Words: 3 x 100 word drabbles
Summary: John watches Rodney eat.
John felt almost masochistic watching Rodney eat; he ended every meal at least half-hard. Rodney turned the gustatory hell of rubber eggs and not-ham into something more resembling high-grade porn.
Once that first overcooked, under-flavoured, mouthful touched his tongue, Rodney was in heaven and John was trapped in hell. Each moan and groan and sated sigh, each mumbled 'Oh, God, yes,' fluttered down to land in John's lap, and worked like eager hands.
When Weir brought up the subject of a Presidential banquet on their next co-ordinated visit 'home', John nearly wept. He knew he'd never make it to dessert.
John tried hard not to be too obvious or predictable - he limited deliveries to non-consecutive days. He didn't count the protein bars and MREs he took off world; they couldn't have Rodney fainting in a crisis.
He tried his best to vary Rodney's diet in his lunchtime sallies. Toasted almost-cheese on wild grain bread with mystery soup went well. Salads were examined with distrust and then ignored, unless they came tucked neatly in a bun with 'real' food.
The first time Rodney took a bite without his routine check for citrus, John excused himself and took a long, cold shower.
The Tragor were a friendly bunch and everything went well, at least until they all sat down for dinner - then the weirdness started.
Rodney, as was usual, got John to taste the food, but after his first mouthful, silence fell.
"When dining with our partners," - hands were clasped around the table - "we only feed each other, not ourselves. It is our way."
Doriel, in charge of trading, smiled with steely eyes, and motioned to the food laid out before them.
Rodney looked at John, who looked at Rodney, then the food and back. Rodney licked his lips. John whimpered.