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I'm catching up on people's challenges this morning, mostly because some bad shit is about to happen to me, and it'll throw me out of writing for a while.
TITLE: Avoidance Techniques
SUMMARY: Something in Elizabeth thinks she shouldn't have to deal with Atlantis' problems right now. After all, it wasn't her.
CATEGORY: Episode epilogue, UST, Elizabeth/Ronon
RATING: R
WARNINGS: a few lustful thoughts from both sides
NOTES:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ubiquitous_girl wanted Elizabeth/Ronon fantasising about food, and kathgrr added "she wants to lick the sweat off his body".
Avoidance Techniques
Elizabeth is familiar with avoidance techniques.
There's things she has to do, issues she has to address, messes that she has to clean up, and conversations she has to have before the city can return to 'normal'. She doesn't want to deal with it. Something in her thinks she shouldn't have to deal with it. After all, it wasn't her.
So Elizabeth walks the city, more like a ghost than a person, carefully avoiding people she doesn't want to see - most of whom are easy enough to evade.
And she comes across Ronon in one of the empty rooms.
It's the movement that catches her attention - the flash of white in the midst of warm golds and soft blues. Elizabeth almost hurries on, unseen and unnoticed, then pauses.
Sunlight slides over bare brown skin as he shifts his weight, balancing on the balls of his feet. Dressed in nothing but his trousers, the swathe of bandages around his waist, and the cord that hangs at his neck with the beast-tooth on it, Ronon's moving in what seems to be stretches, testing the limits of his injured body.
She's seen him graceful as a python striking; but his movements are jerky now. The limbs still cut through the air, but the precise control is gone, and his muscles tremble from the strain. His breath rasps as he tries to twist across his stomach and flinches halfway. He lets loose a faint groan and stops, hunched over, his hands resting on his knees as his chest heaves.
Elizabeth read the report on his wound. It was a delicate operation, made all the worse by the power outage in the city, but he's healing without complications.
No thanks to her and Phoebus.
As she watches from the corridor, stone-still lest she betray her presence, he straightens. His shoulders heave once as he draws in a deep breath, grits his teeth and begins again.
She can't help admiring his determination, can't help admiring him, deadly as a tiger without the stripes to mark him. She can't stop the more elemental reaction to him, the flush that climbs over her skin as muscles ripple in sweat and sunlight.
Elizabeth wants to know what Ronon would do if she stepped up to his back, laid her hands on his hips to still him and ran her tongue up his spine to the nape of his neck. She wants to know if his breath would rasp through his throat as she licked every drop of sweat from his body, if he would groan in pleasure and not pain, if his chest would heave as she eased the trousers from his hips and took him into her mouth...
She shouldn't be thinking such things about any man in Atlantis, but she is.
She shouldn't be imagining such wanton behaviour when there's a galaxy to free from the Wraith, but she is.
She shouldn't be standing here watching him struggle to regain his physical fitness when she's the reason he has a bullet wound in his gut, but she is.
Then he turns. He sees her. And the moment to leave is lost and the flush is still on her cheeks and she can still see herself taking just a few steps into the room and licking the sweat from each exquisitely defined pectoral.
Of course, she doesn't.
"Dr. Weir."
She wants to know what her name sounds like on his lips; if he'd rasp it against her skin, or bellow it as he came.
Elizabeth isn't allowed to know.
So she prepares herself for an apology.
"Ronon."
--
Ronon promised himself a 'spraycan' of whipped cream and half a jar of the fruit preserves if he worked his way through to the Level Three stretches.
He can't even make it through Level One. What was once easy is now agony and he hates the weakness. Ronon hunches over, his gut an inferno of pain, his elbows pressing hard into his knees to brace himself as he pants.
Beckett said he wasn't to strain himself, but if Ronon never stretches his body, he'll never get the movement back. If he's going to be going out there again, he needs to know how much mobility he has.
He starts again and grits his teeth. This time, he goes slower, careful of the wound, but still feeling the pinch in his belly.
The sunlight falling on the floor doesn't reach as far as the doorway, but from the corner of his eyes the shadows in the corridor take on shape and form and become Elizabeth Weir.
"Dr. Weir."
"Ronon."
He wishes it wasn't her standing there. He could deal with Teyla or one of the marines - even Sheppard - with better composure. At least he wouldn't feel like a callow youth with his cock already stiffening in his leathers.
Sometimes, Ronon figures his life would be a lot easier if he responded to Teyla like this. The sex would be fun, energetic, and exhaustive, and they'd walk away from the bed without any of the issues Atlanteans seem to have about physical intimacy. Still, he can't quite bring himself to look at Teyla like that; Ronon's lost too much family to risk losing any more just because he wants to get laid.
The Atlanteans have a saying: 'Life was never meant to be easy.' Parts of Ronon's body definitely aren't 'easy' as he looks at Elizabeth Weir.
"I...I'm sorry to interrupt your exercises."
He shrugs. "They weren't getting anywhere."
Her smile is quick and a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry about that, too." Her hands are clasped too tightly in front of her, as though for protection. If she was a different kind of woman, more high-strung, those hands would probably be twisting all over each other.
If she was a different kind of woman, Ronon wouldn't be having dreams about her and a can of whipped cream. Or maybe he'd be acting out those dreams about her and the can of whipped cream.
Something in his gut - or maybe a bit lower down - tightens, and he grits his teeth as the wound twinges.
"Carson said it was healing well."
Her statements confuse him, because she seems to expect more, but she hasn't asked any questions. She makes small talk, trying to put him at ease, and still hasn't worked out that it only makes him feel more out of place.
Ronon thinks she wouldn't make small talk if he ran a line of whipped cream from the cute little hollow in her throat between her collarbones, all the way down the curve of her body to between her thighs and took his time about licking it off.
Then again, she'd probably just ask him what he was doing, thank him politely, and ask him to stop.
"Does it hurt?"
The answer slips out before he can stop it. "Not that way."
She looks at him, startled, and the flush grows in her cheeks. Ronon can feel his own cheeks heating. He has only a moment to open his mouth and retract his words before her hands are on his shoulders and her lips are soft against his.
Ronon thinks that the kiss doesn't quite make up for being shot in the belly; but it's close.
--
Elizabeth thinks she should use avoidance techniques more often.
- fin -
TITLE: Avoidance Techniques
SUMMARY: Something in Elizabeth thinks she shouldn't have to deal with Atlantis' problems right now. After all, it wasn't her.
CATEGORY: Episode epilogue, UST, Elizabeth/Ronon
RATING: R
WARNINGS: a few lustful thoughts from both sides
NOTES:
ubiquitous_girl wanted Elizabeth/Ronon fantasising about food, and kathgrr added "she wants to lick the sweat off his body".Avoidance Techniques
Elizabeth is familiar with avoidance techniques.
There's things she has to do, issues she has to address, messes that she has to clean up, and conversations she has to have before the city can return to 'normal'. She doesn't want to deal with it. Something in her thinks she shouldn't have to deal with it. After all, it wasn't her.
So Elizabeth walks the city, more like a ghost than a person, carefully avoiding people she doesn't want to see - most of whom are easy enough to evade.
And she comes across Ronon in one of the empty rooms.
It's the movement that catches her attention - the flash of white in the midst of warm golds and soft blues. Elizabeth almost hurries on, unseen and unnoticed, then pauses.
Sunlight slides over bare brown skin as he shifts his weight, balancing on the balls of his feet. Dressed in nothing but his trousers, the swathe of bandages around his waist, and the cord that hangs at his neck with the beast-tooth on it, Ronon's moving in what seems to be stretches, testing the limits of his injured body.
She's seen him graceful as a python striking; but his movements are jerky now. The limbs still cut through the air, but the precise control is gone, and his muscles tremble from the strain. His breath rasps as he tries to twist across his stomach and flinches halfway. He lets loose a faint groan and stops, hunched over, his hands resting on his knees as his chest heaves.
Elizabeth read the report on his wound. It was a delicate operation, made all the worse by the power outage in the city, but he's healing without complications.
No thanks to her and Phoebus.
As she watches from the corridor, stone-still lest she betray her presence, he straightens. His shoulders heave once as he draws in a deep breath, grits his teeth and begins again.
She can't help admiring his determination, can't help admiring him, deadly as a tiger without the stripes to mark him. She can't stop the more elemental reaction to him, the flush that climbs over her skin as muscles ripple in sweat and sunlight.
Elizabeth wants to know what Ronon would do if she stepped up to his back, laid her hands on his hips to still him and ran her tongue up his spine to the nape of his neck. She wants to know if his breath would rasp through his throat as she licked every drop of sweat from his body, if he would groan in pleasure and not pain, if his chest would heave as she eased the trousers from his hips and took him into her mouth...
She shouldn't be thinking such things about any man in Atlantis, but she is.
She shouldn't be imagining such wanton behaviour when there's a galaxy to free from the Wraith, but she is.
She shouldn't be standing here watching him struggle to regain his physical fitness when she's the reason he has a bullet wound in his gut, but she is.
Then he turns. He sees her. And the moment to leave is lost and the flush is still on her cheeks and she can still see herself taking just a few steps into the room and licking the sweat from each exquisitely defined pectoral.
Of course, she doesn't.
"Dr. Weir."
She wants to know what her name sounds like on his lips; if he'd rasp it against her skin, or bellow it as he came.
Elizabeth isn't allowed to know.
So she prepares herself for an apology.
"Ronon."
--
Ronon promised himself a 'spraycan' of whipped cream and half a jar of the fruit preserves if he worked his way through to the Level Three stretches.
He can't even make it through Level One. What was once easy is now agony and he hates the weakness. Ronon hunches over, his gut an inferno of pain, his elbows pressing hard into his knees to brace himself as he pants.
Beckett said he wasn't to strain himself, but if Ronon never stretches his body, he'll never get the movement back. If he's going to be going out there again, he needs to know how much mobility he has.
He starts again and grits his teeth. This time, he goes slower, careful of the wound, but still feeling the pinch in his belly.
The sunlight falling on the floor doesn't reach as far as the doorway, but from the corner of his eyes the shadows in the corridor take on shape and form and become Elizabeth Weir.
"Dr. Weir."
"Ronon."
He wishes it wasn't her standing there. He could deal with Teyla or one of the marines - even Sheppard - with better composure. At least he wouldn't feel like a callow youth with his cock already stiffening in his leathers.
Sometimes, Ronon figures his life would be a lot easier if he responded to Teyla like this. The sex would be fun, energetic, and exhaustive, and they'd walk away from the bed without any of the issues Atlanteans seem to have about physical intimacy. Still, he can't quite bring himself to look at Teyla like that; Ronon's lost too much family to risk losing any more just because he wants to get laid.
The Atlanteans have a saying: 'Life was never meant to be easy.' Parts of Ronon's body definitely aren't 'easy' as he looks at Elizabeth Weir.
"I...I'm sorry to interrupt your exercises."
He shrugs. "They weren't getting anywhere."
Her smile is quick and a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry about that, too." Her hands are clasped too tightly in front of her, as though for protection. If she was a different kind of woman, more high-strung, those hands would probably be twisting all over each other.
If she was a different kind of woman, Ronon wouldn't be having dreams about her and a can of whipped cream. Or maybe he'd be acting out those dreams about her and the can of whipped cream.
Something in his gut - or maybe a bit lower down - tightens, and he grits his teeth as the wound twinges.
"Carson said it was healing well."
Her statements confuse him, because she seems to expect more, but she hasn't asked any questions. She makes small talk, trying to put him at ease, and still hasn't worked out that it only makes him feel more out of place.
Ronon thinks she wouldn't make small talk if he ran a line of whipped cream from the cute little hollow in her throat between her collarbones, all the way down the curve of her body to between her thighs and took his time about licking it off.
Then again, she'd probably just ask him what he was doing, thank him politely, and ask him to stop.
"Does it hurt?"
The answer slips out before he can stop it. "Not that way."
She looks at him, startled, and the flush grows in her cheeks. Ronon can feel his own cheeks heating. He has only a moment to open his mouth and retract his words before her hands are on his shoulders and her lips are soft against his.
Ronon thinks that the kiss doesn't quite make up for being shot in the belly; but it's close.
--
Elizabeth thinks she should use avoidance techniques more often.
- fin -
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