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John exhales in relief when he leaves Ava's new virtual world. After three days of hunting the vastness of Earth, he can relax. The endlessness of space doesn't even compare to Earth. Humans have created their own place, made it fit. The Pegasus galaxy is empty when he thinks about it. The Wraith have controlled their food so spectacularly that only tiny pockets of civilisation remain, alive but cowed, forced back to basics by the ever impending threat of death and destruction. One planet blends into the next, and it seems like he's barely travelled ten miles between each civilisation when he knows it's been a hundred millions light years. He never thought he'd get used to the Stargate.
He hasn't. Not really. The blue event horizon takes him apart as surely as Ronon's hands do, breaking the bonds between his atoms and fusing them back together in the instant it takes him to feel the shock of cold in his system. The blue water rushes through him, gives him back to the universe, and his heart pounds with it.
But the planets do blend together. They've visited hundreds of agricultural and hunting villages, so it's difficult to remember which planet hunted giant rats and which liked miniature cows. John really only remembers the places shit went wrong. The places he put his team on the line when he should have put himself on the line instead. The towns that shoved him in cells and threatened his team, threatened his family. Even those blend together. John isn't sure whether that's a good or bad thing.
Earth is intimidating by comparison.
He thinks that maybe Earth was home, once. In some abstract way, it was solid ground and familiar faces. He didn't realise how false Earth was until he set foot in Atlantis. She lit up under his touch just like Ronon has - just like Rodney does when he turns on some useless device. Atlantis is warm beds and tanned skin and legs sliding against his own. Atlantis is spiralling spires, vast emptiness. She is the sunlight over the water. She is the grace of two moons hanging low in orbit, keeping silent sentinel. Atlantis is the feel of Ronon's fingers weaving through his, the curve of a strong shoulder.
But they're stuck here for the night, so John makes the most of it.
'You sure you don't want to see some more of Earth?' He asks, watching Ronon sprawl over the hotel couches. He's still wearing the black shirt from their earlier raid, jeans clinging to him like a desperate hussy. His legs are wide open, the slope of his thighs tapering to strong hips. His arms stretch behind the back of his head, and he's just one long line of muscle and tanned skin barely covered by flimsy Earth fabric.
Ronon watches him for a moment, shrugs as best he can. 'Nah,' he says. 'Too many people.'
John isn't expecting anything else. He knows what Ronon's torment with the Wraith was like. Knows a little about Runners. About how Ronon managed to keep himself alive for seven years of cycling hell. Ronon can't be around people anymore. It makes him edgy, makes him reach for his pistol, watching a group of teenagers giggling harmlessly. He's always been a risk to people. Running isn't all Ronon remembers, but it's all his body recalls. John's still working on fixing that. He's not really good at talking - neither of them are, really. John uses his hands and his mouth, offers his body as recompense. It's enough.
'Sure,' John replies, opens the door. 'See you later, then.'
A grunt drifts past the door he closes, and he shakes his head as he calls the elevator, a completely unbidden smile pulling at his lips.
The sun is losing its fight against gravity by the time he stumbles back to the hotel.
Ronon is inexplicably still, and it's so against everything John knows about him that he pauses just inside the door, dumping the bags of shopping at his feet. The sight of him is completely incongruous, eyes fixed on the TV, limbs sprawled everywhere. It just contradicts everything he knows about Ronon - he's all frenetic energy and perpetual motion, muscles continuing to move when he can't anymore.
And he's watching the TV, still as a statue.
'Hey, buddy,' he says, collapsing into the couch beside him.
'Sheppard,' Ronon replies, eyes still on the fucking TV. But he traces a hand up John's thigh, coming to rest in the join of his leg and pelvis. His dick twitches expectedly, balls tingling.
John's eyes finally move to the TV. 'Parks and Rec?' He asks incredulously, a smirk on his lips.
Ronon raises an eyebrow at him. 'Your government is weird,' he states, like TV is the be all and end all. He grins, eyes gleaming. That little fucker knows this isn't real, wants John to rise to the bait. And he would, really, but there's two ways this will go, and he's not going to risk 50-50 odds.
John reaches up to Ronon's nipple, pinching through the thin shirt. Ronon's low grunt burns through him alongside the hand clenching on John's thigh. This shirt is God's gift to mankind. He loves it when Ronon cracks out the leather vests, but this shirt is so fucking easy access John really wants Ronon to have a few. Luckily, he's a few steps ahead of himself.
'Sheppard,' Ronon growls, and oh, that does funny things to his dick. Funny, wonderful things.
John pushes into his space. His lips are dry, clinging to John's as he finds a better angle and fucks his tongue into Ronon's mouth. His beard is rough on John's chin, friction burns rising on his skin, and desire takes root in his gut like a vine, crawling up into him and twining through his insides. Ronon's hand shifts the three inches he's been desperately wanting, and John's filling under his hand. His cock tingles deliciously as Ronon squeezes, sensation rushing down into his balls and he lets out a low, 'fuck.'
Ronon's arm comes around him, settling heavy around his ribs, biceps flexing. John just fucks up into his hand and tugs at Ronon's hair. Grips the long line of his cock almost viciously.
He growls, the vibration of his throat echoing through John. His fingertips dip into the back of John's pants. His skin fizzes at the calluses pushing roughly into the top of his ass, but he grabs Ronon's arm. Squeezes. He growls low in his chest, sinking his teeth into Ronon's lips in punishment. Not today. He wants something else.
For a brief moment, Ronon's perfect warrior facade breaks. His breath hitches behind his ribs, and John takes way too much pleasure at being the cause. He's not fucking around today - and Ronon knows what John wants.
He fights with the button of Ronon's jeans, breath jittery in his lungs and hands trembling with the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He brings his right hand around, grabbing a handful of Ronon's glorious ass, denim scratching against palm.
'You have no idea how fucking delicious you look,' John hisses, setting his teeth into Ronon's ear. 'I was hard all yesterday, watching you in those jeans.'
He pokes his tongue into Ronon's ear, blows over the wet spots on his lobe. 'Your ass was just begging to be fucked.'
Ronon groans as John's hand slips into his jeans.
And silky skin greets him.
He's not wearing underwear.
'Fuck,' John whispers under his breath. Tangles his fingers in hot skin and damp curls, stroking hard. 'You're all ready for me, you slut.' Pleasure spikes through him like a drug as Ronon's hand clutches desperately at his hip. 'You gonna give me your ass?'
Ronon throws his head back, gasps, 'John, John.'
Desire floods through him like an electric current. Ronon only ever uses his name when they're in the middle of sex, desperate and frantic. It's like he doesn't know he's doing it. The obvious loss of control is intoxicating, and John pushes himself back. Needs to remove his hands before the heat of Ronon seeps any further into his own skin.
He digs into his own pockets, popping the button while he's there. Takes the lube he bought from his pocket, pushing his pants down over his hips enough to free his dick. It springs up against his stomach, the freedom of the breeze spiralling him higher. He squeezes a hand at the base to halt the progress.
Ronon's eyes are on him, still intense even though they're softened with pleasure. He's obscene, with his black shirt damp with sweat and his dick hanging out of his jeans, pointing towards the sky.
'Turn over,' John growls, popping the cap off of the lube. He rubs a generous amount over his cock, cooling his overheated flesh. 'Show me.'
Ronon's on his knees, ass in the air, before John can move. The jeans cling to the line of his ass. The long line of his back tapers from broad shoulders to slim hips. John steps forward, yanks the jeans down over his hips. He doesn't peel them all the way off, just exposes his ass to the cool air of the hotel room and the heat of John's eyes.
'Yeah, show me,' he murmurs, stroking a hand over Ronon's pert ass. He doesn't bother with preamble, just shoves a finger between his cheeks and into him, spreading lube in his hole. Ronon groans, opening around him, and it's enough.
John lines himself up, and his whole body twitches at the sensation of Ronon's tight hole on the head of his cock. Pushing in is like stepping through the Gate - a rush. Ronon is like flying, his body the pinnacle of human strength. He's the first step on Atlantis after a week on imprisonment. He's the sun on Atlantis' spires.
Ronon lets out a long, low moan. His body vibrates around John, hot and tight. His hole clenches around John's cock as he forces further in, and the moan gains the hint of pain that Ronon loves. Ronon's balls are heavy and tight against John's, when they finally come together. His body clings to John, trying to keep him inside and eject him at the same time.
The walls of Ronon's ass are warm and tight around him, just lubed enough to ease his entrance but hint at the friction of skin against skin. He shoves in again, finds Ronon's prostate and hones in on it. Ronon grunts with his thrusts, back taut and long beneath him. He pushes back against John, follows him as he pulls back, emitting helpless little curses as he does so. The sound spirals John higher, and he grabs onto Ronon's hips, pounding into him.
Sensation tingles at the base of his spine, spreading through into his pelvis and shivering through his balls. They pull tight against his body, and Ronon's saying his name, wild and unchecked, all barely contained animality and sensual power and he's John's, all John's, oh fuck -
'Shit!' He swears, pulling Ronon's hips to him and shoving impossibly deeper. He reaches down to Ronon's cock, twitching and hot, and strokes brutally.
John's groans mingle with Ronon's. His body clamped down on John, and John emptied himself into Ronon, marking him. Claiming him from the inside out.
Ronon's panting reaches his ears when his hips finally stop shuddering. John strokes gentle hands over his ass, collapsing into Ronon's back. They sink down onto the couch, spent. Ronon's lying in his own come, and the thought is incredibly hot but John's cock barely manages a twitch. He's finally still, just letting Ronon hold him up, warmth seeping into him. His cheek is hot over Ronon's sweaty shirt but he can't be bothered moving.
Ronon's body holds his cock as his hands hold John's life. This is his favourite part. The quiet, the feel of skin on skin.
John sighs contentedly. 'I bought you some more jeans,' he says into Ronon's spine. 'Thought you could wear them in Atlantis.'
'If you fuck me like that, I'll wear them all the time,' Ronon replies, voice rough. He's always a little more verbal after sex - sometimes even tells John about Sateda and his life there. One night, he recited John his favourite Satedan poem, telling tales of famous generals and epic romances. John's favourite is the tale of General Jul and his second-in-command, Quinn, who led the army to great victory because of their love for each other. Sateda never had problems with sexuality, never had rules against fraternisation in the military. John knows Ronon hates having to hide in their home. Hates being ashamed of their relationship.
'Deal,' John smiles, running a hand gently over his bare hip. Opens his eyes, narrowing them against the last rays of sunlight flooding the hotel room and turning Ronon's skin pure gold.
He glances to the TV. Amy Poehler's face stares back at him, complete with idiotic grin. 'That's just downright disturbing,' he says.
Ronon grunts sleepily at him, shirt sticking to his back and dreadlocks hopelessly askew.
John's going to make him wear those jeans more often.