torch, flambeau@strangeplaces.net
April 2, 2005

Disclaimer: it's definitely the drugs. Sequel to The market value of a slightly used colonel. Do not archive without permission.

John Sheppard, helpless plaything

Ronon was waiting, standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed.

It was a large room, full of sunshine from the open windows, and a door leading out to what might be a balcony. The white-plastered walls were hung with tapestries and long embroidered banners. The floor was polished wood, with piles of rugs here and there, glowing with deep reds and blues and a gleam of gold. There was a large trestle table, the top covered with papers and little carved figurines and pens and metal instruments he didn't recognize, and by the table a few mismatched chairs, one with a high, ornately carved back, a couple with gold-embroidered seat covers, beginning to fray at the edges.

To the right, in the corner, was the bed. It was huge, with a heavy wooden frame, tall bedposts carved with an intricate leaf pattern, and legs carved to look like an animal's, with fur, and claws. The claws were a little dusty. John absolutely did not stare at it.

"Come here," Ronon said.

The room was full of sunshine, and yes, it was a warm day, but John didn't think the heat running up and down his spine and radiating out into the rest of his body had anything to do with the weather. It seemed to respond to Ronon's voice. It seemed like Ronon's voice reached inside him and just hooked him, made him breathless. John could feel the back of his neck flushing. "Listen," he said, trying to keep his voice easy and steady, "I think there's something I need to make clear."

"Come here," Ronon said, and John discovered that he was moving, his feet touching down on the smooth wood on the floor and then the soft bristle of a rug until he came to a stop right in front of Ronon, who smiled lazily down at him. "That's better." Ronon put his hand on John's shoulder and rubbed his thumb against John's bare neck, and John gasped, because the touch seared his skin.

Ronon stroked his other hand down John's side, and then up again under the hem of the tunic, over the legging, fingers confident with the right to touch, until he reached bare skin. John felt his knees start to buckle as Ronon palmed his hip and watched him start to breathe harder. He still had the taste of that thin bitter tea in his mouth.

After a few moments, Ronon backed up slowly, tugging John along, until he was leaning against one of the bedposts. He stroked the curve of John's ass and pulled his hand away slowly to unfasten his leather pants, and the hand on John's shoulder pressed down and down, thumb stroking up over the tendon under John's ear and down again, until John's legs failed him and he dropped to his knees.

The prickle of carpet against his skin was just another caress. He followed the pressure of Ronon's hand and rubbed his face against Ronon's leg, steadying himself with both hands against Ronon's knees. The leather was warm and supple. Ronon had one hand circling the base of his cock, and the other slid around to the back of John's head, holding him steady, and John opened his mouth just as the head of Ronon's cock nudged against his lips.

The taste of it made him feel drunk. He polished the head with his tongue, sliding around and around, and then sucked it greedily. Ronon indulged him for a while, then tightened his grip on John's head and started to move his hips, rocking forward, fucking John's mouth deeper and deeper.

John moaned. He clung to Ronon's legs and closed his eyes and relaxed his jaw, sucking hard and working his throat against the thick pressure of Ronon's cock. Little points of star-prickly white fire bloomed all across his skin, and his hips jerked helplessly. He felt light-headed, haloed in drunken heat. He felt like he could do this forever.

"Oh, yeah," Ronon said in a thick voice. His free hand moved over John's face, fingertips stroking John's hollowed-out cheek. John swayed, rocking slightly with every thrust although Ronon's hand kept his head almost still. He was making little choked noises in the back of his throat.

Ronon's hand clenched hard in John's hair and he pressed John's head forward as his hips stuttered and jerked and he came. John swallowed frantically, eyes tearing up. When Ronon loosened his grip and pulled back, John slumped down until he was sitting back on his heels, his hands still clinging to Ronon's calves just below the knee. His head fell forward and he licked at the corner of his mouth over and over, tasting Ronon, and he was gasping, each breath a little too loud, a little too much like a sound, a whimper.

* * *

"You could have waited for me," Rodney said. He leaned in and sniffed at John's neck, then lifted his arm and, to John's confused surprise, sniffed at his armpit. "And I specifically asked Elizabeth to clean him up. I don't suppose you even noticed."

"Not really," Ronon said. He tucked himself in and adjusted his belt. "You were late."

"Yes, I thought one of us might pay some attention to the schedule for the field exercises, unless we want things to go as abysmally wrong as last time." Rodney glared at Ronon for a moment, then shrugged. "Still, I can see the temptation. And I suppose if I want it done right, I'll have to do it myself."

He shifted his weight, grabbed John, and heaved him effortlessly over his shoulder. John made a pained sound as his erection pressed into the leather and buckles of Rodney's vest through the thin cloth of the tunic. Rodney chuckled and slipped his hand up under the tunic to pat John's ass with the same easy, proprietary touch Ronon had used, and John choked with heat and red swirls dancing before his eyes, and he tried to think that it was all due to hanging upside down and the blood rushing to his head.

Rodney and Ronon kept talking as they walked across the room, something about Jacob's team and the pava fruit harvest; John couldn't really follow it. The echo of their voices changed as they stepped into the next room, and Rodney grabbed John's hips and shifted, bending and easing him forward until he was standing on a cool tile floor, steadied by Rodney's hands on his hips and Ronon's hands coming up to frame his shoulders.

"I guess he should be naked for this part," Ronon said, and his hands stroked slowly down John's back and sides, coming to rest at his waist, fingers spread out, pressing warm and strong through the fabric, fingertips brushing against Rodney's fingers on John's hips.

Ronon unfastened the belt, and Rodney pulled the tunic off, and John stood there in just the lace-up leggings. He tried to draw himself up straight, but he was swaying a little towards their hands, so close, and he was so hard.

"Nice," Rodney said, walking around John to run a finger down his spine. Then he started stroking the back of John's thigh, just above the top of the legging, back and forth until that line of heated touch was all John could feel and his toes curled helplessly against the tiles.

Ronon snorted. "Yeah, so you're gonna bend him over right here and then find a way to blame me for not getting him into the bath."

"Of course," Rodney said. "It will obviously be your fault." He worked one finger inside the leggings, stroking idly back and forth. "Well? Don't just stand there, help me get these off."

They peeled the leggings off John's legs in quick yanks; the brushes of their hands were purely efficient, practical, and so arousing that John staggered. He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth.

"Was he this quiet before?" Rodney asked.

"Pretty much," Ronon said. "Like he didn't want me to hear him."

"Hmmm." Rodney sounded speculative. John knew that tone of voice, too, and the thought of Rodney studying him with intense concentration and interest was terrifying. Then he lost that train of thought as Rodney took his arm and pushed him, not ungently, towards a large wooden tub standing on the tile floor. John stepped into it and found himself to the knees in cool water. A moment later, Ronon emptied a bucket over his head, and he spluttered, but even the water cascading down his back and legs was a thrill, a giant tongue licking him.

Rodney soaped up a nubby washcloth and started to wash John's shoulders and arms in long, thorough sweeps. Up around his neck, down to linger with ridiculous care around his collarbones, down his chest and across his nipples and John shook; he reached to steady himself against something, anything, and Ronon put a hand in the small of his back, and it felt like a brand.

Rodney went on, washing every part of John with that washcloth, with sweet-smelling soap, and Ronon poured water to wash the soap away. The sensation of the washcloth rubbing up and down the inside of his thighs made John gasp, and so of course Rodney did it again, and again. John couldn't understand why the water didn't just steam off his body. He tried to hold still, but when Rodney dragged the washcloth up the back of his leg, he swayed into the touch.

* * *

John landed on the bed, and the silky covers clung to his damp skin. Ronon sat on one side of him and Rodney made himself comfortable against some velvet-covered cushions on the other, stroking John's back and palming his ass. John's breath hitched and his knees slid apart.

"Look at that," Rodney said appreciatively. Then he went on, "He does seem to be unusually responsive to the yara tea. You don't think Elizabeth gave him too much?"

"Nah." Ronon sounded unconcerned as he trailed his fingers up and down John's spine. "She's been really careful since the Jacob thing."

John tried to wonder what the Jacob thing had been, and if he should worry about an overdose, and if this glitter of sensation along every nerve was frying his brain, and then Rodney started opening him up with steady, oil-slick fingers, and he couldn't think at all.

Rodney worked him steadily with two fingers, stopped to pour on more oil, and went back to the same even thrusting pace, and John could feel himself dissolving; there was nothing solid in his world, nothing except Rodney's fingers, and when Rodney's fingers pulled out he wasn't sure he even existed, until he felt the pressure of Rodney's cock.

Rodney grabbed John's hips and angled them up, and pushed inside with a few deepening thrusts, and John could feel himself stretch, could feel the burn, but at the same time he felt as if he'd melted into nothing but want and heat and feeling, just barely held together by his skin. He pressed his face into the sheets to muffle his moans.

"I heard that," Rodney said, sounding amused, and he fucked John with short, steady thrusts, hands spread out over his ass and shifting him a little this way and that until Rodney found an angle he liked.

John clamped his jaw shut, sank his teeth into his lip, but Ronon grabbed the back of his head, just like before, and turned it, pressing a thumb down along John's jaw until he relaxed it. Ronon went on idly stroking John's hair, petting his face, and then rubbed across his mouth and started sliding two fingers in and out of his mouth.

John fell apart. He sucked Ronon's fingers the way he'd sucked Ronon's cock, and he was moaning, and he could barely hear it. Rodney tilted John's hips again and changed his strokes, deeper, harder, pulses of fierce red heat rolling up John's spine, and he panted helplessly around Ronon's fingers until he finally came and the world turned fuzzy and golden around him.

Rodney went on fucking him through his orgasm, through the shivery aftershocks, through the dazed drowsiness that followed, just on and on at that deep steady pace until he finally hammered in a few hard final strokes and grunted in satisfaction, slumping forward over John's back.

John thought about putting himself together again, but he didn't know how, and he was too tired and too deeply relaxed. He breathed against Ronon's wet fingers, into the soiled silk sheet, and after a while he felt Rodney pull out and settle back against the cushions. He closed his eyes.

* * *

"I like this one," Ronon said, his voice a deep, satisfied purr.

"Mm," Rodney said in that distant voice that meant he was concentrating completely on something. He didn't seem to have his attention on words. He ran a fingertip up the back of John's thigh and pressed it gently just behind his balls. John shivered, and the heat inside him that had started to gentle grew fierce again; he felt himself getting hard. "So do I."

* * *

Tastes like summer

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