates on getting Rodney's left hand loose; it's a little bit redder than Rodney's arm but not swollen, meaning it's only numb from being stuck in the same position, not from constriction of the blood flow. "When was that?"
"10:20," Rodney says absently, twisting his torso so he's got one shoulder under him and rubbing his palms together with a fascinated and half-revolted expression. "They don't even feel like my hands anymore -- they're like puppet hands."
John jerks his head up from where he's got the knife halfway through the rope at Rodney's ankles. "Two hours ago? You've been tied to my bed for two straight hours?"
"I know," Rodney marvels. "You really picked a night to work late. I was trying to hack the security system remotely and set off an alert via the gene alone. Didn't work, obviously. Good think I took those two Valium before going to find Ronon, or I really would've panicked. Hustle, Sheppard, my bladder's going to explode."
John helps Rodney haul himself up to a sitting position and scoot toward the edge of the bed. "You took--" he says, as he hoists Rodney to standing, "okay ... it's, wow, it's really something that you did this for me, and I'm really going to have to thank you for it later, but drugging yourself makes the consent seem kind of sketchy."
"Toes! Toes!" Rodney yowls, nearly dragging them both to the ground, and John shifts hastily to take the rest of Rodney's weight. "Isn't the point of bondage to make the consent seem 'kind of sketchy?' And forget thanks -- don't think your tardiness excuses you from quid pro quo here. You want to see my GGG ass tied up anytime ever again, you've gotta wear the skirt first, buster."
"... Skirt?" John asks, a few steps later.
"Did I not mention that? Mmm, you smell like blue jello," Rodney mumbles, nose pressed into John's neck, then rolls his head up and crows, "Ooh, hey, toilet!"
It's after midnight before John heads back to his quarters, leaving the Marines to handle the rest of the mopping up. They aren't the only culprits, but tracking down the remaining guilty parties can wait for tomorrow. Right now, John's so tired that having to stay up long enough yell at anyone else sounds like more a punishment for him than for them.
Buckets of Jello in the rafters. Seriously. It's like Squad 7 went to boot camp run by the Marx Brothers.
"Hail Freedonia," John mutters, headache dropping down a notch as he ducks gratefully into the dark space and activates the secondary locks on the door behind him.
"Well, thank God," a voice says from behind him, very loud and kind of slurred. "I was starting to wonder which limb I was going to have to chew off first."
"Jesus, Rodney!" John yelps, whirling toward the bed and accidentally flaring all the lights on at full strength, and throws a hand up too late to shield his eyes.
"Ow, off, off," Rodney exclaims, and the lights dial back down to one-quarter intensity. He glares at John in the dimness, neck craned awkwardly, and tries to pull up off the bed. The ropes don't give him much to work with. His body is very white against the blanket. "Okay, if that's how you always react to having jerk-off material come true, I'm astonished you ever lost your virginity," he says, the words looping and falling with a lax cadence, and waves a bound hand ineffectually in John's direction. "Don't just stand there, get me out of here already. I have to pee like you would not believe."
John stares blankly for long enough that Rodney tries to snap at him. Tries and fails. "Knife. Knots. Cutting. Sometime before cells start dying from oxygen deprivation and I lose extremities to gangrene," he instructs, still slurring, sounding astonishingly blase about the possibility.
John's brain is still going TILT TILT, but he gets himself moving toward the bed, pulling his knife out of his boot and going for the rope tethering Rodney's right hand.
"... I don't even know what to ask first," John says.
"Isn't it obvious?" Rodney gripes, eyes following the sawing motions with mild interest.
"Not in the slightest." He slices through the first knot.
Rodney pulls his arm gratefully in and then hisses, "Ah, ow, tingling, tingling." He thumps it loosely against the bed. "Of course it is. You told me the very touching story about your inappropriate and involuntary boner the whole time I was tied to the altar on M ... 4 ... whats-her-bucket, we really need some new letters in our designations, I intuited that you were trying to subtly hint at some latent kinky preference, I got Ronon to tie me to your bed."
"You got ..." John starts, unable to imagine how that conversation had gone, and then suddenly he can and really, really, wishes he hadn't. He concentrates on getting Rodney's left hand loose; it's a little bit redder than Rodney's arm but not swollen, meaning it's only numb from being stuck in the same position, not from constriction of the blood flow. "When was that?"
"10:20," Rodney says absently, twisting his torso so he's got one shoulder under him and rubbing his palms together with a fascinated and half-revolted expression. "They don't even feel like my hands anymore -- they're like puppet hands."
John jerks his head up from where he's got the knife halfway through the rope at Rodney's ankles. "Two hours ago? You've been tied to my bed for two straight hours?"
"I know," Rodney marvels. "You really picked a night to work late. I was trying to hack the security system remotely and set off an alert via the gene alone. Didn't work, obviously. Good think I took those two Valium before going to find Ronon, or I really would've panicked. Hustle, Sheppard, my bladder's going to explode."
John helps Rodney haul himself up to a sitting position and scoot toward the edge of the bed. "You took--" he says, as he hoists Rodney to standing, "okay ... it's, wow, it's really something that you did this for me, and I'm really going to have to thank you for it later, but drugging yourself makes the consent seem kind of sketchy."
"Toes! Toes!" Rodney yowls, nearly dragging them both to the ground, and John shifts hastily to take the rest of Rodney's weight. "Isn't the point of bondage to make the consent seem 'kind of sketchy?' And forget thanks -- don't think your tardiness excuses you from quid pro quo here. You want to see my GGG ass tied up anytime ever again, you've gotta wear the skirt first, buster."
"... Skirt?" John asks, a few steps later.
"Did I not mention that? Mmm, you smell like blue jello," Rodney mumbles, nose pressed into John's neck, then rolls his head up and crows, "Ooh, hey, toilet!"