Ficlet: A Warm Embrace (John/Ronon) R
Title: A Warm Embrace
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Ronon
Rating: R
Word Count: 995
A/N: arsenicjade asked for John/Ronon, cold.
Summary: "God, you're so warm," he groans, and Ronon shudders as it breaks across his throat like a crashing wave.
*
Ronon's learned to be in touch with his environment even in sleep, to sift through changes and anomalies and categorize them as harmless or not. In the past, the minute and gradual temperature change in his quarters would have been noted and dismissed, but this time it brings Ronon awake and has him reaching for his radio.
He tunes in just in time to hear McKay snapping: "--a mere twelve degrees below room temperature, Colonel! I told you that resetting the system would result in a temporary and slight irregularity--"
Ronon rolls his eyes and drops the radio on the bedside table, then goes to his closet and roots around for thick hand-woven blanket that one of the Athosians gifted him with at the start of his first cold season in the city. He'd tried to reject it because he wasn't stupid and Planya's lingering hands and colored lips were very obvious, but Teyla had caught his eye and shaken her head, so instead Ronon had accepted it.
After pulling on his boots and a loose shirt to go with his sleep pants, he gathers the blanket and his gun and leaves his quarters. It takes hardly any time to make his way to John's door.
John answers the chime dressed in sweat pants, a heavy sweatshirt with faded lettering and a hood, and thick socks. Ronon looks over his shoulder and sees three of the thin military-issue blankets layered on the bed. When he looks back, John has his hands shoved in the single front-pocket on his sweatshirt and is trying not to noticeably shiver.
"You just stopping by, or are you coming in?" John asks casually.
Ronon snorts and pushes past him, and as soon as the door's closed he goes right for the bed and straightens the covers, then unfolds on top of them the blanket he's brought.
John scowls at it, obviously conflicted. "The courting gift from that Athosian," he says darkly, but he's looking at it the way McKay looks at coffee in the mornings.
"I can take it and go," Ronon says blandly, and John glares at him--nothing the least bit conflicted there--and shakes his head. Ronon hides his smile by leaning over and turning down the bed covers. "Come on."
Before Ronon's even gotten a hand on his holster to unhook it, John is in the bed, burrowed so far under the covers that only a small tuft of hair is visible.
Ronon smiles openly as he disarms himself and kicks off his boots. When he gets into the bed John pulls him down until even his face is covered, and then somehow manages to wriggle under him, so that Ronon is half laying on him like another layered blanket. He shoves his ice-cold hands inside of Ronon's shirt right against his torso, tucks his feet between Ronon's calves and presses his face against Ronon's neck.
Most people probably haven't even noticed the temperature drop. Even those who have are probably only a little less comfortable than they were a few hours ago. John, on the other hand, runs too damn cold not to be entirely uncomfortable.
"God, you're so warm," he groans, and Ronon shudders as it breaks across his throat like a crashing wave.
He turns his face against John's hair, then wraps his arms around him, tucking them under the hem of his sweats and palming the globes of his ass, which are chilly to the touch.
"You get cold everywhere," he complains, but not seriously because John is pressing against his hands and getting hard against his hip, and that's his tongue on Ronon's neck. "Oh."
John lifts his face and catches Ronon's lips with his own, and the kiss is steamy and dizzying because of the way they're tucked so tightly under so many blankets and are breathing their own exhalations, and Ronon's dick fills and hardens with five slides of John's tongue against his own.
When John drags one of his hands down, Ronon pulls his own hands from out of the back of his pants and grabs John's. "No, your hands are cold," he growls.
"Fine," John huffs and yanks himself free. He fumbles with the blankets and when he touches Ronon again, his hand is wrapped in something soft and warm.
"Isn't that a little--" Ronon starts to ask when he realizes just what's around the hand John's shoving down his pants.
"Shut up," John says and kisses him just as his hand, covered with the Athosian blanket, closes around Ronon's dick and strokes him with cushioned pressure and a sweetly soft texture. He does it again and again, until the blanket's wet with Ronon's precome and he's fallen completely into the pleasure and John's breath against his lips is like the only air he'll ever need, and it's always good, always perfect, and just like every other time it feels like this time is the best, is the most perfect.
"Come all over it," John tells Ronon, speeding up his hand and rutting against Ronon, who groans and thrusts into his grip, frantic and desperate and almost there. John opens his mouth against the front of Ronon's throat, and his lips and teeth and tongue catch against the vulnerable skin when he says, "Come on it, and then I'll jerk myself off with it, too."
And that's it, that's all it takes, because, god. People think Ronon's the primal one, the possessive one, but it's John who is, and it always undoes Ronon, always.
He comes, and John catches it with the blanket, scrambles for his own dick and is coming himself before Ronon's arching back even touches the bed again.
"God," Ronon gasps and then flails out an arm to shove the covers from his head because he's on the verge of suffocation. He gulps in cool, fresh air and under the blankets John pants against his chest and says, smugly, "Yeah."
.End
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: John/Ronon
Rating: R
Word Count: 995
A/N: arsenicjade asked for John/Ronon, cold.
Summary: "God, you're so warm," he groans, and Ronon shudders as it breaks across his throat like a crashing wave.
*
Ronon's learned to be in touch with his environment even in sleep, to sift through changes and anomalies and categorize them as harmless or not. In the past, the minute and gradual temperature change in his quarters would have been noted and dismissed, but this time it brings Ronon awake and has him reaching for his radio.
He tunes in just in time to hear McKay snapping: "--a mere twelve degrees below room temperature, Colonel! I told you that resetting the system would result in a temporary and slight irregularity--"
Ronon rolls his eyes and drops the radio on the bedside table, then goes to his closet and roots around for thick hand-woven blanket that one of the Athosians gifted him with at the start of his first cold season in the city. He'd tried to reject it because he wasn't stupid and Planya's lingering hands and colored lips were very obvious, but Teyla had caught his eye and shaken her head, so instead Ronon had accepted it.
After pulling on his boots and a loose shirt to go with his sleep pants, he gathers the blanket and his gun and leaves his quarters. It takes hardly any time to make his way to John's door.
John answers the chime dressed in sweat pants, a heavy sweatshirt with faded lettering and a hood, and thick socks. Ronon looks over his shoulder and sees three of the thin military-issue blankets layered on the bed. When he looks back, John has his hands shoved in the single front-pocket on his sweatshirt and is trying not to noticeably shiver.
"You just stopping by, or are you coming in?" John asks casually.
Ronon snorts and pushes past him, and as soon as the door's closed he goes right for the bed and straightens the covers, then unfolds on top of them the blanket he's brought.
John scowls at it, obviously conflicted. "The courting gift from that Athosian," he says darkly, but he's looking at it the way McKay looks at coffee in the mornings.
"I can take it and go," Ronon says blandly, and John glares at him--nothing the least bit conflicted there--and shakes his head. Ronon hides his smile by leaning over and turning down the bed covers. "Come on."
Before Ronon's even gotten a hand on his holster to unhook it, John is in the bed, burrowed so far under the covers that only a small tuft of hair is visible.
Ronon smiles openly as he disarms himself and kicks off his boots. When he gets into the bed John pulls him down until even his face is covered, and then somehow manages to wriggle under him, so that Ronon is half laying on him like another layered blanket. He shoves his ice-cold hands inside of Ronon's shirt right against his torso, tucks his feet between Ronon's calves and presses his face against Ronon's neck.
Most people probably haven't even noticed the temperature drop. Even those who have are probably only a little less comfortable than they were a few hours ago. John, on the other hand, runs too damn cold not to be entirely uncomfortable.
"God, you're so warm," he groans, and Ronon shudders as it breaks across his throat like a crashing wave.
He turns his face against John's hair, then wraps his arms around him, tucking them under the hem of his sweats and palming the globes of his ass, which are chilly to the touch.
"You get cold everywhere," he complains, but not seriously because John is pressing against his hands and getting hard against his hip, and that's his tongue on Ronon's neck. "Oh."
John lifts his face and catches Ronon's lips with his own, and the kiss is steamy and dizzying because of the way they're tucked so tightly under so many blankets and are breathing their own exhalations, and Ronon's dick fills and hardens with five slides of John's tongue against his own.
When John drags one of his hands down, Ronon pulls his own hands from out of the back of his pants and grabs John's. "No, your hands are cold," he growls.
"Fine," John huffs and yanks himself free. He fumbles with the blankets and when he touches Ronon again, his hand is wrapped in something soft and warm.
"Isn't that a little--" Ronon starts to ask when he realizes just what's around the hand John's shoving down his pants.
"Shut up," John says and kisses him just as his hand, covered with the Athosian blanket, closes around Ronon's dick and strokes him with cushioned pressure and a sweetly soft texture. He does it again and again, until the blanket's wet with Ronon's precome and he's fallen completely into the pleasure and John's breath against his lips is like the only air he'll ever need, and it's always good, always perfect, and just like every other time it feels like this time is the best, is the most perfect.
"Come all over it," John tells Ronon, speeding up his hand and rutting against Ronon, who groans and thrusts into his grip, frantic and desperate and almost there. John opens his mouth against the front of Ronon's throat, and his lips and teeth and tongue catch against the vulnerable skin when he says, "Come on it, and then I'll jerk myself off with it, too."
And that's it, that's all it takes, because, god. People think Ronon's the primal one, the possessive one, but it's John who is, and it always undoes Ronon, always.
He comes, and John catches it with the blanket, scrambles for his own dick and is coming himself before Ronon's arching back even touches the bed again.
"God," Ronon gasps and then flails out an arm to shove the covers from his head because he's on the verge of suffocation. He gulps in cool, fresh air and under the blankets John pants against his chest and says, smugly, "Yeah."
.End