SGA: This isn't a real fic yet
Untitled Ronon fic, NC-17, 2300 words, Warning: AMTDI (with the dub-con that implies).
Unbeta'd, so please do tell me if I have spinach in my teeth.
AN:There are a couple things I've wanted to see done in a AMTDI for a long time. One of them is a guy who really is straight, in an experience that isn't total porntastic awesomeness. (The other thing is AMTDI from the alien's POV. I'm still thinking about that one) Anyway, remember how I babbled about the Ronon fic, with a straight Ronon, that would involve Ronon/John AMTDI? The babbling is here. Anyway, I sat down and wrote that part of it, mostly to play with character voice for Ronon. This may or may not become part of that longer fic, but I thought it made a good experiment as a stand-alone.
Ronon folded his arms very deliberately, not letting his gaze flicker from the armed guards at the door of their cell. If Sheppard gave the nod right now, it would be a matter of shoving the spokesman into guard number one, dropping and rolling to avoid the weapons fire from guard number two, and then throwing guard number two and taking his weapon out of the equation. Sheppard would push Rodney behind cover and close with guard number one. Their chances were eighty percent.
He eyed the deceptively primitive looking sidearms, remembered the five different guard stations between them and the outside world, and revised to seventy-five percent.
Sheppard could do the same math. He wouldn't give the nod, so Ronon just kept on looking intimidating.
"Oh God, seriously?" McKay looked back and forth from Sheppard to the alien spokesman. "They can't actually be serious, can they? Because this reads like the worst practical joke I've ever heard, and I'm sure the social scientists would have something to say about the utter ridiculousness of a culture-"
Sheppard shot McKay the look- the aliens tend to like us less the more you talk look- and said, "You'll have to leave us alone for a while to talk about this. And we need food."
The guy, some guy with a headdress too big for his head and a title involving too many X's, answered, "a meal will be brought to you," and Sheppard cut him off right away with, "No. The food from our packs, thanks."
The hand gesture the man gave could have been disagreement or assent. It mostly looked like the elegant wrist-circle used for presenting food or a gift, on one world where he had hid in an abandoned shed and watched for nearly a week, in what might have been his third year of Running, or his fourth. Sheppard seemed to think the gesture was a good sign too, the way he relaxed when the door clanged shut again. Not a slump, just a shifting of his weight more to one leg than the other, a more comfortable stance that would slow his reaction time by a fraction of a second. That was Ronon's cue to let himself relax as well, though he didn't move from that spot. The sight line down the hall was good from there.
McKay flopped on the floor and said, "Oh God. It's like bad soap opera. Not that I ever watched soap operas, you understand, but this is the kind of thing bad soap opera would do around year fifteen when every plot that isn't utterly ridiculous has been all used up. Is this really my life? I mean, when the hero-worshiping biographer gets to the chapter on the homosexual experiences of the late genius Dr. McKay, how is he even going to be able to keep a straight face? I wish they would let Teyla-"
Ronon said, "Do you really?" It came out only a little more menacing than he had intended. She still nurses a child, the man had said, We will not defile Motherhood with the ceremony, and Ronon had felt a surge of wordless relief. He'd seen it in Sheppard's face, too. If Teyla had been in the cell with them, Sheppard would have given the nod.
McKay blinked. "Oh. Well. Of course. It's not like I'd actually want her to be forced to do anything, I mean. I just. Wish it wasn't me."
He met Sheppard's eyes, and Sheppard gave the very slightest of nods. "It won't be you," Ronon said. "Don't worry."
"What, are you insane? You may not know all that much about Earth military culture, but I should think that even you would realize that Sheppard absolutely cannot be involved, on pain of his such-as-it-is career."
Ronon said, "It's his choice," at the same time Sheppard said, "Don't be melodramatic."
"Melodramatic? It's hardly melodramatic to point out that your entire lifetime of military service could be completely scuttled by one stupid captivity on one stupid planet, and if the only way to prevent that is for me to take it up the ass from a caveman, believe it or not, I actually will. Not that I won't complain. A great deal."
Sheppard's voice was carefully nonchalant. "We get out of here, the incident gets called non-consensual in my personnel file, Woolsey classifies the report eyes-only, I have to sit through mandated sessions with whoever they bring in to replace Heightmeyer, easy. You may not have the highest opinion of the American military, but nobody hands out dishonorable discharges for non-con."
McKay stared at him intently, mouth pursed tight, and just when Ronon was afraid that he could keep arguing for hours, Sheppard cut him off with, "It'll be easier on me than you. Drop it."
"Food's here," said Ronon, and it was a testament to the atmosphere in that cell that McKay hadn't even noticed.
As McKay tucked in, Sheppard turned and asked softly, "Will we be okay?"
Ronon just answered, "Yeah."
***
When the man came back an hour later, the rest of the negotiations seemed almost trivially easy. Yes, they could speak with Teyla to ensure she was being well treated. Yes, their weapons and all their gear would be left at the Ring of the Ancestors for them to retrieve. Yes, the change of clothing, canteen, and medical kit from their packs could be left in the ceremony room if they felt those items would be helpful. No, their companions were not required to watch.
And, finally: Yes, the ceremony could be held at any time, including right now.
McKay had been watching Sheppard the whole time, with an expression that could only be anger. Ronon had no patience for it at all. The guy had no right to be angry, not at Sheppard just trying to protect him. Whatever the hell was going on there, it wasn't his business, but the two of them needed to get it sorted out.
His business was staying calm about the fact that he was going to fuck- John. He was going to fuck John. Huh. Calm. Yeah, he could do that.
The room was more plush than he expected, bed soft and wide and a little lower than he was used to, and the one-way mirror all along one wall might even be convincing, if he didn't think about it too hard. John stepped out of his boots, matter of fact, so Ronon did the same. John was looking determinedly not at him or the glass, not fidgeting exactly but clearly not able to settle into his own skin.
"I'm, uh, gonna take my pants off. Easier. You can just undo yours if you'd rather." He started stripping in quick, efficient movements, seeming relieved to have something to do with his hands. First pants then boxers. His cock hung soft and vulnerable, and he turned a little further away from the glass.
John seemed to decide he felt ridiculous in a t-shirt but no pants, so he skinned that off too. That was easier. Sheppard with a bare chest wasn't necessarily sexual. He didn't skin down often for their sparring matches, but he did sometimes.
Ronon couldn't catch his eye, so he asked, "John?" John gave a little start at the unaccustomed address. "Sure?"
It was a hard question to ask, because they had no fall back. He had no idea what he would do if John said no; their tactical position was worse here than in the cell. Had to ask.
"Yeah."
"Okay. I haven't."
"I'll get ready. You close your eyes and think about whatever you have to."
John fumbled with the med kit, and Ronon understood when he screwed the cap off a tube of something and squeezed it onto his fingers.
"They gave us stuff."
"I'll pass on the alien substances, thanks."
John lay back on the bed and bent his legs. He lifted his package a little out of the way with one hand and slid the slick fingers down and behind.
Ronon had to look away then. Wasn't going to close his eyes, though. Not gonna leave John all alone in this. Besides, he'd be too twitchy to get it up if he couldn't see the door, didn't know he would at least see movement in his peripheral vision if there was any to see. That's what he'd say if John asked. He let his eyes stay on John's chest and shoulders, undid his pants and brought himself up with firm, mechanical tugs.
John was starting to harden. Just a little, not standing up yet, but looking heavy and full. His wrist moved rhythmically. Ronon didn't know when he'd let his eyes wander, but his own hand stuttered to a stop.
That was no good. John wasn't going to want him taking forever. Better to just close his eyes, picture those magazines the Marines passed around on the black market, make sure he was close when John was ready.
He couldn't quite make himself do it.
"Hey," he said, crawling onto the bed and kneeling up next to John's prone body. "How about if I-"
John gave another little start, shifted awkwardly and uncertainly. Ronon just reached out and smoothed hands down the sides of his neck, over his shoulders, down his chest.
John's nipples were small and tight, so he rubbed them in little circles with his thumbs. His stomach was flat and smooth, so he rubbed there too, palms sliding down John's sides. Then his hips, and the little hollow there, squeezing just a little. Then thighs, hairy and strong, then to the inside of his thighs, little kneading motions from the knees and working up. John's legs fell open for him, and something sparked in Ronon's belly at that.
John had gotten a lot harder.
"It's easier like this," John said, rolling over. Ronon kept up with the same motions, rubbing the backs of his thighs and stroking the small of his back and kneading his ass. Just like a woman, he told himself. No different. Just touch and keep touching. You're just trying to make her-him-the other person. Just make them feel good.
John's legs spread wider, and his hips pressed up a little bit. Seemed like that sign was the same, too. Ronon grabbed the tube John had discarded and slicked himself. The simple, loose stroke of his hand made him shudder in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was strange. He hadn't noticed getting so turned on. Hell, he still didn't feel so turned on, but it took a little bit of an effort to pull his hand away.
This time, his hand on John's ass was a question, and when John pushed up to his knees and elbows, that was an answer. He held himself at John's entrance, pressed just a little. Wondered how slow was slow enough and how gentle was gentle enough, and how the hell he would come without hurting him.
John pressed back against him, hard, and he slid inside smoother than he anticipated, smoother and hotter and tighter and the feel was too foreign to enjoy and too intense to stay silent.
He gripped John's hips hard and started to move, and John moved against him, bracing and bucking backwards and making a quiet whine in the back of his throat. The bones of his hips and the shape of his ass were all wrong- everything about it was a little wrong, a little off, even the smell, not unpleasant but just male. But then there was the way that other body moved, the posture, the feel of that slick heat and tight friction around his cock. Everything about it was intensely, overwhelmingly sexual, in ways that his brain shied away from thinking about.
Heat clenched in his belly even as his mind wrenched itself away and away from the scarred back and unruly black hair in front of him, the low-pitched grunts John made when he shoved home. He didn't close his eyes, not exactly, but his vision greyed out a little as he saw that new Sargent- Pritchard- Brooke, she'd asked him to call her Brooke at the training sessions- the way her breasts would swing with this kind of fucking, how narrow the small of her back would be, how it would flare out to the dimples of her ass, how she would gasp-
John ground out "Harder," and the image in his mind shattered. His hips followed the order of their own accord, snapping forward into John harder than he would ever have dared with a woman, and John came with a groan, fists clenched in the blankets and ass gripping and squeezing him like a muscular hand.
Two thrusts more and Ronon came, without time to return to his fantasy, disconcerting and awkward, fast and sharp and over very soon.
They held still, shuddering, for just a second or two before John eased himself down onto his stomach. Ronon started to lift away, but John said, "No. Wait. That'll hurt," a simple acknowledgment of physical limitation that Ronon didn't think he'd ever heard from him before.
Ronon went soft fast, much more quickly than with a woman, and was able to slide out only a little while later. He paused, above John, waited. He felt restless, wanted to get up and pace, maybe run a few hand-to-hand drills. Do something his body would find familiar. He needed a signal first. Needed to know how John wanted to play this.
"I'm just gonna. Lay here for a little while."
"Okay," Ronon said. He wiped himself off with the spare t-shirt, left it and the canteen of water for John, laced himself up. Thought about saying something. Almost said, "Don't think about him." Or maybe, "We protected the team. That's what guys like us do." Didn't.
"Take your time," he said, and left.
Unbeta'd, so please do tell me if I have spinach in my teeth.
AN:There are a couple things I've wanted to see done in a AMTDI for a long time. One of them is a guy who really is straight, in an experience that isn't total porntastic awesomeness. (The other thing is AMTDI from the alien's POV. I'm still thinking about that one) Anyway, remember how I babbled about the Ronon fic, with a straight Ronon, that would involve Ronon/John AMTDI? The babbling is here. Anyway, I sat down and wrote that part of it, mostly to play with character voice for Ronon. This may or may not become part of that longer fic, but I thought it made a good experiment as a stand-alone.
Ronon folded his arms very deliberately, not letting his gaze flicker from the armed guards at the door of their cell. If Sheppard gave the nod right now, it would be a matter of shoving the spokesman into guard number one, dropping and rolling to avoid the weapons fire from guard number two, and then throwing guard number two and taking his weapon out of the equation. Sheppard would push Rodney behind cover and close with guard number one. Their chances were eighty percent.
He eyed the deceptively primitive looking sidearms, remembered the five different guard stations between them and the outside world, and revised to seventy-five percent.
Sheppard could do the same math. He wouldn't give the nod, so Ronon just kept on looking intimidating.
"Oh God, seriously?" McKay looked back and forth from Sheppard to the alien spokesman. "They can't actually be serious, can they? Because this reads like the worst practical joke I've ever heard, and I'm sure the social scientists would have something to say about the utter ridiculousness of a culture-"
Sheppard shot McKay the look- the aliens tend to like us less the more you talk look- and said, "You'll have to leave us alone for a while to talk about this. And we need food."
The guy, some guy with a headdress too big for his head and a title involving too many X's, answered, "a meal will be brought to you," and Sheppard cut him off right away with, "No. The food from our packs, thanks."
The hand gesture the man gave could have been disagreement or assent. It mostly looked like the elegant wrist-circle used for presenting food or a gift, on one world where he had hid in an abandoned shed and watched for nearly a week, in what might have been his third year of Running, or his fourth. Sheppard seemed to think the gesture was a good sign too, the way he relaxed when the door clanged shut again. Not a slump, just a shifting of his weight more to one leg than the other, a more comfortable stance that would slow his reaction time by a fraction of a second. That was Ronon's cue to let himself relax as well, though he didn't move from that spot. The sight line down the hall was good from there.
McKay flopped on the floor and said, "Oh God. It's like bad soap opera. Not that I ever watched soap operas, you understand, but this is the kind of thing bad soap opera would do around year fifteen when every plot that isn't utterly ridiculous has been all used up. Is this really my life? I mean, when the hero-worshiping biographer gets to the chapter on the homosexual experiences of the late genius Dr. McKay, how is he even going to be able to keep a straight face? I wish they would let Teyla-"
Ronon said, "Do you really?" It came out only a little more menacing than he had intended. She still nurses a child, the man had said, We will not defile Motherhood with the ceremony, and Ronon had felt a surge of wordless relief. He'd seen it in Sheppard's face, too. If Teyla had been in the cell with them, Sheppard would have given the nod.
McKay blinked. "Oh. Well. Of course. It's not like I'd actually want her to be forced to do anything, I mean. I just. Wish it wasn't me."
He met Sheppard's eyes, and Sheppard gave the very slightest of nods. "It won't be you," Ronon said. "Don't worry."
"What, are you insane? You may not know all that much about Earth military culture, but I should think that even you would realize that Sheppard absolutely cannot be involved, on pain of his such-as-it-is career."
Ronon said, "It's his choice," at the same time Sheppard said, "Don't be melodramatic."
"Melodramatic? It's hardly melodramatic to point out that your entire lifetime of military service could be completely scuttled by one stupid captivity on one stupid planet, and if the only way to prevent that is for me to take it up the ass from a caveman, believe it or not, I actually will. Not that I won't complain. A great deal."
Sheppard's voice was carefully nonchalant. "We get out of here, the incident gets called non-consensual in my personnel file, Woolsey classifies the report eyes-only, I have to sit through mandated sessions with whoever they bring in to replace Heightmeyer, easy. You may not have the highest opinion of the American military, but nobody hands out dishonorable discharges for non-con."
McKay stared at him intently, mouth pursed tight, and just when Ronon was afraid that he could keep arguing for hours, Sheppard cut him off with, "It'll be easier on me than you. Drop it."
"Food's here," said Ronon, and it was a testament to the atmosphere in that cell that McKay hadn't even noticed.
As McKay tucked in, Sheppard turned and asked softly, "Will we be okay?"
Ronon just answered, "Yeah."
***
When the man came back an hour later, the rest of the negotiations seemed almost trivially easy. Yes, they could speak with Teyla to ensure she was being well treated. Yes, their weapons and all their gear would be left at the Ring of the Ancestors for them to retrieve. Yes, the change of clothing, canteen, and medical kit from their packs could be left in the ceremony room if they felt those items would be helpful. No, their companions were not required to watch.
And, finally: Yes, the ceremony could be held at any time, including right now.
McKay had been watching Sheppard the whole time, with an expression that could only be anger. Ronon had no patience for it at all. The guy had no right to be angry, not at Sheppard just trying to protect him. Whatever the hell was going on there, it wasn't his business, but the two of them needed to get it sorted out.
His business was staying calm about the fact that he was going to fuck- John. He was going to fuck John. Huh. Calm. Yeah, he could do that.
The room was more plush than he expected, bed soft and wide and a little lower than he was used to, and the one-way mirror all along one wall might even be convincing, if he didn't think about it too hard. John stepped out of his boots, matter of fact, so Ronon did the same. John was looking determinedly not at him or the glass, not fidgeting exactly but clearly not able to settle into his own skin.
"I'm, uh, gonna take my pants off. Easier. You can just undo yours if you'd rather." He started stripping in quick, efficient movements, seeming relieved to have something to do with his hands. First pants then boxers. His cock hung soft and vulnerable, and he turned a little further away from the glass.
John seemed to decide he felt ridiculous in a t-shirt but no pants, so he skinned that off too. That was easier. Sheppard with a bare chest wasn't necessarily sexual. He didn't skin down often for their sparring matches, but he did sometimes.
Ronon couldn't catch his eye, so he asked, "John?" John gave a little start at the unaccustomed address. "Sure?"
It was a hard question to ask, because they had no fall back. He had no idea what he would do if John said no; their tactical position was worse here than in the cell. Had to ask.
"Yeah."
"Okay. I haven't."
"I'll get ready. You close your eyes and think about whatever you have to."
John fumbled with the med kit, and Ronon understood when he screwed the cap off a tube of something and squeezed it onto his fingers.
"They gave us stuff."
"I'll pass on the alien substances, thanks."
John lay back on the bed and bent his legs. He lifted his package a little out of the way with one hand and slid the slick fingers down and behind.
Ronon had to look away then. Wasn't going to close his eyes, though. Not gonna leave John all alone in this. Besides, he'd be too twitchy to get it up if he couldn't see the door, didn't know he would at least see movement in his peripheral vision if there was any to see. That's what he'd say if John asked. He let his eyes stay on John's chest and shoulders, undid his pants and brought himself up with firm, mechanical tugs.
John was starting to harden. Just a little, not standing up yet, but looking heavy and full. His wrist moved rhythmically. Ronon didn't know when he'd let his eyes wander, but his own hand stuttered to a stop.
That was no good. John wasn't going to want him taking forever. Better to just close his eyes, picture those magazines the Marines passed around on the black market, make sure he was close when John was ready.
He couldn't quite make himself do it.
"Hey," he said, crawling onto the bed and kneeling up next to John's prone body. "How about if I-"
John gave another little start, shifted awkwardly and uncertainly. Ronon just reached out and smoothed hands down the sides of his neck, over his shoulders, down his chest.
John's nipples were small and tight, so he rubbed them in little circles with his thumbs. His stomach was flat and smooth, so he rubbed there too, palms sliding down John's sides. Then his hips, and the little hollow there, squeezing just a little. Then thighs, hairy and strong, then to the inside of his thighs, little kneading motions from the knees and working up. John's legs fell open for him, and something sparked in Ronon's belly at that.
John had gotten a lot harder.
"It's easier like this," John said, rolling over. Ronon kept up with the same motions, rubbing the backs of his thighs and stroking the small of his back and kneading his ass. Just like a woman, he told himself. No different. Just touch and keep touching. You're just trying to make her-him-the other person. Just make them feel good.
John's legs spread wider, and his hips pressed up a little bit. Seemed like that sign was the same, too. Ronon grabbed the tube John had discarded and slicked himself. The simple, loose stroke of his hand made him shudder in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was strange. He hadn't noticed getting so turned on. Hell, he still didn't feel so turned on, but it took a little bit of an effort to pull his hand away.
This time, his hand on John's ass was a question, and when John pushed up to his knees and elbows, that was an answer. He held himself at John's entrance, pressed just a little. Wondered how slow was slow enough and how gentle was gentle enough, and how the hell he would come without hurting him.
John pressed back against him, hard, and he slid inside smoother than he anticipated, smoother and hotter and tighter and the feel was too foreign to enjoy and too intense to stay silent.
He gripped John's hips hard and started to move, and John moved against him, bracing and bucking backwards and making a quiet whine in the back of his throat. The bones of his hips and the shape of his ass were all wrong- everything about it was a little wrong, a little off, even the smell, not unpleasant but just male. But then there was the way that other body moved, the posture, the feel of that slick heat and tight friction around his cock. Everything about it was intensely, overwhelmingly sexual, in ways that his brain shied away from thinking about.
Heat clenched in his belly even as his mind wrenched itself away and away from the scarred back and unruly black hair in front of him, the low-pitched grunts John made when he shoved home. He didn't close his eyes, not exactly, but his vision greyed out a little as he saw that new Sargent- Pritchard- Brooke, she'd asked him to call her Brooke at the training sessions- the way her breasts would swing with this kind of fucking, how narrow the small of her back would be, how it would flare out to the dimples of her ass, how she would gasp-
John ground out "Harder," and the image in his mind shattered. His hips followed the order of their own accord, snapping forward into John harder than he would ever have dared with a woman, and John came with a groan, fists clenched in the blankets and ass gripping and squeezing him like a muscular hand.
Two thrusts more and Ronon came, without time to return to his fantasy, disconcerting and awkward, fast and sharp and over very soon.
They held still, shuddering, for just a second or two before John eased himself down onto his stomach. Ronon started to lift away, but John said, "No. Wait. That'll hurt," a simple acknowledgment of physical limitation that Ronon didn't think he'd ever heard from him before.
Ronon went soft fast, much more quickly than with a woman, and was able to slide out only a little while later. He paused, above John, waited. He felt restless, wanted to get up and pace, maybe run a few hand-to-hand drills. Do something his body would find familiar. He needed a signal first. Needed to know how John wanted to play this.
"I'm just gonna. Lay here for a little while."
"Okay," Ronon said. He wiped himself off with the spare t-shirt, left it and the canteen of water for John, laced himself up. Thought about saying something. Almost said, "Don't think about him." Or maybe, "We protected the team. That's what guys like us do." Didn't.
"Take your time," he said, and left.