The room is dark and if this were on Earth, it'd be smoke-filled, cigars brought out like the rare, precious gems they are and passed around with a reverent, almost mystical touch.
This isn't Earth, though, so they don't have cigars, just a cache of bottles that hold something that isn't beer and isn't grain alcohol, but a highly addicting mix of the two. It hits Ronon faster that it does Lorne or John, and they laugh at him because of it, even though it was Ronon who taught them where to trade for it and the rudiments of making it on their own.
"I didn't go on a lot of benders when I was running from the Wraith," he slurs, and it's only because of the alcohol floating through his blood that he's talking about this at all.
Still, John doesn't treat that with the gravity he's never known how to give it anyway, fixating on something a lot easier to handle. "Bender!" he whoops, spilling the beer-cahol onto his wrist, black band soaking up the mess and the nose-singing smell of beer that can pickle your liver. "You said bender!"
He's braying with laughter and for once doesn't care, snickering like a school boy when a teacher says 'duty', a different spelling floating neon bright through all her students' minds. Lorne laughs with him, although he says something about a 'Fry' that John doesn't understand. It doesn't stop him from laughing though, each bright peal of Lorne's egging him on, while Ronon glowers darker and darker, slumping down into his chair.
Abruptly, he moves with dizzying speed, grabbing John's limp arm and yanking it towards his mouth. Almost, almost John breaks through the pleasant drunken haze he's been in for the last half hour, because Ronon is dangerous and only as domesticated as he wants to be, good behavior a promise and never a grantee, but Ronon doesn't pull him onto the floor or wrassle, the way Lorne is hooting for.
Instead, Ronon sniffs the band that clings inky-dark around his wrist, biting it lightly so he can suck the material into his mouth, humming a tune John hears in his bones.
For a while, no one speaks.
"That's... really hot, sir," Lorne says and there's a respectful note in his voice. "Really hot."
Ronon releases the band, darker still from beer and Ronon's mouth -- warm against John's skin, even through the fabric, making his heart race -- and gives Lorne a smile full of teeth. "Yeah, he is."
"Hey," John protests. He's sliding off of his chair, dragged by the steady strength of Ronon's grip on his arm, but he doesn't mind. The floor isn't so very far away, and anyway Ronon is there, warm and solid and ready to catch him if he stumbles, even while seated. "Don't talk about your commanding officer that way."
Snorting, Ronon beckons Lorne closer and pointedly doesn't smirk when Lorne does, falling onto his knees to crawl closer because walking isn't something any of them can handle, not with their veins carrying more beer-cahol than blood, 100 proof and counting.
"Not commanding us now," Ronon rumbles. He tugs, gentle, gentle, and John goes, sliding onto knees that cradle his ass without any effort, arms that hold his longer, older body against something so young and virile that for a moment, John is consumed with jealousy, green with it, because it's been such a long time since this has been his.
He loses his thought when Ronon kisses him, full of hops and lush, soft lips, an eager tongue that pushes against his own, demanding that John give in and John does. He's had kisses like these before, full and commanding, and he opens his mouth, teasing right back because there's nothing better than this kind of dirty, wet heat, the soft sounds of lips against lips echoing the same way as each pull of their drinks had before, wet and cool and perfect.
He's panting when Ronon lets him go, dazed and willing as it's Lorne's turn. He's more diffident, shyer, somehow still aware that this is Sheppard, his Colonel and Commander, except not, here, not this moment this single tick of a clock's hands when he is just John with just Evan and Evan kisses more sweetly, careful and cautious and no less powerful for all that restraint.
John moans this time, reaching back towards Evan when he pulls away. "Hey," he says, "I can order -- order -- oh!"
Above him Ronon chuckles, hands busy and coordinated on John's lap, opening his pants and shoving them down to expose John -- long and hard and glinting wet -- to three pairs of eyes and two moons beside.
"Lorne," Ronon says, "suck him."
"Yeah," Evan moans and then he's dipping his head, tongue a dark shadow that licks around the very tip, pointed over the slit while John shivers and starts to sweat, alcohol and lust a fire inside of him. "Oh, yeah. You taste good, sir."
"Jesus, don't call me that," John complains but stops soon enough. He can't talk, not when Evan blowing him sweet and diffident, so damned respectful except how he's got a few wicked tricks that leave John panting, gasping, arching as Ronon maneuvers him onto his knees, Evan sliding around to take John directly down his throat, humming like a kid with a lollipop, while blunt fingers stroke over John's ass, painting it with something cold and slick, thumbing over him until John goes, shifting easily into a familiar position, fucking and fucked, pinned between two bodies.
"Don't let him come," Ronon calls and it's like the beat of a dance, the low rumble of the drums that call the next reel for everyone to move to. John groans as he's breeched, the pain of it fading quickly as Ronon rubs him ready, big hands manipulating hips and ass like they've done this hundreds of times, forever, pressing in until John feels like he could choke on it.
He's moaning, eager and ready, and Ronon is laughing at them all, breathless groans that sound so painfully young. "Hands and knees," he directs and John goes, his palms aching against the too-smooth floor and from there it's easy. He leans down, a warm, callused hand on his neck, angling him to take Evan's cock, sucking long and sloppy, as messy as he knows how because he wants to hear everything the too-quiet Major as, each groan and hitch and breathy moan as pets John's face, his neck, rubbing meandering circles over his shoulders and arms.
Ronon's truly fucking now, short, sharp jabs that have John rolling up the length of Evan's cock, and he's humming, hell, he'd sing if knew how, gleeful as he's fucked, as he sucks, his own cock throbbing with the phantom memory of Evan's mouth, so careful, and now the new sensation of Ronon's hand, bigger than any he's ever felt, swallowing his cock -- not small, not even now -- until he's wrapped up vise tight, hiccupping as he takes Evan deeper, spreads his legs more so that Ronon can fuck and fuck and fuck him, sinking in as far as he can go, angle so perfect, steady on and rhythmic as Ronon pulls him and moves him and takes him.
It's Evan who comes first, a moan spiraling up in register as John and Ronon both watch, awed as Evan jerks and jerks and John's mouth is flooded with come, eagerly swallowed down. Ronon rumbles something approving and then he's tugging John away -- Evan's cock is freed with a pop -- pushing so that John's head is on the ground, protected only by his forearms as Ronon fucks him, hard and hot, and perfect every time.
"Yeah," Ronon groans, the only warning John has before he can feel Ronon start to throb inside him, filling him until he's complete, until he's almost --
"Help me with him," Ronon says, and Evan is suddenly there, easing John onto his own weight, until he's puddled in Evan's lap, squirming and eager as two hands pull and stroke and tug at him, over and over until he gasps and comes and settles down against two warm bodies that wrap around him like the edges of a blanket, steady and still.
-fin-