Work Text:
It had been quiet on Atlantis for the last couple of days. Off world missions had been going smoothly — no wraith, Genii, or replicators, no weird anomalies or malfunctioning ancient equipment. It'd been so quiet that John actually ordered his entire command not to mention it. He wasn't normally superstitious but he didn’t want to risk it.
Hell, even the weather was perfect.
Well, it would be nice if the IOA’s annual review of their mission reports wasn’t coming up, so instead of driving golf balls into the ocean or finally checking out the waves on the mainland, Weir had practically bricked John and Ronon up in a stuffy, windowless office and threatened to post an armed guard to keep them there all night if they didn’t get all their backlogged paperwork done by nightfall.
John was relatively sure she wouldn’t go through with it. Still, he’d resigned himself to wasting this damned unicorn of a day on paperwork.
He’d gotten through a few reports. But the one he was currently writing was proving difficult. The cursor on his laptop blinked at him, daring him to try to explain in IOA-friendly terms how John ended up chosen to be the summer king of a farming commune planet, drugged out of his mind to the point of almost committing multiple murders. He sighed, picking up a pad of post-it notes. Flipping them against his thumb a few times, idly, before peeling one off. Folding it into a tiny paper airplane.
Ronon was practically flying through his logs. Of course that wasn’t hard when he was voice recording everything, and they usually consisted of “Went to such-and-such planet. Shot five wraith. Came home.” He was pretty sure Ronon was just doing them at this point to keep track of how many wraith he’d killed.
John tossed the airplane at Ronon, who was sitting back in his chair, long legs propped up on the desk. The paper plane sailed through the air and lodged itself in his dreadlocks. His partner seemed not to notice at all. John pumped his fist, turned his attention back to the laptop.
After they shoved that ugly-ass crown on me… he started typing. Groaned. Backspaced. After the coronation, Teyla Emmagen and Ronon Dex saved my ass by…
Nope. All wrong. He backspaced again, and turned back to the post-its. Three more airplanes flying at Ronon. Only one of them stuck in his hair this time. One hit the back of his chair, the other arced up and over his shoulder, into his lap.
Ronon stopped recording and picked up the airplane from his lap. The movement dislodged one of the planes that was still in his hair, causing it to roll down his shoulder. With two paper planes in hand, he glanced at John, who shrugged sheepishly. He didn’t bother hiding the paper plane he was currently working on.
“You done?”
“Eh, getting there,” John lied, finishing up the plane in his hand and launching it too at Ronon.
Ronon swatted it out of the air. Smirking slowly at John. “KX5-873.”
John immediately flushed. There was no way Ronon was going to continue. That planet hadn’t been a mission. It hadn’t been anything, except….
“Disovered Sheppard likes getting his a–.”
“That is not a mission log!” John didn’t bother making another paper plane, just wadding a post-it up and throwing it at Ronon’s head.
He ducked, but it still glanced off of him. “He is especially enthusiastic to be trussed–”
“Okay,” John said, slamming his laptop shut, and standing up, heading quickly to Ronon to swipe the recorder out of his hand.
Ronon laughed, using one arm to hold John back while the other kept the recorder out of reach.
“Squeals when I slap–”
“I fucking do not! Give me that!!”
“For more examples of John Sheppard squealing and writhing under me a like a good little boy–”
“Oh fuck you.”
“–reference MS9-895 and M7-444.”
Ronon’s eyes were bright with mischief, that asshole curve to his smile. He was gorgeous. Even at his most annoying.
John smacked Ronon’s legs off the desk, resting one hand on the arm of the chair and reaching for the recorder, in vain, one last time. “You are distracting me.”
“You want to be distracted.” Ronon caught his beltloops, pulling him down into his lap, and leaning in to sink his teeth into John’s neck, in just the right place.
John choked back a groan, grabbing a handful of Ronon’s hair and tugging on it. “That doesn’t matter. Weir had that scary look in her eye that means she means business and I don’t wanna sleep here. Do you?”
“Eh.” Ronon pulled back for a moment, glancing around. “I’ve slept in worse places,” he declared before going right back to using John like a chew toy.
Despite how damn good it felt having Ronon’s teeth on him, he still made a valiant effort to get that recorder from Ronon’s hand. And he was going to wipe the entire thing too. Maybe dump it into the ocean, just to make sure.
Ronon let out a low growl of annoyance. It was kind of embarrassing the effect that sound had on him. Between the sting of Ronon’s bites and the sound, he was getting hard. His hips grinding down into Ronon’s thigh without his permission.
Fuck. The recorder could wait. John pushed Ronon’s hands off of him, and stood up, just to sit back down on the desk. Propping one foot up on the arm of the chair. Crooking his finger in invitation.
Ronon toyed with John’s boot, taking his damn time, watching him like he wasn’t going to take the invitation. He worked the laces free and slipped the boot off before he picked up John’s other foot with a firm grip on his ankle, repeating the process.
As soon as the second boot hit the floor, Ronon’s patience gave way to action. He was on his feet and between John’s legs in a flash. His free hand dragging up John’s thigh and waist before coming to rest, heavy on his chest. Pressing inexorably down.
“Done fighting,” Ronon stated.
“Who’s fighting?” John asked, reaching for the recorder one more time even as his back hit the desk.
Ronon exhaled his exasperation. Fake exasperation. He liked the push as much as John liked the pull. The messing around was part of the fun.
The recorder clattered to the desk as Ronon pinned his wrists down, right above his head. If John’s heart wasn’t already racing, it probably would have started now, with Ronon looming over him like the cat that had caught the canary.
“New entry,” Ronon said, just a few inches from John’s face. “The wrecking of John Sheppard.”
“Promises promises,” he said, testing Ronon’s grip on his wrists. No such luck yet.
“Guess you’re right.” Ronon dropped his head down, catching his lips in a biting kiss. John kissed him back with all the ferocity that much teasing garnered. Sharp nips along his lower lip. Ronon's teeth skimming his tongue when John beat him to deepening the kiss. Hot and wet and messy. They both were breathless when they finally pulled apart.
John huffed out a breath, looking at Ronon. He always lost the edges when he was like this. Despite all the teasing, he was softer, warmer. John wanted to squeeze the back of his neck, or cup the sides of his face and run his thumbs over his cheeks, over his bristly beard.
All that delicate handling that took Ronon so long to accept again. Took John maybe a little too long to give it. Too long in the military, making it hard being comfortable with himself.
“Ronon,” he said, quietly. Waiting until Ronon was focused on him before he spoke again. “Do I have to order you to fuck me on this desk, already?”
Ronon chuckled. “Not the game we’re playing today.”
Damn that was so sexy. John bit his lip, refusing to moan, even if he was hot all over.
“We’re on a deadline, remember?” John reminded him, hooking his legs around Ronon’s hips, squeezing. Urging him impossibly closer.
“Should have thought of that before this.” He pulled the last paper airplane out of his hair, placing it down in his palm. “Don’t let that fall, yeah?” He breathed, with a quick peck to John’s lips when he nodded, mouth a little dry.
Ronon straightened up enough to pull up John’s black t-shirt up before ducking his head to leave a trail of bites down John’s torso. Light, not deep enough to really be good. Leaving John wanting something more substantive – bruising. An imprint on his skin that could be used as dental records.
“Ronon.”
“Hmm?”
“Get on with it.”
“Already begging for it and I haven’t even touched your dick yet.”
“Shut up.” He had to restrain himself from crumpling up the paper plane. When he caught Ronon looking at it, he smirked. “Not gonna be that easy.”
“Guess not,” Ronon chuckled, looking gratified in a way that made John feel soft and warm and good.
Ronon finally bit hard into John’s pec, catching his nipple, and all John did was gasp and hum as the pain seemed to migrate along his chest and right down to his dick. He watched, eyes half mast, as Ronon worked on one pec then shifted to the other when satisfied. He was so lost in the sensation that he didn’t notice Ronon’s hand down his pants until he was gripping him.
Moaning, John arched his hips into Ronon’s hand. The tips of his fingers brushing against the paper airplane, reminding him to keep his hands loose. He focused on his breath, just like Teyla had taught him.
Ronon pulled his hand out of John’s pants, making him groan in protest.
“Still haven’t learned patience.” Ronon kissed him but John was just relieved to feel him loosening and pulling down his pants and underwear.
“Rich coming from you, Chewie,” he said dryly.
“I’m not the one begging.”
“I’ve barely begged!” Which on second thought was maybe not as much of a comeback as it seemed in his head.
“Guess we’ll have to work on that,” Ronon said, low, before he smirked and swallowed him almost to the hilt.
“Shit,” John moaned, then louder when Ronon hummed around him, as if he was just responding to something normal John had said. He clamped down hard on the moans though, cutting them off. The door might be closed, but sound did carry.
Ronon shot him a disapproving look. John mustered the control over himself to glare back at him. Which lasted about a half a heartbeat, because Ronon wasn’t keeping his teeth back. And it was just the right side of dangerous. Like the hottest kind of trust exercise.
Still he didn’t move an inch, save for the little uncontrollable shivers of pain-pleasure. Just closed his eyes and breathed. Kept himself as relaxed as he could. Wanting to see how far Ronon would push.
Maybe that was all he was waiting for. For John to surrender (he’d been waiting for that too, truth be told) because he was sucking him off like a starved man. John looked down at him, wanting to watch his dick disappear into Ronon’s generous mouth. But it was difficult, it felt too damn good. He slipped over the edge in no time.
“No one feed you around here?” John joked when he could think again. Ronon was licking him clean, leaving John twitching from overstimulation.
Ronon chuckled. “Making up for lost time,” he said, pressing a kiss to John’s hip. Gentle, sweet. John shivered, setting the slightly-crumpled airplane aside and stroking the back of his neck, breathing for a long moment.
“Hold on,” John said as his pulse slowed. Pushing Ronon back enough so that he could sit up, pulling off the pants that still clung to his ankles. Taking out a packet of lube and a condom from the back pocket before he reached for Ronon again, wordlessly urging him closer.
Ronon did so, easily. Lips slick and red, with a softness in his expression that took John’s breath away. He cupped the back of Ronon’s neck and kissed him with all the tenderness that he deserved.
John started to work Ronon’s pants free, their kisses growing more heated as he did. He wrapped his hand around him the minute the pants were loose enough. They both groaned when John touched him, started to stroke him.
“Revisiting the idea of fucking me on the desk…” John murmured against his jaw. “Can’t waste this beautiful thing on a handy.”
Ronon chuckled. “One track mind.” His grip on John’s shoulders tightened. It was like this man enjoyed edging more than John did. He just did it to himself.
“Focused,” John teased, picking up the packet of lube and tearing it open with his teeth. “C’mon. Or should I put you back in that chair and ride you?”
Ronon groaned, snatching the packet from his hand. John laughed, triumphantly. He laid down on his back again, folding his arms behind his head.
“You’re the worst,” Ronon grit out, the light in his eyes at odds with his tone. And as if there was any doubt, he was already picking up the condom from the desk.
“Mmmhm,” John said, lifting a leg to poke Ronon with his toe.
Ronon huffed, catching John’s ankle, and hiking his leg up over his shoulder.
It didn’t take long after that, a quick greasing up and Ronon was pushing into him. John sighed from the sensation. Grabbing his own cock as Ronon fucked him hard enough that desk creaked.
It would probably be audible if someone walked by, but John was beyond caring at that point. Ronon was gorgeous above him, lips parted and eyes half open, lost in his pleasure. It was impossible not to watch him, not to feel something hard to describe at the sight of him, something possessive or protective.
John reached up to catch the back of his neck, pulling him close, their foreheads brushing, breath intermingling.
And when they finished, they stayed like that for a while. Just breathing and kissing. This was the best part. When they both let down their guards, their edges softened by each other. Ronon rested against John, his fingers tracing the line of his arm, his collarbone. His thumb finding the bruises that his teeth had left, tracing the indentations possessively. It stung deliciously and John pulled him up for another kiss.
John was just starting to get uncomfortably cold and sticky, when Ronon kissed him one last time, then dragged back, heavily. Disposing of the condom before re-adjusting his clothes, then looking up at him with a smirk.
“Weir’s gonna kill you, you know.”
“Nnh?” John grunted, as he got his own clothes back on. Wishing there was a shower in here.
“The reports.” Ronon reminded him. “How many more do you have to do?”
John grimaced. “A few. Why, how many do you have left?”
“I’m done.” Ronon reached for the forgotten recorder, holding it up. “Just gotta turn this in. Maybe you should try using fewer words.”
Fuck. the recorder. Which had all that goddamned incriminating evidence on it. Maybe even more, if Ronon had forgotten to turn it off.
“I’m going to murder you,” John said, calmly, before launching at him.