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sgasnippet: for ladycat777
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ladycat777 of very much awesome and so much excellence because she deserves pretty things and John is very, very pretty. And because I am the type of person who sits around and thinks, mmm. Sleepy psychopaths. Now this is appropriate for a gift.
(ETA: And thanks tochopchica for going "awww" in the AIM window.)
Set right after the thing with the Daedalus.
Title: Crimes Snippet
Author: Seperis
Codes: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sociopath cuddling porn.
Warnings: Please see this entry for series warnings.
Those thirty minute reports go straight to Bates who gives them to Grodin to tell Rodney.
John sleeps through it, heavy and warm against his shoulder, one arm slung across Rodney's belly; Rodney's uneasily reminded of the hours John would sleep after Sumner returned him to their cell and Rodney brought him back. Exhaustion or some kind of mental reset, he doesn't know, but he keeps the radio in his ear and the volume as low as he can get it, feeling John's body begin the slow uncoil that meant Rodney isn't likely to wake up with a hand around his throat.
Likely, but not certain. The other reason for the radio; if there's anyone that he can trust John with, he supposes it has to be his men. He just doesn't have to like it.
He sleeps a little; pleasant dreams of Zelenka and Sumner and the implants, long nights with John in observation while Rodney patiently asks questions they can't answer because they won't have the breath to do anything but scream. Blow John while they break Sumner, let the bastard shatter with no one to put him back together again while John watches.
John wakes once, the same confused blankness that came with the sarcophagus and morning in the hazel eyes, but he obediently eats the piece of powerbar Rodney feeds him before he asks, "Stackhouse was--" Rodney shoves another bite in his mouth before he can get any further.
"I'm handling it." John stares at him for a second, then takes the next bite Rodney gives him, chewing thoughtfully, a little more alert than Rodney wants him when they're still hours from repairs being done. He faintly remembers Carson's muttering about sedatives, but the day Rodney can't control this himself, he'll be dead anyway and no number of sedatives will do a damn thing. "Reporting hourly to Grodin, who reports to me."
Hourly, with Bates in the background of every call; like Lorne in that hive ship, they're living reminders that Rodney's claim on John isn't the only one. He hates it, hates *them**, hates they take John away from him, that they have a past with him that Rodney doesn't, that there's any part of John at all that's not his.
Unsettled, he gives John the last piece, throwing the wrapper on the floor and lying back down, frowning up at the ceiling. He's never had to share before, not anything, not ever, and he can't get used to having to, and he's not sure he ever will. He's vaguely aware of fingers sliding over his hip, pressing briefly on fingerprint bruises, the blunt press of fingernails into the bone before sliding up, lingering at each rib like John's counting every one.
After a second, he can feel John tracing the bite on his neck and turns his head. John's watching him, lethargic but perfectly aware, because he knows Rodney in ways that no one else ever has. "I don't like them," Rodney says finally, hating even more that this isn't something he'll ever be able to solve. "But they're yours."
They're John's, and John wants them, and that, Rodney supposes sourly, will keep them breathing.
John's mouth quirks, shifting closer, long fingers curling gently over his collar, just enough pressure to feel it. Warm lips brush against his, tasting of iron and powerbar. "I let your people live," he murmurs against Rodney's ear. "Miko doesn’t have knife in her gut."
Rodney shivers at the teeth pressing against the side of his neck, breaking the scab so delicately he barely feels it; there's no way he can get it up again, and no way he's letting John do anything more taxing than sleep until that fucking ship is ready to fly. But God, he wants to. "She's loyal," he answers instead. Wrapping an arm around John's waist, he pulls him closer, breathing him in, sweat and sex and blood and gunpowder, sharp and acrid and comfortingly familiar.
"If you'd ever fucked her, she'd be dead."
Rodney smirks into dancing hazel eyes, the sharp focus that excludes everything and everyone else turned on him, like being at the heart of a galaxy; it's better than any drug ever invented. "How do you know that I didn't?"
"Those implants are useful," John murmurs against his shoulder, unshaven chin dragging across Rodney's skin. Curling a hand in John's hair, Rodney pulls him up to kiss, dirty and fast that turns dirtier and longer, lazy and slick and so good Rodney can barely stand it. "But not as useful as knowing how to ask a question."
Rodney wonders when John talked to her, what he said, if he had to ask at all. Just look at her with cool evaluation, letting her see everything he'd do to her; she'd break. Anyone would. Anyone.
John licks his collar once, then sighs. "I need to--"
"Sleep," Rodney says firmly, tightening his hold. "There's nothing you can do."
John doesn't fight him so much as melt back into bed when he starts to sit up; even his energy's been burned out over the last few hours. "And my point is proved," Rodney mutters, pulling the blankets back up around them, checking his radio to make sure it's still on. "The second they're done, we'll go, okay?"
John thinks about it for all of a minute, like there's any way he could stagger into his clothes right now and not fall on his face. Finally, he nods, sleepy-eyed and vaguely mutinous, like he think he'll sneak off later.
Lying back down, Rodney curls around John's back, feeling the faint tremors and ignoring them, stroking slowly over the lean belly beneath his hand, fastidiously scraping at the patches of dried blood and pressing a kiss into the back of his neck. "Trust me. Radek'll fix it."
"Kill him," John murmurs sleepily, shifting back against Rodney with a sigh that sounds oddly contented. "Do it for you, if you like."
Rodney thinks of John's training, all the dirty secrets of the SGC that are wrapped up in this man, all the things he's missed, and what he wouldn't give to go back and *find* John then, because God, what they could have done to the galaxy together. "You could teach me how," he answers slowly, wondering what he would have done if John had asked him to be on one of those teams. "Show me what to do."
John tilts his head back just enough, catching Rodney's lips in a quick, sleepy kiss. "I'll show you everything."
ladycat777 of very much awesome and so much excellence because she deserves pretty things and John is very, very pretty. And because I am the type of person who sits around and thinks, mmm. Sleepy psychopaths. Now this is appropriate for a gift. (ETA: And thanks to
chopchica for going "awww" in the AIM window.)Set right after the thing with the Daedalus.
Title: Crimes Snippet
Author: Seperis
Codes: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sociopath cuddling porn.
Warnings: Please see this entry for series warnings.
Those thirty minute reports go straight to Bates who gives them to Grodin to tell Rodney.
John sleeps through it, heavy and warm against his shoulder, one arm slung across Rodney's belly; Rodney's uneasily reminded of the hours John would sleep after Sumner returned him to their cell and Rodney brought him back. Exhaustion or some kind of mental reset, he doesn't know, but he keeps the radio in his ear and the volume as low as he can get it, feeling John's body begin the slow uncoil that meant Rodney isn't likely to wake up with a hand around his throat.
Likely, but not certain. The other reason for the radio; if there's anyone that he can trust John with, he supposes it has to be his men. He just doesn't have to like it.
He sleeps a little; pleasant dreams of Zelenka and Sumner and the implants, long nights with John in observation while Rodney patiently asks questions they can't answer because they won't have the breath to do anything but scream. Blow John while they break Sumner, let the bastard shatter with no one to put him back together again while John watches.
John wakes once, the same confused blankness that came with the sarcophagus and morning in the hazel eyes, but he obediently eats the piece of powerbar Rodney feeds him before he asks, "Stackhouse was--" Rodney shoves another bite in his mouth before he can get any further.
"I'm handling it." John stares at him for a second, then takes the next bite Rodney gives him, chewing thoughtfully, a little more alert than Rodney wants him when they're still hours from repairs being done. He faintly remembers Carson's muttering about sedatives, but the day Rodney can't control this himself, he'll be dead anyway and no number of sedatives will do a damn thing. "Reporting hourly to Grodin, who reports to me."
Hourly, with Bates in the background of every call; like Lorne in that hive ship, they're living reminders that Rodney's claim on John isn't the only one. He hates it, hates *them**, hates they take John away from him, that they have a past with him that Rodney doesn't, that there's any part of John at all that's not his.
Unsettled, he gives John the last piece, throwing the wrapper on the floor and lying back down, frowning up at the ceiling. He's never had to share before, not anything, not ever, and he can't get used to having to, and he's not sure he ever will. He's vaguely aware of fingers sliding over his hip, pressing briefly on fingerprint bruises, the blunt press of fingernails into the bone before sliding up, lingering at each rib like John's counting every one.
After a second, he can feel John tracing the bite on his neck and turns his head. John's watching him, lethargic but perfectly aware, because he knows Rodney in ways that no one else ever has. "I don't like them," Rodney says finally, hating even more that this isn't something he'll ever be able to solve. "But they're yours."
They're John's, and John wants them, and that, Rodney supposes sourly, will keep them breathing.
John's mouth quirks, shifting closer, long fingers curling gently over his collar, just enough pressure to feel it. Warm lips brush against his, tasting of iron and powerbar. "I let your people live," he murmurs against Rodney's ear. "Miko doesn’t have knife in her gut."
Rodney shivers at the teeth pressing against the side of his neck, breaking the scab so delicately he barely feels it; there's no way he can get it up again, and no way he's letting John do anything more taxing than sleep until that fucking ship is ready to fly. But God, he wants to. "She's loyal," he answers instead. Wrapping an arm around John's waist, he pulls him closer, breathing him in, sweat and sex and blood and gunpowder, sharp and acrid and comfortingly familiar.
"If you'd ever fucked her, she'd be dead."
Rodney smirks into dancing hazel eyes, the sharp focus that excludes everything and everyone else turned on him, like being at the heart of a galaxy; it's better than any drug ever invented. "How do you know that I didn't?"
"Those implants are useful," John murmurs against his shoulder, unshaven chin dragging across Rodney's skin. Curling a hand in John's hair, Rodney pulls him up to kiss, dirty and fast that turns dirtier and longer, lazy and slick and so good Rodney can barely stand it. "But not as useful as knowing how to ask a question."
Rodney wonders when John talked to her, what he said, if he had to ask at all. Just look at her with cool evaluation, letting her see everything he'd do to her; she'd break. Anyone would. Anyone.
John licks his collar once, then sighs. "I need to--"
"Sleep," Rodney says firmly, tightening his hold. "There's nothing you can do."
John doesn't fight him so much as melt back into bed when he starts to sit up; even his energy's been burned out over the last few hours. "And my point is proved," Rodney mutters, pulling the blankets back up around them, checking his radio to make sure it's still on. "The second they're done, we'll go, okay?"
John thinks about it for all of a minute, like there's any way he could stagger into his clothes right now and not fall on his face. Finally, he nods, sleepy-eyed and vaguely mutinous, like he think he'll sneak off later.
Lying back down, Rodney curls around John's back, feeling the faint tremors and ignoring them, stroking slowly over the lean belly beneath his hand, fastidiously scraping at the patches of dried blood and pressing a kiss into the back of his neck. "Trust me. Radek'll fix it."
"Kill him," John murmurs sleepily, shifting back against Rodney with a sigh that sounds oddly contented. "Do it for you, if you like."
Rodney thinks of John's training, all the dirty secrets of the SGC that are wrapped up in this man, all the things he's missed, and what he wouldn't give to go back and *find* John then, because God, what they could have done to the galaxy together. "You could teach me how," he answers slowly, wondering what he would have done if John had asked him to be on one of those teams. "Show me what to do."
John tilts his head back just enough, catching Rodney's lips in a quick, sleepy kiss. "I'll show you everything."
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