Fic: The Hunter Gets Captured By The Prey (The Self-Talk Mix)
The Hunter Gets Captured By The Game (The Self-Talk Mix)
"You can't even take a little rough play without making everything a mess, can you?"
Author's Notes: Normally, I'm not the sort of person who puts a lot of warnings especially for something written for a kink request, but in this case I'll make an exception: The following is not a nice kinkfic; while everything is consentual beware of triggers for abuse and the fact this has a not really S/S/C relationship between (dominant) Sheppard and (submissive) McKay. Written for overchay for atlantiskink's kinkathon. Approximately 3,000 words and my sanity. As usual I blame Chuck Palahniuk for infecting my brain with stylistic quirks.
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While Rodney McKay knew that he had what others might politely refer to as, if they were bothering to be polite at him at all which people as a whole rarely were, an inflated sense of his own range and depth of abilities (this was an utter lie, his sense was in no way inflated) he held no fallacies about his ability to pick up non-verbal cues or predict behaviors connected to outside circumstances at all. Which was why it was bizarre he knew before he was within fifty yards of his quarters that when he stepped inside Colonel Sheppard (John, not Colonel, John) would be waiting there; it was even more bizarre he was right.
"You're becoming predictable," he noted only after the door slid shut behind him. The lights in his room were out and if not for the vague sense of a silhouette created by the light coming through the window (overly dramatic, wasn't that?) Rodney wouldn't have noticed John there at all. Anyone walking by his room when he entered wouldn't have seen anyone there and he wasn't (after the events with that horrible, aggravating bitch Cadman) in the habit of seeming to talk to himself when he could help it.
Though he could appreciate a little predictability, stability even, when half the city was in spasms of panic over a few minor and relatively unimportant malfunctions. The city itself was ten thousand years old; did they really expect that it wouldn't have settling problems? Rodney remembered the house he'd rented out a room in when he was a graduate student at Northwestern, a Victorian-style monstrosity that creaked every time you so much as breathed heavily. That the temperature controls were malfunctioning in some of the communal showers was not a problem worthy of his attention (and not only because he'd long since claimed a room with its own shower because he was a genius, thank you very much).
Though he could appreciate a little predictability he was also under the impression that the United States Air Force colonel he was sleeping with had the pretense of having a little discretion and predictable post-mission meetings at (he looked at the clock here, then for it when he'd saw it'd been moved barely sparing a thought for where John had hidden it now) some time late-at-night were hardly discreet. If predictable.
(Here he shrugged off the uncomfortable mission-issue jacket that he'd been using to ward off some of the cold of the lab he'd spent the better part of the evening in,) it wasn't his fault that others had less natural insulation than him and Zelenka could fix it himself if he really wanted it fixed, (and dropped the jacket onto the nearest half-uncovered surface.) John was moving himself, from one, long sinewy angle outlined by the light from the window to a broader presence as he turned. (Rodney still couldn't see his face;) Sheppard knew how much he hated that.
Sheppard knew how much he hated being ignored too (and he stepped through the room a little harder than necessary here, to express that annoyance, even as his shirt and shoes went the way of his jacket.) (He didn't even think to refuse to get undressed, despite the fact John hadn't insisted on it.) Which was probably why he -- John, that was, not Rodney himself -- did it, if Rodney had to think about it, which he often thought about it when he didn't have anything better to think about which wasn't very often at all now that he thought of that.
(Now he crossed the room towards his bed and turned the lamp on;) John's face was forced into view and his expression (was dark) was turned down with the pout of his lips in that pretty boy way of his way (that Rodney detested, really). It didn't bode well (for Rodney's general well-being) and he (clicked his mouth shut) took account of that condition as the last of his clothes came off save his boxers (with the little black holes -- a gag gift -- emblazoned across them) because he felt like an idiot walking around naked (with his dick hanging out.) Rodney wasn't in the habit of feeling like an idiot.
There was another piece of (semi-) clothing still dangling around his neck but he ignored those because (he knew that) he didn't want to deal with the consequences of taking them off yet. They were heavy (weighted, he was sure that John had weighted them) as they clanked freely against his chest (he reached up to still them but) and John's frown turned bland from still halfway across the room.
"Rodney," he said (menacingly) with his fingers tapping against the wall he was carefully slouched against. "I'll worry about any witnesses, you just worry about keeping your mouth shut about this."
(He bristled) at the insult of his ability to keep this discreet (he wasn't the one that was predictable, was he) Rodney glared in the general direction of John, flicking on the second light. (He reached for his laptop now.) Before his fingers had slipped all the way around the edge, gripping the side of the room temperature (John hadn't been touching his laptop this time) plastic so that he could heft it (one handed) up and over to his desk, Sheppard'd moved from the slouch to a prowl.
"Give up that plan, Rodney," Sheppard murmured (his voice too low, as usual, as if Rodney felt the overpowering urge to have to strain to hear the other man), "because you're not getting any more work done tonight."
(Rodney kept his grip on the laptop, holding it suspended in the air) As Sheppard approached, four full steps bringing him up even with Rodney and in reach, smelling of sweat and grime of the earlier mission. He'd either come straight here from Carson's check-up (Rodney noted absently) or he'd decided not to shower, but now the smell of him was (disgusting -- arousing --) overwhelming.
"I only need to check one more thing and I can do that while you're in the shower." He said (moving his hand through the air finally) now that John had stopped moving.
(His fingers lost their grip as) Sheppard snapped an arm out (forcing Rodney against a wall), his body following the movement of hard lines and heat, the hand of the arm that wasn't occupied (pushing into Rodney's neck) catching the tumbling laptop almost casually. The laptop was set down on the cold alloys of the desk, near the back edge (so that the center was cleared), before Rodney's body caught up with his brain which hadn't caught up with what was happening to his body until nanoseconds ago. (He struggled against the forearm digging into his throat.)
There was no give in the roughness of Sheppard's actions, no opportunity for Rodney to twist out of the pining pressure (and he appreciated breathing, thank you very much, so John really needed to let go now), and (he gasped) he expressed his displeasure as verbally as the forearm compressing his thorax would allow him.
Sheppard grinned (in his peripheral and was his vision greying out already?) a lazy grin and his other hand tore down the last of Rodney's clothing (the boxers, which were now wedged between his thighs just above his knees) as he asked Rodney to repeat himself. (He couldn't. That required breathing, which he wasn't doing any of now. Though he was getting unsurprisingly light-headed.) Instead, though he wasn't well-versed in non-verbals he reacted as strongly as he could (he kicked out, wheezing) and waited for John (damn him) to get the message. It worked surprisingly well and the arm receded (he doubled over). Gasping air into his lungs became Rodney's first priority (which was his only excuse) and he didn't see the hand snaking around to his hair. (He stumbled) as Sheppard shoved him forward, the pain from the hard landing shooting up through the column of his spine and there went all the air he'd managed to gather.
"Ow! (He hissed at first breath, screwing up his face in a grimace of pain.) And might I say, ow!"
"Actually," John's voice drawled the word, as slow and sinister as the hand tangling in Rodney's (growing out) hair, "I'm really thinking it'd be better if you shut up now."
When had that ever worked the first time? (He thought that as he choked against the pressure in his chest.) The air didn't come easily and (he gasped down as) Sheppard -- John -- Colonel -- (Rodney didn't know what he was trying for tonight) bunched his fingers together and yanked back. (Rodney's body jerked hard, his) back arched and mouth open, his aching knees set against the unforgiving floor, the air was still too hard to swallow down (he choked) and the forward movement as he tried to cough his windpipe clear had Sheppard pulling his hair at the root.
"Because if you don't things are going to get very interesting." The hand released (he toppled backwards) and with it the world swam (had he hit his head?) John, John knew to be careful with that, but air flooded his lungs and he took it (gratefully, he felt grateful). "Now, tell me you understand."
(He didn't.) It wasn't unusual of John to make such unreasonable demands with the assumption that Rodney (who leaned forward now, a hand on his own throat massaging it) would acquiescence. Unreasonable demands were all part of the Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard package, the one that he had (idiotically) signed up for long before it'd reached arms at the throat and (not so) idle threats.
"Rodney."
(Here he considered his options.) John leaned forward, dropping into a crouch that cast shadows over his face where the angle of the nightstand blocked the strength of the light, and curled his fingers around (the dogtags burned against Rodney's skin where it was already chafed from wearing them) the chain circling Rodney's neck. The links tightened, pinched together by John's fist and the angle he pulled, a subtle application of pressure (John's MO.)
There was only one thing to do; (and Rodney didn't bother pushing himself up off his ass as) he (lunged) leaned forward hungrily, latching his fingers onto the folds of John's shirt and forced a kiss. A second later his back was becoming familiar with the (abrasive) wall and (he groaned) his vision swam, contradictory to his very absolute sense of location on the physical plane. The experience was contradictory (like the relationship) but the absolutes were (still, ever-present) absolutes of physics. His back ached (at thirty-six he was too old for this), but his breath hitched in betrayal and John chuckled.
"Playing it rough today, huh?" It was a positively glowing recommendation of Rodney's self-control that he (bit down on his tongue) didn't respond by asking who was the one being rough here (and people claimed he was incapable of shutting up.) "I can go with that." And if he'd thought (he hadn't) that Sheppard was being rough before the next movement (would have) cured him of that misconception.
He lost hold of his sense of direction (as he was jerked up to his knees) and then, awkwardly, his feet were underneath him and so was the desk (the plastic was cold against his nipples) in exactly the way he hated. (He put his hands out to push himself up but before his palms had purchase) He didn't have the leverage he needed to push away from the desk. (the heel of Sheppard's palm was digging into his back.)
"Oh, no, you don't. You're going to stay exactly where I put you, Rodney, if you've got any sense in your head," John told him (lightly, he could almost picture the grin.) "But then, we both know you don't, don't we? Rodney McKay, genius but with the sense, and enthusiasm, of a puppy. Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm," (Now he could close his eyes and see the grin on Sheppard's face, the one that came before a particularly sharp jab in the briefing room that would embarrass him in front of his colleagues), "especially when it's applied to my dick, but your self-preservation instincts could use a little work."
The heel dug into the small of his back (he groaned), the first onslaught is a series of digs and pinches that ride up his thighs at the space of Sheppard's hand-widths, the boxers pooled at this ankles now (like when he used to jerk off in the bathroom in high school, reading the epitaphs scribbled on the walls) as Sheppard leaned in. "Here's a little hint, Rodney. Tonight isn't meant to be fun."
That was ridiculous (he thought first, trying to twist around so that he could face John); he hadn't done anything that could possibly be construed as offensive, inappropriate, or likely to get John's general attention in days, he was absolutely certain of that, and he'd behaved nothing if not superbly on the mission (he'd even been nice to the backwards natives and their voodoo science!). "What?"
Explanations (like reasoning, he added bitterly to his own mental checklist of impossibilities) weren't forthcoming while a fist pressed against his kidney (ow, ow, he needed that!) was and he (gasped, clicking his mouth shut audibly) went silent. A silence that was reinforced by the (completely unnecessary) hand that slipped over his mouth, then nose, which pinched (and he bucked up, backwards, in wild terror as) the airway closed. Sheppard's jeans covered knee (Rodney only noticed now that John was wearing jeans) pried itself into the niche between Rodney's thighs and ran up until the pressure was painful (a distraction from the hand over his mouth, but not distracting enough).
Things did grey now (here, he struggled against the hand pressing down in between his shoulder blades) and his stomach rumbled in irrational fear (here, he tried biting the Colonel's hand), revolting against the hold he was in. He gagged, choking into skin that was suctioned against his mouth (his heart pounded, blood rushing to his head), until he was on the edge. Only then did Sheppard release him.
"You're disgusting. You can't even take a little rough play without making everything a mess, can you?" If Sheppard had wanted him to reply then the next moment the ball-bearing links of the dogtags wouldn't have tightened around his throat, leaving a single tight line of pinched focus when his head stopped swimming (if it ever did), and Rodney (whined) went with the movement as the smell came back to him. His body was jerked up by the pressure on his neck and then he was shoved (he fell to his knees) towards the bed. "But you don't mind a little mess in the name of some good sex, either," he added, flicking off the nearest lamp, leaving John in another (overly dramatic!) silhouette.
The other lamp flickered out as John leaned over Rodney (uncomfortably,) his groin digging into the back of Rodney's head as he stretched over the thin (but not so thin anymore because they'd had the sense to change his original bed for a larger one) mattress. Through the jeans (John knew how much Rodney liked the jeans) John was erect, his cock pushing out against the material, and Rodney's body spasmed in (need) sympathy. When the lights had gone out (he shuddered) they ended up in bed together, tumbling over each other until he was pinned underneath John's angular body and (he held his breath) breathing lightly in anticipation (adrenaline spiked in fear) of what would happen next.
There was the undercurrent of (fear) uncertainty, straining over his limbs (he counted the heartbeats from himself) then John's where he could feel the other man's pulse thudding out from his chest. Rodney McKay liked variables, they made an experiment interesting and different from the last experiment (tedious, impossibly mundane experiments over and over again); he didn't like to overanalyze a situation (the consequence of an overactive imagination) and (here he gasped) as John's tongue slid over the links of the necklace, pressing the texture into his skin, Rodney stopped thinking (as much as he ever could) entirely.
The recording crackled to a stop as the voice emanating from it grew heavy, panting and uneven in a perfect mimicry of the way Rodney lost his train of thought when John's fingers were up his ass, and it was possibly the hottest thing John had ever heard. He reached out blindly for the reset button, rewinding the sounds to the middle where Rodney's sharp voice was gasping for air and describing the way John's hand forced him against the wall. There wasn't a wall here and now, though he filed that little image away for later, but there was the feeling of his dickhead pressing against the back of Rodney's throat and the gentle gagging he was forced into to take it.
Making Rodney record this tape, alone and without touching himself so that John'd have a way to play back the sounds he loved to hear any time he wanted, had been his best idea ever. Or maybe second best, right after deciding to listen to the tape for the first time while he had a captive audience that squirmed and sucked and pleaded for mercy as the tape ran through, his dick twitching against the ball of John's foot where he was keeping pressure on it. John wasn't one much for mercy but, who knew. Rodney'd done well tonight and maybe that deserved a little reward.
He might even play out this little fantasy of Rodney's, John thought as he twisted the dogtags circling Rodney's neck a little tighter, because the other man was right about at least one thing: he'd been really, really nice to the those natives on PX4-329, even when they'd mistaken John's entire team for pincushions.
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Thoughts? Questions? Comments? Feedback is welcomed.
- Andrea.
"You can't even take a little rough play without making everything a mess, can you?"
Author's Notes: Normally, I'm not the sort of person who puts a lot of warnings especially for something written for a kink request, but in this case I'll make an exception: The following is not a nice kinkfic; while everything is consentual beware of triggers for abuse and the fact this has a not really S/S/C relationship between (dominant) Sheppard and (submissive) McKay. Written for overchay for atlantiskink's kinkathon. Approximately 3,000 words and my sanity. As usual I blame Chuck Palahniuk for infecting my brain with stylistic quirks.
<<<<
While Rodney McKay knew that he had what others might politely refer to as, if they were bothering to be polite at him at all which people as a whole rarely were, an inflated sense of his own range and depth of abilities (this was an utter lie, his sense was in no way inflated) he held no fallacies about his ability to pick up non-verbal cues or predict behaviors connected to outside circumstances at all. Which was why it was bizarre he knew before he was within fifty yards of his quarters that when he stepped inside Colonel Sheppard (John, not Colonel, John) would be waiting there; it was even more bizarre he was right.
"You're becoming predictable," he noted only after the door slid shut behind him. The lights in his room were out and if not for the vague sense of a silhouette created by the light coming through the window (overly dramatic, wasn't that?) Rodney wouldn't have noticed John there at all. Anyone walking by his room when he entered wouldn't have seen anyone there and he wasn't (after the events with that horrible, aggravating bitch Cadman) in the habit of seeming to talk to himself when he could help it.
Though he could appreciate a little predictability, stability even, when half the city was in spasms of panic over a few minor and relatively unimportant malfunctions. The city itself was ten thousand years old; did they really expect that it wouldn't have settling problems? Rodney remembered the house he'd rented out a room in when he was a graduate student at Northwestern, a Victorian-style monstrosity that creaked every time you so much as breathed heavily. That the temperature controls were malfunctioning in some of the communal showers was not a problem worthy of his attention (and not only because he'd long since claimed a room with its own shower because he was a genius, thank you very much).
Though he could appreciate a little predictability he was also under the impression that the United States Air Force colonel he was sleeping with had the pretense of having a little discretion and predictable post-mission meetings at (he looked at the clock here, then for it when he'd saw it'd been moved barely sparing a thought for where John had hidden it now) some time late-at-night were hardly discreet. If predictable.
(Here he shrugged off the uncomfortable mission-issue jacket that he'd been using to ward off some of the cold of the lab he'd spent the better part of the evening in,) it wasn't his fault that others had less natural insulation than him and Zelenka could fix it himself if he really wanted it fixed, (and dropped the jacket onto the nearest half-uncovered surface.) John was moving himself, from one, long sinewy angle outlined by the light from the window to a broader presence as he turned. (Rodney still couldn't see his face;) Sheppard knew how much he hated that.
Sheppard knew how much he hated being ignored too (and he stepped through the room a little harder than necessary here, to express that annoyance, even as his shirt and shoes went the way of his jacket.) (He didn't even think to refuse to get undressed, despite the fact John hadn't insisted on it.) Which was probably why he -- John, that was, not Rodney himself -- did it, if Rodney had to think about it, which he often thought about it when he didn't have anything better to think about which wasn't very often at all now that he thought of that.
(Now he crossed the room towards his bed and turned the lamp on;) John's face was forced into view and his expression (was dark) was turned down with the pout of his lips in that pretty boy way of his way (that Rodney detested, really). It didn't bode well (for Rodney's general well-being) and he (clicked his mouth shut) took account of that condition as the last of his clothes came off save his boxers (with the little black holes -- a gag gift -- emblazoned across them) because he felt like an idiot walking around naked (with his dick hanging out.) Rodney wasn't in the habit of feeling like an idiot.
There was another piece of (semi-) clothing still dangling around his neck but he ignored those because (he knew that) he didn't want to deal with the consequences of taking them off yet. They were heavy (weighted, he was sure that John had weighted them) as they clanked freely against his chest (he reached up to still them but) and John's frown turned bland from still halfway across the room.
"Rodney," he said (menacingly) with his fingers tapping against the wall he was carefully slouched against. "I'll worry about any witnesses, you just worry about keeping your mouth shut about this."
(He bristled) at the insult of his ability to keep this discreet (he wasn't the one that was predictable, was he) Rodney glared in the general direction of John, flicking on the second light. (He reached for his laptop now.) Before his fingers had slipped all the way around the edge, gripping the side of the room temperature (John hadn't been touching his laptop this time) plastic so that he could heft it (one handed) up and over to his desk, Sheppard'd moved from the slouch to a prowl.
"Give up that plan, Rodney," Sheppard murmured (his voice too low, as usual, as if Rodney felt the overpowering urge to have to strain to hear the other man), "because you're not getting any more work done tonight."
(Rodney kept his grip on the laptop, holding it suspended in the air) As Sheppard approached, four full steps bringing him up even with Rodney and in reach, smelling of sweat and grime of the earlier mission. He'd either come straight here from Carson's check-up (Rodney noted absently) or he'd decided not to shower, but now the smell of him was (disgusting -- arousing --) overwhelming.
"I only need to check one more thing and I can do that while you're in the shower." He said (moving his hand through the air finally) now that John had stopped moving.
(His fingers lost their grip as) Sheppard snapped an arm out (forcing Rodney against a wall), his body following the movement of hard lines and heat, the hand of the arm that wasn't occupied (pushing into Rodney's neck) catching the tumbling laptop almost casually. The laptop was set down on the cold alloys of the desk, near the back edge (so that the center was cleared), before Rodney's body caught up with his brain which hadn't caught up with what was happening to his body until nanoseconds ago. (He struggled against the forearm digging into his throat.)
There was no give in the roughness of Sheppard's actions, no opportunity for Rodney to twist out of the pining pressure (and he appreciated breathing, thank you very much, so John really needed to let go now), and (he gasped) he expressed his displeasure as verbally as the forearm compressing his thorax would allow him.
Sheppard grinned (in his peripheral and was his vision greying out already?) a lazy grin and his other hand tore down the last of Rodney's clothing (the boxers, which were now wedged between his thighs just above his knees) as he asked Rodney to repeat himself. (He couldn't. That required breathing, which he wasn't doing any of now. Though he was getting unsurprisingly light-headed.) Instead, though he wasn't well-versed in non-verbals he reacted as strongly as he could (he kicked out, wheezing) and waited for John (damn him) to get the message. It worked surprisingly well and the arm receded (he doubled over). Gasping air into his lungs became Rodney's first priority (which was his only excuse) and he didn't see the hand snaking around to his hair. (He stumbled) as Sheppard shoved him forward, the pain from the hard landing shooting up through the column of his spine and there went all the air he'd managed to gather.
"Ow! (He hissed at first breath, screwing up his face in a grimace of pain.) And might I say, ow!"
"Actually," John's voice drawled the word, as slow and sinister as the hand tangling in Rodney's (growing out) hair, "I'm really thinking it'd be better if you shut up now."
When had that ever worked the first time? (He thought that as he choked against the pressure in his chest.) The air didn't come easily and (he gasped down as) Sheppard -- John -- Colonel -- (Rodney didn't know what he was trying for tonight) bunched his fingers together and yanked back. (Rodney's body jerked hard, his) back arched and mouth open, his aching knees set against the unforgiving floor, the air was still too hard to swallow down (he choked) and the forward movement as he tried to cough his windpipe clear had Sheppard pulling his hair at the root.
"Because if you don't things are going to get very interesting." The hand released (he toppled backwards) and with it the world swam (had he hit his head?) John, John knew to be careful with that, but air flooded his lungs and he took it (gratefully, he felt grateful). "Now, tell me you understand."
(He didn't.) It wasn't unusual of John to make such unreasonable demands with the assumption that Rodney (who leaned forward now, a hand on his own throat massaging it) would acquiescence. Unreasonable demands were all part of the Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard package, the one that he had (idiotically) signed up for long before it'd reached arms at the throat and (not so) idle threats.
"Rodney."
(Here he considered his options.) John leaned forward, dropping into a crouch that cast shadows over his face where the angle of the nightstand blocked the strength of the light, and curled his fingers around (the dogtags burned against Rodney's skin where it was already chafed from wearing them) the chain circling Rodney's neck. The links tightened, pinched together by John's fist and the angle he pulled, a subtle application of pressure (John's MO.)
There was only one thing to do; (and Rodney didn't bother pushing himself up off his ass as) he (lunged) leaned forward hungrily, latching his fingers onto the folds of John's shirt and forced a kiss. A second later his back was becoming familiar with the (abrasive) wall and (he groaned) his vision swam, contradictory to his very absolute sense of location on the physical plane. The experience was contradictory (like the relationship) but the absolutes were (still, ever-present) absolutes of physics. His back ached (at thirty-six he was too old for this), but his breath hitched in betrayal and John chuckled.
"Playing it rough today, huh?" It was a positively glowing recommendation of Rodney's self-control that he (bit down on his tongue) didn't respond by asking who was the one being rough here (and people claimed he was incapable of shutting up.) "I can go with that." And if he'd thought (he hadn't) that Sheppard was being rough before the next movement (would have) cured him of that misconception.
He lost hold of his sense of direction (as he was jerked up to his knees) and then, awkwardly, his feet were underneath him and so was the desk (the plastic was cold against his nipples) in exactly the way he hated. (He put his hands out to push himself up but before his palms had purchase) He didn't have the leverage he needed to push away from the desk. (the heel of Sheppard's palm was digging into his back.)
"Oh, no, you don't. You're going to stay exactly where I put you, Rodney, if you've got any sense in your head," John told him (lightly, he could almost picture the grin.) "But then, we both know you don't, don't we? Rodney McKay, genius but with the sense, and enthusiasm, of a puppy. Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm," (Now he could close his eyes and see the grin on Sheppard's face, the one that came before a particularly sharp jab in the briefing room that would embarrass him in front of his colleagues), "especially when it's applied to my dick, but your self-preservation instincts could use a little work."
The heel dug into the small of his back (he groaned), the first onslaught is a series of digs and pinches that ride up his thighs at the space of Sheppard's hand-widths, the boxers pooled at this ankles now (like when he used to jerk off in the bathroom in high school, reading the epitaphs scribbled on the walls) as Sheppard leaned in. "Here's a little hint, Rodney. Tonight isn't meant to be fun."
That was ridiculous (he thought first, trying to twist around so that he could face John); he hadn't done anything that could possibly be construed as offensive, inappropriate, or likely to get John's general attention in days, he was absolutely certain of that, and he'd behaved nothing if not superbly on the mission (he'd even been nice to the backwards natives and their voodoo science!). "What?"
Explanations (like reasoning, he added bitterly to his own mental checklist of impossibilities) weren't forthcoming while a fist pressed against his kidney (ow, ow, he needed that!) was and he (gasped, clicking his mouth shut audibly) went silent. A silence that was reinforced by the (completely unnecessary) hand that slipped over his mouth, then nose, which pinched (and he bucked up, backwards, in wild terror as) the airway closed. Sheppard's jeans covered knee (Rodney only noticed now that John was wearing jeans) pried itself into the niche between Rodney's thighs and ran up until the pressure was painful (a distraction from the hand over his mouth, but not distracting enough).
Things did grey now (here, he struggled against the hand pressing down in between his shoulder blades) and his stomach rumbled in irrational fear (here, he tried biting the Colonel's hand), revolting against the hold he was in. He gagged, choking into skin that was suctioned against his mouth (his heart pounded, blood rushing to his head), until he was on the edge. Only then did Sheppard release him.
"You're disgusting. You can't even take a little rough play without making everything a mess, can you?" If Sheppard had wanted him to reply then the next moment the ball-bearing links of the dogtags wouldn't have tightened around his throat, leaving a single tight line of pinched focus when his head stopped swimming (if it ever did), and Rodney (whined) went with the movement as the smell came back to him. His body was jerked up by the pressure on his neck and then he was shoved (he fell to his knees) towards the bed. "But you don't mind a little mess in the name of some good sex, either," he added, flicking off the nearest lamp, leaving John in another (overly dramatic!) silhouette.
The other lamp flickered out as John leaned over Rodney (uncomfortably,) his groin digging into the back of Rodney's head as he stretched over the thin (but not so thin anymore because they'd had the sense to change his original bed for a larger one) mattress. Through the jeans (John knew how much Rodney liked the jeans) John was erect, his cock pushing out against the material, and Rodney's body spasmed in (need) sympathy. When the lights had gone out (he shuddered) they ended up in bed together, tumbling over each other until he was pinned underneath John's angular body and (he held his breath) breathing lightly in anticipation (adrenaline spiked in fear) of what would happen next.
There was the undercurrent of (fear) uncertainty, straining over his limbs (he counted the heartbeats from himself) then John's where he could feel the other man's pulse thudding out from his chest. Rodney McKay liked variables, they made an experiment interesting and different from the last experiment (tedious, impossibly mundane experiments over and over again); he didn't like to overanalyze a situation (the consequence of an overactive imagination) and (here he gasped) as John's tongue slid over the links of the necklace, pressing the texture into his skin, Rodney stopped thinking (as much as he ever could) entirely.
The recording crackled to a stop as the voice emanating from it grew heavy, panting and uneven in a perfect mimicry of the way Rodney lost his train of thought when John's fingers were up his ass, and it was possibly the hottest thing John had ever heard. He reached out blindly for the reset button, rewinding the sounds to the middle where Rodney's sharp voice was gasping for air and describing the way John's hand forced him against the wall. There wasn't a wall here and now, though he filed that little image away for later, but there was the feeling of his dickhead pressing against the back of Rodney's throat and the gentle gagging he was forced into to take it.
Making Rodney record this tape, alone and without touching himself so that John'd have a way to play back the sounds he loved to hear any time he wanted, had been his best idea ever. Or maybe second best, right after deciding to listen to the tape for the first time while he had a captive audience that squirmed and sucked and pleaded for mercy as the tape ran through, his dick twitching against the ball of John's foot where he was keeping pressure on it. John wasn't one much for mercy but, who knew. Rodney'd done well tonight and maybe that deserved a little reward.
He might even play out this little fantasy of Rodney's, John thought as he twisted the dogtags circling Rodney's neck a little tighter, because the other man was right about at least one thing: he'd been really, really nice to the those natives on PX4-329, even when they'd mistaken John's entire team for pincushions.
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Thoughts? Questions? Comments? Feedback is welcomed.
- Andrea.