Fic: Lion Tamer
Nov. 21st, 2011 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: Lion Tamer
Summary: He only needs Rodney to hold it for a little while.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 2171
Rating/Contents: NC-17, D/s, sadism, mentions of (hypothetical) non-con torture, nipple play
Pairing: Rodney/John
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Did somebody around here call for a submissive Colonel Sadist? Because I have one here- slightly used, I'll grant you, but it cleans up real nice.
John has known plenty of sadists in his time in the Air Force.
John has plenty of reasons to hate them: they tend to be assholes; they're unreliable and uncontrollable in the field; they give the military a bad name; they make his country- his whole planet, now- look like a bunch of violent idiots.
John spent about the first ten years of his career beating the shit out of them; his commanding officers always looked the other way.
Only one thing is stopping John from becoming one of them right now.
Most of the time, he keeps it under control- he keeps everything under control. On the good days, he keeps everybody back and in their places, and he just doesn't think about it. On the bad days, it's like a tension headache that just won't go away- he can't run far enough, train hard enough, ignore it long enough to make it go away. He reads it in the faces of the people around him, and the more they look like they're afraid of him, the more he wants to make them afraid.
And on days like that, he sits on Rodney's floor, and he waits.
Rodney doesn't apologize when he finally walks in, almost an hour late. He doesn't acknowledge John's presence, even when John scrambles to his knees.
"How long has it been?" he asks, sitting down at his computer, and his voice is so mild that he could be talking about the weather.
John has to think about it for a minute. He already feels thick and slow, like he always feels when they do this. Rodney likes him when he's so untied that he can't even think; John doesn't, and he blushes at his own stupidity. "Ten days."
From what John can see, Rodney is checking his email, clicking through it with no undue speed. "How long was it the time before that?"
He's ready this time. "One week, six days."
"How many hours is that?"
"Three hundred and twelve," he says after a moment, licking his dry lips.
"Prime or not prime?"
The question throws him off. "What?"
"Three hundred twelve," Rodney says calmly. "Is it prime or not prime?"
Christ, John must be worse off than he thought, because it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to even remember how to tell. "Not prime."
"What happened?" Rodney asks, finally looking at him. John fidgets under his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable. "Tell me or get out."
"The mission today," John says. "One of the guys from the village- he was," there isn't a good word for how he was leering, like his very gaze was oily enough to leave traces on her skin, "looking at Teyla. I wanted to hurt him."
"You didn't touch him," Rodney says, a hint of approval in his voice.
"I wanted to," John insists, folding his hands in his lap.
"Tell me what you wanted to do."
Rodney doesn't really want to hear the details; but at the same time, he can't leave it. "I had my hand on my knife," John says. He doesn't have to think about it- it's right there at the top of his mind, eating at him like it has all day. "He was so close, I could have cut him if I just stretched my arm out." He knows that Rodney can't not listen, horrified by John's words, horrified more by what the thought of all that violence does to him. "Just a little slice, just enough to get him distracted."
Rodney shudders, almost imperceptibly, and then John can't stop talking, can't stop pushing Rodney. "I wouldn't have stopped once I drew blood. I'd have held him down and cut him over and over again- just a little bit at a time." Rodney's squirming uncomfortably in his chair, now, hanging onto John's every word. "Maybe slap him around a little while I did it, keep hitting him until I was satisfied."
He can see the point where it's enough, where Rodney's mind clicks over. He stands, grabs John by the hair and pulls his face up so that he has to make eye contact; it's not nearly enough to hurt, just enough to get John's attention. "And you didn't."
He swallows. "I didn't."
Rodney releases him. "Why not?"
"Yours," he says in a broken whisper. "Everything-" and he wants to spill at the mouth, offer himself fully, up to and including the razor edge inside him, his need to cause pain, but he can't make his mouth form the words- "yours."
"Good," Rodney tells him, running his fingers through John's thick hair. "Very good."
"Please," he says, sagging under the weight of it. "Please, I can't- I'm going to lose it and I can't- I need it, please."
"Shh," he replies, stroking John's head. "I'll give you what you need."
He leans forward, resting his face against the fabric of Rodney's pants. Rodney gives him a minute to collect himself before pushing his head away. "Suck me," he orders, working his fly open and pushing his pants and boxers down and off, perching on the edge of the bed with his legs spread wide. "The sooner you get me ready, the sooner you get what you want, so none of that showboating you're so fond of, if you please."
John's too far gone to even consider it. He just crawls over, leaning in and taking Rodney down as far as he can; Rodney's already hard, just from hearing John's words, and there's something so astoundingly hot about that thought that John doesn't even know what to do with it. He wraps his hand around Rodney's cock, stroking the parts of it he can't get into his mouth, trying to make it as good as he can so that Rodney will- will do whatever comes next, fuck him or come in his face or whatever.
"Hand," Rodney snaps, and John holds one up; Rodney drops the bottle of lube into it. "You know what to do."
His hands are shaking as he uncaps the bottle; he pours the liquid all over his fingers before carefully opening Rodney up, one finger and two, just how Rodney likes it. It won't get him anywhere if he hurts Rodney out of sheer clumsiness- any idiot could do that.
Rodney suddenly pushes him away, hard enough that John almost falls. "On the bed, face up," he says, moving out of the way, and John scrambles to do it, stretching out with his hands at his sides.
Before he climbs onto the bed, Rodney pulls out the black box from underneath it. John doesn't know what he'll be allowed tonight, how Rodney will let himself get hurt. It won't be the knife, certainly, because that's too close, too tempting, too easy for John to go too far. Maybe the belt then, or the paddle, or maybe Rodney'll just pull out the gloves and let John beat him.
He's a little far gone to care, just as long as it hurts.
Rodney climbs up, straddling him; John can tell he's just as desperate as he feels, because he just presses down and takes John in all at once. He's not even paying attention to John for a minute, just fucking himself slowly on John's cock, using him like a sex toy; it makes John hotter than he thinks it probably should.
When he's satisfied for the moment, he looks down at John, and John is transfixed by his stare. He holds up two large, flat clips, attached by a length of chain; John had brought them back the last time he'd been on Earth, at considerable risk of personal humiliation. They really didn't do it for him at first, because it just didn't look like it would hurt that much- but then Rodney'd put them on him, and after five minutes he'd been down on his knees with his face on the floor begging for them to come off.
Watching Rodney roll his own nipples between his fingers, making sure they're hard before he closes the clover clamps on them, John knows sneaking them in was completely worth the effort.
Rodney bites his lip, groaning low as the clamps press down on him; he has to take a second to get accustomed to them, grimacing as he does. He starts to move again, and they jangle as he bounces up and down on John's cock; John can't stop watching. Rodney is making little achy noises, trying to push through it, and John can tell this part is bad.
It's going to get so much worse, and John can't wait.
"Take the chain," Rodney says after a minute, slowing down a little. "One hand. Pull when I tell you."
John's eyes go wide; he's never been allowed this before, always had to watch while Rodney did it to himself, so good and so far from his grasp at the same time.
He reaches up, and just the weight of John's hand makes Rodney hiss. It makes John want to pull and pull and pull until he- until whatever bad thing would happen happens. He's not, he's going to try with everything in him not to. He wants to be good, he can be so good for Rodney; if he isn't good, Rodney will throw him out without thinking twice about it, and then John will be just as fucked as when they started this- probably more.
Rodney starts riding him again, slowly; John doesn't have to pull at all at first, because the rhythm of Rodney's movements makes the chain pull at John's unmoving hand, taut and lax, taut and lax. "Just a little," Rodney says, speeding up, and John tugs down gently; it's so much harder to do this than he thought. He pictured just hauling off and yanking on him, but Rodney's going to control it, just like everything, and John's going to do what he says. He needs to do it right; he needs Rodney's approval more than anything, maybe even more than the pain.
Rodney is biting at his lower lip again as he moves faster. His body says he loves it and his face says he hates it; John will never figure that out, but he doesn't mind if he ever does, just as long as he gets to see it about a billion more times. "Give me more," Rodney says; his voice is getting harder, and that's a thing he'll never understand either, how he gets more and more controlling the further he goes.
Rodney is really fucking him now, using him, taking him as hard as he wants, and John wants to be taken, needs to be used. John fists his free hand into the bedsheets, his breath coming in gasps; he's aware that he's letting out broken noises, but he doesn't seem to know how to stop. Rodney doesn't seem to care, too busy trying to wreck John to worry about it.
He leans over John's body, looking him dead in the eye. "Hard, John," he orders, and John stares back at him and pulls as hard as he dares; Rodney throws his head back, his whole body arching, pulling them even tighter. He screams, and John's never had to try harder not to come in his entire life.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rodney is saying, riding him fast and hard, his teeth gritted; there are tears on his cheeks, and John can't stop looking at them. His face is a perfect mask of pain- and John's not a particularly spiritual man, but if Rodney were a religion, John would be falling all over himself to be the high priest.
"Get ready," Rodney manages to say in warning, and John knows what's coming, makes himself hang on for the very last seconds. Screwing his eyes shut, Rodney reaches up and opens the clamps, all at once, pulling them away; his eyes fly open and he yells and he comes and John comes and they're just suspended there for a long moment, just gaping at each other and shaking.
"Oh god," Rodney pants, letting his eyes drift shut. "Oh my god, that was so good." He reaches down and strokes John's face. "Is that what you needed?" he asks.
John doesn't know what to say, how to convey that it was pretty much the best that it's ever been, that he feels like he's full up, like he could go weeks and weeks without even thinking about hurting anyone; he just nods instead. "Good," Rodney says, patting his face gently. "That's my good boy."
John would blush at the praise, but he's feeling a little too fucked out to bother right now. Rodney half rolls, half hops off of him, laying down beside him and throwing a protective arm over his chest. He kisses John's temple, and John lets Rodney pull him in, close and warm and safe.
Summary: He only needs Rodney to hold it for a little while.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 2171
Rating/Contents: NC-17, D/s, sadism, mentions of (hypothetical) non-con torture, nipple play
Pairing: Rodney/John
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Did somebody around here call for a submissive Colonel Sadist? Because I have one here- slightly used, I'll grant you, but it cleans up real nice.
John has known plenty of sadists in his time in the Air Force.
John has plenty of reasons to hate them: they tend to be assholes; they're unreliable and uncontrollable in the field; they give the military a bad name; they make his country- his whole planet, now- look like a bunch of violent idiots.
John spent about the first ten years of his career beating the shit out of them; his commanding officers always looked the other way.
Only one thing is stopping John from becoming one of them right now.
Most of the time, he keeps it under control- he keeps everything under control. On the good days, he keeps everybody back and in their places, and he just doesn't think about it. On the bad days, it's like a tension headache that just won't go away- he can't run far enough, train hard enough, ignore it long enough to make it go away. He reads it in the faces of the people around him, and the more they look like they're afraid of him, the more he wants to make them afraid.
And on days like that, he sits on Rodney's floor, and he waits.
Rodney doesn't apologize when he finally walks in, almost an hour late. He doesn't acknowledge John's presence, even when John scrambles to his knees.
"How long has it been?" he asks, sitting down at his computer, and his voice is so mild that he could be talking about the weather.
John has to think about it for a minute. He already feels thick and slow, like he always feels when they do this. Rodney likes him when he's so untied that he can't even think; John doesn't, and he blushes at his own stupidity. "Ten days."
From what John can see, Rodney is checking his email, clicking through it with no undue speed. "How long was it the time before that?"
He's ready this time. "One week, six days."
"How many hours is that?"
"Three hundred and twelve," he says after a moment, licking his dry lips.
"Prime or not prime?"
The question throws him off. "What?"
"Three hundred twelve," Rodney says calmly. "Is it prime or not prime?"
Christ, John must be worse off than he thought, because it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to even remember how to tell. "Not prime."
"What happened?" Rodney asks, finally looking at him. John fidgets under his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable. "Tell me or get out."
"The mission today," John says. "One of the guys from the village- he was," there isn't a good word for how he was leering, like his very gaze was oily enough to leave traces on her skin, "looking at Teyla. I wanted to hurt him."
"You didn't touch him," Rodney says, a hint of approval in his voice.
"I wanted to," John insists, folding his hands in his lap.
"Tell me what you wanted to do."
Rodney doesn't really want to hear the details; but at the same time, he can't leave it. "I had my hand on my knife," John says. He doesn't have to think about it- it's right there at the top of his mind, eating at him like it has all day. "He was so close, I could have cut him if I just stretched my arm out." He knows that Rodney can't not listen, horrified by John's words, horrified more by what the thought of all that violence does to him. "Just a little slice, just enough to get him distracted."
Rodney shudders, almost imperceptibly, and then John can't stop talking, can't stop pushing Rodney. "I wouldn't have stopped once I drew blood. I'd have held him down and cut him over and over again- just a little bit at a time." Rodney's squirming uncomfortably in his chair, now, hanging onto John's every word. "Maybe slap him around a little while I did it, keep hitting him until I was satisfied."
He can see the point where it's enough, where Rodney's mind clicks over. He stands, grabs John by the hair and pulls his face up so that he has to make eye contact; it's not nearly enough to hurt, just enough to get John's attention. "And you didn't."
He swallows. "I didn't."
Rodney releases him. "Why not?"
"Yours," he says in a broken whisper. "Everything-" and he wants to spill at the mouth, offer himself fully, up to and including the razor edge inside him, his need to cause pain, but he can't make his mouth form the words- "yours."
"Good," Rodney tells him, running his fingers through John's thick hair. "Very good."
"Please," he says, sagging under the weight of it. "Please, I can't- I'm going to lose it and I can't- I need it, please."
"Shh," he replies, stroking John's head. "I'll give you what you need."
He leans forward, resting his face against the fabric of Rodney's pants. Rodney gives him a minute to collect himself before pushing his head away. "Suck me," he orders, working his fly open and pushing his pants and boxers down and off, perching on the edge of the bed with his legs spread wide. "The sooner you get me ready, the sooner you get what you want, so none of that showboating you're so fond of, if you please."
John's too far gone to even consider it. He just crawls over, leaning in and taking Rodney down as far as he can; Rodney's already hard, just from hearing John's words, and there's something so astoundingly hot about that thought that John doesn't even know what to do with it. He wraps his hand around Rodney's cock, stroking the parts of it he can't get into his mouth, trying to make it as good as he can so that Rodney will- will do whatever comes next, fuck him or come in his face or whatever.
"Hand," Rodney snaps, and John holds one up; Rodney drops the bottle of lube into it. "You know what to do."
His hands are shaking as he uncaps the bottle; he pours the liquid all over his fingers before carefully opening Rodney up, one finger and two, just how Rodney likes it. It won't get him anywhere if he hurts Rodney out of sheer clumsiness- any idiot could do that.
Rodney suddenly pushes him away, hard enough that John almost falls. "On the bed, face up," he says, moving out of the way, and John scrambles to do it, stretching out with his hands at his sides.
Before he climbs onto the bed, Rodney pulls out the black box from underneath it. John doesn't know what he'll be allowed tonight, how Rodney will let himself get hurt. It won't be the knife, certainly, because that's too close, too tempting, too easy for John to go too far. Maybe the belt then, or the paddle, or maybe Rodney'll just pull out the gloves and let John beat him.
He's a little far gone to care, just as long as it hurts.
Rodney climbs up, straddling him; John can tell he's just as desperate as he feels, because he just presses down and takes John in all at once. He's not even paying attention to John for a minute, just fucking himself slowly on John's cock, using him like a sex toy; it makes John hotter than he thinks it probably should.
When he's satisfied for the moment, he looks down at John, and John is transfixed by his stare. He holds up two large, flat clips, attached by a length of chain; John had brought them back the last time he'd been on Earth, at considerable risk of personal humiliation. They really didn't do it for him at first, because it just didn't look like it would hurt that much- but then Rodney'd put them on him, and after five minutes he'd been down on his knees with his face on the floor begging for them to come off.
Watching Rodney roll his own nipples between his fingers, making sure they're hard before he closes the clover clamps on them, John knows sneaking them in was completely worth the effort.
Rodney bites his lip, groaning low as the clamps press down on him; he has to take a second to get accustomed to them, grimacing as he does. He starts to move again, and they jangle as he bounces up and down on John's cock; John can't stop watching. Rodney is making little achy noises, trying to push through it, and John can tell this part is bad.
It's going to get so much worse, and John can't wait.
"Take the chain," Rodney says after a minute, slowing down a little. "One hand. Pull when I tell you."
John's eyes go wide; he's never been allowed this before, always had to watch while Rodney did it to himself, so good and so far from his grasp at the same time.
He reaches up, and just the weight of John's hand makes Rodney hiss. It makes John want to pull and pull and pull until he- until whatever bad thing would happen happens. He's not, he's going to try with everything in him not to. He wants to be good, he can be so good for Rodney; if he isn't good, Rodney will throw him out without thinking twice about it, and then John will be just as fucked as when they started this- probably more.
Rodney starts riding him again, slowly; John doesn't have to pull at all at first, because the rhythm of Rodney's movements makes the chain pull at John's unmoving hand, taut and lax, taut and lax. "Just a little," Rodney says, speeding up, and John tugs down gently; it's so much harder to do this than he thought. He pictured just hauling off and yanking on him, but Rodney's going to control it, just like everything, and John's going to do what he says. He needs to do it right; he needs Rodney's approval more than anything, maybe even more than the pain.
Rodney is biting at his lower lip again as he moves faster. His body says he loves it and his face says he hates it; John will never figure that out, but he doesn't mind if he ever does, just as long as he gets to see it about a billion more times. "Give me more," Rodney says; his voice is getting harder, and that's a thing he'll never understand either, how he gets more and more controlling the further he goes.
Rodney is really fucking him now, using him, taking him as hard as he wants, and John wants to be taken, needs to be used. John fists his free hand into the bedsheets, his breath coming in gasps; he's aware that he's letting out broken noises, but he doesn't seem to know how to stop. Rodney doesn't seem to care, too busy trying to wreck John to worry about it.
He leans over John's body, looking him dead in the eye. "Hard, John," he orders, and John stares back at him and pulls as hard as he dares; Rodney throws his head back, his whole body arching, pulling them even tighter. He screams, and John's never had to try harder not to come in his entire life.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Rodney is saying, riding him fast and hard, his teeth gritted; there are tears on his cheeks, and John can't stop looking at them. His face is a perfect mask of pain- and John's not a particularly spiritual man, but if Rodney were a religion, John would be falling all over himself to be the high priest.
"Get ready," Rodney manages to say in warning, and John knows what's coming, makes himself hang on for the very last seconds. Screwing his eyes shut, Rodney reaches up and opens the clamps, all at once, pulling them away; his eyes fly open and he yells and he comes and John comes and they're just suspended there for a long moment, just gaping at each other and shaking.
"Oh god," Rodney pants, letting his eyes drift shut. "Oh my god, that was so good." He reaches down and strokes John's face. "Is that what you needed?" he asks.
John doesn't know what to say, how to convey that it was pretty much the best that it's ever been, that he feels like he's full up, like he could go weeks and weeks without even thinking about hurting anyone; he just nods instead. "Good," Rodney says, patting his face gently. "That's my good boy."
John would blush at the praise, but he's feeling a little too fucked out to bother right now. Rodney half rolls, half hops off of him, laying down beside him and throwing a protective arm over his chest. He kisses John's temple, and John lets Rodney pull him in, close and warm and safe.