Space Super Jet Gun

May. 25th, 2008 08:15 am

Fandom: SGA

Characters: John/Rodney

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Smut, unadvisable usage of a water gun

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Rodney's shout is immediate, his body jerking, and John isn't sure if he's trying to get off the water gun or shove back into it.

Kink: (4) Enema

Author's Note: Yeah, I owe a crazy lot of thanks and cookies to sea_yeah for this. Also, watch out for some fairly major gun-kink. If you desire to see a likeness of the water gun John is using for such nefarious purposes, it's here, number seven-three, which is probably actually not a water gun. I'm choosing to pretend that it is.


Now that the moment is here, John isn't sure he wants to do it. Well. That's a lie. He does want to do it, to watch Rodney's body take this. But kneeling behind Rodney, four of his fingers up the other man's ass, he's really kind of tempted to just fuck him, instead. John's thinking there isn't actually a wrong answer, here.

Rodney squirms around, voice muffled against his arms, "Did you fall asleep back there, or what?" There's should be some kind of law about Rodney sounding that irritated after the time John has spent carefully stretching him open, but Rodney always manages to hold on to some of his impatience. John, determination renewed, twists his fingers before pulling them out.

His hand is sore, fingers aching from being crushed so tightly together, but John barely notices. He's still a little surprised Rodney is actually letting him do this. Not that Rodney ever really says no to anything regarding sex, but there's a first time for everything, and John had been certain that this was going to be the deal breaker.

Rodney grouches, "Look, if you're going to take all day can you at least hand me my laptop? I can probably get some work do—oh."

John isn't sure how well the lube is going to work with the plastic, but so far it seems to be doing fine. The barrel of the water gun isn't very large at the tip, slides inside Rodney's body easily, and John curses under his breath, watching.

The bright green of the plastic clashes with Rodney's pale skin, with the red skin stretching around it. There's no give in it. John can feel the muscles in Rodney's ass jumping where his hand is resting, his fingers tensing up.

The barrel flares out a few inches down, almost doubling in circumference, and is ridged after the expansion. John hesitates, the edge of the flare pressed up against Rodney's body, breathing sharp and shallow, so hard it hurts. He's kind of worried that if he doesn't do something he'll just come all over the sheets, just from watching this.

Rodney grunts, shifting around onto his elbows, sounding more wrecked than irritated, "Must I do everything myself?" And then he's pushing himself back.

John feels his mouth fall open, hearing the tight sound that falls off his own lips. Rodney just stretches around the intrusion, his hole tight and red around it, the ridges sliding into him one after another after another, until the main body of the gun itself is pressed against him.

John shudders, his hand aching around the grip, his palm sweaty. When he extends his fingers, stretching them forward, he brushes the back of Rodney's balls, and curses again, feeling his cock jerk all on its own. Rodney is still up on his elbows, John can see his fingers clawing at the blankets.

This is killing John, driving him completely out of his mind. He's wanted it, or something very close to it, anyway, for a long time. He'd never been able to work up the balls to ask Rodney to let him put his side arm in him, but God, maybe he should have. Some other time. For now, this is more than enough. John swallows a deep breath, making himself close his mouth.

John barely recognizes his own voice, gone so rough, when he says, "I'm gonna—" Rodney nods, his head hanging down between his arms, a flush staining across his shoulders, creeping down his spine. John takes another bracing breath, squeezing the ass-cheek in his free hand absently, before focusing.

Rodney makes a little shuddering, gasping sound with each ridge that slides out, and shivers full bodied when John pulls the gun out past the flare. He looks red, agitated, and John can't keep his groan in his chest when he slowly pushes the wider part of the gun back into Rodney. Not that it's audible, over Rodney's ragged, "Oh, fuck."

John nods, even though Rodney can't see him, watching the ridges disappear one by one into his body. He wishes he had another hand, so that he could hold Rodney completely open while he did this. Maybe next time he'll remember rope, stretch Rodney's solid thighs, leave him completely open and exposed.

John's cock is so tight against his stomach, aching and screaming for attention. He makes himself ignore the urge to grab it, to fuck his own fist, with the gun pressed right up against Rodney again. Rodney's shoulders sag abruptly, he goes face first into the sheets, only twisting his head to the side after a moment. John makes himself ask, "Okay?"

Rodney flails an arm, then slurs, the words slow and thick, "Fine, good, great."

This time Rodney's hips jerk with each ridge that's withdrawn, and he shouts, something short and wordless, when John pulls the flare out. John shushes him, kneading at his ass, trembling himself. He's not sure how much more of this he can take, really, how much longer he can balance on the knife edge before he comes.

John pushes the flair back into Rodney's body, his heart thundering. Rodney is making constant sounds, now, groans and grunts, exclamations as his flesh yields to each ridge. When John gets it all the way in Rodney chokes out, "Just a little more, I just need—God—a little more."

John thinks about trying to fit one of his fingers in beside the barrel, but Rodney's hole is already stretched the farthest John has ever gotten it. He thinks about reaching around to jerk Rodney off, but that would mean leaving go of his ass, and at this point John is pretty sure that his grip on Rodney's ass is the only thing keeping him sane.

John flexes his fingers around the grip of the gun, habit from the field, his index finger settling against the trigger on habit and instinct. Something in John's chest catches. He looks down at the gun, filled this morning in the sink when he had been planning to ambush Rodney in the kitchen. That had fallen through in favor of fucking, but the potential is still there.

Rodney is squirming around the barrel of the gun, his movements getting increasingly jerky, his hands clawing at the sheets. John isn't entirely sure what this would do, but sometimes decisions must be made in the heat of battle, and he's just made one.

Rodney gasps, "John," voice cracking, and John pushes the gun forward, watching Rodney's body try to stretch around the impossible girth of the main body, and pulls the trigger.

Rodney's shout is immediate, his body jerking, and John isn't sure if he's trying to get off the water gun or shove back into it. The trigger depresses all the way and John releases it, heart pounding in his ears, wondering what the fuck he just did, and then Rodney is collapsing down onto the bed, his whole body just going limp.

John has seen Rodney come enough times to recognize the fallout. Rodney is still breathing hard, his skin jumping. God. He's all loose and collapsed, the gun still deep inside him. Rodney just got off on John fucking him with a gun, and John isn't sure that he should be finding that as hot as he does, but he can't help it. And he really, really needs to get off now.

John intends to withdraw the gun slowly, but he's gotten clumsy and desperate somewhere along the line. Rodney jerks, making a soft, sharp sound when John draws it from his body and tosses it across the room. It crashes into something, but John can't say he really cares.

The opportunity to finally get both hands on Rodney's ass is too much to resist, John grabs him, tilting the other man's hips back as much as he can, holding his cheeks open. Rodney's red, a trickle of water leaking out of him, and John groans.

They used roughly enough lube to fit a Cadillac in a dog house for the gun, and Rodney is still slick and shiny with it. John spits into his own hand, anyway, slicking up his throbbing, aching, cock, and then lurching forward. His hands are shaking when he pushes into Rodney's body, a curse choked off in his throat because Rodney is clenching and unclenching, his muscles jumping.

Rodney groans again, something long and thick that sounds like it might possible be John's name, and that's all it takes. John comes hard, for what feels like an eternity, his hands still holding Rodney open when he comes back to himself.

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