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sga_flashficTitle: This Is Me, This Is Mine
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R+
Wordcount: 1,736
Spoilers: None
Categories: ER, H/C
Summary: "Don't," John said, gritting his teeth. "You wanted to make me feel better? This will make me feel better. If not," he shrugged, "I'll figure some other way."
Warnings: Implied AI mental (non-physical) non-con, if that makes sense.
This Is Me, This Is Mine
by esteefee
Rodney seemed to want to make it better afterward, after they were back and safe and John had been sent to his quarters to "rest." By which Carson meant stop twitching every time someone came near him. So, Rodney followed him back to his room, and John didn't tell him to fuck off, because that would have been cruel, and he didn't do cruel with Rodney unless he was hysterical and needed a good, swift kick.
But John really wanted to, because this thing had his skin tight and cold, and he felt so sick to his stomach he'd even asked Carson about radiation and made him put him through the scanning thing, even though John hated that worse because he had to be half-naked and still through the hum.
But no, no radiation poisoning, said Carson, and gave him a sympathetic look that made John want to sock him one.
Back in his quarters, John went straight into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving Rodney buzzing on the other side like a deranged bumblebee. John turned on the shower and then sat on the toilet, still fully clothed, and put his head in his hands.
Rodney's muffed voice came from behind the door. "Seriously, Major, aren't you going to let me in? Because I hate to break the news, but I have seen you naked. A lot."
Fuck off, Rodney. "I'll be out in a little while," John said.
"You think it's my fault. That's it, isn't it? But I ask you, how was I supposed to know the device would do that? My Ancient is better than most, but I'm not infallible. And, anyway, my translation was correct, it only fell short of the mark on interpretation. And nuance really isn't my forte, as you well know..."
John pulled his shirt off and took a moment to run his hands over his own skin, trying to replace the tightness with warmth, with the familiar. But his own touch revolted him, and he quickly shed the rest of his clothing and jumped into the shower, pushing on the pad for hot, hotter, and kept pushing even though Atlantis thought it knew better than him and wouldn't let him scald his skin off, as much as he wanted to.
Afterward, he could barely look at himself in the mirror, which was fog-free in spite of the heavy dampness in the air. Fucking Ancients with their fucking miracle technology. For the first time ever, John hated it, hated them, even hated Atlantis, because it was part of them.
"Hey, are you done? You're done, come on out of there." Rodney had stuck around. John was both irritated and weirdly relieved. He shook his head, then gave himself a hard slap on the face. That was good, that was snapping him out of it, and so he wet his hand with water and smacked the other side, a hot shock.
He couldn't stand to put on the same clothes again, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and went out. He didn't look at Rodney as he went to his bureau and got a clean T-shirt and a pair of track pants, yanking everything on as quickly as he could without seeming rushed, because he could feel Rodney's eyes on him.
John turned finally, dressed, feeling outwardly calm. Rodney was already revving up.
"At least I was the only one who saw—I mean, I understand this is all very upsetting—"
"You don't understand anything," John said, keeping it calm, keeping it a little mocking. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't try."
Rodney was bobbing his head, eyes dark with something John didn't want to identify. "I know. You're right, I know. But I just want to...I want to help, okay?"
"You wanna help? Fine." John bent over and plucked a pair of fighting sticks from his gym bag. He tossed them to Rodney, who fumbled them, catching only one with the crook of his elbow, the other falling to the floor.
"What exactly do you expect me to do with these?"
"I'll show you. Come on."
John turned and walked out, his feet bare on the cool floor, leading the way toward the gym. He heard his door close behind him, and then heard it open again as Rodney followed, too slowly. At least he wasn't talking anymore.
In the gym—or, the room they'd designated as a gym since the Ancients were apparently not into physical training—John swung his arms a couple of times and stretched his hamstrings, trying to loosen his skin.
The door swooshed, and Rodney stood there, looking uncertain. John crossed behind him and set the door lock for privacy, then came back to stand at the center of the mat. Rodney eyed him nervously.
"Are you sure you don't want Teyla—"
"No. It has to be you."
"To do what, exactly? I'm sure you realize I'm not up to a tenth—well, maybe a quarter—of your fighting abilities, and anyway you didn't bring any sticks for yourself, so I don't see how—"
"Rodney. I'm not going to fight you."
"Then what—?"
John just waited, saw Rodney's face change as he got it, and then saw the quick denial in the press of his slanted mouth.
"You said you wanted to help," John said. "So, help." He put his arms out impatiently, waving him on.
"I...you can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious. Come at me."
"Major. John—"
"Don't," John said, gritting his teeth. "You wanted to make me feel better? This will make me feel better. If not," he shrugged, "I'll figure some other way." Please, Rodney.
"Some other way to what?" Rodney sounded helplessly confused, even scared.
"To get rid of it." John wasn't going to explain further, even if Rodney begged him, because he couldn't possibly explain what it had felt like to have that AI thing crawling inside his brain, turning him on effortlessly, making every inch of his skin feel as sensitive as the head of his cock. Prying his darkest fantasies out of his head and making him feel them on his flesh, inside him. Making him come, over and over, while he arched on the floor, Rodney making frantic sounds next to him and yanking off panels, tearing out crystals, until finally, after an eternity, it stopped.
"Hit me," John said.
"All—all right." Rodney came at him, one stick raised, the other down by his waist—terrible form—and batted John on the upper arm, once—a light blow, useless.
"Make it harder. Much, much harder," John said, feeling bad for a second because Rodney was so obviously trying, and this maybe wasn't fair to him.
Rodney had backed away and was staring at him. "I—John, why—?"
"I need it. And I need you to do this, Rodney. Not anyone else. Do you get that?" John said as gently as he could. And, God help him, Rodney had better get it, because John was about to fucking scream, or maybe tear his own skin off with his fingernails.
Rodney's eyes cleared, and he took a step forward and swung. The stick felt like a lash on John's shoulder, and he raised his arm instinctively. Rodney seemed relieved at the reaction, and swung again, with his left hand, and John blocked it this time, feeling the sweet sting of the stick on his forearm.
Then Rodney was hitting and hitting him, over and over, going for his thighs, for his ass when John tried to spin and dodge, not too fast, just enough to lighten the stroke. Rodney struck at him until his skin finally loosened with bruises and pain, the heat flowing inward and easing the cold ache inside. Rodney kept hitting him until finally John stumbled to his knees and raised one hand.
Rodney stood over him, breathing heavily, and a drop of sweat dripped from his chin and landed on John's face.
"Good," John said, panting. "That was real good. Thanks, Rodney."
He saw Rodney's eyes widen; saw, by the upward tilt, that Rodney's cock was half-hard in his pants, and John shifted over and leaned in until he could nuzzle it, mouth it harder.
"Oh," Rodney said. The sticks fell from his hands, one knocking against John's hip as he reached up to unfasten Rodney's pants. He gripped Rodney's cock, holding it so he could wet it down with his tongue, and then John got his mouth around it and went down.
Rodney gave a whimpering gasp and grabbed at his head.
John tilted back, twisting so the fingers in his hair had to grasp harder and tug, sweet pain on his scalp, and then he started sucking hard, riding Rodney's cock with his mouth and tongue, all the way down until it jabbed at his throat. He usually stopped there, but this time pressed harder. His throat refused to open, though, and he settled for the raw scratch and shove, and the hot sounds Rodney was making, and the burn on his scalp and in his lungs.
Rodney got with the program and shoved at him until John loosened his neck and let Rodney fuck his mouth.
"This...okay?" Rodney gasped, "John. God. John."
John murmured his approval around the thick shaft stabbing into his mouth, and reached down to grip his own cock through his workout pants. He was so excited even the rough slip of nylon didn't throw him, and he worked himself, stroked himself, thinking, this is me, this is mine, and he came, moaning around Rodney's cock, and barely noticed when Rodney jerked and spurted in his mouth and against the back of his throat.
John pulled away with a cough and then swallowed. Sagging to his knees in front of him, Rodney stared, eyes slitted and more concerned than a guy should be after a blowjob.
"What?" John said, his voice gravel rough.
"That's not really my...thing," Rodney said, gesturing at what, John didn't know. "Just because I—that's not my thing," Rodney repeated lamely.
"You think I don't know that?" John looked away. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for doing it anyway."
"How...how do you feel?"
John took stock of the throbbing bruises on his arms, his legs, his ribs, of the welts he could feel rising up on his back and ass, hot like tiny suns burning his skin.
"Much better," he said. "Thanks, Rodney."
Rodney didn't smile, but when he leaned forward, his kiss said, You're welcome.
End.
Author:
esteefeePairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R+
Wordcount: 1,736
Spoilers: None
Categories: ER, H/C
Summary: "Don't," John said, gritting his teeth. "You wanted to make me feel better? This will make me feel better. If not," he shrugged, "I'll figure some other way."
Warnings: Implied AI mental (non-physical) non-con, if that makes sense.
This Is Me, This Is Mine
by esteefee
Rodney seemed to want to make it better afterward, after they were back and safe and John had been sent to his quarters to "rest." By which Carson meant stop twitching every time someone came near him. So, Rodney followed him back to his room, and John didn't tell him to fuck off, because that would have been cruel, and he didn't do cruel with Rodney unless he was hysterical and needed a good, swift kick.
But John really wanted to, because this thing had his skin tight and cold, and he felt so sick to his stomach he'd even asked Carson about radiation and made him put him through the scanning thing, even though John hated that worse because he had to be half-naked and still through the hum.
But no, no radiation poisoning, said Carson, and gave him a sympathetic look that made John want to sock him one.
Back in his quarters, John went straight into the bathroom and closed the door, leaving Rodney buzzing on the other side like a deranged bumblebee. John turned on the shower and then sat on the toilet, still fully clothed, and put his head in his hands.
Rodney's muffed voice came from behind the door. "Seriously, Major, aren't you going to let me in? Because I hate to break the news, but I have seen you naked. A lot."
Fuck off, Rodney. "I'll be out in a little while," John said.
"You think it's my fault. That's it, isn't it? But I ask you, how was I supposed to know the device would do that? My Ancient is better than most, but I'm not infallible. And, anyway, my translation was correct, it only fell short of the mark on interpretation. And nuance really isn't my forte, as you well know..."
John pulled his shirt off and took a moment to run his hands over his own skin, trying to replace the tightness with warmth, with the familiar. But his own touch revolted him, and he quickly shed the rest of his clothing and jumped into the shower, pushing on the pad for hot, hotter, and kept pushing even though Atlantis thought it knew better than him and wouldn't let him scald his skin off, as much as he wanted to.
Afterward, he could barely look at himself in the mirror, which was fog-free in spite of the heavy dampness in the air. Fucking Ancients with their fucking miracle technology. For the first time ever, John hated it, hated them, even hated Atlantis, because it was part of them.
"Hey, are you done? You're done, come on out of there." Rodney had stuck around. John was both irritated and weirdly relieved. He shook his head, then gave himself a hard slap on the face. That was good, that was snapping him out of it, and so he wet his hand with water and smacked the other side, a hot shock.
He couldn't stand to put on the same clothes again, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and went out. He didn't look at Rodney as he went to his bureau and got a clean T-shirt and a pair of track pants, yanking everything on as quickly as he could without seeming rushed, because he could feel Rodney's eyes on him.
John turned finally, dressed, feeling outwardly calm. Rodney was already revving up.
"At least I was the only one who saw—I mean, I understand this is all very upsetting—"
"You don't understand anything," John said, keeping it calm, keeping it a little mocking. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't try."
Rodney was bobbing his head, eyes dark with something John didn't want to identify. "I know. You're right, I know. But I just want to...I want to help, okay?"
"You wanna help? Fine." John bent over and plucked a pair of fighting sticks from his gym bag. He tossed them to Rodney, who fumbled them, catching only one with the crook of his elbow, the other falling to the floor.
"What exactly do you expect me to do with these?"
"I'll show you. Come on."
John turned and walked out, his feet bare on the cool floor, leading the way toward the gym. He heard his door close behind him, and then heard it open again as Rodney followed, too slowly. At least he wasn't talking anymore.
In the gym—or, the room they'd designated as a gym since the Ancients were apparently not into physical training—John swung his arms a couple of times and stretched his hamstrings, trying to loosen his skin.
The door swooshed, and Rodney stood there, looking uncertain. John crossed behind him and set the door lock for privacy, then came back to stand at the center of the mat. Rodney eyed him nervously.
"Are you sure you don't want Teyla—"
"No. It has to be you."
"To do what, exactly? I'm sure you realize I'm not up to a tenth—well, maybe a quarter—of your fighting abilities, and anyway you didn't bring any sticks for yourself, so I don't see how—"
"Rodney. I'm not going to fight you."
"Then what—?"
John just waited, saw Rodney's face change as he got it, and then saw the quick denial in the press of his slanted mouth.
"You said you wanted to help," John said. "So, help." He put his arms out impatiently, waving him on.
"I...you can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious. Come at me."
"Major. John—"
"Don't," John said, gritting his teeth. "You wanted to make me feel better? This will make me feel better. If not," he shrugged, "I'll figure some other way." Please, Rodney.
"Some other way to what?" Rodney sounded helplessly confused, even scared.
"To get rid of it." John wasn't going to explain further, even if Rodney begged him, because he couldn't possibly explain what it had felt like to have that AI thing crawling inside his brain, turning him on effortlessly, making every inch of his skin feel as sensitive as the head of his cock. Prying his darkest fantasies out of his head and making him feel them on his flesh, inside him. Making him come, over and over, while he arched on the floor, Rodney making frantic sounds next to him and yanking off panels, tearing out crystals, until finally, after an eternity, it stopped.
"Hit me," John said.
"All—all right." Rodney came at him, one stick raised, the other down by his waist—terrible form—and batted John on the upper arm, once—a light blow, useless.
"Make it harder. Much, much harder," John said, feeling bad for a second because Rodney was so obviously trying, and this maybe wasn't fair to him.
Rodney had backed away and was staring at him. "I—John, why—?"
"I need it. And I need you to do this, Rodney. Not anyone else. Do you get that?" John said as gently as he could. And, God help him, Rodney had better get it, because John was about to fucking scream, or maybe tear his own skin off with his fingernails.
Rodney's eyes cleared, and he took a step forward and swung. The stick felt like a lash on John's shoulder, and he raised his arm instinctively. Rodney seemed relieved at the reaction, and swung again, with his left hand, and John blocked it this time, feeling the sweet sting of the stick on his forearm.
Then Rodney was hitting and hitting him, over and over, going for his thighs, for his ass when John tried to spin and dodge, not too fast, just enough to lighten the stroke. Rodney struck at him until his skin finally loosened with bruises and pain, the heat flowing inward and easing the cold ache inside. Rodney kept hitting him until finally John stumbled to his knees and raised one hand.
Rodney stood over him, breathing heavily, and a drop of sweat dripped from his chin and landed on John's face.
"Good," John said, panting. "That was real good. Thanks, Rodney."
He saw Rodney's eyes widen; saw, by the upward tilt, that Rodney's cock was half-hard in his pants, and John shifted over and leaned in until he could nuzzle it, mouth it harder.
"Oh," Rodney said. The sticks fell from his hands, one knocking against John's hip as he reached up to unfasten Rodney's pants. He gripped Rodney's cock, holding it so he could wet it down with his tongue, and then John got his mouth around it and went down.
Rodney gave a whimpering gasp and grabbed at his head.
John tilted back, twisting so the fingers in his hair had to grasp harder and tug, sweet pain on his scalp, and then he started sucking hard, riding Rodney's cock with his mouth and tongue, all the way down until it jabbed at his throat. He usually stopped there, but this time pressed harder. His throat refused to open, though, and he settled for the raw scratch and shove, and the hot sounds Rodney was making, and the burn on his scalp and in his lungs.
Rodney got with the program and shoved at him until John loosened his neck and let Rodney fuck his mouth.
"This...okay?" Rodney gasped, "John. God. John."
John murmured his approval around the thick shaft stabbing into his mouth, and reached down to grip his own cock through his workout pants. He was so excited even the rough slip of nylon didn't throw him, and he worked himself, stroked himself, thinking, this is me, this is mine, and he came, moaning around Rodney's cock, and barely noticed when Rodney jerked and spurted in his mouth and against the back of his throat.
John pulled away with a cough and then swallowed. Sagging to his knees in front of him, Rodney stared, eyes slitted and more concerned than a guy should be after a blowjob.
"What?" John said, his voice gravel rough.
"That's not really my...thing," Rodney said, gesturing at what, John didn't know. "Just because I—that's not my thing," Rodney repeated lamely.
"You think I don't know that?" John looked away. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for doing it anyway."
"How...how do you feel?"
John took stock of the throbbing bruises on his arms, his legs, his ribs, of the welts he could feel rising up on his back and ass, hot like tiny suns burning his skin.
"Much better," he said. "Thanks, Rodney."
Rodney didn't smile, but when he leaned forward, his kiss said, You're welcome.
End.
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Date: 2008-09-04 03:39 pm (UTC)Thank you much for the great note!
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