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.ficlet & artlet: Fond (John/Rodney) PG13
.Fond
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sheafrotherdon and aesc (PG13, ~1175, Nantucket AU [index])
.notes: doodled in YM while we were thinking about our favorite things.
.eta: Now with more lovely art byalmost_clara here!
Part of Rodney’s re-education, John’s decided, is learning the value of doing absolutely nothing on Sunday afternoons.
Rodney, being Rodney, refuses to give up work cold turkey, so John has to ease him into it: a forced march on the beach one weekend, a trip to Martha’s Vineyard to mock the really rich people the next, then whale watching in the South Channel (although Rodney spends most of the trip zoning out on Dramamine).
John judges it a sure sign of progress that this Sunday they're lazing around, a late grey morning giving way to a grey afternoon that blows in on a cold front from across the sound. The Broncos are playing the Patriots, though Rodney (despite his Colorado ties) refuses to be interested.
“If the Avalanche were playing, maybe,” Rodney says, flipping to the next page in his book. The paper snaps emphatically. “Now be quiet and watch the men in tight, shiny pants while the grown-ups get work done.”
Okay, so it’s only partial progress, but John’ll take it – stretches out alongside Rodney on their big, soft couch, head in Rodney’s lap, the remote dangling carelessly from his fingertips. The game plods through a scoreless first quarter, and he's dozing before two minutes have passed in the second. Rodney's firm and warm beneath him, one of his arms wrapped awkwardly over John’s shoulder so he can read without blocking John's view, and his free hand's scritching slow and absent pathways through John’s hair.
John’s grip loosens on the remote bit by bit, and he hears it clatter softly to the carpet. He doesn’t care enough to move. The only moving of which he’s capable is to nudge up into Rodney’s hand, encouraging him to continue, suffused with the well-being conjured up by the pressure of broad, flat fingertips.
Rodney pauses, turns a page as if to remind John someone is having a productive afternoon, and John’s pretty sure he can hear Rodney rolling his eyes. He shifts a bit, insinuating himself closer to Rodney, and sighs against the fabric of his jeans and the warm skin underneath.
Equations for rendering a body boneless might lie behind the patterns Rodney's working into John’s scalp – tensor currents, vectors, fractals, circles around his temple, helices hooking over his ear – but even if they aren’t, John can't help but zone out to the aimless sensory melody Rodney’s fingers are playing. Sine waves smooth out down his neck, brush back up against the hair at his nape, and his cowlicks stick up even crazier than usual.
“You okay?” Rodney asks, voice coming from the same distant place occupied by the noise from the TV.
“Mmmmmmmph,” John manages.
“I’ll, uh, take that as a yes?”
John looks up (Rodney’s hand slips, gentle and warm, across the back of his skull) tilts his head a little and gives Rodney a blissed out, goofy smile, then sags back.
“Do you know how ridiculous you are?” Rodney asks, but keeps on stroking, his fingers underscoring the question. “And do you know I now have no feeling in my legs?”
“Dun’ care,” John mumbles happily.
“Of course you don’t,” Rodney snaps, but keeps scritching anyway.
John hums to himself, and accepts he's apparently a whore for being petted, for the sweet uncomplicated pleasure of being touched. The quiet, simple joy of it loosens up all the tired, fearful places he guards; he flops over, noses at Rodney’s midsection and pushes his book out of the way despite Rodney’s indignant squawk.
“Rodney belly,” he half-laughs into the curve of Rodney’s stomach, lipping the wrinkles of Rodney’s shirt.
“Oh my god, did you get drunk when I wasn’t noticing?” Rodney stares down the length of his torso at John, mouth crooked, caught off-balance between amusement and irritation at being interrupted. “I scritched your brain clean out of your ears, didn't I?”
“Hmph,” John says, and blows a raspberry through Rodney's t-shirt.
“Fuck!” Rodney yelps, and writhes and gasps and flails, and Lehmann's eminent treatise on something or other goes flying across the room, cracks, spine down, on the coffee table and lands somewhere near the remote control. “Death, Sheppard! Death!” Rodney's unexpectedly limber for a guy who already makes the island’s chiropractors quiver at his approach, and he isn’t above fighting dirty, either, jabbing at John’s ribs, kneeing him dangerously near the solar plexus, pinning him against the back of the couch while attempting to roll them both. “No more scalp rubs ever again, Sheppard!” Rodney wheezes. “No more.” And he grabs John’s hair – his hair – and pulls, and John emits an unearthly shriek and then he laughs – har har har har– and kisses Rodney, messy and affectionate, which convinces Rodney to let go of his cowlicks and hold John firm against his mouth.
They collapse side by side, tangled up almost inextricably (their legs, Rodney’s right hooked over John’s left and then under again, his hand down the back of John’s shorts), and Rodney’s breath huffs hot and welcome down John’s neck while John breathes against Rodney’s forehead, his temple, and tries not to laugh.
When Rodney finally gets his breath back he glares at John and says “I really did mean it about no more scritches ever in your life.”
“Hmmmm,” John says, and wow, he's so articulate today.
“I mean it! You aren't changing my mind about this, you... you... giver-of-raspberries,” Rodney says as he rubs John's shoulder, and John grins hugely and mumbles against Rodney's ear (because there’s no way he can pass this up) “There's only one man who would dare give me a raspberry.”
Rodney blinks and says “Oh, yes? Who?” and John grins and twists so they're still tangled up but he's on top and can press down and close and wheeze a Dark Helmet-like LONE STARR! into Rodney's neck.
“I will beat you!” Rodney howls, and care and slowness vanish with a merciless jab between John’s third and fourth rib, John convulsing and cracking Rodney on the hip, his own terrible laughter everywhere, and they're a dangerous tangle of knees and elbows and Rodney almost falls off the couch.
“Watch it, you psychopath!” Rodney shouts, clutching at John’s shoulders like John’s trying to throw him off the Empire State Building and Rodney’s determined to take John with him.
“Oh, come here,” John says, and pulls Rodney back from certain death.
Then somehow the tickles turn to kisses and touches, lazy and something very much like fond, and they smile and laugh and trade insults (“Spaceballs? You are so out of the geek closet, Sheppard.” “Says the goddamn geek emperor.”) and little snuffles, until John just lays his head on Rodney's shoulder and sighs happily, settling in for a nap. Rodney fishes his book out from under the coffee table and opens it to what John suspects is a random page (though it’s a bit crinkled), and absently starts stroking John's hair again.
Behind them, the Patriots score the first touchdown of the game, and the crowd gets a little louder.
Sunday afternoons, John thinks, absolutely rock.
by
sheafrotherdon and aesc (PG13, ~1175, Nantucket AU [index]).notes: doodled in YM while we were thinking about our favorite things.
.eta: Now with more lovely art by
almost_clara here!Part of Rodney’s re-education, John’s decided, is learning the value of doing absolutely nothing on Sunday afternoons.
Rodney, being Rodney, refuses to give up work cold turkey, so John has to ease him into it: a forced march on the beach one weekend, a trip to Martha’s Vineyard to mock the really rich people the next, then whale watching in the South Channel (although Rodney spends most of the trip zoning out on Dramamine).
John judges it a sure sign of progress that this Sunday they're lazing around, a late grey morning giving way to a grey afternoon that blows in on a cold front from across the sound. The Broncos are playing the Patriots, though Rodney (despite his Colorado ties) refuses to be interested.
“If the Avalanche were playing, maybe,” Rodney says, flipping to the next page in his book. The paper snaps emphatically. “Now be quiet and watch the men in tight, shiny pants while the grown-ups get work done.”
Okay, so it’s only partial progress, but John’ll take it – stretches out alongside Rodney on their big, soft couch, head in Rodney’s lap, the remote dangling carelessly from his fingertips. The game plods through a scoreless first quarter, and he's dozing before two minutes have passed in the second. Rodney's firm and warm beneath him, one of his arms wrapped awkwardly over John’s shoulder so he can read without blocking John's view, and his free hand's scritching slow and absent pathways through John’s hair.
John’s grip loosens on the remote bit by bit, and he hears it clatter softly to the carpet. He doesn’t care enough to move. The only moving of which he’s capable is to nudge up into Rodney’s hand, encouraging him to continue, suffused with the well-being conjured up by the pressure of broad, flat fingertips.
Rodney pauses, turns a page as if to remind John someone is having a productive afternoon, and John’s pretty sure he can hear Rodney rolling his eyes. He shifts a bit, insinuating himself closer to Rodney, and sighs against the fabric of his jeans and the warm skin underneath.
Equations for rendering a body boneless might lie behind the patterns Rodney's working into John’s scalp – tensor currents, vectors, fractals, circles around his temple, helices hooking over his ear – but even if they aren’t, John can't help but zone out to the aimless sensory melody Rodney’s fingers are playing. Sine waves smooth out down his neck, brush back up against the hair at his nape, and his cowlicks stick up even crazier than usual.
“You okay?” Rodney asks, voice coming from the same distant place occupied by the noise from the TV.
“Mmmmmmmph,” John manages.
“I’ll, uh, take that as a yes?”
John looks up (Rodney’s hand slips, gentle and warm, across the back of his skull) tilts his head a little and gives Rodney a blissed out, goofy smile, then sags back.
“Do you know how ridiculous you are?” Rodney asks, but keeps on stroking, his fingers underscoring the question. “And do you know I now have no feeling in my legs?”
“Dun’ care,” John mumbles happily.
“Of course you don’t,” Rodney snaps, but keeps scritching anyway.
John hums to himself, and accepts he's apparently a whore for being petted, for the sweet uncomplicated pleasure of being touched. The quiet, simple joy of it loosens up all the tired, fearful places he guards; he flops over, noses at Rodney’s midsection and pushes his book out of the way despite Rodney’s indignant squawk.
“Rodney belly,” he half-laughs into the curve of Rodney’s stomach, lipping the wrinkles of Rodney’s shirt.
“Oh my god, did you get drunk when I wasn’t noticing?” Rodney stares down the length of his torso at John, mouth crooked, caught off-balance between amusement and irritation at being interrupted. “I scritched your brain clean out of your ears, didn't I?”
“Hmph,” John says, and blows a raspberry through Rodney's t-shirt.
“Fuck!” Rodney yelps, and writhes and gasps and flails, and Lehmann's eminent treatise on something or other goes flying across the room, cracks, spine down, on the coffee table and lands somewhere near the remote control. “Death, Sheppard! Death!” Rodney's unexpectedly limber for a guy who already makes the island’s chiropractors quiver at his approach, and he isn’t above fighting dirty, either, jabbing at John’s ribs, kneeing him dangerously near the solar plexus, pinning him against the back of the couch while attempting to roll them both. “No more scalp rubs ever again, Sheppard!” Rodney wheezes. “No more.” And he grabs John’s hair – his hair – and pulls, and John emits an unearthly shriek and then he laughs – har har har har– and kisses Rodney, messy and affectionate, which convinces Rodney to let go of his cowlicks and hold John firm against his mouth.
They collapse side by side, tangled up almost inextricably (their legs, Rodney’s right hooked over John’s left and then under again, his hand down the back of John’s shorts), and Rodney’s breath huffs hot and welcome down John’s neck while John breathes against Rodney’s forehead, his temple, and tries not to laugh.
When Rodney finally gets his breath back he glares at John and says “I really did mean it about no more scritches ever in your life.”
“Hmmmm,” John says, and wow, he's so articulate today.
“I mean it! You aren't changing my mind about this, you... you... giver-of-raspberries,” Rodney says as he rubs John's shoulder, and John grins hugely and mumbles against Rodney's ear (because there’s no way he can pass this up) “There's only one man who would dare give me a raspberry.”
Rodney blinks and says “Oh, yes? Who?” and John grins and twists so they're still tangled up but he's on top and can press down and close and wheeze a Dark Helmet-like LONE STARR! into Rodney's neck.
“I will beat you!” Rodney howls, and care and slowness vanish with a merciless jab between John’s third and fourth rib, John convulsing and cracking Rodney on the hip, his own terrible laughter everywhere, and they're a dangerous tangle of knees and elbows and Rodney almost falls off the couch.
“Watch it, you psychopath!” Rodney shouts, clutching at John’s shoulders like John’s trying to throw him off the Empire State Building and Rodney’s determined to take John with him.
“Oh, come here,” John says, and pulls Rodney back from certain death.
Then somehow the tickles turn to kisses and touches, lazy and something very much like fond, and they smile and laugh and trade insults (“Spaceballs? You are so out of the geek closet, Sheppard.” “Says the goddamn geek emperor.”) and little snuffles, until John just lays his head on Rodney's shoulder and sighs happily, settling in for a nap. Rodney fishes his book out from under the coffee table and opens it to what John suspects is a random page (though it’s a bit crinkled), and absently starts stroking John's hair again.
Behind them, the Patriots score the first touchdown of the game, and the crowd gets a little louder.
Sunday afternoons, John thinks, absolutely rock.
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