a Stargate: Atlantis story
by dirty diana
Porn! for serial karma. beta by sf fan.
Ronon knows he's still on probation.
It's been almost a full cycle of the moon since he came to Atlantis, as near as he can tell. Time passes strangely here, faster than before, when the time from sun-up to sundown was an eternity. A million ways to make a mistake, to pause in one spot for too long. Get yourself killed.
Ronon is still a stranger here, and he can feel it in the way that everyone speaks too slowly to him, as if he might not understand their words. In the way that Elizabeth Weir jumps when he gets too close to her, as if surprised to see him still there.
Sheppard does it too. Ronon doesn't think he realises it.
It doesn't matter, anyway. He's not going, not just yet. No matter what they think, or what he knows they must all see when they look at him, he appreciates the value of regular meals. Regular baths. Hot water. A bed that he can sink into, ignoring the nightmares that follow even in waking.
Still. They watch him.
"Does it not bother you?"
He asks Teyla this one day, as she feints left and reassumes her fighting stance, both feet planted firmly on the mat. He eyes her, carefully. He's about to win this round, but with Teyla it never pays to move too quickly.
She shrugs, and does not answer. Perhaps it is different for her. Because she is female. Or because she was their ally first. Teyla Emmagan smiles more, intimidates them less.
Ronon is relearning many things. But not yet the art of smiling.
Sleep, too, has not returned to him. Running, he learned how to make traps of sound and projectiles, but he never learned how to trust them. And so sleep was always only half of what he needed, sitting upright with his fingers clasped around his gun.
Atlantis is never fully asleep, a constantly waking city. This seems appropriate, somehow. He walks the halls in the night, while others work and rest.
He often finds himself outside Sheppard's door.
The crack of the entrance opening never surprises him. It surprises Sheppard, though, Ronon thinks. His eyes are always wide, as if expecting someone else. Something else.
"You should come in," Sheppard says.
"No," Ronon answers, quietly. They play games. It seems to suit this new taskmaster, and so it suits him too.
"You can't just prowl the halls all night," Sheppard says, finally.
Ronon enters. The room is never quite dark, the wide windows allowing the sweep of the moonlight.
Ronon does not know if Sheppard means him to hear an order, but he hears one anyway, taking off his shirt and stretching flat on the bed.
In the time after this, Ronon always waits for Sheppard to change his mind. When John gets in beside him, lithe and warm, Ronon breathes again. He stays motionless, on his side.
Sheppard's callused hands lie flat against his back, moving only slightly against his bare skin. Ronon knows he can feel the scar, the small knot where the Wraith lived inside him for seven years. Sometimes Ronon thinks that he can feel it too, though the doctor tells him that it healed easily.
When Sheppard touches him, he shudders. He'd forgotten it was like this. Forgotten skin, and the price of wanting.
He doesn't turn around until Sheppard asks him to. Sheppard's mouth has no caution in it. No fear. Ronon can't think about that long enough to question it. He needs this, a demand beyond words or waiting.
He gasps when Sheppard's hands rest on his chest, almost casually, teasing Ronon's nipples underneath the cup of his palm. Ronon leans forward, throwing his legs around Sheppard's own, pulling him forward until their thighs and bellies touch, and Ronon can make out the musical rhythm of Sheppard's breathing.
Without permission, he realises too late. His mumbled apologies are shaken off.
"It's okay," Sheppard tells him, softly, with his mouth close to Ronon's ear, his stubble rough and pricking. "Relax."
Easier said than done, but Sheppard teases him with hands and hips, vibrating gently against Ronon's trapped, rising cock.
"Like this?" he asks, and Ronon can only nod dumbly, and take the gift of Sheppard's tongue in his mouth, as one hand works its way down, cupping his balls, teasing the head of Ronon's cock through thick fabric. Sheppard wets his fingers against his tongue, pulls the buttons away on Ronon's pants, sliding, with more pressure.
Ronon fights. And loses, always, as Sheppard directs him onto his back and crawls down the length of his body, to take Ronon's cock with his mouth.
After this, Ronon never lasts long. He surrenders, pleading, moaning until Sheppard has won, has swallowed all of him. And raises his head, beyond the horizon of Ronon's navel, with an easy smile crossing his wet mouth.
He kisses the inside of Ronon's thigh, and takes him without excess ceremony. Sliding between Ronon's thighs, slick and hard. His fingers grip Ronon's shoulders, his breath warms his skin, thrusting into him slowly, and then quickly, until he is sated.
Each time Ronon rolls over and spreads his legs with ease. It is his right. Both of theirs. They have earned it.
Sleep comes quickly, after.
They never reverse roles. It would break one of Ronon's only rules, and he thinks that Sheppard seems to know that, without asking. Sheppard has his own rules. Ronon understands that, and walks carefully every time he leaves Sheppard's door. He's not sure that he understands Sheppard's reasons, though, or maybe he understands them too well. He sees Sheppard's eyes in the mess every morning, the slight frown that his mouth makes as he studies Ronon over. Ronon can never tell if Sheppard likes what he sees.
Sheppard does what he thinks is best, for everyone. Ronon can't be the one to tell him that what he thinks might be wrong.
He eats his breakfast in silence, devouring what he recognises and leaving what he doesn't. And lets Sheppard watch, he lets all of them watch him. Maybe soon they'll stop waiting for him to leave. Ronon Dex does what he wants. He will leave when he's ready.