Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3,100
Categories: EFUR (established fucked-up relationship), PWP
Spoilers: "The Long Goodbye," S2x36
Summary: Ronon suddenly pushed him back aggressively, his hands hard on John's waist, expression tight with demand.

"My way," Ronon growled, and before John could protest he didn't know what Ronon's way was, Ronon had tossed him to the bed and was yanking off John's track pants.

A/N: I don't even like Roy Orbison but the title song has been running through my head for some reason.


Anything You Want

by esteefee


"Again," John said, even though he was starting to feel every hit rising to the surface of his skin; the sparring had gone on long enough that his endorphins were giving out.

But Ronon was grinning at him, a feral grin that narrowed his eyes and made him look oddly young at the same time. And then he swung forward once again, all grace and lazy power, and John coiled in answer, taking the strikes then returning the attack. Impossibly, he managed to get one blow beneath Ronon's guard and knock him hard on the thigh. Ronon grunted, and John was so startled at the success he completely failed to take advantage of the opening before Ronon was back out of reach.

"Good," Ronon said. This time his smile was less fierce, more joyful.

God, it was good seeing him like that. John would take a hundred hits if it meant seeing Ronon healthy again, recovered from the gut-shot that had almost killed him—all John's fault, because he'd lured Ronon away from the others when he was under the control of that Thalan asshole. Screaming inside the whole time, unable to do anything as the ugly scene played out.

But Thalan had heard John begging him to call for a medic, and did it—on a whim.

"Again," John said, but this time he was too tired to respond quickly enough, and Ronon struck him twice rapidly on back and shoulder, and then, when John spun awkwardly, just under the chin.

John landed flat on his back, his air going out in a whoosh. He felt the weirdly nostalgic sensation of his lungs being locked, of being unable to breathe—he hadn't lost his breath like this since he was thrown from his horse when he was twelve.

"Breathe," Ronon said, crouching next to him, his hands going to John's chest, and after a moment John could breathe again, and took in a grateful gulp of air.

"Wow," John said, when he could speak. "Okay, maybe that's enough for today."

"It was enough an hour ago," Ronon said, something speculative in his voice.

"Yeah, well, now it's really enough." John took Ronon's hand and let himself be hauled up—a little too quickly, according to his sore shoulder. Limping over to the wall, John retrieved his towel and ran it up the back of his neck and then over his face.

"You want to tell me what that was about?" Ronon leaned next to him, his biceps gleaming, his breathing slow and easy. John couldn't remember ever hearing Ronon out of breath.

"It's been a while—maybe I'm off my game."

"That's not what I meant." Ronon retrieved his own towel and rubbed himself down before lifting the bottom of his shirt. He scratched idly at the surgical scar there, and John's gaze locked on the sight.

When he finally dragged his eyes up, he found himself trapped again, this time by Ronon's assessing look.

"It's been a while since you came by," Ronon said, meaning John hadn't stopped by his quarters for sex like he sometimes did.

"You've been recovering."

"So? I'm recovered."

"I'll say," John said, rubbing his chin pointedly.

Ronon laughed, and thankfully didn't say anything more.

:::

John should have expected it though, when late that night there was a knock at his door. He was tempted to ignore it until Ronon went away—no one else pounded on his door quite the way Ronon did—but that would be cowardly.

John let him in. The corridor was dark, and so was the expression on Ronon's face.

Usually John went to him, not the other way around. There was a good reason for that; Ronon's quarters were strategically better for not being seen coming or going. Also, John always figured this whole thing was more on his side than Ronon's. Even though Ronon had made the first move, he'd always seemed content afterward to follow John's lead, and didn't appear to need it as much.

Maybe seven years on the run could do that to a man—reduce him to necessities, and kill his desire for more. But Ronon wasn't on the run anymore, so John just figured it was how the man was.

None of which had prepared him for Ronon suddenly pushing him back aggressively, his hands hard on John's waist, expression tight with demand.

"My way," Ronon growled, and before John could protest he didn't know what Ronon's way was, Ronon had tossed him to the bed and was yanking off John's track pants.

"What—"

"Shut up. That's the first thing," Ronon said. "No words. Only sounds."

John pressed his mouth shut against his objections, and then against the whimper that rose when Ronon put a rough hand on his cock, squeezing him in one tight stroke before proceeding to remove both their clothes.

It hadn't been like this before. Before, John was always the one making the moves, directing the action. He figured it was because Ronon liked taking commands; liked knowing what was expected of him, with no ambiguity.

That was a different Ronon from this one, who kissed him once, fiercely, thrusting his tongue into John's mouth, before pulling away and putting hard hands on John's hips, turning him over.

"Ronon." They didn't do this. They didn't fuck. Fast, hard hands and soft, sucking mouths had always been plenty. But the one word of protest was all John could manage before Ronon's heavy palm covered the back of his neck and squeezed once in warning.

"Don't," Ronon said gruffly. "Don't pretend you won't let me. I know the truth now."

"Truth—?" John gasped, his knees shoved apart to make room for Ronon to settle between them, Ronon's stomach resting heavy on his ass.

"When I got shot. Thalan said you were screaming in his head. Screaming. I've never heard you scream, Sheppard." Ronon nipped at John's shoulder blade, and his teeth dragged down John's spine. "But I will."

John shuddered hard, heat flooding his face and filling his cock. Oh, God, he thought, and then Ronon's hands were spreading his cheeks, his soft, thick tongue slipping down—

John made a sound then, half protest, half bewildered capitulation because—Jesus—that felt incredible, and even as he tightened against the raw intimacy of what Ronon's mouth was doing to him, his legs were spreading wider.

"Yeah, like that," Ronon's humid whisper brushed against his hole, and then his tongue pushed insistently, trying to get inside. Christ. "Open up," Ronon said.

John shook his head, grinding his face into the pillow, unwilling to make a sound.

"You will," Ronon promised, then licked at him, tongue hard then soft, slipping around and around and making John's ass twitch. And then he felt the edges of teeth drawing down, scraping lightly, and John groaned and felt himself open, felt his body melt, loose and pliable and so goddamned weak all of a sudden, his strength washing out of him, leaving behind a jittering need for more.

Ronon gave it to him, thrusting his tongue inside past John's weakly spasming muscle.

John moaned into the pillow, and Ronon's hands tightened harder in response, spreading him wider, his beard tickling the back of John's balls.

"Dear God," John muttered, and let him. Let Ronon fuck him with his tongue, fuck his body open in surrender. When Ronon finally paused, John's ass was tingling and wet. He realized only when he stopped that he'd been humping the rough blanket beneath him.

Ronon reached down to the floor, pulling up his leather jacket and digging through the pocket. John turned his head away, not wanting to look. He smelled it though—the acrid smell of something medicinal, and then Ronon held him open and slid three slick fingers directly into his loosened asshole.

John's body tightened and bucked involuntarily at the invasion. He registered Ronon's other hand resting at the small of his back, rubbing there as if comforting him, although comfort and Ronon weren't two words John had ever connected in his mind.

Except in the most basic sense—the comfort of having trust at his back. Always, every single time they went out through the gate.

John felt himself relaxing at the thought, and Ronon made an approving noise and pushed his fingers in deeper, spreading more lube inside him. It was cool, but warmed quickly under Ronon's insistent touch. Ronon's thumb was stroking him underneath in counterpoint, sliding along the smooth spot there, making John's moans increase embarrassingly in volume.

Okay, John thought. Do it. Just do it. Because he was on board now, his entire body was screaming for it, even if it was the stupid thing to do—as commander, he should never let Ronon take him. It went against instinct, it went against hierarchy, and most importantly, if he let Ronon do this, Ronon would know.

That John would pretty much let him do anything.

But it was already happening. John couldn't stop it. It would help if he even wanted to.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Ronon said, leaning over him. There was just enough hesitation in his tone that John suddenly understood—this went against Ronon's own instincts, too.

Maybe instinct was for shit.

"Yeah, Ronon. Do it." Before he finished speaking, Ronon's cock was already there, blunt and slick against John's hole.

From the moment Ronon slid inside, spreading John open like a bullet pushing through skin, John knew he'd made a huge fucking mistake. Because he needed this, and he hadn't even known it—he needed Ronon inside him, all that power and strength and heat pushing in—and now that he had it, he'd have to have it again. And again.

"Sheppard," Ronon moaned as John twitched involuntarily, his ass gripping and releasing. "Why, why didn't you—?" Ronon eased back and then deeper in; he felt huge, and John kept spasming, his body trying to adapt.

Finally, Ronon was all the way in, and his forehead rested heavily against John's back, his dreads scratching against John's skin. "Why didn't you stop me?"

John's only answer was a moan as he felt Ronon pull back and make his first complete thrust, deep and powerful, his cockhead squeezing past John's sweet spot and sparking a wave of heat behind his nuts. John bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a whimper when Ronon did it again and again, faster, a deep, thorough fucking. John had never had this—never let himself have this, never wanted anyone inside but his own fingers and his own fantasies. But this was a thousand times better.

He was ruined. Fucking ruined by Ronon's cock as it moved inside him, teaching him things he didn't want to know about himself—couldn't afford to know.

"Why are you letting me?" Ronon said hoarsely, and then lifted John's hips with easy strength until he was on his knees, ass high, shoulders pressed to the mattress. "I'm watching you take it, take all of me," Ronon moaned, and he grabbed John's hands and held them down, then started fucking him for real, his weight pushing John's wrists down painfully hard, his cock moving inside John's ass.

Ronon's thighs spread John's legs wider, the changed angle making John moan almost constantly now, his spit wetting the pillow as his ass was hammered by Ronon's groin, Ronon's balls slapping faintly against John's.

"You'd let me do anything," Ronon said, disbelief and pleasure making his voice cracked and open. John felt Ronon's weight press him down, and John's hips twinged momentarily until he squirmed upward to adjust, and then Ronon was pressed down on top of him, panting in his ear, his cock thrusting short and fast, nailing John in the sweetest way. "Anything," Ronon said again, whining at him, and John took a choked breath and a rough scream escaped him as he came.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sheppard," Ronon said as John twisted and arched, his cock spunking up the rough blanket beneath him, the pleasure taking him in wave after wave. He clenched as hard as he could around Ronon's cock, dragging it out; Christ, he was full of Ronon's cock and covered by his warmth and weight.

With a final shudder, John went limp, his wrists moving feebly in Ronon's grip.

Ronon had fucked him through all of it, sweet, easy thrusts, but now he picked up the pace again, pulling out almost all the way and slamming in. John's breath escaped him each time, a soundless huh as his bruised ribs compressed. Ronon kept fucking him until John's pleasure rose again in a repeating echo, a small peak with each plunge, and he could hear sound entering his sighs, strange sobbing that he was helpless to control.

"Sheppard. Sheppard," Ronon whispered, and then he held himself still, his cock jerking in John's ass, and groaned long and deep.

In the aftermath, cold come soaking his belly, his abused ass screaming, John was grateful Ronon didn't pull away too soon. For a moment he could lie there and just imagine this had never happened, that he hadn't let this happen. Why had he? He felt his back stiffen, his body going tense as he waited for it all to come down on him, just like it always did.

Ronon pulled out then, and John bit his tongue. He felt sore, but that seemed appropriate—better the outside should match the inside.

Ronon's heavy feet hit the floor as he rolled out of bed. He went to John's bathroom and then returned. Something soft landed on John's ass, galvanizing him into action. He rolled away from the touch to rest on his hip facing Ronon, who looked startled, his hand still outstretched.

"You should let me look at that," Ronon said, as matter-of-fact as when he offered to check out John's injuries in the field.

"I've got it," John said. His voice sounded like gravel.

"No. Let me."

"I said I've got it—" John couldn't contain the sudden spurt of anger. His ass was cold and wet and it fucking hurt.

"Please."

John froze in the act of getting off the bed. It was just a word, but one John couldn't ever remember hearing Ronon use. Ronon didn't need anything, never asked for anything at all.

"Please, John." Ronon's eyes were intent.

John's mouth opened, then he turned away and, after a moment, stretched out again, his body tense.

This time, when Ronon parted his cheeks, his hands were gentle, and the cloth was soft as Ronon wiped him down. John's face burned and he ducked it into his crooked elbow.

"Some blood," Ronon said, and Jesus. Ronon sounded shaky, his voice quiet.

"No big deal," John said gruffly. He could have his arm hanging out of the socket after a sparring session and Ronon would just give him a bracing punch.

"You gave this to me, too," Ronon said. "I get it now." He tugged a blanket from the bottom of the bed and pulled over John's waist. Then he settled beside him, one arm draped over John's back.

Ronon didn't seem to be planning to leave any time soon.

"Sheppard."

John didn't turn his head. The pocket of air between his face and the bed started getting humid with his breath. He felt Ronon's thumb brush against his temple, then his fingers dug into John's hair, petting him weirdly. It felt good, and he relaxed his neck a little, tilting his head into the motion.

Ronon made a rumbling sound of contentment and deepened the stroke of his hand, rubbing down to the back of John's neck and then up again.

John's confusion and the nervous twinge in his stomach started to drift away. Plenty of time to worry about it later—that was pretty much his philosophy in life, actually. There was always time to worry later, after doing what needed to be done, and right now, he couldn't do anything at all. So he lifted one hand and passed it over the light switch, darkening the room.

Ronon suddenly shifted closer, and his voice came stumbling out of the dark. "I didn't think—I didn't know, before. I thought it was play, like between warriors."

John kept rabbit still, his gut tightening like a screw.

"And then—it was too late for me to say anything, but I didn't care. I thought I didn't care," Ronon sounded confused, "but I was wrong. And then Thalan said what he said, and—" Ronon's arm tightened around him. "I found out later Teyla almost had to kill you."

John couldn't let that lie. "She," he cleared his throat, "she was killing him—Thalan—not me. I would've been...collateral damage. You know what that is?"

"I'm familiar with it." Ronon's voice was dry.

"Phoebus would have killed everyone in the goddamned city, Ronon. She didn't have anything to lose."

"But I did." Ronon's voice was so deep it registered as a sensation inside John's chest. The knot in his stomach loosened a little. After a few seconds, Ronon's breath brushed against John's temple, and then, amazingly, his lips. "John," he said. A request.

Hell. It wasn't like John had anything left to hold back. He turned his head and met the kiss, surprisingly soft, the damp pad of Ronon's lower lip catching against his, Ronon's tongue slipping into his mouth.

They'd kissed some before, rushed and furious. Never like this. Never like—

—Christ. He was so stupid. He'd just assumed no way could Ronon want this. And then he'd pretty much fucking trained Ronon not to ask.

"I want this," John said before he could stop himself, before his stupid brain could throw up a roadblock. "Okay? You want this, too?"

"I want it," Ronon said. "I didn't figure you did, but then—"

"Yeah."

"Yeah." John felt Ronon's cheek go up in a grin, and imagined his boyish smile and bright eyes, and pretty much collapsed against Ronon, plastering himself close.

Ronon made a happy grunt and wrapped both arms around him, and one leg. John started to drift, and then he heard Ronon say. "Your bed is nice. Mine sucks."

"I'll get you a new one," John promised.

"Really?" Like he still couldn't believe it.

John's voice dropped to a bare whisper. "I'd give you anything. You know that already. I'd—Ronon, I'd do anything—"

Ronon closed his mouth with a kiss.

"Yeah," he said. "Same here."



End.