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Bound in Blue

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Pronunciation: \'lās\
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): laced; lac•ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French lacer, from Latin laqueare to ensnare, from laqueus
Date: 13th century

Imagine, if you will, Rodney McKay naked. Not much of a hardship, I know. I also know that you might prefer imagining John Sheppard naked, but I'm afraid he's fully clothed right now, in blue jeans and a black t-shirt and socks, standing just a little to the side, eyes riveted on Rodney like yours might be. It's not that he's averse to being naked; it's just that Rodney asked for this. John always has a hard time saying no to Rodney.

So, please, imagine this: Rodney McKay, naked. He is standing in the middle of John Sheppard's room, closer to the bed than to the row of cabinets, but still some steps away from both. Candles have been placed here and there across the room, burning with steady flames and soft heat. The light kisses Rodney's pale skin golden. There's also a knife lying next to a glass of water, on the far edge of the bedside table. Don't worry: it's for emergencies only.

Now, imagine a rope. Any old rope will do: climbing gear, or a silk cord, or shoelaces tied together. Anything goes as long as you can imagine it against Rodney McKay's skin; as long as you can see it looping around his wrists, criss-crossing his chest; smooth silk or maybe rougher hemp binding soft skin. If you imagined the shoelaces, maybe there are knots pressing against Rodney's nipples. Maybe there aren't. The details aren't important. Well, except for one, because it's non-negotiable.

The rope is blue.

Dark blue, the colour of the sky so high above the clouds that the air gets thin and you can see the faint twinkle of stars even in the midst of day. The colour works well with Rodney's eyes, and he knows it. That's why he picked it. And this is what the knife is for, in case of a cramp or an emergency. But let's forget about it now; it doesn't concern us.

So this is what we have: a rope, the light and John Sheppard, all deeply in love with Rodney McKay. But before we get to John caressing Rodney like the rope and the light are already doing, let me tell you more about the way the rope is tied across Rodney's skin. You will have your own image, of course; but please, just for a moment, let me tell you about mine.

My rope is cotton, by the way. So much more comfortable for sensitive skin.

We will start at the top, where the dark blue rope is looped around the back of Rodney's neck. From there it runs in an X-pattern between his pecs, criss-crossing on the way down Rodney's body and slung around his waist several times before it reaches his groin. From there, you can see two strings of it running behind Rodney's balls to sit tightly in the space between his cheeks, tied to the rope that is circling his back. The contrast between the dark rope and the wide expanses of soft, pale skin is enticing, but even more captivating is the rope that is wrapped around the base of Rodney's dick, making his balls jut forward and his erection stand out thick and firm from his body. Here, the contrast is between dark blue and a pinkish shade of light purple, and if you looked at John right now instead of Rodney, you could literally see his mouth water.

I kid you not: he's swallowing, right now, because it's either that or drooling, and Atlantis's commander doesn't drool, not even when his eyes are following the rope and the way it runs down Rodney's thighs in gentle loops and crosses, just a little, just enough to turn them from beautiful into a work of art.

But what about Rodney's arms, you may ask, and yes, I have neglected to mention them. But that's only because his arms are bare, you see? No coils of blue around the straining biceps, nothing to rest below and beneath the elbow. There is only the rope looping around and around Rodney's forearms and wrists, binding them together so they're parallel to each other, tying them behind his back. You can only see them when you turn him around, and I don't want to do that. I like the picture he makes from the front.

So here we are, imagining Rodney McKay naked and tied and beautiful, standing in the middle of John Sheppard's room, bathed in candlelight. His face is flushed, and his breath is coming a little faster than normal, but you can see how good it feels for him to give up all of his control and hand it to John; to know nothing will happen that he doesn't want, that John would never hurt him. There is no need for anything else; no gag, no blindfold, just the security of the rope. And while we are watching, John steps close to Rodney, runs his palm down Rodney's biceps – the muscles flex at the touch, but Rodney doesn't flinch away; if anything, he leans into it – and asks softly, "You okay?"

Rodney nods, and John smiles at him and lets his hand drift further, along Rodney's elbow and down his side, over one fine-haired ass cheek and finally following the slim line of rope into the cleft between. Rodney sucks in a breath as John's fingers come to rest a hair's breadth from the back of his balls. His hips jerk forward, just a little, just enough to make the head of his dick bump against the rough ridge of fabric that covers the row of buttons on John's jeans. He gasps.

John smiles and takes a step away, places both his hands on Rodney's sides to still him.

"Hey, none of that." His smile widens, turns mischievous. "At least not yet."

Rodney huffs out a breath, but still doesn't speak. Instead, he hangs his head, perhaps to regain his equilibrium, such as it was.

His nipples are hard. He looks gorgeous.

John runs a finger along the rope between Rodney's pecs, follows it all the way down to Rodney's groin and runs his finger up again, up over the soft, thin skin of Rodney's erection. Rodney gasps again, a light shudder running through his body.

"Blue suits you."

See? I told you.

John is outright grinning now, but it's a soft expression. Affectionate. One fingertip on the head of Rodney's dick, he lets his other hand wander. Up and down and across the pale planes and curves of Rodney's body, caressing everywhere it reaches, playing with Rodney's nipples and drawing circles around his belly-button. And Rodney reacts so beautifully, shivering and gasping and flushing, from his cheeks all the way down to his chest.

"So pretty," John murmurs, and Rodney lets out a voiceless sigh. He raises his head and looks at John; just looks, his gaze open and trusting and blue, so blue.

John kisses him. I think he has to, at least I don't see how he could have done otherwise. His hands resting lightly on Rodney's sides, he kisses the crooked corner of his mouth, then the other one for good measure. He nibbles along Rodney's lower lip, flicks his tongue against the upper, grins and presses a quick kiss to the side of Rodney's nose. Rodney's mouth opens as if to protest, and John seizes the opportunity and pulls him in for a real kiss, an open-mouthed meeting of lips that looks like it involves tongues and maybe teeth.

Imagine this: Rodney McKay, naked and bound, hands tied behind his back, plastered against John Sheppard's clothed body as if he's stuck there somehow, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. His dick is trapped against the coarse fabric of John's jeans, but he doesn't seem to notice this any more than he registers John's hands on his back, resting warm and firm over his shoulder blades. Rodney has closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss with sweet abandon, and he makes a small sound of protest as John begins to walk him backward. But he doesn't stumble, and John would catch him even if he did.

The bed is low and narrow, but you know that already. John breaks the kiss slowly, seemingly unable to give up Rodney's lower lip, for he keeps leaning forward to lick and nibble it again every time he pulls away. But eventually he does let go, licking his own lips and clearing his throat as he takes a step back, then another one, and leaves Rodney to stand beside the bed. Rodney's eyes open slowly, and he blinks a few times before his gaze focuses on John. He's breathing hard now, and there is moisture smeared across the head of his dick, glistening in the candlelight. At the crotch of John's jeans, there is a tiny patch of darkened fabric, as if something wet was pressed against it.

"Lie down," John tells him, and Rodney raises his eyebrows as if to say that's not so easy, what with the hands tied up behind his back, but I think John knows that Rodney can keep his balance, for he just raises one eyebrow in return. Rodney pouts – I don't know how else to describe it – but he turns his back toward the bed and sits down slowly, scoots back a bit and turns to lift his legs onto the mattress, chest heaving, and his biceps are straining prettily as he does so. John's gaze is riveted to them, and I guess it would be. Rodney's biceps are something I'd like to lick along.

I think that's what John's doing next, actually. I think he kneels down beside the bed, leans forward and presses his lips to Rodney's shoulder while Rodney watches in slight confusion. I think he traces the bulges of Rodney's muscles with his mouth, smiling at Rodney's gasp as he licks the salty skin, maybe even bites him lightly. Or not so lightly, leaving a reddish oval mark that might stay for days if it bruises properly. And John has probably made sure it will.

But Rodney really is squirming now, balls rubbing against the sheets as he looks for friction, something to relieve him of this sweet torture, so John pulls back, rubs his thumb over the mark and then trails his hand down Rodney's arm, along his elbow and over the dark blue loops that bind his wrists. He closes his hand over Rodney's fist in a gesture that is both reassurance and inquiry, a test to see if Rodney's hands are cold. It's far too easy to cut of circulation with these ropes, you see, but Rodney's fist is warm. Everything's all right.

John smiles and rises to press a kiss against Rodney's temple. "You want to drink something?"

Rodney shakes his head, hips twitching ever so slightly, fucking the air.

"Rodney," John prompts firmly, and Rodney sighs and stills.

"No." His voice is hoarse, deeper than usual, and he flushes a little at the sound. Still, at John's silent patience, he adds a breathless, "Thank you."

John smiles and flicks a fingernail over Rodney's right nipple in reward. Rodney sucks in a sharp breath. He looks beautiful in the warm candlelight, flushed skin and flickering shadows, tiny specks of gold reflected on the blue rope that binds him. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and you can see the hurried thump of his pulse at the side of his throat.

I don't know about you, but I could imagine this every day.

"Lie down," I think John tells him next, and keeps a hand between Rodney's shoulder blades until Rodney's back touches the sheets. Rodney squirms a little, trying to find a comfortable position – his arms are still tied behind his back, remember? – and John tells him to lift his hips. A pillow ends up under the small of Rodney's back, taking some of the pressure off his hands. John's hand lingers on Rodney's ass to cup one slightly cool cheek with a warm palm, squeezing gently. Rodney smiles up at John, and John smiles down at Rodney, and you don't have to imagine very hard to see the unspoken love between them.

Then John lets his hand brush up Rodney's side, fingers playing with the lines of rope as he places his other hand next to Rodney's head and leans in for another kiss. He climbs onto the bed while they're kissing, his clothed chest hovering just above Rodney's naked one, his jeans-clad legs framing Rodney's bare thighs. He breaks the kiss to nip along Rodney's jaw, to bite at the soft skin of Rodney's throat, to lick the line of a collarbone before he finally takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks lightly.

"Unhhhh." Rodney's eyes are closed but his mouth is open, breath coming in shallow pants as he twists and sighs under the touch. His hips are jerking, his erection bumping lightly against John's belly with every single twitch. John tongues the small, pink areole and elicits another low moan that makes him smile. He's propped up on one elbow now, the bare skin of his forearm resting snug against Rodney's side, and even as we watch he strokes his free hand over the outside of Rodney's ass, down his upper thigh and up again, leaving goose bumps to raise the fine hairs in the wake of his caress as he cups Rodney's balls and just holds them.

Rodney moans again, and this time the sound is drawn out, hoarse and desperate.

I like that sound. Don't you?

John seems to like it too, for he pets Rodney's balls – and there's that sound again, long and beautiful – and then moves upward, fingernails briefly catching the rope tied around the base of Rodney's cock – another jerk, a breathless gasp – before his hand closes around the thick length of Rodney's dick.

"Fuck, John!" It's not a yell, not quite; Rodney's voice wavers and cracks too much for that. John answers with a bite and a squeeze. Rodney writhes beneath him, eyes open now, but staring unfocussed at the ceiling. John has moved on to his other nipple, sucking and biting and flicking it with his tongue, but Rodney barely even seems to notice. He's making these tiny hah-hah-hah noises now, breathless little things I don't think he can control any more than he can the roll of his hips or the sweat on his face. Any more than he can control John's hand, moving steadily up and down his shaft now, stroking and squeezing and generally driving Rodney crazy.

"Do you want to come?" John thumbs the fleshy head of Rodney's cock, smearing pre-come, "Or should I drag it out?"

"I…" Rodney blinks, licks his lips. He's panting harshly, his body flushed a deep pink. He looks ruined. "You decide."

John seems to accept this as simple truth, for he nods and give Rodney's dick another squeeze. "Yeah. I think we'll drag it out another time."

And he leans down and takes Rodney into his mouth. Rodney lets out an inarticulate shout, his hips bucking up from the bed, but John follows the motion easily, places one hand on Rodney's soft belly to guide him down again. His other hand has slipped between Rodney's cheeks again, fingers playing with the rope, rolling it and pressing it against Rodney's hole, eliciting another of those long, helpless moans. His lips move along Rodney's cock, taking him deeper and deeper, and Rodney's whimpering now, wordlessly begging, so close to coming you can see it in the slackness of his face, in the tremble of his limbs.

But he can't. Not yet.

John is sucking him hard now – the sounds he makes, breathing and slurping noisily, a perfect counterpoint to Rodney's high-pitched pleading – and he plays with the slipknot that holds the rope around Rodney's cock together, flicking it this way and that as he moves up and down with hollowed cheeks. But John is a merciful man if you don't piss him off too much, and Rodney is chanting his name now, and I think I'm ready to imagine Rodney come.

So let's have John untie the rope.

Rodney yells out a sob as he comes, back arching, his whole body tensing up as he pulses into John's waiting mouth. John is swallowing, drinking every drop and spurt, gentling Rodney through his orgasm by running his hands up and down his sides. With a last, drawn-out whimper, Rodney sinks back against the sheets, flushed and sweaty and completely boneless. John is still petting him even as he pulls away from Rodney's softening dick, caressing Rodney's chest, his shoulders, his belly, his thighs; his whole body, like it's something precious and breakable. He rolls Rodney gently on his side, ignores the murmured protest as he loosens the knot and undoes the cinch-loop that binds Rodney's wrists. He doesn't try to move Rodney's arms when he lets Rodney lie on his back again – even with all the care, the muscles will have locked up – but he takes Rodney into a loose embrace as he wriggles down next to him, trying to find some space of his own on the narrow bed. Rodney moves into the touch like a cat, his eyes blue and clear as they flutter open. There's no trace of his usual insecurities in that gaze, no arrogance, no bluster. Just infinite trust and open affection, and John seems a little shaken as he presses a kiss against Rodney's temple and holds him closer as Rodney slowly drifts toward sleep.

But what about John, you may wonder, doesn't he want to come?

Good question. Maybe he already did. Maybe having Rodney's body writhe and strain beneath him turned him on so much that he came in his pants the moment Rodney spilled in his mouth. Or maybe he's going to get up in a while to undress himself and jerk off, either in the bathroom or across Rodney's naked body. Or maybe he's going to stay hard, sweet agony that leads him to press his hips against Rodney's thigh every now and then while he waits for Rodney to wake up again.

Or maybe, just maybe, there's another rope. Tied around John's balls, it criss-crosses up the length of his dick, hard knot resting on that small spot of nerves just beneath the flared head, where every twitch and shudder makes it tighten. And John wants to come; he wants to come so badly he can feel it from the tips of his toes to the back of his throat, but he can't. He can't, because Rodney hasn't allowed it yet.

But you know what? I think I'll leave you to imagine that for yourself.