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Five Points of Contact

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This isn't a ceremony; it isn't some appeal to the gods or some bonding ritual. It isn't in the least bit sacred; the tools are not consecrated; this has nothing to do with anything.

This is John flat on his back, naked except his dogtags. He has his feet planted on the bed, set widely enough that you can see his cock between them. It's only half-hard at this point, but we'll be getting back to that. John is holding onto the headboard in a white-knuckle grip, like he'll bolt if he doesn't hang on, which, to be fair, he probably would.

This is Ronon climbing onto the bed, pushing John's legs even farther apart, so that he can kneel between them. He runs his big hands up the outside of John's thighs, smoothing up against the grain of his hair, not stopping, purposefully sliding his hands all the way up until they're flat on John's chest. His legs are holding John's open, another point of contact. He's pressing onto John's chest a little, not enough to really restrict his breathing but enough so that John can't forget he's there.

Ronon takes one hand off John's chest, reaching up into his dreadlocks and producing a knife from among them. It's not a special knife, just a throwing knife; Ronon requisitioned a whole twelve-pack of them the last time anybody let him get his hands on the right forms. The only thing that even makes it remarkable is there's a piece of masking tape on it with the Satedan character for "ro", marking it as his, as if Ronon would ever lose it except by shoving it into some Wraith's hand.

John swallows hard when he sees the knife, his Adam's apple working, but he nods when Ronon holds it up for his approval; he's not backing out now.

Ronon flips the knife around, getting it into the right grip. He starts at the very tip of John's knee, scratching a tiny red line into his skin, tracing down the inside of his thigh. He's not drawing anything in particular, no special characters or meaningful designs; he's just following the lines of John's body, highlighting the places he's learned to touch, the places that make John shake and squirm the most. He's careful to avoid John's dick, which is fully hard by now and resting against his thigh; that's too far, too much.

The knife goes up over John's stomach, and Ronon is sweating a little in concentration. This isn't what his knives are for; his knives are tools, killing implements, not playthings. It's hard to keep his touch light as he traces it all the way across the ticklish plane of John's abdomen. There are urges he's having to fight, things he'd never, ever do to John but keeps thinking about anyway, locations where he could push the knife in and end it, forever.

It's better when he gets to John's chest, all protected by ribs and cartilage and muscle, and he dares to push the knife in a little harder. He barely has to move it; John's breathing is coming quick and ragged, his chest falling and rising, and Ronon lets him push up against the tip of the knife, the blade sinking into his skin far enough that a little droplet of blood wells up. Ronon takes the knife away, leaning down and licking it up, letting his tongue run back down the long line he's made. John shudders, and Ronon knows he's close, knew he'd get there just from this. He knows how John watches him, his deft fingers and his sharp knives, and John wants them both.

Today, he gets them.

Ronon takes John's cock into his off hand, moving fast, and John's almost there. Ronon gets an idea, suddenly; he holds the blade up to John's throat, and John makes a shocked noise and comes, the wet, sticky heat of it dripping all over Ronon's fist.

It's going to go on like that; Ronon is going to drop the knife and shove John's legs apart and fuck him hard, but that's not important. We've seen the interesting part already, the part I meant to show you, the part you wanted to see.

Let's leave them alone for now.