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kathierif_ficTitle: Somewhere Just Being Their Own (Fic)
Author: Kathie (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathierif_fic)
Recipient’s Name:miss_zedem, for the John-Rodney-thing-a-thon at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
satedan_grabass
The prompt(s) used: Flying, and hints of wristband and smart!John
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Warnings: sex between two guys
Word Count: 3160
Summary: On the way back from a boring mission, caught in a Jumper for hours, just Ronon and John.
Author’s Notes: Title a line from the song “Eight Miles High”. Many thanks toginny305 for the beta. Every (ahem) remaining mistake is my fault and nobody else’s.
~*+*~
Ronon watches John Sheppard’s hands from the corner of his eyes, without moving his head in Sheppard’s direction. They are lying on top of the controls of the jumper, quiet and competent and capable of bringing them home after a long but essentially boring mission, and Ronon thinks that it might be a good thing that they didn’t have anything exciting happen, especially considering that this time, it’s just them, just Ronon and Sheppard, and several hours of empty space ahead of them until they reach their gate.
His glance grazes along John’s fingers, over his knuckles and along the back of his hands to his wrists; and his eyes are drawn to the little piece of black fabric wrapped around John’s right wrist. Ronon doesn’t know if John has more than one of those, if he replaces the band every now and then, or why he wears it – he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. It’s not important to him. The wristband is just another part of John, and he accepts its existence as part of John’s appearance, just like the stubble that started to appear on his cheeks and chin a few hours into the mission.
John.
Ronon finds himself grinning slightly. Somewhere in the span of the past few minutes, in his mind, Sheppard turned to John. He knows that this shift can be dangerous; that they could stumble over a Hiveship or something equally as unpleasant any second, and with their luck, they will, but the Jumper has sensors and should be able to warn them at the slightest sign of danger. Ronon finds himself relaxing. He’s feeling relatively safe in the small ship.
They should be fine, he thinks and relaxes further into his seat.
John gives him a sideways glance. He frowns slightly when he sees the small smirk playing around Ronon’s lips, his fingers twitching slightly on the controls. It’s almost invisible, but Ronon catches it anyways.
“What?” John asks, more amused than worried, another sign that they really aren’t in immediate danger, and Ronon gives him a small shrug.
“Nothing,” he replies and curls his wet tongue over his bottom lip. John’s fingers twitch again, and Ronon watches the sinews play under the soft skin of John’s inner arm, follows them to John’s wrist, to his hands. “This thing is on autopilot, right?”
“No,” John says carefully. “Why?”
Ronon shrugs again and pretends that the thought of John’s hands on his body hasn’t been at the back of his mind for the entire time, ever since they left the planet.
It has been a boring mission, after all.
As much as Ronon has tried to focus his mind on the job, he hasn’t been able to stop his thoughts from wandering. As a Runner, he tried to avoid planets like this. He just couldn’t allow himself to lose his focus, not with a Wraith tracker buried under his skin.
“Just thinking,” he says and reaches out.
His fingers are calloused and rough from a life spent in the military and on the run, and they catch slightly on John’s wristband. The material is warm from John’s body, maybe a little bit damp, and when Ronon slides his fingertips along the edge of it, John stiffens slightly and lets out a small hiss, almost inaudible.
“Ronon…” It’s a warning, but right now, Ronon doesn’t care. They are alone, they are relatively safe, and there is nothing else to do. He pushes his fingers against the soft fabric and listens to John exhaling quietly.
John isn’t stupid. Ronon knows that. McKay knows that, too. Ronon has witnessed John and McKay interact often enough to know that McKay is often frustrated by John pretending to be less smart than he is, but, like Teyla and Ronon, he has learned to trust John to know what he is doing.
John knows exactly what Ronon is offering him right now. His shoulders grow tense as he struggles with himself for a brief moment, his eyes flit to the screens and displays in front of him, but this part of space is as empty and as boring as ever, and John’s eyes return to Ronon.
Ronon grins at him a little bit and looks at John as suggestively as he can. It’s something he was good at, when he’d been a kid on Sateda, and when he’d joined the Satedan military, but he has almost forgotten how to do this, in his time as Runner. It’s like his muscles are frozen in a dark scowl and protesting his attempts to smile, but sometimes, he remembers exactly how to do this, and it even works.
Like right now.
John squirms. “We shouldn’t,” he says reluctantly. “We can’t.”
Ronon has expected that. It’s part of their ritual – they always go through this. “Why not?” he asks and slips his fingertips back to the soft skin on the inside of John’s arm. “It’s just us here.”
“There’s rules,” John says. “Regulations.”
It’s something he’s brought up before, and Ronon suspects he keeps mentioning it just out of a sense of duty, not because he really feels that it’s a good argument against them doing this.
“Just us,” he repeats. “I’m not telling. You?”
“No,” Jon admits, but he still hesitates. He lifts his left hand off the control panel and gesticulates toward the main viewing window. “We shouldn’t,” he points out. “If anything comes up, I need to be at the controls. You know that.”
Ronon tilts his head to the other side. “Okay,” he says, simple like that, and stands to take off his coat.
John’s puzzled frown turns toward him. “Ronon…” There is the hint of a warning in his voice, and he’s starting to get that pinched look on his face he gets when people don’t follow his orders.
Ronon pretends he doesn’t see it. “Come on. Up,” he says. “Trust me.”
He reaches for John’s shoulder, and this is the point where either John’s sense of duty takes over and he gets really pissed, or he goes along with Ronon’s plan.
The space around them remains quiet, and with one last glance at the data on the HUD, John slowly raises to his feet.
Ronon bites his lip to hold back his smirk of triumph at getting John to ignore the stupid rules for something so much better. “Trust me,” he says again while wriggling out of his boots. He’s not hard, not yet, but he can feel the excitement and arousal starting to stir somewhere deep in his belly.
“Take off your boots.”
John is still staring doubtfully at him, but then, he comes to a decision and steps to the free space behind the pilot’s chair, squeezing by Ronon, his legs brushing against Ronon’s, sending a spike of sensation through Ronon’s nerve endings, like an electrical current but pleasant instead of painful, even if they still are clothed. John takes off his boots, his thigh holster, and after a moment, his vest too, and puts them in the chair Teyla would usually occupy.
Ronon gives him a grin and sits down in the pilot’s chair. He pushes it back as far as it goes before turning it around, to look at John, who looks more amused than pissed at this point, and Ronon knows he’s winning this round against the rules.
Leaning forward, he grabs John’s hips in his hands and yanks, and John comes to stand between Ronon’s wide-spread legs. Ronon doesn’t waste any time and reaches for John’s belt, his fingers pressing teasingly into the fabric of John’s pants, brushing feather-light touches over them while he unbuckles John’s belt and unfastens his pants.
The first time they did this, it was awkward and unfamiliar; John unable to deal with the strings that kept Ronon’s pants up and Ronon clumsy with the zippers and buttons on John’s. But they have grown out of that phase, and by now, Ronon is able to remove John’s pants and underwear without much of a fuss. However, for now, he’s satisfied with pushing them down to John’s knees, letting them pool around his ankles and hobbling John unintentionally. Not that Ronon thinks that John would want to run. This thing between them – as much as it is making John squirm sometimes, as often as he refuses to let them do this, it had been him who had started it, who had approached Ronon the first few times, when his touches had been firm and anguished and desperate.
It’s also been John who occasionally tries to stop this, but Ronon thinks he does it out of fear for Ronon rather than just to obey the rules. He never tries to stop John, who fumbles his way through speeches that go in circles and do nothing to convince either of them, but he never says no when John returns to him, days later, the line of his shoulders tense and his eyes wide and soft.
In the end, they always end up together again, like this, Ronon’s rough hand reaching almost carefully for John’s cock and starting to stroke him, his touch light, his other hand holding John’s hip, fingers digging into his skin until it pales and he leaves red prints behind. He usually tries not to leave bruises when they do this. Ronon does understand the concept of discretion, even if he doesn’t understand what being drawn to guys has to do with Sheppard’s ability to fight the Wraith, or any other enemy he’s facing. It just doesn’t make sense to him.
Still, he respects it, or at least tries to, and eases his grip on John’s skin slightly.
He’s not treating him like he will break, because he knows exactly how far from the truth it is.
He treats John like a weapon, with respect and with care, and in return, he gets the feeling that John treats him similar.
“Ronon…” John grunts and shifts from one foot to the other, the muscles in his legs and ass playing under his skin, and Ronon grins and tightens his grip, moving his hand a little bit faster and twisting his wrist every now and then, not stopping or slowing down until John’s cock is heavy and hard in his hand and curving slightly toward his belly.
“Turn around,” he finally says, pushing at John’s hip, to get him in the position he wants, but John only lets him manhandle him in front of the controls and raises his eyebrows. He knows what Ronon wants to do, he has to, but instead of following the order, he shakes off Ronon’s hand and folds his body into a kneeling position between Ronon’s legs. It’s a little tight, a little cramped, but John doesn’t seem to notice; reaching for the strings on Ronon’s pants and tugging them loose, and Ronon helpfully lifts his hips and shifts to the edge of his seat to let John pull and wrestle his pants down his thighs.
This, he thinks while letting his hand slide down his own stomach, he should have expected. John never simply follows an order. If he thinks he has a better idea, he’ll become stubborn and will do what he thinks is best, and the results usually speak for him, even if Ronon is convinced that John is just an extremely lucky guy more than half of the time.
Besides, he is not complaining about John’s initiative this time, not with John’s lips closing around the tip of his cock, his tongue teasing the tip, his right hand braced on Ronon’s thigh. Ronon knows that, once he’s hard enough, his cock lengthened and filled with blood, John will wrap his hand around its base and stroke while concentrating on teasing the tip with tongue and lips, but for now, his hand is resting on Ronon’s leg, pale skin and black fabric and dark hair against Ronon’s own thigh.
It doesn’t matter where their missions lead them and how long they stay there, compared to Ronon, John is always pale; sometimes reddish, sometimes bruised blue and green and purple, but his skin is never as dark as Ronon’s is. It’s a nice contrast, and the artist that’s buried deep in Ronon’s soul appreciates it.
He lets his fingers close around John’s wrist, forming a connection while John sucks more of Ronon’s cock into his mouth. His arousal heightens at the sight of John in front of him, naked from the waist down, his cock hidden by the folds of his black shirt, but Ronon knows it’s there, hard and red and with a clear drop of fluid slowly forming at the velvety-soft tip. He can feel John’s pulse pick up through the wristband, or maybe it’s just the beat of his own heart, reverberating through his fingertips.
He keeps watching John, keeps listening to the slurping sounds of his cock disappearing between John’s lips and stretching them wide. After a while, though, he stops him.
“Want to fuck you,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, as if he hasn’t used it in seven years, and he swallows against the dryness in his throat.
John opens his eyes – he always closes them when he’s sucking Ronon. Ronon doesn’t know if he does it because he’s imagining he’s with someone else. He probably should care about it, but as long as it’s his cock in John’s mouth, he doesn’t.
“Yeah,” John says now, his words almost unintelligible over the rush of blood in Ronon’s ears. “Yeah, buddy.” He struggles to his feet and kicks off his pans, and when Ronon reaches for his hip again and turns him around – “Like this.” – he finally complies and leans his hands on the edge of the console, giving Ronon a perfect view and unlimited access to his ass.
He leans to the side and picks up his discarded coat. In one of the many hidden pockets, there is a little sachet of lubricant, and Ronon grabs it without hesitating. He knows exactly where it is, and it only takes him a brief few seconds to open it and to pour its contents over his fingers and John’s ass.
John twitches, and Ronon places a soothing hand on the small of his back, bunching up John’s black t-shirt and letting his body heat seep into John’s skin. The fingers of his other hand slip easily through the lube, and he patiently pushes one against John and into him. The second finger slips in not as easily, but Ronon doesn’t give up until his middle finger joins his index finger in John’s body and he can fuck John with them, spreading lube around and getting John to relax and accept him there.
“Keep your eyes on the screen,” he murmurs and licks a broad stripe over John’s lower back. “And relax.”
John lets out a short laugh. It sounds somewhat forced, and Ronon reaches around, to stroke his erection gently. At the same time, he twists his wrist, to push his fingers deeper into John, and listens to his breathing speed up.
“You good?” he asks before pulling his fingers free. He doesn’t wait for John’s answer. He knows it already.
“Yeah, buddy. Do it,” John pushes his hips back impatiently, and Ronon wraps his still slick hand around his own hard erection and strokes it a few times, slicking it even more than the cooling saliva from the earlier blowjob had.
He pulls John slowly down onto his cock, giving him enough time to adjust, and strokes his thumbs over John’s hips.
“Hands on the controls,” he murmurs, his voice growing even rougher as John’s muscles squeeze him tightly. “Let’s go flying.”
John cranes his neck to give him a surprised look. He’s flushed, the blood rising high in his cheeks, and he already looks as if he’s too close to the edge. “What?” he asks. “You want to join the Mile High Club?”
Ronon doesn’t know what that means, and like most pop culture references he doesn’t get, he just shrugs and continues with what he’s doing, which means right now that he lifts John up and lets him slide down again, gravity helping him pushing his erection deep into John’s body.
He can ask one of Lorne’s Marines later about this Mile High thing. Or Rodney. It isn’t important right now, with sensations curling deep in his stomach and making his fingertips and toes tingle, with John in his lap, his body tight and hot around Ronon’s cock, his fingers tense on the controls of the Jumper, his thighs working as he fucks himself on Ronon. Ronon feels as if the Jumper picks up speed, as if it’s detecting the urgency in John’s body and thoughts, and the universe spins around them in wild circles as they both become more desperate. Ronon reaches around and wraps his hand around John again, just holds him and gives him a place he can thrust into, his other hand still guiding John’s movements.
He’s not imagining things, the stars really twirl around them in mad circles, and Ronon has to close his eyes and press them firmly shut as he gives up his control and thrusts up, into John’s body, again and again and faster and harder until he comes with a broken grunt he muffles in John’s shoulder.
John isn’t that far behind him, and a few rough strokes of Ronon’s hand later, he spills over his fingers, his jaw locked tight and his fingers biting into the panels on the console.
It takes them a while to bring their breathing back to even, and to stabilize the Jumper, which John does as soon as he can concentrate again, Ronon’s softening cock still in him, his shirt streaked with come and his thighs aching vaguely. Ronon’s arms are wrapped around his waist, a heavy, warm weight that’s still comfortable, somehow.
For now.
~*+*~
“Seriously, Sheppard, were you drunk on your way back?” Rodney asks, a deep frown etched onto his face.
“No,” John replies, his face becoming guarded and careful. “Why are you askin’?”
Rodney glares at him, his mouth a disapproving downwards slash in his face, and thrusts his tablet computer into John’s face. For Ronon, who is lounging against the wall, the graphic on it doesn’t make a lot of sense at first, until he realizes that it’s a simulation of the trajectory of their Jumper, spiraling and bouncing around the screen wildly. Apparently, Rodney has checked the Jumpers’ computers routinely and has stumbled over something that caught his interest – the path their Jumper took when the pilot was distracted.
The tips of John’s ears turn red, and Ronon has to bite the tip of his tongue to stop himself from grinning and giving them away.
This Mile High thing, he decides, definitely has its merits.
And then, he starts wondering how soon he can try to convince Sheppard to do it again.
~end.
Author: Kathie (
kathierif_fic)Recipient’s Name:
miss_zedem, for the John-Rodney-thing-a-thon at satedan_grabassThe prompt(s) used: Flying, and hints of wristband and smart!John
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Warnings: sex between two guys
Word Count: 3160
Summary: On the way back from a boring mission, caught in a Jumper for hours, just Ronon and John.
Author’s Notes: Title a line from the song “Eight Miles High”. Many thanks to
ginny305 for the beta. Every (ahem) remaining mistake is my fault and nobody else’s. ~*+*~
Ronon watches John Sheppard’s hands from the corner of his eyes, without moving his head in Sheppard’s direction. They are lying on top of the controls of the jumper, quiet and competent and capable of bringing them home after a long but essentially boring mission, and Ronon thinks that it might be a good thing that they didn’t have anything exciting happen, especially considering that this time, it’s just them, just Ronon and Sheppard, and several hours of empty space ahead of them until they reach their gate.
His glance grazes along John’s fingers, over his knuckles and along the back of his hands to his wrists; and his eyes are drawn to the little piece of black fabric wrapped around John’s right wrist. Ronon doesn’t know if John has more than one of those, if he replaces the band every now and then, or why he wears it – he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. It’s not important to him. The wristband is just another part of John, and he accepts its existence as part of John’s appearance, just like the stubble that started to appear on his cheeks and chin a few hours into the mission.
John.
Ronon finds himself grinning slightly. Somewhere in the span of the past few minutes, in his mind, Sheppard turned to John. He knows that this shift can be dangerous; that they could stumble over a Hiveship or something equally as unpleasant any second, and with their luck, they will, but the Jumper has sensors and should be able to warn them at the slightest sign of danger. Ronon finds himself relaxing. He’s feeling relatively safe in the small ship.
They should be fine, he thinks and relaxes further into his seat.
John gives him a sideways glance. He frowns slightly when he sees the small smirk playing around Ronon’s lips, his fingers twitching slightly on the controls. It’s almost invisible, but Ronon catches it anyways.
“What?” John asks, more amused than worried, another sign that they really aren’t in immediate danger, and Ronon gives him a small shrug.
“Nothing,” he replies and curls his wet tongue over his bottom lip. John’s fingers twitch again, and Ronon watches the sinews play under the soft skin of John’s inner arm, follows them to John’s wrist, to his hands. “This thing is on autopilot, right?”
“No,” John says carefully. “Why?”
Ronon shrugs again and pretends that the thought of John’s hands on his body hasn’t been at the back of his mind for the entire time, ever since they left the planet.
It has been a boring mission, after all.
As much as Ronon has tried to focus his mind on the job, he hasn’t been able to stop his thoughts from wandering. As a Runner, he tried to avoid planets like this. He just couldn’t allow himself to lose his focus, not with a Wraith tracker buried under his skin.
“Just thinking,” he says and reaches out.
His fingers are calloused and rough from a life spent in the military and on the run, and they catch slightly on John’s wristband. The material is warm from John’s body, maybe a little bit damp, and when Ronon slides his fingertips along the edge of it, John stiffens slightly and lets out a small hiss, almost inaudible.
“Ronon…” It’s a warning, but right now, Ronon doesn’t care. They are alone, they are relatively safe, and there is nothing else to do. He pushes his fingers against the soft fabric and listens to John exhaling quietly.
John isn’t stupid. Ronon knows that. McKay knows that, too. Ronon has witnessed John and McKay interact often enough to know that McKay is often frustrated by John pretending to be less smart than he is, but, like Teyla and Ronon, he has learned to trust John to know what he is doing.
John knows exactly what Ronon is offering him right now. His shoulders grow tense as he struggles with himself for a brief moment, his eyes flit to the screens and displays in front of him, but this part of space is as empty and as boring as ever, and John’s eyes return to Ronon.
Ronon grins at him a little bit and looks at John as suggestively as he can. It’s something he was good at, when he’d been a kid on Sateda, and when he’d joined the Satedan military, but he has almost forgotten how to do this, in his time as Runner. It’s like his muscles are frozen in a dark scowl and protesting his attempts to smile, but sometimes, he remembers exactly how to do this, and it even works.
Like right now.
John squirms. “We shouldn’t,” he says reluctantly. “We can’t.”
Ronon has expected that. It’s part of their ritual – they always go through this. “Why not?” he asks and slips his fingertips back to the soft skin on the inside of John’s arm. “It’s just us here.”
“There’s rules,” John says. “Regulations.”
It’s something he’s brought up before, and Ronon suspects he keeps mentioning it just out of a sense of duty, not because he really feels that it’s a good argument against them doing this.
“Just us,” he repeats. “I’m not telling. You?”
“No,” Jon admits, but he still hesitates. He lifts his left hand off the control panel and gesticulates toward the main viewing window. “We shouldn’t,” he points out. “If anything comes up, I need to be at the controls. You know that.”
Ronon tilts his head to the other side. “Okay,” he says, simple like that, and stands to take off his coat.
John’s puzzled frown turns toward him. “Ronon…” There is the hint of a warning in his voice, and he’s starting to get that pinched look on his face he gets when people don’t follow his orders.
Ronon pretends he doesn’t see it. “Come on. Up,” he says. “Trust me.”
He reaches for John’s shoulder, and this is the point where either John’s sense of duty takes over and he gets really pissed, or he goes along with Ronon’s plan.
The space around them remains quiet, and with one last glance at the data on the HUD, John slowly raises to his feet.
Ronon bites his lip to hold back his smirk of triumph at getting John to ignore the stupid rules for something so much better. “Trust me,” he says again while wriggling out of his boots. He’s not hard, not yet, but he can feel the excitement and arousal starting to stir somewhere deep in his belly.
“Take off your boots.”
John is still staring doubtfully at him, but then, he comes to a decision and steps to the free space behind the pilot’s chair, squeezing by Ronon, his legs brushing against Ronon’s, sending a spike of sensation through Ronon’s nerve endings, like an electrical current but pleasant instead of painful, even if they still are clothed. John takes off his boots, his thigh holster, and after a moment, his vest too, and puts them in the chair Teyla would usually occupy.
Ronon gives him a grin and sits down in the pilot’s chair. He pushes it back as far as it goes before turning it around, to look at John, who looks more amused than pissed at this point, and Ronon knows he’s winning this round against the rules.
Leaning forward, he grabs John’s hips in his hands and yanks, and John comes to stand between Ronon’s wide-spread legs. Ronon doesn’t waste any time and reaches for John’s belt, his fingers pressing teasingly into the fabric of John’s pants, brushing feather-light touches over them while he unbuckles John’s belt and unfastens his pants.
The first time they did this, it was awkward and unfamiliar; John unable to deal with the strings that kept Ronon’s pants up and Ronon clumsy with the zippers and buttons on John’s. But they have grown out of that phase, and by now, Ronon is able to remove John’s pants and underwear without much of a fuss. However, for now, he’s satisfied with pushing them down to John’s knees, letting them pool around his ankles and hobbling John unintentionally. Not that Ronon thinks that John would want to run. This thing between them – as much as it is making John squirm sometimes, as often as he refuses to let them do this, it had been him who had started it, who had approached Ronon the first few times, when his touches had been firm and anguished and desperate.
It’s also been John who occasionally tries to stop this, but Ronon thinks he does it out of fear for Ronon rather than just to obey the rules. He never tries to stop John, who fumbles his way through speeches that go in circles and do nothing to convince either of them, but he never says no when John returns to him, days later, the line of his shoulders tense and his eyes wide and soft.
In the end, they always end up together again, like this, Ronon’s rough hand reaching almost carefully for John’s cock and starting to stroke him, his touch light, his other hand holding John’s hip, fingers digging into his skin until it pales and he leaves red prints behind. He usually tries not to leave bruises when they do this. Ronon does understand the concept of discretion, even if he doesn’t understand what being drawn to guys has to do with Sheppard’s ability to fight the Wraith, or any other enemy he’s facing. It just doesn’t make sense to him.
Still, he respects it, or at least tries to, and eases his grip on John’s skin slightly.
He’s not treating him like he will break, because he knows exactly how far from the truth it is.
He treats John like a weapon, with respect and with care, and in return, he gets the feeling that John treats him similar.
“Ronon…” John grunts and shifts from one foot to the other, the muscles in his legs and ass playing under his skin, and Ronon grins and tightens his grip, moving his hand a little bit faster and twisting his wrist every now and then, not stopping or slowing down until John’s cock is heavy and hard in his hand and curving slightly toward his belly.
“Turn around,” he finally says, pushing at John’s hip, to get him in the position he wants, but John only lets him manhandle him in front of the controls and raises his eyebrows. He knows what Ronon wants to do, he has to, but instead of following the order, he shakes off Ronon’s hand and folds his body into a kneeling position between Ronon’s legs. It’s a little tight, a little cramped, but John doesn’t seem to notice; reaching for the strings on Ronon’s pants and tugging them loose, and Ronon helpfully lifts his hips and shifts to the edge of his seat to let John pull and wrestle his pants down his thighs.
This, he thinks while letting his hand slide down his own stomach, he should have expected. John never simply follows an order. If he thinks he has a better idea, he’ll become stubborn and will do what he thinks is best, and the results usually speak for him, even if Ronon is convinced that John is just an extremely lucky guy more than half of the time.
Besides, he is not complaining about John’s initiative this time, not with John’s lips closing around the tip of his cock, his tongue teasing the tip, his right hand braced on Ronon’s thigh. Ronon knows that, once he’s hard enough, his cock lengthened and filled with blood, John will wrap his hand around its base and stroke while concentrating on teasing the tip with tongue and lips, but for now, his hand is resting on Ronon’s leg, pale skin and black fabric and dark hair against Ronon’s own thigh.
It doesn’t matter where their missions lead them and how long they stay there, compared to Ronon, John is always pale; sometimes reddish, sometimes bruised blue and green and purple, but his skin is never as dark as Ronon’s is. It’s a nice contrast, and the artist that’s buried deep in Ronon’s soul appreciates it.
He lets his fingers close around John’s wrist, forming a connection while John sucks more of Ronon’s cock into his mouth. His arousal heightens at the sight of John in front of him, naked from the waist down, his cock hidden by the folds of his black shirt, but Ronon knows it’s there, hard and red and with a clear drop of fluid slowly forming at the velvety-soft tip. He can feel John’s pulse pick up through the wristband, or maybe it’s just the beat of his own heart, reverberating through his fingertips.
He keeps watching John, keeps listening to the slurping sounds of his cock disappearing between John’s lips and stretching them wide. After a while, though, he stops him.
“Want to fuck you,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, as if he hasn’t used it in seven years, and he swallows against the dryness in his throat.
John opens his eyes – he always closes them when he’s sucking Ronon. Ronon doesn’t know if he does it because he’s imagining he’s with someone else. He probably should care about it, but as long as it’s his cock in John’s mouth, he doesn’t.
“Yeah,” John says now, his words almost unintelligible over the rush of blood in Ronon’s ears. “Yeah, buddy.” He struggles to his feet and kicks off his pans, and when Ronon reaches for his hip again and turns him around – “Like this.” – he finally complies and leans his hands on the edge of the console, giving Ronon a perfect view and unlimited access to his ass.
He leans to the side and picks up his discarded coat. In one of the many hidden pockets, there is a little sachet of lubricant, and Ronon grabs it without hesitating. He knows exactly where it is, and it only takes him a brief few seconds to open it and to pour its contents over his fingers and John’s ass.
John twitches, and Ronon places a soothing hand on the small of his back, bunching up John’s black t-shirt and letting his body heat seep into John’s skin. The fingers of his other hand slip easily through the lube, and he patiently pushes one against John and into him. The second finger slips in not as easily, but Ronon doesn’t give up until his middle finger joins his index finger in John’s body and he can fuck John with them, spreading lube around and getting John to relax and accept him there.
“Keep your eyes on the screen,” he murmurs and licks a broad stripe over John’s lower back. “And relax.”
John lets out a short laugh. It sounds somewhat forced, and Ronon reaches around, to stroke his erection gently. At the same time, he twists his wrist, to push his fingers deeper into John, and listens to his breathing speed up.
“You good?” he asks before pulling his fingers free. He doesn’t wait for John’s answer. He knows it already.
“Yeah, buddy. Do it,” John pushes his hips back impatiently, and Ronon wraps his still slick hand around his own hard erection and strokes it a few times, slicking it even more than the cooling saliva from the earlier blowjob had.
He pulls John slowly down onto his cock, giving him enough time to adjust, and strokes his thumbs over John’s hips.
“Hands on the controls,” he murmurs, his voice growing even rougher as John’s muscles squeeze him tightly. “Let’s go flying.”
John cranes his neck to give him a surprised look. He’s flushed, the blood rising high in his cheeks, and he already looks as if he’s too close to the edge. “What?” he asks. “You want to join the Mile High Club?”
Ronon doesn’t know what that means, and like most pop culture references he doesn’t get, he just shrugs and continues with what he’s doing, which means right now that he lifts John up and lets him slide down again, gravity helping him pushing his erection deep into John’s body.
He can ask one of Lorne’s Marines later about this Mile High thing. Or Rodney. It isn’t important right now, with sensations curling deep in his stomach and making his fingertips and toes tingle, with John in his lap, his body tight and hot around Ronon’s cock, his fingers tense on the controls of the Jumper, his thighs working as he fucks himself on Ronon. Ronon feels as if the Jumper picks up speed, as if it’s detecting the urgency in John’s body and thoughts, and the universe spins around them in wild circles as they both become more desperate. Ronon reaches around and wraps his hand around John again, just holds him and gives him a place he can thrust into, his other hand still guiding John’s movements.
He’s not imagining things, the stars really twirl around them in mad circles, and Ronon has to close his eyes and press them firmly shut as he gives up his control and thrusts up, into John’s body, again and again and faster and harder until he comes with a broken grunt he muffles in John’s shoulder.
John isn’t that far behind him, and a few rough strokes of Ronon’s hand later, he spills over his fingers, his jaw locked tight and his fingers biting into the panels on the console.
It takes them a while to bring their breathing back to even, and to stabilize the Jumper, which John does as soon as he can concentrate again, Ronon’s softening cock still in him, his shirt streaked with come and his thighs aching vaguely. Ronon’s arms are wrapped around his waist, a heavy, warm weight that’s still comfortable, somehow.
For now.
~*+*~
“Seriously, Sheppard, were you drunk on your way back?” Rodney asks, a deep frown etched onto his face.
“No,” John replies, his face becoming guarded and careful. “Why are you askin’?”
Rodney glares at him, his mouth a disapproving downwards slash in his face, and thrusts his tablet computer into John’s face. For Ronon, who is lounging against the wall, the graphic on it doesn’t make a lot of sense at first, until he realizes that it’s a simulation of the trajectory of their Jumper, spiraling and bouncing around the screen wildly. Apparently, Rodney has checked the Jumpers’ computers routinely and has stumbled over something that caught his interest – the path their Jumper took when the pilot was distracted.
The tips of John’s ears turn red, and Ronon has to bite the tip of his tongue to stop himself from grinning and giving them away.
This Mile High thing, he decides, definitely has its merits.
And then, he starts wondering how soon he can try to convince Sheppard to do it again.
~end.