Stargate Atlantis ficlet: Breathing Him In
Breathing Him In [Stargate Atlantis, John/Rodney, R, 305 words. Written for Porn Battle IX, first posted here, prompts: first, not dead yet.]
When he imagined it, he thought he'd simply lose patience and kiss Rodney to shut him up. He'd interrupt a rant on the Ancients' total inability to provide useful things like instruction manuals, or their newest trading partners' maddening fondness for spoiling good food with citrus, or the sheer incompetence of the latest scientists the Daedalus dumped on Atlantis. He'd thought it would be in the puddle jumper and he'd have to engage auto pilot and they'd tumble out afterwards to knowing looks. Rodney would bluster and John would smirk, and they'd pick up again later, in Rodney's room because his bed's bigger. John would find out just how long Rodney could talk when John was fucking him through the mattress, because secretly it turns him on, the way Rodney talks, fast and arrogant and so utterly competent. Everything about Rodney turns him on, though he'll never say that. Rodney's smart enough to work it out.
Instead it's huddled under a space blanket in a dust storm, two hours hike from the jumper, and it feels like there's no air to breath. Rodney's covered in red dust, the whites of his eyes incongruously bright, and John just can't help himself. His lips are dry and cracked and Rodney's are dusty, and they might not make it, so he breathes in Rodney instead of dust, and breathing him in isn't much different from kissing, not really.
If they get out of this alive - when they get out of this alive, because there's nothing the two of them can't beat - John's going to demand they name this planet properly. Something better than M4R-272 or M8G-117. A name that he can say and wink at Rodney and Rodney will flush a little and they'll both remember this.
He breathes him in again, and Rodney breathes back.
//
When he imagined it, he thought he'd simply lose patience and kiss Rodney to shut him up. He'd interrupt a rant on the Ancients' total inability to provide useful things like instruction manuals, or their newest trading partners' maddening fondness for spoiling good food with citrus, or the sheer incompetence of the latest scientists the Daedalus dumped on Atlantis. He'd thought it would be in the puddle jumper and he'd have to engage auto pilot and they'd tumble out afterwards to knowing looks. Rodney would bluster and John would smirk, and they'd pick up again later, in Rodney's room because his bed's bigger. John would find out just how long Rodney could talk when John was fucking him through the mattress, because secretly it turns him on, the way Rodney talks, fast and arrogant and so utterly competent. Everything about Rodney turns him on, though he'll never say that. Rodney's smart enough to work it out.
Instead it's huddled under a space blanket in a dust storm, two hours hike from the jumper, and it feels like there's no air to breath. Rodney's covered in red dust, the whites of his eyes incongruously bright, and John just can't help himself. His lips are dry and cracked and Rodney's are dusty, and they might not make it, so he breathes in Rodney instead of dust, and breathing him in isn't much different from kissing, not really.
If they get out of this alive - when they get out of this alive, because there's nothing the two of them can't beat - John's going to demand they name this planet properly. Something better than M4R-272 or M8G-117. A name that he can say and wink at Rodney and Rodney will flush a little and they'll both remember this.
He breathes him in again, and Rodney breathes back.
//