Fic: Sleep Like the Tide (John/Rodney/Ronon) NC17
Title: Sleep Like the Tide
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John/Rodney/Ronon
Spoilers: For The Return Part 2
A/N: Written for: undermistletoe. With thanks to svmadelyn for running it.
*
John usually wakes up with motionless immediacy, going from deep sleep to instant alertness within seconds, so it's odd to find himself drifting slowly awake, in increments so small that it's easy and soothing.
He's surrounded by heat and limbs and heartbeats that aren't his own, and when his body tries to rise up to full wakefulness John stops it and coasts along in a hazy half-dozing state.
The last thing he remembers is watching second season episodes of Battlestar Galactica in one of the common rooms down the hall from the command center after they were all declared free of nanites.
Rodney was next to him on the small and not-very-comfortable couch thing, and Ronon was sitting on the floor in front of them after having shouldered their legs aside so that he was between the two of them. Rodney's laptop--and, Jesus, trust Rodney to go on a mission to take back Atlantis from Replicators with a laptop loaded down with sci-fi television--was perched on a crate of supplies that the Daedelus beamed down.
They're all tangled up now, having listed and slumped into each other's spaces in their sleep. It's comfortable and not something John wants to give up just yet, this tangled knot they've tied themselves into; his hand resting on what he thinks is Rodney's hip; his leg tucked around what feels like Ronon's torso; someone's fingers curled on top of his thigh; hot breath against his neck.
John deserves this after being kicked out, sent away, and cast adrift on a planet that didn't make any sense and had no real use for him, and he'll take advantage of it for as long as he wants. Or, you know, until Ronon or Rodney wake up.
Except that the breath against his neck isn't the regulated and measured breathing of someone who's sleeping, and the fingers on his thigh are pressing and releasing randomly, like a cat kneading with its claws.
Still drifting along hazily, John circles his thumb on Rodney's hip, rubs his sock-clad foot against Ronon's ribs, and there's something like release in the other men, tension that John hadn't even noticed in them melting away and making them lean heavier, harder, against him.
John himself feels like deadweight, nothing in him tensed or braced, and he moves his head with effort so that Rodney's face can settle in against his neck more closely.
Because, why not? Why the hell not? John used to have an answer--many answers, actually--for that question, but nothing is as clear-cut and simple as it was three years ago, before this place and these people. But instead of answers anymore he just has the memory of the look on Ronon's face his first week on Atlantis when they brought him to the control room to view the MALP footage of Sateda, and the way Rodney flinched away from everyone for a while after Kolya took that knife to him.
The only concerns John has aren't actually concerns at the moment: O'Neill went back to earth this afternoon, Caldwell and his crew are bunking on board the Daedelus, and Elizabeth, Teyla and Carson were already asleep for the night before the sci-fi marathon started.
He opens his eyes and the lights are low enough that he doesn't even need to blink against any brightness. The first thing he sees is Ronon's head tipped back against the sofa, the side of his face pressed against Rodney's knee, eyes focused on John.
Rodney's stubbled cheek rubs abrasively against the stubble on John's neck when he lifts his head and John shudders, feels his cock start to harden. Rodney's eyes this close are a kaleidoscope of pale blues, and his pupils dilate at the same time that Ronon opens his mouth against his thigh.
"Jesus," John whispers. He drags his heel around to Ronon's crotch and Ronon growls against Rodney's leg and Rodney's hips jerk against John and, "Jesus," he says again.
Ronon untangles himself from John's leg, and the hand that Rodney has wrapped around his dreads, and stands up only to lean over John and Rodney, pupils blown as wide as Rodney's are, as wide as John's own probably are. He fists one hand in the front of John's shirt, grabs Rodney's wrist with the other, and pulls them to their feet.
It's clumsy and awkward, being pulled up while they're still wrapped around each other, but Ronon tugs them against him, lets them clutch and lean against him while they get sorted. He pushes them to the side of the room where their sleeping bags are set up and John keeps waiting for Rodney to start complaining about being manhandled, or to say anything at all, really.
But Rodney just stares from John to Ronon, eyes wide, mouth parted and wet, and when John bumps into him he realizes that Rodney is shaking, minute tremors making his entire body vibrate, and Ronon ends up dragging John the last few feet because John's too busy staring at Rodney to actually walk.
It's incredibly fucking hot, how much Rodney wants this, wants them, and John never would have thought that Rodney would be like this. He always imagined Rodney would be hesitant and over eager and bumbling, the way he is when he flirts. But this is just pure unselfconscious want and it gives Rodney a fluidity that John's only seen glimpses of in the past.
Ronon makes an impatient noise and starts pulling at their clothing, and that's another surprise because John kind of thought Ronon would push at John and force him to take him in hand the way he does in the field.
"Just hold on, wait a second, okay?" Rodney says and slaps Ronon's hands away. "How are we doing this? I mean, what are we--we don't have anything."
"Be quiet," Ronon says in that way of his that's toneless but indulgent at the same time.
John thinks Rodney is going to argue, but instead he goes still for a long moment then nods. "Okay," he says agreeably, and then John has a mouthful of Rodney's tongue, and before he closes his eyes he sees Rodney's hand go right for Ronon's crotch.
John's not really sure which of them gets the sleeping bags all lined up, but he knows it's not him. He's too busy peeling Ronon's leathers down his thighs, trying to get his own shirt off with Rodney's mouth attached to his neck, and thrusting against the hand Ronon has down his pants.
They trip and fall to the floor, Rodney landing with a curse because despite all the lessons he's had, he still doesn't know how to fall properly. Ronon kisses him before he can become distracted by possible long term injury scenarios, and John just watches for a moment because--holy fuck--Ronon has Rodney pinned to the floor and is kissing him like they're fighting. It's all aggression and force on Ronon's part, and Rodney holds his own at first, then ups the stakes by raking his nails up Ronon's back.
"John," Rodney snaps, tearing his mouth away from Ronon's. "Do you just want to watch?"
"No," John hisses and pushes his way in between them. Ronon kisses with teeth and suction, hard enough to hurt and make John's lips raw and sensitive sooner than John thought was possible, and it should be a dissonant change from the hazy way they started out on the couch but for some reason it's not.
Rodney moans and then lifts his head and forces his own tongue into the mix, and someone's lip gets nicked, sending a small rush of copper between them and it's somehow right, somehow makes perfect sense in a way that would probably make no sense at all if John were to actually think about it.
Ronon pulls his mouth away and shoves John on top of Rodney, who kisses like he talks, with rapid-fire movements of his lips and sharp syllables gnawed onto John's tongue. Rodney spreads his legs, bends his knees, and John just slides right into place in the cradle of his thighs, their cocks lining up.
Ronon is licking and biting at John's back, making his hips stutter and start, keeping the rhythm between him and Rodney uneven and unpredictable, making it almost impossible for them to turn the friction into something with intent.
"Oh my god," Rodney groans, glaring at Ronon over John's shoulder. "Stop being a cocktease!"
"Cocktease?" Ronon rumbles, his mouth right by John's ear. John shudders, then grinds his teeth together when Ronon grabs his hips and stills them. "Nah. I can be, though."
All manner of nasty promises just drip off those words, and John watches Rodney's brain melt inside his skull, and he feels Rodney's cock jerk against his.
"Next time," John chokes out. "This time just let me move."
"Okay," Ronon breathes in his ear. "But remember."
Right, like there's a chance in hell that John's going to forget something like that. "I will, yeah, I will, just--"
Ronon lets go of his hips and John gets his knees more solidly under him and thrusts his cock against that warm, welcoming space at Rodney's hip, rubs himself against Rodney's cock, and Ronon's hand moves to the small of his back, pushing him down harder, until Rodney's panting and twitching under him, hardly able to thrust up against the pressure. John's movements can hardly be called thrusts anymore and he drops his forehead against Rodney's shoulder, panting and groaning.
He's almost there, almost right fucking there, when Ronon grabs his hips and holds him still again.
"Bastard!" John snarls, but then Ronon moves one hand to John's ass, palms his cheeks open, and slides his cock between them. "Christ, oh, fuck, oh, god," John gasps, because when he thrusts the head catches at John's hole on the upstroke.
"Move," Rodney demands.
But John's caught in a wave of sensory overload: his cock trapped between his and Rodney's bodies, Ronon's cock sliding against him, pleasure every which way he turns. He can't move, can't do anything, and finally Ronon uses the hand still on John's hip to move him, to shove him forward against Rodney, and back against his own cock, and John's arms give out so that he falls onto Rodney's chest.
"Oh, god, if you stop again, Ronon, I will kill you," Rodney babbles breathlessly.
John makes a noise that tries and fails to be actual words, and he lets Rodney and Ronon move under and over him, in front and behind, and he rides their motions like surfing, letting it happen and keeping his balance, and then Rodney goes still under him. Stiffens and says "yes" as he comes, and then John is just being pushed against the slickness between them, still being ridden teasingly by Ronon's cock, and it's not until he feels Ronon's controlled movements become wild and frantic that John gathers himself to actually participate again.
He shoves forward, sucks in a breath, and then jerks back, pulling away from Ronon's hand and angling his hips so that the head of Ronon's cock pushes in instead of just catching. It's not enough to make it past the first ring of muscle, but it's enough to make them both come, John following Ronon just seconds after he feels the head of Ronon's cock swell and pulse with it.
There's all of two seconds of afterglow before Rodney is flailing under him. "Off, god, I can't breathe, get off, both of you." Ronon tips to the right, John to the left, and Rodney sucks in large lungfuls of air between them.
"So, that--" Rodney starts off eventually, sounding awkward and like he'd rather be explaining physics to Communications undergrads, only to be cut off when Ronon claps a hand over his mouth and says, "Don't."
Rodney glares, then rolls his eyes, then nods in what seems like relief. Ronon slides his hand down to curl around the side of Rodney's neck and John grins at the surprised look on Rodney's face, even though he's kind of surprised himself. But it must make Rodney bold because he drags John closer. And John lets him, which seems to surprise Ronon, who lifts his brows briefly before lowering them in what looks like amusement.
"We should make ourselves presentable," Rodney says around a yawn. "Just in case."
"Yeah, but not right now," John says because he's warm and comfortable and tangled up and he doesn't want to move just yet. "Later. In the morning."
"Sun rise," Ronon agrees. "I'll wake you."
And John usually falls asleep suddenly and completely, having been trained to take full advantage of any opportunities for rest when he's out on missions, but he doesn't find it at all odd that tonight he drifts slowly to sleep, in increments so small that it's easy and soothing.
.End
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John/Rodney/Ronon
Spoilers: For The Return Part 2
A/N: Written for: undermistletoe. With thanks to svmadelyn for running it.
*
John usually wakes up with motionless immediacy, going from deep sleep to instant alertness within seconds, so it's odd to find himself drifting slowly awake, in increments so small that it's easy and soothing.
He's surrounded by heat and limbs and heartbeats that aren't his own, and when his body tries to rise up to full wakefulness John stops it and coasts along in a hazy half-dozing state.
The last thing he remembers is watching second season episodes of Battlestar Galactica in one of the common rooms down the hall from the command center after they were all declared free of nanites.
Rodney was next to him on the small and not-very-comfortable couch thing, and Ronon was sitting on the floor in front of them after having shouldered their legs aside so that he was between the two of them. Rodney's laptop--and, Jesus, trust Rodney to go on a mission to take back Atlantis from Replicators with a laptop loaded down with sci-fi television--was perched on a crate of supplies that the Daedelus beamed down.
They're all tangled up now, having listed and slumped into each other's spaces in their sleep. It's comfortable and not something John wants to give up just yet, this tangled knot they've tied themselves into; his hand resting on what he thinks is Rodney's hip; his leg tucked around what feels like Ronon's torso; someone's fingers curled on top of his thigh; hot breath against his neck.
John deserves this after being kicked out, sent away, and cast adrift on a planet that didn't make any sense and had no real use for him, and he'll take advantage of it for as long as he wants. Or, you know, until Ronon or Rodney wake up.
Except that the breath against his neck isn't the regulated and measured breathing of someone who's sleeping, and the fingers on his thigh are pressing and releasing randomly, like a cat kneading with its claws.
Still drifting along hazily, John circles his thumb on Rodney's hip, rubs his sock-clad foot against Ronon's ribs, and there's something like release in the other men, tension that John hadn't even noticed in them melting away and making them lean heavier, harder, against him.
John himself feels like deadweight, nothing in him tensed or braced, and he moves his head with effort so that Rodney's face can settle in against his neck more closely.
Because, why not? Why the hell not? John used to have an answer--many answers, actually--for that question, but nothing is as clear-cut and simple as it was three years ago, before this place and these people. But instead of answers anymore he just has the memory of the look on Ronon's face his first week on Atlantis when they brought him to the control room to view the MALP footage of Sateda, and the way Rodney flinched away from everyone for a while after Kolya took that knife to him.
The only concerns John has aren't actually concerns at the moment: O'Neill went back to earth this afternoon, Caldwell and his crew are bunking on board the Daedelus, and Elizabeth, Teyla and Carson were already asleep for the night before the sci-fi marathon started.
He opens his eyes and the lights are low enough that he doesn't even need to blink against any brightness. The first thing he sees is Ronon's head tipped back against the sofa, the side of his face pressed against Rodney's knee, eyes focused on John.
Rodney's stubbled cheek rubs abrasively against the stubble on John's neck when he lifts his head and John shudders, feels his cock start to harden. Rodney's eyes this close are a kaleidoscope of pale blues, and his pupils dilate at the same time that Ronon opens his mouth against his thigh.
"Jesus," John whispers. He drags his heel around to Ronon's crotch and Ronon growls against Rodney's leg and Rodney's hips jerk against John and, "Jesus," he says again.
Ronon untangles himself from John's leg, and the hand that Rodney has wrapped around his dreads, and stands up only to lean over John and Rodney, pupils blown as wide as Rodney's are, as wide as John's own probably are. He fists one hand in the front of John's shirt, grabs Rodney's wrist with the other, and pulls them to their feet.
It's clumsy and awkward, being pulled up while they're still wrapped around each other, but Ronon tugs them against him, lets them clutch and lean against him while they get sorted. He pushes them to the side of the room where their sleeping bags are set up and John keeps waiting for Rodney to start complaining about being manhandled, or to say anything at all, really.
But Rodney just stares from John to Ronon, eyes wide, mouth parted and wet, and when John bumps into him he realizes that Rodney is shaking, minute tremors making his entire body vibrate, and Ronon ends up dragging John the last few feet because John's too busy staring at Rodney to actually walk.
It's incredibly fucking hot, how much Rodney wants this, wants them, and John never would have thought that Rodney would be like this. He always imagined Rodney would be hesitant and over eager and bumbling, the way he is when he flirts. But this is just pure unselfconscious want and it gives Rodney a fluidity that John's only seen glimpses of in the past.
Ronon makes an impatient noise and starts pulling at their clothing, and that's another surprise because John kind of thought Ronon would push at John and force him to take him in hand the way he does in the field.
"Just hold on, wait a second, okay?" Rodney says and slaps Ronon's hands away. "How are we doing this? I mean, what are we--we don't have anything."
"Be quiet," Ronon says in that way of his that's toneless but indulgent at the same time.
John thinks Rodney is going to argue, but instead he goes still for a long moment then nods. "Okay," he says agreeably, and then John has a mouthful of Rodney's tongue, and before he closes his eyes he sees Rodney's hand go right for Ronon's crotch.
John's not really sure which of them gets the sleeping bags all lined up, but he knows it's not him. He's too busy peeling Ronon's leathers down his thighs, trying to get his own shirt off with Rodney's mouth attached to his neck, and thrusting against the hand Ronon has down his pants.
They trip and fall to the floor, Rodney landing with a curse because despite all the lessons he's had, he still doesn't know how to fall properly. Ronon kisses him before he can become distracted by possible long term injury scenarios, and John just watches for a moment because--holy fuck--Ronon has Rodney pinned to the floor and is kissing him like they're fighting. It's all aggression and force on Ronon's part, and Rodney holds his own at first, then ups the stakes by raking his nails up Ronon's back.
"John," Rodney snaps, tearing his mouth away from Ronon's. "Do you just want to watch?"
"No," John hisses and pushes his way in between them. Ronon kisses with teeth and suction, hard enough to hurt and make John's lips raw and sensitive sooner than John thought was possible, and it should be a dissonant change from the hazy way they started out on the couch but for some reason it's not.
Rodney moans and then lifts his head and forces his own tongue into the mix, and someone's lip gets nicked, sending a small rush of copper between them and it's somehow right, somehow makes perfect sense in a way that would probably make no sense at all if John were to actually think about it.
Ronon pulls his mouth away and shoves John on top of Rodney, who kisses like he talks, with rapid-fire movements of his lips and sharp syllables gnawed onto John's tongue. Rodney spreads his legs, bends his knees, and John just slides right into place in the cradle of his thighs, their cocks lining up.
Ronon is licking and biting at John's back, making his hips stutter and start, keeping the rhythm between him and Rodney uneven and unpredictable, making it almost impossible for them to turn the friction into something with intent.
"Oh my god," Rodney groans, glaring at Ronon over John's shoulder. "Stop being a cocktease!"
"Cocktease?" Ronon rumbles, his mouth right by John's ear. John shudders, then grinds his teeth together when Ronon grabs his hips and stills them. "Nah. I can be, though."
All manner of nasty promises just drip off those words, and John watches Rodney's brain melt inside his skull, and he feels Rodney's cock jerk against his.
"Next time," John chokes out. "This time just let me move."
"Okay," Ronon breathes in his ear. "But remember."
Right, like there's a chance in hell that John's going to forget something like that. "I will, yeah, I will, just--"
Ronon lets go of his hips and John gets his knees more solidly under him and thrusts his cock against that warm, welcoming space at Rodney's hip, rubs himself against Rodney's cock, and Ronon's hand moves to the small of his back, pushing him down harder, until Rodney's panting and twitching under him, hardly able to thrust up against the pressure. John's movements can hardly be called thrusts anymore and he drops his forehead against Rodney's shoulder, panting and groaning.
He's almost there, almost right fucking there, when Ronon grabs his hips and holds him still again.
"Bastard!" John snarls, but then Ronon moves one hand to John's ass, palms his cheeks open, and slides his cock between them. "Christ, oh, fuck, oh, god," John gasps, because when he thrusts the head catches at John's hole on the upstroke.
"Move," Rodney demands.
But John's caught in a wave of sensory overload: his cock trapped between his and Rodney's bodies, Ronon's cock sliding against him, pleasure every which way he turns. He can't move, can't do anything, and finally Ronon uses the hand still on John's hip to move him, to shove him forward against Rodney, and back against his own cock, and John's arms give out so that he falls onto Rodney's chest.
"Oh, god, if you stop again, Ronon, I will kill you," Rodney babbles breathlessly.
John makes a noise that tries and fails to be actual words, and he lets Rodney and Ronon move under and over him, in front and behind, and he rides their motions like surfing, letting it happen and keeping his balance, and then Rodney goes still under him. Stiffens and says "yes" as he comes, and then John is just being pushed against the slickness between them, still being ridden teasingly by Ronon's cock, and it's not until he feels Ronon's controlled movements become wild and frantic that John gathers himself to actually participate again.
He shoves forward, sucks in a breath, and then jerks back, pulling away from Ronon's hand and angling his hips so that the head of Ronon's cock pushes in instead of just catching. It's not enough to make it past the first ring of muscle, but it's enough to make them both come, John following Ronon just seconds after he feels the head of Ronon's cock swell and pulse with it.
There's all of two seconds of afterglow before Rodney is flailing under him. "Off, god, I can't breathe, get off, both of you." Ronon tips to the right, John to the left, and Rodney sucks in large lungfuls of air between them.
"So, that--" Rodney starts off eventually, sounding awkward and like he'd rather be explaining physics to Communications undergrads, only to be cut off when Ronon claps a hand over his mouth and says, "Don't."
Rodney glares, then rolls his eyes, then nods in what seems like relief. Ronon slides his hand down to curl around the side of Rodney's neck and John grins at the surprised look on Rodney's face, even though he's kind of surprised himself. But it must make Rodney bold because he drags John closer. And John lets him, which seems to surprise Ronon, who lifts his brows briefly before lowering them in what looks like amusement.
"We should make ourselves presentable," Rodney says around a yawn. "Just in case."
"Yeah, but not right now," John says because he's warm and comfortable and tangled up and he doesn't want to move just yet. "Later. In the morning."
"Sun rise," Ronon agrees. "I'll wake you."
And John usually falls asleep suddenly and completely, having been trained to take full advantage of any opportunities for rest when he's out on missions, but he doesn't find it at all odd that tonight he drifts slowly to sleep, in increments so small that it's easy and soothing.
.End