Angles Thus And So 1a/4

[sam_storyteller]

Note: This is a gratuitous out-of-story chapter which is basically just light bondage porn. If you'd like to skip it you won't miss anything vital -- just follow the link to Chapter Two.

Otherwise, enjoy!

***

The first thing Elizabeth does when Sheppard's team is safely back from their little field trip with crazy Aidan Ford is amend her databurst appropriately. No need to worry any families unnecessarily now that their sons and brothers are no longer MIA. There's a transmission to the mainland to let the Athosians know that Teyla is safe, and then a quick meal and she can go to her quarters and --

Find Rodney McKay waiting for her, inside. Quiet, still, hands behind his back, at what she might almost call parade rest.

"You have to stop hacking the city," she says, as the door shuts behind her. "Because this? Just slightly creepy, Rodney."

"The doors opened for me," he answers. And then he's silent again. And that's even creepier.

"Did you need something?"

"Oh...yes," he says, but he doesn't smile, not like any normal human being would. "I need -- help."

"No argument there."

"Elizabeth."

This is something serious, she can see that, but he's only just come down off a huge dose of the Wraith enzyme and about two bad minutes where he thought his entire team had died, so she's wary.

"I -- do not -- have a lot of control," he stutters. "And I need -- there was this whole -- portion of time when I wasn't at all, and the last time that happened -- "

"Shh, it's okay," she says, moving closer. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, but she can see now the effort it's taking him to hold back, and something in the back of her head clicks into place.

He moves his arms then, bringing them around, presenting them to her -- wrists together, hands turned up, palms open. Another small click in her mind.

She looks him directly in the eye. There are hollows above his cheekbones, and under them too. Detox wasn't kind.

"You've done this before," she says.

"Have you?" he asks, incredulous, and she tilts her mouth slightly and he drops like his feet were cut out from underneath him. To his knees.

Where he belongs that little voice inside her says, the one she hasn't heard in oh, quite a while.

"How does this work?" she asks, a little more sharply than she intended, because you can't play the game until you set the rules. And games like this are not really games at all.

"It's a logical sequence," he says, eyes on the floor. "I lost control."

"That's right."

"That's frightening."

"I'm sure it must have been."

"So I find a safe place." He hesitates. "A place where losing control doesn't scare me. A place where I can trust."

"In me?"

"And myself."

Right answer says the voice. "How many times have you done this?"

He shakes his head. "Once."

"How'd that end?"

She can see just the corners of his smile. "I came to Atlantis, didn't I?"

Oh. Oh. Rodney.

But she thinks she can play this; it's pretty straightforward, and he knows what he's doing, and it isn't about humiliation, which always made her uncomfortable. And that voice in the back of her head wants it. As much as she's wanted him as a safe haven, now she wants him...

Well. On his knees.

Safeword. "Red - yellow - green work okay for you?" she asks. He nods. "Rodney, look at me."

He raises his face, eyes blanking out. She questions whether he's lying about having done this once or whether he's just much better at interpersonal psychology than he lets on or bothers with.

"Are you sure?"

He swallows and nods. And then tilts his head at the table. Rope, and a rag of cloth she recognises as a shredded uniform shirt. Not the one she cut off him, but a shirt from some mission or other, saved for rags, which have a remarkable number of uses. They waste nothing on Atlantis.

There's also a small knife. She picks it up.

"This? No," she says, and tosses it aside. It skitters across the floor, into a corner.

"Thank god," he murmurs.

"Is that what they used last time?" she asks, eyebrows raising.

"Only to threaten," he says, eyes on the floor again.

"What?"

"Ma'am. Only to threaten. Ma'am."

She picks up the rope and comes back to him.

"Come with me."

They walk through the hallway, him a half-step behind, looking like they're coming from a late meeting or going to one; it's night in the city, and most of the lights are dimmed. They only see one person, some lower-level scientist, and they aren't bothered at all.

He only stops when she waves open the door to his lab, the public one where most of the work with the senior scientists is done.

"Here, Rodney," she says.

"But -- "

"I'm sorry, were you questioning me?"

"No," he says hastily. "Ma'am."

"Because it sounds like you were questioning me."

"No, n-no."

"You don't think I'm in control here?"

"You are." Another sharp inhale.

"Don't forget that. Off," she says, gesturing to his shirt. He glances at the door, opaque and closed but not locked as far as he knows. Still, his hands find the zip (her hands, they belong to her) and he strips it off.

McKay's not a small man on any scale, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, and he's stronger than he looks. All that pent-up muscle, and better yet all that pent-up intelligence, that's hers now. Maybe he needs a reminder.

"Boots, socks, come on," she says, and he's moving faster now. "You can leave your pants on."

"Thank you, ma'am," he says softly, and holds out his arms again. She'd chastise him for that, but he's only anticipating her next request.

She loops the rope loosely around his left wrist, talking in a low voice, which seems to help ease the slight tremor in his fingers. Nerves or leftover detox remnants, she isn't certain.

"I'm going to set a timer," she says softly, holding his wrist, thumb inching across the sensitive skin there. "For one hour. Because you're fast, aren't you? And if you haven't learned what you need to know in an hour, then you're not fast enough, are you?"

He nods instead of answering. She lets that one slide.

"For that hour, you belong to me. You are my property. This wrist? What's this wrist?"

"Your wrist," he murmurs. His eyes are a little glazed, at least from what she can see.

"And this wrist?" she asks, looping the rope over his other arm. "Who does that belong to?"

"You, ma'am."

"And the knees you should be on?" she says, strapping the knot tight. He kneels.

"Yours."

She kneels in front of him. "And this?" she asks, cupping his erection through his pants.

"Yours," he gasps.

"My what?"

He can't say the words -- he's modest that way, Rodney, not a big talker during sex, which is actually a shock in itself.

"If you can't answer me we're not going to get very far," she hisses in his ear.

"Your cock," he manages, through clenched teeth. "Ma'am."

And because he remembered the ma'am, she strokes it just slightly with her fingers as she pulls away.

"I'm going to leave you alone here," she says, and his body jerks but he doesn't object, and she knows how hard that is for him. This has been coming, she sees now, since the explosion. "I'll be back. Trust me?"

He shudders.

"Trust me?"

"Yes," he whispers. And because that time he doesn't say Ma'am, she adds three minutes onto how long she was going to leave him.

She doesn't turn the lab lights on.

Outside in the hallway she leans against the wall and stops her own trembling, because it's been a long time and he's McKay and this is still freaking her out just a little.

She doesn't think anyone will come by, but he's trusting her to keep him safe, and he'll know if she's anxious. So she closes off the corridors on either end, notifying the gateroom so nobody comes after them, and then for good measure keys the door locks on the lab to her own personal code. When she tells the gateroom, "McKay and I are conducting a sensitive experiment," it isn't entirely a lie.

The timer will flick the lights on in the lab when an hour has passed, minus the five minutes they just spent establishing that he no longer owns himself. That ought to be quite enough loss of control for Rodney, especially in his own lab, where he controls everything.

And then she sits in front of the door and waits. It's got to be worse for him, because she didn't tell hiim when she was coming back, but the eight minutes feel awfully long to her as well, body thrumming with purpose.

Forty-seven minutes. She stands up and opens the door.

He hasn't moved, hands placidly in his lap where she left them, and she hopes he's been appreciating that she was good enough not to tie them behind his back. His skin's lit only by the various open laptops and lit-up Ancient tech in the room.

He must have heard the door open, but he doesn't move. The last time she saw him this still was asleep in the infirmary, and she tries not to think about that.

His hair is longer than the regulation cuts the Marines wear, but still short enough to indicate a life spent working for the government, conservative without being stark, utilitarian. And very soft, as she slides her fingers through it.

"First sound you make, I'll break one of your toys," she says, and he nods to show he's heard. "There's a lot to break in here."

She keeps ruffling her fingers in his hair, exploring it, challenging him to make a sound. She can see his world shrinking to two things: the sensation of her fingertips across his scalp, and the command not to make a noise. If he stays silent, he'll be safe. He can trust her.

It's powerful, this knowledge, and it's served her well in negotiation before, when she can summon it up. Perhaps she needed this too. It's been a while.

She runs the heel of her hand down and over the ridge of his ear, pressing her palm over it, blocking out sound on one side. She can see his fingers flex.

"Disorientation, Rodney, it's all part of the process. Trust is fine up until you balk at falling."

He nods again as she slides her hand down further, possessive around his throat. Feels him swallow against her thumb. Feels naked vulnerability under her hand. And he knows her well enough to know how much damage she can do if she really puts her mind to it.

"Wish you'd brought me a collar," she murmurs. He stills, and his lips part with a soft noise. It's a request; asking permission. "What, got one lying around here? You and Zelenka getting kinky in the lab without me?"

He'd laugh, but he hasn't been given permission. She can feel it in the way the muscles under his skin (over his very, very fragile windpipe) shift and tense.

"Tell me where it is," she says.

"Second desktop, behind you, ma'am," he replies. "Between the laptops."

She really is curious now, and with a last ruffle of his hair she stands and moves away, searching. When she sees the dark jumble of fabric, she could almost laugh herself. It's a thigh-holster, part of the nylon shredded. The upper strap has been carefully detached, seam-threads picked out, obviously awaiting a replacement holster.

The fact that there are bits of gun holsters lying in amongst the lab junk is an unexpected turn-on. Guns and science. She's gotten used to the teams carrying weapons, but she stops and thinks about the fact that the kneeling man over there normally has a gun strapped on. Tight around his thigh. This man carries a gun.

The strap has a buckle on it, and hell, it'll do. She pulls it snug-tight around his throat from behind, buckles, adjusts the loose end.

"Green?" she asks, because he didn't bring a collar along, which means something. Possibly that he simply forgot, but she has to be sure.

"Green," he rasps.

She kneels behind him and tugs gently on the makeshift collar and his head rises just a little. She's not interested in throttling him, just -- making sure he knows who's in control. And with her hand on the collar and his hands bound up she's free to explore. She skates her other hand across his back and chest, finding the places that most people feel vulnerable, then as a reward, places that most people feel sensitive. Bends her head to press it against his shoulder, inhale.

He can't be comfortable, knees locking up, sensitisation making it hard not to lean into her, and she imagines that he's not so glad he got to keep his pants on, now. But his comfort isn't really her concern. He belongs to her for an hour. Well. For thirty-five minutes, now.

She slides her hands down his thighs from behind, pressing into him, then runs them back up the insides and lets her fingers brush his cock. He gasps --

"And you were doing so well," she says, immediately withdrawing, standing and stepping away. "Don't think this is nice for me either. I told you not to make a sound, and now I can't have my toy."

He gasps again -- can't help it -- and she contemplates knocking him to the floor. But, well, there's no need for actual pain, not if she's good at what she does.

"Should I have brought the knife after all?" she says, and feels just a little smug that some people don't need to keep an actual knife around and also what kind of fucked-up untrained asshole would put a knife to Rodney's throat?

Or any other part of him, says the really dark little voice, and that one she's never let out to play because that one's awfully troubling sometimes.

He gets himself under control, inhaling, exhaling, but when she wraps her fingers around his throat again there's no vibration, no sign he's trying to make a sound.

"These are really easy rules," she says. "I tell you what not to do, you do it, you get punished. I'm not sure why I have to go over them again with you. You don't have all that much time. Do I need to spell this out for you again?"

A headshake.

"All right then," she says, and counts off five minutes without touching him, not out loud of course, just to make him wait for it.

"Prove it," she says finally, as she kneels behind him again. This time she doesn't bother with touching; if he can't prove himself now then this whole exercise is futile, and while it's fun that would also be a waste of her time and resources.

So instead she unbuckles his belt and slides it out through the loops. From behind, leaning over his shoulder -- he tips his head back but the important thing is he's looking at the ceiling, not at her -- she finds the button and zip of the trousers, undoes them, slides the clothing down over his hips as much as is possible. It's enough, anyway, and she hears the hastily-stifled sigh of relief. If he'd let that one slip she really would have broken something in the lab, or at least made something crash convincingly. Something that could be fixed, though. And she smiles a little proudly because he has to know she'd make good on her threat, which means he trusts her to know what can be broken.

Twenty-one minutes. Long enough, well-timed, if she does this right.

"I could get used to a pet like you," she says, and feels the muscles of his shoulders flex. "Just kidding," she adds, grinning against his skin. "Still, shame to give this all up. You'd learn to heel and beg pretty quickly, I think. Especially the begging."

She digs her nails lightly into his thighs, not enough to cause pain, just enough to remind him that she could. Really easily.

"Seems like you'd enjoy begging. Seems like you're about there now, aren't you?" she asks, rocking against him a little. "Tempted? Maybe if you asked I'd touch you. I can read your mind," she adds in a whisper. "Even yours, pet. Not that hard. On the other hand, if you do ask," and she lifts one hand to twine it in the collar again. "I'd hate to make a mess of the lab."

That sets him off almost more than the idea she might actually touch him; his back arches and he jerks forward for a moment but the collar's there to hold him and he doesn't make any noise when he does it so she can't really punish him. He twists, hanging in the air before settling back because, well, it must have been kind of hard for him to breathe for a second.

"Green?"

He nods. She waits, just to be sure, but he nods again more vigorously. Twelve minutes.

"Take it from me," she continues, resting her hand very comfortably on his thigh. "You can't be boss all the time. Not even me. Now, I cook a little, as a hobby, and I read and play solitaire on the computer."

Solitaire on the computer really pisses him off. He considers it an active misuse of the gifts that god and Charles Babbage have bestowed upon them. She's heard his Sermon Regarding Solitaire.

"You," she says, ignoring the enraged momentary bend of his spine, "seem to be just a little kinkier about it. Or, well, perhaps not all the time, but I'm sure that if I left you here for the lab staff to find, they'd draw a different conclusion."

He sags back against her. Score one for her; fear of being found this way, far overriding dislike of computer games. She wonders what else she can use to distract him from her hand sliding upwards.

"Very much a new vision of you, isn't it? Head of the science division, technical officer on the elite alpha exploration team, Sheppard's special hand-picked -- "

There's a reaction in there somewhere -- maybe the word elite, he likes that word -- or maybe something to do with his team. She pauses, thinks, continues.

"Think of what they would say about your team," she tries. No, not quite there, he's not reacting to that except by proxy. But the point, the very important point, is that he seems only half-conscious that she's holding his erection in her hand. His hips barely buck, and he makes no noise at all.

"As pretty as you are, people might talk. You'd never say who left you here, after all, and they might assume it was Teyla. She seems the type to tie a man up and collar him."

He's losing interest, and instead focusing on her hand, and that has to stop.

"Do you suppose they'd think of Sheppard?" she asks, and -- wow. There's the knot. John Sheppard. She should really have seen that a long time before now. "They wouldn't be at all surprised to find out John Sheppard finally tied Rodney McKay up and left him to be found by his lab assistants, because really that's what everyone thinks he should have done a long time ago."

Rodney's biting his lip, eyes shut.

"Open your eyes," she orders, and they snap open, but at the same time a huff of air -- oh, that was almost a noise, wasn't it?

But he's so still, and so obedient, that she can't be positive. Six minutes.

"And just think what would happen," she says, glee entering her voice, "If Sheppard himself saw that you were in your lab and decided to come by with some coffee? He must do that three or four times a week."

Ab-so-lute stillness. She slides her palm up the length of his cock, and he doesn't even twitch.

So there is someone whose opinion he cares about. Well, two people. She's pretty sure that if he didn't care what she thought of him they would never have gotten close to this far.

"But I won't do that," she says, and then she feels a twitch. "If."

She actually thinks she almost can hear his thoughts. Oh god.

"Hold on for me," she whispers, and begins touching in earnest, arms wrapped around his body, stroking his cock with his bound-up wrists just below, fingers twitching now, shoulders jerking, legs tensing and relaxing. Still no sound, and his eyes are still open but completely glassy, and she can just about see the digital readout on her watch. One minute.

"If you come now I'll leave you here and I'll be sure that Sheppard's the first one down in the morning," she growls, and his entire body tenses with the effort of keeping it in. "I'll sign my name on you," because she's suddenly very certain that Rodney hasn't told Sheppard anything about them. "I'll leave you here with your pants open and this collar around your neck -- "

And that's when the lights flick on and he knows their time is up and with a long sigh of relief he sways back against her, coming on his thigh and her hand and the floor.

She slides her hand across his trousers to clean it off, not moving as she unties the rope and rubs his fingers to make sure they're not numb. Standing is harder, he's been on his knees a long time, but he manages, leaning on her shoulder, levering himself up.

He turns to face her for the first time since it started, and she's almost a little shocked that he isn't crying, because god knows she would be.

"Get what you need?" she asks.

"Green," he manages, and touches the collar at his throat, unbuckling it almost regretfully. "I mean. Wow."

She grins. "You were great. That was great, Rodney."

"You should -- okay, you know what, I almost said something really inappropriate about a second career for you, there," he says, looking down and fumbling with the zip on his pants, wincing a little. She rubs his arm, offers him his shirt.

"I'll take you to your quarters."

She lets him shower the sweat away on his own, because he seems to want that, and curls up with him on his bed, hand stroking his back lightly, affectionate now, not commanding.

Lying there in the dark, noticing that he brought the holster-strap with him, she wonders if it is anything more than a patch on some bigger problem. She half-thinks that nothing they did tonight will work, and while it was fun to do she thinks that perhaps between the two of them, if he comes to her again for this -- it might be a good idea to say no next time.

But it does work, and by some happenstance she's there to see it: next mission out, when Sheppard's trapped in a time-bubble -- and it could be that it's Sheppard trapped, which gives Rodney focus -- he's on the mark, past his usual standard even, talking fast, decimating Beckett's objections and her own. He can't control what's happening to Sheppard, but he isn't afraid.

He's not a natural submissive, anyway -- dominance is his personality, not an act he puts on. Which somehow makes that hour in the lab even more valuable, that he gave it up not just for her but to fix himself when he was broken. She finds it oddly precious, something to be savoured.

Especially since, if his reaction to Sheppard is any indication, what they have (tenuous and strange at the best of times) is not going to last forever.

Link to Chapter 2