Ficlets for the world to see!
On the 26th, bored and in a terrible creative rut, I offered commentfics. Unfortunately, both my elder siblings and several of their loved ones read the ramblings at 20thcenturyvole, and frankly the thought of my brother reading the slashy pr0n was... well, mildly horrifying. So I had to custom-flock the post.
*sad cries*
But they are no longer hidden! For this is a journal made entirely of fannish things, and nothing will be flocked here. So, at Trinityofone's behest, I post them here, in all their rambling, off-the-cuff, unbeta'd glory. All SGA, all John/ Rodney. Enjoy!
For reccea. Prompt: John and Rodney on the Orion before Allies. (or, before things go to hell in Allies.)
After Narina had been dropped off with her people, and before Rodney could come down from having impossibly saved their asses yet again, John made an executive decision. His back was hurting from the tiny chair, Rodney's most competent minions were pouring in, and they had half an hour before the briefing. Therefore: John's plan.
"Where are we going?" Rodney said, still looking jittery. "I have vitally important work to do, and you know that there's a hive ship coming, right?"
"This'll only take five minutes," John said grimly, looking up and down the deserted corridor. "There's got to be quarters around here somewhere, or a broom closet or something-" He swiped his hand over a crystal by a door, and tugged Rodney into the tiny room. Broom closet it was. Good thing he didn't need anything fancy.
"What're you- oh." Rodney said, and let out a sharp breath as John slid ungracefully to his knees in front of him. He'd really have to do something about that chair. "Oh."
"Way I see it," John said, efficiently undoing Rodney's belt and opening his pants, "We've been up for about twenty hours, and it's unlikely we're going to get sleep any time soon. You can have five minutes to take your mind off it. Also? You got me a spaceship."
"Well, that's logical," Rodney said breathlessly. "I applaud that kind of strategic- oh, God. John."
John let go of Rodney's cock with a small sound, leaning back to look at it, flushed and wet and mostly-hard. He leaned forward and mouthed the shaft gently, leaning forward to nuzzle Rodney's groin briefly, hands stroking and clutching at the smooth skin of Rodney's hips, the curve of his ass, smelling salty sweat and an odd sweetness, the heady, mouth-watering scent of an unwashed physicist. Mmm.
"My own spaceship, Rodney," John murmured, stroking his thumb over the head with a light, deft touch that always made Rodney make this cute sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper, frustrated and turned on beyond reason. John grinned, then took the head into his mouth, concentrating on making Rodney come as fast as possible. This really would have to be five minutes.
One of Rodney's hands was stroking shakily over John's hair, trying not to grab at it, restraining himself heroically. The other was in a fist against the wall, twitching spasmodically, and John thought very carefully about how likely they were to survive another Wraith attack (very unlikely), and how long they'd been doing this, he and Rodney, whatever they called this (kind of a while, and very often, now that he thought about it). He thought about how many times Rodney had saved them all, how many times they'd nearly died between them, how many ways they could possibly die in the future, and with that in mind, he closed his eyes, sucked and swallowed, and gripped Rodney's hand tightly in his when Rodney came.
~*~
For Trinityofone. Prompt: John/Rodney, four weddings and a funeral. (First thing that popped into my head; take it however you like. Or leave it!)
"I can kill you with my brain," Rodney said out of the corner of his mouth.
"Now, Rodney," John said, smiling at the nice alien priest. "Just... lie back and think of Atlantis."
"With my brain!" Rodney snarled, struggling. It wasn't all that threatening coming from someone who was naked, and even less so from someone who John had just tied to a bed with red silk scarves, but he could understand where Rodney was coming from. He also needed to defuse the situation before they got home, because while Rodney was unlikely to actually kill him, he wasn't above making John's life miserable in creative and nefarious ways.
"We can't do anything else without upsetting these nice people and causing an incident," John replied through gritted teeth, tugging on the restraints slightly harder than necessary. "I refused the gag, didn't I? And the audience?" He turned and nodded to the priest, still smiling, and the priest, thank God, turned and left. "We really can't do without these supplies."
"Yes, yes, failed harvest, low supplies on the mainland, Daedalus months away, etcetera." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Now get this over with so we can go home. I'm getting a cramp already."
"Yes, Rodney," John said, grinning genuinely for the first time in hours and scrambling to kneel over Rodney's prone, naked, oiled body. Marriage-by-aliens should happen to everyone, John thought giddily.
"If you let anyone find out that I had to bottom, I really will kill you," Rodney muttered petulantly, and let John kiss him anyway.
~*~
When Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed, John didn't really know how to react. They didn't come out to anybody. They start holding hands in public. They did have to deal with a few scuffles, and some people (thankfully few) had to be sent home, but when it all came down to it, there was a big party with really tacky decorations and some frantic, slightly bewildered sex up against the wall of Rodney's office with the door locked and soundproofed, and their relationship (God, could they even call it that?) went on much as it had before.
Which really should have told John something, he thought mildly, sitting next to Rodney's bed in the infirmary, remembering the flicker in Rodney's eyes, the tilt of his chin all the times John had said, "We really shouldn't be doing this." Sure, spectacular sex had usually ensued, but he really should have taken the hint.
Even with all the blood cleaned off, Rodney still looked horrific, pale, his face covered with angry contusions and deep, swollen bruises, and John had had to stop himself from punching Carson the first time he suggested John get some rest.
John realised, perhaps a little late, that maybe he'd been terrified that it could still be taken away from them, regs or not. It hadn't occurred to him that it could be taken away by this, and that was quite an oversight to make, given what they did every day.
When Rodney opened his eyes at last, blurred and bright with narcotics, John had made up his mind. "Hey," he said quietly, and proceeded to tell Rodney the plan.
~*~
"Your sister is scary," John whispered.
"Now you see?" Rodney hissed. "I told you you shouldn't have mentioned it! She has the brain of an over-romantic squirrel!"
John felt simutaneously like slapping Rodney, kissing Rodney, and giggling crazily. He had gotten used to the feeling in the last few years, but he'd rarely felt it this strongly before. He settled for the kiss, and when he pulled away, Rodney looked slightly mollified, though no less terrified.
"I'm just glad she didn't make me invite my family," he said mildly. "My parents would die of heart attacks as soon as they got the invitations. Simultaneously." He shook his head sadly, repressing his smile at Rodney's growing ire.
"Is that meant to distract me from the two old people who are going to scowl at me from the front seats for the entire ceremony?" he demanded, finally letting go of John's tie. It looked slightly crumpled, but there probably wasn't anything they could do about it now.
"Your parents are very nice people, Rodney," John lied placidly, and then Rodney's niece poked her head in the door and told them it was time.
~*~
John was tapping idly at his laptop when Rodney came home, Grendel asleep with his head on John's thigh, drooling copiously, not even stirring when Cat leapt onto the couch and curled up against his front legs. Cat had trained Grendel to know his place since puppyhood, after all.
John didn't even look up when Rodney dropped a sleepy kiss on his head, just smiled and called up his e-mail, listening with half an ear to Rodney saying awful, slanderous things about his colleagues and the SGC in general, and feeling a small spike of happiness when Rodney found the meatloaf and proceeded to claim his undying love for John and his mediocre cooking skills.
John didn't look up until halfway through Leno, with Rodney's socked feet really encroaching on his personal space. And he didn't fall off the couch, because it was a pretty deep, squishy couch, and he had the computer and Grendel's head and almost Rodney's feet on his lap, but he did stop typing and blink and say, "Rodney... we're pretty stuck with each other, right? I mean..." he waved a hand vaguely, and oh, look at that, he'd picked that up from Rodney - "Paperwork-wise."
Rodney blinked. "Um. Yes, we are. Why?"
John looked at him. He looked around at their house, which they'd ended up buying together almost by accident, at Rodney's huge plasma television and his respectably-sized stereo system, at his dog and Rodney's cat. He looked at the paperwork he'd designed a filing system for out of self-defense, at the dishes that Rodney still hadn't got into the habit of putting in the kitchen, and the fighting sticks Teyla had given him when they'd first said goodbye. He closed the laptop, and put it on the coffeetable that Cat used as a scratching post, ignoring the short, rope-covered construction in the corner.
"No reason," he said, and joined Rodney in hurling insults at the TV.
~*~
For Siegeofangels. Prompt: Heck, we're halfway through Lent. Spring. Or fertility festivals.
The air is chill, so sharp it feels like it would crackle if you made a sudden movement, but Rodney is a furnace and the sleeping bag is warm, warm, wonderfully warm. A band of it is the arm around John's chest, heavy and secure; Rodney's tucked up against his side with his head under John's chin, and John presses his cold nose against the top of Rodney's head. It's going to wake him up, and he's going to be grumpy and achey and he'll bitch about the cold and the conspicuous absence of coffee machines in the woods on the mainland, and John knows it and doesn't care.
In point of fact, Rodney wakes with an abrupt snort, blinking dazedly against the bright sun that's coming almost horizontal through the trees, painting his pale skin in golds and pinks. "Oh my God," Rodney mumbles. "What time is it?"
There's absolutely no way that John is exposing an entire arm to hunt around for his watch, so he just says, "Around dawn. Jeeze, Rodney, you'd think you could figure that one out," and Rodney mutters defamatory things into John's neck while John grins and grins.
It's Spring on the mainland, and if John turns his head away from Rodney for a moment, he can see tiny purple flowers on dark, delicate stalks that look like a cross between bluebells and lavender, pushing through the hard-packed soil ten yards away. The trees are tall evergreens, like the pines back on Earth, and he can smell the cold, the campfire ashes, resin and dead vegetation and a faint, stringent fragrence from the flowers, like cloves.
Soon, when the sun's been up awhile and they've had some nice morning sex, they'll boil coffee over the fire (which Rodney will denounce as a terrible, caveman activity while hunching around the resulting sludge) and eat some MREs; then he'll drag Rodney up the hill (Rodney will call it a mountain and trudge up it with a martyred air, not noticing that the exertion doesn't make him wheeze anymore) and sit at the top and watch the sunset; then they'll go down to the settlement, maybe see Halling and Jinto, see who's got a new baby and how the crops are doing, and then they'll pack up their stuff and go home with Teyla and Carson.
We should make this a tradition, John thinks, and turns his face again to Rodney, his back to the rising sun.
~*~
And finally, for Stillane, who likes to catch people off-guard with horrible Shakespeare puns. Prompt: This is too good an offer to pass up. If you are still in the business of wish fulfillment, I have a request. Because I'm working on a paper tangentially related: John, Rodney, and midsummer. I resisted manfully the urge to say 'Bottom the Ass'. Shakespeare does this to my brain.
A hot, sticky night made even hotter and stickier by all the perfumed bonfires, and there had been something in that wine besides alcohol, John thought, because he was floating and smiling and he'd never, ever been more grateful for people below him. Lorne was somewhere around here, dry on John's orders, and thank God, because John had stuck to a two-drink limit and look at him now.
He supposed he didn't look very dignified, sprawled on a huge fur and propped up on velvet cushions. Someone of indeterminate age and gender and dressed in a burgandy toga had put a wreath of oak leaves on John's head before dashing off to join another raucous dance around one of the bonfires. He was pretty sure it was meant as an honour, but for all he knew, it could be the Bacchnals' equivalent of TP-ing. On the other hand, he could see Elizabeth on the other side of a group of revellers, winecup in hand and wreath on head, her features picked out in gold and shadow by the firelight, talking delightedly to the chief Vestal Virgin - no-one would dare TP Elizabeth.
He'd go with honour.
Rodney stumbled out from between the dancers, flushed and grinning, and crashed into a heap next to John. "I really hope they don't decide to kill us," he said happily, pillowing his head on John's thigh. John should have felt very, very concerned about that, what with all the witnesses, but frankly all he felt like was running his hands through Rodney's hair. "I'm having too much fun. Have you tried the roasted pig-thing?"
John had indeed tried the roasted pig-thing, which looked like pig, smelled like pig, and tasted like he could eat it forever. "Where're Ronon and Teyla?" he said indistinctly, smiling up at the pretty dancers and petting Rodney's feather-soft hair distractedly. Rodney was so pretty. He should be told more often. Or not. Possibly John should not feed the ego. It was a hard decision.
Rodney smirked happily, thumbing over his shoulder at the treeline. "Over there," he said. "Where lots of other people are going too. More and more." He grinned hugely, like John hadn't seen in public since that whole thing with the personal shield. It gave him kind of a pang. "There's huts back there, I think."
"Well, people do need to sleep," John pointed out fairly.
"Sleep, right," Rodney sniggered.
John did feel kind of sleepy, all wined and dined and laid out on furs. The night was humid, but with a sweet, slow breeze that made it very pleasant. He could also think of better things than sleeping. "Rodney," he whispered, tugging at Rodney's hand. "Which way did you say those huts were?"
Rodney, exalted genius that he was, got exactly what John meant and practically dragged him to the forest. John could see people trickling towards the same location, far away in the dark. Then they hit the treeline, and they may as well have been alone.
They came to a hut, but from the sounds inside, it was well occupied. Rodney was grinning so hard it looked like the top of his face was going to fall off. They passed another, and another, until they found one that was silent. No-one inside when they looked, either: just furs everywhere, a stand of water, pillows and rugs. It looked... damn inviting.
They wound up in a heap on the floor, kissing hungrily and sloppily, struggling out of their clothing and trying for some kind of position that didn't end up with limbs in uncomfortable places; in the end it was Rodney who wound up laid out on his back against a mound of cushions, striped by the moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the walls.
"We're so going to regret this in the morning," Rodney said, kissing John's neck like it was the last Snickers bar in the Pegasus galaxy.
John closed his eyes, humming in contentment, back bent; he stretched out fully on top of Rodney, smiled against his mouth, and said, "If anyone asks, we'll blame it one the wine."
That was the last full sentence said all night.
*sad cries*
But they are no longer hidden! For this is a journal made entirely of fannish things, and nothing will be flocked here. So, at Trinityofone's behest, I post them here, in all their rambling, off-the-cuff, unbeta'd glory. All SGA, all John/ Rodney. Enjoy!
For reccea. Prompt: John and Rodney on the Orion before Allies. (or, before things go to hell in Allies.)
After Narina had been dropped off with her people, and before Rodney could come down from having impossibly saved their asses yet again, John made an executive decision. His back was hurting from the tiny chair, Rodney's most competent minions were pouring in, and they had half an hour before the briefing. Therefore: John's plan.
"Where are we going?" Rodney said, still looking jittery. "I have vitally important work to do, and you know that there's a hive ship coming, right?"
"This'll only take five minutes," John said grimly, looking up and down the deserted corridor. "There's got to be quarters around here somewhere, or a broom closet or something-" He swiped his hand over a crystal by a door, and tugged Rodney into the tiny room. Broom closet it was. Good thing he didn't need anything fancy.
"What're you- oh." Rodney said, and let out a sharp breath as John slid ungracefully to his knees in front of him. He'd really have to do something about that chair. "Oh."
"Way I see it," John said, efficiently undoing Rodney's belt and opening his pants, "We've been up for about twenty hours, and it's unlikely we're going to get sleep any time soon. You can have five minutes to take your mind off it. Also? You got me a spaceship."
"Well, that's logical," Rodney said breathlessly. "I applaud that kind of strategic- oh, God. John."
John let go of Rodney's cock with a small sound, leaning back to look at it, flushed and wet and mostly-hard. He leaned forward and mouthed the shaft gently, leaning forward to nuzzle Rodney's groin briefly, hands stroking and clutching at the smooth skin of Rodney's hips, the curve of his ass, smelling salty sweat and an odd sweetness, the heady, mouth-watering scent of an unwashed physicist. Mmm.
"My own spaceship, Rodney," John murmured, stroking his thumb over the head with a light, deft touch that always made Rodney make this cute sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper, frustrated and turned on beyond reason. John grinned, then took the head into his mouth, concentrating on making Rodney come as fast as possible. This really would have to be five minutes.
One of Rodney's hands was stroking shakily over John's hair, trying not to grab at it, restraining himself heroically. The other was in a fist against the wall, twitching spasmodically, and John thought very carefully about how likely they were to survive another Wraith attack (very unlikely), and how long they'd been doing this, he and Rodney, whatever they called this (kind of a while, and very often, now that he thought about it). He thought about how many times Rodney had saved them all, how many times they'd nearly died between them, how many ways they could possibly die in the future, and with that in mind, he closed his eyes, sucked and swallowed, and gripped Rodney's hand tightly in his when Rodney came.
~*~
For Trinityofone. Prompt: John/Rodney, four weddings and a funeral. (First thing that popped into my head; take it however you like. Or leave it!)
"I can kill you with my brain," Rodney said out of the corner of his mouth.
"Now, Rodney," John said, smiling at the nice alien priest. "Just... lie back and think of Atlantis."
"With my brain!" Rodney snarled, struggling. It wasn't all that threatening coming from someone who was naked, and even less so from someone who John had just tied to a bed with red silk scarves, but he could understand where Rodney was coming from. He also needed to defuse the situation before they got home, because while Rodney was unlikely to actually kill him, he wasn't above making John's life miserable in creative and nefarious ways.
"We can't do anything else without upsetting these nice people and causing an incident," John replied through gritted teeth, tugging on the restraints slightly harder than necessary. "I refused the gag, didn't I? And the audience?" He turned and nodded to the priest, still smiling, and the priest, thank God, turned and left. "We really can't do without these supplies."
"Yes, yes, failed harvest, low supplies on the mainland, Daedalus months away, etcetera." Rodney rolled his eyes. "Now get this over with so we can go home. I'm getting a cramp already."
"Yes, Rodney," John said, grinning genuinely for the first time in hours and scrambling to kneel over Rodney's prone, naked, oiled body. Marriage-by-aliens should happen to everyone, John thought giddily.
"If you let anyone find out that I had to bottom, I really will kill you," Rodney muttered petulantly, and let John kiss him anyway.
~*~
When Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed, John didn't really know how to react. They didn't come out to anybody. They start holding hands in public. They did have to deal with a few scuffles, and some people (thankfully few) had to be sent home, but when it all came down to it, there was a big party with really tacky decorations and some frantic, slightly bewildered sex up against the wall of Rodney's office with the door locked and soundproofed, and their relationship (God, could they even call it that?) went on much as it had before.
Which really should have told John something, he thought mildly, sitting next to Rodney's bed in the infirmary, remembering the flicker in Rodney's eyes, the tilt of his chin all the times John had said, "We really shouldn't be doing this." Sure, spectacular sex had usually ensued, but he really should have taken the hint.
Even with all the blood cleaned off, Rodney still looked horrific, pale, his face covered with angry contusions and deep, swollen bruises, and John had had to stop himself from punching Carson the first time he suggested John get some rest.
John realised, perhaps a little late, that maybe he'd been terrified that it could still be taken away from them, regs or not. It hadn't occurred to him that it could be taken away by this, and that was quite an oversight to make, given what they did every day.
When Rodney opened his eyes at last, blurred and bright with narcotics, John had made up his mind. "Hey," he said quietly, and proceeded to tell Rodney the plan.
~*~
"Your sister is scary," John whispered.
"Now you see?" Rodney hissed. "I told you you shouldn't have mentioned it! She has the brain of an over-romantic squirrel!"
John felt simutaneously like slapping Rodney, kissing Rodney, and giggling crazily. He had gotten used to the feeling in the last few years, but he'd rarely felt it this strongly before. He settled for the kiss, and when he pulled away, Rodney looked slightly mollified, though no less terrified.
"I'm just glad she didn't make me invite my family," he said mildly. "My parents would die of heart attacks as soon as they got the invitations. Simultaneously." He shook his head sadly, repressing his smile at Rodney's growing ire.
"Is that meant to distract me from the two old people who are going to scowl at me from the front seats for the entire ceremony?" he demanded, finally letting go of John's tie. It looked slightly crumpled, but there probably wasn't anything they could do about it now.
"Your parents are very nice people, Rodney," John lied placidly, and then Rodney's niece poked her head in the door and told them it was time.
~*~
John was tapping idly at his laptop when Rodney came home, Grendel asleep with his head on John's thigh, drooling copiously, not even stirring when Cat leapt onto the couch and curled up against his front legs. Cat had trained Grendel to know his place since puppyhood, after all.
John didn't even look up when Rodney dropped a sleepy kiss on his head, just smiled and called up his e-mail, listening with half an ear to Rodney saying awful, slanderous things about his colleagues and the SGC in general, and feeling a small spike of happiness when Rodney found the meatloaf and proceeded to claim his undying love for John and his mediocre cooking skills.
John didn't look up until halfway through Leno, with Rodney's socked feet really encroaching on his personal space. And he didn't fall off the couch, because it was a pretty deep, squishy couch, and he had the computer and Grendel's head and almost Rodney's feet on his lap, but he did stop typing and blink and say, "Rodney... we're pretty stuck with each other, right? I mean..." he waved a hand vaguely, and oh, look at that, he'd picked that up from Rodney - "Paperwork-wise."
Rodney blinked. "Um. Yes, we are. Why?"
John looked at him. He looked around at their house, which they'd ended up buying together almost by accident, at Rodney's huge plasma television and his respectably-sized stereo system, at his dog and Rodney's cat. He looked at the paperwork he'd designed a filing system for out of self-defense, at the dishes that Rodney still hadn't got into the habit of putting in the kitchen, and the fighting sticks Teyla had given him when they'd first said goodbye. He closed the laptop, and put it on the coffeetable that Cat used as a scratching post, ignoring the short, rope-covered construction in the corner.
"No reason," he said, and joined Rodney in hurling insults at the TV.
~*~
For Siegeofangels. Prompt: Heck, we're halfway through Lent. Spring. Or fertility festivals.
The air is chill, so sharp it feels like it would crackle if you made a sudden movement, but Rodney is a furnace and the sleeping bag is warm, warm, wonderfully warm. A band of it is the arm around John's chest, heavy and secure; Rodney's tucked up against his side with his head under John's chin, and John presses his cold nose against the top of Rodney's head. It's going to wake him up, and he's going to be grumpy and achey and he'll bitch about the cold and the conspicuous absence of coffee machines in the woods on the mainland, and John knows it and doesn't care.
In point of fact, Rodney wakes with an abrupt snort, blinking dazedly against the bright sun that's coming almost horizontal through the trees, painting his pale skin in golds and pinks. "Oh my God," Rodney mumbles. "What time is it?"
There's absolutely no way that John is exposing an entire arm to hunt around for his watch, so he just says, "Around dawn. Jeeze, Rodney, you'd think you could figure that one out," and Rodney mutters defamatory things into John's neck while John grins and grins.
It's Spring on the mainland, and if John turns his head away from Rodney for a moment, he can see tiny purple flowers on dark, delicate stalks that look like a cross between bluebells and lavender, pushing through the hard-packed soil ten yards away. The trees are tall evergreens, like the pines back on Earth, and he can smell the cold, the campfire ashes, resin and dead vegetation and a faint, stringent fragrence from the flowers, like cloves.
Soon, when the sun's been up awhile and they've had some nice morning sex, they'll boil coffee over the fire (which Rodney will denounce as a terrible, caveman activity while hunching around the resulting sludge) and eat some MREs; then he'll drag Rodney up the hill (Rodney will call it a mountain and trudge up it with a martyred air, not noticing that the exertion doesn't make him wheeze anymore) and sit at the top and watch the sunset; then they'll go down to the settlement, maybe see Halling and Jinto, see who's got a new baby and how the crops are doing, and then they'll pack up their stuff and go home with Teyla and Carson.
We should make this a tradition, John thinks, and turns his face again to Rodney, his back to the rising sun.
~*~
And finally, for Stillane, who likes to catch people off-guard with horrible Shakespeare puns. Prompt: This is too good an offer to pass up. If you are still in the business of wish fulfillment, I have a request. Because I'm working on a paper tangentially related: John, Rodney, and midsummer. I resisted manfully the urge to say 'Bottom the Ass'. Shakespeare does this to my brain.
A hot, sticky night made even hotter and stickier by all the perfumed bonfires, and there had been something in that wine besides alcohol, John thought, because he was floating and smiling and he'd never, ever been more grateful for people below him. Lorne was somewhere around here, dry on John's orders, and thank God, because John had stuck to a two-drink limit and look at him now.
He supposed he didn't look very dignified, sprawled on a huge fur and propped up on velvet cushions. Someone of indeterminate age and gender and dressed in a burgandy toga had put a wreath of oak leaves on John's head before dashing off to join another raucous dance around one of the bonfires. He was pretty sure it was meant as an honour, but for all he knew, it could be the Bacchnals' equivalent of TP-ing. On the other hand, he could see Elizabeth on the other side of a group of revellers, winecup in hand and wreath on head, her features picked out in gold and shadow by the firelight, talking delightedly to the chief Vestal Virgin - no-one would dare TP Elizabeth.
He'd go with honour.
Rodney stumbled out from between the dancers, flushed and grinning, and crashed into a heap next to John. "I really hope they don't decide to kill us," he said happily, pillowing his head on John's thigh. John should have felt very, very concerned about that, what with all the witnesses, but frankly all he felt like was running his hands through Rodney's hair. "I'm having too much fun. Have you tried the roasted pig-thing?"
John had indeed tried the roasted pig-thing, which looked like pig, smelled like pig, and tasted like he could eat it forever. "Where're Ronon and Teyla?" he said indistinctly, smiling up at the pretty dancers and petting Rodney's feather-soft hair distractedly. Rodney was so pretty. He should be told more often. Or not. Possibly John should not feed the ego. It was a hard decision.
Rodney smirked happily, thumbing over his shoulder at the treeline. "Over there," he said. "Where lots of other people are going too. More and more." He grinned hugely, like John hadn't seen in public since that whole thing with the personal shield. It gave him kind of a pang. "There's huts back there, I think."
"Well, people do need to sleep," John pointed out fairly.
"Sleep, right," Rodney sniggered.
John did feel kind of sleepy, all wined and dined and laid out on furs. The night was humid, but with a sweet, slow breeze that made it very pleasant. He could also think of better things than sleeping. "Rodney," he whispered, tugging at Rodney's hand. "Which way did you say those huts were?"
Rodney, exalted genius that he was, got exactly what John meant and practically dragged him to the forest. John could see people trickling towards the same location, far away in the dark. Then they hit the treeline, and they may as well have been alone.
They came to a hut, but from the sounds inside, it was well occupied. Rodney was grinning so hard it looked like the top of his face was going to fall off. They passed another, and another, until they found one that was silent. No-one inside when they looked, either: just furs everywhere, a stand of water, pillows and rugs. It looked... damn inviting.
They wound up in a heap on the floor, kissing hungrily and sloppily, struggling out of their clothing and trying for some kind of position that didn't end up with limbs in uncomfortable places; in the end it was Rodney who wound up laid out on his back against a mound of cushions, striped by the moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the walls.
"We're so going to regret this in the morning," Rodney said, kissing John's neck like it was the last Snickers bar in the Pegasus galaxy.
John closed his eyes, humming in contentment, back bent; he stretched out fully on top of Rodney, smiled against his mouth, and said, "If anyone asks, we'll blame it one the wine."
That was the last full sentence said all night.