Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Fina, the Nadrai's headwoman, told John and Rodney about the invitation over bierling tea and crumbly little cakes that tasted like the best, most buttery pound cake in the universe, only without that heavy, almost greasy texture that the best pound cakes always had. Rodney had one cup of tea and inhaled all six of the cakes on his plate in under three minutes, while Fina beamed at him maternally. John had three cups of tea and a cake with each, and let Rodney steal the other three off of his plate without commenting. They'd been trading with the Nadrai for nearly two years, and Keller had come personally to their village to minister to the headwoman's family when Michael's plague had been at its worst.

They weren't just allies, but friends. John knew the names of Fina's grandchildren, and had spent six days last summer helping with the yantil harvest along with half the marines.

Atlantis had hundreds of trading partners and dozens of allies, but there were only a handful of cultures that had their own IDCs in case of cullings, that had earned the right to call on Dr. McKay when their minister of science had a breakthrough on hydro-electric energy and needed Rodney to check his equations at four in the morning, Atlantis time.

John liked them, Rodney trusted them, and when Fina told them that the Yel-Ganta would like to open trade negotiations with the City of the Ancestors, they listened with interest. The Nadrai had traded with the Yel-Ganta since the time of Fina's great-grandfather, and had always found them to be reliable trading partners and generous hosts. Their primary trade resource, however, had always been salt, which the Nadrai had no need for any longer, since trading with Atlantis for salt was so much more economically feasible. Fina felt the Yel-Ganta hoped to replace the resources they were no longer getting from the Nadrai by finding something to trade with Atlantis. The Yel-Ganta also mined several kinds of metal and raised herdbeasts, she told them. These were not things the Nadrai needed, but perhaps Atlantis had need of them?

John got the feeling that Fina felt a little guilty about not needing anything from the Yel-Ganta anymore, and was hoping to find a way to make up for whatever deficit that created in the Yel-Ganta's economy.

Since Atlantis was always looking for both trading partners and allies, John didn't mind.

Fina gave them the gate address and assured them that she'd be happy to contact the Yel-Ganta and inquire about a meeting.

Back on Atlantis, Carter listened to their report, called Teyla in to advise (nursing a fussy Torren while John and Rodney made an effort not to look), and approved the meeting within a day.

According to Teyla, the Athosians had occasionally traded with the Yel-Ganta before the exodus to New Lantea, and though they had not been among the several cultures that they had been friendly with, they had always proved themselves to be fair and honest traders.

According to Ronon, the Yel-Ganta frequently attended Sateda's Fair Days twice a year, which was a sort of open-market bazaar that Sateda had been famous for hosting. Ronon had once had a knife he'd bought from a Yel-Ganta trader.

"Held an edge," he told Carter when she asked what he'd thought of them.

A couple of days later, Fina had contacted them with details of the meeting, and they'd slotted the Yel-Ganta in between the inevitable uninhabited-world-with-impossible-to-decipher-in-any-helpful-fashion-mention-in-the-Ancient-database mission, and the equally inevitable meet-with-the-Genii-under-Ladon's-command-in-a-neutral-location mission. If anyone had asked John, he'd have told them that the visit with the Yel-Ganta was the most likely of the three to come off without a hitch.

***

What he actually remembered of the mission was this: Gearing up, meeting up in the Gateroom, the ceremonial kissing of Torren on his mostly-bald head (It had started on Teyla's first mission after Torren was born, when he'd been a couple of months old and asleep or eating every time John saw him; Teyla had handed Torren over to his nurse and dropped a kiss on his forehead. It all seemed perfectly above-board until Ronon had bent down and smooched the baby's head with no apparent self-consciousness at all. Then both of them had turned to stare at John, who had stared back stupidly until Teyla said: "It is customary," in a voice that promised a great deal of pain and suffering would be visited on the heads of anyone heathenish enough not to conform to custom. So John had kissed Torren's baby-soft forehead, and joined in with Teyla and Ronon in the glaring expectantly at Rodney until Rodney had capitulated with a sigh. Now they did it before every mission. It was weird how quickly it had become normal), watching the wormhole engage while ignoring Rodney's bitching about missing fried chickenish Friday in the mess, and stepping through the wormhole.

After that, a big black nothing, punctuated very briefly by the awareness of being carried and/or dragged more than once.

The only reason he knew they'd been taken through the Stargate was because when he woke up, wearing nothing but his BDU pants (even his boots were missing), bound and gagged and propped up against the side of what sure the hell looked unpleasantly like a gigantic stone altar, he could clearly see a purplish moon looming ominously outside one of the glassless windows of the long, low building they were in.

Yel-Ganta, the pre-mission briefing had imparted, had no moon at all, but rather a sort of spectacular comet-like ball of orbiting debris that might have at one time been a moon.

The building itself was made out of some pale, leprous looking stone that glistened a little in the purplish moonlight, as though wet. There was a metal door in the wall John was facing, and a dark, shadowy pile of things that he couldn't really see, but he suspected was all their stuff anyway. It was this weird thing about the Pegasus galaxy. People would shoot at you, kidnap you, try to force you to marry their daughters, sell you to the Wraith, or even try and eat you, but they hardly ever tried to steal your stuff.

Someday John would write a book.

There were no guards around as far as John could see, or hear, when he closed his eyes and tried to listen for movement.

He shifted, and immediately became aware that both of his hands were numb, and there was a bolt of fiery pain in his right hip, which he'd been lying on for who knew how long. He wriggled around until he could get his bound hands on the floor, and levered himself into a slightly more ergonomic position. His hip throbbed a protest, and John ignored it.

Other than hip and hands, he didn't seem to be hurt.

Rodney was slumped against the altar beside him, eyes still closed, hands bound behind him like John's, also wearing nothing but his pants. His face was slack, unconscious, but John could hear him breathing in the cavernous silence of the otherwise empty room. If he'd been awake, his muffled squawking would have drawn the attention of whatever guards might be lurking outside, so John figured it was for the best.

Ronon and Teyla were nowhere to be seen, which didn't mean they weren't around somewhere. Or close by, at least.

John couldn't think of a reason for the Yel-Ganta to split up the team, at any rate. Then again, he had no idea why the Yel-Ganta had chosen to kidnap them and dump them on another planet either, so it was possible.

He went to work trying to figure out whether or not there was any possibility of wriggling his way out of the ropes.

He'd been at it for a while, fifteen minutes at least, when he realized he couldn't hear the steady sound of Rodney's breathing anymore. He panicked briefly while he flailed into a semi-upright position, and saw that Rodney was awake and watching him. His eyes were bright and alert, and he didn't look like he was about to panic, though the gag completely covered the lower half of Rodney's face, so it was possible he could be wrong about that. He made an inquiring noise behind his own gag, and received a reassuring grumble in response, so he went back to working at the ropes around his wrists, which he was pretty sure were looser than they had been.

It took him another half an hour to get one wrist free, and by that time he was bleeding and furious and exhausted and bruised and cold from straining energetically all over the chilly marble-like floor. He was also covered in rope burns which could have been mostly avoided -- or the ones across his chest at least -- if the Yel-Ganta had had the common decency to at least leave him his t-shirt. If there were any guards lurking outside, John was looking forward to kicking their asses. He groaned as he dragged his hands around to the front of his body, shrugging the rope around his chest and biceps upward so he could use his arms. It proved difficult with no feeling and very little voluntary movement in his hands, but he eventually pawed the musty-smelling rag away from his face and spat the wadded up ball of even mustier-tasting cloth out of his mouth. He immediately started coughing, trying to muffle it as much as he could into the crook his arm until he worked his way over to the pile of what was indeed their stuff, and dug around until he located a canteen.

He swigged a mouthful of water to swish around and then spit onto the floor, and then several more that he swallowed gratefully. He had no idea how long they'd been out, but he was thirsty enough for it to have been a while. Jesus, Rodney had to be ready to keel over.

He capped the canteen and dug through the pile again until he came up with a life-signs detector and his knife. He tried to get a solid enough grip on the knife to cut away the ropes at his ankles and knees, but about halfway through the feeling started coming back in his hands and it felt like they were fucking on fire. They were shaking so badly he had no choice but to stop and wait for it to pass, gritting his teeth against the pain. He thought the life-signs detector on while he tried to get control of his appendages, but a cursory examination showed no little dots aside from his own and Rodney's. Once his hands steadied and regained at least a little feeling, he cut the rest of his ropes off and wobbled experimentally to his feet.

It took him a few seconds to catch his balance, and his hip was seriously pissed off, but he seemed otherwise okay. He dug around in the pile until he found his P-90 -- pausing just long enough to check the clip -- and slung it over his shoulder, wincing a little as the strap rubbed against the rope burns on his back. Rodney made a quiet noise, and John waved him silent while he made a slow, complete circuit of the building, staying low beneath the windows, eyes on the life-signs detector.

Nothing at all. The life-signs detector was reliable up to a mile at its longest range, and as far as John could tell, they were completely alone. He straightened to take a look out the window, but there wasn't anything to see. No other buildings, no landmarks, no trees as far as he could tell, though it was pretty dark.

He pawed through their stuff one more time, eventually coming up with a headset. "Ronon, Teyla, this is Sheppard. Report." He waited, counting out a full fifteen seconds, using the time to close the distance to Rodney. He dumped everything but the knife on top of the altar and dropped to one knee beside Rodney before he let himself try again. "Teyla, Ronon, do you read me?"

"Colonel?" Teyla's voice sounded tinny and distant, but was reassuringly calm and cool.

"Thank God," John said, and grinned at Rodney. "You two all right?"

"Yes, Colonel. We are still working free of some of our bonds, but we are otherwise quite unharmed. Where are you?"

John looked around, but there wasn't anything he'd missed lying around that might give him more information as to their present whereabouts. "No idea," he told her. "A building of some kind, with an altar. You guys?"

"The same," Teyla said grimly. "Ronon believes he has been to this planet before. He believes he can find the Stargate."

John grinned. "That's the best news I've heard all day. I've still got to cut McKay loose, see if he can get an energy reading on the 'gate. We'll meet you there. Stay in contact."

"Yes, John," she agreed. "We will be in touch."

Rodney was still watching him, unnaturally calm and still, considering the circumstances. He was leaning, tipped slightly to the left, legs folded half underneath him. He was bound much as John had been, hands behind him, upper arms bound to his sides by way of several loops of rope around his chest, another couple of loops around his thighs and ankles. He was leaning against the altar behind him, eyes fixed intently on John's face. "Hey, buddy," he said. Rodney's eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. John waited until he opened them again before holding up the knife. "You're okay," he said, low and soothing as Rodney's gaze narrowed on the blade. He wedged his fingers under the cloth of the gag to get it away from his skin, and slid the knife carefully underneath before he angled it through the material. Rodney was utterly still until John put the knife down, and then he turned his head and spat the wad of cloth onto the floor.

"Drink," Rodney croaked, and John snagged the canteen from on top of the altar and held it to his lips so he could gulp greedily, even though half of it spilled down Rodney's chin.

"Okay?" John asked once he'd set the canteen aside. "Let me get your hands."

Rodney gave him an odd look, grave and glittery-eyed, and leaned forward just enough to slide his cool, wet lips along John's.

John started a little -- they didn't do this offworld -- but then mentally shrugged. There wasn't anyone here, and even though they'd been kidnapped again, everyone was okay; what could it hurt? Besides, it was weirdly comforting to lick at Rodney's lips, which opened immediately to his tongue. It made something loosen and settle in John's chest to cradle the back of Rodney's head in the palm of one hand so he didn't bump against the stone altar behind him when the kiss deepened. When John pulled back, Rodney was panting harshly, lips open and wet and entirely too tempting.

He became aware of the feel of Rodney shivering beneath John's hand on his shoulder. "Hey," John said, abruptly concerned. "Hey, buddy, settle down. It's okay. You're okay."

Rodney let his head tip back, the full weight of it resting warmly against John's palm, and made a sound that was simultaneously agonized and amused. His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively beneath the skin of his throat. Concern deepened into alarm.

"Hey," he said again, maybe a little sharply. "Let me get your hands." Rodney looked just a little too close to panic for his taste, though why now, when he'd seemed fine before, was a mystery. Regardless, he figured Rodney would calm down once he wasn't tied up. But when John shifted his hand from the back of Rodney's head to between Rodney's shoulder blades to pull him forward far enough that John could get his hands between his back and the stone of the altar, Rodney balked, pressing back hard enough to pin John's hand between Rodney's warm back and cold stone. "Hey!" John said again. He felt the scratchy brush of Rodney's stubbled chin against his throat less than a second before Rodney's teeth nipped at the hinge of John's jaw, hard. "Jesus, McKay," John yelped, pulling back as far as he could with his hand still pinned behind Rodney. "What the hell? We haven't been here long enough for you to go cannibal!"

Rodney let out another of those harsh, choked sounds of not-really-amusement. His eyes were fever-bright, manic, and even in the dim light of the little purple moon John could see the hectic color staining his cheeks. His bottom lip was shiny-wet and trembling.

John's alarm ratcheted up another notch, and he jerked his hand out from behind Rodney, leaving the first couple of layers of skin over his knuckles on the stone. He caught Rodney's shoulders in both hands and looked at him. Rodney was shivering still, almost shuddering under John's hands. "You're okay, Rodney," John insisted, baffled and unnerved. "Jesus, calm down. You're okay."

"John," Rodney said, low and hoarse, and Rodney's laugh was still sharp and almost painful sounding, but was at least marginally less freaky than the last one. John tightened his hands on Rodney's biceps to steady himself, or maybe to steady Rodney; he wasn't sure. Rodney sighed, eyelids fluttering. "I'm not okay," he whispered.

Then he did something that John was sure he'd remember in minute detail for the rest of his life.

He relaxed, all at once, tension bleeding out of his limbs in a rush, the bunched muscles of his biceps going lax and easy under John's hands. He melted bonelessly against the stone behind him, head tipped back at an angle against the top corner of the altar, lips slick and wet and open, eyes closed, letting John's hands on his arms keep him upright, and he moved, no, he writhed gently, full-body, a sort of sinuous not-resistance against the ropes that bound his upper arms to his chest, his thighs together, John's hands.

John couldn't think how to describe it, even inside his own head, but it was unmistakable, it was. God, it was insane, and John's mouth was suddenly dry, his hands were shaking, and his cock, already semi-alert just from kissing Rodney, was abruptly and fiercely erect. "Jesus, Rodney?" he heard himself say, almost groan, though it sounded impossibly distant through the rushing white-noise echoing around in the interior of his skull. It sounded like a question, but John honestly had no idea if that's what it was, or what the question could even be.

Rodney's eyes opened slowly, and the light wasn't the best, but his eyes looked way too dark, and each of them held the tiny, purplish reflection of the moon.

A sharp and unpleasant twist of panic fought its way past the hot, thick lust pooling in John's belly. "Your hands," he managed, because his own hands had hurt like hell when he'd finally got them free, still hurt in that achy-dry way that prolonged lack-of-mobility could cause. "Rodney-" He cut himself off, because his voice didn't sound right, didn't even sound like it was his. Too much uncertainty, even an edge of fear, and it was just not in him to show that to people if he could help it.

"Five minutes," Rodney rasped out, and licked his lips in such a way that somehow communicated nothing like gee, I've been gagged for hours and I'm fucking parched, and everything like want, I want, give me, yes. His voice was thready and a little slurred, very unlike his usual crisp consonants and short vowels. "Five minutes won't matter."

And that probably would've done it all by itself if the ache in his nuts and the slick-sharp clench in the pit of his belly were any indicator, but Rodney didn't stop there. He said, or actually just sort of breathed, "John, yes, John," and twisted beneath his hands for a few seconds in a way that had to be uncomfortable, but left Rodney panting and looking, god, just unbelievably sexed-up.

"This is-" John said, but he was scrambling to his feet even as he said it, because the hot pulse in his groin had gone sharp and dark, and traveled straight up his spinal column and obliterated every single intelligent objection in his head. "This is insane." But he used his grip on Rodney's biceps to haul him up to his knees and brace him against the stone behind him; Rodney shuffled inelegantly to help get his knees beneath him, panting and almost frighteningly eager. When John straightened, Rodney shoved his face into John's crotch, teeth scraping at the thick cloth and along the shaft of John's aching cock beneath it.

They both made noises John had never heard before, had never even thought of before, noises that snarled desperation and helplessness and lust into a knot of sound that almost hurt to hear. "This is a bad idea," John groaned, but Rodney had his mouth on him, and John's still-tingling hands jerked his fly open anyway. As soon as John had his cock in his hand, Rodney went still, eerily calm, like he hadn't just been trying to get at it through John's pants four seconds previous. He went still, and let out a soft sighing moan that had John tightening his hand around the base of his cock instinctively. "Rodney," he growled, but then bit down on the rest, because Jesus, Jesus, what was wrong with him, and suddenly he wasn't sure, again, that he could even do this, like this.

Rodney's gaze flicked up to his face for just a moment, but John wasn't convinced Rodney was actually seeing him at all. His face was all heat and hunger, and for a second he didn't even look like Rodney. Then his gaze dropped back to John's cock, and he made that same little sigh-moan that John hadn't even known he was capable of before thirty seconds ago in spite of the fact that they'd been sleeping together for months now. Except this time John was actually listening, and it wasn't just a soft exhalation of air and sound, it was his name, just stretched and breathless and so quiet it was nearly unrecognizable, and he whispered, "Okay, you're okay, Rodney," and slid his free hand down and around the back of Rodney's neck, thumb cocked just beneath the hinge of his jaw to tip his head back, like, God, like he knew just exactly what was going on, and Rodney shuddered and swayed forward obligingly until his wet lower lip grazed the head of John's cock.

And just like that he was pressing in, the underside of the entire length of the shaft of his cock sliding along the wet heat of Rodney's tongue, and for a few seconds that was all it was, Rodney completely still and just, just open, willing mouth and fluttering eyelashes, and it was so good that John was already gasping, each breath wrenching its way out of his chest like it was catching on every molecule between lungs and lips.

Then Rodney made a high, reedy noise and swayed backward until his shoulders hit the upper edge of the altar, and John shifted without thinking, slid far enough forward to stay with him, bracing himself on the altar with one hand, aware of the corner of the top edge of the altar gouging uncomfortably into the back of the hand curled around the base of Rodney's skull, but absolutely not giving a shit. As soon as Rodney's shoulders hit the stone his mouth went tightly urgent around John's cock, his tongue curled slick and hot just behind the head, and if Rodney didn't object to being trapped between the cold stone of the altar and the hard muscle of John's thighs then John certainly wasn't going to.

There was only one way for this to go in this position, and John flexed his thighs and went up to his toes to make the angle work and decided to think about why it was happening at all later. Much later.

He rocked his hips forward once, twice, shallow enough to get a feel for it and, "Yeah," he hissed, "Yes, Rodney," because it was, this was the hottest fucking thing he could think of, Rodney's head tipped back and his eyes closed just, letting John push in, and John almost couldn't believe it was even happening considering that for months and months now they've fucked, Rodney's fucked the same goddamned way he does everything else, bossy and brilliant and arrogant and totally willing to demand John do this, do it like that, do it harder, do it now.

"God," he whispered, thick and guttural, and forced himself to keep his thrusts short and shallow. He still wasn't going to last, couldn't possibly last, but he was far less worried about that than about not hurting Rodney, who was just, God, just taking it, tongue working, lips tight, but not otherwise moving at all. And he was okay, keeping himself in check, until Rodney whined urgently, twisting against John's thighs the same way he'd twisted against the ropes before, not trying to get out of them, not struggling, but like he needed to know that they were there, and John was, okay, he was not stupid, but the understanding that Rodney had a thing for being tied up was a hell of a lot more fucking visceral when he was whining around John's cock and writhing against his thighs.

John's hips snapped out of his control, one two three, and there were several seconds of white white pleasure behind his eyes and south of his navel and blood rushing like the ocean in his ears and tingling in the tips of his fingers, the sheer crushing force of it so good, so close that even when he could hear the choked and desperate and infinitely fucking hot sounds Rodney was making he couldn't process them as anything but maddening pleasure, had to actually look down at him, look and see the tip of Rodney's nose tucked up against John's belly, his clenched eyes, see the purple moonlight gleam on wet trails that ran horizontally across the tops of his cheeks and temples where they disappeared into his hair, he had to see, and even then it took him a second to get that Rodney couldn't fucking breathe.

John jerked back, all the way back and out, and probably would have kept moving back until he hit the big metal door thirty feet behind them, chest tight and hot and heavy with horror, Jesus, except Rodney rasped, "Yes," and it was so fierce and desperate that John froze long enough for Rodney to whisper, hoarse and hot and less than an inch from John's cock, "yes, like that, John, yes." John felt himself react, felt it and couldn't stop it if he wanted to, horror forgotten in a bright rush of want, and Rodney opened his mouth and tipped his head forward to slide all the way back down John's cock, whining again, thick chest pressed tight against the fronts of John's thighs. John's hips twitched forward, utterly outside his control, and Rodney made a soft, strangled sound, and the muscles of his neck went loose in the palm of John's hand again, head tipping back to rest against the stone.

John deliberately didn't move forward with him this time. He let his cock slide out of Rodney's mouth as his head tipped back, an excruciatingly slick shift of friction that stopped when the back of Rodney's head came to rest against the stone behind it. Rodney's tongue curled, stroked lazily along the dip just under the head of John's cock, slow and sweet. The air prickled at the wet skin, cool and unpleasant after the wet heat of Rodney's mouth, and John couldn't remember ever wanting anything as badly as he wanted this.

But he had to be sure.

"Rodney," he said, and didn't have any idea what to think about how his voice sounded, but Rodney opened his eyes, which was what John wanted. Rodney's eyes were dark and glassy; he hadn't said please or anything like that, hadn't said anything he wouldn't have said any of the previous times he'd had John's cock in his mouth, but this was nothing like any of those times. John could see it in his eyes, spoken or not. He'd never done anything quite like this, and he needed to be sure. But he didn't see anything that even came close to fear, whatever else was there. He tightened his fingers around the back of Rodney's neck, replaced the ball of his thumb at the hinge of Rodney's jaw. "Rodney," he said again, and Rodney twisted hard against him, so that John had to push back to stay where he was, and what he really wanted to do was just ask if he was sure, wanted to hear Rodney say it. Instead, he said, "I'm going to fuck your mouth," and Rodney sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, eyes going wide. John could feel him shuddering against his thighs.

Then, like someone had flipped a switch -- like John had flipped a switch -- he went quiet and loose again, the full weight of his head suddenly pressing the back of John's hand harder into the edge of the top of the altar. His eyes fluttered closed and John had to steel himself against shoving in just from how it looked, mouth wrapped around John's cock, eyes closed, just the way it felt to have Rodney twisting gently against the ropes, pinned between the altar and John's thighs.

Jesus, that was just.

Okay, he thought, okay, and pushed in gently, shifted himself to a better angle, pushed again and tipped Rodney's chin up with the edge of his thumb, feeling it sink into the soft skin of Rodney's throat a little, something bright and hard and hot clawing at the base of his spine at the sound Rodney made in response, a high, harsh whine. "Shh," John whispered, "you're okay," and didn't stop, maybe couldn't stop, the drag of Rodney's tongue and the tight ring of his lips so good, so good, and then perfect, perfect, so he tugged his hand away from the side of Rodney's jaw and slid it down to cup the underside instead, to hold him there, God, and he hoped, he fucking hoped, "Yeah, right there, just like that," he hissed, and Rodney moaned, low and desperate and needy, and that was it.

He couldn't take any more, there was a limit to the amount of sheer, mind-numbing lust that John Sheppard was capable of maintaining, and Rodney fucking McKay moaning around his cock while John held his face how he wanted it and fucked his mouth was it.

He didn't try to stop his hips from stuttering forward, and didn't pull back at the first helpless, strangled sound Rodney made around his cock, just, he just, God, pushed a little deeper, deep enough to feel the fluttery constriction of what had to be Rodney's throat working around the head of his cock, and growled, "It won't take long." Rodney moaned and choked and John could feel him arching hard against his thighs and the ropes, shuddering and making sounds that would be terrible and frightening if John couldn't feel them around his cock, if he couldn't hear the high, needy whine buried within them, if he hadn't been unequivocally fucking invited to make Rodney make them.

"God, Rodney," he snarled, and it was utterly beyond his ability to stop, all he could do was tell himself that his balance was precarious enough that if Rodney really needed to he could use the bulk of his upper body to throw John off, and even that thought only lasted about a second and a half before he was just fucking Rodney's mouth with long, deep thrusts, groaning at the feel of Rodney's tight throat around him, the wet heat and the low, desperate noises that he could feel along every nerve-ending, the twist and press of Rodney's chest against his thighs. Oh, and God, it was so good, better than anything had ever been, slick and perfect and so so wrong to want to hear Rodney choke, so wrong but so good, the feel of it, and he wasn't surprised at all when he came, he'd been expecting it from pretty much the second he'd started, but he was utterly unprepared for the way it completely unhinged him, the way he could hear himself hissing, "Yes, yes, yesyesyes," the unstoppable jerk and twist of his hips to get him where he needed to be, shove and hold with all that hot constriction around him and the noise he made, finally, somewhere between a scream and a sob.

He'd have just stood there forever, maybe slumped over the top of the altar and taken a nap, except for the fact that for the most part, he liked Rodney breathing. With some fairly notable exceptions, apparently. He forced himself to stay upright, to pull out at once, and Rodney immediately bent at the waist and started to cough.

John fumbled for the canteen and slumped to his knees beside Rodney, tugging him up against his side to support his weight. Rodney gulped water even more greedily than he had when the gag had come out, but when he was done he fell sideways against John without hesitation, taking deep, unsteady breaths and still shuddering so hard that John had to actually hold on to him to keep him upright. For three or four seconds, Rodney just leaned and shuddered and John didn't do a thing, so post-coitally dazed that he was practically comatose, wondering stupidly if it was possible to actually orgasm so hard that you burned something out in your brain.

Then Rodney was wriggling around desperately, jamming his mouth against his so hard that John reeled backward and had to catch himself with the heel of his palm against the floor. "Please, I, John," Rodney groaned, and John felt Rodney's hard-on grinding against the side of his thigh. Oh, he thought, and some kind of lust-recoil twisted in John's nuts almost painfully. For a second he couldn't move, teeth clenched at the sharpness of it, and Rodney whimpered against John's shoulder and pushed with his hips, trying for leverage that was nearly impossible in the position they were in.

"Hey," he murmured, and his lips brushed against Rodney's temple, tasting salt that could be sweat or tears or both. "Wait, just-"

But it was obvious that Rodney couldn't wait, maybe didn't even hear him, which was enough to make John grateful that he wasn't twenty years younger for a change, since the fact that he probably wasn't going to see another hard-on for at least a day meant he was clear-headed enough to see that there was no way this position was going to work. He twisted up to his knees again, getting the balls of his feet braced on the floor, and managed to manhandle Rodney around until he was facing John, straddling one thigh. Rodney keened, wordless and stuttery, when his own weight shoved his cock against the big muscle in John's thigh, and John pushed back and wrapped both arms around Rodney hard, imprisoning, because he got it, he got it, and Rodney shuddered and writhed without anything that even came close to any kind of rhythm, just harsh and frantic pressure that John controlled as much as he could by trapping Rodney against his chest until he finally went rigid and shouted something muffled and helpless into the crook of John's neck.

John gave him a minute to just be there, limp and panting and really fucking heavy but otherwise still, before he unlocked his arms from around Rodney's chest and maneuvered him up to his knees. Rodney blinked at him when John pulled away, his whole face soft and easy like John was pretty sure he'd never seen it before. "Okay?" John asked, and Rodney nodded slowly. "I'm going to get your hands," John told him, and Rodney nodded again.

His hands were trickier than the gag, bound more tightly, but Rodney didn't flinch even knowing that John was behind him with a knife. He took his time on the ropes around Rodney's wrists; those around his chest, thighs and ankles went more quickly. Rodney didn't move throughout the proceedings except to drag his hands around so that they were resting, palms up, against his thighs. He didn't pull away when John settled down in front of him with his legs crossed Indian style and picked up one of his hands gently. It was deeply red, almost purple, and his wrists were mottled with bruises, wrapped around with indentations so deep that John could pick out the texture of the rope bitten into Rodney's skin. He bit down on the urge to say something about it, but seeing it made his stomach hurt abruptly, like he'd swallowed ice-cold shards of glass.

Neither of them said anything for two minutes or so, and then Rodney hissed, fingers spasming in John's grasp. "Feeling's coming back," he muttered when John looked a question at him. His voice sounded shredded, hoarse and a little pained, and John was pretty sure he was completely fucked at this point, since even as he felt guilty as shit and a little horrified by the way it sounded, there was a bright, sharp twinge in the pit of his belly that didn't mind it a bit. He made himself give Rodney a long look, and Rodney didn't avoid it.

John had seen Rodney's face projecting just about every emotion John could think of, including embarrassment and shame, but there was no trace of either of those things there now. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried about that.

"I'm sorry," Rodney said, low and apparently sincere, and so fucking weird that John had no real idea how to respond to it, and found himself grateful when Rodney kept talking so that he didn't have to figure it out. "That was dangerous," he muttered, and looked down at his hands, both twitching ceaselessly now. "I shouldn't have put you in that position."

John found himself gently chafing at Rodney's wrist without having meant to do any such thing. "Yeah, well," he said. "I could have said no."

Rodney snorted, lifting his eyes back to John's face. "Like that was going to happen." And his mouth crooked up, faintly smug.

The relief was such a shock that John actually felt a little light-headed for a second. Then he smirked. "I do make it a point not to turn down a blowjob if I can help it."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm aware." But they continued to just sit there and look at each other. Rodney balled his hands into careful fists, and then splayed them open, fingers straight, wincing without comment. Eventually, Rodney said, "Are we going to." He made a very small flicking motion with two fingers of the hand John was still holding, so tiny that it was in itself mute testament to how much they had to hurt. John had never seen his hands more subdued. "Talk about this," he finished, not looking thrilled with the idea.

John opened his mouth and then bit down on his bottom lip when he realized what he was about to say was, "Do you want to talk about it?" Which. No. Instead, he said, "Maybe we ought to back burner that until we get out of here."

Rodney shot him a look that was simultaneously knowing and transparently relieved. "Agreed." He looked down at his hands, and then back at John. "If you're done rubbing the rest of the skin off my wrist, Colonel Sadist?" he asked, but the curl of his lips took the edge off of it.

"Pretty much," John agreed, and stood up. Rodney was a little wobbly, but seemed okay once he got his feet under him.

It took them a while to sort out the pile of crap the Yel-Ganta had left, but there wasn't anything missing as far as they could tell, and by the time they'd finished Rodney was bitching about his tingling fingertips and aching back, and everything felt so bizarrely normal that John could almost not think about pinning Rodney's head against the stone with his hips and shoving his cock down his throat for a whole three or four seconds at a stretch. Except.

Rodney had one hand on the handle of the door (the other holding his datapad) when John caught his wrist again.

"Wait," he said, chest tight, and he didn't know how to do this, but was sure that it needed doing. "Wait a second, Rodney."

Rodney turned, brows drawn together in a frown that was more puzzled than annoyed, and John saw that his lips looked red and still a little swollen, almost chapped. He ignored the sudden urge to lean in and see how they felt under his lips and tongue. "What?" he demanded, corner of his mouth dipping downward in aggravation, and John mentally reversed his position on the matter and leaned in to kiss him. "Oh," Rodney said, and John discovered that Rodney's mouth tasted a little red, like a shallow scrape, a little raw.

Jesus.

"That was," he said, lips grazing against Rodney's until he forced himself to pull back and put a little distance between them. Rodney sighed when he pulled back, but he was smiling faintly again, and his eyes were clear and bright, everything that made him the smartest man in two galaxies in place behind them. "That was the hottest fucking thing that has ever happened to me," John admitted.

Rodney's eyes widened just a little, just enough surprise that John was glad he'd said it.

"I, um. I thought we weren't talking about this right now," he said, but the little smile on his lips had quirked upward another couple of degrees.

"Yeah," John said. "But." He shrugged one shoulder.

"Oh," Rodney said, and looked at the door, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He looked back a few seconds later. "Are we done?" he asked.

And he looked so flummoxed, head tipped hopefully in the direction of the door, cheeks visibly flushed even in the purple moonlight, that John couldn't help grinning.

"Yeah, we're done, McKay," he said, and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let's go find the 'gate."

"I have delicate skin," Rodney muttered, shoving John's hand away and rubbing absently at his shoulder, eyes fixed on his datapad and apparently unaware of the hilarity of saying something like that considering the last ten minutes. John bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud and yanked the door open.