out_there | SGA Fic: At Gunpoint

Title: At Gunpoint
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC17.
Summary: "Strip." The Beretta's on John's skin again, the heat of the muzzle sliding over the side of John's jaw. "Jacket first."
Disclaimer: Not mine; no profit; blah, blah, blah, disclaimer-cakes.
Notes: Weapons-porn PWP. Thanks to

dzurlady for the speedy beta. Thanks to

seperis,

scribewraith and

celli for audiencing and encouraging. Also, Jenn's right: you can never have too much weapons-porn.

At Gunpoint

Rodney's planned this carefully. He's noted when the shooting range is heavily used, six marines lined up carefully along the partition, shooting at little paper cut-outs. He knows that at twenty to midnight, the only person in there will be John.

He's right.

John's standing still, P90 up and heavy DJ-esque headphones on. Eyes squint at the target, and his trigger-finger moves slightly. Rodney's expecting the sudden noise, but it still makes him cringe.

Sliding the Beretta out of his thigh holster, Rodney checks it again. One bullet, which should be all he needs. Safety off, because John's sharp-eyed enough to notice. He tests his grip on it, making sure he's not clenching his fingers around the handle, and then walks over to John.

John doesn't hear him coming, doesn't see him until Rodney steps out from behind him and presses the cold end of the Beretta against John's jugular vein.

John's eyes flicker over to him, but he doesn't move, doesn't turn, doesn't lower the P90. He doesn't even ask questions -- not until Rodney reaches up with his other hand and pulls the headphones off.

"Rodney?" Low and calm, and John's eyes are glittering dangerously in the dim light.

"Drop the gun." Rodney's heart is pounding in his chest because he knows John's expression, he's seen it aimed at Wraith and Genii. Like a lake in early winter, John's frozen surface is a lie, a fine sheet of ice covering lethal force. "Drop it, John."

John pulls his chin in, and for a moment, Rodney's sure this is going to go terribly wrong. He's sure that John will react, will twist and shoot, and Rodney will be left embarrassed and in pain and having to explain something really humiliating to Carson. Then John nods, and the P90 clatters to the floor.

"And the Beretta."

John's hand slides down his thigh, no sudden movements, just slow and slinky and-- this is not the time to get distracted. Rodney shifts his balance, keeping the gun pressed against John's neck, and reaches for John's Beretta with his left hand, throwing it somewhere behind him.

"I'm sensing a bit of hostility," John says, smooth and charming, and Rodney knows he's just been downgraded as a threat. "Maybe we could talk about it?"

Rodney's practiced this. At strange times, like five in the morning, or eight at night, when the mess is full and the shooting range is empty. He's tried this move until he knows it inside out and back-to-front. Until he knows it well enough to stare John in the eyes, put his right arm straight out, and shoot without glancing at the target.

It's John's stifled gasp that tells him that he hit it dead on. "Rodney--"

"Strip." The Beretta's on John's skin again, the heat of the muzzle sliding over the side of John's jaw. "Jacket first."

"Oh," John says, and swallows. The tips of his ears are growing red and his eyes are a little glassy, and Rodney's a little surprised. John was the one who'd described this little fantasy to him; John was the one who thought the idea was incredibly hot. Hadn't he expected Rodney to take advantage of it?

"*Now*, John."

Rodney slides the muzzle higher, behind the curve of John's ear, to the place he likes to lick. He pushes the metal harder against the thin skin, and that's when John's fingers move, undoing the jacket. Pulling the zip down with a slow, pornographic hum, shrugging his shoulders until it's only hanging on to his arms, trapped around his biceps.

"All the way off," Rodney says, tracing the gun down John's neck, across his collarbone, resting in the hollow below his Adam's apple. When John swallows, the gun shudders slightly.

John licks his lips and stares in front of him, watching the tattered target. Then he pulls the jacket off and lets it drop to the floor.

Part of Rodney wants to reach out and touch. Smooth a hand over the inky shirt and feel John's heart beating in his chest. Push the fabric up and drag blunt nails over John's stomach. Drop to his knees and free the obvious erection, run his tongue over the head of John's cock and make him whimper.

He could, but... No. He has a plan. He presses the gun against John's hip. "Now the shirt."

Stretching the black material over his pointy elbows, John pulls it up and over his head, then tosses it away. His shoulders are tanned and straight, back slightly arched. There's a small set of bruises on the side of John's ribcage, bruises that fit Rodney's finger-span exactly. They'd never be seen, but Rodney knows that they're there.

Rodney has to swallow but his voice sounds calm, controlled and other things he almost never is. "Holster. Then the boots. Then the rest."

When John leans down to unclasp the straps around his thigh, the dog tags dangle, silver glints of light playing across the embossed letters. "These," Rodney says, catching the chain with the gun muzzle and tugging once to make sure John understands, "these stay on."

The sound of John's ragged gasp echoes in the empty room. John's eyes are closed, fumbling with the holster by touch and memory, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth. Rodney steps back as John drops it and bends down to untie the boots. He uses the muzzle to trace his favorite spots on John's body: the curve of a rib, the wing of a shoulder blade, the nub of spine at the base of John's neck. The places that he likes to touch, likes to mark with teeth and tongue. The places -- like right here, on John's side, between the bottom of his ribcage and the arc of hipbone -- that make John groan.

The boots are off, and John's breathing is fast and shallow. He pushes the rest down quickly; boxers, pants and socks stepped out of with minimal fuss. Then John's naked, hard and panting with hands clenched into fists, and Rodney's glad he's standing behind John because he nearly dropped the gun.

He's so glad he planned this. Without a prepared plan, there's no way he'd keep his hands off John.

The plan had been to get John naked and then tease him, run the cool metal over his skin, down his spine, around his arms, trace the V of hips and stomach. Rodney can do that. Can slide over the knobby kneecaps, the points of ankle and strong curving calves. Past the damp crease behind John's knees and the hairy thighs to the round curve of ass.

And he does, until John's broken, "Rodney, please." It's a low growl that instantly joins his list of Things That Possibly Make John The Sexiest Thing In Two Galaxies. All good plans need to be flexible, to deal with real world complications; this plan is no exception.

Rodney skips to the next part and fumbles for the small bottle of lube in his pocket. The chemistry department originally made it as a less irritating replacement for gun oil, but it was quickly adapted for other, more personal uses despite the vaguely metallic smell.

Rodney slides the gun up, resting the muzzle against John's lower back as he struggles to open the bottle one-handed. It's possible he should have practiced this part of the plan a little more.

"Open it," he says and presses the bottle into John's hands, which shake a little when he touches them. "Slick your fingers."

Nodding sharply, John's all serious concentration as he flips the lid open and squeezes the clear liquid into his palm. The lid clicks shut and John drops it to the floor. He's rubbing his hands, like Carson washing before surgery, palm to palm, long fingers sliding between each other, stroking in a way that makes Rodney tighten his grip on the handle of the Beretta.

"Now stroke your cock. Use both hands."

John turns his head to Rodney with a wide-eyed stare of surprise. His lower lip is red, slightly swollen from being bitten, and Rodney wants to kiss those teeth-marks away. Wants to lick and soothe and then move down to John's neck, to the rising blush. "Rodney, you can't be--"

Rodney presses the side of the muzzle across John's lips to silence him, and gets a full-body shudder in response. The flush is still there, and John still looks scandalized and turned on and so hard he can't think straight. "Both hands. Now."

He keeps the gun where it is, pressed against John's open mouth, until John gives in, gives up, and closes his eyes, wrapping one slick hand around his cock. There's a slow pull, from base to tip, and then John's other hand is there, repeating the movement. The slide of John's hands is mesmerizing.

"That's it, that's good. Nice and slow," Rodney says, and realizes he's a little breathless too. He shifts his stance, trying to ease the uncomfortable tightness in his pants, but there's no way he's looking away from this for a second. He presses a hand against his cock, just enough pressure to ease the discomfort.

When he moves the muzzle, drags it across John's lips, John's hands speed up. That wasn't in the plan. "Stop."

Rodney's amazed that John can, that John has the self-control to pull his hands away, but he does, chin dropped to his chest, jaw clenched.

"I want you--" Rodney's voice breaks at the thought of it, at telling John to do this. He sucks in a deep breath and focuses on John's slack mouth and the gun pressed against it. "I want you to fuck yourself. Two fingers. Deep. While I watch you jerk off." His voice breaks a second time, but John's already groaning, stretching his stance wider and tilting his hips back.

John reaches a hand back, his left hand because his right is loosely holding his cock, and doesn't even argue. He just reaches back and slides a hand down the cleft of his ass, and then he's pushing in. Two fingers, and he hisses, pushing them in deeper, forcing his body to take it. Rodney tears his eyes away from John's skin stretched around his knuckles to notice the asymmetrical twist of John's shoulders, one arm reaching back and one arm reaching forward, jerking himself off fast and desperate.

The plan was slow. Slow and teasing. But John's standing there, fingers wrapped around his cock and fingers up his ass, working his hips back and forth. There's sweat across his shoulder blades, on his neck, making his hair curl. He's panting, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, porn brought to life, putting on a performance because Rodney asked. The dog tags are clinking, swaying with John's movements, and Rodney couldn't give a damn about the plan.

Not when John's thighs are shaking and his hips are moving, snapping back and forth like an elastic band, and he's grunting, animalistic and raw and beautiful. And when John comes his eyes are closed and he doesn't say a word, he doesn't say Rodney's name, doesn't look at him, but the moment after, he does. He turns his head, and opens eyes more black than hazel, and says, "Rodney," so softly, so tenderly, so owned and safe and there, that Rodney's breath catches.

The Beretta drops, forgotten, from his hands. Then he's scrabbling at his fly and pulling out his cock. Jerking off until he comes fast and messy.

Also, unfortunately, all over his pants. John's folding his arms over the partition, still looking at Rodney with that expression, and somehow, that makes it okay.

"Just so you know," Rodney manages, tongue feeling thick inside his mouth and hand waving in the direction of his pants, "this was totally not in the plan."

The End.