Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: My prompt was Bottom!John in all configurations preferred. Big fan of kink/BDSM esp. spanking. No angst, no death fic. Happy endings and smut preferred. Many thanks to my beta, mific.
Summary: Earth politics have kept John and Ronon apart too long.
In days to come
when your heart feels undone
may you always find an open hand
and take comfort wherever you can.
(Comfort, Deb Talan)
"So when are you coming home?" Ronon asked, holding the flat phone to his ear and remembering not to shout, even though the mic wasn't near his mouth. He'd liked the older model phones better, but Rodney had done something to this one to keep conversations private. John'd said it was Rodney's way of giving them his blessing, once the laws had changed and they finally told him. Teyla'd given them a quilt; Ronon didn't feel right sleeping under it without John next to him, so he figured that was a blessing as well.
"God, feels like ages," John said, and Ronon could hear the weariness in his voice. There was an unpleasantly loud rustle like fabric dragging over John's phone, and then John amended that to, "A couple of weeks. Maybe. At least five more days here in Seoul."
"Are you naked?" Ronon sat down on the edge of his bed and spread his legs.
John snorted. "Nearly. Kind of hard doing this one-handed."
"You getting old and slow on me, Sheppard?" Ronon wrapped his fingers loosely around his dick and squeezed. "You want to know what I'm doing one-handed?"
"Older and wiser," John protested, but there was a hitch in the humor that made Ronon wish he was there to cover John with the press of his body, hold him down like an anchor.
Rodney'd made Ronon go with him into San Francisco on Thursday ? "to stop you from moping," he'd said. They'd ended up in a seaside park eating massive meat burgers, red sauce dripping down their chins while Rodney tried to explain the message Ronon's leather lace-up trousers were sending, and why he refused to go with Ronon to any shops selling leather or knives.
"It's kinky," Rodney said with finality, as if that settled the question.
Ronon hated Earth idioms. "Like hair?" Ronon asked, and pulled a curl out straight to demonstrate. He'd cut off his dreads after he got out of the infirmary. It'd felt like the right thing to do as an offering of thanks for his life. He wanted to believe that his ancestors had brought him back, anyway, not some Wraith.
"No," Rodney said, impatience and annoyance making the word sharp. "Kink is different kinds of sex games. Like playing with pain or bondage, or wearing costumes. Case in point, your indecent leather trousers."
Ronon'd looked down to check. His dick wasn't hanging out; he figured his pants were decent enough, so he stole Rodney's pickles and let the conversation drop.
But since then, he'd wondered, on and off, if Rodney would consider what he and John did kinky sex, and if it was, what that meant about John. What they did together wouldn't be unusual on Sateda, where propriety mattered more than than what happened behind closed doors. John was proper enough Ronon could have taken him to be formally introduced to his grandmother: modest in dress, no touching or kissing in public, polite when he had to be. But Ronon didn't consider what was between them a game: he loved being the only one who could make John lose his modesty, the only one who John trusted behind his door. And with John away so long, Ronon missed that closeness most of all.
"Stick two fingers in your mouth, get them wet," Ronon instructed, and waited a beat. "Tell me what you've been thinking about." There was an obscenely wet slurp which made Ronon grin, and he pulled his own hand away, licked it, and pretended John was the one jacking him off slowly. "You can touch your nipples," he added. "Pinch them hard like I do."
John hissed. "I have to wear a starched shirt tomorrow," he protested, but Ronon didn't let him off the hook. He imagined John rolling each flat nipple in turn so they swelled, and then using his thumb and forefinger to twist them, shoulders pressing hard into the mattress, catching his lower lip between his teeth, holding the pain on the edge of unbearable. Ronon had seen John make himself cry, but he didn't want that if it meant John was separating himself from the pain, the same way he'd done himself when he was running. This was about being together, though, so ?
"You haven't been thinking about me?" he asked, trying to get a rise out of John. "That sucks."
John gasped out a short laugh. "Wish it did," he said, and there was another wet noise, and a sharp inhale. "I miss your cock."
"Gonna have to stretch your mouth out again when you get home," Ronon said. "Took a bit of practice for you to handle it first time around." He licked his palm again and butted the head of his dick against the wet center, remembering John's stubborn streak and the way it felt when he pushed too hard, sliding into the tightness of John's throat, and John forcing himself to suppress the reflex and not pull away.
"Looking forward to it," John said. He sounded sincere, but also like he thought Ronon bragging about his dick was funny.
"What do your nipples look like?" Ronon asked.
"Red," John said. "Sore."
"Give me a number." Ronon was getting close; something about using the phones made this seem urgent, even though he always wanted to drag the sex out. He figured maybe it was loneliness, his skin missing touch, the phone in his sweating palm nothing like holding John.
"You have to," John said, words fast and breathless, like they had to escape. "I need to know."
"I got you," Ronon said, trying to push reassurance through the phone. "You can ? whatever, I got you, you don't have to hang on."
"I know," John said. "I know, I ? fuck." He dragged in a breath that rattled the speaker against Ronon's ear. "I wish it was you."
"Yeah," Ronon said, because promises were one thing, but he wasn't watching John's back now, and that rubbed him the wrong way. "It kind of is." He wished that didn't sound so lame.
"Five," John said, his voice rising like the number was a question. "It's been a long day."
"Sure," Ronon said. "Gonna hurt."
John laughed. "Feel it in the morning," he said. Ronon liked that idea, and he spread his legs wider, worked his dick faster, feeling the sparking heat of orgasm coiling down his back.
"Ready?" he asked, and when John made an answering noise, he started counting down, keeping his voice slow and even, imagining John's fingers squeezing his balls tight. John never went easy on himself; Ronon could imagine him shaking with the effort not to give himself relief. When he reached zero he said, "Now, John," putting as much taskmaster into his voice as he could with John's muffled wet gasps driving him right over the edge. He said stuff, obscenities in Satedan: calling John a cock-starved whore and ordering him to take his cock until he fucking choked on it and how he was going to drill John so hard he'd rip his ass in two.
"Still hard?" he asked when he had his voice and his English back, hand loose around his dick now, using the slick of his come to ease himself down from pleasure.
"Working on it," John said, tense, maybe hurt more than he was supposed to be. Ronon wanted John back, to keep him from doing stupid things. "Tell me ? "
"You want to hear how I'm going to fuck you?" Ronon grinned. "I should do it right in front of everyone, soon as you get back. Show them why I've been bad-tempered."
"Fuck you," John said, but Ronon couldn't hear anger, just desperation.
"I'd tell you to drop your pants right there, or I wouldn't touch you for another three weeks," Ronon said cheerfully. "And you'd be pissed off but so fucking horny you'd do it. Grab the gateroom railing and bend over. Of course," he added, "you might give me trouble." John snorted in agreement. "Might have to use your belt on you until your dick dripped all over the floor, and everyone could see how much you liked it."
John cried out, and there was the distinct soft sound of the phone falling off the bed onto a thickly-carpeted floor.
Ronon got up and grabbed a towel, and was cleaning himself off when John finally got back on line.
"You need to teach me Satedan," John said, sounding sated and happy.
"Wrap yourself up so you don't get cold," Ronon countered. "And come home."
"Yeah, yeah," John said. "Love you, too."
Ronon's phone rang in the middle of the night, and his heart pounded as he grabbed it up and fumbled with the interface. The glow of the screen bright enough that he had to squint and couldn't make out the tiny lettering.
When he thought he had it working properly, he held it up to the side of his face and said, "Yeah?" Immediately after he made a face at himself for sounding annoyed. He didn't want John thinking Ronon was pissed at him. "Sorry. Late."
"Crap," John said, contrite. "I'll be quick. Just wanted to let you know, they agreed to send Atlantis back. That's all. Go back to bed."
Ronon could hear that John was smiling as he talked, punch-drunk with relief and anticipation, probably. But he also sounded weary. Ronon had a map taped to the wall, marked with red dots to show all the places John'd called from over the past weeks. John'd been out there alone too long.
Ronon didn't understand politics here, and it frustrated him that he couldn't help without intel, but he couldn't gather intel without a solid grounding in political factions and ideology. He wasn't even able to judge whether someone was trustworthy or not, or how he could hurt them if they fucked him over.
John had drilled into him that Ronon could end up screwing Atlantis over by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. He'd looked like he'd hated saying it, his expression kind of queasy, and the tight lines on his face showing unhappiness. Ronon was being good, for John's sake, even though John had a lot of enemies here on his planet. Ronon stood silent behind him and listened to people insult him, and his judgment, and his command.
Ronon figured the more he knew, the better: Rodney told him knowledge was power. Rodney had been the one who'd explained that the US president wanted the Stargate program to go public and was negotiating with allied countries on how to overcome the fact that while they'd broken international laws and treaties repeatedly and flagrantly for a decade, they also owned the world's only spacecraft, controlled the gate, had inter-planetary agreements, and had a monopoly on all Asgard, Goa'uld, and Ancient technology. Ronon thought that was shitty behavior, but Rodney insisted that there wouldn't be all-out war, because in return for not pursuing the prosecution of hundreds of US conspirators in the highest international courts, other nations wanted the same access to information and technology, research positions, gate travel, space travel, command positions. And John had been negotiating his ass off persuading people that Atlantis needed to return to Pegasus, even if that meant accepting an increase in IOA and international involvement.
"Though they're perfectly willing to let the US military bear the brunt of the casualties, by the way," Rodney had added. "I suspect they think they deserve it."
Ronon had stared Rodney down. "Whose side are you on?"
Rodney looked taken aback, and for a moment Ronon worried he'd made him angry. But Rodney just huffed a short, humorless laugh and said, "My money's on Sheppard. How about you?"
Ronon'd thought then what he thought now, that he had unwavering faith in John to accomplish his mission. He trusted John. He was just frustrated that it'd taken so long.
"I'm glad," Ronon said now. "I want to be where you are."
John laughed. "I'm in Moscow," he said. The name wasn't one of the countries Ronon knew, so he guessed maybe it was a state, one of the small ones. "It's snowing. I don't want to be here." Ronon heard him take a breath. "You busy next weekend?"
"Nope," Ronon said, and lay back, wide awake now. "Want me to pack the surfing gear?"
"Think we'll leave the bedroom long enough for that?" But John sounded pleased in anticipation, and it wasn't like the boards and gear were that heavy.
"I don't want to have to go through airport security," Ronon warned. "It sucks."
"I know," John said. He was probably recalling what happened on their last trip to his brother's. "I'll see what I can do."
Ronon ended up getting beamed from the Daedalus directly into the front room of the house John was renting. The walls and the exposed beams of the ceiling were white, which made the small front room and kitchen look bigger and airier. The big windows facing the beach and the ocean were undoubtedly why John had chosen it, he thought, setting their boards and the suitcase down behind the sofa and exploring. The bed in the bedroom was set up facing the ocean. They'd be able to hear the surf at night.
Ronon'd never seen an ocean on Sateda. Where he'd come from, lakes pooled at the base of mountains like strings of jewels. That was what his home-district's name had meant, in the old dialect. He'd been taught that in school and had thought it was stupid until his year had climbing training up on Tuxo Peak. Looking down, the village had been tiny, and he had seen all three of the Near Lakes, a deep blue-green, exactly like gems.
The ocean here wasn't the same color at all, and he was glad for that.
He took out his phone to see if John had called. There were no messages, so Ronon stripped and went into the front room to rummage through their stuff for his swimming shorts. He had different clothes for surfing ? John's people liked having uniforms for every occasion ? but he liked these better. He'd bought them off a Marine, and they were probably the wrong size, just barely covering his ass and dick. He'd worn them out swimming off the pier with John and Teyla once, and John'd been the only one dressed modestly. Ronon had thought that was funny, and then he'd noticed how John was trying not to get caught looking at him, how John's long loose shorts didn't quite hide his erection.
When it had gotten dark and they'd said their goodbyes, Ronon had wrapped his hand around John's wrist and led him back to his quarters. They'd been shaking with cold and need the first time they'd fucked, and their skin had tasted like ocean salt. It was a good memory, and Ronon thought about John as he jogged down the back stairs and along the beach, hitting the cool water at a full run, diving in when the water was high enough and swimming straight out as far as he could on one breath.
He pushed out until he was warm, tunneling under the rising waves, and then turned and started back to shore. He took a good look at his surroundings: the white sand of the beach curved like the webbing between thumb and first finger, and beyond that the houses nestled among the trees. In the distance green mountains reached up to the bright sky. By now he knew John sought out places like this; the beauty wasn't a surprise, but Ronon also knew that there were very few people John felt close enough to share his places with. He felt... honored, and included, and pleased, and he knew John would be embarrassed if he told him so.
When he was close enough that he could get his feet under him, he raked his hair back with his fingers, scanned the beach to see how far he'd drifted down from the house, and saw John watching him, jeans rolled up and his feet in the water. Ronon raised a hand in greeting, and John returned the gesture as Ronon walked up to meet him.
"Thanks for waiting," John called when Ronon was in earshot. "Appreciate that."
Ronon shrugged. "You couldn't be bothered to meet me. That makes us even."
John tried to look indignant. He was grinning, so it didn't work. "I was renting the car and buying food."
Ronon sloshed up through the shallows and threw an arm around John's shoulders, hanging on despite the protests and the half-hearted way John tried to twist away. "I could eat," he said, rubbing his cheek against John's hair and steering him up towards the house. "You don't feel like you've been eating much." By which he meant that John's face looked narrower, with shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders were sharper, and someone should have been taking better care of him.
"Too busy," John said, scuffing his bare feet in the sand as he walked. "My body clock pretty much gave up on the idea of regular meals."
"I'll fix you," Ronon said. "You just need to be hungry enough."
That earned him a low rumble of laughter. "I've got a gorgeous wet guy in a speedo manhandling me. Your plan's already working."
Ronon snorted. "Wrong kind of hunger," he pointed out. "But maybe your appetite'll come back after I've fucked you a few times."
"We could try that," John allowed.
At the stairs to the house, Ronon let John go so he could brush off the sand. John went ahead, claiming that the first shower was his, which ? yeah, right. Like Ronon was going to let that happen.
It turned out the shower was big enough for two, and John had bought the same shampoo and stuff that they used back home. John was fascinated by everything Ronon did with his hair. Mine's boring, he'd explained once, patiently combing out a week's worth of tangles because Ronon'd forgotten what his hair was like when it wasn't in dreads. I don't even bother trying anything with it.
Ronon liked the feel of John's fingers on his scalp, too efficient to be considered a massage, but intimate in a way that Ronon felt possessive about. No one else had John like this: naked, intent, reaching up to work the conditioner in, casual with the wet length of his body. Only Ronon.
Ronon flicked John's nipple to get his attention, grinning when John startled, eyes going wide and dark.
"We can take another shower later," he pointed out.
"I guess," John said, sounding dubious, but he ducked under the water for one last quick scrub at his face and then turned the faucet off.
The towels set out on the counter were thick and soft. Ronon rubbed at his hair, swiped water from his chest, and got into a minor skirmish trying to flick John with the towel end. He guessed John'd found some way of training on the road, because his reflexes were still pretty sharp. That was good. Ronon liked a challenge.
He caught John just inside the bedroom door, grabbing him by the arm and digging his fingers in , twisting just enough that John had to step forward to relieve the pressure.
"I let you win," John told him. The corners of his eyes were creased with laughter lines.
"Sure you did." Ronon leaned in, and John raised his face in what Ronon took as anticipation, not challenge. Ronon kissed as slowly as he could, soft lingering brushes of lips only deepening when his breath started to come faster, arousal making his dick heavy. He turned his head a bit more to the side and traced John's mouth with his tongue, still amazed by how John opened for him, wanted him, pulled him in, how John was patient and gave Ronon time to catch up.
Course, if Ronon wasn't careful, wasn't patient in return, John could slip away like a handful of water scooped up from the sea. John was selfless: he was always the first to give up his own meal to the hungry, or do without sleep, or offer his life for those of his people. But he had little patience for people who didn't have that discipline.
On the team, Ronon figured John knew what he was doing with the whip of his impatience. Pushing McKay was a good way to get results, and Ronon figured McKay's happiness with Keller was probably directly linked to him training to be less selfish. Ronon had experience with that himself: thinking about himself before others had become ingrained when he was running, and relearning trust and honesty had been hard battles he hadn't particularly wanted to fight. Being angry had been easier. But John had handed Ronon his trust right from the start, and Ronon had been forced to deal.
Here with their clothes off, though, Ronon got his payback trying to get John to be selfish. Getting him to want, and to ask for what he wanted.
So Ronon kissed John, and touched him, framing his face and running his thumbs along the stubbled line of his jaw. He slid his hands back and down, feeling the vulnerability of vertebrae, the roll of muscle in John's shoulders, reeled John in until John closed his eyes and settled his palms uneasily at Ronon's waist ? not a pull or a push, just steady warmth.
Ronon's dick was hard, and he felt the press of John's against his thigh, but they were holding off, letting anticipation build until it became desperation. Ronon moved his hands down until he was mirroring John. John had scars there, from nearly dying in Michael's trap. Ronon broke the kiss and ducked his head to catch at the side of John's neck with his teeth, worrying the skin and then soothing the marks with the broad of his tongue.
"Jesus," John said, voice low and raw, and his fingertips curled in even as his head tipped back like an invitation. "I... Take me down?"
Ronon grinned into the join of neck and shoulder, and lifted one hand, giving John just a moment to anticipate before bringing it down hard across John's ass. John jerked forward, impelled, and then tensed like he was going to run.
"You asked," Ronon reminded him, but he knew John wasn't fighting ? or at least, that John didn't want to fight, despite his reflexes. It wasn't anything that talking would fix, at any rate, so Ronon shifted his stance, bending his knees, grabbing John, and swinging him up in an arc as he turned and took the three steps to the bed.
John laughed in surprise as his feet left the ground, but he still gave a token shout of protest when Ronon tossed him on the bed. He raised his eyebrows, and Ronon shrugged. It had been effective, and he liked throwing John around. Plus, John'd gone to all this effort to get them a house with a bed; they might as well fuck on it.
He grabbed John's ankles and twisted to make John roll over on his stomach, ignoring the half-hearted suggestion that he could have just asked.
"More fun this way," he pointed out, and yanked John into the center of the bed. He liked to maintain at least one point of contact with John's skin. John didn't forget often where he was or who he was with ? not these days, anyway ? but the few times it'd happened had been bad, with John untouchable, retreating into shame, and Ronon unable to reach him. It's a job hazard, John had said once.
Ronon got that. John liked Ronon to hold him down, liked struggling, liked the way the sharp sting of Ronon's hand allowed him to strip off the armor of discipline and be himself. It sucked that the things John liked were also the tools his enemies tried to use to break him.
Ronon needed John to remember who he was, or everything came apart. That was just how things were.
So he planted his hand on the back of John's left leg, pinning him, and smacked his other hand hard across John's ass. The warmth from impact radiated in a wave out from his palm, and he could see the mark in red on John's skin. John swore and tried to push his ass up, and Ronon slapped him down, one blow after another, until they were both breathing hard and John's legs had opened far enough to give him leverage with his free knee. Ronon loved this view, looking down along the length of John's body, from the hot glow of his ass to the sheen of sweat that slicked John's back, to the way John's arms were bent loosely, but his hands held tight fistfuls of the sheets. John's face was in profile, mouth open, eyes closed. If Ronon could he'd keep John like this forever.
He said so, as he changed sides to hit John with his dominant hand, and used the other to encourage John to raise up on his knees, so his ass was high and each heavy smack of Ronon's hand shook his dick and balls. Ronon took a moment to appreciate the smooth curve of John's back rising to the rounds of his ass, the unreddened skin pale, hair sparse except the dark shadowing down the cleft.
He liked John's ass. Watching John on their morning runs had always been enjoyable, even before he figured out John was watching Ronon in the same way. It made him nostalgic for when they were still competing with each other, circling, balanced on the edge of trust ? and once they'd moved from being teammates to lovers it had been the same thing all over. Learning each other, never taking the easy way out or walking away. John'd taken months to be able to say that he wouldn't mind Ronon hitting him, but he'd understand if that wasn't his thing. He'd said it wasn't something he needed.
Ronon had had only what he needed when he was running from the Wraith. Food, safe shelter for a few hours of sleep, his gun. Good strong boots, which he'd stolen when he had to. He knew just how good it was to have both what was needed and what was wanted.
The first time he'd hit John he'd thought it was too much, at odds with the easy rough way they usually fucked. But then John'd reached the point he was at now, where he started fighting not to get away, but to get more. Under Ronon's hands, striking and holding him down, John could let go. Ronon loved when John finally opened his eyes, dark with challenge and arousal. He never knew what to expect, but John could wear him out.
Ronon smacked his palm down in the center of what he figured was going to be a bruise tomorrow and let it rest there for a moment. He brought his other hand back and kneaded slowly, letting his thumbs pull the cheeks apart, feeling the heat.
"You could fuck me," John said, helpfully, like he thought maybe Ronon didn't already know that. "Bag's on the table."
Ronon crawled over John to grab it, letting his dick drag across John's ass and back, just to make a point. John'd bought more lubricant than Ronon thought they'd need for a couple of days, but optimism was a good thing. Maybe, he told John, he'd use it up by slicking John's whole body and rubbing off on him. He bet it'd feel good.
"Good idea," John said. "Waste not, want not."
Ronon had no idea what that meant, so he just raised up and made John roll over. He kissed John while he settled between his legs. John reached up and slid his fingers into Ronon's hair, pulling him down so he could catch Ronon's tongue between his teeth and then suck it the way he did the head of Ronon's cock. Ronon rolled his hips so their dicks slid together in the tight space between their bodies, making John's breath catch and stutter, and it was so good that Ronon needed to pull away to keep from giving in to lust and rutting against John until he came. He forced himself to sit up, bracing his hands on John's chest while he breathed like this was meditation and he was bored.
John looked about as far gone as Ronon felt, but his eyes were narrowed in a way that meant he knew just what he did to Ronon and was pleased. For that, Ronon slid his fingers up through sweat-dampened hair and pinched John's nipples hard: left, then right, then both at once with a sharp twist as he let them go. John's chest heaved as the pain hit him like a drug, and Ronon was satisfied that they were even now.
He grabbed the lube and slicked his cock up with rough, efficient strokes.
"I should just jerk off on you and leave you lying there dirty and unfinished," he told John in Satedan, and smirked as he saw the quirk to John's eyebrows that meant he was trying to translate. While John was distracted, Ronon shoved his knees up and made him hold them there while he lined up his dick and pushed until John's body stopped resisting and let him in. Ronon put one hand on John's shin and folded his leg down flat to his chest while leaning in, not stopping until he couldn't go further. John thrashed, head hitting the mattress, hands pushing at Ronon's chest as if he wanted him to stop ? but when Ronon pulled back, testing, John growled his impatience and grabbed for his hips to haul him back in again.
Ronon obliged, slamming in hard enough that sweat flew and the bed hit the wall and John shouted, voice raw. Ronon knew what John sounded when he was screaming in agony, though he wished he didn't. This was different; this was John giving his body over to Ronon, not fighting but encouraging. It made Ronon feel like he was drugged, superpowered, capable of anything ? and what he wanted now was to see John come for the first time in weeks. He could tell that John was close by the way John jerked each time Ronon slid home, shoulders curling up off the mattress. Ronon leaned down to kiss John fast and wet, catching John's groans and gasps with his mouth, enjoying how John didn't have the coordination to kiss well but made up for it with a whimper of loss when Ronon pulled back.
"Jerk off," he told John, wanting to watch. It took a moment for John to do what he was told, but once his fingers were tight around his dick he shuddered and met Ronon's eyes ? and fuck, if that wasn't perfect. Ronon usually didn't say it first, but the words came out all on their own: "Love you," he said, and then repeated himself in Satedan, and then he said "John," and in Satedan that it was a good fucking thing that John was a slut for Ronon's cock because John wasn't going to have another lover for the rest of his life ? Ronon planned on fucking his mouth and his ass any and everywhere and John'd just have to get used to that.
John's Satedan was crap, but Ronon figured he understood the meaning if not the words, answering through his clenched teeth "Yeah" and "God" and "Ronon" before his whole body contracted and come shot halfway up his stomach, pulse after pulse.
Ronon fucked John through his orgasm, then shoved his leg down to the mattress, forcing John to roll on his side while still spitted on Ronon's dick. Ronon curled his arm tight around John's waist and twisted his hips in a slow pistoning, driving himself into the cradle of John's hips like he belonged there. When he came, he was totally blindsided by the explosion of pleasure inside, like a bolt of light shooting from his spine out to each clenching finger, each curling toe, and he shuddered through it with his forehead pressed to the back of John's neck, holding on like he never planned on letting John go again.
With John in his arms, Ronon drifted off, knowing he was safe. He dozed; when he woke, he was still wrapped around John, and still inside him, which was so hot and unexpected that he felt his dick jerk and start to fill, John's ass contracting around him, adjusting.
Ronon groaned because for all John accused him of having too much youthful stamina, this was new and maybe too much.
John ? bastard ? pushed back and laughed at him.
"Again?" John asked, and Ronon swore he sounded smug, even though he sounded like he'd yelled his throat raw. "Jeez."
Ronon rocked his hips forward, careful, testing, and didn't miss the way John's jaw tightened or his breath caught. "You too sore? I don't want to hurt you."
John snorted, still smug and amused. "I think I can take it."
Ronon bit him on the shoulder, because what kind of person teases the person who's fucking them? And then he shifted, pushing John over on his front and making him go up to hands and knees, keeping a good hard grip on his hips so they stayed joined. It was pretty cool; Ronon felt like he'd been a part of John forever, like the line between them was blurring. John was marked up, bruises starting to bloom on his ass, scratch marks showing on his shoulders and sides where Ronon had grabbed him, the imprint of teeth livid on his neck. Ronon pressed his mouth to all the marks he could reach, glad down to his bones that he'd lived this long.
"I like how you use me," John said, quiet like a confession, and then asked, "What does ischenvi mean?"
Ronon snorted, and ran the flat of his tongue up along John's spine, reaching one hand down to grab John's dick, which wasn't hard but what John called interested. "Ischen is a... kind of whore." Which he was pretty sure John knew already. "Vi is mine." He punctuated the word with a snap of his hips, driving John's dick into the curl of his fingers and making John arch up against Ronon's chest.
"I live to serve," John bit out.
Ronon told him to shut his mouth because it was good only for sucking cock, that John should just stay on his fucking knees and crawl after Ronon hoping to be filled and fucked. That Ronon was going to take away John's clothes so everyone could see what he was and who he belonged to, and he'd force John to tell them how much he liked to be fucked and how many times a day he took Ronon's cock.
Ronon came on that flood of Satedan profanity, hand tightening around John's dick so that he cried out and twisted as well, ass clenching down like he wanted to milk every drop of come Ronon had. This time Ronon stayed in his body through all of the bright tumbling sensations, muscles tensing as he held on to John like a safety float out on the open water.
When he had his breath back and could loosen his hold, he let John drop to the mattress and settled in next to him, with a pang of loss as his dick came free.
"Sorry," he said, not quite sure what he was apologizing for. But then his stomach rumbled like distant thunder, and John rolled out of his hold, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth showing that he was barely holding back his laughter this time.
"I'm gonna," and John nodded towards the bathroom. He looked like he'd been through a Specialist-level hard spar, and he was trying unobtrusively to stretch out aching muscles. He seemed as if he was ineffably pleased with himself.
"I'll make eggs," Ronon offered, rolling off the bed and stretching, putting his shoulders back and raising his arms up so his fingers nearly brushed the ceiling fan's blades. "You bought eggs, right?"
John rolled his eyes. "Yeah." He bent stiffly to grab the towels on the floor, taking one and tossing the other one over. "I know what you like."
When Ronon opened the refrigerator, he grinned, remembering what John had told him about a man's heart and stomach, and then got to work.
"Holy crap," John said, when he came out and saw the sandwiches. "Dude. The food was supposed to last two days." Ronon raised an eyebrow and handed him his plate. John looked at the wooden dining table chairs, and then tipped his head towards the sofa. "I'm gonna go sit where there are cushions."
"There's ice," Ronon offered, but John just shook his head and lowered himself down gingerly. Like Ronon, he'd just pulled on loose shorts, and in the low afternoon light that filled the room, his skin looked golden, the effects of the past weeks washed away.
Ronon brought over the drinks and the bowl of boiled eggs and his own sandwich, a good bit thicker than John's. John had weird ideas about what wasn't appropriate in a sandwich ? no sauces or grease, no melted cheese, no grated carrots or dried fruit ? so Ronon added John's portions to his own.
"That's a blueberry," John said accusingly, watching Ronon take a big bite with an expression of horrified fascination.
Ronon just shrugged and gestured for John to dig in. "Yours is boring," he said through a perfect mouthful of tangy-spicy-sweet flavor, and then had to swipe a string of cheese out of his beard.
"But perfect," John argued, and they watched the ocean while insulting each others' tastes until the sandwiches were gone and John slumped backwards with one hand rubbing his stomach.
Ronon grabbed an egg. "You want one?"
John squinted at him, as if trying to figure out if he was joking. Ronon stripped off the shell and popped the whole egg into his mouth. John's loss, if Ronon got all the eggs. Ronon swallowed it down, and John handed him his cup of tea without Ronon even asking for it. Ronon didn't know how it happened, but somehow whenever he was in the same place as John, he felt like he was home.
"So you were saying," Ronon said, reaching for another boiled egg, "Atlantis. All the politics stuff. It's good, right?"
John shrugged, and then waggled his hand in the air. "More complicated than that, but basically. Deals had to be made. I might have sold my soul, I'm still not sure about that."
"You can talk to me." Ronon glanced around the room, wondering if it was bugged and then dismissed the idea. John wasn't stupid. "If you want."
The smile John gave him was full of love and humor, and there were no shadows in John's eyes. "I know. I will. That's why you're here."
Ronon grinned back, wrapping his fingers around the egg and giving it a hard enough squeeze to shatter the shell but not break the meat. John snorted, not looking intimidated in the least.
"I like having you around," John added. "In case you didn't know."
"Figured that out a while ago," Ronon said, and John leaned over to kiss him. The egg had to wait.