a Stargate: Atlantis story
by dirty diana
for the sga_flashfic debriefing challenge.
Ronon likes vanilla coke. The bubbly sweetness stung his throat the first time that he tried it, but he's gotten used to it, and now he swallows one of the sugary drinks with his breakfast, whenever he can get them.
He has gotten used to other things too, like the modified P-90 that Sheppard insisted that he learn how to use. It doesn't have the mercilessness of his own weapon, but it fits comfortably in his hands, a good deal lighter than it looks. He has gotten used to sleeping in a bed again, to having a team to back him up.
To not constantly being alone.
He's gotten used to McKay, who talks far too much and means less than half of what he says. And to Teyla, who doesn't quite trust him yet. He doesn't blame her. He's gotten used to Sheppard, who talks almost as much as McKay, and means hardly any of it.
He's gotten used to Elizabeth Weir, who runs each meeting with a soft voice and an interested frown that some mistake for weakness. Elizabeth isn't used to him yet. She still jumps when he treads too quietly behind her. Or when he touches her, with one hand, flexing his palm against the knotted muscles of her back. She lets her work sit too heavy on her shoulders.
Elizabeth isn't used to him yet. But Ronon has hunted and been hunted, and he has learned how to be patient.
Her bones are slender, beneath translucent skin. He could take her here, if he wanted, on the desk, between the stacked sheets of paper that are causing the lines around her mouth. And she knows it, if Ronon can believe the nervous scent of her.
She doesn't trust him either.
When he chose her he didn't expect this to be easy. But ten million stars spin between her and her home, and she was lonely. The hard part came afterwards, in the silence.
"You understand, don't you?" she asked, with one hand on the door. Ronon said that he did. He imagines that he will, in time. In the cities of his home, so crowded before the Wraith came, this would be courting.
Each time he struggles through the layers of her, garments with buckles, garments with clasps, garments with tiny rows of teeth. Garments underneath her garments, which amused Ronon helplessly the first time that he'd seen them. She had smiled back, an expression so unique that he'd tickled the underside of her ribs, just to watch her do it again.
She showed him how to undress her. Slowly, at first, and when he learned he did it as fast as he could, tugging the underclothes over her hips, teasing with rough fingers where the elastic left welts on her skin.
He leaves marks on her too, on her wrists and her back where his hands hold onto her, dragging her down underneath him. On her knees and belly, so that he can control the pace, and trace the sheer beads of sweat that dot her skin.
She tried to thank him, once. It made him feel like a servant, and he said so, angry. In the dark she serves him, they serve each other, and it is like nothing that he could have imagined in the day, the lewd, pleased sound of her as she tastes his release. Ronon wonders idly what he tastes like, sweet, or bitter, like the earth that hid him.
She taught him how to undress her, and in return he taught her her how not to be afraid of his body, covered in scars and jagged remembrances, bones on his left hand that healed slightly crooked.
She was gentle at first, and then gentleness faded, replaced only by the strength of her want.
"Do not pity me," he tells her quietly.
"I don't," she tells him, and as with everything, her words make it so.
And then there is no more talking, only the gasping, hungry sounds of fucking, as he reaches around her and pulls away the fabric that still covers her, pushing his fingers roughly between her thighs. She moans, swearing, and he knows that she is ready.
"Do it," she tells him, and his cock throbs at the sound of her voice, as he pushes inside her. Her cunt is slippery, wet with desire.
Her knees wrap around her his hips, as he thrusts into her, her knees digging into his back. They fuck until they collapse, the both of them together, and this is another thing that Ronon is used to now, the tingle of his skin and the heavy hum of his belly as he pulls away from her, and comes, against the pale skin if her thighs, a release that leaves him spent, and shaking.
"You can stay," he tells her, pulling a blanket up over her shoulders. Ronon never feels the cold.
She shrugs, not looking at him, and that's something else that he may never be used to again, the sounds of someone else breathing in the dark.