The Kitchen
John peers into the cupboard, plate in one hand as he tries to find a sliver of space to cram it into. Not likely, considering the cupboard already holds five plates of different sizes, two mugs, one glass, one eggcup, two ballpoint pens, the crockpot, the egg cooker, the electronic cheese grater, the food processor, three digital kitchen scales, the pasta maker, the bread machine, the deep fryer and Rodney's beloved fully-automatic coffee grinder that also measures the exact amount of beans for the perfect cup of espresso; a feature shared by both the programmable coffee/cappuccino/espresso/insert-random-coffee-related-beverage-here maker and Rodney's equally beloved Elite Gourmet Home-Brewing System.
If John adds that plate, the cupboard might well collapse into a Black Hole of kitchen paraphernalia.
Note to self: do something about Rodney's hoarding problem.
He tilts his head with a sigh and, after a moment of thought, wedges the plate into the gap between the crockpot and one of the scales before he slams the door shut. Straightening and smirking the Smirk of Smug Accomplishment he adopted from Rodney, he tosses the wet dish towel into the sink.
Then he leans back, smirk softening into something closer to a smile as Rodney's arms circle around his waist to pull him close, hands splayed possessively over John's belly, his chest.
"You stole my t-shirt," Rodney murmurs, lips moving over John's neck as he nuzzles his way behind John's left ear.
John's eyes slip closed, his heart skipping beneath Rodney's warm hand.
"I like your t-shirt," he says. His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. He does like Rodney's t-shirts, all of them. They're soft - cotton, every single one - and big and smell good. Comfortable. Kind of like Rodney.
He likes Rodney.
Kind of.
"Mmm," Rodney acknowledges, and presses a kiss to the back of John's ear before he moves back enough to hook his chin over John's shoulder. "I like coffee. Did you make coffee?"
"Do you smell coffee?"
"No, but maybe you're hiding it from me." Rodney's voice holds the faintest hint of a pout, something John is sure Rodney learned from him. He hides his amusement under mock-patience as he says,
"Yes, Rodney. If you check the rice cooker, you'll find all the freshly-brewed coffee I'm withholding from you."
"I wouldn't put it past you."
John rolls his eyes, but it's hard to find a suitable comeback when Rodney's thumb is stroking soft circles around his bellybutton. He sighs, feeling utterly content. "What are you doing up, anyway? I thought you were going to sleep in."
"I was." As if on cue, Rodney yawns, chin digging into John's shoulder. "But then someone started being a good housewife and woke me up, and I thought I might as well get breakfast."
John hums in agreement, ignoring the old dig about the wife. The utter domesticity of the moment might have sent him running in the past - has sent him running, if he's honest with himself. Nancy never deserved the crap she had to put up with from him. But Rodney... Rodney isn't Nancy. He doesn't want the picture perfect home and the orchids on the window sill. Rodney hoards everything that goes 'bing' and lets John steal his t-shirts and retaliates by using the last of John's hair gel, every damn time. And John wouldn't want it any other way.
He turns and pulls Rodney into a kiss with a move that has become so ingrained neither of them fumbles or missteps anymore. Rodney's mouth tastes warm and familiar, minty-fresh, and John hums again as Rodney's hands slip up under their t-shirt, skin against skin. Home.
Somewhere in one of the cupboards, something collapses with a clatter. The Black Hole, maybe.
John doesn't care.
Click me :D
Author: lavvyan, Title: Three Scales and a Plate
Artist: chkc
Author's Notes: Thanks to neevebrody for the beta!
Where to next?
The Living Room
The Garden
The Basement
John's Study
2nd Floor
If John adds that plate, the cupboard might well collapse into a Black Hole of kitchen paraphernalia.
Note to self: do something about Rodney's hoarding problem.
He tilts his head with a sigh and, after a moment of thought, wedges the plate into the gap between the crockpot and one of the scales before he slams the door shut. Straightening and smirking the Smirk of Smug Accomplishment he adopted from Rodney, he tosses the wet dish towel into the sink.
Then he leans back, smirk softening into something closer to a smile as Rodney's arms circle around his waist to pull him close, hands splayed possessively over John's belly, his chest.
"You stole my t-shirt," Rodney murmurs, lips moving over John's neck as he nuzzles his way behind John's left ear.
John's eyes slip closed, his heart skipping beneath Rodney's warm hand.
"I like your t-shirt," he says. His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. He does like Rodney's t-shirts, all of them. They're soft - cotton, every single one - and big and smell good. Comfortable. Kind of like Rodney.
He likes Rodney.
Kind of.
"Mmm," Rodney acknowledges, and presses a kiss to the back of John's ear before he moves back enough to hook his chin over John's shoulder. "I like coffee. Did you make coffee?"
"Do you smell coffee?"
"No, but maybe you're hiding it from me." Rodney's voice holds the faintest hint of a pout, something John is sure Rodney learned from him. He hides his amusement under mock-patience as he says,
"Yes, Rodney. If you check the rice cooker, you'll find all the freshly-brewed coffee I'm withholding from you."
"I wouldn't put it past you."
John rolls his eyes, but it's hard to find a suitable comeback when Rodney's thumb is stroking soft circles around his bellybutton. He sighs, feeling utterly content. "What are you doing up, anyway? I thought you were going to sleep in."
"I was." As if on cue, Rodney yawns, chin digging into John's shoulder. "But then someone started being a good housewife and woke me up, and I thought I might as well get breakfast."
John hums in agreement, ignoring the old dig about the wife. The utter domesticity of the moment might have sent him running in the past - has sent him running, if he's honest with himself. Nancy never deserved the crap she had to put up with from him. But Rodney... Rodney isn't Nancy. He doesn't want the picture perfect home and the orchids on the window sill. Rodney hoards everything that goes 'bing' and lets John steal his t-shirts and retaliates by using the last of John's hair gel, every damn time. And John wouldn't want it any other way.
He turns and pulls Rodney into a kiss with a move that has become so ingrained neither of them fumbles or missteps anymore. Rodney's mouth tastes warm and familiar, minty-fresh, and John hums again as Rodney's hands slip up under their t-shirt, skin against skin. Home.
Somewhere in one of the cupboards, something collapses with a clatter. The Black Hole, maybe.
John doesn't care.
Click me :D
Author: lavvyan, Title: Three Scales and a Plate
Artist: chkc
Author's Notes: Thanks to neevebrody for the beta!
Where to next?
The Living Room
The Garden
The Basement
John's Study
2nd Floor