Admiral Dubcon, reporting for battle!
Title: Skin Hunger
Summary: Once it starts, John can't stop it.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 990
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, AU, so much dubcon
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
A/N: This is a sequel to the tantalizingly brief Cycle by lavvyan. It won't make any sense if you haven't read that; actually, it might not make any sense either way, as I'm sort of just riffing here. No, I don't have plans for a sequel; I have some ideas, but I hear some other people are writing other bits, and I wanna see what they come up with before I go back for seconds. ETA: There is a prequel! Go and read Being a Receptor by Leah.
It's been so long since he had a Receptor, he's forgotten how much it hurts once it starts, like an ice pick through his fucking skull. He should've thought about it before he sent Rodney away that first day; but of course he didn't, and it'd been so bad he'd had to bail out on the side of the highway. If Rodney hadn't put his number in John's phone, he'd probably still be sitting there, clutching at the sides of his head.
But gods, he hasn't even been stateside for almost a year, and he wasn't even earthside before that. Off world, nobody cycled; there was some complicated explanation about the moon or the tides or something, but John had been so blinded by bliss at the thought of being able to turn it off for a while that he hadn't even listened.
Rodney, though, doesn't seem all that bothered; he brings his laptop and his suitcase and just sort of sets up shop in John's apartment, no questions asked. He sleeps in John's bed, too- it kinda weirds John out, but the one night he'd banished Rodney to the couch, he'd had to get up in the middle of the night and haul him back.
Rodney's level of comfort with this whole thing makes John wonder how many times this has happened to him- and that thought very nearly makes John lose it, makes him want to mark him up until he's fucking polka-dotted, until everyone fucking knows that Rodney's his. John hates that thought, and hates himself even more for having it.
For the most part, though, it's fine. Rodney's actually pretty good to talk to, which is nice, because John doesn't really have many friends stateside anymore. John makes sure to keep covered up- he even sleeps in his balaclava, just in case- so it's really more like having a roommate than a Receptor, like they're just two guys who aren't spending time together under a biological mandate.
It all falls apart on the sixth day; it's always been John's worst. He stays curled up on himself in bed, all the lights off, his head stuffed under a pillow, his skin too hot to keep anything on but a t-shirt and shorts. Rodney comes in, finally- maybe he's back from work, maybe he never even went, John has lost all track of time. His presence lessens the pain, but only in the way that a bucket of water lessens a forest fire.
He's vaguely aware that Rodney is talking to him, that he's moving around the room; he hears the bathroom light as it's flicked on and a door shutting somewhere. It opens again; the light switch clicks; the other side of the bed dips downwards.
Before John knows what's happening, Rodney slips his hand underneath John's t-shirt, stroking his bare back. The bolt that shoots through him is so intense that he moves with it, his spine arching, his head thrown back.
"You fucking bastard," John manages to grit out, before the lust overtakes him and he forgets how to talk.
"Yes, yes," Rodney says, dismissive and a little breathless. "Now hurry up and fuck me before you have an aneurysm."
Rodney isn't wearing any clothing, which is good, because John probably would've just destroyed it if he had been- that's what does end up happening to John's boxers. He pushes Rodney into the bed hard, kneeling in front of him and shoving his legs apart with both hands. "I'm ready, just-" is all Rodney has time to say before John surges forward, all the way inside in one movement. And oh, gods, he's hot and tight and slick with something- some distant part of John's mind rejoices that Rodney has had the presence of mind to think about that, because it really, really wouldn't have stopped him today. And fuck, it isn't enough, he wants to be deeper, he wants to fucking crawl inside him and never come out again, he wants to be so far in him that Rodney can fucking taste it.
He slams his hips forward over and over again, unrelenting, bending down so that he can suck the sweat from Rodney's neck as it forms, drink Rodney's cries and moans right from his lips. Rodney is repeating his name again and again, and it's the only thing John ever wants to hear come out of his mouth.
He doesn't know how long it goes on- he doesn't care about anything at all except for blindly chasing this feeling, so strung out on it that it hardly even counts as pleasure- but finally, finally, Rodney is coming, striping them both with white. The scent fucking rampages through John's system, pushing him so, so close- he needs more, he needs everything, he can't bend close enough- but then Rodney's swiping his fingers through the mess, offering them up to him, and John comes the second the bitter taste hits his tongue.
And if that's not what nirvana feels like, then John doesn't even want to go.
John collapses, his arms giving out as soon as the rush of his orgasm leaves him. Rodney steadies him, bringing him down so he's resting against Rodney's chest without totally flattening him.
"Shouldn't have done that," he slurs weakly, wanting to flee for dear life but totally unable to move. "Could've hurt you."
"You were the one getting hurt," Rodney counters.
"'m not a monster," John protests. "My problem- not yours."
He sighs, and John can almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Gods, why are the pretty ones always so fucked up?"
"Shut up," he says meekly, letting Rodney roll them so that they're side by side, Rodney pressed full length up against his back. John lets him tug his t-shirt off, leaving absolutely nothing between them.
He drops into a black and dreamless sleep.
Summary: Once it starts, John can't stop it.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 990
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, AU, so much dubcon
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
A/N: This is a sequel to the tantalizingly brief Cycle by lavvyan. It won't make any sense if you haven't read that; actually, it might not make any sense either way, as I'm sort of just riffing here. No, I don't have plans for a sequel; I have some ideas, but I hear some other people are writing other bits, and I wanna see what they come up with before I go back for seconds. ETA: There is a prequel! Go and read Being a Receptor by Leah.
It's been so long since he had a Receptor, he's forgotten how much it hurts once it starts, like an ice pick through his fucking skull. He should've thought about it before he sent Rodney away that first day; but of course he didn't, and it'd been so bad he'd had to bail out on the side of the highway. If Rodney hadn't put his number in John's phone, he'd probably still be sitting there, clutching at the sides of his head.
But gods, he hasn't even been stateside for almost a year, and he wasn't even earthside before that. Off world, nobody cycled; there was some complicated explanation about the moon or the tides or something, but John had been so blinded by bliss at the thought of being able to turn it off for a while that he hadn't even listened.
Rodney, though, doesn't seem all that bothered; he brings his laptop and his suitcase and just sort of sets up shop in John's apartment, no questions asked. He sleeps in John's bed, too- it kinda weirds John out, but the one night he'd banished Rodney to the couch, he'd had to get up in the middle of the night and haul him back.
Rodney's level of comfort with this whole thing makes John wonder how many times this has happened to him- and that thought very nearly makes John lose it, makes him want to mark him up until he's fucking polka-dotted, until everyone fucking knows that Rodney's his. John hates that thought, and hates himself even more for having it.
For the most part, though, it's fine. Rodney's actually pretty good to talk to, which is nice, because John doesn't really have many friends stateside anymore. John makes sure to keep covered up- he even sleeps in his balaclava, just in case- so it's really more like having a roommate than a Receptor, like they're just two guys who aren't spending time together under a biological mandate.
It all falls apart on the sixth day; it's always been John's worst. He stays curled up on himself in bed, all the lights off, his head stuffed under a pillow, his skin too hot to keep anything on but a t-shirt and shorts. Rodney comes in, finally- maybe he's back from work, maybe he never even went, John has lost all track of time. His presence lessens the pain, but only in the way that a bucket of water lessens a forest fire.
He's vaguely aware that Rodney is talking to him, that he's moving around the room; he hears the bathroom light as it's flicked on and a door shutting somewhere. It opens again; the light switch clicks; the other side of the bed dips downwards.
Before John knows what's happening, Rodney slips his hand underneath John's t-shirt, stroking his bare back. The bolt that shoots through him is so intense that he moves with it, his spine arching, his head thrown back.
"You fucking bastard," John manages to grit out, before the lust overtakes him and he forgets how to talk.
"Yes, yes," Rodney says, dismissive and a little breathless. "Now hurry up and fuck me before you have an aneurysm."
Rodney isn't wearing any clothing, which is good, because John probably would've just destroyed it if he had been- that's what does end up happening to John's boxers. He pushes Rodney into the bed hard, kneeling in front of him and shoving his legs apart with both hands. "I'm ready, just-" is all Rodney has time to say before John surges forward, all the way inside in one movement. And oh, gods, he's hot and tight and slick with something- some distant part of John's mind rejoices that Rodney has had the presence of mind to think about that, because it really, really wouldn't have stopped him today. And fuck, it isn't enough, he wants to be deeper, he wants to fucking crawl inside him and never come out again, he wants to be so far in him that Rodney can fucking taste it.
He slams his hips forward over and over again, unrelenting, bending down so that he can suck the sweat from Rodney's neck as it forms, drink Rodney's cries and moans right from his lips. Rodney is repeating his name again and again, and it's the only thing John ever wants to hear come out of his mouth.
He doesn't know how long it goes on- he doesn't care about anything at all except for blindly chasing this feeling, so strung out on it that it hardly even counts as pleasure- but finally, finally, Rodney is coming, striping them both with white. The scent fucking rampages through John's system, pushing him so, so close- he needs more, he needs everything, he can't bend close enough- but then Rodney's swiping his fingers through the mess, offering them up to him, and John comes the second the bitter taste hits his tongue.
And if that's not what nirvana feels like, then John doesn't even want to go.
John collapses, his arms giving out as soon as the rush of his orgasm leaves him. Rodney steadies him, bringing him down so he's resting against Rodney's chest without totally flattening him.
"Shouldn't have done that," he slurs weakly, wanting to flee for dear life but totally unable to move. "Could've hurt you."
"You were the one getting hurt," Rodney counters.
"'m not a monster," John protests. "My problem- not yours."
He sighs, and John can almost hear him rolling his eyes. "Gods, why are the pretty ones always so fucked up?"
"Shut up," he says meekly, letting Rodney roll them so that they're side by side, Rodney pressed full length up against his back. John lets him tug his t-shirt off, leaving absolutely nothing between them.
He drops into a black and dreamless sleep.