unamaga: (big open sky)
unamaga ([personal profile] unamaga) wrote2008-01-08 12:03 pm
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maybe i'm in love

I am fifteen different kinds of bored. I've cleaned my room, changed my sheets, stolen a lamp from the computer room to put on my new desk and done the wiring, wrapped [livejournal.com profile] immoralilly's birthday present, put laundry in, and showered - it's only noon. This is not normal! Usually I'm just beginning to contemplate getting out of bed!

Anyway. I think I've asked this before, but: is anyone from around the New York or Long Island-ish area? [livejournal.com profile] cid2065's coming on the 17th, and I think he might have plans for us, but that excitement's still over a week off. Ahhg, I miss my fangirls. :c

[identity profile] unamaga.livejournal.com 2008-01-08 06:40 pm (UTC)(link)
As much as Rodney likes to blather on about ZedPMs and idiots and certain death during the day, he's tight-lipped about what he expects when John's got him in bed at night. There, he's so quiet the rustle of the sheets against their naked skin seems loud by comparison; it's not that he's cold or distant - he's in every movement, blown-wide eyes following John's fingers intensely as they slide down and down and down - there's just this edge to him, this sense of whatever you want that makes John falter, uncertain.

He doesn't know how to get what he wants, because Rodney's only ever on his back, those solid shoulders rounded against the bed in submission. He can't say, "I want you to fuck me," because the words catch in his throat; he can't say, "I want you to hold me down," because that's not it exactly, and Rodney wouldn't understand the difference.

And so it goes for a while - strangely stilted, chaste sex that's only satisfying when John's too tired to want more. Still, he stays.

Rodney curls around him afterwards, warm and heavy, his head pillowed on John's collar bone like he has every right to use John's body however he pleases, and John wants to shout, "This, it's this!" He never does. His tongue is too heavy and big in his mouth, clumsy.

Then John falls off a cliff.

It's an accident, and he's no closer to actual peril than he normally would be on any given Wednesday, but there's a greater gap between 'presumed dead' and 'miraculously alive' than Atlantis is used to. When he steps into the gate room, ragged, dirty, and smelling like a barn, Rodney is so furious with him he actually backs John up against a wall, those big hands of his splaying out on either side of John's head to keep him there.

John's panting and shamefully hard before Rodney even opens his mouth to speak, and their bodies are so close together there's no way Rodney can't feel what's happening beneath his thin pants. He gets one glorious, beautiful moment of Rodney's wide eyes, the spark of wild blue that means his big brain is firing rapidly, coming to conclusions - and then Teyla is gently pushing them apart and guiding John past the startled marines and towards an equally startled Doctor Keller.

John steals a backward glance and catches Rodney – still standing exactly where they’d left him – staring back.

He doesn’t see Rodney that night: Keller keeps him in the medical wing despite his many grumpy protests, forcing liquids and pain pills on him in equal measure. The next night, however, Rodney waylays him just outside the mess hall as he’s heading in for a (doctor prescribed!) midnight snack. The corridors flash by, and then suddenly they’re in Rodney’s room and Rodney has him backed up against the computer chair, and it feels awkward at first – like new, fledgling – but when Rodney presses and presses until John’s forced to bend, gripping the edge of the desk behind him, it’s so good John thinks he might come in his pants.