scribblinlenore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scribblinlenore) wrote2012-12-20 12:37 pm
scribblinlenore) wrote2012-12-20 12:37 pm
WIP Meme
I had fun doing this on montanaharper's journal, so I thought I would give it a go.
Pick a number [1-16] and I’ll post an excerpt from the corresponding work in my WIP folder.
Then, if you’re so inclined, post this with the appropriate number range and let people have a peek at your unfinished stuff. Slacking, hell yeah!
I feel I should mention that only a few of these things are WIPs that I might actually finish. Hit me with a number, and I'll post snippets from up to 8 stories.
montanaharper's journal, so I thought I would give it a go. Pick a number [1-16] and I’ll post an excerpt from the corresponding work in my WIP folder.
Then, if you’re so inclined, post this with the appropriate number range and let people have a peek at your unfinished stuff. Slacking, hell yeah!
I feel I should mention that only a few of these things are WIPs that I might actually finish. Hit me with a number, and I'll post snippets from up to 8 stories.
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:)
(girl, I hope I picked a porny one :D!)
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***
The lock isn't broken, but the door isn't closed properly, only pulled to. John drops the packages and draws his gun. The room appears untouched. No blood. No signs of a struggle. The computer sits on the table, a search program open, the cursor blinking as if waiting for Finch's next command. John checks the bathroom and, for good measure, the closet. Finch is nowhere to be found.
Bile bites at the back of his throat for a moment, before the rising fear gets burned away by instinct and training and years of experience. Find Finch. He follows the line of cabins, gun in hand, keeping close to the wall, listening, looking for signs of disturbance. Only two other cars in the lot, and one of them must belong to the woman at the front desk. No fresh tire treads in the gravel. Finch could still be on the grounds.
A banging noise comes from the building that houses vending machines, and John hefts his gun, curls his finger around the trigger. He flattens himself to the wall and rounds the corner—at the same time Finch turns around from the ice machine, scowling.
He jumps at the sight of John holding the gun, and then his scowl deepens, "Unless you've changed sides, I suggest you put that away, Mr. Reese."
John sheepishly tucks the gun into his waistband. "The door was open. You weren't there."
Finch waves the ice bucket at him. "They don't exactly have room service here, and you took the only key."
"Come on." He corrals Finch back to the room.
Adrenaline buzzes in John's head like a hangover, an edgy feeling all through his body, like he wants to do something, but there's nothing to do. Finch is fine. That doesn't stop the pictures from flashing behind John's eyes, all the things that might have happened, the empty outline of his life without Finch in it.
Finch rummages through the bags, nods at the khakis in approval, stops short when he finds the drugs. "You—"
"Saw the prescription bottle at the cabin. Thought you might need a refill."
"That was—thoughtful of you." Which might mean But I really wish you'd stay out of my business except that Finch adds, "John," which makes it more likely to be, Thank you.
Finch looks so unusually casual it's as if he's come unraveled, tie off, top button of his collar undone, shirtsleeves rolled up—so tired that his skin is thin as paper, his eyes blinking wearily behind his glasses, his expression strangely open, almost vulnerable. The urge to do something is still there, and John strides over to him, lays his hand against the bare triangle of skin at Finch's throat.
Finch's eyes widen. "John?"
"Harold." He slides his hand around to the back of Finch's neck, stroking his thumb across a spidery landscape of scar tissue, the ridges like Braille beneath his fingers, relating a story he will probably never hear in words.
Finch's breath gusts against John's mouth just before their lips touch, a startled rush of air. John cups his hand around the back of Finch's neck, gentle and protective, and kisses, lightly, leaving room for Finch to pull away if that's what he wants. He doesn't. He holds onto John's jacket—to keep his balance maybe or simply in surprise—and allows himself to be kissed, as if he's merely humoring John, as if this is some hiccup that John just needs to get out of his system.
Still, it's an opening. John will take it. He slides his arms around Harold and pulls him in and deepens the kiss. This is his chance to learn he shape of Harold's hip with his touch, map the topography of his back, soothe the fragile place at the top of his spine. He never expected to get this close to Harold. If this is his only chance, he means to make the most of it.
Maybe it won't be his last chance, though.
Harold brings his arms up, palms pressed against John's shoulders, not pushing away, not holding on, but taking charge. He kisses back, his teeth against John's lip, his tongue in John's mouth. Apparently, John is not the only one with unexplored/denied hunger.
"Harold." John tips his head back to let Harold have at his neck and starts to undo the buttons of Harold's vest.
Harold stops kissing, suddenly as tense as he was eager only a moment ago.
"Please. Let me. I can make you feel good."
This is the wrong thing to say apparently, because Harold doesn't just pull away—he takes a step back. "That's quite unnecessary, Mr. Reese," he says, chin lifted, eyes sparking. "While the release of oxytocin and endorphins does significantly increase the pain threshold, the pharmaceuticals will do perfectly well. I'm used to managing."
John might take offense if the terror lurking behind the façade of anger wasn't so very obvious. "Harold." He reaches out, puts his hand back on Harold's hip. "What makes you think I'm that much of a altruist?" He urges Harold closer. "What makes you think this isn't about my need? Perceived danger, release of adrenaline, fight or flight or—" He brushes his lips against Harold's ear. "Fuck." His voice drops to a whisper. "It scared the shit out of me when I couldn't find you."
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(And it's awesome that you're doing this. I wish more people would; I love seeing snippets of the stuff people haven't [or even won't ever] post.)
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So, #1 is an SGA story in which John and Rodney are in a relationship that's made difficult by a crackdown on Don't Ask Don't Tell. Sadly, I never got past the first scene.
***
Rodney sleeps the way he lives, grasping and expansive, the sheet tucked tightly beneath his chin, hand fisted in the blankets as if he's fending off cover-nappers in his dreams. His legs are an aggressive sprawl, thigh nudging between John's, one strong calf pinning him to the bed.
John reaches for the clock just before the alarm can go off and smooths a hand over Rodney's hair. "Hey. It's six."
Rodney mumbles something into the pillow, probably a not-so-complimentary remark about John's mother. He approaches early mornings the same way he does five-mile hikes, with a bitter sense of persecution.
John grins. "You've got that meeting, remember?"
At last, Rodney forces his eyes open, blinks, and the expression in them is all amphibian brain, Rodney surfacing through ten thousand years of human evolution. Here's a secret that belongs only to John: Rodney McKay wakes up more caveman than genius.
"You enjoy that," Rodney accuses, the corners knocked off the words, as if the language centers of Rodney's brain aren't fully reconnected yet.
Rodney's chin is tilted just so, and John kisses the underside of it, a pale patch of skin, scratchy with day old stubble. "I know something you'll enjoy." He pushes up Rodney's T-shirt and thumbs his nipples and watches Rodney's eyes. The expression in them goes from fuzzily cave-brained to hot laser bright, a quality that John thinks of simply as Rodneyness. John bends his head, brushes his lips lightly over Rodney's belly and smiles at the sharp jerk of muscle.
"Oh, of course," Rodney blusters, not at all convincingly. "Be smug about it. We'll see who's blowing whose mind after I've had my coffee."
John is all for this kind of quid pro quo. He noses the crease of Rodney's thigh, darts out his tongue, briefly, just a tease, and Rodney brings his hands up, fingers sliding demandingly through John's hair. He's making that little sound that John likes, an appreciative mmm, the hum that goes with discoveries and butterscotch pudding and morning blowjobs.
Rodney's cock rests against his belly, wet and needy, and John pushes up onto his knees, braces his hands, poised and smiling promises.
"Carter to Sheppard," Sam's voice blares over the radio tossed aside on the bedside table, and John freezes. "Colonel, I need you in the briefing room."
For a moment, he does nothing.
"Colonel?" Sam says again.
He grabs up the headset. "Acknowledged." He doesn't particularly care what Colonel Carter makes of his brusqueness.
Rodney flops an arm over his eyes, and a second later he gets the same call. "Yeah, yeah," he tells Sam.
"This had better be important," he grumbles as he heaves himself out of bed.
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*sigh*
Good days. :)