crackerfic (foster's bakery crack, g, 849)
Title: Crackerfic
Word count: 849
Ratings/Warnings: G, no warnings, total crack.
Summary: Some Foster's Bakery nonsense for
chkc's April Fool's Day chibi.
*
"You know what? Enough. That is it," says John, stripping out of his pink apron. "Normally I'd be on the side of the baked goods, but when they start abducting hostages..."
"Um. What?" Rodney asks.
John points at the TV-- when did he put a TV in the bakery?-- and as soon as Rodney sees the talking head with the scrolling chyron, the news graphic of a wedge of cheese, he suddenly remembers, of course, that crackers started kidnapping cheeses this morning when talks broke down.
"Wait, why are th, th-- thuh...?" Rodney stutters to a halt, severely distracted, because John's putting on a tac vest.
Rodney really hates to admit it, but he's occasionally and lustfully imagined John in various uniforms. And SGC gear is definitely near the top of his list of fantasy outfits for John, right after dress blues.
John buckles on a thigh holster over his BDUs, and Rodney comes close to openly whimpering. The purposeful, focused look on John's face never wavers as he settles the strap of the P90 on his shoulder and holds the submachine gun with easy care across his body, trigger finger poised along the stock.
"Hey," he says, mistaking Rodney's jawdropped gape for concern, "don't worry. Once they see I'm serious, I know they're going to back down."
"Right," says Rodney weakly.
John blinks himself out of his grim expression and gives Rodney a little smile, hooking him close with a hand around the back of his neck, holding the P90 away from them as he leans to give Rodney a brief, warm kiss.
Suddenly the hotness of the uniform is the last thing on Rodney's mind. "Does it have to be you?" he asks anxiously.
"They asked me." John flashes a cocky grin. "Besides. I've got a recipe that calls for goat cheese burning a hole in my pocket. One way or another, I'm making it tonight."
He settles the P90 into place again, his game face back on, and shoulders out the front door of the bakery. Rodney follows him past the dog groomer and the toy shop to the municipal parking lot, where a bunch of broccoli trees and watermelon cars have been stacked into a kind of barricade.
"Stay here," John orders, "I'm going in," marching ahead. "All right, crackers, this ends now! Come out with your garnish up!"
"No way! We're tired of people eating us with these jokers and thinking it's all about the cheese! Crackers deserve appreciation too!"
"Look, I'm a baker, I agree with you," says John. "Crackers are important. And delicious. But this isn't the answer! Turn yourselves in. Don't make me use this."
"You wouldn't risk hitting the hostages," says a giant cracker, barely visible behind a broccoli stalk, holding up-- Rodney squints-- it looks like a maraschino cherry...?
John fires one shot cleanly through the cherry, left smoking in the giant cracker's salty hand.
The smoldering cherry disappears as the cracker hastily withdraws.
After a few moments of tense murmuring, the spokescracker says, "We surrender!"
"Send the hostages out!"
Cheeses begin to file out from behind the melon cars, rolling and somersaulting to safety with Rodney, who finds he has a sidearm in hand himself to defend them.
"I don't see the goat cheese," says John sternly.
"How do we know you're not going to start firing the second we let the rest of them go?"
"Nobody has to get hurt here today. There's no other way out of this. Let all the cheeses go and I'll bring you in safe and sound."
The last of the cheeses file out, followed by crackers with their... hands... up. The spokescracker's still holding the cherry.
"Put it down," John commands, squaring off against the spokescracker.
Rodney hopes that the danger is defused enough that he's not a jerk for getting distracted by how hot John is like this, because in his form-fitting black t-shirt, the thigh holster cinching his leg and pulling the fabric tight in all the right places, and that attitude of confident command... John is incredibly hot.
The cracker's just put the cherry down when Rodney whirls, hearing sirens. He sighs with relief. The police are finally here!
Except, why weren't the police here before? Why did John have to resolve this? How was that cracker even talking?
Rodney startles awake on the sofa, flailing. John steps hastily back, holding a plate out of range.
"You okay, buddy?" he asks, setting the plate on the coffee table. "The crackers are done."
Rodney's thoughts, and mouth, outpace his consciousness: "They're all in custody?"
John's eyebrows rocket up. "Uh... yeah," he says. "Don't worry, all snacks are secured."
"Just come here," Rodney demands, snagging John's hand and tugging him down onto the sofa. John comes readily, his mouth as warm and soft as it was in the dream. Rodney kisses him intently, John, the real John, incredibly hot just like this, no accessories necessary.
(Not that Rodney would say no to the uniform if the occasion somehow arose, but the point is: it's superfluous.)
"Wow," John says with a goofy grin once Rodney finally lets him go, "from now on I'm making crackers every night."
Rodney's stomach growls, and John laughs. "Here, try one," he feeds Rodney one of the homemade crackers topped with goat cheese studded with dried cranberries. "How is it?"
"Great," says Rodney, licking the salt off John's fingers. "Though, you know, with crackers, you can always use more cheese."
http://cesare.dreamwidth.org/113577.html |
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Word count: 849
Ratings/Warnings: G, no warnings, total crack.
Summary: Some Foster's Bakery nonsense for
chkc's April Fool's Day chibi.
*
"You know what? Enough. That is it," says John, stripping out of his pink apron. "Normally I'd be on the side of the baked goods, but when they start abducting hostages..."
"Um. What?" Rodney asks.
John points at the TV-- when did he put a TV in the bakery?-- and as soon as Rodney sees the talking head with the scrolling chyron, the news graphic of a wedge of cheese, he suddenly remembers, of course, that crackers started kidnapping cheeses this morning when talks broke down.
"Wait, why are th, th-- thuh...?" Rodney stutters to a halt, severely distracted, because John's putting on a tac vest.
Rodney really hates to admit it, but he's occasionally and lustfully imagined John in various uniforms. And SGC gear is definitely near the top of his list of fantasy outfits for John, right after dress blues.
John buckles on a thigh holster over his BDUs, and Rodney comes close to openly whimpering. The purposeful, focused look on John's face never wavers as he settles the strap of the P90 on his shoulder and holds the submachine gun with easy care across his body, trigger finger poised along the stock.
"Hey," he says, mistaking Rodney's jawdropped gape for concern, "don't worry. Once they see I'm serious, I know they're going to back down."
"Right," says Rodney weakly.
John blinks himself out of his grim expression and gives Rodney a little smile, hooking him close with a hand around the back of his neck, holding the P90 away from them as he leans to give Rodney a brief, warm kiss.
Suddenly the hotness of the uniform is the last thing on Rodney's mind. "Does it have to be you?" he asks anxiously.
"They asked me." John flashes a cocky grin. "Besides. I've got a recipe that calls for goat cheese burning a hole in my pocket. One way or another, I'm making it tonight."
He settles the P90 into place again, his game face back on, and shoulders out the front door of the bakery. Rodney follows him past the dog groomer and the toy shop to the municipal parking lot, where a bunch of broccoli trees and watermelon cars have been stacked into a kind of barricade.
"Stay here," John orders, "I'm going in," marching ahead. "All right, crackers, this ends now! Come out with your garnish up!"
"No way! We're tired of people eating us with these jokers and thinking it's all about the cheese! Crackers deserve appreciation too!"
"Look, I'm a baker, I agree with you," says John. "Crackers are important. And delicious. But this isn't the answer! Turn yourselves in. Don't make me use this."
"You wouldn't risk hitting the hostages," says a giant cracker, barely visible behind a broccoli stalk, holding up-- Rodney squints-- it looks like a maraschino cherry...?
John fires one shot cleanly through the cherry, left smoking in the giant cracker's salty hand.
The smoldering cherry disappears as the cracker hastily withdraws.
After a few moments of tense murmuring, the spokescracker says, "We surrender!"
"Send the hostages out!"
Cheeses begin to file out from behind the melon cars, rolling and somersaulting to safety with Rodney, who finds he has a sidearm in hand himself to defend them.
"I don't see the goat cheese," says John sternly.
"How do we know you're not going to start firing the second we let the rest of them go?"
"Nobody has to get hurt here today. There's no other way out of this. Let all the cheeses go and I'll bring you in safe and sound."
The last of the cheeses file out, followed by crackers with their... hands... up. The spokescracker's still holding the cherry.
"Put it down," John commands, squaring off against the spokescracker.
Rodney hopes that the danger is defused enough that he's not a jerk for getting distracted by how hot John is like this, because in his form-fitting black t-shirt, the thigh holster cinching his leg and pulling the fabric tight in all the right places, and that attitude of confident command... John is incredibly hot.
The cracker's just put the cherry down when Rodney whirls, hearing sirens. He sighs with relief. The police are finally here!
Except, why weren't the police here before? Why did John have to resolve this? How was that cracker even talking?
Rodney startles awake on the sofa, flailing. John steps hastily back, holding a plate out of range.
"You okay, buddy?" he asks, setting the plate on the coffee table. "The crackers are done."
Rodney's thoughts, and mouth, outpace his consciousness: "They're all in custody?"
John's eyebrows rocket up. "Uh... yeah," he says. "Don't worry, all snacks are secured."
"Just come here," Rodney demands, snagging John's hand and tugging him down onto the sofa. John comes readily, his mouth as warm and soft as it was in the dream. Rodney kisses him intently, John, the real John, incredibly hot just like this, no accessories necessary.
(Not that Rodney would say no to the uniform if the occasion somehow arose, but the point is: it's superfluous.)
"Wow," John says with a goofy grin once Rodney finally lets him go, "from now on I'm making crackers every night."
Rodney's stomach growls, and John laughs. "Here, try one," he feeds Rodney one of the homemade crackers topped with goat cheese studded with dried cranberries. "How is it?"
"Great," says Rodney, licking the salt off John's fingers. "Though, you know, with crackers, you can always use more cheese."
http://cesare.dreamwidth.org/113577.html |
comments | Comment at Dreamwidth