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John and Ronon didn't screw around offworld. They'd never talked about it, they just didn't do it – but standing there with his hand still on the heavy wooden bar that secured their door, watching Ronon, John couldn't remember why.
Ronon was sprawled in the room's only chair, polishing his gun with a scrap of cloth. The Veranians were a big people, and they built their furniture accordingly. John had felt kind of like a kid at the grownups' table at dinner – his feet had barely touched the floor under the enormous banquet table – but Ronon had fit right in. The Veranians' furniture was wood, carved and massive and dark, and it suited Ronon. Sitting in that big chair with the torches flickering behind him, he looked like a pirate king or a barbarian chieftain from some late night movie, only better, wilder and warmer and real. And John's.
Ronon looked up. "What?" he said, hands stilling on his gun, and John realized he'd taken a couple of steps closer to the chair without even meaning to. He licked his lips, and Ronon's eyes heated.
"Why the hell not?" John muttered. The walls were thick stone, and Ronon had already checked to be sure there were no surprises behind the heavy tapestries and the shiny...thing hanging on the wall. John wasn't sure if it was meant to be a mirror or a shield or something else, but it was made out of the reflective golden metal that the Veranians had lots of and McKay wanted. McKay...
John hesitated.
McKay, Teyla... No, they should be okay, John had already seen them bar themselves into their own rooms just down the hall. Teyla had been gracious about having one of the Veranian's three guest rooms to herself, while McKay was unapologetic about claiming the second and making John and Ronon share the last. They were only a few yards away; if Teyla or McKay had a problem, John and Ronon would be able to hear them and get out there.
So. Teyla and McKay were set for the night. The planet had been culled recently so the Wraith weren't likely to come back right away, and the Veranians had been friendly with the Athosians for years.
It was as safe as things got offworld.
And mainly, Ronon just looked too damn good in that chair, with his head tipped against the high back, his elbows on the heavy carved arms, his legs splayed almost far enough apart for John to fit between them...
John took a couple more steps forward. "Ronon. Put the gun down."
Ronon's lips quirked. "Thought we didn't do this offworld."
"Yeah," John said, stopping in front of Ronon and nudging his legs farther apart. "We don't. Put it down anyway." He reached for Ronon's belt. "You got anything?"
Ronon tucked his gun away and pulled out a familiar foil packet. He shifted as if he were about to stand, but John put a hand against his chest, keeping him in the chair. "No, just... Put that on. And take off your shirt."
Ronon looked skeptical, but he pulled off his shirt and rolled on the condom while John stepped out of his pants. After a moment, John pulled his shirt off too – he knew he was pale and too skinny and not much to look at, especially not next to Ronon, but Ronon always seemed to like it when John undressed so he usually did it anyway.
John hooked one leg over the arm of Ronon's chair, then had to grab the back for balance as he swung his other leg up and over. Ronon's hands settled on John's thighs, steadying him over Ronon's lap.
"You really want to do this here?" Ronon asked.
"Yeah." John wasn't sure if Ronon meant here on this planet or here on the chair instead of in the big wide bed, but either way, he was sure. If they were going to break John's rule about not fucking offworld, he was at least going to get what he really wanted out of it. He hissed at the burn as he settled onto Ronon's cock, glad that Ronon had added extra lube. "This way you can still watch the door, right?"
Ronon's hands slid up John's back, and he gave John the same tight, challenging little smile he used to taunt John into stick fighting with him. "Sure. But that means you're doing all the work this time."
John bit his lip, raising himself a fraction and then lowering himself back down on Ronon's cock. Yeah, that was as good as he'd thought it would be, except for the way his thighs were already screaming. No way was he going to be able to ride Ronon the way he wanted, not if he planned to walk tomorrow.
"Sure," he lied, settling his weight into Ronon's lap. He licked a broad stripe up his own palm and curled his hand around his cock, stripping it slowly and making certain to clench hard around Ronon at every upstroke.
Ronon's eyes narrowed. "Sheppard..."
"What?" John said, pretending innocence. "I'm doing all the work." He let his eyes flutter closed, and he groaned theatrically.
Ronon snorted, and John opened his eyes and grinned at him but didn't bother moving – except his hand.
Ronon lasted about a minute longer than John had thought he would before he grabbed John's hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hauled John up a couple of inches and snapped his hips upward, pushing into John hard.
"Fuck! Yeah, Ronon." John didn't have to fake the heavy breathing now. This was what he'd wanted. He dropped his hands to Ronon's shoulders, partly to feel all that warm coiled strength and partly just to hang on, and a flicker of motion caught his eye. He turned his head, and he could see them – both of them – clearly in the mirror.
John had never understood why some people liked to look at themselves during sex, but he could see why anyone would want to look at Ronon. Ronon was fucking gorgeous, all power and loyalty and leashed violence under that perfect skin, and John had always had a hard time not looking too much at Ronon, from the first time he'd seen him in that damned cave. And Ronon was still gorgeous, half-dressed with his cock up John's ass, reflected in the wavering surface of the mirror, only John looked good, too. His reflection was softened by the golden metal into something that almost matched Ronon, and John stared, fascinated, watching them move together, until Ronon growled "John" and he turned back to look at Ronon's face.
Ronon was watching him, and John suddenly realized that Ronon looked at him like he'd been looking at himself in the mirror, like he was actually something worth looking at, only Ronon looked at him like that all the fucking time, and that was it, it pushed John right over the edge.
Ronon helped him stand up, after, laughing when John staggered and groaned and clutched his thighs, but he rubbed John's legs until they stopped cramping, and he cleaned John off with one of the soft cloths the Veranians had left with a basin of water by the bed. Cleaning John up after sex seemed to be kind of a thing with Ronon, but John didn't really mind. It was kind of nice.
Ronon grabbed his shirt and settled back into the chair, gun out again. "Safe" planet or not, neither John nor Ronon was going to spend the night without someone on watch.
"Wake me in a couple of hours," John muttered, burrowing into the blankets. He drifted off to sleep still looking into the mirror, watching the dancing flames of the torches limning Ronon in bronze and gold as he watched over John.