Title: Torture Sessions
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Runner & Quarantine
Summary: Jennifer Keller reflects on Ronon & his past.
Disclaimer: If SGA belonged to me, this would be in a script.
Note: It's been a very long time since I've written anything. I'm a little rusty. Please be kind and comment if you liked.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly masochistic, Jennifer thought about Ronon and sex. She'd remember the way he looked sprawled out on the infirmary bed, his long legs nearly hanging over the end. The fluorscent of hospital lighting never flattered anyone, but the shadows it cast only emphasized the sleekness of his biceps, the contours of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips. She remembered the feel of his skin, the softness over firm muscles, old scars breaking up the smooth surface every few inches. She had the urge, sometimes, to trace those scars, to follow their path along his body, to ask the story behind each one. She resisted because she knew he was considerably reluctant to talk about his past. His reticence was well-known in Atlantis, which made their conversation during the Quarantine-that-was-not all the more surprising. He'd opened up to her, shared a small piece of the nightmares he carried within him. Jennifer had a feeling that he hadn't cared for anyone since the Satedan woman he lost. There'd been no love, no comfort, no tender touches in the seven years he spent as a runner. And the Atlantis gossip mill worked far too efficiently to miss if he developed an attachment to someone here. There was speculation regarding him and Teyla for a while, but the relationship had settled into a fraternal one.

If he hadn't dated anyone in Atlantis, it was highly unlikely he'd slept with anyone either. He was the object of lust for too many women for it to stay a secret. So she was pretty sure the last two years had been sex free. It was also hard to imagine Ronon putting a woman in danger from the Wraith, just for the sake of relief. Actually, Jennifer thought it was likely he hadn't indulged since the siege that destroyed his homeworld. She shivered, imagining what it would feel like to be his release, to be the sole focus of all that, that reckless aggression. To have the single-minded determination that kept him alive all those years directed at her. After all the sparring sessions and all the visits to the infirmary, she knew what his hands felt like, their size, the calluses across his palms, the small scars on his fingertips. Sometimes, if she was indulging in a rare long shower or bath, she'd close her eyes and pretend it was his hands that were trailing across her slick skin.

And sometimes when he came in with yet another bloody gash, it was all she could do to maintain a professional bedside manner. Especially if he'd gotten the wound from sparring with Teyla. Teyla was the only one who could give him a serious workout, so he'd sit there on the bed, his skin glistening with sweat, the scent of him thick & musky. She wanted, then, yearned. Every time, she thought, this was it, this was the moment she was going to make her move. She would teeter on the precipice, staring down at insane lust, hoping she'd be brave enough to risk the fall. She always took a step back, though. Anything that happened between them would be intense; it would never be casual. She was afraid to risk her heart on a man who'd disappeared after the only intimate moment they ever shared. A man whose attraction for her may only be because of her similarities to his lost love.

No, it was just safer to keep her feelings to herself, to wait and see if he'd make the first move. She knew what the smart thing to do was, she knew the rational thing, but, sometimes, in the night, along in her quarters, she thought about Ronon and sex.