Ficlet
Well, my monstrous John/vala thing-a-thon fic is in its final stages. I promise to be posting tomorrow. But in the meantime, I thought as a filler I'd post this small piece of fluff I wrote last night for pentapus and hir art prompt while I was having a porn-block on the thing-a-thon fic:
REALLY BAD EGGS
By Gaia
“Are you sure I’ve got this on right?” Rodney asked, poking at a silky white ruffle suspiciously.
John grinned, rolling his eyes. It was worth squeezing into these tights to see Rodney like this. “Yes, I’m pretty sure the ruffles go on the outside.”
Rodney flopped down onto the bed, ruffles and all, before shooting up and rubbing his behind.
“Hook?” John asked.
“Hook,” he replied, sullenly. “We never should have let Ronon, of all people, take her costume shopping. My MasterCard is actually thanking Caleb for explaining the many reasons why Harley’s Leather Emporium is not consistent with a vegetarian lifestyle, but still . . .” Rodney gestured with the recaptured hook, almost violently.
Thankfully, years in Pegasus had taught John to duck. “Watch it, Rodney. Or do you want me to lose an eye too?”
John mentally kicked himself the moment he said it, watching the color drain from Rodney’s face. Shit. “Hey . . . Rodney,” he stepped closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay.” Rodney’s voice was a low whisper. Had he been an anime character, his eyes would be bulging liquidly. As it was, the sharp proud jut of his chin was enough to break John’s heart. “It’s not as though one needs two eyes to sit at a desk and look at a computer screen.”
John stepped forward, pulling Rodney to him, even though he had absolutely no idea what the right thing to say would even look like. “It still shouldn’t have happened to you.” He must be cutting Rodney’s airflow off by now, but this was the first time since it’d happened that they’d really discussed it - John had been in the field, hunting down the bastard’s that’d done this and killing them each in turn. He didn’t think he could have faced Rodney in those early days of his recovery back here on Earth - all scars and nightmares and reasons to blame.
After the hug had gone on a little longer than was comfortable between friends (even with occasional benefits), Rodney pulled back and joked. “Hey, so what if I’m doomed to bad b-movie villainhood for the rest of my life? Even my six-year-old niece can recognize it.”
“I think she just wanted to be Tinkerbelle,” John replied, feeling the sudden urge to reach up and pull down the black patch that covered Rodney’s left eye. You wouldn’t have noticed it on first glance, but it was much better crafted and softer than the cheap plastic ovals sold in costume stores.
“John . . .” Rodney warned. They were both aware that John had barely been able to look Rodney in the face the whole week and a half the rest of the team had been back on Earth, and that the only time he’d answered any of Rodney’s epic emails had been to inform him that Rodney’s torturers were now all officially dead.
“No, Rodney. I need to see.” The socket was swollen over, a rough scar cutting through the delicate lid like a rough-hew mountain pass. John let out a choked breath. “Jesus. If they weren’t already dead . . .”
Rodney nodded. His good eye was watery, but his lips curved into a soft smile. It was only then that John realized that he had been stroking the soft hairs of Rodney’s nape, their faces inches apart. He leaned in to place a chaste kiss on Rodney’s lips, wary of several loud thumps in the bathroom just behind them.
Rodney turned. “What do you think he’s doing in there?” he asked, skeptical.
“Childproofing his hair,” John returned, reaching for a black pirate’s hat topped with a red feather, before flopping it crookedly on Rodney’s head. “There you go, Captain Hook. You look great.” Surprisingly, John meant it. Red was Rodney’s color.
“Drink up, me hardies, yo ho?” Rodney delivered in a put-up monotone. “Though I find it amusing that even a six-year-old can adequately diagnose your man-child syndrome.” He gestured to the green leotard John was sporting. “Though I can’t complain about the choice of tights.” With a quick look to the door, he reached out and grabbed John’s ass.
“Hey!” John mock-swatted him away while simultaneously leaning in to it. “Besides, Peter Pan kicks ass. He can fly!”
“Man. Child.” Rodney rolled his eyes. “Did you know that in the play, the part of Peter Pan was always played by women?”
“Then maybe I should switch costumes Teyla, then.”
Rodney snorted, “Yes, because all the little kiddies need to see your bits and pieces.” The Tiger Lily costume Ronon had managed to find for Telya was straight out of John Smith and Poke-A-Hot-Ass, though Teyla’s rendition of Tiger Lily’s haughty, you-insult-my-people-by-breathing look allowed her to carry it off. “Your hairy balls would traumatize them for life,” he continued.
John looked down, pouting. Thanks to that comment, Rodney could forget any manscaping. And any sex, for that matter. Not that he would in the man’s sister’s house anyway. “Hey, you like my hairy balls.”
Rodney looked stern for a moment, but then seemed to remember that neither of them had gotten any for the past four months when Rodney had been here recovering. “Fine, I can live with your hairy balls. Though I think I might like to see you in tights more often . . . how does it go? When you wish upon a star?”
“That’s Pinocchio. It’s a different movie. Speaking of which - if I’m Peter Pan, you’re Captain Hook, Maddy is Tinkerbelle, and Teyla is Tiger Lily, then is Ronon supposed to be Wendy?”
“No, that role probably would have been reserved for Jeanie, if she hadn’t abandoned us to this travesty of a sugar-bandit.”
“Hey, you like sugar and I like Halloween.”
“As you explained . . . at length, but carving a jack-o-lantern with a box for a face.”
“Hey, it was supposed to be a PuddleJumper!”
Rodney looked skeptical. “Yeah, maybe by Pablo Picasso with spraypaint and on crack. Thank god you can’t draw, or the Pentagon might have had to send someone over to smash it and probably broken my poor niece’s fragile little heart.” Madison did take an absurd liking to John’s somewhat abstract creation. Maybe she was just happy to have so many crazy adults to dress up in costumes like Barbie dolls.
“But you didn’t answer my question. What do you think Ronon picked for himself?”
“I have no idea. I would have thought he’d have picked Peter Pan - I could see him living in a tree house and battling pirates too.”
“Maybe they didn’t have tights in his size.”
“Huh. Maybe he’s the kid with the teddy bear. Or the dog.”
John shook his head. “I bet he’s the crocodile. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.” John advanced on Rodney, tackling him down to the bed and half-tickling, half-groping him, before leaning in for a kiss.
“Mmmphf!” Rodney half-protested. “Watch the hook! We don’t need any more lost eyes.”
“No,” John replied, his tickles slowing to soft strokes and butterfly kisses down Rodney’s jaw. “No more lost eyes.”
He settled between Rodney’s legs, taking a deep breath and finally asking the question they’d all trooped out here to ask (not that introducing Ronon to candy corn hadn’t been a laugh and a half). “So . . . does this mean you’re coming back?”
Rodney smiled, loose and slow and a little bit accusatory, just like John remembered. “Was there any doubt?”
John shook his head. “Not really.” Not that John let himself think about.
He leaned in to kiss Rodney again, deeper but still slow and sweet. If he could just find the words, he’d tell Rodney how happy this made him, but for now, he’d settle for some serious making out. But of course, just when things were starting to really heat up, Ronon burst, panting, out of the bathroom.
John gaped but Rodney just hollered, “Madison! If you’re intelligent enough to want to learn trigonometry, then you’re intelligent enough to know that there is no Captain Jack Sparrow in ‘Peter Pan!’”
Ronon just grinned.
“And really bad eggs.” That was all John had to say about that.
FIN
REALLY BAD EGGS
By Gaia
“Are you sure I’ve got this on right?” Rodney asked, poking at a silky white ruffle suspiciously.
John grinned, rolling his eyes. It was worth squeezing into these tights to see Rodney like this. “Yes, I’m pretty sure the ruffles go on the outside.”
Rodney flopped down onto the bed, ruffles and all, before shooting up and rubbing his behind.
“Hook?” John asked.
“Hook,” he replied, sullenly. “We never should have let Ronon, of all people, take her costume shopping. My MasterCard is actually thanking Caleb for explaining the many reasons why Harley’s Leather Emporium is not consistent with a vegetarian lifestyle, but still . . .” Rodney gestured with the recaptured hook, almost violently.
Thankfully, years in Pegasus had taught John to duck. “Watch it, Rodney. Or do you want me to lose an eye too?”
John mentally kicked himself the moment he said it, watching the color drain from Rodney’s face. Shit. “Hey . . . Rodney,” he stepped closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay.” Rodney’s voice was a low whisper. Had he been an anime character, his eyes would be bulging liquidly. As it was, the sharp proud jut of his chin was enough to break John’s heart. “It’s not as though one needs two eyes to sit at a desk and look at a computer screen.”
John stepped forward, pulling Rodney to him, even though he had absolutely no idea what the right thing to say would even look like. “It still shouldn’t have happened to you.” He must be cutting Rodney’s airflow off by now, but this was the first time since it’d happened that they’d really discussed it - John had been in the field, hunting down the bastard’s that’d done this and killing them each in turn. He didn’t think he could have faced Rodney in those early days of his recovery back here on Earth - all scars and nightmares and reasons to blame.
After the hug had gone on a little longer than was comfortable between friends (even with occasional benefits), Rodney pulled back and joked. “Hey, so what if I’m doomed to bad b-movie villainhood for the rest of my life? Even my six-year-old niece can recognize it.”
“I think she just wanted to be Tinkerbelle,” John replied, feeling the sudden urge to reach up and pull down the black patch that covered Rodney’s left eye. You wouldn’t have noticed it on first glance, but it was much better crafted and softer than the cheap plastic ovals sold in costume stores.
“John . . .” Rodney warned. They were both aware that John had barely been able to look Rodney in the face the whole week and a half the rest of the team had been back on Earth, and that the only time he’d answered any of Rodney’s epic emails had been to inform him that Rodney’s torturers were now all officially dead.
“No, Rodney. I need to see.” The socket was swollen over, a rough scar cutting through the delicate lid like a rough-hew mountain pass. John let out a choked breath. “Jesus. If they weren’t already dead . . .”
Rodney nodded. His good eye was watery, but his lips curved into a soft smile. It was only then that John realized that he had been stroking the soft hairs of Rodney’s nape, their faces inches apart. He leaned in to place a chaste kiss on Rodney’s lips, wary of several loud thumps in the bathroom just behind them.
Rodney turned. “What do you think he’s doing in there?” he asked, skeptical.
“Childproofing his hair,” John returned, reaching for a black pirate’s hat topped with a red feather, before flopping it crookedly on Rodney’s head. “There you go, Captain Hook. You look great.” Surprisingly, John meant it. Red was Rodney’s color.
“Drink up, me hardies, yo ho?” Rodney delivered in a put-up monotone. “Though I find it amusing that even a six-year-old can adequately diagnose your man-child syndrome.” He gestured to the green leotard John was sporting. “Though I can’t complain about the choice of tights.” With a quick look to the door, he reached out and grabbed John’s ass.
“Hey!” John mock-swatted him away while simultaneously leaning in to it. “Besides, Peter Pan kicks ass. He can fly!”
“Man. Child.” Rodney rolled his eyes. “Did you know that in the play, the part of Peter Pan was always played by women?”
“Then maybe I should switch costumes Teyla, then.”
Rodney snorted, “Yes, because all the little kiddies need to see your bits and pieces.” The Tiger Lily costume Ronon had managed to find for Telya was straight out of John Smith and Poke-A-Hot-Ass, though Teyla’s rendition of Tiger Lily’s haughty, you-insult-my-people-by-breathing look allowed her to carry it off. “Your hairy balls would traumatize them for life,” he continued.
John looked down, pouting. Thanks to that comment, Rodney could forget any manscaping. And any sex, for that matter. Not that he would in the man’s sister’s house anyway. “Hey, you like my hairy balls.”
Rodney looked stern for a moment, but then seemed to remember that neither of them had gotten any for the past four months when Rodney had been here recovering. “Fine, I can live with your hairy balls. Though I think I might like to see you in tights more often . . . how does it go? When you wish upon a star?”
“That’s Pinocchio. It’s a different movie. Speaking of which - if I’m Peter Pan, you’re Captain Hook, Maddy is Tinkerbelle, and Teyla is Tiger Lily, then is Ronon supposed to be Wendy?”
“No, that role probably would have been reserved for Jeanie, if she hadn’t abandoned us to this travesty of a sugar-bandit.”
“Hey, you like sugar and I like Halloween.”
“As you explained . . . at length, but carving a jack-o-lantern with a box for a face.”
“Hey, it was supposed to be a PuddleJumper!”
Rodney looked skeptical. “Yeah, maybe by Pablo Picasso with spraypaint and on crack. Thank god you can’t draw, or the Pentagon might have had to send someone over to smash it and probably broken my poor niece’s fragile little heart.” Madison did take an absurd liking to John’s somewhat abstract creation. Maybe she was just happy to have so many crazy adults to dress up in costumes like Barbie dolls.
“But you didn’t answer my question. What do you think Ronon picked for himself?”
“I have no idea. I would have thought he’d have picked Peter Pan - I could see him living in a tree house and battling pirates too.”
“Maybe they didn’t have tights in his size.”
“Huh. Maybe he’s the kid with the teddy bear. Or the dog.”
John shook his head. “I bet he’s the crocodile. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.” John advanced on Rodney, tackling him down to the bed and half-tickling, half-groping him, before leaning in for a kiss.
“Mmmphf!” Rodney half-protested. “Watch the hook! We don’t need any more lost eyes.”
“No,” John replied, his tickles slowing to soft strokes and butterfly kisses down Rodney’s jaw. “No more lost eyes.”
He settled between Rodney’s legs, taking a deep breath and finally asking the question they’d all trooped out here to ask (not that introducing Ronon to candy corn hadn’t been a laugh and a half). “So . . . does this mean you’re coming back?”
Rodney smiled, loose and slow and a little bit accusatory, just like John remembered. “Was there any doubt?”
John shook his head. “Not really.” Not that John let himself think about.
He leaned in to kiss Rodney again, deeper but still slow and sweet. If he could just find the words, he’d tell Rodney how happy this made him, but for now, he’d settle for some serious making out. But of course, just when things were starting to really heat up, Ronon burst, panting, out of the bathroom.
John gaped but Rodney just hollered, “Madison! If you’re intelligent enough to want to learn trigonometry, then you’re intelligent enough to know that there is no Captain Jack Sparrow in ‘Peter Pan!’”
Ronon just grinned.
“And really bad eggs.” That was all John had to say about that.
FIN