CATEGORY: Drabble, Humor
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Challenge fic. Use 56 words in a story. Not to be taken seriously and set during Season 9. Episode “Off the Grid”. No spoilers apart from the clothes.
These were the 56 words I had to use: dichotomy, pierogi, fluidly, incontrovertible, dervish, muscles, camera, Olympic, butterfly, shallots, platypus, ice cream, signs, interstitial, march, avalanche, parabola, hunger, word, violent, fire, light, connection, lime, theurgy, toast, gibbet, penultimate, misanthrope, loquacious, dogtags, gravitational, signpost, molasses, converge, artichoke, mine, jello, fuzzy, ritual, serendipity, shoveling, wine gums, explosion, gormless, cat, rabbit, shoggoth, rigid, drippy, sauna, wretched, powerful, Kansas, warstories, wet.
The door closed behind Teal’c as he left the changing room at a quick march, and Daniel dropped the light blue towel he’d been clutching to his powerful, muscled chest, anguished words leaving his mouth in a violent explosion of air.
“Mitchell. Little help here?”
“With what?” Mitchell wandered over, looking like a gormless rabbit, or possibly a shoggoth, and rubbing at his wet chest, hair dripping still. “Are you ever hitting the showers? Or are you pouting because there’s no sauna?”
“No,” Daniel said through gritted teeth. Usually loquacious, he was now reduced to communicating through signs, not words. A rigid finger stabbing down alerted Mitchell to Daniel’s wretched state. And that was quite a signpost he had there…
Fingering his dog tags, Mitchell abandoned his desire to become a dervish after the disastrous day he’d had—and his self-declared status as misanthrope of the year—and contemplated serendipitous, theurgic ritual his unconscious self must have performed to be right here at the moment Jackson, the wine gums, pierogis, molasses, lime jello, artichokes, toast, shallots, and ice cream he had the habit of shoveling in daily to quell his hunger, and a pair of tight—really tight—leather pants, converged in a connection as impossible to prevent as an avalanche, as easy to predict as a parabola, as incontrovertible as the fragile beauty of a butterfly, as cutely absurd as a platypus, as fraught with danger as a gibbet.
With his vision fuzzy around the edges, a fire in his belly, and a voice whispering ‘Mine’ in his ears, he knelt fluidly as a cat and reached out for the lacing holding the pants together, eyeing the interstitial leather avidly for the sake of what it covered, hoping there was no security camera in the room.
This wasn’t going to be a war story that would play in Kansas…
The penultimate hole surrendered its thong, the gravitational spin of the ship making Jackson stagger, his hand curling into Mitchell’s damp hair.
The dichotomy of the soft, supple leather, parting obediently, and the harsh, unyielding grip of Jackson’s fist made Mitchell gasp for breath, his Olympic swimming days long behind him.
“Oh, wow. I see your problem.”
Tugging the pants down and twisting to see the label, Mitchell sighed. “You’re wearing Carter’s pants again. Damn it, Jackson…”
Of course, until…this…was taken care of, Jackson wouldn’t fit in his uniform pants either…
Mitchell leaned forward and gave his team mate a helping hand and tongue and oh, yeah, the man liked teeth, just a little, oh, right there…
** The End **
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