Poetry (NC-17)
Dec. 12th, 2009 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skidmo_ficTitle: Poetry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ronon/The Doctor (RP fic)
Word Count: 682
Warning: none
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me...sadly.
Feedback: yes, please.
Summary: The Doctor asks many questions Ronon doesn’t have answers for.
A/N: I asked for smut prompts. This one came from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misslucyjane: Ronon/the Doctor, writing on skin
“Why did you stop writing?” the Doctor asks one night when they’re stretched out on a pile of blankets on Ronon’s balcony.
Ronon shrugs. He can’t say, ‘I stopped when she died. I stopped when it hurt too much. I stopped when there was nothing to write but pain and blood and tears.’
“What would you write about if you did?” the Doctor asks.
Ronon shrugs again. He can’t say, ‘Your skin in the moonlight. How your freckles reflect the stars. The way your smile makes me forget about her and Sateda and the Wraith, just for a moment.’
“What did you write about last?”
This is a question Ronon can’t pretend he doesn’t know the answer to, but he’s still not sure he can say.
The Doctor reaches across Ronon to produce a pen from his coat, handing it to Ronon. “Show me.”
He stretches out on the blankets, long and lean and pale in the light of the twin moons, and Ronon rolls the pen between his fingers for a long moment.
It’s been years, but he still remembers. He glances up at the Doctor with a thoughtful expression before starting.
The Doctor has explained about the TARDIS, how it translates every known language, written and spoken, so Ronon doesn’t bother trying his hand at the Latin alphabet, its strange, linear letters still giving him trouble. The first blocky, Ancient letters fall on the smooth skin above the Doctor’s hip.
He tries not to get distracted when the Doctor shifts, tries not to watch corded muscle flexing under pale skin, freckles dancing. He tries not to notice when the Doctor’s skin goosepimples as Ronon slides the tip of the pen across the curve of his hip. He tries not to look at the Doctor’s cock, curving against his thigh, slowly thickening with each stroke of Ronon’s pen.
When he’s finished, he pulls back, looking down at the Doctor with dark eyes as the Doctor’s fingers trail down Ronon’s chest.
“Read it to me?”
Ronon isn’t sure he can, but the Doctor sits up, kisses him slowly, promising him nothing and expecting nothing in return, and Ronon kisses him back, because that’s all he wants. The Doctor pushes gently, lowering Ronon onto his back, climbing onto him, straddling his thighs.
“Please,” the Doctor whispers, taking hold of Ronon’s cock and slowly lowering himself onto it.
Ronon groans at the heat, at how smoothly he slides in, the way made easier because this is not the first time they’ve done this tonight, might not be the last.
“Please,” the Doctor whispers again, slowly riding Ronon, rising and falling in an easy rhythm, and Ronon wraps broad hands around the Doctor’s hips, obscuring his writing.
“Can’t,” he growls out. “Too distracting.” He means it to be a joke, that the Doctor is distracting him from reading, but really he doesn’t want to read because it will distract him from the Doctor.
And the Doctor looks at him like he knows but he’s trying not to.
Ronon’s fingers tighten on the Doctor’s hips, and he arches up to him, pushing deeper, moving with the Doctor. The Doctor’s fingers splay over Ronon’s chest, and his other hand wraps around his erection, stroking in time with their thrusts, moving in a precise rhythm, fingers tapping to the meter of Ronon’s heartbeat, in counterpoint to his breathing.
Their pace gradually increases, moving into a staccato beat, like a song, like a poem, rushing towards completion until they both tense, both cry out, both collapse.
For a long moment, they just lay there, Ronon’s fingers tracing through the sweat on the Doctor’s back, smudging ink from his poem across his skin.
After a long moment, after their breath has evened out, slowing, deepening, Ronon begins reciting, his voice soft, his fingers still stroking the Doctor’s skin.
“There was a way once,” he begins,
“that led to home.
And it was simple.
And it was true and straight and flat and easy.
And then there was you.
Who wants easy anyway?
All the best adventures
start with a mountain.”
fin
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ronon/The Doctor (RP fic)
Word Count: 682
Warning: none
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me...sadly.
Feedback: yes, please.
Summary: The Doctor asks many questions Ronon doesn’t have answers for.
A/N: I asked for smut prompts. This one came from
misslucyjane: Ronon/the Doctor, writing on skin“Why did you stop writing?” the Doctor asks one night when they’re stretched out on a pile of blankets on Ronon’s balcony.
Ronon shrugs. He can’t say, ‘I stopped when she died. I stopped when it hurt too much. I stopped when there was nothing to write but pain and blood and tears.’
“What would you write about if you did?” the Doctor asks.
Ronon shrugs again. He can’t say, ‘Your skin in the moonlight. How your freckles reflect the stars. The way your smile makes me forget about her and Sateda and the Wraith, just for a moment.’
“What did you write about last?”
This is a question Ronon can’t pretend he doesn’t know the answer to, but he’s still not sure he can say.
The Doctor reaches across Ronon to produce a pen from his coat, handing it to Ronon. “Show me.”
He stretches out on the blankets, long and lean and pale in the light of the twin moons, and Ronon rolls the pen between his fingers for a long moment.
It’s been years, but he still remembers. He glances up at the Doctor with a thoughtful expression before starting.
The Doctor has explained about the TARDIS, how it translates every known language, written and spoken, so Ronon doesn’t bother trying his hand at the Latin alphabet, its strange, linear letters still giving him trouble. The first blocky, Ancient letters fall on the smooth skin above the Doctor’s hip.
He tries not to get distracted when the Doctor shifts, tries not to watch corded muscle flexing under pale skin, freckles dancing. He tries not to notice when the Doctor’s skin goosepimples as Ronon slides the tip of the pen across the curve of his hip. He tries not to look at the Doctor’s cock, curving against his thigh, slowly thickening with each stroke of Ronon’s pen.
When he’s finished, he pulls back, looking down at the Doctor with dark eyes as the Doctor’s fingers trail down Ronon’s chest.
“Read it to me?”
Ronon isn’t sure he can, but the Doctor sits up, kisses him slowly, promising him nothing and expecting nothing in return, and Ronon kisses him back, because that’s all he wants. The Doctor pushes gently, lowering Ronon onto his back, climbing onto him, straddling his thighs.
“Please,” the Doctor whispers, taking hold of Ronon’s cock and slowly lowering himself onto it.
Ronon groans at the heat, at how smoothly he slides in, the way made easier because this is not the first time they’ve done this tonight, might not be the last.
“Please,” the Doctor whispers again, slowly riding Ronon, rising and falling in an easy rhythm, and Ronon wraps broad hands around the Doctor’s hips, obscuring his writing.
“Can’t,” he growls out. “Too distracting.” He means it to be a joke, that the Doctor is distracting him from reading, but really he doesn’t want to read because it will distract him from the Doctor.
And the Doctor looks at him like he knows but he’s trying not to.
Ronon’s fingers tighten on the Doctor’s hips, and he arches up to him, pushing deeper, moving with the Doctor. The Doctor’s fingers splay over Ronon’s chest, and his other hand wraps around his erection, stroking in time with their thrusts, moving in a precise rhythm, fingers tapping to the meter of Ronon’s heartbeat, in counterpoint to his breathing.
Their pace gradually increases, moving into a staccato beat, like a song, like a poem, rushing towards completion until they both tense, both cry out, both collapse.
For a long moment, they just lay there, Ronon’s fingers tracing through the sweat on the Doctor’s back, smudging ink from his poem across his skin.
After a long moment, after their breath has evened out, slowing, deepening, Ronon begins reciting, his voice soft, his fingers still stroking the Doctor’s skin.
“There was a way once,” he begins,
“that led to home.
And it was simple.
And it was true and straight and flat and easy.
And then there was you.
Who wants easy anyway?
All the best adventures
start with a mountain.”
fin
