kathierif_fic: (fandom:sga)
[personal profile] kathierif_fic
Title: Downtime
Author: [livejournal.com profile] mistokath13
Recipient's name: [livejournal.com profile] scrollgirl
Prompt used: A Pegasus galaxy perspective, really hot making out on some kind of horizontal surface, hanging out together during downtime/vacation. So basically, a little bit of everything.
Rating: FRM
Summary: Ronon has Sheppard pinned under him, one hand tangled in incredibly soft hair.
Warnings: none
A/Ns: Written for [livejournal.com profile] satedan_grabass 2013. Readthrough provided by the always amazing [livejournal.com profile] ginny305 who took a moment out of her busy schedule to do this for me - thank you so much! 2027 words.



Ronon has Sheppard stretched out on the soft surface of the couch, one hand tangled in his hair, the other one on the cushion next to Sheppard's hip, holding himself up so he doesn't have to rest his entire weight on the man underneath him.

It's not that he thinks Sheppard cannot handle it; he knows he can. Sheppard is strong; stronger than he looks at first glance. Ronon has nothing but respect for him and his resilience.

The hand tangled in Sheppard's hair tightens slightly, enjoying the soft and slick feeling of the strands around his fingers.

Nobody from the Pegasus galaxy Ronon knows has hair like the Lanteans. Ronon has visited many planets, has seen many people, even if he had to keep his distance during his time as runner, he's never seen hair like this.

Pegasus hair is coarse, sometimes unkempt, sometimes tangled, sometimes well-cared for, but its structure is not like this. It's a little rough against a questing palm, like the hide of an old and weathered animal. Ronon's own hair is bound in dreadlocks and has been since he was old enough to go through the rites of adulthood, it feels like rope under his fingers. Melena's hair was soft, and so is Teyla's, well-kept and cared for, brushed out and gleaming like a precious coin, and yet, theirs does not come even close to the hair of the Lanteans. Not even the Wraiths’ hair is like this. Pegasus galaxy produces hair that bristles under Ronon’s touch like the brush Teyla uses.

Ronon isn't stupid. He knows of course that there are many different people on Earth, and many different hairstyles, just like there are in the Pegasus galaxy. Some are more rough than others. McKay's, for example, is soft like the down feathers on a young chick, thin and short enough not to offer any protection should he fall. When Ronon brushes his hand along McKay's head, he can feel every contour of his skull, every single weak spot where the skull can be easily damaged.

He touches enough of the soldiers when sparring to know that most of their hair is short, bristling against his palms and arms like the softest brush he's ever known.

Doc Beckett, Dr. Zelenka, Major Lorne - their hair is soft, as well, softer than any man's hair Ronon has met in his life, softer than any woman's.

But Sheppard’s...Sheppard’s is different from all of them.

Sheppard bites at Ronon's bottom lip with a teasing spark in his eyes, and Ronon reflexively tightens his grip on his hair, angles his head back slightly and slips his tongue past Sheppard's lips and into the hot wetness of his mouth, soft and welcoming despite the dangerous edge of sharp teeth.

He shifts slightly, resting more of his weight on Sheppard; testing and trying to find a position to be comfortable for both of them, before his free hand runs lightly up Sheppard's side, over the fabric of his shirt and the vulnerable skin at his throat, along the rough rasp of stubble on his cheek, to hold him in place with both hands.

He might be on top, but that doesn't mean Sheppard is idle. His own hands are over Ronon's ears, holding him just as much in place as Ronon holds him. His body is relaxed and sprawled across the cushions in the same position he landed when Ronon gave him a slight push, legs slightly spread, one leg bent at the knee, the foot resting on the ground.

Ronon eases the grip he has on Sheppard's hair, smoothes his palm, roughened from his years as specialist and as runner and covered in callouses and scars, through the thick luxurious mass of strands. They are long enough to grip, and Ronon has overhead Caldwell tell Sheppard to get a haircut, something about rules and regularities. It made Ronon bite his lip to hold back a snort of laughter about the peculiarity of these people: who cares about the hair on a soldier when the uniform already made it clear where they belonged? On the other side, it did explain why so many of the new men arriving on the Daedalus looked like freshly shorn sheep, their hair nothing more than stubble.

On Sateda, nobody had cared about the hairstyle of a man, only his ability to fight the Wraith. Ronon still thinks that it's a healthy and sane position to take. There were reasons to keep hair cut short - grief, or to avoid the annoyance of hair in one’s vision - but nobody forced them to do it.

Earth has weird customs.

He has learned not to question them. At least not too loudly.

Ronon now presses one strong legs carefully between Sheppard’s parted thighs while tugging his head back to gain access to his throat. He closes his lips carefully around the exposed skin and sucks wetly, careful to keep his touch light enough not to leave bruises.

His mouth is gentle, soft like Sheppard’s hair, the touch like the finest silk, which, he knows, is more of a teasing caress than anything else for the man underneath him. He keeps his mouth open and tastes Sheppard’s skin, his sweat and salt and the soap he uses.

Sheppard exhales quietly, careful not to make too much of a sound despite the fact that they are safe here, in his quarters on Atlantis, with no witnesses except for the waves outside the window and the city itself.

“So,” he starts, and Ronon stretches out over him again, chest to chest and groin to groin, to reach his mouth and to stop his words before they can escape, before they can ruin the moment.

They’re supposed to take it easy, he knows, to take a vacation. Sheppard was scheduled to return to Earth for that, but he graciously allowed Rodney to take his place, to visit his sister. Ronon likes Jeannie, and he does not begrudge Rodney the opportunity to see her, not when it means he gets Sheppard for himself to laze around and do nothing more than this.

This is good.

This is all the vacation - all the off time - he needs.

He lets Sheppard thrust his tongue into his mouth this time, welcomes it with a sure touch of his own and allows it to explore behind his teeth while his hand pushes up the hem of Sheppard’s shirt, giving him access to the hot, pale skin underneath. The hair on Sheppard’s chest is coarse and thick enough to tangle his hand in, and he tugs gently before focusing on scratching blunt nails across his ribcage. From the corner of his half-closed eyes, he sees his own hand move under Sheppard’s shirt, and it stirs something in him, something hot and dangerous pressing against the inside of his own chest and pressing downwards, until his entire body tingles and he feels himself growing hard in his pants.

He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the heat of Sheppard’s body underneath him, the way he’s pinned by Ronon’s bulk, the way his breathing has quickened. He feels the kiss grow sloppy and wet, but he doesn’t care. Sheppard’s chest is moving under him, sucking in air almost desperately, fingers digging bruises into Ronon’s skin where he’s reached out to grab at Ronon - his upper arm, his side, his back, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Sheppard is here, with him, his body warm and open for Ronon, his hips rubbing slightly against Ronon’s, the feeling muted through the layers of their clothes, their lips only a hair’s width apart, and Ronon’s hand is still tangled in Sheppard’s hair.

For a moment, he entertains the thought of sitting up, of unlacing his pants and asking Sheppard to slide to his knees on the floor between his spread thighs and to take him into his mouth. It’s not something the warriors of Sateda used to do, and the thrill of asking Sheppard, his taskmaster of sorts, to do this wicked, almost forbidden act for him, shivers down his spine. He could bury both hands in Sheppard’s hair, could hold him close or guide his movements as much as he wanted, and when he would come, he could pull Sheppard close and hold him there until he gagged, overwhelmed and still wanting it.

It’s a nice fantasy, Ronon thinks as he shifts slightly, but that’s all it is. Sheppard’s bared stomach rubs against the rough material of his shirt, and he inhales sharply. Ronon grins and shifts again, teasing Sheppard even more, one hand spanning his ribcage, one hand buried in his hair, his weight balanced on his elbows and knees while their chests and stomachs and groins touch.

Sheppard wrenches his head away, to the side, tugging against Ronon’s grip on his hair. His lips are parted as he breathes, quick and shallow, not quite panting, and Ronon takes advantage and runs the tip of his tongue, wet and warm as it is, along the shell of Sheppard’s ear, breathes cool air against it and takes the lobe between his teeth, tugging slightly just to feel Sheppard shudder against him and make a small sound of protest and satisfaction and pure, unfettered want.

It is always like this with him, Ronon knows this. Sheppard does not know what he wants, or so it seems, until he’s so caught up in his passion that his brain cannot forbid him to follow his baser needs anymore. He’s like McKay in that regard, thinking and thinking until he talks himself out of everything he wants for himself. Ronon doesn’t understand why Sheppard’s thoughts can’t stop at an appropriate time, like Teyla’s does, or why he can’t let himself just let go, trust his instincts and his teammates.

Not that Sheppard doesn’t trust his teammates. He trusts them more than he trusts himself, Ronon thinks, or they wouldn’t be here, Sheppard strong and pliant and wanting underneath him, fingers tangled in Ronon’s shirt and tugging while he’s panting, “Off, off, dammit, Ronon...” his voice rough and low and dangerous.

He’s flushed now, the skin of his ear hot and red under Ronon’s gaze, and Ronon releases his hold on him barely long enough to take off both of their shirts. Sheppard’s ends up inside out, a small pile of black fabric next to the couch, not that any of them care about it.

Not with Ronon pressing Sheppard back down again, his mouth on Sheppard’s chest, sucking and licking and biting, leaving red spots that will have faded to nothingness before the day is over.

Not with Sheppard’s legs spread, his hips shifting against Ronon’s, his hands clenching at Ronon’s shoulders.

Not with Ronon being pressed into the back of the couch, away from Sheppard’s chest, and not with Sheppard climbing on top of him to return the favor.

Ronon’s fingers return to Sheppard’s hair, and the feeling of the softness under his fingertips gentles some of his urgency. He pulls Sheppard back up, lets their mouths touch and their tongues tangle while his fingers brush down Sheppard’s spine, marvelling at the vulnerability and the delicacy of the human body.

Their movements slow, until they are back to the lazy kissing of before, and Sheppard settles against Ronon’s chest with a small grunt, his body once again boneless and pliant.

It’s nice, Ronon thinks, his fingers running through Sheppard’s soft hair again, and: he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his downtime like this.

He tugs slightly, smoothes the strands down, combs his fingers through Sheppard’s hair and making it stick up again while his lips brush against Sheppard’s cheekbone.

Ronon knows nobody else with hair like this; hair that looks spiky and defensive and yet, is so soft and alien.

He figures it might be less of an Earth thing and more of a Sheppard thing, though. It doesn’t change the fact that the people from Earth are a little bit strange.

Sheppard lifts his head and squints at him suspiciously.

“Are you petting me?”

Ronon simply grins and pulls him back into the next kiss.
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