Summary: Dating an alien: it's harder- and easier- than it looks.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 763
A/N: For the film/photography square on my kink_bingo card, and the last fic for my second line. This is not my first, but third attempt to write something for this square; I really like the other things, but they've both turned mammoth and so are not done. I'm not happy with it, but I really would rather get some sleep than fuss over it any more.
ETA: This story received an Arbitrary Mod Prize (Best GGG) from the mods at kink_bingo! Hurrah!
You'd think that, having a six-and-a-half-foot boyfriend who looks like an underwear model and whose job description pretty much requires working out most of the time and killing aliens the rest of it, John's only problem in life would be his sore ass, and maybe the aforementioned aliens.
And, ninety percent of the time, those are John's biggest personal problems.
The thing is, though, that John's giant boyfriend is an alien himself- or maybe John's the alien, but the point is they're alien to each other; and so, when they do have a problem, it's always over stuff that he's never considered- like how Ronon considers it a dire insult the first time John tries to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. Or stuff that he's always considered just given, like- he doesn't know what it is about Ronon, whether it's a cultural misunderstanding or whether John just hasn't shown him the right films, but Ronon doesn't like porn. He doesn't mind it or anything, but he mostly seems perplexed by the concept; he keeps asking questions about the characters and their relationships, why they're fucking, what happened before the cameras rolled, stuff that never even occurred to John. John has still not gotten over the time he walked into Ronon's room to find him and Teyla watching Debbie Does Dallas and having a very serious debate on whether the main characters' actions were justified, cheesy moans going completely unnoticed by both of them.
And John's pretty sure his latest idea is going to go over just about as well.
Ronon fiddles with the camera John's given him, sliding his thumb over the release for the back panel. "There's no film in here."
"Well, yeah," John says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
"If there's no film, you can't take pictures," Ronon explains patiently.
"I know that," he protests.
"Then what's the point?"
John sighs. "It's... complicated."
Ronon just stands there, waiting for an explanation that John doesn't have. He doesn't even know where to start- wouldn't it just be insulting Ronon's intelligence to explain why he can't have naked pictures of himself floating around? Would Ronon really understand the concept of photography as something powerful? Does he get how humiliating it would be if anybody saw John like he wants to be seen? How can he explain how the sound of a shutter snapping open and closed sends an immediate pulse down his spine? Could he even articulate how being exploited and being wanted are, in the somewhat worrisome world of his fantasies, just pieces of the same thing? Would it be insulting if he explained how much danger is an aphrodisiac? Is that something he's never realized or something he can't ever forget?
Ronon's still staring at him expectantly. Fuck.
John's just about to open his mouth to tell him to forget about it when Ronon speaks again. "You really want to do this, right?"
John swallows. "Yeah."
Ronon nods. "Get on the bed."
It's a good thing he's already naked; he climbs up into the middle of the bed and just sort of kneels.
"Look at me," Ronon says, holding up the camera and looking through the viewfinder; John gazes at him uncertainly. Ronon moves the camera away from his face. "I've seen sexier faces on my grandmother, Sheppard."
John can't help laughing; Ronon grins at him, and he starts to think this might turn out okay.
Ronon gets into it a whole lot faster than John thought he would, snapping off pictures and barking out orders, reaching over now and again to pose him just so, spread his legs a little wider, move his hair away from his eyes.
The camera clicks again and again and again, and pretty soon John finds himself moaning at the sound alone, his eyes screwed shut, one hand jerking his dick, two fingers in his ass. He can't stop thinking about how wrecked he must look, sweat dripping down his forehead, his movements frantic and erratic.
"Fuck, that's hot," Ronon murmurs, and John comes with a cry, throwing his head back and thinking about flash bulbs.
"Do you get it, now?" he asks Ronon, lying next to him, after he's spent a good long time bringing Ronon off with his mouth and his hands.
"No," he says bluntly. "Do I need to?"
It's an honest question, the way it could never be from someone else. "No," John replies truthfully.
"Good," Ronon says. He waits for John to get comfortable before saying, "Next time, don't forget the film."
This entry was automatically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/195087.html. Feel free to comment here or there.