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Some Earth idioms translate; some don't.
Over lunch one day, Rodney tells Ronon that John's all tied up today and can't get away.
"Okay," Ronon says, accepting. It seems a little weird, but it makes a good mental image, better if he pictures John naked. "Who tied him up?"
Rodney stares at him, and after a moment grimaces and says, "Alien joke, right? He's busy, he has paperwork." Rodney mimes writing on the table, squinting his eyes and pouting the way he does when he's imitating John. John's impression of him is better.
When John's not at the table for dinner, either, Ronon grabs sandwiches and heads for John's office. He can smell bad coffee from the corridor but isn't prepared to walk in and see John's jacket flung on the floor or his belt hanging off the guest chair, with John twisted sideways in his seat, tilted at a perilous angle, one leg on the desk with his knee bent so he can hold his laptop at an angle with his bare toes.
He'd look ridiculous if he wasn't unshaven and wild-haired; instead, he looks like he's at the end of his rope, another good McKay idiom Ronon's encountered.
"Shoot me?" John asks. He sounds hopeful.
"McKay said you were tied up." Ronon mimics lashing his wrists together.
John's expression goes even more unfocussed. "God, I -- " he starts, and then slaps a hand over his face and rubs hard.
"You wish?" Ronon asks. He holds out a sandwich. John takes it without making eye contact.
"Maybe, yeah," John says, twisting his face as if inviting Ronon to join his wry self-mockery. "What about that, huh."
Ronon shrugs and sits on the desk. He puts his fingers on John's ankle and traces a circle around the knob of bone. "Last time I tied you up you escaped. Wouldn't mind a chance to do it right."
John's breathing speeds up. The tension in his shoulders is melting away from just the small soothing touch. Ronon likes challenges; he wants to make John relax completely.
"I don't remember that," John says. "But it's probably hard to get the knots right over clothing."
"Yeah," Ronon says. "Plus I didn't want to hurt you."
John sucks in a sharp breath. "That's not a problem."
Ronon slides his hand down to curl around John's foot, holding his fingers right over the sensitive arch, a threat of tickling or pinching implicit. John lets him; Ronon grins and pushes John's foot down against the desktop. John sucks in a breath, but he doesn't shift in an attempt to relieve the pressure.
"My quarters," Ronon says. "You're bed's too small. Do you do sex?"
John looks up at him with one of those smiles that isn't, another challenge. "What if I say no?"
Ronon shrugs. "Then we don't do sex. It's cool."
John's smile softens into the private one that Ronon's only seen a few times, the one that shows what John looked like when he was younger and not carrying regret and guilt and responsibility. "You can do anything with me up to and including fucking me into the mattress."
"You wish," Ronon says again, certain this time, and smirks the whole way back to his room.
When John shows up he's wearing a soft shirt and his sleep-pants. Ronon tells him to strip, and John folds his clothes in a neat pile. He didn't wear the colorful undergarment that he does for offworld missions, but Ronon's never understood why it's lucky anyway. He prefers John without his clothes.
"So," John says, and gives Ronon a look that acknowledges John doesn't want to talk but feels he should and feels like he's going to do it badly.
"Here's the plan," Ronon says, and tension drains out of John in relief that he can't hide, seeing as he's naked. "I'm going to ask you to do stuff. You're going to do it. I'm going to tie you up and we're going to fuck, and then I'm going to untie you." He's all set to ask for John's knife when he realizes that of course John didn't bring one. He takes his belt knife out and hands it to John. John looks game but confused. "You have to give me your knife," he explains. "It's a trust thing. You want to stop, you ask for your knife back."
John gets that. He nods, looks down at the knife, and then hands it back. Ronon puts it on top of John's clothes. "Where I'm from, people use words."
Ronon knows that, but he can't remember who told him. "You want to give me a word?"
"Nah." John shrugs. "I trust you."
"Good." Ronon grins. "Put your arms behind your back."
John does so immediately, not with his arms extended but with palms to forearms, his posture straightening, making the half-hardness of his dick more noticeable.
"You mind kissing?" Ronon asks, and is pleased when John shakes his head. He steps forward until he's right in front of John and then says, "Kiss me. Keep your arms like that."
John has to lean forward and angle up, but Ronon knows he's got good balance. John keeps his eyes open as he brushes his mouth over Ronon's, a light sweep and then a harder press, and then he tips his head to the side and licks carefully across Ronon's lips. Ronon opens to him, kissing back harder but not touching John anywhere else. They pass control of the kiss back and forth; it's teasing and fun, and Ronon thinks that if John wasn't John he'd be asking to be touched.
He pulls back and then gives John one last rough kiss. "Stay," he says, and goes to get the rope. Teyla knows where to get all the good stuff; she picked this up as a present for him when she went to see Kanaan's relatives. Ronon misses that kind of comfortable intimacy with the people from Earth, with all their strange taboos and rules. If you never ask and never tell, how are you supposed to know?
Ronon's done this with hairier guys than John, but he's careful as he ties John's arms into place, wrapping the rope over John's shoulders and around his chest. He asks John to tell him if it's uncomfortable, and John says no, but Ronon tests the rope carefully. John watches him work. He's loosening up, swaying a little on his feet and not caring enough to force himself to stop.
Ronon loves the feel of the rope in his hands as it pulls the tension out of John and makes it external. His father's family were crafts-workers, and he can feel that connection in his blood, the need to create with the work of his hands, one twist and one well-placed loop at a time. It's hypnotic, and he's proud when he's done. He hasn't touched John's skin any more than necessary, but now he does, tracing the lines of the rope. John's going to be marked, later.
He flicks John's nipples, one then the other. John gasps and then bites his lip. Ronon pinches him for that.
"Don't hold stuff in," he tells John. John stares at him. "Would an eye-covering make it easier?" John's pretty good at sparring with his eyes covered. He loses a lot of the habits that he uses to project the image of the man, that way of holding himself, conscious of how he's being seen. But Ronon's pretty sure John's going to say no, and John does, a little warily. "No problem," Ronon says. "Do you suck cock?"
John's mouth opens unconsciously, and then his chin goes up, and Ronon remembers too late that cocksucker is as bad in John's language as calling someone hervta-fucked. "Yeah," John says.
Ronon rubs over John's nipples again until John gives him a good unstifled groan and shifts on his feet. "Knees," Ronon says, and strips off his shirt. John's not graceful but he goes down fast and eager, and waits with his eyes fixed on Ronon's fingers as he unlaces his trousers on both sides and then skins them off. John isn't defensive about wanting now; his dick is hard and already wet. "Go slow," Ronon warns, moving to stand in front of John. John leans forward just enough to flick his tongue over the head of Ronon's dick, like he's teasing. Ronon grabs a handful of John's hair in one hand and holds his dick in the other, guiding it into John's mouth to demonstrate what he meant by slow.
John sets up a rhythm pretty easy, and Ronon takes his hand away from his dick to pull a knife out of his hair.
"Mmf?" John says, eyes on the blade but lips keeping a careful tight hold on Ronon's dick.
"I want to mess with your hair," Ronon says, just to make John nervous. John glares, and Ronon grins as he shows him the thin, lightweight cord he has palmed. "Promise I won't cut it." John makes a face but goes back to sucking on Ronon's dick. Ronon cups John's cheek with his hand, the rough scrape of stubble such a contrast to how soft the inside of his mouth is. He wouldn't mind having John do this for hours, until they were both lost, but not tonight.
He cuts a length of cord and selects a piece of John's hair halfway up from his ear. He tucks and wraps the hair tighter than he would for a festival day, because it's shorter and slipperier than most Satedan hair and because he wants to be able to pull the cords without them coming out. The cord is a warm red. At a festival it'd mean John was a farmer praying for a good harvest. Ronon secures a second cord and thinks the symbolism isn't completely inappropriate.
John's curiosity about what Ronon's up to is being eroded by his absorption with the slow wet slide of Ronon's cock. Ronon finds himself wanting to just grab hold of the cords, hold John still, and fuck his mouth until he comes. Next time, he thinks, or the time after that.
He's only got five cords wrapped but that's going to have to be good enough. He puts the knife away and takes a step back. John says something rough on an out-breath, looking like he was shaken out of deep meditation.
"Up," Ronon says, and sticks around to help John stand. His legs and knees probably hurt, and his arms. Ronon kisses him again, enjoying the way John tastes like him. "You said I could fuck you."
"Sure," John says. He shakes his head forward, trying to get a good look at the cords. "What the hell?"
"Satedan thing," Ronon says. He grabs the cords and pulls John over to the bed.
"Useful," John says. His voice has gone raw. Ronon was just going to tell John to put his head down, but instead he wraps the cords around his fist and yanks until John's forehead is on the mattress. "Ow."
"Useful," Ronon agrees. He lets go of the cords and checks John's arms, making sure he's okay. He nudges John's feet into a wider stance and then puts his hands on John's ass, sliding them down to curl around his upper thighs, avoiding John's balls and dick and reminding John of how exposed he is like this.
Ronon's got scented oil that he uses for jerking off, but for penetration he prefers the stuff from Earth. He's also got a ton of condoms that he wins playing poker with the Marines. He grabs what he thinks he might need from the box under the bed and sets all of it but the lube out where John can see.
"You been fucked recently?" he asks John, palming his ass for warning before lubing up a couple of fingers and fingering him.
The first thing John says isn't recognizable as words, and Ronon laughs, and John tells him to shut up. "I have toys?" John says, like there's something wrong with admitting that, and then he shouts as Ronon pushes his fingertips in quick. Ronon pulls out just as fast, gets more lube, twists his fingers in again, then out, then three fingers, forcing John's body to remember how to do this.
"I'm going to make you do the work," Ronon warns. He sits down next to John and strokes his dick a couple times, meaningfully, before grabbing one of the condoms and rolling it on.
"Fuck," John says, and then Ronon pulls him around by the waist, making John yelp and laugh and nearly fall across his lap. Ronon takes his weight and moves John's legs so he's straddling his own, and John pushes back with his ass so he's pressing against Ronon's dick, bound arms to Ronon's chest.
Ronon raises John and lines his dick up, holding the base steady while John takes it into his body. Going slow means it's hell on John's legs; fast would be hard on his ass. Ronon's comfortable with that. "I need a mirror," he says when John pauses, breathing hard, shifting his weight. Ronon reaches up and touches where John's stretched tight around him, circles the circumference with his fingers.
"Hate mirrors," John says. He's panting now like he's running, the way he does when he's trying to match Ronon, like he'd lose face or respect or something by showing his age.
"Guess I have to tell you how hot this is, then," Ronon says. John's not off-balance, so he moves his free hand up to grab the cords again. He wraps them around his hand and pulls John's head back to expose his neck. John swears and tries to jerk free -- instinctive, Ronon thinks, and licks a wide swath down John's neck, stubble-rough and salted with sweat. He can feel every breath John sucks in, even more when he pulls John's head to the side and sucks a hard bite just above his shoulder. John jerks and shudders and shoves down onto Ronon's cock, taking it in so fast and deep that he makes himself shout. Ronon can feel that, too.
He nudges up with his hips, impatient for John to start moving, and rolls John's nipples between thumb and fingers almost hard enough to pinch. John's body snaps again, but Ronon's got him tight, and John breathes out hard and goes loose. Ronon thinks it's one of the techniques Teyla teaches, and grins into the bruise he's raised on John's skin. He feels John's muscles work, and then John raises up, letting half Ronon's cock slide free before going down fast.
Once John starts fucking him, he's relentless, and Ronon feels his orgasm building like a thunderhead. He can't move that well himself, but he grabs the other side of John's neck with his teeth, and uses both hands to pull John down onto his dick hard. It only takes a few times until he's on the edge, and then he reaches around for John's dick. John pushes into Ronon's hand, fucks himself back onto Ronon's dick, and comes with a series of choked-off groans. John goes limp and doesn't seem to notice when Ronon uses his body to bring himself to orgasm. He wraps his arms tight around John, pushing his dick up until he's fully spent, and keeps holding on with his forehead pressed down to John's shoulder until he feels his dick start to slip free.
"Move," he tells John, who grumbles move yourself but is amenable to being shoved over to the side. Ronon tugs the ends of the rope loose and starts pulling it free, the job harder than it should be because of sweat and John's laziness. When John's free and clean and Ronon's checked him over, and John's had a good look at the marks he can see and complained about the bites on his neck and shoulders, Ronon gives the cords in John's hair one last good yank.
"Leave them in," John says, yawning wide enough his jaw cracks.
Ronon shoves John up towards the pillows and grabs the blanket. "You need to take them out before you plow your fields," he tells John as he settles in next to him. "Bad luck not to."
"I'll keep that in mind," John says, grinning, and throws one arm over Ronon's chest. He breathes like he's mostly asleep, but then adds, "Thank you."
Ronon shrugs. "Any time." He's looking forward to just how messed-up John's hair will look when the cords come out. "I'll give back your knife in the morning."
John stills, and feels like he's withdrawing. "Okay."
Ronon hadn't meant to imply that this was a one-night thing. He hates dealing with all this cross-cultural crap. "That's how it's done," he says. "We call partners knife-traders. Like Teyla and Kanaan."
John snorts. "In English, getting married is tying the knot. I don't know why," he adds quickly, like he's afraid Ronon cares enough to ask. "We have a lot of idioms. They just are."
"Weird," Ronon says, and, "Shut up," and, "Go to sleep."
"Knife-traders," John says under his breath, like it's funny, but when Ronon pokes him he pretends to be sound asleep with a grin on his face.