SGA Fic
Today's adventure in DVR: Trainspotting and Slaughterhouse 5 along with a smattering of Monty Python episodes. I think tomorrow is going to be DVR-light, and instead I'll watch some special features on my Stargate (the movie) DVD (which I got for $6). Also, look! Porn!
No Small Resistance
Stargate: Atlantis, John/Rodney, NC-17, ~1,800
Much thanks to _mausi for the prompt and the title.
The clink of metal rouses Rodney from his sleep. John shifts next to him, sighing as he turns his body. Normally, Rodney sleeps deep, the kind of sleep that means he hasn't rested in at least thirty hours and has probably saved everyone from annihilation once (if not twice). But things have been calm lately. No one is trying to destroy the city, the city isn't inadvertently trying to destroy them, the Wraith are thankfully quiet and Rodney has a lot less to do than normal. It makes him restless, even in sleep.
John's dog tags catch the faint light coming in through the window. The city is never dark, lights always reflecting on the water, making the rooms glow even in the middle of the night. Rodney guesses it must be near dawn by now, the clock blocked by John's shoulder. He can make out the chain, little beads leading down to the flat disks of metal nestled in coarse, dark chest hair.
John normally takes them off, leaving them in a small pile on the nightstand, the last piece of his undressing process. But some nights he's too tired or too distracted and falls asleep with them on, metal cold against Rodney's skin.
John wasn't in bed by the time Rodney went to sleep the night before. The thought strikes him and that strikes him. Nothing has changed for them, except that at night they go back to one room instead of two. At least, Rodney reflects, that’s what he used to think. But he feels things shifting just beneath the surface and maybe if he was a little bit braver, he might actually admit how he really feels.
But he’s not all that brave, and he’s fine with thinking it’s the warmth he missed.
Normally he's the one up late in the lab, running a few more diagnostics just to make sure the city won't implode while he sleeps. It's never the other way around, John running inventory or practicing killing things until the dead of night.
Mornings are different. Mornings, Rodney sleeps in until fifteen minutes before the first meeting, enough time to shower and dress and grab some coffee and walk to the conference room. John's long gone by then, checking in with the security teams, practicing killing things, running, leaning on nearby surfaces in a provocative manner.
Rodney must be thinking loudly, because John is awake, eyes watching him, lazy and amused.
"Hey." John's voice is thick with sleep, rough in Rodney's ear. It isn't fair that John can be so relaxed like that in a lost city on the edge of a galaxy and under the constant threat of horrible, bloody death. Rodney can feel all seven knots in his back begin to twitch, worry mingling with the questions trying to fight their way out of his mouth all at once.
"Why weren't you here for sex? Why aren't you asleep? What in the world had you up so late?" Rodney pauses, processing his own words, new conclusions screaming their way to the surface. He scrambles for something next to the bed. "Is there a Wraith cruiser on its way? Why didn't anyone radio me? I would have-"
"You are surprisingly lucid without coffee," says John slowly, moving so he's on his back, eyes shut like he's trying to sleep again. Like what Rodney has to say is unimportant. It only serves to make Rodney scramble harder, because John’s the type of person to sleep with impending doom on its way.
"Wha?" mumbles Rodney as he searches for his radio, only to drop it as soon as he finds it, John’s tone settling in.
"Never mind," says John as Rodney turns back towards him, displeasure clear across Rodney’s face.
“Oh, so, no Wraith cruiser then.”
John wasn't in bed by the time Rodney went to sleep the night before. It had worried him and that had worried him. Nothing is defined between them, not by any stretch of the term. It had started happening - after M9X-336 with the thing and the people at the place with the elephant - and just never stopped.
Rodney had never actually tried to evaluate it all before and now he can’t help but do it. It has nothing to do with bravery, he realizes, and everything to do with fear.
He lays it all out, each moment end to end and he sees that they’re connected by nearly nothing, at least, not this way. A bond the tensile strength of one bad day, one poorly dodged shot, one focused insult, and it’s the only thing keeping them linked.
Rodney thinks the dog tags might hold up under more weight than this.
It shouldn’t scare him the way it does, because he can’t even remember when he started to care. But he does and the knowing of it hits him like a stunner to the chest.
John is looking at him with amusement - or at least, with something up until just now Rodney had defined as amusement - and he sits up and reaches over, wrapping a warm hand around the back of Rodney’s neck. John looks every inch like a good porn, hair mussed, wet lips and flushed skin, sheets pushed down far enough that his boxers should be peeking out, but aren’t because he isn’t wearing any.
“For someone so smart, you are utterly moronic.”
Rodney knows John doesn’t know what he’s thinking; he’s just trying to be charming at an ungodly hour, he’s not chastising Rodney for something he should have faced a long time ago. Rodney’s just not sure that it matters.
“I like to think it's part of my considerable charms,” he says, but without much conviction. John just quirks his eyebrow up and tugs on his neck.
As Rodney’s pulled in for a languid kiss, he can’t help but watch the dog tags slide across John’s chest as he turns their bodies, follow them to where they dangle in the air, askew on John’s neck. They’re like a shield, telling him everything they can’t ever have - which he didn’t even realize he wanted - and asking him, daring him to try, just try to take them off.
John is insistent and there against his thigh and Rodney is being pushed back down onto the bed, John’s weight familiar in a way he hadn’t ever anticipated. John thrusts lazily against him, mouth tracing along Rodney’s neck, making him gasp with the occasional scratch of John’s unshaven face. John’s hands wander down his body; one lingers on his stomach before shifting lower, wrapping around Rodney’s cock.
The tags hang down, cool against Rodney’s skin and he hates them just a little bit more. He knows he can’t ever really take them off; they’re as much a part of John as everything else, written on his being in pressed metal. But Rodney’s petty and he’ll take whatever comfort he can grab.
His fingers wrap around the chain, knuckles brushing a scar. He's forgotten what they're all from - bullet, knife, rock, rogue coffee table corner - too many covering John's body to count. He has a few of his own now though, and every once in a while, John's fingers will linger there, brush around the pale puckered skin like his touch can soothe it away.
But that’s not possible, and Rodney’s not entirely sure he would want them gone. Even if all this goes away, the entire mission classified in some vault that doesn’t exist to the rest of the world and John goes off and gets stationed someplace to die, he’d still have them as proof.
Rodney gets the urge to break the chain, rip the tags off of John’s neck just to show that they are stronger. He wants to feel the little metal balls slide between his fingers like so many insignificant specks of dust.
John is kissing him again, licking at his lips, teasing him out of his thoughts. He shifts his weight, arms planted on either side of Rodney’s head, pressing his leg up and under Rodney’s, moving them until they’re pressed together in all the ways that matter. Rodney shifts, John’s pushed his hip just a little too far, moves his hips under John’s, heat into heat, flushed and hard and panting in the quiet of the morning.
Rodney keeps one hand wrapped tightly around the tags, keeps them from rattling, from reminding him of just exactly where he is, what he has to do every day, and everything that’s between them. But it also serves to keep John close, pulling him back to Rodney’s mouth while his other hand presses into John’s back, just below his shoulder blade so that John never gets too far away.
It’s enough for John to move down to his elbows, resting most of his weight on top of Rodney, and they revel in the pulse of skin on skin. It’s not rushed, but it’s in no way slow, moving against, moving with each other until they’re crazy with it, sweat blurring their vision.
John bites his bottom lip when he comes, choking on a moan. Wetness between them and above him John shudders, head buried in Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney’s hand drifts along John’s spine, soothing the last of the trembles out of his body.
He grins into Rodney’s neck, a contented hum buzzing through him. But Rodney aches and he can’t stop his hips from bumping up insistently against John’s. John chuckles, low in his throat and slowly begins to move down, mouth happily attaching itself to Rodney’s collarbone, while John’s hand finds his cock again, now slick with his come.
A few tugs, a twist and John’s clever tongue on a nipple and Rodney comes, easy as two plus two, laughter in his throat and he feels nothing but release.
John flops next to him, sated and smug and the tags slips from Rodney’s fingers, mirrored letters and numbers left indented in his palm. He stares at them for a moment, fingers tracing the edges, feeling the shape of each mark, but stops because it shouldn’t hurt to have them gone, it shouldn’t - he shouldn’t -
But he does.
It in no way conquers the fear, so Rodney pushes the thought from his mind and tries to enjoy the afterglow. He just ends up thinking it’s early and he needs coffee.
Rodney doesn’t hold himself accountable for pre-coffee thoughts. Once, he’d thought he’d discovered the real route to cold fusion only to look at his notebook an hour later and find an upside down toaster scribbled on the page.
So, when John leaves the bed for the shower - Rodney grumbles at the loss of warmth and John just kisses his shoulder before going - leaving the tags behind on the nightstand, Rodney doesn’t think twice before picking them up and tugging them hard, just to see if they’ll break.
They don’t. They’re resilient in his hands and Rodney thinks that maybe the links are stronger than he first thought, that maybe, all of them are.
end.
No Small Resistance
Stargate: Atlantis, John/Rodney, NC-17, ~1,800
Much thanks to _mausi for the prompt and the title.
The clink of metal rouses Rodney from his sleep. John shifts next to him, sighing as he turns his body. Normally, Rodney sleeps deep, the kind of sleep that means he hasn't rested in at least thirty hours and has probably saved everyone from annihilation once (if not twice). But things have been calm lately. No one is trying to destroy the city, the city isn't inadvertently trying to destroy them, the Wraith are thankfully quiet and Rodney has a lot less to do than normal. It makes him restless, even in sleep.
John's dog tags catch the faint light coming in through the window. The city is never dark, lights always reflecting on the water, making the rooms glow even in the middle of the night. Rodney guesses it must be near dawn by now, the clock blocked by John's shoulder. He can make out the chain, little beads leading down to the flat disks of metal nestled in coarse, dark chest hair.
John normally takes them off, leaving them in a small pile on the nightstand, the last piece of his undressing process. But some nights he's too tired or too distracted and falls asleep with them on, metal cold against Rodney's skin.
John wasn't in bed by the time Rodney went to sleep the night before. The thought strikes him and that strikes him. Nothing has changed for them, except that at night they go back to one room instead of two. At least, Rodney reflects, that’s what he used to think. But he feels things shifting just beneath the surface and maybe if he was a little bit braver, he might actually admit how he really feels.
But he’s not all that brave, and he’s fine with thinking it’s the warmth he missed.
Normally he's the one up late in the lab, running a few more diagnostics just to make sure the city won't implode while he sleeps. It's never the other way around, John running inventory or practicing killing things until the dead of night.
Mornings are different. Mornings, Rodney sleeps in until fifteen minutes before the first meeting, enough time to shower and dress and grab some coffee and walk to the conference room. John's long gone by then, checking in with the security teams, practicing killing things, running, leaning on nearby surfaces in a provocative manner.
Rodney must be thinking loudly, because John is awake, eyes watching him, lazy and amused.
"Hey." John's voice is thick with sleep, rough in Rodney's ear. It isn't fair that John can be so relaxed like that in a lost city on the edge of a galaxy and under the constant threat of horrible, bloody death. Rodney can feel all seven knots in his back begin to twitch, worry mingling with the questions trying to fight their way out of his mouth all at once.
"Why weren't you here for sex? Why aren't you asleep? What in the world had you up so late?" Rodney pauses, processing his own words, new conclusions screaming their way to the surface. He scrambles for something next to the bed. "Is there a Wraith cruiser on its way? Why didn't anyone radio me? I would have-"
"You are surprisingly lucid without coffee," says John slowly, moving so he's on his back, eyes shut like he's trying to sleep again. Like what Rodney has to say is unimportant. It only serves to make Rodney scramble harder, because John’s the type of person to sleep with impending doom on its way.
"Wha?" mumbles Rodney as he searches for his radio, only to drop it as soon as he finds it, John’s tone settling in.
"Never mind," says John as Rodney turns back towards him, displeasure clear across Rodney’s face.
“Oh, so, no Wraith cruiser then.”
John wasn't in bed by the time Rodney went to sleep the night before. It had worried him and that had worried him. Nothing is defined between them, not by any stretch of the term. It had started happening - after M9X-336 with the thing and the people at the place with the elephant - and just never stopped.
Rodney had never actually tried to evaluate it all before and now he can’t help but do it. It has nothing to do with bravery, he realizes, and everything to do with fear.
He lays it all out, each moment end to end and he sees that they’re connected by nearly nothing, at least, not this way. A bond the tensile strength of one bad day, one poorly dodged shot, one focused insult, and it’s the only thing keeping them linked.
Rodney thinks the dog tags might hold up under more weight than this.
It shouldn’t scare him the way it does, because he can’t even remember when he started to care. But he does and the knowing of it hits him like a stunner to the chest.
John is looking at him with amusement - or at least, with something up until just now Rodney had defined as amusement - and he sits up and reaches over, wrapping a warm hand around the back of Rodney’s neck. John looks every inch like a good porn, hair mussed, wet lips and flushed skin, sheets pushed down far enough that his boxers should be peeking out, but aren’t because he isn’t wearing any.
“For someone so smart, you are utterly moronic.”
Rodney knows John doesn’t know what he’s thinking; he’s just trying to be charming at an ungodly hour, he’s not chastising Rodney for something he should have faced a long time ago. Rodney’s just not sure that it matters.
“I like to think it's part of my considerable charms,” he says, but without much conviction. John just quirks his eyebrow up and tugs on his neck.
As Rodney’s pulled in for a languid kiss, he can’t help but watch the dog tags slide across John’s chest as he turns their bodies, follow them to where they dangle in the air, askew on John’s neck. They’re like a shield, telling him everything they can’t ever have - which he didn’t even realize he wanted - and asking him, daring him to try, just try to take them off.
John is insistent and there against his thigh and Rodney is being pushed back down onto the bed, John’s weight familiar in a way he hadn’t ever anticipated. John thrusts lazily against him, mouth tracing along Rodney’s neck, making him gasp with the occasional scratch of John’s unshaven face. John’s hands wander down his body; one lingers on his stomach before shifting lower, wrapping around Rodney’s cock.
The tags hang down, cool against Rodney’s skin and he hates them just a little bit more. He knows he can’t ever really take them off; they’re as much a part of John as everything else, written on his being in pressed metal. But Rodney’s petty and he’ll take whatever comfort he can grab.
His fingers wrap around the chain, knuckles brushing a scar. He's forgotten what they're all from - bullet, knife, rock, rogue coffee table corner - too many covering John's body to count. He has a few of his own now though, and every once in a while, John's fingers will linger there, brush around the pale puckered skin like his touch can soothe it away.
But that’s not possible, and Rodney’s not entirely sure he would want them gone. Even if all this goes away, the entire mission classified in some vault that doesn’t exist to the rest of the world and John goes off and gets stationed someplace to die, he’d still have them as proof.
Rodney gets the urge to break the chain, rip the tags off of John’s neck just to show that they are stronger. He wants to feel the little metal balls slide between his fingers like so many insignificant specks of dust.
John is kissing him again, licking at his lips, teasing him out of his thoughts. He shifts his weight, arms planted on either side of Rodney’s head, pressing his leg up and under Rodney’s, moving them until they’re pressed together in all the ways that matter. Rodney shifts, John’s pushed his hip just a little too far, moves his hips under John’s, heat into heat, flushed and hard and panting in the quiet of the morning.
Rodney keeps one hand wrapped tightly around the tags, keeps them from rattling, from reminding him of just exactly where he is, what he has to do every day, and everything that’s between them. But it also serves to keep John close, pulling him back to Rodney’s mouth while his other hand presses into John’s back, just below his shoulder blade so that John never gets too far away.
It’s enough for John to move down to his elbows, resting most of his weight on top of Rodney, and they revel in the pulse of skin on skin. It’s not rushed, but it’s in no way slow, moving against, moving with each other until they’re crazy with it, sweat blurring their vision.
John bites his bottom lip when he comes, choking on a moan. Wetness between them and above him John shudders, head buried in Rodney’s shoulder. Rodney’s hand drifts along John’s spine, soothing the last of the trembles out of his body.
He grins into Rodney’s neck, a contented hum buzzing through him. But Rodney aches and he can’t stop his hips from bumping up insistently against John’s. John chuckles, low in his throat and slowly begins to move down, mouth happily attaching itself to Rodney’s collarbone, while John’s hand finds his cock again, now slick with his come.
A few tugs, a twist and John’s clever tongue on a nipple and Rodney comes, easy as two plus two, laughter in his throat and he feels nothing but release.
John flops next to him, sated and smug and the tags slips from Rodney’s fingers, mirrored letters and numbers left indented in his palm. He stares at them for a moment, fingers tracing the edges, feeling the shape of each mark, but stops because it shouldn’t hurt to have them gone, it shouldn’t - he shouldn’t -
But he does.
It in no way conquers the fear, so Rodney pushes the thought from his mind and tries to enjoy the afterglow. He just ends up thinking it’s early and he needs coffee.
Rodney doesn’t hold himself accountable for pre-coffee thoughts. Once, he’d thought he’d discovered the real route to cold fusion only to look at his notebook an hour later and find an upside down toaster scribbled on the page.
So, when John leaves the bed for the shower - Rodney grumbles at the loss of warmth and John just kisses his shoulder before going - leaving the tags behind on the nightstand, Rodney doesn’t think twice before picking them up and tugging them hard, just to see if they’ll break.
They don’t. They’re resilient in his hands and Rodney thinks that maybe the links are stronger than he first thought, that maybe, all of them are.
end.