(no subject)
Hmm. Choices.
Fic? Or Jon Stewart? Fic or Jon? Fic or Jon? Glacier sex or Jon?
Wait.
"Situational hypothermic homosexuality," Rodney says with such utter sincerity that John has a terrible, terrible feeling that on their last trip to earth, Rodney spent far too much time on google. It's not his fault, really. The lab assistants had been idiots.
Rolling over in his sleeping bag, John stares at Rodney, up on one elbow and looking disturbingly awake for two in the morning and remarkably cheerful considering they're trapped on a glacier for the foreseeable future--or at least until Ronon and Teyla come back with a rescue jumper.
"What?" Because honestly, what the hell is the standard response to that?
Rodney smiles, like he does whenever anyone asks him a question that he created the answer for, and therefore is utterly, unbelievably right no matter what he says. "To prevent freezing," he says, and he's *unzipping his sleeping bag*. John clutches his bag closer, locking a hand around the inner zipper. "Death by cold. No one wants that."
"Are you high?" John says suspiciously. That wood they'd used earlier had smelled suspiciously spicy.
Rodney frowns, sitting up entirely, and John takes a second to consider the fact that they're, yes, in a tent, and yes, there isn't a single Ancient piece of equipment in said tent. John suppose its his own fault, really. He knows what Rodney's like when he gets bored.
"I'm trying to prevent our deaths," Rodney says calmly, and damned if he isn't unfastening his parka. "A tragic loss to the universe on my part and I'm sure you have some kind of place in the grand scheme of things that might be unfulfilled if you slowly froze to death."
*****
You know. If I spent a tenth of the time writing that I do staring at Jon Stewart's mouth? I'd have written a *novel* this weekend. A porn novel, true, repetitive, wiht sex scene after sex scene, involving whips and whipped cream and industrial size lube bottles. Boring even. I mean honestly, how many times can you have John holding Rodney down while slowly covering him with chocolate syrup and telling him he's been a bad, bad boy?
No one wants that, really.
Also, thought--is anyone but me seeing a pattern of weather related fic here? I send them into rain, with preporn by which I mean, I just sat there and wondered why in the name of God they werne't fucking, desert porn (with added alcohol! Breakfast of champions!), and now--glacier porn.
Yeah. I'm going to go watch Jon's mouth again.
Fic? Or Jon Stewart? Fic or Jon? Fic or Jon? Glacier sex or Jon?
Wait.
"Situational hypothermic homosexuality," Rodney says with such utter sincerity that John has a terrible, terrible feeling that on their last trip to earth, Rodney spent far too much time on google. It's not his fault, really. The lab assistants had been idiots.
Rolling over in his sleeping bag, John stares at Rodney, up on one elbow and looking disturbingly awake for two in the morning and remarkably cheerful considering they're trapped on a glacier for the foreseeable future--or at least until Ronon and Teyla come back with a rescue jumper.
"What?" Because honestly, what the hell is the standard response to that?
Rodney smiles, like he does whenever anyone asks him a question that he created the answer for, and therefore is utterly, unbelievably right no matter what he says. "To prevent freezing," he says, and he's *unzipping his sleeping bag*. John clutches his bag closer, locking a hand around the inner zipper. "Death by cold. No one wants that."
"Are you high?" John says suspiciously. That wood they'd used earlier had smelled suspiciously spicy.
Rodney frowns, sitting up entirely, and John takes a second to consider the fact that they're, yes, in a tent, and yes, there isn't a single Ancient piece of equipment in said tent. John suppose its his own fault, really. He knows what Rodney's like when he gets bored.
"I'm trying to prevent our deaths," Rodney says calmly, and damned if he isn't unfastening his parka. "A tragic loss to the universe on my part and I'm sure you have some kind of place in the grand scheme of things that might be unfulfilled if you slowly froze to death."
*****
You know. If I spent a tenth of the time writing that I do staring at Jon Stewart's mouth? I'd have written a *novel* this weekend. A porn novel, true, repetitive, wiht sex scene after sex scene, involving whips and whipped cream and industrial size lube bottles. Boring even. I mean honestly, how many times can you have John holding Rodney down while slowly covering him with chocolate syrup and telling him he's been a bad, bad boy?
No one wants that, really.
Also, thought--is anyone but me seeing a pattern of weather related fic here? I send them into rain, with preporn by which I mean, I just sat there and wondered why in the name of God they werne't fucking, desert porn (with added alcohol! Breakfast of champions!), and now--glacier porn.
Yeah. I'm going to go watch Jon's mouth again.