Fic! "Substitute," John/Rod (SGA), NC-17
I wrote something last night! Start to finish! And I like it! It was for oxoniensis's Porn Battle V (the fifth dimension) for the prompt: "John/Rod, swing." Who knew that "it's only a quickie porn-fest" and "this can't be more than 4300 characters" would be the combination of restrictions that got the job done? They kept me from worrying about plot and characterization and sentence structure and from adding all the details I constantly wanted to-if left to my own devices, this would probably be a third again as long and have a different ending, and I'd still be picking over things like having used "flexed" in two places or "against" twice in as many sentences. Instead, it's done, done, done!
Title: Substitute
Pairing: John/Rod
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Kink (object insertion)
Spoilers: None, but you'll probably want to have seen "McKay and Mrs. Miller" for this to make sense.
Word Count: 747
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them to play.
A/N: Big hugs to daasgrrl for giving this a once-over before I posted last night, and to topaz_eyes for pushing me to write yesterday and providing the link to the Battle that finally convinced me to give it a try.
Read it there or here:
"Now?" Rod asked, sliding his slick fingers slowly out.
John was on the bed cross-wise on his hands and knees, his lower legs suspended off one side and his head hanging low on the other, wearing his now-damp tee shirt and nothing else. He licked sweat from his upper lip and nodded. A moment passed, but nothing happened; realizing Rod couldn't have seen the movement, he cleared his throat and said, "Yeah," his voice thick, rough-edged with anticipation.
This time Rod turned away from the bed. John flexed feeling back into fingers that had been gripping the edge of the mattress while Rod opened him, and concentrated on staying relaxed as he listened to Rod getting everything ready: the thump of metal against carpet, tearing foil, the snapping of a plastic cap, soft sticky noises that told of the liberal application of lube.
Rod returned, bracing one knee on the bed and placing one warm hand on the small of John's back under his shirt, stroking delicate arcs with his thumb. John spread his legs wider, open and wanton, one knee slipping further than he'd intended on the sheet. He didn't care how he looked-Rod's hand was brushing against his ass, and a moment later, cool, wet hardness pressed against him. John fought the urge to push back against it, to just take it in as far as he could, writhe shamelessly around it until he came, groaning and shaking.
"Hang on," Rod said, and shifted. "I need to find the right-angle. There." He moved the tip of the thing in gentle circles, but still he didn't push it in. "You know, I can't say I never thought of doing this with my Sheppard, standoffish though he is, but I didn't expect it to be quite so…hot."
John could hear him smiling. He gritted his teeth. "McKay…"
A pause, and then Rod asked in a much softer voice, "Are you sure?"
The tone was hesitant, concerned, utterly devoid of Rod's typical easy confidence. It was unlike anything John had heard from him, and yet it was intimately familiar; he'd heard that same voice call his name after he'd been wounded on another mission gone wrong, heard it ask him for forgiveness after Doranda. Dizzied by a rush of arousal, John lost control and pushed. Rod made a quiet sound, and his fingertips tightened on John's back; he moved, finally, and the slicked-up, condom-wrapped grip of John's favorite nine-iron slid into him inch by slow, thick inch.
A hot, prickling flush spread up John's spine and across his back. He could feel his ass clutching at the grip only to release it again as Rod slid it a little bit deeper, over and over, until at last he closed tight where the rubber ended and the metal shaft began. Breathing hard, dripping sweat, he flexed around the unyielding length of it and shuddered with pleasure. He wondered what he looked like, spread open across the bed, ass high and head low, shoulders taut, the long, gleaming shaft of the club slanting into him, Rod's hands holding the both of them steady.
"Good?" Rod asked, sounding like himself again. John thrust back in reply, making Rod chuckle. Rod gave him a few short, gentle thrusts until John groaned for more, his body tense with building urgency. A quick wiggle of the club from side to side and a tiny shove-then a sharp angling downward-"And, there," Rod said, as John's back arched and his eyelids fluttered closed. "The wonders of simple mechanics," he continued cheerfully as John's hips jerked and twitched with each slow, firm pass.
Trembling, barely able to open his eyes, John tried to muster the coordination to reach down and touch himself, but it was hard to balance on anything less than two hands when Rod kept hitting the bull's-eye like that. "Gotta…" he whined, and thank God, Rod understood, because the hand on John's back slid down to his dick and stroked him hard and fast in a totally different rhythm than he was using with the club inside him. John swayed between Rod's sweet, sweet fist and the inexorable thrusting behind, lost in the haze of imminent release. The tension built-built-hovered on the edge-and then John was coming, biting his lip as he spilled over Rod's fingers and onto the sheet.
As it subsided, he breathed out a name with two syllables, too quiet for Rod to hear.
* * *
The end.
Comments welcome, including concrit -- I'm probably not going to play with this any more, but I always appreciate tips to make the next story better.
P.S. I want to subtitle it, "or, Why John was cleaning his clubs in front of Rodney in his quarters later."
Is this worth posting to a comm? If so, where?
ETA: x-posted to sga_noticeboard and mensa_au
ETA 2: x-posted to bottom_john and mckay_sheppard, and that's definitely it.
Title: Substitute
Pairing: John/Rod
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Kink (object insertion)
Spoilers: None, but you'll probably want to have seen "McKay and Mrs. Miller" for this to make sense.
Word Count: 747
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them to play.
A/N: Big hugs to daasgrrl for giving this a once-over before I posted last night, and to topaz_eyes for pushing me to write yesterday and providing the link to the Battle that finally convinced me to give it a try.
Read it there or here:
"Now?" Rod asked, sliding his slick fingers slowly out.
John was on the bed cross-wise on his hands and knees, his lower legs suspended off one side and his head hanging low on the other, wearing his now-damp tee shirt and nothing else. He licked sweat from his upper lip and nodded. A moment passed, but nothing happened; realizing Rod couldn't have seen the movement, he cleared his throat and said, "Yeah," his voice thick, rough-edged with anticipation.
This time Rod turned away from the bed. John flexed feeling back into fingers that had been gripping the edge of the mattress while Rod opened him, and concentrated on staying relaxed as he listened to Rod getting everything ready: the thump of metal against carpet, tearing foil, the snapping of a plastic cap, soft sticky noises that told of the liberal application of lube.
Rod returned, bracing one knee on the bed and placing one warm hand on the small of John's back under his shirt, stroking delicate arcs with his thumb. John spread his legs wider, open and wanton, one knee slipping further than he'd intended on the sheet. He didn't care how he looked-Rod's hand was brushing against his ass, and a moment later, cool, wet hardness pressed against him. John fought the urge to push back against it, to just take it in as far as he could, writhe shamelessly around it until he came, groaning and shaking.
"Hang on," Rod said, and shifted. "I need to find the right-angle. There." He moved the tip of the thing in gentle circles, but still he didn't push it in. "You know, I can't say I never thought of doing this with my Sheppard, standoffish though he is, but I didn't expect it to be quite so…hot."
John could hear him smiling. He gritted his teeth. "McKay…"
A pause, and then Rod asked in a much softer voice, "Are you sure?"
The tone was hesitant, concerned, utterly devoid of Rod's typical easy confidence. It was unlike anything John had heard from him, and yet it was intimately familiar; he'd heard that same voice call his name after he'd been wounded on another mission gone wrong, heard it ask him for forgiveness after Doranda. Dizzied by a rush of arousal, John lost control and pushed. Rod made a quiet sound, and his fingertips tightened on John's back; he moved, finally, and the slicked-up, condom-wrapped grip of John's favorite nine-iron slid into him inch by slow, thick inch.
A hot, prickling flush spread up John's spine and across his back. He could feel his ass clutching at the grip only to release it again as Rod slid it a little bit deeper, over and over, until at last he closed tight where the rubber ended and the metal shaft began. Breathing hard, dripping sweat, he flexed around the unyielding length of it and shuddered with pleasure. He wondered what he looked like, spread open across the bed, ass high and head low, shoulders taut, the long, gleaming shaft of the club slanting into him, Rod's hands holding the both of them steady.
"Good?" Rod asked, sounding like himself again. John thrust back in reply, making Rod chuckle. Rod gave him a few short, gentle thrusts until John groaned for more, his body tense with building urgency. A quick wiggle of the club from side to side and a tiny shove-then a sharp angling downward-"And, there," Rod said, as John's back arched and his eyelids fluttered closed. "The wonders of simple mechanics," he continued cheerfully as John's hips jerked and twitched with each slow, firm pass.
Trembling, barely able to open his eyes, John tried to muster the coordination to reach down and touch himself, but it was hard to balance on anything less than two hands when Rod kept hitting the bull's-eye like that. "Gotta…" he whined, and thank God, Rod understood, because the hand on John's back slid down to his dick and stroked him hard and fast in a totally different rhythm than he was using with the club inside him. John swayed between Rod's sweet, sweet fist and the inexorable thrusting behind, lost in the haze of imminent release. The tension built-built-hovered on the edge-and then John was coming, biting his lip as he spilled over Rod's fingers and onto the sheet.
As it subsided, he breathed out a name with two syllables, too quiet for Rod to hear.
* * *
The end.
Comments welcome, including concrit -- I'm probably not going to play with this any more, but I always appreciate tips to make the next story better.
P.S. I want to subtitle it, "or, Why John was cleaning his clubs in front of Rodney in his quarters later."
Is this worth posting to a comm? If so, where?
ETA: x-posted to sga_noticeboard and mensa_au
ETA 2: x-posted to bottom_john and mckay_sheppard, and that's definitely it.