MAN I came to this comment late, I'm sorry! I appreciate the offer muchly, and if it's still valid I totally want something about how inhumanly cold John's feet get. XD
An offer of porn is never not valid :D This broke the blank I've been drawing with fic recently, so really, I owe you! Hope you like it, lovely:
In the last few days, Rodney has learned to appreciate warmth in a way he never has before.
It’s not that he’s unaccustomed to the cold: his childhood was full of icy winters and snow-days. As a grad student, he’d rented an ice-box of a room that cost way too much to heat more than was necessary to clear the frost off the inside of his windows every morning. And of course he’s lived half of the last decade of his life frozen out in Siberia and Antarctica.
But cold like this - unnatural and out of place way out here in the ocean - is entirely different.
It’s unexpected for one: a pale, shimmering mist that settled over the towers of the city a week ago and hasn’t moved since. The spires sparkle in the diffuse light of the day, glittering and beautiful and so incredibly quiet – it’s exquisite to look at, but unsettling too. Like a mountain side before an avalanche, Rodney thinks.
It’s a cold that’s settled, too, deep down into everything. The whole city is slow under the weight of it. On the second day, Rodney jacked the city thermostat right up but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference: the immediate chill is gone from the air (his teeth don’t chatter as he’s changing clothes anymore) but the deeper shiver is hanging on.
A cup of coffee has never felt so good in Rodney’s palms: the heat of it through his gloves (well, John’s gloves technically) seeps between his fingers and feels almost indecently good in the cold of the labs in the day. The lick of hot water in the shower loosens the tight line of his shoulders, muscles pulled taught from the way he’d huddled down inside his fleece all day (this is the first time he’s worn it since Antarctica – the orange of it seemed over-bright in the blue and silver of the corridors today, but John had smiled, really smiled when he saw him in it, so Rodney figures it isn’t as awful as he’d thought). Hot water has always felt good, but god, it’s been something else these last few days – he’s never shuddered in pleasure at the thought of a shower before now.
He’d always liked the warmth of John’s body next to his too – John is hot, literally and figuratively, and Rodney likes the way his heat fills the not-really-a-space between them under the blankets.
Only since this weather set in, John’s shivered as he’s crawled into bed for at least fifteen minutes every night. He’s tucked himself into Rodney’s body, pressed right up against his front, and shook: Rodney’s hands stroking up and down the length of his back had made him moan gratefully into Rodney’s neck, and clutch himself in a little closer (though there’s not really that much closer left to take, most times).
Tonight, John is through the door and into the bed in under twenty seconds: Rodney listens as the zipper of John’s fleece judders open, to the hiss of his pullover as it’s yanked up and off. John steps out of his boots (the laces are always loose on base) and slides himself under the pile of duvets Rodney has buried himself under. John’s fingers are cool where they slip up under Rodney’s shirt and press into the warm of his stomach, catch in his belly-button: Rodney shivers a little at the sensation.
“Hey,” he murmurs into the shell of John’s ear.
“Fucking freezing,” is John’s response, teeth chattering as he hauls himself in and tangles himself in Rodney as much as he can.
Rodney squawks at the way John yanks at him, then at the way John’s feet feel when they rest on the skin of his ankles.
“Jesus!” he gasps, drawing his legs away from John on reflex. John’s toes are like ice when they follow his retreating leg, press back up under the hem of his sweatpants and rub up against the hair.
“Hey!” Rodney says, as he tries to twist away again.
“I’m cold, Rodney,” John huffs, sounding so pitiful that Rodney stills under the sheets. Goosebumps rise up along his legs and prickle out over the rest of his body.
“And what, you thought you’d share?”
“You’re warm,” John murmurs, pushing his face into the curve of Rodney’s neck and rubbing it there. His skin is stubbled this late in the day; the friction of it against the sensitive places up Rodney’s throat burns in the way Rodney knows will leave him with a pretty rash in the morning, but it burns in another way too, low in his stomach. Rodney stutters on an inhale.
“I w-was,” he snaps, but the effect of the retort is ruined when John rubs his cheek over his in the dark and hums in the back of his throat. Rodney opens his mouth against the point of John’s rough chin in answer and finds himself kissing up to John’s mouth.
The pout of it opens to the touch of his lips without hesitation and Rodney winds himself up in a kiss, pushing until John is on his back under him. John’s mouth is hot, searingly so, and the lazy movement of his tongue into Rodney’s mouth, the way it mirrors the lazy roll of his body up into the weight of Rodney’s, makes something in Rodney throb, right down deep, makes sweat prick up along his hairline.
John twists himself up in Rodney’s body like they’re both twisted into the sheets – it’s hot, and Rodney revels in the dampness gathering in the small of his back, the hollow of John’s throat when he licks into it.
It would be perfect if John’s feet, shockingly cold, didn’t make Rodney gasp on every touch of the skin to his.
“Jesus, John,” he whispers, one hand wound tight into John’s hair, the other teasing down the side-seam of his t-shirt, fingers walking down to the hem of John’s pants, “that is not natural.” His toes are like icicles, sharp against Rodney's skin.
“Fucking – “ John pants, then moans: Rodney’s mouth bites off the ‘cold’ John had balanced on the edge of his tongue, and turns the word into a pleasured vibration that flows over Rodney’s tongue instead, liquid and sultry.
“Good idea,” Rodney moans when he breaks away. “Wha?” John asks as Rodney yanks at his shirt until John gets the idea and lifts his arms so it can be pulled away. Static crackles in his hair.
“Fucking,” Rodney explains, throwing the sheets up over his head and lowering his mouth to John’s chest, kissing down John’s ribs.
“Oh,” John says, then “oh,” higher that time, pitching up when Rodney sucks at the nub of a nipple, pressed his other hand down onto John’s cock. “Hot,” John whispers, pushing up into the cup of Rodney’s palm, “you make me so –“
“John,” is the only thing Rodney can think to say, pulling at John’s zipper as John’s hands loosen the drawstring of Rodney’s pants. He’s a little more desperate than he’d like to be: John is incendiary, always has been, and god but Rodney goes up in flames every time, burns up with it.
“Hey,” John says, stilling Rodney’s hands. “Slow,” he murmurs, licking the vowels into the curl of Rodney’s mouth.
Slow burn, Rodney thinks, and finds himself thinking about banked fires on long winter nights, the way the heat had settled into him instead of burning him up. The glow of embers bright in the dark just like John’s eyes, the crackle of coals like the shuddering of breath between them.
Yeah. “Slow,” he agrees, lifting John’s legs to frame his hips. It’s hot but not burning up, soothing himself with the shift of John’s muscles under his fingers, his mouth. John’s feet are still cold against Rodney’s skin, but right now, Rodney can’t being himself to care all that much because the rest of John is warm and pliant and present under him.
It’s another heat he can learn to appreciate, Rodney thinks, a new way of knowing what it’s like to have John warm his bed, warm right through him.
Rodney is learning to appreciate the cold in a way he never has before.
Holy crap, that was absolutely gorgeous, and the title was perfectly fitting for it. Seriously wonderful, thank you! And now I'm intrigued how the rest of Atlantis deal with the cold, picturing Kanaan and Teyla and Torren curled up in a blanket fort together. :D
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momijizukamori
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Date: 2009-10-17 12:08 am (UTC)Slow Burn 1
Date: 2009-10-17 11:20 pm (UTC)In the last few days, Rodney has learned to appreciate warmth in a way he never has before.
It’s not that he’s unaccustomed to the cold: his childhood was full of icy winters and snow-days. As a grad student, he’d rented an ice-box of a room that cost way too much to heat more than was necessary to clear the frost off the inside of his windows every morning. And of course he’s lived half of the last decade of his life frozen out in Siberia and Antarctica.
But cold like this - unnatural and out of place way out here in the ocean - is entirely different.
It’s unexpected for one: a pale, shimmering mist that settled over the towers of the city a week ago and hasn’t moved since. The spires sparkle in the diffuse light of the day, glittering and beautiful and so incredibly quiet – it’s exquisite to look at, but unsettling too. Like a mountain side before an avalanche, Rodney thinks.
It’s a cold that’s settled, too, deep down into everything. The whole city is slow under the weight of it. On the second day, Rodney jacked the city thermostat right up but it doesn’t seem to have made much difference: the immediate chill is gone from the air (his teeth don’t chatter as he’s changing clothes anymore) but the deeper shiver is hanging on.
A cup of coffee has never felt so good in Rodney’s palms: the heat of it through his gloves (well, John’s gloves technically) seeps between his fingers and feels almost indecently good in the cold of the labs in the day. The lick of hot water in the shower loosens the tight line of his shoulders, muscles pulled taught from the way he’d huddled down inside his fleece all day (this is the first time he’s worn it since Antarctica – the orange of it seemed over-bright in the blue and silver of the corridors today, but John had smiled, really smiled when he saw him in it, so Rodney figures it isn’t as awful as he’d thought). Hot water has always felt good, but god, it’s been something else these last few days – he’s never shuddered in pleasure at the thought of a shower before now.
He’d always liked the warmth of John’s body next to his too – John is hot, literally and figuratively, and Rodney likes the way his heat fills the not-really-a-space between them under the blankets.
Only since this weather set in, John’s shivered as he’s crawled into bed for at least fifteen minutes every night. He’s tucked himself into Rodney’s body, pressed right up against his front, and shook: Rodney’s hands stroking up and down the length of his back had made him moan gratefully into Rodney’s neck, and clutch himself in a little closer (though there’s not really that much closer left to take, most times).
Tonight, John is through the door and into the bed in under twenty seconds: Rodney listens as the zipper of John’s fleece judders open, to the hiss of his pullover as it’s yanked up and off. John steps out of his boots (the laces are always loose on base) and slides himself under the pile of duvets Rodney has buried himself under. John’s fingers are cool where they slip up under Rodney’s shirt and press into the warm of his stomach, catch in his belly-button: Rodney shivers a little at the sensation.
“Hey,” he murmurs into the shell of John’s ear.
“Fucking freezing,” is John’s response, teeth chattering as he hauls himself in and tangles himself in Rodney as much as he can.
Rodney squawks at the way John yanks at him, then at the way John’s feet feel when they rest on the skin of his ankles.
“Jesus!” he gasps, drawing his legs away from John on reflex. John’s toes are like ice when they follow his retreating leg, press back up under the hem of his sweatpants and rub up against the hair.
“Hey!” Rodney says, as he tries to twist away again.
Slow Burn 2
Date: 2009-10-17 11:21 pm (UTC)“And what, you thought you’d share?”
“You’re warm,” John murmurs, pushing his face into the curve of Rodney’s neck and rubbing it there. His skin is stubbled this late in the day; the friction of it against the sensitive places up Rodney’s throat burns in the way Rodney knows will leave him with a pretty rash in the morning, but it burns in another way too, low in his stomach. Rodney stutters on an inhale.
“I w-was,” he snaps, but the effect of the retort is ruined when John rubs his cheek over his in the dark and hums in the back of his throat. Rodney opens his mouth against the point of John’s rough chin in answer and finds himself kissing up to John’s mouth.
The pout of it opens to the touch of his lips without hesitation and Rodney winds himself up in a kiss, pushing until John is on his back under him. John’s mouth is hot, searingly so, and the lazy movement of his tongue into Rodney’s mouth, the way it mirrors the lazy roll of his body up into the weight of Rodney’s, makes something in Rodney throb, right down deep, makes sweat prick up along his hairline.
John twists himself up in Rodney’s body like they’re both twisted into the sheets – it’s hot, and Rodney revels in the dampness gathering in the small of his back, the hollow of John’s throat when he licks into it.
It would be perfect if John’s feet, shockingly cold, didn’t make Rodney gasp on every touch of the skin to his.
“Jesus, John,” he whispers, one hand wound tight into John’s hair, the other teasing down the side-seam of his t-shirt, fingers walking down to the hem of John’s pants, “that is not natural.” His toes are like icicles, sharp against Rodney's skin.
“Fucking – “ John pants, then moans: Rodney’s mouth bites off the ‘cold’ John had balanced on the edge of his tongue, and turns the word into a pleasured vibration that flows over Rodney’s tongue instead, liquid and sultry.
“Good idea,” Rodney moans when he breaks away.
“Wha?” John asks as Rodney yanks at his shirt until John gets the idea and lifts his arms so it can be pulled away. Static crackles in his hair.
“Fucking,” Rodney explains, throwing the sheets up over his head and lowering his mouth to John’s chest, kissing down John’s ribs.
“Oh,” John says, then “oh,” higher that time, pitching up when Rodney sucks at the nub of a nipple, pressed his other hand down onto John’s cock. “Hot,” John whispers, pushing up into the cup of Rodney’s palm, “you make me so –“
“John,” is the only thing Rodney can think to say, pulling at John’s zipper as John’s hands loosen the drawstring of Rodney’s pants. He’s a little more desperate than he’d like to be: John is incendiary, always has been, and god but Rodney goes up in flames every time, burns up with it.
“Hey,” John says, stilling Rodney’s hands. “Slow,” he murmurs, licking the vowels into the curl of Rodney’s mouth.
Slow burn, Rodney thinks, and finds himself thinking about banked fires on long winter nights, the way the heat had settled into him instead of burning him up. The glow of embers bright in the dark just like John’s eyes, the crackle of coals like the shuddering of breath between them.
Yeah. “Slow,” he agrees, lifting John’s legs to frame his hips. It’s hot but not burning up, soothing himself with the shift of John’s muscles under his fingers, his mouth. John’s feet are still cold against Rodney’s skin, but right now, Rodney can’t being himself to care all that much because the rest of John is warm and pliant and present under him.
It’s another heat he can learn to appreciate, Rodney thinks, a new way of knowing what it’s like to have John warm his bed, warm right through him.
Rodney is learning to appreciate the cold in a way he never has before.
Re: Slow Burn 2
Date: 2009-10-18 08:11 am (UTC)