Fic: One Hundred Percent (Plus)
One Hundred Percent (Plus)
~ 700 words, John/Rodney, PG, typo-spotting by winkingstar
The way John told it (to a highly select group that included Jeannie, who'd demanded an explanation; Torren, before he could really talk; and the entire Council of Elders on P2R-335, who'd gotten him buzzed on ceremonial mead), he and Rodney worked so well together because Rodney never had to censor himself with John. When he heard this, Rodney would just nod and smile a little indulgently (and, when necessary, tug a listing John off of Elder Hons's shoulder and into a more upright posture), agreeing that yes, he always could be one hundred percent himself with John.
It was, after all, almost entirely true.
There were times in that first month, though, when things between them were still dizzyingly new and every touch felt like a revelation, that Rodney would bite his tongue. During those casually intimate moments that he and John were just learning to share comfortably, the clothing-optional kind that were soft and quiet and kind of wonderfully terrifying, Rodney would sometimes keep quiet rather than say what he was thinking. He liked those moments too much to risk ending them.
So when John curled up with him in a post-coital daze, twining legs and arms around him so thoroughly that Rodney could've sworn he'd grown another set, Rodney swallowed his "octopus bed-hog" comment and just buried his nose in John's hair.
And when John rolled over, bright and too early in the morning, giving him a sly smile and reaching out to scratch lightly at his belly, Rodney angled his head and lost himself in John's kiss, when what he really wanted to do was demand at least one cup of coffee, brought to him in bed, before any sleepy morning sex commenced. (In his defense, John went from "sleepy" to "wildly enthusiastic" in about thirty-five seconds, and Rodney wanted to be fully awake to keep up.)
He couldn't always control his tongue. Even their first time, there had been one or two love yous interspersed among the yeses and pleases and Oh god, Johns. Fortunately, John had been too occupied with his own gasps and sighs to call him on it.
But there was a day, about five weeks in, that Rodney counted as something of an anniversary. Rodney was working on some tedious but vital recalibration project, and John stopped by to bring him lunch. As John set the tray on an adjacent work station, he leaned in for a kiss, and Rodney could smell the mustard on his breath. "Oh no," he said, bringing a hand up to John's chest. "No kissing right after you eat. It makes you slaver like a Saint Bernard."
Rodney wondered for a split second whether he'd fucked up, done something that would make John pull back, be less easy with him, but John just started laughing. He crowded in close to chuckle in Rodney's ear and dipped his head to deliver wet, smacking kisses all over Rodney's face.
Rodney yelped and tried to roll himself away, batting at John's shoulders with cries of "Maniac! Barbarian! Slobberer!", but John hooked an ankle around the leg of his chair and held him steady while he licked a stripe across Rodney's forehead.
"Oh, wonderful, now my eyebrows will smell like pickles for the rest of the day," Rodney groused, wiping at his face.
John grinned at him. "And capers," he added helpfully.
"Well, come here, then," Rodney sighed, hiding his own grin by pressing his lips to John's. It wouldn't do to encourage him, after all.
(And if, a few months after that, when John interrupts his twenty minute rant about how he has morons for minions with a drawn-out whine of, "Rodney," and Rodney responds, unthinking, "Oh, you know you love me," and John goes pink across his cheeks like he's gotten a sunburn and grins a tiny grin as he leans in for a slow, sweet kiss -- if at that moment (and forever after that) Rodney feels roughly one hundred and sixteen percent himself, well, it's just that he and John work so well together.)
~ 700 words, John/Rodney, PG, typo-spotting by winkingstar
The way John told it (to a highly select group that included Jeannie, who'd demanded an explanation; Torren, before he could really talk; and the entire Council of Elders on P2R-335, who'd gotten him buzzed on ceremonial mead), he and Rodney worked so well together because Rodney never had to censor himself with John. When he heard this, Rodney would just nod and smile a little indulgently (and, when necessary, tug a listing John off of Elder Hons's shoulder and into a more upright posture), agreeing that yes, he always could be one hundred percent himself with John.
It was, after all, almost entirely true.
There were times in that first month, though, when things between them were still dizzyingly new and every touch felt like a revelation, that Rodney would bite his tongue. During those casually intimate moments that he and John were just learning to share comfortably, the clothing-optional kind that were soft and quiet and kind of wonderfully terrifying, Rodney would sometimes keep quiet rather than say what he was thinking. He liked those moments too much to risk ending them.
So when John curled up with him in a post-coital daze, twining legs and arms around him so thoroughly that Rodney could've sworn he'd grown another set, Rodney swallowed his "octopus bed-hog" comment and just buried his nose in John's hair.
And when John rolled over, bright and too early in the morning, giving him a sly smile and reaching out to scratch lightly at his belly, Rodney angled his head and lost himself in John's kiss, when what he really wanted to do was demand at least one cup of coffee, brought to him in bed, before any sleepy morning sex commenced. (In his defense, John went from "sleepy" to "wildly enthusiastic" in about thirty-five seconds, and Rodney wanted to be fully awake to keep up.)
He couldn't always control his tongue. Even their first time, there had been one or two love yous interspersed among the yeses and pleases and Oh god, Johns. Fortunately, John had been too occupied with his own gasps and sighs to call him on it.
But there was a day, about five weeks in, that Rodney counted as something of an anniversary. Rodney was working on some tedious but vital recalibration project, and John stopped by to bring him lunch. As John set the tray on an adjacent work station, he leaned in for a kiss, and Rodney could smell the mustard on his breath. "Oh no," he said, bringing a hand up to John's chest. "No kissing right after you eat. It makes you slaver like a Saint Bernard."
Rodney wondered for a split second whether he'd fucked up, done something that would make John pull back, be less easy with him, but John just started laughing. He crowded in close to chuckle in Rodney's ear and dipped his head to deliver wet, smacking kisses all over Rodney's face.
Rodney yelped and tried to roll himself away, batting at John's shoulders with cries of "Maniac! Barbarian! Slobberer!", but John hooked an ankle around the leg of his chair and held him steady while he licked a stripe across Rodney's forehead.
"Oh, wonderful, now my eyebrows will smell like pickles for the rest of the day," Rodney groused, wiping at his face.
John grinned at him. "And capers," he added helpfully.
"Well, come here, then," Rodney sighed, hiding his own grin by pressing his lips to John's. It wouldn't do to encourage him, after all.
(And if, a few months after that, when John interrupts his twenty minute rant about how he has morons for minions with a drawn-out whine of, "Rodney," and Rodney responds, unthinking, "Oh, you know you love me," and John goes pink across his cheeks like he's gotten a sunburn and grins a tiny grin as he leans in for a slow, sweet kiss -- if at that moment (and forever after that) Rodney feels roughly one hundred and sixteen percent himself, well, it's just that he and John work so well together.)