Imply that you have the bullwhip.

I dreamt I was in a giant blue SUV with John and Rodney. John was driving and Rodney was huddled up in the back with a briefcase balanced on his knees. We pulled over so that he could get out for the conference he was going to, the one he clearly didn't really wish to attend. He leaned over and said to John: "Imply that you have the bullwhip." John, who knew that the bullwhip (Rodney had gotten it from an Indiana Jones prop sale and it had never been used for anything even slightly kinky) was back at Rodney's place, nodded gamely and said, "I have the bullwhip." And Rodney crept out of the SUV.

Here's a little snippet I wrote for our delightful resonant8's birthday. May she live forever!

John crossed the hall and went out through the double doors and turned around a corner in the courtyard to see Rodney taking a furtive drag off a filter-tipped cigarette, the wind taking the long plume of smoke he exhaled as soon as it left his mouth.

For a moment John just stood there, wondering if he was really seeing what he was seeing. Then he wondered who was running the Daedalus cigarette trade. And then he wondered when the hell sunscreen-slathering, teetotalling "I am a brain trust!" Rodney McKay had started smoking.

He was about to lecture Rodney about the evils of tobacco when Rodney sucked another draw off the cigarette and the cherry glowed hotly red.

Something about the way Rodney was standing there, glancing around nervously, gave him a weirdly teenaged aspect and after a moment John realized why it was so compelling to watch Rodney smoke: he was bad at it. The cigarette was held between his thumb and first two fingers as if it was the straw in a milkshake, and when Rodney puffed again, he inhaled too deeply and had a fairly spectacular coughing fit. John had to grin as Rodney rubbed at his tearing eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

Rodney's shoulders were hunched a bit against the gusty afternoon, and between the safety glasses the Bini had provided them for the incredibly intricate metalworking Rodney had been doing and the cigarette and his black jacket, he somehow reminded John of Elvis Costello.

John cleared his thoat and Rodney froze, mouth veering into a guilty line. Finally, he turned his head and saw John.

John shook his head sadly, making tsk tsk noises. Rodney gave him an acid look and flipped him off. John raised an eyebrow and Rodney broke.

"Look, in grad school, Jeremy Godwin told me that nicotine enhances focus. It was my first doctorate. I was panicking. Sue me."

He coughed a little more and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, and John just kept staring at him, and Rodney finally sighed and dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his heel. "There, happy now?" He bent down and picked the flattened butt back up and stowed it in a little plastic bag he kept in one of his tac vest pockets. Once he finished zipping it up, John closed his hands on Rodney's upper arms and dragged him close and kissed him, licking inside his mouth where Rodney tasted rough and smoky. Rodney smelled like every quick and dirty grope session John had ever had in a bar, the ragged edge of smoke catching at his throat. It was exciting, it was nostalgic and it was all wrong, so John drew back and Rodney gaped at him.

"What the hell?" He looked panicked and elated and he had pushed his hips into John's immediately.

"You taste like shit, Rodney," John said evenly, and let him go.

Rodney stared after him and then said, "I--I'm quitting. I'm--I'll never smoke again. Okay?"

John gave him his best smile.

"So you're gonna kiss me again, right?" Rodney looked hopeful.

"Maybe," John allowed.

"Maybe? Well, Jesus." And Rondey stepped forward, curling one hand in John's tac vest and slipping the other around the side of John's neck to tip his head for another kiss.