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"You're gonna move that, right?" gasped John, holding himself utterly still on the bed. "Before I...before it..."

"Gotta control yourself, Sheppard," grunted Ronon, keeping the flat of his blade pressed firmly against John's belly. It was as sharp as monofilament. John knew, he'd seen it slice clean through a tissue Ronon had dropped onto it from shoulder height.

The knife was laid sideways, one scarily sharp edge facing down toward his feet. Ronon's hand on the hilt was absolutely still, no tremor, nothing. It was Ronon, so John wasn't really freaked. This was was just some macho Satedan drinking game and he'd lost the toss, but it'd all be fine, if he could just get the message through to his dick to calm the fuck down.

He tried to crane his neck up and take a look down where the action was, but Ronon stopped him, growling a little. And fuck but that was making it worse, his goddam dick liked the growling and it liked that Ronon's blade was pressed there, low on John's belly, and surely a normal person wouldn't even get a hard-on if the end result was slicing the head of your dick in two on some maniac's knife?

John groaned, his dick getting even harder and inching up his stomach as it filled. Apparently he wasn't normal.