"Distillation" by Bone

Ronon prowls the caves at night.

Nobody hinders his movement. Ford's "men" give him a wide berth now that he's finally riding a high enough dose—he won't be looking up at them from his back on the mat anymore, and they know it.

He's ready for anything, but nothing's happening. McKay's working on the dart; Sheppard's working on Ford. Neither seems to be making much progress, and the waiting is torture.

His heart pounds in his chest all the time. He can't sleep. His senses are sharper than ever. He smells Wraith everywhere, even on his own skin. The enzyme, the drug, makes him edgy.

It's not a new feeling; he knows it well. He spent seven years living on fear, reshaping it into skill and strength. It's just like that, only more.

He's hungry all the time, but food doesn't satisfy.

Sparring gives him the physical contact he craves, the heat and solid weight of a body against him. The ache of his bruises leads to persistent, unwanted arousal in a weird hyped-up loop of pain and pleasure.

He wants to kill something.

He wants to fuck someone.

***

Ronon finds his way to Sheppard's quarters, such as they are—a narrow room with a pallet on the floor and a stretch of heavy fabric for a door. No way to knock, so he pushes aside the curtain and looks in.

Sheppard's lying on the pallet with one knee cocked, both hands linked behind his head. He's got a lantern lit beside him, but he's just staring up at the ceiling. He turns his head when Ronon clears his throat.

"Ronon?" Sheppard asks softly, squinting in his direction.

Ronon comes into the light, looks down at him.

Sheppard looks tired. The sallow light draws dark circles under his eyes. Ronon has the enzyme to keep him awake; Sheppard only has his worry.

"Can't sleep," Ronon says, keeping his voice as low as Sheppard's.

Sheppard comes up on his elbows, the change in position pulling his shirt taut across his chest and shoulders.

The latent heaviness in Ronon's groin tightens into need, and he looks away, trying to control his breathing. Each harsh breath drags another wave of Sheppard's scent into his lungs, rocketing down to his cock. Sheppard always smells good, but here, now, where everyone smells like an enemy, even himself, that clean familiar scent works on him like a rough hand, priming him.

"This was a—this is a bad idea," Ronon says, turning toward the doorway. "I shouldn't have come."

Sheppard gets to him before he can pull back the curtain, brings him back around with a hand on his arm.

Ronon closes his eyes. He's almost dizzy, the room spinning around him. He feels each of Sheppard's fingers as distinct bursts of heat on his skin, Sheppard's palm a flame, burning him.

He's rock-hard, the greater world sharply distilled to a single overpowering desire.

He obviously makes some sound, because Sheppard's shushing him, moving his hand up and down Ronon's arm and leaving raised hairs in his wake. Now Sheppard's tugging on his arm, pulling him back to the pallet. Sheppard pushes him down on it, crouches between Ronon's knees.

"What's going on?" Sheppard whispers fiercely in his ear, his breath like a finger stroke.

Ronon shakes his head and leans back, trying to pull himself together. He might have succeeded, might have had the strength to pull away, but Sheppard loses his balance and checks himself with a hand on Ronon's thigh.

Then it's way too late.

Ronon grabs Sheppard's hand, drags it higher and presses it hard against his iron cock as he drops onto his back, spreading his legs.

Sheppard makes a startled sound, loud in the quiet room, and tries to pull away. Ronon can't let him, holds him there with one hand wrapped tight around Sheppard's wrist. "Don't fight me, don't—" Ronon mutters, rolling his head on the pallet and shoving his hips up against Sheppard's captive hand.

"Let go," Sheppard says under his breath.

Ronon's hand tightens involuntarily. He can hear himself panting and claps his other hand over his mouth, stifling the sound.

"Ronon," Sheppard says, his voice rough. "Let go."

Ronon slowly forces his hand to release Sheppard's wrist.

Sheppard has his pants undone and pulled down in the space between one labored breath and another. Ronon feels wet heat suctioning the head of his cock and he heaves up in disbelief, looking down at Sheppard's head in his lap, at Sheppard's mouth tunneling the length of his cock, sucking him down in one tight constant pull.

Ronon tangles his hands in Sheppard's hair, tries to warn him, but he can't form words, and his muted grunts just seem to spur Sheppard on. Ronon forces his hips still. He won't thrust down Sheppard's throat the way he yearns to, won't take more than what Sheppard's freely offering. He comes on Sheppard's third descent, spilling up into his mouth. Sheppard stays on him, swallows, the massage of his mouth almost more than Ronon can bear.

When he's done, Sheppard lifts his head and looks at him, licking swollen lips. His mouth and cheeks are red. He looks lit up from the inside. Ronon's hard again before Sheppard's even wiped the come from his mouth.

Sheppard moves to stand in front of him and starts pulling off his t-shirt. In the low light, Ronon can see the heavy bulge of Sheppard's cock distending his uniform pants, and saliva floods his mouth.

"Can I?" Ronon asks, sitting up, brushing his face against Sheppard's crotch.

Sheppard leans over, brushes Ronon's ear with his nose. "I'd rather you fucked me," he breathes in Ronon's ear.

Every hair on Ronon's body stands on end. He grabs loosely at his still-wet cock, pumps it twice. "You sure?"

"Oh, yeah," Sheppard says, reaching for his belt buckle, unfastening it slowly while Ronon watches.

It's a bad idea—being here, doing this. They can't afford to let their guard down, can't afford to be discovered. Not here. Not like this. They don't need to give Ford any more ammunition than he already has.

The orgasm seems to have cleared Ronon's thinking, at least momentarily, and he puts his hand out, stops Sheppard from peeling off any more layers.

"We could get caught," Ronon says, distracted by the silky hair his fingers find on Sheppard's stomach.

"So be quiet," Sheppard says, a smile in his voice.

Ronon looks up and Sheppard's smile fades at whatever he sees on Ronon's face.

"I'll hurt you," Ronon says quietly.

"No, you won't," Sheppard says.

Ronon wishes he had Sheppard's confidence.

"I might," Ronon says. "The shit's really kicking in."

Sheppard shakes off his hand, stares down at him. Ronon puts his hands on Sheppard's hips, holds his gaze as he rubs his mouth over Sheppard's trapped cock, uses his teeth a little. Sheppard's eyes glaze over at the bite, and he starts to tremble.

Sheppard rubs his hands down Ronon's back, pressing hard in all the right places, somehow instinctively finding all his worst bruises in the best possible way. He holds Ronon against him and nudges his hips against Ronon's mouth, but when Ronon moves to unfasten Sheppard's pants, Sheppard pushes him away.

"Move," he says, and Ronon lets himself be moved, lets Sheppard strip him. When they're both naked, Sheppard motions Ronon off the pallet and takes his place, face-down and spread-eagled.

Ronon takes a good look at Sheppard's long, lean body, at the strong thighs spread wide and waiting, then leans over and douses the lantern.

Sheppard makes a soft sound in the dark. Ronon can hear rustles as he moves, restless against the bedding

Somehow it's even better in the dark. Ronon relies on touch to guide him. He starts with his hands at the top of Sheppard's head and works his way down, learning the bones and sinew of Sheppard's back, the firm muscle of his buttocks and the heat and tightness between. Sheppard stays silent, using the lift of his body to guide Ronon's hands. When he's ready, he scissors his legs, trapping Ronon's hand.

Ronon leans across his back and whispers, "I don't have anything to make it easier."

"Use spit," Sheppard says, his voice slurred and slow.

So Ronon swabs down his cock, presses wet fingers deep inside until Sheppard's shuddering, until Sheppard's body is damp with sweat and his breath reduced to arrhythmic hitches, then Ronon presses into him. Sheppard yields instantly, giving way and absorbing Ronon with an ease Ronon would never have expected.

It's so much better than fighting, so much better than the struggle for the upper hand that feels as natural to Ronon now as breathing. Sheppard surrenders whatever Ronon's body asks of him, gives it up with a sigh and an almost inaudible, inarticulate moan.

The sound trips some trigger deep inside Ronon, and he slams into Sheppard's body. Sheppard doesn't protest, and Ronon feels lust consume him. It's the same rush he gets from winning, from killing. He tucks his knees against Sheppard's thighs, spreads them even wider, until Sheppard's pinned beneath him, and Ronon lets the rush drag him deeper. Each plunge takes him further, until he's clutching the sides of the pallet for leverage, banging into Sheppard with enough power to physically move him with every thrust.

Then Sheppard reaches back and puts a hand on his thigh. He makes no sound, but his message is as clear as a shout: Slow down. Chill out.

Ronon freezes mid-thrust, breathless.

Fucking Wraith poison.

Sheppard's still pliant beneath him. He seems nowhere near as rattled as Ronon.

Ronon eases into the rest of the thrust and holds there, shaking. He can control this. He has to. It's just one more thing to defeat. Sheppard moves under him, changing the angle slightly, and Ronon hears Sheppard's breath catch, so he moves, cautiously, right where he is, rubs where Sheppard seems to need it, and Sheppard goes boneless beneath him with a murmur.

Ronon does his best to take it slow, fights the violent urge to go faster and push harder, and lets the pressure build to breaking point before he withdraws and surges in again. He repeats the rhythm over and over until he's mastered it, until Sheppard's writhing beneath him, until Ronon can't stand to withdraw anymore and simply thrusts home and stays, jerking Sheppard's hips up to meet him, driving so deep and holding so tight he feels, for an instant, like they've merged completely, and they'll never be entirely separate again.

His second climax is longer than the first, stronger, spasms wracking him. He chokes on the sounds struggling from his throat, bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. The clench of Sheppard's ass around his cock tells him Sheppard's coming, too, strong muscles milking Ronon's cock through the last of it.

He drops his forehead to Sheppard's back.

It's done.

He's fought his own body and won.

Ronon pulls out as gently as he can; Sheppard's ass is less inclined to part with him than it was to take him in. He settles onto Sheppard's back and aligns their bodies from fingertips to bare feet. He licks the smooth spot behind Sheppard's ear and Sheppard lifts his head, rubs his bony, whiskered jaw on Ronon's cheek.

"That take the edge off?" Sheppard asks him.

Ronon smiles against Sheppard's shoulder, strokes him with his beard. "For now."

***

Ronon leaves Sheppard soundly asleep in a tangle of bedding.

He returns to his nocturnal patrol, silently assuring anyone who crosses his path that they'd do best to just keep walking.

He's calmer now. He can focus on something beyond his cock.

He can take whatever's coming:

His next test. His next fight.

His next dose.