Cool Hand Luke
May. 31st, 2008 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fiercelydreamedTitle: Cool Hand Luke
Summary: Excerpt from an IM conversation earlier today:
fiercelydreamed: this is the weirdest shit i have ever googled for a pwp
fiercelydreamed: only in sga fandom
fiercelydreamed: would you ever google "tens unit voltage," "prosthesis," "chemical composition of semen," and "factorial function" all for a fic under 2000 words
Details: SGA, John/Rodney, NC-17, ~1,500 words.
Notes: My first![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kink_bingo fic, written for a prompt I seriously believed I could not do: amputee fetishism. This story is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cindyjade, because she had a craptastic week and deserved something to improve it. shaenie deserves sexual favors for extensive services rendered, including coming up with the seed of the story, betaing, and playing pornographic thesaurus (if you ever need four synonyms for "pulse" in three seconds flat, this is the woman you want to know). I owe royalties to thingswithwings, because Synthesis got here first and did it in a way that takes my breath away on every reread.
In the dark space of his quarters, John skims the palm of his metal hand down the bare skin of Rodney's chest, and closes his eyes to watch the lightning tracery of voltage surging up Rodney's afferent nerves, a reverse shadow that flares through his body in the wake of John's touch.
Underneath him, Rodney shudders, the inside of his thigh tensing where it rests against John's hip, and he brings one hand up to cup the angle of John's jaw. His fingers fumble across John's brow and cheekbone, like he's reading his face by braille, or maybe just confirming that sight isn't the sense John's using for this.
He doesn't have to. Rodney, of all people, knows how much John can do now without light.
The prosthesis is the third John's had in as many months. The first was a myoelectric unit from Earth, heavy but functional. Keller fitted it to him as soon as the amputation site had stabilized sufficiently, to help him maintain proprioception while she and Rodney worked on a replacement. He'd only had it for three weeks, and it had never felt like it belonged to him.
When Keller and Rodney had presented him with his second, he'd stared at it for a long time: the articulating joints, the sensor pads on the ends of the digits, the delicate roots of the wires and electrodes trailing out from the wrist. His ribcage had felt empty and pressured all at once, like a parachute was arcing open inside it and tugging hard to keep him aloft. Okay, he'd thought, prosthesis number one a dull weight on the end of his arm, and then Rodney had cut over Keller's gentle explanation.
"You're going to wear this for a month," he said, "at which point you'll make a list of everything you do and don't like about." The look he gave John was sharp and unwavering, the first time he'd really met John's eyes without the slightest trace of a flinch since M7J-236. The hard certainty in his expression made John's throat go unexpectedly tight. "Then you'll give me two weeks and I'm going to make you the real one."
He'd kept his word.
As John's fingers slide delicately down the thin skin of the crease of Rodney's thigh, he can feel the pulse beating there, echoing the deeper rush of oxygenated blood through the femoral artery at 118 cycles per minute. He could track the exact variations if he wanted to, the way the frequency spikes whenever John's hand shifts direction. The sheets hiss against each other as Rodney's hips push upward, his head dropping back against the pillow the way it always does right before John really gets down to it. "God," Rodney whispers, halfway to a gasp, "do it, please." John's dick twitches at the breathlessness of the words -- how many people, he wonders, have ever heard Rodney sound like that: not demanding, not even begging, just asking, with no belligerence or shame -- and he turns his face to scrape his teeth across the inside of Rodney's wrist. Shifting the temperature of the metal down until it's a few degrees cooler than the room, he tightens his left hand around the side of Rodney's bent knee and curls the seamless joints of his right-hand fingers around the hot length of Rodney's dick.
Twenty-seven days now, and this prosthesis may not feel like John's other hand, but it's unquestionably his, the way the puddlejumpers are his when he's flying them, or the whole city is his when he's in the command chair. It's a hybrid of Earth and Ancient technology, a few ideas stolen from the Replicators and a whole host of impossible tricks Rodney just invented, all condensed down into a living metal skin. The balance is perfect, reflexes faster than they were before; he can crimp steel pipe and rewire circuits too small for the unaided human eye to see. There was no way to recreate the hand John lost, so Rodney had made him something entirely different: full spectrum radiation sensors, sensitivity to vibrations down to the molecular level, enough energy storage that he can generate the equivalent of a half-hour continuous stunner blast without recharging.
But the best thing, the thing John loves most about it, is that he can feel things with it. With every day that passes, his mind adapts to the new input it's receiving, making it feel less like data and more like touch or sight or that strange, fascinating hybrid between pressure and sound. Only the things he can feel don't stop at the limit of his fingers anymore -- they reach as far as the sensors do. And his sensors go as far down as molecules and deeper than skin, so the precome smeared over the smooth arch between his finger and thumb is rich and shimmering with sugars and enzymes and long acid chains, intricately knotted hormones. He can unwind them in the space behind his closed eyelids, and the chemical structure fills his mouth with the taste of metallic elements and chlorine. At the same time, he can see the heat rolling off Rodney, off both of them, sample the water content in the air around them as they pant and shift and sweat, until the two of them permeate whole room. They're wrapped in sex, enveloped by it, John's hand sliding over the head of Rodney's dick and swallowing both of them in the motion.
He's got the sensors reined in short of the room's perimeter, not wanting to be distracted by anything farther away than the edge of the bed as he skims his left hand over the muscled curve of Rodney thigh, feeling sparse hair springing against his palm. When he cups it under Rodney's balls, squeezing lightly as he strokes Rodney's dick with his right, Rodney lets out half a shout and twists hard against the mattress. His own dick flexing as Rodney's legs clamp in against his sides, John shudders, knowing they're both caught by the same dizzying contrast: his left hand, skin hot and tacky with sweat, flesh, shaking, and his right, lustrous metal, stronger by four-factorial, and inhumanly steady. "Fuck, oh god, John," Rodney groans, fingers knotting in John's hair, and John bends, spine a convex curve, knees spreading on the mattress to stabilize him and pushing Rodney's thighs wide. Rodney's mouth is hot and swollen, like he's been biting hard on his own lip, and he clutches John's face as they kiss, his hips thrusting upward into John's right hand. "Come on, god, now, please," and this, this is Rodney begging, and it sends John right up to the edge, with no stimulation to his dick beyond what his cross-wired mind and Rodney's cracking voice provides.
He drags his left hand out from the narrow gap between their overlapping thighs and braces his forearm on the bed next to Rodney's head, pushing his knees down until he's stretched taut above Rodney. The rush of pleasure that hits him when his dick rubs accidentally against Rodney's stomach is brutal; he swears against Rodney's mouth and wraps his right hand around his own balls, squeezing, dropping its temperature down until the cold makes him gasp and flinch, just enough to back himself off. Rodney groans and John nips his lower lip, sucks it hard as he modulates his right hand until it's blood-hot and lines their dicks up so he can curl his fingers around both of them at once.
Sensation slams into him like a storm wave, everywhere at once and more intense that he can stand: the heated flex of the metal, the organic pulse of Rodney's dick against his, the dazzling sparkle of nerves firing, blood racing, their bodies flaring in unison like lights lining a runway's edge. Rodney's fingertips dig into John's back as John gives them both a few hard pulls, both of them gasping. He wants to draw it out but he can't, he's too close and already heading for the drop, and so he seals Rodney's lips with his and sends millivolts licking outward from his hand. The shivery tug of the electricity crackles around and through them, humming with almost unbearable brightness. Rodney cries out, arching up hard, and John squeezes his eyes shut as the pleasure surges through them both. It cracks them open, everything spilling together in John's mind: their sympathetic nervous systems going nova, the throb and jerk of Rodney's dick in his encircling hand, the hot spatter of semen striping his forearm and the raw sound Rodney makes as he comes, the sharp taste of their commingled sweat, and underneath it all, the agonizing spasm of his own release. It fills him past capacity, blots the world out, and when he comes back to himself, his face is wet where it's pushed into the side of Rodney's neck and he's grateful, so damn grateful, his right hand trapped between them and tracking the steady pulse of their hearts slowing down.
Summary: Excerpt from an IM conversation earlier today:
fiercelydreamed: this is the weirdest shit i have ever googled for a pwp
fiercelydreamed: only in sga fandom
fiercelydreamed: would you ever google "tens unit voltage," "prosthesis," "chemical composition of semen," and "factorial function" all for a fic under 2000 words
Details: SGA, John/Rodney, NC-17, ~1,500 words.
Notes: My first
kink_bingo fic, written for a prompt I seriously believed I could not do: amputee fetishism. This story is for cindyjade, because she had a craptastic week and deserved something to improve it. shaenie deserves sexual favors for extensive services rendered, including coming up with the seed of the story, betaing, and playing pornographic thesaurus (if you ever need four synonyms for "pulse" in three seconds flat, this is the woman you want to know). I owe royalties to thingswithwings, because Synthesis got here first and did it in a way that takes my breath away on every reread.In the dark space of his quarters, John skims the palm of his metal hand down the bare skin of Rodney's chest, and closes his eyes to watch the lightning tracery of voltage surging up Rodney's afferent nerves, a reverse shadow that flares through his body in the wake of John's touch.
Underneath him, Rodney shudders, the inside of his thigh tensing where it rests against John's hip, and he brings one hand up to cup the angle of John's jaw. His fingers fumble across John's brow and cheekbone, like he's reading his face by braille, or maybe just confirming that sight isn't the sense John's using for this.
He doesn't have to. Rodney, of all people, knows how much John can do now without light.
The prosthesis is the third John's had in as many months. The first was a myoelectric unit from Earth, heavy but functional. Keller fitted it to him as soon as the amputation site had stabilized sufficiently, to help him maintain proprioception while she and Rodney worked on a replacement. He'd only had it for three weeks, and it had never felt like it belonged to him.
When Keller and Rodney had presented him with his second, he'd stared at it for a long time: the articulating joints, the sensor pads on the ends of the digits, the delicate roots of the wires and electrodes trailing out from the wrist. His ribcage had felt empty and pressured all at once, like a parachute was arcing open inside it and tugging hard to keep him aloft. Okay, he'd thought, prosthesis number one a dull weight on the end of his arm, and then Rodney had cut over Keller's gentle explanation.
"You're going to wear this for a month," he said, "at which point you'll make a list of everything you do and don't like about." The look he gave John was sharp and unwavering, the first time he'd really met John's eyes without the slightest trace of a flinch since M7J-236. The hard certainty in his expression made John's throat go unexpectedly tight. "Then you'll give me two weeks and I'm going to make you the real one."
He'd kept his word.
As John's fingers slide delicately down the thin skin of the crease of Rodney's thigh, he can feel the pulse beating there, echoing the deeper rush of oxygenated blood through the femoral artery at 118 cycles per minute. He could track the exact variations if he wanted to, the way the frequency spikes whenever John's hand shifts direction. The sheets hiss against each other as Rodney's hips push upward, his head dropping back against the pillow the way it always does right before John really gets down to it. "God," Rodney whispers, halfway to a gasp, "do it, please." John's dick twitches at the breathlessness of the words -- how many people, he wonders, have ever heard Rodney sound like that: not demanding, not even begging, just asking, with no belligerence or shame -- and he turns his face to scrape his teeth across the inside of Rodney's wrist. Shifting the temperature of the metal down until it's a few degrees cooler than the room, he tightens his left hand around the side of Rodney's bent knee and curls the seamless joints of his right-hand fingers around the hot length of Rodney's dick.
Twenty-seven days now, and this prosthesis may not feel like John's other hand, but it's unquestionably his, the way the puddlejumpers are his when he's flying them, or the whole city is his when he's in the command chair. It's a hybrid of Earth and Ancient technology, a few ideas stolen from the Replicators and a whole host of impossible tricks Rodney just invented, all condensed down into a living metal skin. The balance is perfect, reflexes faster than they were before; he can crimp steel pipe and rewire circuits too small for the unaided human eye to see. There was no way to recreate the hand John lost, so Rodney had made him something entirely different: full spectrum radiation sensors, sensitivity to vibrations down to the molecular level, enough energy storage that he can generate the equivalent of a half-hour continuous stunner blast without recharging.
But the best thing, the thing John loves most about it, is that he can feel things with it. With every day that passes, his mind adapts to the new input it's receiving, making it feel less like data and more like touch or sight or that strange, fascinating hybrid between pressure and sound. Only the things he can feel don't stop at the limit of his fingers anymore -- they reach as far as the sensors do. And his sensors go as far down as molecules and deeper than skin, so the precome smeared over the smooth arch between his finger and thumb is rich and shimmering with sugars and enzymes and long acid chains, intricately knotted hormones. He can unwind them in the space behind his closed eyelids, and the chemical structure fills his mouth with the taste of metallic elements and chlorine. At the same time, he can see the heat rolling off Rodney, off both of them, sample the water content in the air around them as they pant and shift and sweat, until the two of them permeate whole room. They're wrapped in sex, enveloped by it, John's hand sliding over the head of Rodney's dick and swallowing both of them in the motion.
He's got the sensors reined in short of the room's perimeter, not wanting to be distracted by anything farther away than the edge of the bed as he skims his left hand over the muscled curve of Rodney thigh, feeling sparse hair springing against his palm. When he cups it under Rodney's balls, squeezing lightly as he strokes Rodney's dick with his right, Rodney lets out half a shout and twists hard against the mattress. His own dick flexing as Rodney's legs clamp in against his sides, John shudders, knowing they're both caught by the same dizzying contrast: his left hand, skin hot and tacky with sweat, flesh, shaking, and his right, lustrous metal, stronger by four-factorial, and inhumanly steady. "Fuck, oh god, John," Rodney groans, fingers knotting in John's hair, and John bends, spine a convex curve, knees spreading on the mattress to stabilize him and pushing Rodney's thighs wide. Rodney's mouth is hot and swollen, like he's been biting hard on his own lip, and he clutches John's face as they kiss, his hips thrusting upward into John's right hand. "Come on, god, now, please," and this, this is Rodney begging, and it sends John right up to the edge, with no stimulation to his dick beyond what his cross-wired mind and Rodney's cracking voice provides.
He drags his left hand out from the narrow gap between their overlapping thighs and braces his forearm on the bed next to Rodney's head, pushing his knees down until he's stretched taut above Rodney. The rush of pleasure that hits him when his dick rubs accidentally against Rodney's stomach is brutal; he swears against Rodney's mouth and wraps his right hand around his own balls, squeezing, dropping its temperature down until the cold makes him gasp and flinch, just enough to back himself off. Rodney groans and John nips his lower lip, sucks it hard as he modulates his right hand until it's blood-hot and lines their dicks up so he can curl his fingers around both of them at once.
Sensation slams into him like a storm wave, everywhere at once and more intense that he can stand: the heated flex of the metal, the organic pulse of Rodney's dick against his, the dazzling sparkle of nerves firing, blood racing, their bodies flaring in unison like lights lining a runway's edge. Rodney's fingertips dig into John's back as John gives them both a few hard pulls, both of them gasping. He wants to draw it out but he can't, he's too close and already heading for the drop, and so he seals Rodney's lips with his and sends millivolts licking outward from his hand. The shivery tug of the electricity crackles around and through them, humming with almost unbearable brightness. Rodney cries out, arching up hard, and John squeezes his eyes shut as the pleasure surges through them both. It cracks them open, everything spilling together in John's mind: their sympathetic nervous systems going nova, the throb and jerk of Rodney's dick in his encircling hand, the hot spatter of semen striping his forearm and the raw sound Rodney makes as he comes, the sharp taste of their commingled sweat, and underneath it all, the agonizing spasm of his own release. It fills him past capacity, blots the world out, and when he comes back to himself, his face is wet where it's pushed into the side of Rodney's neck and he's grateful, so damn grateful, his right hand trapped between them and tracking the steady pulse of their hearts slowing down.