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As Ronon swept his legs out from under him and pinned him to the mat, John had to admit that maybe he wasn't as straight as he'd always believed. He'd gone down pretty hard, hard enough to know that he'd be hurting in the morning, but Ronon's heavy weight was pressing down on his legs and hips, and it felt pretty damn good. If a man couldn't be honest with himself when he was flat on his back, a knife held to his throat, then he might as well step to the back of the closet and shut the door tight, and John's metaphorical closet had a foot firmly wedged in the door.
"Nice move," he said. Ronon was hardly out of breath, and John might have been insulted if he hadn't spent a year getting his ass handed to him twice a week by Teyla.
Ronon bared his teeth at him as if he'd forgotten how to smile. He didn't move away. Neither did the knife. John didn't have much choice but to lie there; any movement would bring him into fairly intimate contact with Ronon, and yeah, danger turned him on, but coming on to a guy with a knife at his throat went beyond danger into stupidity.
Ronon leaned down, his hair brushing John's face. "Seven years," he said, and that was pretty cryptic, even for a guy who held onto words like they were rationed.
"Yeah," John said, going for the most obvious interpretation. "You've had a lot more time to learn how to take down Wraith than we have."
Ronon shook his head a little. "Seven years," he repeated, and his weight on John's hips suddenly had purpose and movement.
John got it. It wasn't a statement. Wasn't even a warning. It was an invitation.
He brought his hands up to Ronon's waist. Ronon grinned wickedly and tossed the knife aside. He moved in further, his hot mouth sucking its prickly way up John's neck to his jaw.
"This is really not a good idea," he managed, even as he was pulling Ronon down against him. And that was the understatement of the year. Elizabeth would kill him if she found out. *Caldwell* would kill him, then have him demoted back down to captain. He tried, half-heartedly, to maneuver out from under Ronon, but Ronon planted his hands on his shoulders, and all he managed to do was shove their cocks together. The spike of pleasure felt fantastic, even through two layers of pants.
"Fuck, yeah, hold me down," John panted, suddenly more turned on than he could bear. His fingers felt thick as he fumbled at Ronon's pants, got them open, and wrapped his hand around Ronan's cock. Ronon growled, honest-to-god *growled*, but didn't let up, so that John had to fight to get his hands to do what they wanted, muscles straining and burning.
Finally his pants were open too, and Ronon was moving, thrusting against him, his cock rubbing against John's in the grip of his hand. John slid his other hand around the back of Ronon's neck and pulled him down into as much of a kiss as he could manage until he had to gasp for breath as he came, shuddering and shocked. After a second, he recovered enough to help Ronon as he thrust into John's wet hand. Ronon stared down at him, unafraid, until John felt his cock pulse in his hand.
Ronon dropped his head and thrust one last time, startling a twinge of pleasure out of John, then rolled off to the side and let out a noisy sigh. John thought it sounded like contentment, but how was he supposed to know? What did he really know about Ronon? Next to nothing.
Ronon rolled over and pressed a few gentle kisses to John's mouth. Okay, definitely contentment.
John hated to ruin the post-coital haze, but he felt obligated to try again. "I did mention that this was a bad idea, right?"
Ronon lifted a shoulder in what was probably a shrug. "So don't tell anyone."
John thought about it for a second. "Don't ask, don't tell, huh? That's kind of catchy. You should put it on a bumper sticker."
"It's no one else's business. Only ours." He kissed John again, less gentle, his tongue pushing its way into John's mouth as if he had no doubts at all.
"Works for me," John said, shoving Ronon onto his back and straddling him. "This time, I get to be on top."