Damaged Goods, 17/?
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Now with shiny new cover art, courtesy of
rubygirl29!!! Thanks, hon!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
This, John thinks, is exactly the sort of thing he's probably not supposed to be doing. He has, however, made something resembling a career of doing things he shouldn't, and it's lasted longer than his stint as a pilot, or husband, or detective.
He doesn't want to be the one to mention it, though, as they stumble across the living room, though. There'll be time for that later, and honestly? This isn't even coming close to feeling like a mistake.
Ronon kisses like he's trying to press himself through John's skin, a little fast, quite overwhelming. It gives John the excuse to let go, a bit, to lose himself a bit, all worries about later finally drowning in the surge.
God, it's been ages since he's done anything like this. He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Ronon laughs against his ear.
"Know the feeling," he says, letting John pull him in by his belt, until their bodies are aligned, until Ronon's crowding him against the wall. Ronon eases back, for a moment, his eyes roaming John's face, almost too attentive, and as much as John wants to distract him, he does what he can to return the regard.
"This okay?" John tries, his voice feeling hoarse. It occurs to him, belatedly, that there's a lot of room for cultural misunderstanding, here, so he tugs again on Ronon's belt, the gesture more intent than it had been a few minutes ago.
"Yeah."
John moves his hand lower, ghosting over the pocket of his jeans, fingers tracing the folds of the denim down to Ronon's thigh, then inwards. He can feel the heat of him through the fabric, and the hardness underneath makes him giddy, but not half as mad as he feels when Ronon suddenly decides to mirror his actions, then shifts his thigh between John's knees.
John kisses him, hard, to stifle the moan that wants to escape, his hands awkwardly trying to gain some purchase between them. Ronon's fingers hook over the waistband of his jeans, the knuckles brushing low against his stomach, and it's the cue he hasn't known he's been waiting for. Latching onto the fly of Ronon's jeans, his fingers get caught up in the hem of his shirt, and he forgets about it entirely as Ronon succeeds where he's failed. There's no room to thrust against him, but there's no need. He's trapped, here, against the wall, gasping into Ronon's mouth.
He's going to crash too soon. Manages to work his hand free, manages, barely, to wrestle Ronon's jeans open and down, just enough to run his palm from Ronon's ass around to the hardness that he's only felt, so far, in his periphery.
He sucks in some of the air Ronon's stolen as the ministrations on his own cock stutter. A few minutes of mad writhing, and they ease into something resembling a rhythm. Ronon's mouth goes lax against his temple, after a moment; John's teeth rake against Ronon's shoulder, nudging aimlessly past the fabric of his shirt.
Slight stumbling, clothes shifted out of the way just a little bit more, and the side of his arm is trapped against the sun-warmed glass of the window, and Ronon's pulse is pounding out against his cheek. He wonders what they look like, arms splayed around and between each other, their bodies grinding together. Possibly ridiculous. He's almost certain nobody outside can see them, flashes of their skin through the soon to be ruined blinds, but it's the almost that's spurring the lust in him, now. That's making his grip that much tighter.
He wants to lay Ronon out in the sun, imagines the heat radiating back up from the sand, the sweat evaporating fast from their skin. Wants to feel his dreadlocks brushing his bare skin, his weight crushing him into the mattress of a darkened room, until all that's left is the sensation of him.
But not right fucking now.
Right now, he needs to know what Ronon feels like coming apart in his hands.
---
Afterwards, when they're propping each other up, more out of exhaustion than any deliberate intent, Ronon feels his head swimming. Every pound of his heart creates a brief contact with John's heaving chest, and John kisses him back, lazily. Squints up at him, his eyes as soft and lax as the rest of him, and anything Ronon could say next will most likely change that expression into something less open.
Kissing John, like this, is languid and fluid, easy in a way that the rest of the world isn't.
John huffs in amusement, rocking his head to the side before pushing himself away from the window. The blinds have left a striped pattern in the skin of his arm, and the satisfaction the sight brings is startling.
Not as startling, though, as John's sudden laugh.
"We need fresh shirts," he says, toying with the jeans that are tangled around Ronon's thighs. "And. Well. You up for a shower?"
His content is contagious, apparently, because Ronon's letting himself be led down the hallway- awkwardly, at first, until it becomes more practical to shuck their jeans, leave them on the floor. Their shirts, redundant by now, follow immediately.
They'll be back for their clothes in a few minutes, Ronon knows, but he memorizes the sight of them. Right now, at least for a little while, there's evidence that this happened. That they were there. The part of his mind that's always tracking these things, mindful of each and every possible threat, finds none at all.
---
Las Vegas is stunning, almost literally, once they get down to the strip. There's still enough heat caught in the pavement that it's radiating back up at them. His hair is still damp against his back, but it's drying quickly. Garish, bright lights scream out from every corner of his vision, flashing so wildly that the street seems to undulate beneath their feet. The noise, likewise, is alive. Cars and people and strains of music pouring out into the streets whenever a nearby door opens.
After the first few blocks, and stopping for food- too salty, , he's finding himself enjoying it, more than he probably should. But what's most amazing are the fountains.
They're purely decorative, garishly hedonistic. That people who lived in a desert would be so cavalier with their resources is astounding, but it's hypnotic, watching the jets of water catch the lights as it moves with the music.
"That's insane," he finally decides, unsure if his voice can be heard over the roar of the water as another series of jets opens up in front of them to create a towering wall.
"That's what Vegas is all about," John replies with a shrug; after a moment he begins haltingly to step back. "Come on. There's a place near here, they do the best steaks in town."
Ronon turns away from the display to find dozens of people still watching, entranced.
Maybe he can see the appeal.
---
The food is good, and it's clear that John's hoping he'll be impressed, so Ronon doesn't point out that all food is good food, or that, having eaten in the past few days, he's nowhere near starving enough to really take notice. It doesn't stop him from clearing his plate before John's half finished.
Ronon can't remember the last time he had ale. It's thinner, here, than he remembers it being, but strong. The thin hint of drunkenness settles over him; his limbs feel loose and heavy. This far back into the booth they're in, it's actually possible to believe that they're alone, but for the constant stream of traffic outside the windows. It's hard to tear his eyes away, but John seems equally content to watch the people walking by.
It's a strange place to feel so quietly sated, here, in a city this big, this loud and bright and alive,
John's leg bumps his under the table, and suddenly it's not so strange at all.
---
Back on the street, they wander past dozens of gambling rooms, eventually ducking into one to look around. The noise and lights are too confined, shooting out form all angles with no place to go, until the casino seems more confining than his cell had been.
It's nearly a relief to be heading for the door, past machines called one-armed-bandits and all their racket. As they step aside to let another throng of people swarm past, John's phone chimes. Looking at the display, he frowns.
"Cadman's three blocks away. We should probably get going."
There's a peal of electronic noise that sounds like an alarm going off, but John doesn't react, so Ronon doesn't need to. But it's too loud to talk. John tries anyway
"I don't know what I can promise," he says, as they step out of the casino and onto the street again, his voice so much quieter than the city that's opening up to again swallow them.
"That's okay," Ronon replies, feeling slight guilt at the relief John's words bring. He doesn't need promises, and honestly, he's not entirely sure what this is, between them. He doesn't know if it's love- it's been so long, he can't even identify it properly. "In a few days, it might not even matter." John's starting to look lost again, so he nudges him with his arm, smiles, and that seems to be the right thing to do, because John's allowing a small, speculative grin to cross his face as they stop in the garishly lit entryway of another casino.
"If we do make it through, though... I wouldn't mind revisiting it." Thousands of small lights are dancing across the ceiling and down the walls like water. John's nearly too bright to look at.
"Same here."
In a few minutes, he's going to be climbing into the truck with the guards, heading back through the night to the facility and whatever else is coming his way, and it's no good, leaving it like this.
He tugs at John's shoulder, while they're waiting for the light over the street to tell them when they're allowed to cross, and John's grin looks a little sad, now. He winds his arms around Ronon, though, and when they kiss, it doesn't feel like goodbye.
Chapter 18
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Now with shiny new cover art, courtesy of
rubygirl29!!! Thanks, hon!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
This, John thinks, is exactly the sort of thing he's probably not supposed to be doing. He has, however, made something resembling a career of doing things he shouldn't, and it's lasted longer than his stint as a pilot, or husband, or detective.
He doesn't want to be the one to mention it, though, as they stumble across the living room, though. There'll be time for that later, and honestly? This isn't even coming close to feeling like a mistake.
Ronon kisses like he's trying to press himself through John's skin, a little fast, quite overwhelming. It gives John the excuse to let go, a bit, to lose himself a bit, all worries about later finally drowning in the surge.
God, it's been ages since he's done anything like this. He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Ronon laughs against his ear.
"Know the feeling," he says, letting John pull him in by his belt, until their bodies are aligned, until Ronon's crowding him against the wall. Ronon eases back, for a moment, his eyes roaming John's face, almost too attentive, and as much as John wants to distract him, he does what he can to return the regard.
"This okay?" John tries, his voice feeling hoarse. It occurs to him, belatedly, that there's a lot of room for cultural misunderstanding, here, so he tugs again on Ronon's belt, the gesture more intent than it had been a few minutes ago.
"Yeah."
John moves his hand lower, ghosting over the pocket of his jeans, fingers tracing the folds of the denim down to Ronon's thigh, then inwards. He can feel the heat of him through the fabric, and the hardness underneath makes him giddy, but not half as mad as he feels when Ronon suddenly decides to mirror his actions, then shifts his thigh between John's knees.
John kisses him, hard, to stifle the moan that wants to escape, his hands awkwardly trying to gain some purchase between them. Ronon's fingers hook over the waistband of his jeans, the knuckles brushing low against his stomach, and it's the cue he hasn't known he's been waiting for. Latching onto the fly of Ronon's jeans, his fingers get caught up in the hem of his shirt, and he forgets about it entirely as Ronon succeeds where he's failed. There's no room to thrust against him, but there's no need. He's trapped, here, against the wall, gasping into Ronon's mouth.
He's going to crash too soon. Manages to work his hand free, manages, barely, to wrestle Ronon's jeans open and down, just enough to run his palm from Ronon's ass around to the hardness that he's only felt, so far, in his periphery.
He sucks in some of the air Ronon's stolen as the ministrations on his own cock stutter. A few minutes of mad writhing, and they ease into something resembling a rhythm. Ronon's mouth goes lax against his temple, after a moment; John's teeth rake against Ronon's shoulder, nudging aimlessly past the fabric of his shirt.
Slight stumbling, clothes shifted out of the way just a little bit more, and the side of his arm is trapped against the sun-warmed glass of the window, and Ronon's pulse is pounding out against his cheek. He wonders what they look like, arms splayed around and between each other, their bodies grinding together. Possibly ridiculous. He's almost certain nobody outside can see them, flashes of their skin through the soon to be ruined blinds, but it's the almost that's spurring the lust in him, now. That's making his grip that much tighter.
He wants to lay Ronon out in the sun, imagines the heat radiating back up from the sand, the sweat evaporating fast from their skin. Wants to feel his dreadlocks brushing his bare skin, his weight crushing him into the mattress of a darkened room, until all that's left is the sensation of him.
But not right fucking now.
Right now, he needs to know what Ronon feels like coming apart in his hands.
---
Afterwards, when they're propping each other up, more out of exhaustion than any deliberate intent, Ronon feels his head swimming. Every pound of his heart creates a brief contact with John's heaving chest, and John kisses him back, lazily. Squints up at him, his eyes as soft and lax as the rest of him, and anything Ronon could say next will most likely change that expression into something less open.
Kissing John, like this, is languid and fluid, easy in a way that the rest of the world isn't.
John huffs in amusement, rocking his head to the side before pushing himself away from the window. The blinds have left a striped pattern in the skin of his arm, and the satisfaction the sight brings is startling.
Not as startling, though, as John's sudden laugh.
"We need fresh shirts," he says, toying with the jeans that are tangled around Ronon's thighs. "And. Well. You up for a shower?"
His content is contagious, apparently, because Ronon's letting himself be led down the hallway- awkwardly, at first, until it becomes more practical to shuck their jeans, leave them on the floor. Their shirts, redundant by now, follow immediately.
They'll be back for their clothes in a few minutes, Ronon knows, but he memorizes the sight of them. Right now, at least for a little while, there's evidence that this happened. That they were there. The part of his mind that's always tracking these things, mindful of each and every possible threat, finds none at all.
---
Las Vegas is stunning, almost literally, once they get down to the strip. There's still enough heat caught in the pavement that it's radiating back up at them. His hair is still damp against his back, but it's drying quickly. Garish, bright lights scream out from every corner of his vision, flashing so wildly that the street seems to undulate beneath their feet. The noise, likewise, is alive. Cars and people and strains of music pouring out into the streets whenever a nearby door opens.
After the first few blocks, and stopping for food- too salty, , he's finding himself enjoying it, more than he probably should. But what's most amazing are the fountains.
They're purely decorative, garishly hedonistic. That people who lived in a desert would be so cavalier with their resources is astounding, but it's hypnotic, watching the jets of water catch the lights as it moves with the music.
"That's insane," he finally decides, unsure if his voice can be heard over the roar of the water as another series of jets opens up in front of them to create a towering wall.
"That's what Vegas is all about," John replies with a shrug; after a moment he begins haltingly to step back. "Come on. There's a place near here, they do the best steaks in town."
Ronon turns away from the display to find dozens of people still watching, entranced.
Maybe he can see the appeal.
---
The food is good, and it's clear that John's hoping he'll be impressed, so Ronon doesn't point out that all food is good food, or that, having eaten in the past few days, he's nowhere near starving enough to really take notice. It doesn't stop him from clearing his plate before John's half finished.
Ronon can't remember the last time he had ale. It's thinner, here, than he remembers it being, but strong. The thin hint of drunkenness settles over him; his limbs feel loose and heavy. This far back into the booth they're in, it's actually possible to believe that they're alone, but for the constant stream of traffic outside the windows. It's hard to tear his eyes away, but John seems equally content to watch the people walking by.
It's a strange place to feel so quietly sated, here, in a city this big, this loud and bright and alive,
John's leg bumps his under the table, and suddenly it's not so strange at all.
---
Back on the street, they wander past dozens of gambling rooms, eventually ducking into one to look around. The noise and lights are too confined, shooting out form all angles with no place to go, until the casino seems more confining than his cell had been.
It's nearly a relief to be heading for the door, past machines called one-armed-bandits and all their racket. As they step aside to let another throng of people swarm past, John's phone chimes. Looking at the display, he frowns.
"Cadman's three blocks away. We should probably get going."
There's a peal of electronic noise that sounds like an alarm going off, but John doesn't react, so Ronon doesn't need to. But it's too loud to talk. John tries anyway
"I don't know what I can promise," he says, as they step out of the casino and onto the street again, his voice so much quieter than the city that's opening up to again swallow them.
"That's okay," Ronon replies, feeling slight guilt at the relief John's words bring. He doesn't need promises, and honestly, he's not entirely sure what this is, between them. He doesn't know if it's love- it's been so long, he can't even identify it properly. "In a few days, it might not even matter." John's starting to look lost again, so he nudges him with his arm, smiles, and that seems to be the right thing to do, because John's allowing a small, speculative grin to cross his face as they stop in the garishly lit entryway of another casino.
"If we do make it through, though... I wouldn't mind revisiting it." Thousands of small lights are dancing across the ceiling and down the walls like water. John's nearly too bright to look at.
"Same here."
In a few minutes, he's going to be climbing into the truck with the guards, heading back through the night to the facility and whatever else is coming his way, and it's no good, leaving it like this.
He tugs at John's shoulder, while they're waiting for the light over the street to tell them when they're allowed to cross, and John's grin looks a little sad, now. He winds his arms around Ronon, though, and when they kiss, it doesn't feel like goodbye.
Chapter 18