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John glances up at the wall clock for the tenth time in as many minutes and breathes a sigh of relief as the long hand finally inches past the twelve. He snaps his laptop shut and turns to the room of seated personnel. He notes the dazed faces and offers a wry grin.
“All right folks, that’s it, four o’clock. Torture session over. Try and remember what we talked about for at least ten minutes.”
There’s a brief silence then a growing murmur as the room comes back to life, laptops click shut and people stand, shrugging off the afternoon languor. Strategy sessions on a warm afternoon are nobody’s favourite.
John gets it. He might be in charge but he’s never enjoyed theory. Particularly when he’s standing at the front of a room instructing people. He’d rather be out in the field with his team, even when they’re risking their asses to wraith fire. Much rather.
And today’s session was far from John’s best. He’s off his game and he knows it. It’s not a good look for the CO of Atlantis. He needs to get his shit together before someone higher up the food chain takes note.
Marines file out of the room, nodding thanks to John as they pass. He pats a few backs and gives his usual self-deprecating smile. If they notice his flushed face he hopes they’ll put it down to the too-warm room.
Then he’s alone, but for one man still seated at the back of the room. His teammate. His buddy. The source of his current discomfort.
“Ronon.” John addresses the Satedan with his back to him, using the momentary privacy to readjust his pants around his half-hard dick. The last thing he needs is for Ronon to notice his arousal and add fuel to the fire. Or whatever this is.
“Yeah, buddy,” Ronon intones lazily. There’s an edge of insolence in his voice that makes John grit his teeth. When had their friendship become so complicated?
John steels himself and turns around. Ronon’s sprawled across a couple of seats, muscled arms outstretched causing his vest to ride up, revealing a taut golden belly. He sees John looking and smiles, all warm brown eyes.
John rubs a hand over his face wearily. Ronon’s been pulling this shit all afternoon. All week, in fact. And if he’s honest with himself it’s been building for a while. Months even.
They’ve always had a connection, he and Ronon. A mutual unwavering loyalty that means more to John than he cares to admit. On missions they move like parts of a well-oiled machine, a team within a team. They’ve taken risks together, made mistakes, seen horrors few would believe. They’ve had some wins along the way and come close to death many times. Through it all they’ve had each other’s backs.
But sometime recently, something shifted. As though the invisible thread between them was tightening. Their sparring sessions got tougher, meaner, began leaving bruises. Their morning runs got faster, more punishing, till John struggled for breath. Ronon’s trademark shoulder slap became so fierce so that on one occasion John actually winced afterwards.
Ronon noticed and turned back around with a look on his face John had never seen. He put his big hand on John’s shoulder and rubbed the spot where he’d hurt him, gently, until the pain was gone and John’s body felt warm all over.
It was after that the dreams had started. The sort of dreams John hadn’t had in a decade or more.
Lithe male bodies moving against each other in an easy, building rhythm. Muscled limbs reaching and grasping as bellies clench and heave. Open mouths questing, biting, spilling low sounds of pleasure. Hips and asses thrusting. Cocks filling, thickening. Then just as John starts to crest, his release within reach, he wakes abruptly. Alone in his bed, covered in a sheen of sweat, rock hard and aching, every time.
And although it’s someone else he wants—wants so badly he could scream—he has no choice but to reach for himself, his fist a poor substitute for the body he craves, and with a few rough strokes bring himself off hard, shuddering helplessly into the pillow.
After nights like that John can barely look at Ronon, afraid he’ll see the remnants of the dream within him. It’s not something he can risk. Decades ago he chose to shut away that part of himself. To hide inside a uniform and a bad marriage and a career that left no time for desire or co-dependence of any kind. And x-rated dreams aside, he’d been doing just fine with that. It was life as he knew it.
Until this. Until Ronon had gotten weird and started messing with their friendship. Acting scrappy, aggressive. Touching John when he didn’t need to. Pushing his buttons, trying it on. And today, in the strategy session, laying it on thick.
John’s kind of fucking angry, to be honest. It’s not as though Ronon doesn’t know the rules. He’s well versed in Earth military culture. He knows what he’s risking. What John could lose if he let himself follow his dick instead of his head. Never mind what he’s doing to their friendship and the team. The two things in Pegasus John actually gives a fuck about.
Maybe anger’s not a bad thing, John thinks, as he walks over to where Ronon’s sprawled, looking for all the world like an animal in heat. Maybe if he’s angry enough he’ll find the courage to confront Ronon before this—whatever it is—implodes.
“You seem a little distracted today, Ronon,” John says, evenly.
Ronon sits up slowly, muscles bunching with the effort, then makes a show of tying back his dreads. When he speaks his voice is velvety-deep.
“Was I distracting you, Sheppard? Sorry about that.” He smiles sweetly.
John laughs out loud. Ronon really isn’t letting up.
“I said you seem distracted, not distracting. There’s a subtle but important difference.”
He returns Ronon’s smile cheerfully. Damned if he’ll give the man the pleasure of knowing he’s getting to him. Even if all he wants to do right now is hit Ronon.
Actually, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.
“Want to go spar, before dinner? Get whatever’s bothering you out of your system?”
Ronon raises an eyebrow.
“Nah. Not really in the mood for sparring.”
Okay, fine.
“Well, want to see what Teyla and McKay are doing? Grab some food together?”
“Mmm…” Ronon sounds doubtful. He looks directly at John. “Can’t say I’m all that hungry, for food.” He lets his gaze drop from John’s eyes down the length of his body and back.
And that’s it for John. Patience exhausted. Line well and truly crossed.
“Alright, Ronon. Enough is fucking enough. You and I are dealing with this right now. Stand up and follow me.”
John turns and walks out of the room fast. Now he’s given voice to his anger he can feel it taking over, blooming red-hot in his veins. Fuck Ronon and his weird Satedan moral compass. Fuck his barefaced insolence and his borderline insubordination and his complete disregard for John’s entire fucking career.
John’s so pissed he’s barely taken note of whether Ronon’s following him or not but now he senses the bigger man just a foot or so behind him, keeping pace. John ignores him, striding on through Atlantis’ long corridors towards his quarters, glaring at anyone unlucky enough to be walking in the opposite direction.
John pulls up sharp outside his room and the door opens for him immediately. He stalks inside and turns around just as Ronon ducks in, looking as relaxed as ever. At least he’s not fucking smirking.
John runs his hands through his hair. He hadn’t quite thought ahead to this bit. He needs to calm down, keep this professional.
“Have a seat, Ronon.” He gestures vaguely towards the end of the bed, which is the only place to sit, since the desk chair is covered in clothes.
Ronon looks around him with a slightly surprised air and sits, as told. Then he says, “You gonna give me a military dressing down in your bedroom?”
“It’s not a military dressing down, Ronon, it’s a conversation,” John snaps. “You know, between friends, which I thought we were.” He takes a breath, forces himself to speak more evenly. “Thought it might be easier to talk in private.”
Ronon’s looking at him earnestly now which makes John even more uncomfortable than the smirking. He runs his hands through his hair again and leans against the desk. Far out, he hates this kind of thing.
Not that he’s ever had to deal with a ‘thing’ quite like this before.
“Ronon…” John hesitates, crosses his arms to stop himself fidgeting. “I’m not sure how aware of this you are—I mean, I think you are, because it sure seems like that—but look—I mean, you’re my friend as well as my teammate and maybe I let that get blurry or something—but fucking hell, you have to stop provoking me, Ronon, okay?”
John lets his arms drop to his sides. “It’s messing with me and it’s messing with the job.” He’s been looking at the carpet but now he looks up at Ronon, directly. “And at the end of the day, the job’s really all I’ve got.”
He hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but there it is. And even though he fumbled it he’s fucking relieved, because it feels like the first honest thing he’s said to Ronon in weeks.
Ronon is returning John’s gaze and looks weirdly relieved, too, and still calm, which is unexpected, given how on edge he’s been lately. John was fairly certain this little chat would lead to raised voices, if not fists.
“Sheppard.” Ronon’s voice is its normal rumbly bass, no trace of sarcasm. His eyes are serious. “I didn’t realise this—us—was messing with work.” He lays his palms open on his knees, a gesture of supplication in any culture. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t see how off my game I was this afternoon?” John’s working through his anger, and Ronon’s apology means something, but still. “I mean, buddy, this has been boiling away for weeks, right? Whatever this is?” He waits until Ronon nods. “And you know, me fucking up in a training session, or getting cut-up sparring with you, that’s one thing. But me fucking up off-world, with other people’s lives in the balance…” He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. They both carry enough guilt of that kind already.
Ronon clasps his hands together and look down at his feet. John’s suddenly aware of how young he is, still. And of the grief and chaos he’s lived through, this lone alien warrior.
“What’s this really about, Ronon?” John’s voice is gentler now. “Is there a point to it all?”
“Yeah, kind of.” Ronon huffs a laugh but his expression is pained when he looks at John. “Didn’t really work out, though.”
“What didn’t?”
“Just—I thought if there was something we couldn’t talk about then maybe I could show you another way. You know, actions speak louder than words. McKay says that whenever I bring him a cupcake.”
John smiles. “This whole time you’ve been winding me up you’ve been bringing McKay cupcakes? A guy could get jealous, you know.”
John’s joking, of course, trying to lighten the mood, but the words seem to pierce Ronon. He looks up at John with an expression so heated that John blushes. He needs to get himself under control.
“Ah—so what do you mean, exactly, when you say ‘something we couldn’t talk about’?”
“I mean the rules, Sheppard.” And now it’s Ronon’s turn to sound pissy. “The stuff you can’t do and the stuff you can’t talk about in the military. Your military.”
“Oh?” John’s brain is playing catch up.
“Yeah. I know all about that and there’s no way I’m going to risk bringing that shit down on you.” Ronon doesn’t do nervous but he’s rubbing his hands on his knees and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip that John’s really trying not to focus on.
“Oh?”
“So I figure I’ll try the Satedan way. But it gets me nowhere. You just keep letting me win.”
“The Satedan way?”
“Yes.” Ronon takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and John can see what it’s costing him, this confession. “On Sateda if two men were… interested in each other, they’d compete. Try to impress each other physically. You know, show off with their bodies. Like animals do when they want to mate.”
There is suddenly far too little oxygen in the room. John realises he can smell Ronon—a heady mix of leather and male skin and fresh sweat—and the knowledge goes straight to his dick. As does Ronon’s use of the word ‘mate’.
“Okay—well obviously there’s some stuff there that we need to unpack…” John closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck where it’s prickling with heat. Ronon appears to have overcome his apprehension and is watching John with a bemused expression. “And the other stuff? This past week, touching me, wriggling round in your seat, fidgeting all the time?”
Ronon grins, suddenly. It’s like floodlights switching on in a stadium, John thinks.
“It’s called flirting, Sheppard. Pretty sure it’s the same in every culture.”
“Aha,” says John, breathily. “Right, sure.”
They stare at each other for a long moment. Long enough that there’s not really any going back. John doesn’t especially want to talk any more, but he has to. There’s things he has to say.
“This—this was all for that? To let me know you were interested?”
Ronn shrugs but there’s something hungry in his eyes now. Or at least, John recognises it as hunger now.
“I thought about saying something outright but I knew I’d fuck it up, and you’d get all weird, and maybe we wouldn’t be friends anymore, you know?”
“Yeah.” John’s distracted by the pulse in the hollow of Ronon’s throat. “That’s—that’s fair.”
“Well, I fucked it up anyway.” Ronon’s smile is wry, warm. “And really it’s beside the point, anyway, if you’re not—I mean, seriously, it’s not a problem if you’re not—”
“Ronon, I am.”
John’s been the baffled one throughout most of the exchange so he’s going to relish this, the awe on Ronon’s face, his stupefied silence.
“Jesus, Ronon, of course I am. I’m just so used to repressing this shit that I assumed you couldn’t—assumed no one—could tell. Because it’s a giant risk, you know? To me, to you, to the team. The whole goddamn expedition. I’ve made a point of not taking that risk for so long. I’ve built a career on not taking that risk.”
The shock is slowly wearing off Ronon’s face and he’s sitting up straighter now, like hope is lengthening his spine.
“And honestly—” John’s on a roll now. “I mean, there’ve been opportunities here and there. Men who’ve wanted it, some women. But I’m not sure anything—anyone—has been worth the risk. Until now.”
As soon as he’s said them, those last two words, he feels his belly flip and the blood start pulsing, in his temples, in his chest, in his cock. Because for the first time ever it’s a genuine possibility. He might actually let himself have it, this thing he’s been dreaming about.
Ronon exhales slowly, watching John with dark eyes.
“Really not how I thought this conversation was gonna go, when we walked in here,” he says.
“Me either.” John grins, then sobers. “But me wanting something doesn’t mean it’s not a fucking bad idea, you know? I mean, in terms of this affecting work—that stops as of now. Outside of this room I am your senior officer and we are functional teammates, every second of every damn day. Agreed?”
“Agreed, yeah.” Ronon swallows. “And inside this room?”
“Equals,” John says. “Off the record. In confidence. No judgement.”
“You’ve thought about this, then?” That eyebrow again.
“Oh, I’ve thought about this, Ronon.” John pauses. He figures it’s now or never. “My cock’s raw from jerking off thinking about this.”
Ronon's intake of breath is audible.
“Yeah,” he says, shakily. “Me too.”
“Yeah? God, I’ve imagined that.” John wants specifics. “Tell me when, how—what you think about—”
Ronon’s been hunched forward on the bed but abruptly he leans back, grimacing, and for a moment John thinks he’s in pain. Then he realises Ronon’s pulling at the ties on his pants in order to ease the pressure on his cock, the curve of which John can see straining against the cotton inner seam.
“Fuck, Ronon—”
“Sheppard, you need to stop talking.” Ronon’s voice is somewhere between a warning and a plea.
“Yeah—sure. How do—? I mean, what do you want?”
Ronon’s glare is frustrated and amused and seriously aroused.
“What do I want? I want to bury myself in your ass, Sheppard. Take you apart piece by piece, watch you lose your fucking mind on my cock. But since I’m hardly gonna last two seconds right now, all I really want is to come.”
Ronon’s got his pants loose and they’re gazing at each other across space, hungrily. John’s not sure he’s ever been this turned on in his entire life and he’s fairly certain he needs to come sooner rather than later, too. So even though this is brand new, barely even feels real, he figures he’s going to ask Ronon for something.
“Would you—would you touch yourself? Come like that, for me?”
“Jerk off?”
“Yeah.” John barely recognises his own voice, it’s so charged with lust.
“Fuck, Sheppard.” Ronon’s shaking his head like John’s kind of an asshole but already he’s standing up, pulling at his vest. “You want to see that?”
“God, yes.” John stops talking and runs both hands through his hair, damp with sweat. “I mean, I want my hands on you too—believe me, so fucking much—but I really don’t want to hurry that…”
John’s voice fades because Ronon’s vest is on the floor and now he’s just standing there, arms loose at his sides, pants low on his hips, letting John look.
And he’s fucking glorious. Towering and broad, yards of silky, caramel-hued skin. Powerful shoulders and arms, muscular chest punctuated by taut brown nipples. Sleek belly dusted with soft hair that tightens into dark whorls at the ‘v’ of his pelvis.
John’s drinking all of it in with flesh-starved eyes when Ronon reaches a hand inside the loosened waistband of his pants and gently eases his cock out—heavy, blood-dark, achingly hard.
John couldn’t swear by it but he’s pretty sure he makes some weird, involuntary, animalistic sound. He’s seen Ronon in various states of undress over the years but never like this, swollen with need.
When it starts to seem like John’s too far gone for words Ronon says, surprisingly gently, “Where’d you want me, Sheppard?”
“God, whatever—wherever—“
“You’re directing this.”
Holy shit.
“Ah—the bed?”
Ronon obliges, toe-ing off his boots and climbing onto the bed, cock jutting out obscenely like some pornographic Adonis. He kneels and faces John.
“Gonna at least take your shirt off so I’ve got something to look at?”
John feels himself blush which is kind of hilarious, given he’s not the one with his dick out.
“Guess that’s fair,” he agrees.
And actually it’s a relief to get his shirt off, damp with sweat. And well worth it, because as soon as John’s shirt hits the floor Ronon reaches for himself, wraps his hand firmly around his cock.
John remembers his manners.
“You need lube?”
Ronon’s dark eyes are raking the hard lines of John’s chest and torso, dropping down to his crotch where John’s uniform is constraining him painfully.
“Nah.”
As if to prove the point Ronon begins to move his hand, stroking himself from base to rigid tip and back again, slowly and thoroughly. John watches mesmerised as a translucent bead of pre-come swells on the cock-head. Ronon repeats the leisurely movement several times, then swipes his palm through the viscous mess and works it down the shaft.
And then he begins to move in ernest, fist rocking purposefully over straining flesh, the muscles in his right arm and shoulder tensing rhythmically as he builds pace. He throws his head back, dreads reaching almost to the small of his back, watching John through eyes fierce with need. Already his breath is coming faster and he’s widening his stance, like he’s getting ready to fuck.
“Not gonna take long,” he pants.
No shit. Ronon’s pretty fucking close and John is virtually vibrating with arousal.
“Holy shit—are you even real?” John breathes.
“Real and about to come,” Ronon manages, chest heaving. “Need to see you, though.”
He glances at John’s crotch, his meaning clear.
“Yeah,” John enthuses, scrabbling to get his pants down, self-consciousness vanishing in a haze of lust.
A moment later he’s naked in front of Ronon, all alabaster muscle and long limbs, his engorged dick curving expectantly towards his belly.
“Oh yeah,” Ronon sighs, gaze riveted on John’s erection.
“Like that?” says John, about ready to come himself.
“Fuck, yes,” Ronon groans, stripping his cock now with rough movements, every muscle in his body clenching and straining.
“Come on,” says John. “Make noise, let me hear you.”
Ronon says something unintelligible in Satedan and then moans like an animal and comes hard, hips bucking helplessly, streams of creamy heat spilling across his belly and forearm. It goes on and on until Ronon stills, finally, and leans back on his heels, eyes closed and body loose.
It’s the hottest thing John’s ever seen and strangely moving, too, watching this powerful warrior give up his defences, wide open and on his knees, because John asked him to. Because he trusts John that much.
When Ronon opens his eyes, still breathing hard, John crosses the floor to him without thinking. He kneels on the bed, aware that he’s trembling with his own unsated need.
“You’re breathtaking,” John says, which gets a groggy smile from Ronon.
The scent of sex and sweat is intoxicating and John can’t stop himself reaching out, hooking a hand round Ronon’s neck.
“How have I not kissed you yet?” he mutters, and pulls Ronon in.
Given the jerking off and dirty talk it’s hardly surprising there’s no first kiss awkwardness. It’s just hot and deep and right, somehow. Ronon tastes like honey and spice and all John can think is that he’s wasted whole years of his life, not kissing this man.
When they pull apart he’s acutely aware of his own neglected dick bobbing ardently between them. Clearly Ronon is too because he grabs John’s left hand and swipes it palm-down through the mess of come on his own abdomen, then wraps their conjoined hands around John’s cock.
“Oh, wow,” says John, weakly.
Ronon just grins and starts stroking, intertwining their fingers so that John can’t tell whose touch is whose, twisting on the upstroke and over the head, gently teasing his slit, then jerking him roughly on the downstroke.
Almost instantly John feels his orgasm igniting deep inside, tendrils of pleasure coiling up into his spine, blossoming across his belly.
Ronon’s watching him closely, holding his gaze. “Should see yourself,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” John’s struggling for breath.
“Yeah.” Ronon places his free hand on John’s heaving ribcage, sweeps a thumb up to graze his nipple. “So fucking ready—”
“Ronon, Jesus, I need to—”
“Do it, give it up.”
And with that Ronon leans forward, takes John’s mouth with his, drives his tongue inside. John moans into the kiss as his orgasm crashes through him, waves of intense wracking pleasure, while his cock pulses, disgorging hotly over their entwined fists.
John can’t remember when he last climaxed so powerfully and when the flood of sensations subsides he’s trembling and lightheaded. Ronon releases his mouth but stays close, propping him up with a hefty shoulder and smiling at him in a way that’s adding to John’s dizzy feeling.
“Okay?” Ronon asks, after a few moments.
“Oh, fine,” croaks John, which makes Ronon chuckle.
John glances at the wall clock over Ronon’s shoulder and lets out a laugh slightly tinged with hysteria. Ronon gives him a questioning look.
“Less than an hour since we finished the strategy session,” John explains, marvelling at how quickly the known universe can tilt on its axis.
“Hour well spent,” says Ronon, smugly. “Could’ve done with less talking, though.”
John’s still thinking of a retort when, without warning, Ronon hauls him off the bed and onto his feet. “Shower before you cramp up, old man,” he says, pushing John towards the bathroom.
“Watch how you speak to your elders,” John scowls.
Inwardly he’s more relieved than he can say. Somehow, despite crossing every personal and professional boundary ever, they seem to have moved closer to the easy friendship of the past.
Ronon starts the shower while John stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He barely recognises the dazed man smiling back at him, dark hair sticking up wildly. He looks—relaxed?
Ronon comes up behind him and slings an arm across his chest, worries the back of his neck with his beard. He gives John a scathing look over his shoulder. “You really have no idea how hot you are, do you?”
John grins and reaches back, grabs a handful of Ronon’s ass. “I’ll take your word for it if it means we can do this again. I mean, if you’re willing to work around the military stuff…”
Ronon presses forward, nudges John’s ass crack with his cock. “Pretty sure you’ll figure out a strategy,” he growls.
Then he turns John bodily and pushes him under the steaming water.
END