![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
FIC: Punctuated Equilibrium (R)
Title: Punctuated Equilibrium
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Rodney
Wordcount: 880 words
Notes: A little ditty written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chickypooh, in honor of her getting her new apartment. Woot! Congrats, baby! Thanks to my girl immoralilly for a swift read-through.
punctuated equilibrium – theory of speciation; long periods of little activity punctuated by bursts of rapid change.
-
It happens in fits: they kiss once, a sweet brush of mouths that leaves John dizzy and leaning back against his closed door after Rodney leaves.
They don't talk about it, don't go any further than those shy, chaste kisses dropped wherever they can reach - mouth, forehead, cheek, the long sweep of a nose. Then a week later, without warning, Rodney's hand settles on John's collar bone, and they're evolving in a burst of touch; Rodney's wet lips part, coax John's open with soft pressure, and it's a real kiss.
This time, when the door closes, separating them from each other, they're both flushed and languid with it, aroused but careful, willing to wait.
Another week passes in the same manner as the first; Rodney's hands never stray below John's shoulders, and John's own stay firmly on Rodney's solid hips, thumbs rubbing erratic circles into the fabric of Rodney's t-shirt. They're quiet, only the slick sounds of kissing and their steady breath keeping them company.
And then a mission goes wrong and John can feel Rodney on the other side of the force field, but he can't get to him - can't, oh god - and it's worse than never being allowed to fly again, knowing that Rodney might die like this before John was ever able to touch his stomach or kiss the sweet dip at the base of his spine, spell out all the words he can't say with his tongue tracing over the patch of freckles on Rodney's wrist.
“No,” he says helplessly, “no,” and someone must hear him (love him), because the energy dissipates and Rodney’s shoulder is warm and solid under his hand.
Something snaps – another evolution, marked by the finger-shaped bruises marring Rodney’s skin and the faint half-moon cuts in John’s palms.
That night, they go farther than they ever have before, losing their shirts as soon as they step through the door; watching Rodney come apart from only John’s teeth and tongue on his chest is fiercely, savagely satisfying.
He whispers, “Mine,” against Rodney’s sweat-slick skin and means I can’t lose you.
But just like before, they pause: a plateau on a line graph before the next spike. Rodney learns how to work John over without undoing John’s belt, finding every tender spot on John’s upper body with studied concentration and deftly manipulating them all until John’s gasping and shifting his hips restlessly against the pressure of his fly; John learns that his stubble rasping over sensitive skin is enough to make Rodney moan and grip at the bunched up covers with both hands.
It’s insanely, ridiculously good. John spends half his week in a competent daze, doing all the things he’s required to without once having to stop thinking about Rodney’s slanted mouth and all the things he can do with it.
At one point, though, Teyla catches him at it and knocks him to the ground with a well-aimed kick to the back of his knees.
“You are distracted,” she tells him, half amused and half resigned. “Is there something on your mind, John?”
He groans and hauls himself back onto his feet, knees creaking wearily. Teyla watches him loop a towel around his neck with her matter-of-fact, calm gaze, and he’s never wanted to tell the truth so badly in his life before.
Finally, he settles on a slightly dopey, “Rodney,” because, even though it sounds lovesick in his head, at least it’s honest. Teyla nods like she understands; maybe she does.
That same day at dinner, John suffers through Rodney molesting one of the popsicles the resourceful mess hall staff had made with fruit juice and tongue depressors for ten agonizing minutes. Teyla shoots them knowing looks when John finally snaps and grabs Rodney by the wrist, pulling him out of the room while loudly explaining about something wrong with jumper seven’s inertial dampeners.
Rodney doesn’t get it until John pushes his own pants down his thighs and wraps a hand around his hard cock, staring at the slight dent in the middle of Rodney’s lower lip.
“Oh my god,” Rodney breathes, and then his hand is knocking John’s away and taking its place. He gets in three swift, clumsy tugs before John’s pinning him against the wall and mewling into his mouth as he comes.
They slide bonelessly to the floor, clinging together, and stay that way for three solid, quiet moments. Then, Rodney shifts and presses down against John’s knee, whispering, “Please,” and John’s all to happy to oblige, undoing Rodney’s belt buckle even though the angles awkward, reaching into Rodney’s boxers to touch him.
“Come on,” he murmurs, “come on,” and Rodney gives it up, wet, wide mouth pressed into the dark space behind John’s ear. “Yeah. God, Rodney.”
And right then, Rodney looks so incredibly, painfully beautiful – flushed red with exertion, clear-eyed and a little goofy – that John can’t help but lean in and kiss all the parts he can reach: mouth, forehead, cheek, the long sweep of nose. He pulls back finally, embarrassed but secretly pleased, watching Rodney’s eyes flutter slowly, dazedly open.
“Yeah. Me too,” Rodney whispers, and reaches for John with both hands.
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Rodney
Wordcount: 880 words
Notes: A little ditty written for
chickypooh, in honor of her getting her new apartment. Woot! Congrats, baby! Thanks to my girl immoralilly for a swift read-through.punctuated equilibrium – theory of speciation; long periods of little activity punctuated by bursts of rapid change.
It happens in fits: they kiss once, a sweet brush of mouths that leaves John dizzy and leaning back against his closed door after Rodney leaves.
They don't talk about it, don't go any further than those shy, chaste kisses dropped wherever they can reach - mouth, forehead, cheek, the long sweep of a nose. Then a week later, without warning, Rodney's hand settles on John's collar bone, and they're evolving in a burst of touch; Rodney's wet lips part, coax John's open with soft pressure, and it's a real kiss.
This time, when the door closes, separating them from each other, they're both flushed and languid with it, aroused but careful, willing to wait.
Another week passes in the same manner as the first; Rodney's hands never stray below John's shoulders, and John's own stay firmly on Rodney's solid hips, thumbs rubbing erratic circles into the fabric of Rodney's t-shirt. They're quiet, only the slick sounds of kissing and their steady breath keeping them company.
And then a mission goes wrong and John can feel Rodney on the other side of the force field, but he can't get to him - can't, oh god - and it's worse than never being allowed to fly again, knowing that Rodney might die like this before John was ever able to touch his stomach or kiss the sweet dip at the base of his spine, spell out all the words he can't say with his tongue tracing over the patch of freckles on Rodney's wrist.
“No,” he says helplessly, “no,” and someone must hear him (love him), because the energy dissipates and Rodney’s shoulder is warm and solid under his hand.
Something snaps – another evolution, marked by the finger-shaped bruises marring Rodney’s skin and the faint half-moon cuts in John’s palms.
That night, they go farther than they ever have before, losing their shirts as soon as they step through the door; watching Rodney come apart from only John’s teeth and tongue on his chest is fiercely, savagely satisfying.
He whispers, “Mine,” against Rodney’s sweat-slick skin and means I can’t lose you.
But just like before, they pause: a plateau on a line graph before the next spike. Rodney learns how to work John over without undoing John’s belt, finding every tender spot on John’s upper body with studied concentration and deftly manipulating them all until John’s gasping and shifting his hips restlessly against the pressure of his fly; John learns that his stubble rasping over sensitive skin is enough to make Rodney moan and grip at the bunched up covers with both hands.
It’s insanely, ridiculously good. John spends half his week in a competent daze, doing all the things he’s required to without once having to stop thinking about Rodney’s slanted mouth and all the things he can do with it.
At one point, though, Teyla catches him at it and knocks him to the ground with a well-aimed kick to the back of his knees.
“You are distracted,” she tells him, half amused and half resigned. “Is there something on your mind, John?”
He groans and hauls himself back onto his feet, knees creaking wearily. Teyla watches him loop a towel around his neck with her matter-of-fact, calm gaze, and he’s never wanted to tell the truth so badly in his life before.
Finally, he settles on a slightly dopey, “Rodney,” because, even though it sounds lovesick in his head, at least it’s honest. Teyla nods like she understands; maybe she does.
That same day at dinner, John suffers through Rodney molesting one of the popsicles the resourceful mess hall staff had made with fruit juice and tongue depressors for ten agonizing minutes. Teyla shoots them knowing looks when John finally snaps and grabs Rodney by the wrist, pulling him out of the room while loudly explaining about something wrong with jumper seven’s inertial dampeners.
Rodney doesn’t get it until John pushes his own pants down his thighs and wraps a hand around his hard cock, staring at the slight dent in the middle of Rodney’s lower lip.
“Oh my god,” Rodney breathes, and then his hand is knocking John’s away and taking its place. He gets in three swift, clumsy tugs before John’s pinning him against the wall and mewling into his mouth as he comes.
They slide bonelessly to the floor, clinging together, and stay that way for three solid, quiet moments. Then, Rodney shifts and presses down against John’s knee, whispering, “Please,” and John’s all to happy to oblige, undoing Rodney’s belt buckle even though the angles awkward, reaching into Rodney’s boxers to touch him.
“Come on,” he murmurs, “come on,” and Rodney gives it up, wet, wide mouth pressed into the dark space behind John’s ear. “Yeah. God, Rodney.”
And right then, Rodney looks so incredibly, painfully beautiful – flushed red with exertion, clear-eyed and a little goofy – that John can’t help but lean in and kiss all the parts he can reach: mouth, forehead, cheek, the long sweep of nose. He pulls back finally, embarrassed but secretly pleased, watching Rodney’s eyes flutter slowly, dazedly open.
“Yeah. Me too,” Rodney whispers, and reaches for John with both hands.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 1 of 2