[fic; sga] afterimage
Title: Afterimage
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McShep
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, episodic for 3x05, Progeny
Summary: What Rodney went through while the Replicators studied them.
Warnings: light cbt, orgasm denial, very light bondage and s&m
Word Count: 2026
Notes: My first smut (or, actually, anything even slightly porny) so I apologize for any amateur mistakes there. Unbetaed.
Rodney blinks lazily awake, realizing slowly that the room around him is dark and his hands are tied almost painfully above his head. He’s alone in the center of the wide, empty room, back pressing uncomfortably into a clinical metal table and hadn’t he been trapped in a cell? His head aches dully as he tries to remember what had happened in between now and then. Panic spreading quickly through his system now, he struggles against the ropes binding his wrists together, bare skin of his back sliding and catching painfully against the cool dry surface beneath him as he shimmies around, hitting parts that hadn’t been warmed by his own unconscious body and bare? Why was he naked? The restraints don’t budge and eventually Rodney settles, fear and uncertainty heavy in his chest.
A door somewhere to his left slams open and he’s blinded by the light that floods into the dark room, haloing around the silhouette of messy hair and broad shoulders he wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing in a hundred years. His breath leaves him sharply; relief forcing it’s way up against the uncomfortable knot that refuses to leave his stomach. He sits up quickly and lets out a quiet yell when he’s dragged back down by his own bound hands, apparently tied up somewhere near the head of the table, and pain shoots through his arms and shoulders. He bites his lip and clenches his eyes, squeezing out a few tears unintentionally. He casts a glance to the doorway and any hope he’d had is instantly squashed. John hasn’t moved and now that Rodney’s eyes have adjusted to the light, he can make out the other man’s harsh, blank expression.
He squirms as John steps forward, painfully aware of how exposed and vulnerable he is.
John’s hand shifts and a light glints from something he’s holding. Rodney’s eyes widen and in an instant he’s struggling painfully against his restraints, skin sticking to the metal, stretching and tearing lightly in some places, his legs flail and his hips buck and why? Why was this happening?
Lips pulling and twisting around the shiny white of his teeth, John smirks cruelly, eyes still invisible in the sparse light that vanishes as the door is shut as violently as it was opened.
Rodney screams.
He keeps screaming until he can’t even hear the noise anymore, can just feel the burn in his throat, until he feels the warm weight of a hand resting deceptively lightly on his throat, hushing noises from above him and then his breath just stops. John lets out mocking chuckles and Rodney feels his breath return in quick, hyperventilating gasps. He doesn’t even realize that the quiet, scared, begging, “Please, no,” came from him until the he’s silenced again, this time by the shock of metal against his navel. He’s terrified that he moans at that, his blood rushing lower.
“I’m not going to hurt you Rodney.”
The words aren’t very convincing, accompanied as they are by the slow drag of the knife up until its resting, broadside to his clavicle; tip barely digging into his shoulder.
“Unless you don’t behave.”
John’s grip leaves the knife, letting it lay where it is, and he runs his palm down Rodney’s abdomen, lower and lower and then, just a moment too soon, pulls back up to cup Rodney’s cheek. Rodney whimpers.
The knuckles of John’s other hand brush warmly against Rodney’s thigh, leaving the skin tingling when they disappear again.
The room is too dark, so Rodney gives up on seeing and clenches his eyes shut again, focusing on the feeling. John pulls away, warmth spreading desolately through the areas he’d been before fading back to the cool of the room. When he returns, it’s with his breath huffing lightly in silent laughter on Rodney’s now fully hard erection. John’s hands fall heavily on Rodney’s inner thighs and stroke slowly upward before retracting and sliding back towards his knees and starting the process over again, infuriatingly. Rodney whines and bucks, twisting around to get some friction from something, anything. John growls and grips his hips so hard that Rodney yelps, already feeling the bruises forming, and shoves him down hard enough to make his cock bounce against his stomach twice.
John is gone again and the empty coldness that settles over Rodney is like torture.
Without the distraction that John provided for him, Rodney feels the weight of the knife on his chest with every breath, tormenting him.
He doesn’t know John is back until he feels something grip tightly at his balls and roll something down them, tight and restricting. He’s never actually experienced this before, but he knows well enough what it is and what it means. The hand moves back to his balls and squeezes, making his still untouched cock jump in both pain and pleasure.
One hand resumes stroking in that agonizing way against his thigh, the other holding his hip firmly in place while John’s tongue begins lapping hungrily at the skin around the base of his cock.
The hand on his hip moves up and starts tugging and squeezing and fucking pinching until Rodney feels like crying, but he bites his lip. They move into a vicious, slow rhythm and it takes everything in Rodney not to move or squirm or make noises but he tries because John told him not to, and for some reason that has nothing to do with the knife still poking into him on every inhale he really, really doesn’t want to disappoint.
He can feel John’s body heat radiating against his leg so he shifts just so until he put pressure against John’s own obvious erection. He hears a gasp and he opens his eyes, finally, just to make sure it didn’t come from him. The surprised pleasure on John’s face tells him it didn’t.
It’s like an entirely different experience after that. John starts rutting up against him, the thick, coarse material of his pants painful but gratifying against Rodney’s sweat-slick skin. John’s palm is searing and damp as it flies up and down the swollen skin of Rodney’s cock, his other hand grappling blindly through his many pockets, looking for something.
John keens lightly, whining out, “Rodney,” voice drawing out and elongating the vowels. His head dips to the juncture between Rodney’s next and shoulder and his teeth sink in deep before he lets go and runs his tongue over the grooves a couple of times. Rodney’s head slammed back with a sharp thunk against the table and he can’t hold back the sounds anymore, desperate, wanting, sounding like they belong in a bad porno, and this time, John doesn’t protest. If anything, he encourages it was a light squeeze of his hand, fingers tight right at the tip, liberal amounts of precome running over them and smoothing out the rough calluses of John’s fingers. Rodney realizes how much he misses the sensation when John resumes his ministrations.
John breaks away as he finally finds what he was looking for and the loss is enough that Rodney’s whole body tries to follow him, the only parts of him actually still touching the table his feet, shoulders and arms, and the crown of his head, something he hadn’t even been aware he was capable of doing. His breath was forced out of him as his back slammed down against the metal, shocked by the somewhat renewed cold against his damp skin.
John pushes his legs apart until his feet dangle above the ground, knees crooked around the sides of the table, before crawling up, shoulders jutting and back arched like a cat. He nudges at the sensitive skin just above Rodney’s hip with his nose, breathing in the heady scent of sex and letting it back out slowly, intently, and then letting his teeth graze against the vein in the underside of Rodney’s cock.
Rodney practically jumps out his skin when John’s fingers, slick and cool, begin prodding at his opening, circling lazily and dipping in, pulling out, teasing.
John closes his eyes, concentrating, rests his forehead against Rodney’s thigh and pushes in, crooks at the knuckle. Rodney squirms, pushes back against the finger, and when John starts to thrust it in he meets it each time. He wishes the “please, please, God, Sheppard, please, I need...” was asking for John to fuck him, because God does he want John to fuck him, but it’s already too much and he just needs to come, but John is shushing him and when that doesn’t work he tugs painfully at Rodney’s cock and bites into his thigh at the same time. Rodney screams and his chest heaves, finally knocking the knife from where it had rest to clatter noisily against the hard ground.
The finger in his ass pulls out and wraps around his cock, drags upward to catch as much precome as possible, hand moving around to spread it. When it returns, the middle finger is with it and they’re scissoring almost before they’ve passed the ring of muscle, eagerly.
He hears a light popping release and looks to see John unbuttoning his pants, pulling the material down just enough to pull out his cock. This he, thankfully, uses the real lube he’d started with on. He pulls his fingers out and positions himself and Rodney is scared because he doesn’t feel at all ready for this. His arms tense and his hands strain against their bindings but he works to keep himself relaxed where it matters because he knows that that would just make it hurt more.
John groans as he presses the tip in, barely anything but still too much.
He doesn’t wait for Rodney to adjust, just continues on in at a torturous pace, too fast to get used to but too slow at the same time, steady, inch by tiny inch. John twists his hips before he’s even fully sheathed, eventually catching Rodney’s prostate (and he knew that would feel good, but wow) in a way that’s almost unreal and it scares Rodney to think that John has probably done this before. With someone else. Obviously. The jealousy burns in the pit of his stomach.
If he thought it had been too much before, Rodney was full to burst right about now and he was pretty sure he would explode if he didn’t come soon, the way John hit his prostate on every stroke.
He’s pleading again, begging, because there’s nothing else he can do, head tossing side to side, eyes shut to block out the sweat covering his face now. John chuckles and bites behind his ear, removes the ring and replaces it with his fingers. “After me,” he explains.
Rodney is pretty sure that’s not possible, because John is far too controlled, stable, sane, and Rodney is losing his fucking mind. But just as he thinks that, John starts pistoning in, lightning fast. His teeth clamp around Rodney’s earlobe and the sounds he’s making are like nothing Rodney has ever heard, making white lights spark behind his eyelids.
When he finishes, both of his hands fly to Rodney’s hips and he buries himself so deep Rodney is pretty sure nothing else could ever fit in there, perfectly snug. John finishes and whatever insane part of Rodney’s brain has taken over somehow manages to hold off until John is done (because that’s what John told him, after) and then he’s coming himself, never ending strings flying out of him in bursts of pleasurepain, painting John as hishishis, all his.
It’s not until after he wakes up that he realizes he’d blacked out, but John hasn’t moved an inch so it can’t have been very long. John looks up, smiles, tells him, “good job,” and lays tired kisses against his eyelids.
His wrists are chafing from the ropes, the come is slowly drying on his stomach and chest where it’s pressed between him and John and the rest is seeping awkwardly out of his ass, he’s slipping uncomfortably against the too-cold metal from the sweat on his back and he’s being more than a little crushed by a boneless Sheppard but for once in his life, Rodney doesn’t feel like complaining.
When it’s all over and he realizes that none of it was real, he waits until he’s alone and then he cries.
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McShep
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP, episodic for 3x05, Progeny
Summary: What Rodney went through while the Replicators studied them.
Warnings: light cbt, orgasm denial, very light bondage and s&m
Word Count: 2026
Notes: My first smut (or, actually, anything even slightly porny) so I apologize for any amateur mistakes there. Unbetaed.
Rodney blinks lazily awake, realizing slowly that the room around him is dark and his hands are tied almost painfully above his head. He’s alone in the center of the wide, empty room, back pressing uncomfortably into a clinical metal table and hadn’t he been trapped in a cell? His head aches dully as he tries to remember what had happened in between now and then. Panic spreading quickly through his system now, he struggles against the ropes binding his wrists together, bare skin of his back sliding and catching painfully against the cool dry surface beneath him as he shimmies around, hitting parts that hadn’t been warmed by his own unconscious body and bare? Why was he naked? The restraints don’t budge and eventually Rodney settles, fear and uncertainty heavy in his chest.
A door somewhere to his left slams open and he’s blinded by the light that floods into the dark room, haloing around the silhouette of messy hair and broad shoulders he wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing in a hundred years. His breath leaves him sharply; relief forcing it’s way up against the uncomfortable knot that refuses to leave his stomach. He sits up quickly and lets out a quiet yell when he’s dragged back down by his own bound hands, apparently tied up somewhere near the head of the table, and pain shoots through his arms and shoulders. He bites his lip and clenches his eyes, squeezing out a few tears unintentionally. He casts a glance to the doorway and any hope he’d had is instantly squashed. John hasn’t moved and now that Rodney’s eyes have adjusted to the light, he can make out the other man’s harsh, blank expression.
He squirms as John steps forward, painfully aware of how exposed and vulnerable he is.
John’s hand shifts and a light glints from something he’s holding. Rodney’s eyes widen and in an instant he’s struggling painfully against his restraints, skin sticking to the metal, stretching and tearing lightly in some places, his legs flail and his hips buck and why? Why was this happening?
Lips pulling and twisting around the shiny white of his teeth, John smirks cruelly, eyes still invisible in the sparse light that vanishes as the door is shut as violently as it was opened.
Rodney screams.
He keeps screaming until he can’t even hear the noise anymore, can just feel the burn in his throat, until he feels the warm weight of a hand resting deceptively lightly on his throat, hushing noises from above him and then his breath just stops. John lets out mocking chuckles and Rodney feels his breath return in quick, hyperventilating gasps. He doesn’t even realize that the quiet, scared, begging, “Please, no,” came from him until the he’s silenced again, this time by the shock of metal against his navel. He’s terrified that he moans at that, his blood rushing lower.
“I’m not going to hurt you Rodney.”
The words aren’t very convincing, accompanied as they are by the slow drag of the knife up until its resting, broadside to his clavicle; tip barely digging into his shoulder.
“Unless you don’t behave.”
John’s grip leaves the knife, letting it lay where it is, and he runs his palm down Rodney’s abdomen, lower and lower and then, just a moment too soon, pulls back up to cup Rodney’s cheek. Rodney whimpers.
The knuckles of John’s other hand brush warmly against Rodney’s thigh, leaving the skin tingling when they disappear again.
The room is too dark, so Rodney gives up on seeing and clenches his eyes shut again, focusing on the feeling. John pulls away, warmth spreading desolately through the areas he’d been before fading back to the cool of the room. When he returns, it’s with his breath huffing lightly in silent laughter on Rodney’s now fully hard erection. John’s hands fall heavily on Rodney’s inner thighs and stroke slowly upward before retracting and sliding back towards his knees and starting the process over again, infuriatingly. Rodney whines and bucks, twisting around to get some friction from something, anything. John growls and grips his hips so hard that Rodney yelps, already feeling the bruises forming, and shoves him down hard enough to make his cock bounce against his stomach twice.
John is gone again and the empty coldness that settles over Rodney is like torture.
Without the distraction that John provided for him, Rodney feels the weight of the knife on his chest with every breath, tormenting him.
He doesn’t know John is back until he feels something grip tightly at his balls and roll something down them, tight and restricting. He’s never actually experienced this before, but he knows well enough what it is and what it means. The hand moves back to his balls and squeezes, making his still untouched cock jump in both pain and pleasure.
One hand resumes stroking in that agonizing way against his thigh, the other holding his hip firmly in place while John’s tongue begins lapping hungrily at the skin around the base of his cock.
The hand on his hip moves up and starts tugging and squeezing and fucking pinching until Rodney feels like crying, but he bites his lip. They move into a vicious, slow rhythm and it takes everything in Rodney not to move or squirm or make noises but he tries because John told him not to, and for some reason that has nothing to do with the knife still poking into him on every inhale he really, really doesn’t want to disappoint.
He can feel John’s body heat radiating against his leg so he shifts just so until he put pressure against John’s own obvious erection. He hears a gasp and he opens his eyes, finally, just to make sure it didn’t come from him. The surprised pleasure on John’s face tells him it didn’t.
It’s like an entirely different experience after that. John starts rutting up against him, the thick, coarse material of his pants painful but gratifying against Rodney’s sweat-slick skin. John’s palm is searing and damp as it flies up and down the swollen skin of Rodney’s cock, his other hand grappling blindly through his many pockets, looking for something.
John keens lightly, whining out, “Rodney,” voice drawing out and elongating the vowels. His head dips to the juncture between Rodney’s next and shoulder and his teeth sink in deep before he lets go and runs his tongue over the grooves a couple of times. Rodney’s head slammed back with a sharp thunk against the table and he can’t hold back the sounds anymore, desperate, wanting, sounding like they belong in a bad porno, and this time, John doesn’t protest. If anything, he encourages it was a light squeeze of his hand, fingers tight right at the tip, liberal amounts of precome running over them and smoothing out the rough calluses of John’s fingers. Rodney realizes how much he misses the sensation when John resumes his ministrations.
John breaks away as he finally finds what he was looking for and the loss is enough that Rodney’s whole body tries to follow him, the only parts of him actually still touching the table his feet, shoulders and arms, and the crown of his head, something he hadn’t even been aware he was capable of doing. His breath was forced out of him as his back slammed down against the metal, shocked by the somewhat renewed cold against his damp skin.
John pushes his legs apart until his feet dangle above the ground, knees crooked around the sides of the table, before crawling up, shoulders jutting and back arched like a cat. He nudges at the sensitive skin just above Rodney’s hip with his nose, breathing in the heady scent of sex and letting it back out slowly, intently, and then letting his teeth graze against the vein in the underside of Rodney’s cock.
Rodney practically jumps out his skin when John’s fingers, slick and cool, begin prodding at his opening, circling lazily and dipping in, pulling out, teasing.
John closes his eyes, concentrating, rests his forehead against Rodney’s thigh and pushes in, crooks at the knuckle. Rodney squirms, pushes back against the finger, and when John starts to thrust it in he meets it each time. He wishes the “please, please, God, Sheppard, please, I need...” was asking for John to fuck him, because God does he want John to fuck him, but it’s already too much and he just needs to come, but John is shushing him and when that doesn’t work he tugs painfully at Rodney’s cock and bites into his thigh at the same time. Rodney screams and his chest heaves, finally knocking the knife from where it had rest to clatter noisily against the hard ground.
The finger in his ass pulls out and wraps around his cock, drags upward to catch as much precome as possible, hand moving around to spread it. When it returns, the middle finger is with it and they’re scissoring almost before they’ve passed the ring of muscle, eagerly.
He hears a light popping release and looks to see John unbuttoning his pants, pulling the material down just enough to pull out his cock. This he, thankfully, uses the real lube he’d started with on. He pulls his fingers out and positions himself and Rodney is scared because he doesn’t feel at all ready for this. His arms tense and his hands strain against their bindings but he works to keep himself relaxed where it matters because he knows that that would just make it hurt more.
John groans as he presses the tip in, barely anything but still too much.
He doesn’t wait for Rodney to adjust, just continues on in at a torturous pace, too fast to get used to but too slow at the same time, steady, inch by tiny inch. John twists his hips before he’s even fully sheathed, eventually catching Rodney’s prostate (and he knew that would feel good, but wow) in a way that’s almost unreal and it scares Rodney to think that John has probably done this before. With someone else. Obviously. The jealousy burns in the pit of his stomach.
If he thought it had been too much before, Rodney was full to burst right about now and he was pretty sure he would explode if he didn’t come soon, the way John hit his prostate on every stroke.
He’s pleading again, begging, because there’s nothing else he can do, head tossing side to side, eyes shut to block out the sweat covering his face now. John chuckles and bites behind his ear, removes the ring and replaces it with his fingers. “After me,” he explains.
Rodney is pretty sure that’s not possible, because John is far too controlled, stable, sane, and Rodney is losing his fucking mind. But just as he thinks that, John starts pistoning in, lightning fast. His teeth clamp around Rodney’s earlobe and the sounds he’s making are like nothing Rodney has ever heard, making white lights spark behind his eyelids.
When he finishes, both of his hands fly to Rodney’s hips and he buries himself so deep Rodney is pretty sure nothing else could ever fit in there, perfectly snug. John finishes and whatever insane part of Rodney’s brain has taken over somehow manages to hold off until John is done (because that’s what John told him, after) and then he’s coming himself, never ending strings flying out of him in bursts of pleasurepain, painting John as hishishis, all his.
It’s not until after he wakes up that he realizes he’d blacked out, but John hasn’t moved an inch so it can’t have been very long. John looks up, smiles, tells him, “good job,” and lays tired kisses against his eyelids.
His wrists are chafing from the ropes, the come is slowly drying on his stomach and chest where it’s pressed between him and John and the rest is seeping awkwardly out of his ass, he’s slipping uncomfortably against the too-cold metal from the sweat on his back and he’s being more than a little crushed by a boneless Sheppard but for once in his life, Rodney doesn’t feel like complaining.
When it’s all over and he realizes that none of it was real, he waits until he’s alone and then he cries.