SGA - Absence Makes the Heart Grow Kinky
Nov. 2nd, 2006 11:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveSo, inquiring minds wanted to know what happened to the SGA 'John masturbates in Rodney's bed' story. I'll tell you what happened -- my brain happened. The story should've just been this one-off thing, but it kept getting in its own way. So here are a bunch of attempts, hopefully, one of which will, you know... [insert ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hackthis waving hands vaguely as she tends to when her brain is telling her to shut up and stop babbling]
Stargate: Atlantis
Sheppard/McKay
P for Thar Be Porn Here
Spoilers for 'The Return' [insert sobbing over actually knowledge of episode titles HERE]
Absence Makes the Heart Grow Kinky
Take One
The great thing about the afterglow of quality masturbation is that almost nothing can disturb it: except for Rodney standing in the doorway holding a large frying pan. "I thought you were a burglar! I was going to call your government's sad excuse for a police force and say I was the victim of corporate raiding! Be happy I didn’t call the SGC and say someone was stealing all of their precious research!"
John thinks now is a good time to cover himself with Rodney's sheets. "I know how this looks," John concedes, "I can explain." Even though he has no idea what his explanation is going to be.
"I know there's an excuse for this that doesn't involve me being concussed or stuck in a virtual reality," Rodney's face is twisted in this rictus as though he doesn't know whether to freak out – or freak out.
"I, um," John blinks. He could try the truth, but Rodney would never believe it.
One side of Rodney's mouth shoots up as the other side goes down. "You're going to explain being naked in my bed," he says lowering the flying pan to cross his arms over his chest. "Oh, now I have to hear this. Did the Ori steal all your clothing? Did the old lady next door rip your shirt off in a fit of unbridled lust and you've been hiding out here ever since?"
John's opening his mouth, but words aren't really coming out.
"I thought you didn't get in until later," Rodney says defensively.
John blinks. "Earlier flight. I could take a nap."
"And the sofa just wasn't good enough for you?"
John opens his mouth to reply but Rodney's clearly on a roll. "And don't even give me some crap about your bad back. I'm the one with bad back here, so unless you're about to pledge your undying love for my brain and my stunning physique, which I know you've been thinking about on those long nights when you're out with those brain dead peons who think the sun shines out your ass, just get dressed. I always knew you military types had issues. Did you see Heightmeyer about this?"
John pushes himself up on his elbows, because he's already exposed enough. "One out of two isn't bad," he says with a grimace, because he's just not as young as he used to be, and he was enjoying that post-coital lassitude. Just without the coital part.
Of course Rodney would focus on the wrong part. "When did you get a bad back? Why didn't you tell me? You see what happens when you go marching off through the woods like Paul Bunyan?"
John rubs his eyes. This is not how this was supposed to go.
Take Two
There are chocolate chip cookie crumbs on the duvet cover of Rodney's unmade bed, and John brushes them onto the floor before he sits down on the mattress to take off his sneakers.
Rodney's sheets are dark blue, the duvet is cream colored, and the crumbs are fairly large which is how John knows what they're from. Cookie crumbs are the last thing John needs in the wrong place. It's bad enough he's about to do this, but he would be hard pressed to explain crumbs randomly falling from his clothing, too, if he tracked them all over the apartment.
John can't even begin to imagine was Rodney would say about the whole masturbation thing, but he can hear the sniping about 'Cleanliness being as close to godliness as John will ever get since he got off with the Ascended harpy, and if you're going to break into my house while I'm at work, like a reject from the FBI, is it too much to ask you to keep it clean, too?'
The thud of his shoes hitting the floor jars John a little bit, and he shakes his head ruefully. It's mid-afternoon, and the sun is peaking around Rodney's slatted blinds. John can see the dust motes floating around the recirculated apartment air, and for someone as fastidious as Rodney, John's surprised he only came across one air purifier in the living room.
John flips the button on his jeans, but hesitates with his fingers hooked into the waistband -- he's been thinking -- dreaming -- fetishizing -- about this for days. Weeks. Months long before the trip back to Earth even made it a possibility. John doesn't have to see Rodney every day anymore, so horribly screwing things up wouldn't made his life a living hell of cold showers and suspicious looks -- now it just may make it horribly uncomfortable and depressing and bereft of 3am phone calls.
It's a step up the ladder at any rate.
John takes a deep exhalation as he arches his hips and pushes his jeans down his thighs, but his balance is a little off and he winds up rolling over in the sheets, his nose pressed right against the mattress.
The sheets are soft against his palms as he slowly pushes himself upright, luxuriating in how fucking wrong this is, and his heart skips a beat as he gives up and sprawls out on what he's positive is a prohibitively expensive orthopedic mattress.
Rodney's bed smells like sweat and ink. There are black Sharpies scattered on the nightstand, along with the lotion and legal pads and tissues, and smudges of pen on his pillowcases. John always thought Rodney would be more cautious about the place where he puts his billion-dollar brain, but apparently even Rodney has his weaknesses. Even Rodney keeps his lotion and tissues on top of his nightstand when there's no chance of half of his department walking in at any minute.
And John spares a moment to gather his resolve, because no matter how bad jerking off in Rodney's bed is, it's vastly preferable to being turned down in person.
John could pretend there's a logical explanation for him masturbating in Rodney's bed -– long trip –- military restrictions weighing him down –- father issues -- but there's not. There's really not. There's just John, six hours earlier than the flight he told Rodney he was on, spread out on Rodney's bed with his jeans shoved down to his ankles and his face pressed against sheets that are long devoid of any body heat.
John's cock stirs with interest at his position and John ruts against the mattress once, twice, because if he's going to hell, he might as well enjoy the trip.
If they were back on Atlantis -- if they were still in the Pegasus Galaxy -- if there were any way that John could claim possession by some whackadoodle-bug-sex-pollen-Ancient-device-Ascended-woman-soul-jumping-enzyme thing then this might be in the realm of 'Wow, is that fucked up, but we'll pretend if never happened' and he could just go on about his business. If this were any place else but Rodney's shockingly bland apartment in Roswell, New Mexico, John could just -- he could just repress and nobody would be the wiser. But John doesn't have any of that on his side, because he dreamt about Rodney on Atlantis, and he dreamt about him on Eearth, and if he can't ask or tell, he can submit to this primal need to be where Rodney is. Everybody has their breaking point.
So, John pulls his black tee shirt over his head, sniffs the sheets, and rubs against Rodney's mattress because he can. Eventually, his cock demands more than just a little one-sided friction, and John reaches for the lotion Rodney keeps -- organic, hypo-allergenic, oatmeal based of course -- and takes stock of his situation.
Semi-naked on Rodney's bed -- check.
Lotion in hand -- check.
John's jerking off with his left hand instead of his right, because after 20-odd years of masturbation it's hard to come up with something new. All he can think about is Rodney's mouth babbling in his ear and Rodney's eyelashes and Rodney's wide mouth, and this is why he's here, because if he can't have the real thing he's going to get as close as possible. Check. Twice.
John had thought that maybe on Earth he could make it happen, but he only had to walk through –- break in -- the front door of Rodney's apartment to know that wasn't possible, because it wasn't.
Take Three
Jerking off in Rodney's sofa bed would be bad and wrong and probably lead to John digging up Heightmeyer's number and placing a long distance call. It's much better that he's jerking off in Rodney's shower. At least in the shower there's no suspicious Kleenex to hide, because everything gets washed away –- all the 2am phone calls, all the inappropriate Instant Messaging, all the leg presses sitting side-by-side on said sofa –- just everything.
Alone, there's just John's left hand sliding along the wet tiling as the other slides along his cock, slick with soap and water, and Jesus, he hasn't been hard like this in forever -– but forever doesn't have Rodney's apartment or sleeping on his sofa and smelling his sheets.
John didn't sleep last night as much as he wrapped himself in Rodney's belongings and tried to pretend he wasn't hard enough to pass out for six hours. Eventually the sun came up, and John gave up, and he's been in the shower trying to redirect the blood flow for ten minutes.
Everybody has to know their breaking point.
John's using Rodney's soap and using Rodney's shampoo, and his cock twitches in his grasp when he thinks about how he's going to smell like Rodney for the rest of the day even while he's with Rodney. It's sensory overload of the best kind, and John strokes himself harder, the water on the back of his neck like kisses against his skin, and his nails trying to find purchase on the slippery tiling.
The thumb of his right hand is pressing just behind the head of his cock, and John can only think of Rodney on his knees in the shower with him. Wet hair plastered to his head, long eyelashes blinking against the shower spray, Rodney's wide mouth licking his lips and his hands sliding up the back of John's thighs.
John can taste the blood on his tongue when he bites down, and he's running out of soap, but he's so close. So very close, and instead he turns his face into the shower spray and pulls his free hand away from the wall.
His hand stop-stutters along his hip, down the side of his thigh, and he's at the completely wrong angle for anything like this. He needs another set of hands, and he bites down on his tongue again instead of calling for Rodney.
When he finally comes it's with the side of his head pressed against the tiling, one hand gripping his cock and the other breaching his entrance.
It's good. It's better than it's been in a long time. Since Atlantis at least.
"If you drown in there, I'm not coming in to save you," Rodney's voice calls through the door, and John shakes his head to clear it. It's too soon for him to be verbal, but --
"Colonel? John?"
John freezes, because Rodney's not on the other side of the door, he's in the bathroom with him. "Rodney, there's this thing called privacy." John makes every point of keeping his voice steady.
"My house, my privacy," Rodney retorts. "And also? My water."
John can just imagine the look on Rodney's face, and he sticks his head around the shower curtain just to see if he's right. He is, and he gives Rodney Smirk #5, the one that's half-smile, half-smirk, all-flyboy. "You realize this isn't Atlantis, so telling the shower to go cold isn't going to make anything happen."
Rodney blinks, long eyelashes making John's cock give a feeble twitch behind the curtain, and then the scowls is back where it belongs. "If you don't get out, I'm coming in," he says, crossing his arms.
John runs his tongue along his back molar before letting it skate along his bottom lip. "Be my guest."
Rodney makes a strangled noise before turning around and stomping off.
"Hey, don't forget to shut the door behind you." John can't keep the sing-song tenor out of his tone. He doesn't even try.
He's not disappointed that Rodney didn't take him up on his offer.
At least not too much.
Take Four
"Okay, but I thought you were supposed to be here. The whole point in me visiting you was for you to be here," John's protesting into his cell phone even as he's kicking off his shoes and making himself at home in Rodney's apartment.
It's just the same as it was when he visited two weeks ago: papers everywhere, duel boxed DVD sets (one to keep and one to use) carefully lined up on IKEA shelves that John bought after the sixth time he tripped over a box and almost lost a toe, Fermi snoring on the sofa.
Rodney's irritation is tinny down the phone line. "The whole point in me giving you a key was so I wouldn't have to be there, Colonel. This is called being an adult. I know the military still likes to cut your hair and wipe your ass, but I try to treat you like you can tie your own shoelaces, humor me."
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were avoiding me." John shouldn't poke the deranged scientist, but it's just so much fun.
"Yes, and obviously this is why I gave you a key and listed you as my other Next of Kin. I can see how you would feel annoyed and unwanted. I know this is a strange place for you, but some of us live here, try not to mark the carpeting."
John rolls his eyes even though nobody can see it. He doesn't have to be on his guard all the time anymore, but it takes a little while to come down these days. That's the problem with going from being someone protector to just being another bean counter. "So, when are you going to be home?"
"Soon."
John opens Rodney's fridge and rolls his eyes. Chinese food cartons. Thai food cartons. Something that might be Indian food. John loves Indian food. There're samosas and nan, and John takes the lid off of something that looks like Biryani. He could really go for some Tandoori Chicken, but of course, the lemon is a red zone for Rodney. "Define 'soon.' Soon like an hour soon or soon like you're leaving when the cleaning crew come by at three in the morning and stare at you until you leave soon."
John can imagine Rodney's mouth turning down as he searches for a clean fork. "Soon enough," Rodney bites off.
"I didn't come all this way to check out the contents of your refrigerator, Rodney, although I didn't know you were so into Indian food. With your delicate constitution—"
"Do you have an internal mechanism devoted of thinks of ways to irritate me?" Rodney snaps. "If I wanted a wife I'd have moved back to Canada and married a Mountie. And don't eat that food –- I'm bringing home dinner." John just makes a hmming noise around a mouthful of rice. "Are you listening to me, Colonel -- John."
John swallows cold bits of rice and sets the carton down beside the fridge. He's been trying to break Rodney of the Colonel habit for a month. "Fine, you win, but you better hurry up."
"Yes, dear," Rodney parrots before hanging up.
John flips down the top of his phone and looks around. He could watch TV or play with Fermi or poke at Rodney's toys -– collector's items, Colonel –- or –- or he could do something else.
Anything to pass the time.
-end-
Random Note: This was originally titled 'Like Cookies Love Milk' hence the icon.
hackthis waving hands vaguely as she tends to when her brain is telling her to shut up and stop babbling]Stargate: Atlantis
Sheppard/McKay
P for Thar Be Porn Here
Spoilers for 'The Return' [insert sobbing over actually knowledge of episode titles HERE]
Take One
The great thing about the afterglow of quality masturbation is that almost nothing can disturb it: except for Rodney standing in the doorway holding a large frying pan. "I thought you were a burglar! I was going to call your government's sad excuse for a police force and say I was the victim of corporate raiding! Be happy I didn’t call the SGC and say someone was stealing all of their precious research!"
John thinks now is a good time to cover himself with Rodney's sheets. "I know how this looks," John concedes, "I can explain." Even though he has no idea what his explanation is going to be.
"I know there's an excuse for this that doesn't involve me being concussed or stuck in a virtual reality," Rodney's face is twisted in this rictus as though he doesn't know whether to freak out – or freak out.
"I, um," John blinks. He could try the truth, but Rodney would never believe it.
One side of Rodney's mouth shoots up as the other side goes down. "You're going to explain being naked in my bed," he says lowering the flying pan to cross his arms over his chest. "Oh, now I have to hear this. Did the Ori steal all your clothing? Did the old lady next door rip your shirt off in a fit of unbridled lust and you've been hiding out here ever since?"
John's opening his mouth, but words aren't really coming out.
"I thought you didn't get in until later," Rodney says defensively.
John blinks. "Earlier flight. I could take a nap."
"And the sofa just wasn't good enough for you?"
John opens his mouth to reply but Rodney's clearly on a roll. "And don't even give me some crap about your bad back. I'm the one with bad back here, so unless you're about to pledge your undying love for my brain and my stunning physique, which I know you've been thinking about on those long nights when you're out with those brain dead peons who think the sun shines out your ass, just get dressed. I always knew you military types had issues. Did you see Heightmeyer about this?"
John pushes himself up on his elbows, because he's already exposed enough. "One out of two isn't bad," he says with a grimace, because he's just not as young as he used to be, and he was enjoying that post-coital lassitude. Just without the coital part.
Of course Rodney would focus on the wrong part. "When did you get a bad back? Why didn't you tell me? You see what happens when you go marching off through the woods like Paul Bunyan?"
John rubs his eyes. This is not how this was supposed to go.
Take Two
There are chocolate chip cookie crumbs on the duvet cover of Rodney's unmade bed, and John brushes them onto the floor before he sits down on the mattress to take off his sneakers.
Rodney's sheets are dark blue, the duvet is cream colored, and the crumbs are fairly large which is how John knows what they're from. Cookie crumbs are the last thing John needs in the wrong place. It's bad enough he's about to do this, but he would be hard pressed to explain crumbs randomly falling from his clothing, too, if he tracked them all over the apartment.
John can't even begin to imagine was Rodney would say about the whole masturbation thing, but he can hear the sniping about 'Cleanliness being as close to godliness as John will ever get since he got off with the Ascended harpy, and if you're going to break into my house while I'm at work, like a reject from the FBI, is it too much to ask you to keep it clean, too?'
The thud of his shoes hitting the floor jars John a little bit, and he shakes his head ruefully. It's mid-afternoon, and the sun is peaking around Rodney's slatted blinds. John can see the dust motes floating around the recirculated apartment air, and for someone as fastidious as Rodney, John's surprised he only came across one air purifier in the living room.
John flips the button on his jeans, but hesitates with his fingers hooked into the waistband -- he's been thinking -- dreaming -- fetishizing -- about this for days. Weeks. Months long before the trip back to Earth even made it a possibility. John doesn't have to see Rodney every day anymore, so horribly screwing things up wouldn't made his life a living hell of cold showers and suspicious looks -- now it just may make it horribly uncomfortable and depressing and bereft of 3am phone calls.
It's a step up the ladder at any rate.
John takes a deep exhalation as he arches his hips and pushes his jeans down his thighs, but his balance is a little off and he winds up rolling over in the sheets, his nose pressed right against the mattress.
The sheets are soft against his palms as he slowly pushes himself upright, luxuriating in how fucking wrong this is, and his heart skips a beat as he gives up and sprawls out on what he's positive is a prohibitively expensive orthopedic mattress.
Rodney's bed smells like sweat and ink. There are black Sharpies scattered on the nightstand, along with the lotion and legal pads and tissues, and smudges of pen on his pillowcases. John always thought Rodney would be more cautious about the place where he puts his billion-dollar brain, but apparently even Rodney has his weaknesses. Even Rodney keeps his lotion and tissues on top of his nightstand when there's no chance of half of his department walking in at any minute.
And John spares a moment to gather his resolve, because no matter how bad jerking off in Rodney's bed is, it's vastly preferable to being turned down in person.
John could pretend there's a logical explanation for him masturbating in Rodney's bed -– long trip –- military restrictions weighing him down –- father issues -- but there's not. There's really not. There's just John, six hours earlier than the flight he told Rodney he was on, spread out on Rodney's bed with his jeans shoved down to his ankles and his face pressed against sheets that are long devoid of any body heat.
John's cock stirs with interest at his position and John ruts against the mattress once, twice, because if he's going to hell, he might as well enjoy the trip.
If they were back on Atlantis -- if they were still in the Pegasus Galaxy -- if there were any way that John could claim possession by some whackadoodle-bug-sex-pollen-Ancient-device-Ascended-woman-soul-jumping-enzyme thing then this might be in the realm of 'Wow, is that fucked up, but we'll pretend if never happened' and he could just go on about his business. If this were any place else but Rodney's shockingly bland apartment in Roswell, New Mexico, John could just -- he could just repress and nobody would be the wiser. But John doesn't have any of that on his side, because he dreamt about Rodney on Atlantis, and he dreamt about him on Eearth, and if he can't ask or tell, he can submit to this primal need to be where Rodney is. Everybody has their breaking point.
So, John pulls his black tee shirt over his head, sniffs the sheets, and rubs against Rodney's mattress because he can. Eventually, his cock demands more than just a little one-sided friction, and John reaches for the lotion Rodney keeps -- organic, hypo-allergenic, oatmeal based of course -- and takes stock of his situation.
Semi-naked on Rodney's bed -- check.
Lotion in hand -- check.
John's jerking off with his left hand instead of his right, because after 20-odd years of masturbation it's hard to come up with something new. All he can think about is Rodney's mouth babbling in his ear and Rodney's eyelashes and Rodney's wide mouth, and this is why he's here, because if he can't have the real thing he's going to get as close as possible. Check. Twice.
John had thought that maybe on Earth he could make it happen, but he only had to walk through –- break in -- the front door of Rodney's apartment to know that wasn't possible, because it wasn't.
Take Three
Jerking off in Rodney's sofa bed would be bad and wrong and probably lead to John digging up Heightmeyer's number and placing a long distance call. It's much better that he's jerking off in Rodney's shower. At least in the shower there's no suspicious Kleenex to hide, because everything gets washed away –- all the 2am phone calls, all the inappropriate Instant Messaging, all the leg presses sitting side-by-side on said sofa –- just everything.
Alone, there's just John's left hand sliding along the wet tiling as the other slides along his cock, slick with soap and water, and Jesus, he hasn't been hard like this in forever -– but forever doesn't have Rodney's apartment or sleeping on his sofa and smelling his sheets.
John didn't sleep last night as much as he wrapped himself in Rodney's belongings and tried to pretend he wasn't hard enough to pass out for six hours. Eventually the sun came up, and John gave up, and he's been in the shower trying to redirect the blood flow for ten minutes.
Everybody has to know their breaking point.
John's using Rodney's soap and using Rodney's shampoo, and his cock twitches in his grasp when he thinks about how he's going to smell like Rodney for the rest of the day even while he's with Rodney. It's sensory overload of the best kind, and John strokes himself harder, the water on the back of his neck like kisses against his skin, and his nails trying to find purchase on the slippery tiling.
The thumb of his right hand is pressing just behind the head of his cock, and John can only think of Rodney on his knees in the shower with him. Wet hair plastered to his head, long eyelashes blinking against the shower spray, Rodney's wide mouth licking his lips and his hands sliding up the back of John's thighs.
John can taste the blood on his tongue when he bites down, and he's running out of soap, but he's so close. So very close, and instead he turns his face into the shower spray and pulls his free hand away from the wall.
His hand stop-stutters along his hip, down the side of his thigh, and he's at the completely wrong angle for anything like this. He needs another set of hands, and he bites down on his tongue again instead of calling for Rodney.
When he finally comes it's with the side of his head pressed against the tiling, one hand gripping his cock and the other breaching his entrance.
It's good. It's better than it's been in a long time. Since Atlantis at least.
"If you drown in there, I'm not coming in to save you," Rodney's voice calls through the door, and John shakes his head to clear it. It's too soon for him to be verbal, but --
"Colonel? John?"
John freezes, because Rodney's not on the other side of the door, he's in the bathroom with him. "Rodney, there's this thing called privacy." John makes every point of keeping his voice steady.
"My house, my privacy," Rodney retorts. "And also? My water."
John can just imagine the look on Rodney's face, and he sticks his head around the shower curtain just to see if he's right. He is, and he gives Rodney Smirk #5, the one that's half-smile, half-smirk, all-flyboy. "You realize this isn't Atlantis, so telling the shower to go cold isn't going to make anything happen."
Rodney blinks, long eyelashes making John's cock give a feeble twitch behind the curtain, and then the scowls is back where it belongs. "If you don't get out, I'm coming in," he says, crossing his arms.
John runs his tongue along his back molar before letting it skate along his bottom lip. "Be my guest."
Rodney makes a strangled noise before turning around and stomping off.
"Hey, don't forget to shut the door behind you." John can't keep the sing-song tenor out of his tone. He doesn't even try.
He's not disappointed that Rodney didn't take him up on his offer.
At least not too much.
Take Four
"Okay, but I thought you were supposed to be here. The whole point in me visiting you was for you to be here," John's protesting into his cell phone even as he's kicking off his shoes and making himself at home in Rodney's apartment.
It's just the same as it was when he visited two weeks ago: papers everywhere, duel boxed DVD sets (one to keep and one to use) carefully lined up on IKEA shelves that John bought after the sixth time he tripped over a box and almost lost a toe, Fermi snoring on the sofa.
Rodney's irritation is tinny down the phone line. "The whole point in me giving you a key was so I wouldn't have to be there, Colonel. This is called being an adult. I know the military still likes to cut your hair and wipe your ass, but I try to treat you like you can tie your own shoelaces, humor me."
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were avoiding me." John shouldn't poke the deranged scientist, but it's just so much fun.
"Yes, and obviously this is why I gave you a key and listed you as my other Next of Kin. I can see how you would feel annoyed and unwanted. I know this is a strange place for you, but some of us live here, try not to mark the carpeting."
John rolls his eyes even though nobody can see it. He doesn't have to be on his guard all the time anymore, but it takes a little while to come down these days. That's the problem with going from being someone protector to just being another bean counter. "So, when are you going to be home?"
"Soon."
John opens Rodney's fridge and rolls his eyes. Chinese food cartons. Thai food cartons. Something that might be Indian food. John loves Indian food. There're samosas and nan, and John takes the lid off of something that looks like Biryani. He could really go for some Tandoori Chicken, but of course, the lemon is a red zone for Rodney. "Define 'soon.' Soon like an hour soon or soon like you're leaving when the cleaning crew come by at three in the morning and stare at you until you leave soon."
John can imagine Rodney's mouth turning down as he searches for a clean fork. "Soon enough," Rodney bites off.
"I didn't come all this way to check out the contents of your refrigerator, Rodney, although I didn't know you were so into Indian food. With your delicate constitution—"
"Do you have an internal mechanism devoted of thinks of ways to irritate me?" Rodney snaps. "If I wanted a wife I'd have moved back to Canada and married a Mountie. And don't eat that food –- I'm bringing home dinner." John just makes a hmming noise around a mouthful of rice. "Are you listening to me, Colonel -- John."
John swallows cold bits of rice and sets the carton down beside the fridge. He's been trying to break Rodney of the Colonel habit for a month. "Fine, you win, but you better hurry up."
"Yes, dear," Rodney parrots before hanging up.
John flips down the top of his phone and looks around. He could watch TV or play with Fermi or poke at Rodney's toys -– collector's items, Colonel –- or –- or he could do something else.
Anything to pass the time.
-end-
Random Note: This was originally titled 'Like Cookies Love Milk' hence the icon.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-11-02 08:28 pm (UTC)It's also basically not anything like I was expecting it to be.
But I liked it! So I'm okay with that.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:34 am (UTC)I know my stories have a tendency to do that.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-02 09:02 pm (UTC)Okay, that was for the carpeting joke. *g*
As for the rest, this has been a thoroughly enjoyable and resplendedly interesting variety of masturbation fics. Also, the frying pan made it kind of unputdownable, as it were. Wonderful writing. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-02 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-02 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-02 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 12:20 am (UTC):P
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 01:52 am (UTC)*points and laughs*
The great thing about the afterglow of quality masturbation is that almost nothing can disturb it: except for Rodney standing in the doorway holding a large frying pan.
That is one of the best opening lines I've read in ages! Hee, love it.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 03:15 am (UTC)John runs his tongue along his back molar before letting it skate along his bottom lip. "Be my guest."
Rodney makes a strangled noise before turning around and stomping off.
"Hey, don't forget to shut the door behind you." John can't keep the sing-song tenor out of his tone. He doesn't even try.
and the second one because...oh, forget it, I loved them all. Rock on, baby these were just *fun*.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-03 06:22 am (UTC)Because I'm such a girl, my favourite bit wasn't the porn, it was this:
the leg presses sitting side-by-side on said sofa.
Now I want to read this story *g*
For you.
Date: 2006-11-08 12:46 am (UTC)Rodney didn't really know what to say to that, but John did, because he liked the sofa and actually liked having a sofa to sit on. So he turned to Rodney and gave him the winning smile that had defeated so many lesser beings and said, "Any time you feel like waking up and saving Atlantis let us know."
And that's when Rodney woke up, his face mashed against the keyboard and drool on his lips. "I hate this galaxy," he slurred as he pushed himself upright. "A real galaxy would show me the respect I deserve and let me sleep for another ten minutes."
Re: For you.
Date: 2006-11-08 06:58 pm (UTC)LOVE YOU SO MUCH.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-05 11:33 pm (UTC)Heh. *shit-eating grin not unlike that of one Lt. Col. John Sheppard*
Rodney's sheets are dark blue, the duvet is cream colored, and the crumbs are fairly large which is how John knows what they're from.
Given that John isn't English, I'm pretty sure knowing the term for a duvet stretches the boundary of the "Don't Tell" part of DADT. *g*
John didn't sleep last night as much as he wrapped himself in Rodney's belongings and tried to pretend he wasn't hard enough to pass out for six hours. Eventually the sun came up, and John gave up, and he's been in the shower trying to redirect the blood flow for ten minutes.
Okay, this image shouldn't be as hot as it is, but there you go.
Have to run downstairs for dinner now, but wanted to let you know how much I liked this. And for some reason, I'm endlessly entertained by your stubborn resistance to the show. *g*
no subject
Date: 2006-11-08 12:49 am (UTC)Heh. *shit-eating grin not unlike that of one Lt. Col. John Sheppard*
Oh you just hush, you're not being helpful here at all.
Given that John isn't English, I'm pretty sure knowing the term for a duvet stretches the boundary of the "Don't Tell" part of DADT. *g*
Not at all, it just means he's watched Fight Club! ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-11-14 10:07 pm (UTC)