Day 10: Stargate Atlantis. Rate of Descent

Author: temaris
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: NC-17
Characters: John Sheppard (/Rodney McKay)
Summary: John doesn't want to play.
A/N: Weird, kinked out fantasy slave pr0n. With many thanks to aithine and alyse for beta duties :-)



It would ... it would be a game. Nothing too, you know, serious. Nothing dangerous. Just a little game. In his imagination, with a cast of thousands, it was an easy game to play.

He doesn't really want it.

It's easy to tie his ankles to the bed. He grips one hand above his head and holds his wrist with the other, the closest he dares come to finishing it. He couldn't ever do this for real, but he can ... pretend.

He pulls at the wall, as though he wasn't free to let go any second. The old rope-burns on his wrists ache, and he squeezes harder. There will be bruises, more bruises, but no one will see. Not under the wristband and the broad strap of his watch.

It would be a mission gone bad, something, somehow. All of them taken captive, kept separately, no contact. McKay taken and when he comes back to John's cell something's wrong, different. Maybe he's been drugged, maybe stoned with some Ancient device, maybe swapped with Evil!McKay from a parallel dimension. Not the real thing. Rodney wouldn't want it, any more than John does. McKay's blue eyes would glitter the way they do when he sees a ZPM, before they learned--yet again--that it had no power.

John would be naked. The natives stripped him naked, tied him to the bed. The sacrifice. The -- he swallowed -- unwilling sacrifice. He doesn't want this. He's been stripped and prepped, tied up and held down while they cleaned him, oiled him, locked a collar around his throat and thin chains around his arms and legs, long, cool loops of metal winding all over him, and then clipped together to hold him in place.

He'd just be lying there when McKay came in. He'd hope, at first, hope that McKay was there to save him -- Hey, Rodney, what took you so long? and McKay would walk over, look at him. No words. The silence would be scarier than any words, right up until he says over his shoulder, Perfect. Deliver him to my quarters. Ass up, secured, and put a leash on him.

He'd stumble through halls, hobbled by his chains, burning with the sense of eyes, eyes everywhere, sizing him up, planning their turn, wanting, wanting, greedy and hot. And thrown onto a bed. Huge, soft. Brusquely turned face down, rough hands making him, forcing him, his hips lifted on a pile of pillows, and he -- in his bed, he's pressing his face into the sheets, his hips shoving, shoving -- can't help but get hard, even knowing what's coming.

The bed dints, rocking him, and a finger goes unerringly to his anus, slides in, pulls out. Easy. The oil went everywhere, and McKay's aren't the first fingers inside him, his asscheeks pulled apart, shaved and prepped for his --

He can't quite think the word. He knows what will happen and he wants this to last. He takes a couple of deep breaths. Fingers, two this time, pushing in deep and he's grinding into the pillows, those deep, soft pillows.

You really like this, don't you, boy, McKay says behind him. He sounds amused and turned on, and John likes that. He pushes back, offering it up, shameless. Here, take this. A dildo pushes into him, and he's raised up until he's kneeling. He's pulled back, made to sit back, his own body weight pushing it up into him.

He's not prepped himself enough, he always gets too lost in the fantasy to remember, that's what he tells himself outside of it. Inside though, he knows that he wants the too wide push, the exquisite pain of the toy forcing its way up into him, burning until tears streak his face, and he can't think of anything except the huge thing in his ass. The pleasure will burn so much brighter for it. Eventually he can breathe. It's seconds really, but they spin out to infinity for a while, until he's dizzy with pain, and he clenches hard, hard around it and lets go, and the pain just. Stops.

Good boy, McKay murmurs in his head. Now ride it.

And McKay is lounging beside him in that broad, alien bed, sprawled out on the imaginary sheets, robe open, fisting his thick, red dick, his eyes hot on John's body as he rides, lifts, lowers, tilting his hips to find the perfect angle. He pulls his feet up under him, and swears, the real ropes interfering with the fantasy, the frustration winding his excitement tighter and he can almost hear McKay laughing at him. So pretty, John, and John groans.

Rodney doesn't call him that. That's why it's safe to use it, not stick with the generic 'boy' and 'slave'. Sometimes, in the twilight between fantasy and reality he thinks that if McKay ever calls him John he may come on the spot. But for now ...

He keeps moving, luxuriating in the long glide of the dildo, letting it fill him and then slide out again. His eyes are closed, winding higher and further into himself, losing pieces with every breath, every push until it's all gone. No more Colonel. No more CO. No more team leader or best ATA gene on Atlantis or hero or anything except him, taken apart to be just this, nothing more, owned and wanted and getting it right with every gasp. He almost doesn't care about the rest of the fantasy, McKay fucking him, using and abusing him; this time it's going to take almost nothing to get to that place where his head is clear and he's free. He just needs one last thing.

It's a sound file, and he triggers it with a thought. He's kneeling up, ass filled, ankles tied and knees splayed wide, back arching to get every nuance of feeling from the game as McKay's recorded voice, carefully edited, snaps, "Come!"

And John does.