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Mercy
by astolat
John stared down at his hands, a little numbly, watching Rodney wrap the long leather strap over and under his wrists, binding them together. "Is that tight enough?" Rodney asked, tensely: tight enough so they wouldn't chafe, wouldn't move against the skin, when he -- while he --
"Yes," John said, voice scraping and rough; he wasn't sure he really believed this was happening, yet, but it was starting to get convincing.
"We could try -- " Rodney said, almost under his breath.
"No," John said. He couldn't; couldn't take the risk, not with his team at stake, not with Teyla and Ford trapped somewhere in that fucking labyrinth with less than one day's water left by now and no chance in hell of getting out on their own, not when he'd sent them in there in the first place --
"Right," Rodney said; he knew it too, got it without making John say it all out loud, and right now John was prepared to be grateful for small mercies, because he was pretty sure, as Rodney lay him down and hooked his strapped wrists to the low platform, there weren't going to be any big ones.
He figured the worst part was going to be the blindfold, and he tensed up while Rodney put it over his eyes; but weirdly it made things better, easier: somehow he could still tell that it was Rodney touching him, recognize Rodney's hands, though he couldn't have explained how, and now he didn't have to see all the Katiaians lining the tiers, watching. The only thing he could hear was his own breathing, the sound of his belt buckle opening, the zipper; Rodney stripping him, taking off his shoes, his socks, his pants, buckling on the ankle restraints, and suddenly John was so desperately grateful he couldn't see, because if he couldn't see them, he could pretend they couldn't see him, and he didn't have to feel all those greedy, hungry eyes crawling over his skin; only Rodney's hands, and he trusted those hands, he'd put his life in those hands a thousand times and he'd do it again in a heartbeat, so he could do this too; this was easy.
Rodney touched his leg first, just the calf, fingers curling around the lean muscle and stroking gently up and down, and John distantly realized that he was shivering. And jesus, Rodney's hands were big, bigger than John had realized, they almost spanned half his thighs, and Rodney himself was bigger than John had realized, settling between his spread-open legs and so warm and solid in the cold, wide-open room.
"John," Rodney whispered, "I don't want to -- I can't -- "
"It's okay," he said, softly. "Rodney, I need you with me on this."
Rodney said, "Right, yes, okay," crisp, calmed down, and ready to work miracles again. John took a deep breath and opened his mouth and bit down on the leather gag as Rodney slipped it in. It wasn't hard to breathe, just hard to swallow, but right now his mouth was so dry that wasn't a problem.
"I'm going to -- " Rodney said, and put his hand on John's dick, and John shook all over, involuntarily, because he couldn't
do anything about it, and he couldn't stop this anymore, he couldn't change his mind now, and Rodney could do
anything he fucking wanted. The restraints were good, thick wide doubled-up straps of leather; he couldn't move his arms or legs more than a few inches, he couldn't make out any light at all through the blindfold, and --
He was working against the restraints already, without any kind of conscious decision, pulling on them, panting against the gag. Rodney hadn't even really touched him, done anything, and this was supposed to be a sacrifice, a
close your eyes and think of Atlantis kind of thing, and instead Rodney was seeing this, seeing
him, tied up and writhing and already rock hard, and though that was enough to make him feel sick and hot with shame, somehow it wasn't enough to make him
stop, and John shuddered again and made a helpless noise against the gag.
"John," Rodney said, hoarsely, and then he suddenly bent down and kissed him, which hadn't been part of the plan, and John licked desperately at his mouth around the gag, trying to say
please, please even though he couldn't form words. Rodney's hand was still working his dick slowly, and Rodney kept kissing him, and then Rodney put his other hand, the gloved hand, between John's legs and pushed in the first two fingers, smooth leather soaked with oil, going straight in. John made another noise and tried to move on them, to ride them; he wanted, god, he wanted --
yes, that, yes -- Rodney's fingers working inside him, and it wasn't want, it was
need, and somehow this had gone from one kind of necessity to another.
"Oh, God," Rodney whispered into his throat, panicky and urgent at the same time, and John was so damned grateful for the sound of his voice, for the hunger in it, so he wasn't fucking
alone out here.
He struggled shamelessly now, moving his hips, willing Rodney to understand what he couldn't speak to beg for, and Rodney slid his fingers out and settled more of his weight on top of him, pushing John's legs apart. And god,
yes, Rodney was strapping his thighs down with the restraints that they didn't have to use, the ones they'd agreed to leave off; Rodney's fingers fumbling and scared and eager all at once, the straps holding John open, exposed, helpless; and then
yes, Rodney's dick pushing at him, smooth soft cockhead going in, breaching him, and with his legs tied down John couldn't even thrust back anymore, all he could do was lie there and take it while Rodney fucked him, used him, gave it to him, and he imagined all those thousands of faces watching, imagined what he looked like, the leather against his skin stained dark with sweat, and his whole body just offering itself up; imagined what Rodney looked like, fucking him, Rodney's thick, solid cock sliding into his body, Rodney's mouth open and gasping and his face squeezed tight as he worked, as he
took --
He came, shaking to pieces, and Rodney was spilling inside him, so good and already too much; and it wasn't over -- it wasn't anywhere near over, and John wasn't sure if he could take anything more, even as Rodney kissed him and said, "Okay, god, okay," against his mouth, soothing, and John sobbed wordlessly back, trying to say that it wasn't, it wasn't okay, struggling weakly now even as his body was still trying to hand itself over. Hot tears soaked the warm dark of the blindfold over his eyes while Rodney worked four fingers slowly into him, squeezing his hand small, and then he folded over the thumb and kept pushing, inexorable. The tears were running down John's face now, and Rodney was kissing them away, kissing him, saying, "Almost, we're almost there; you're so close; just keep breathing," and John gulped and breathed deep, deeper, yielding, and then Rodney was inside, all the way inside, and all the fight went straight out of him, every muscle gone suddenly liquid, a low endless roaring in his ears, and behind the blindfold all the world was full of light, translucent, blinding.
The Katiaians had the limited decency to give them some time alone, after, in a smaller private room, and Rodney cleaned him off and then lay down with him and just held him. John had never been much of a cuddler, but nothing in this galaxy or any other had ever felt as good as Rodney's arms around him, Rodney's mouth opening for him, Rodney letting him touch, John's body trembling with aftershocks the whole time.
They had to get up eventually, put their clothes back on, put
themselves back on. John sat on the edge of the bed trying to find a way to make himself get up: Ford and Teyla were already out and waiting, and so was the rest of his life, a job to do and lives to protect and orders to give and rules to follow, and he didn't
want to; he wanted to keep the door shut and stay here in this small, close room, in this warm bed, in Rodney's arms, and pull the covers over their heads and forget everything some more.
"We have to go," he said, harshly.
"Yes," Rodney said quietly behind him. John felt him get up off the bed. They got dressed silently, like strangers. They were done; it was about to be over, and neither one of them moved for the door, neither one of them even looked up. But it was inevitable, they couldn't just stand here forever, and John knew that in a minute they'd be gone.
And then Rodney bent down and picked up the long leather strap, the one that had gone around John's wrists: it was just lying on the ground, and Rodney picked it up and looked John in the face, and without ever looking away he deliberately, slowly coiled it up in both hands, and he put it away in his backpack.
John went to the door, gratefully, going home; and he left it open behind him.