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Control Chair

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John can talk to Rodney, which surprised him at first. Now he kind of likes it. He never thought talking would make him feel good.

"So the thing about the control chair," John is saying, lying on his back on the floor and watching the patterns made by moonlight and lamplight on the ceiling, "is that it's a control chair."

"Control," Rodney says, making the catch. Normally, he'd be derisive of John's fake deep insight, but this is how their talks start. It's a bit like a dance, or maybe a code.

"What if we found one that wanted something in return?" John says, all in a rush. He's breathing a little faster. Getting the first part out is the hardest; after that, he knows he'll be fine. "If we found it and I sat down because you said it did something important, but the chair needed, to, I don't know, interface."

Rodney's nodding; bless his black little engineer's heart, he's thinking about the technical details, the feasibility and the actual mechanics of such a thing. "It'd have a restraint that snaps out around your waist. Made from that dull, bronze-colored alloy the Ancients loved. It's heavy and unbreakable." He looks down at John and quirks an eyebrow. "Are you alone?"

John thinks about that. When he plays this out in his head, sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't. "Maybe you're there with me, that first time. So I can say What the fuck, McKay and you'll say -- "

"Let me run a diagnostic?" Rodney suggests, something like fond amused mockery in his voice. "Is there some real explanation for why the control chair wants to rape you, or am I in your fantasy just to rattle off some pseudo-scientific gibberish that you don't listen to anyway?"

"Basically," John says, letting his eyes fall half-shut and giving Rodney a slow grin. Rodney has to adjust himself where he's sitting, tugging the legs of his pants down to give him more room at the crotch. "Is there a good pseudo-scientific way to make my trousers disappear?"

"I can think of several off the top of my head," Rodney whips back. "But I think that instead of making them out of phase or disintegrating them entirely, some kind of recessed blade system would work best. Like those saws for removing plaster casts. Lots of loud mechanical whirring and pressure starting right here -- " Rodney spreads his legs and presses his index and middle fingers to his balls -- "and working slowly backwards up to your belt. Through your belt," he amends, with a hungry little twist to his mouth.

John can picture that, really clearly. The way he'd feel the press of the blades and then the noise, the way he'd panic and the way he'd be so angry at Rodney for not getting him free. He'd yell, he imagines, he'd say terrible, hurtful things because of that terrible fear of injury to his balls and dick, of being vulnerable. The blades would be warm, he figures, maybe from friction, and in their wake there'd be a shock of cold air, first on his exposed scrotum, then his perineum and asshole, all the way up the crack of his ass.

"I think the chair would have to restrain my hands as well," he plots out loud.

"The bonus would be you'd rip your wrists bloody trying to get free." Rodney licks his lips; it's a little tell, but it makes John stare at Rodney's dick, a dark bulge against the fabric of his pants. "So I'm guessing that there's some kind of dildo recessed in the chair."

"A really thick one," John agrees. He hates having his asshole touched, much less breached, so it just figures that in his fantasies he's always held open inhumanly wide and unable to clench himself closed. "Pre-lubed, just push and go."

"And you'd have to take it." Rodney smirks. He's a bit too good at getting the big picture. "You'd be all tense but the instant you relaxed. . . ." He snaps his fingers. "It'd be in you. And there wouldn't be a fucking thing you could do."

"Yeah," John says. He thinks about that. "Maybe it doesn't move at first. It's just there. And I've never experienced anything like it before, I," he gropes for the words for the feeling, "I wouldn't be able to breathe right. From the shock."

"I'd run another diagnostic," Rodney says dryly. "And I'd ask if you were okay, even though I'd just have watched this huge dildo impale you." He pauses. "I'm calling you Colonel, as a sign of my respect for you. Although if your eyes roll back, I'll probably slip and call you John."

"You'll be calling me John when it starts fucking me, then," John says.

Rodney snorts. "Does it start with vibration, slow strokes, or ass-breaking pounding?"

John tips his head to the side, looking at Rodney. "Think I could take an ass-pounding?"

"You'd have to," Rodney says, eyes narrowed and bright. "There'd be nothing you could do to stop it. Plus the dildo's probably self-lubricating. It can go for hours, until you're sore and swollen and every jerk out makes your stretched asshole muscles burn, and every thrust in makes you whimper, completely helpless."

"Asshole muscles being the actual medical term," John has to say, even though it's inappropriate.

"Anal sphincters." Rodney's expression is a challenge, and John has to take a moment to ask himself why Rodney eliding his last bit of control -- in a story -- makes him feel defensive, and therefore offensive. "Your sphincter ani externus and your sphincter ani internus, as the Ancients might say."

John refuses to back out. This is good. He figures it's up to him to get back on track. "It starts moving in me," he begins, and that works, catching Rodney's attention. "I shout at you a lot. I want you to make it stop, and you try but you can't. Right before I stop being able to talk at all, I'm begging you. I'm saying please over and over." He rolls his shoulders, and then presses them down to the floor, arching his back just a little. "But then I give up."

"You let it take control," Rodney suggests. "You go limp and at first I think you're unconscious, but then I see your eyes are open."

"And your computer goes crazy," John says, with a nod. Rodney blinks, distracted, and John is pleased with himself for making Rodney forget that he even has a computer in his fantasy. "Like the chair needed me to submit before it would give up the data."

"I work as fast as I can," Rodney says. "Considering I'm typing with sweaty, shaking hands and having to listen to you, now that you're not even trying to hold back all the noise you make as you get your ass reamed." He pauses. "I'm guessing that the chair stops as soon as I get all the information I need and disconnect the computer."

"Yeah," John says. His voice sounds rough to his own ears, as if he really had been begging and moaning.

"I'm a gentleman," Rodney says. "When the chair releases you, I go to help you stand up, and I insist that we go to the infirmary, and I tie my jacket around your waist to cover you up."

John shakes his head. "I'm not hurt that bad. I make you promise not to tell anyone," John adds. "We -- we lock the room. Remove the chair's existence from the database. You say that we don't need it anyway, you can make a work-around to access those systems." He pauses, and swallows. "But maybe you can't. No matter how hard you try. And maybe the Wraith were coming -- "

"Or the Replicators," Rodney interrupts. His face is red; he knows where John's going with this. Replicators are good, inexorable and inhuman, just like the chair.

"And I know what I have to do," John goes on. "So I go down to that room, and this time I take off my pants before I sit down." He pauses. "It'd be good if there wasn't a restraint the second time. Like, I could get up when it forced me open or when it started to hurt or when it wouldn't stop."

"But you won't," Rodney says. His hand is pressed hard over the placket of his trousers.

"It would be to save Atlantis," John says solemnly. "My ass for the city any day."

"Would you get off on it?" Rodney asks. He probably doesn't realize, but John can see his head tip back the more aroused he gets, showing John his throat, and his hips cant forward.

John figures Rodney's one push from the edge, and he loves that he put Rodney there. He shakes his head slowly. "I'd be maybe half-hard from stimulation, but I wouldn't come. It'd fucking hurt, and I'd be taking it." He lets his smile go pointed and feral. "Seeing as you wouldn't be there, I'd probably start to cry, after a while, but I'd still keep pushing my ass down in the chair, letting it fuck me until I stopped fighting."

"Damn you," Rodney says, and shoves up to stagger into John's bathroom as quickly as he can. The door whooshes shut behind him, and John can hear water running even though he's trying not to listen. He smirks to himself and replays the scenario in his head. It's a good one, maybe even better than the one about the alien tentacle-plants.

Rodney emerges damp all over and rubbing his hair dry with John's towel. Apparently John's hospitality extends to showers.

"Made you come," John says, grinning.

"I came so hard I probably lost IQ points," Rodney says, grumbling as he pats his head one last time before tossing the towel on the chair and lying down next to John.

"Nah," John says. He takes a couple of breaths and thinks about how up he is to being touched right now. He's relaxed and safe, so he figures it's about a four. He tells Rodney, who promptly wraps an arm around John's waist and inches himself closer until he's right up against John's side, solid and warm. "Orgasm chemicals promote higher mental functions. True fact."

"Such a liar," Rodney says. "Orgasm chemicals?"

John turns his head to the side and puts a hand on Rodney's stomach, and then leans close to kiss Rodney, using his open mouth but not his tongue. Rodney kisses back, and John feels a little lightheaded, like he's drunk.

"Why else would the control chair want to fuck me?" John asks when he pulls back, trying to make it sound reasonable, even though he can't keep the amusement off his face. "I'll bet the Ancients were giant perverts."

Rodney's eyes widen. "Hey," he says, "that gives me an idea," and John has to smother his snort of laughter in Rodney's shoulder. "What about an Ancient guide to Ascension through sex?"

"Beats meditation," John says. He turns the idea over in his head. "Next time?"

"Next time," Rodney agrees.

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