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Entry tags:
.micro!picspam, featuring John's Zip-Up Shirt of Hot & working!Rodney; boredom; trauma
Oh, goodness.
I've been trapped inside most of the day because it's a home game in Universityville today and there are thousands of people infesting the streets. It's just as well, I suppose, because the dog got stung by something that has his poor face swollen and itchy and now has him slightly stoned on Benadryl and looking very pathetic.
I also spent part of the day, after being swamped in utter boredom by today's work, flipping through "Condemned" (aka God's Gift to the SGA Fangirl) and pulling a few caps of John in his very marvelous Zip-Up Shirt of Hot. There are only a few because the caps I really wanted were in scenes that were either dark or had him moving very quickly/stealthily and I couldn't get them to turn out as well as I would have liked.
But hey, they have John's Zip-Up Shirt of Hot. And also, because I couldn't resist (who could?) some worky!Rodney arm porn.
I picked these because, well, Joe is especially slinky in them and the Zip-Up Shirt of Hot only emphasizes his slinkyness.
I picked this for the obvious reason.
And now, working!Rodney. Seriously, is there anything that "Condemned" doesn't have for purposes of squee? The Zip-Up Shirt of Hot? Check. Dirty boys? Check. Kick-ass Teyla? Check. MacGuyver!Rodney? Check.
And all the Rodney fangirls said "Amen."
Now I have to find some other means of procrastinating and killing time. Hm.
ETA: I have found it, in the form of post-"Condemned" porn for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beadattitude. Posted as an ETA because I'm too lazy to post two separate comments.
This is, so you know, NC17.
They landed in a tangled heap barely on the safe side of the event horizon, Ronon snarling at someone to get the fuck off his hair, Teyla already extricating herself and offering a hand to Eldon, Rodney who was staring at a burn mark on his boot and going pale under dirt and sweat.
John held on as they waited for Elizabeth and Lorne to gate back, for Elizabeth to ask Lorne to take Eldon to the mainland, for her to look at them (all of them dirty, sweaty, bloody) and say the debrief could wait.
He held on as Rodney hustled to keep up with him, a steady stream of oh my God, my foot almost got blown off, and can you fucking believe that guy? Is it some freakish genetic curse that makes people here completely irrational? What part of "this will never fly again" didn't he understand? And for that matter, what part did you --
He held on as the doors to his quarters opened, the hell with whoever might have seen, but when the doors shut behind him he reached for Rodney, who came.
Rodney smelled terrible and tasted worse (metal, salt, earth, fear), his skin slicked with cold sweat and covered with dirt and scratches, but under the sweat and stains he burned hot against John's hands, and when he opened up to John breathed relief and sweet life (oh God, they were both still alive) into John's mouth.
"Fucking bastards," Rodney muttered, sliding his hands low around John's hips to tug them both closer. "Fucking bastards." He ground it out against John's neck, licking it across the fine red band where the collar had been.
Rodney had his shirt collar unzipped already, slipped one hand in where John's skin was oddly pale and unmarked. His dog tags clinked against Rodney's knuckles.
"Shower," John said, and Rodney nodded shortly.
They undressed on the way, tripping over clothes and exhaustion, and when John reached for Rodney's wrist to steady him he felt the faint lines from where he'd been tied, not so bad as John's own. And he saw Rodney as Rodney saw the difference, quick, dirty fingers capturing one wrist and turning it over, Rodney's eyes darkening in anger.
"They took your wristband," he said, fingers quick and careful, playing across the raw skin as they did across Atlantis' circuitry. It stung a little, shivers up sharp almost-hurt up John's arm. "You -- you fought it."
"Yeah." Like he could have done anything else with his ship damaged and Rodney out there alone. "It was either that or let you piss someone off enough that they shot you, and then we would have been screwed."
"Very nice," Rodney snapped, "I'm happy to know you care," and pulled John's wrist to his mouth to kiss the inside of it, tongue careful across accretions of dirt and where blood had dried in ridges. Electricity sparked up John's nerves, sharper and clearer than the pain, knotting around his heart and running deep down into his belly.
"Good," John whispered, touching one of the scrapes on Rodney's face, one that rode along the underside of his cheekbone. "I'm glad you do," and if he said it a bit too fiercely and Rodney looked at him with sudden, bright surprise, well, it was true and he covered it by pulling Rodney to him and kissing him again, and pulling him into the bathroom.
"Clean water," Rodney sighed, tilting his face up into the spray. Warm water, hot enough to wash away the chill of shock and congealed sweat, and it caught in Rodney's eyelashes, followed the creases of his smile, dripped down his chin to his chest where John bent to lick it away.
He watched as that godforsaken planet washed off Rodney's shoulders, pushed aside by soap and John's fingers--dirt from where he'd fallen (pushed, Rodney muttered indignantly), blood, the faint touch of smoke in his hair from the cruiser's weapons. And in his turn, Rodney's hands smoothed away the burn from the collar, the stretched muscles in John's shoulders, Rodney's mouth going thin in anger when he took John's hands to clean battered knuckles and saw the chafe marks again.
Come on John said and didn't say, pushing Rodney against the wall, hands between Rodney's ass and the tile, firm flesh under his palms and his knuckles flattened against ceramic, and Rodney pressed close, all of him warm this time, hot and wet, body liquid with tiredness and the come-down from adrenaline. And when John kissed him this time Rodney tasted like water, felt like it, clean and effortless and necessary, pouring himself into John's mouth.
His body stirred, wanting more of that, the hell with exhaustion and lingering pain, Rodney was here, moving in the tight circle of John's arms, tracing, cataloguing John with hands that had given John weapons, that had kept them alive and given them a chance, solid length of thigh and torso with the soft roundness of Rodney's belly, broad shoulders, and yeah, Rodney was strong.
"You saved our asses out there today." He pushed a thigh between Rodney's, pressing up, give of Rodney's cock and balls against muscle.
Rodney's breath caught on a groan, slow and deep, answering roll of his hips, bone shifting under John's thumbs.
"Yeah, but I didn't get you a sandwich."
"I'll let you make it up to me." Another press, another moan, want a slow spiral upward, working like vertigo down through John's belly, tightening in his groin. He wanted this, wanted it now, the familiar burn and tension, this brilliant light all up and down his spine, but it came so slowly, almost at stall speed, halting toward arousal. Rodney sighed against him, something regretful like We're getting old, and then his hand (his warm, slick hand) was on John's cock.
John's turn to moan now, an awkward thrust up and in to Rodney's firm grip, and finally that familiar tightness, his erection swelling against Rodney's. Dimly, he felt the water on his back, the cool trace of it down his spine, spilling over Rodney's fingers, and those fingers were playing across his ass, moving down, low, across, in.
Fuck, Rodney, whispered fervently into Rodney's mouth, his body hitching between the hand on his cock and Rodney's finger in him, the burn, the pressing heat, crystallizing need into something hard and sharp in his belly. He worked his own hand across Rodney's ass (flesh, tile, God, Rodney's perfect ass), nails scraping skin though the angle was awkward, just playing, which was usually enough to have Rodney rocking against him and swearing softly.
And finally, finally they were working towards it, Rodney hard against him, mouth on his spilling out kisses and oh God keep doing that, please seriously don't stop, stroking and stroking, pulling John along with him, come on come on, and then Rodney let go of John's cock -- fucking let go and John almost howled with frustration -- and pulled John's left hand up to his mouth and licked once, hard, across his wrist.
He came, God in heaven, he came, staring into Rodney's dark, determined eyes, seeing Rodney's wide mouth firm on the pulse point and its bracelet of cuts. Arousal there one minute, need there one minute, and then they were gone, knocked out of him by heat and light and amazement, leaving him boneless and breathless, limp against Rodney, who held him up.
Rodney's head hung low, breath coming fast against John's neck and John needed a moment to realize he'd come too. Fingers shook on John's hip, his ribs, and when Rodney pulled back to look at him, his eyes were hazy with release.
"Good?" Rodney asked hoarsely.
John watched the now-cool water wash their come away, twisting trails of water down his legs, spiraling into the drain.
"Better than a sandwich," he said at last, and Rodney's forehead thunked on his collar bone and John turned his face into Rodney's clean, damp neck, and smiled.
I've been trapped inside most of the day because it's a home game in Universityville today and there are thousands of people infesting the streets. It's just as well, I suppose, because the dog got stung by something that has his poor face swollen and itchy and now has him slightly stoned on Benadryl and looking very pathetic.
I also spent part of the day, after being swamped in utter boredom by today's work, flipping through "Condemned" (aka God's Gift to the SGA Fangirl) and pulling a few caps of John in his very marvelous Zip-Up Shirt of Hot. There are only a few because the caps I really wanted were in scenes that were either dark or had him moving very quickly/stealthily and I couldn't get them to turn out as well as I would have liked.
But hey, they have John's Zip-Up Shirt of Hot. And also, because I couldn't resist (who could?) some worky!Rodney arm porn.
I picked these because, well, Joe is especially slinky in them and the Zip-Up Shirt of Hot only emphasizes his slinkyness.
I picked this for the obvious reason.
And now, working!Rodney. Seriously, is there anything that "Condemned" doesn't have for purposes of squee? The Zip-Up Shirt of Hot? Check. Dirty boys? Check. Kick-ass Teyla? Check. MacGuyver!Rodney? Check.
And all the Rodney fangirls said "Amen."
Now I have to find some other means of procrastinating and killing time. Hm.
ETA: I have found it, in the form of post-"Condemned" porn for
beadattitude. Posted as an ETA because I'm too lazy to post two separate comments.This is, so you know, NC17.
They landed in a tangled heap barely on the safe side of the event horizon, Ronon snarling at someone to get the fuck off his hair, Teyla already extricating herself and offering a hand to Eldon, Rodney who was staring at a burn mark on his boot and going pale under dirt and sweat.
John held on as they waited for Elizabeth and Lorne to gate back, for Elizabeth to ask Lorne to take Eldon to the mainland, for her to look at them (all of them dirty, sweaty, bloody) and say the debrief could wait.
He held on as Rodney hustled to keep up with him, a steady stream of oh my God, my foot almost got blown off, and can you fucking believe that guy? Is it some freakish genetic curse that makes people here completely irrational? What part of "this will never fly again" didn't he understand? And for that matter, what part did you --
He held on as the doors to his quarters opened, the hell with whoever might have seen, but when the doors shut behind him he reached for Rodney, who came.
Rodney smelled terrible and tasted worse (metal, salt, earth, fear), his skin slicked with cold sweat and covered with dirt and scratches, but under the sweat and stains he burned hot against John's hands, and when he opened up to John breathed relief and sweet life (oh God, they were both still alive) into John's mouth.
"Fucking bastards," Rodney muttered, sliding his hands low around John's hips to tug them both closer. "Fucking bastards." He ground it out against John's neck, licking it across the fine red band where the collar had been.
Rodney had his shirt collar unzipped already, slipped one hand in where John's skin was oddly pale and unmarked. His dog tags clinked against Rodney's knuckles.
"Shower," John said, and Rodney nodded shortly.
They undressed on the way, tripping over clothes and exhaustion, and when John reached for Rodney's wrist to steady him he felt the faint lines from where he'd been tied, not so bad as John's own. And he saw Rodney as Rodney saw the difference, quick, dirty fingers capturing one wrist and turning it over, Rodney's eyes darkening in anger.
"They took your wristband," he said, fingers quick and careful, playing across the raw skin as they did across Atlantis' circuitry. It stung a little, shivers up sharp almost-hurt up John's arm. "You -- you fought it."
"Yeah." Like he could have done anything else with his ship damaged and Rodney out there alone. "It was either that or let you piss someone off enough that they shot you, and then we would have been screwed."
"Very nice," Rodney snapped, "I'm happy to know you care," and pulled John's wrist to his mouth to kiss the inside of it, tongue careful across accretions of dirt and where blood had dried in ridges. Electricity sparked up John's nerves, sharper and clearer than the pain, knotting around his heart and running deep down into his belly.
"Good," John whispered, touching one of the scrapes on Rodney's face, one that rode along the underside of his cheekbone. "I'm glad you do," and if he said it a bit too fiercely and Rodney looked at him with sudden, bright surprise, well, it was true and he covered it by pulling Rodney to him and kissing him again, and pulling him into the bathroom.
"Clean water," Rodney sighed, tilting his face up into the spray. Warm water, hot enough to wash away the chill of shock and congealed sweat, and it caught in Rodney's eyelashes, followed the creases of his smile, dripped down his chin to his chest where John bent to lick it away.
He watched as that godforsaken planet washed off Rodney's shoulders, pushed aside by soap and John's fingers--dirt from where he'd fallen (pushed, Rodney muttered indignantly), blood, the faint touch of smoke in his hair from the cruiser's weapons. And in his turn, Rodney's hands smoothed away the burn from the collar, the stretched muscles in John's shoulders, Rodney's mouth going thin in anger when he took John's hands to clean battered knuckles and saw the chafe marks again.
Come on John said and didn't say, pushing Rodney against the wall, hands between Rodney's ass and the tile, firm flesh under his palms and his knuckles flattened against ceramic, and Rodney pressed close, all of him warm this time, hot and wet, body liquid with tiredness and the come-down from adrenaline. And when John kissed him this time Rodney tasted like water, felt like it, clean and effortless and necessary, pouring himself into John's mouth.
His body stirred, wanting more of that, the hell with exhaustion and lingering pain, Rodney was here, moving in the tight circle of John's arms, tracing, cataloguing John with hands that had given John weapons, that had kept them alive and given them a chance, solid length of thigh and torso with the soft roundness of Rodney's belly, broad shoulders, and yeah, Rodney was strong.
"You saved our asses out there today." He pushed a thigh between Rodney's, pressing up, give of Rodney's cock and balls against muscle.
Rodney's breath caught on a groan, slow and deep, answering roll of his hips, bone shifting under John's thumbs.
"Yeah, but I didn't get you a sandwich."
"I'll let you make it up to me." Another press, another moan, want a slow spiral upward, working like vertigo down through John's belly, tightening in his groin. He wanted this, wanted it now, the familiar burn and tension, this brilliant light all up and down his spine, but it came so slowly, almost at stall speed, halting toward arousal. Rodney sighed against him, something regretful like We're getting old, and then his hand (his warm, slick hand) was on John's cock.
John's turn to moan now, an awkward thrust up and in to Rodney's firm grip, and finally that familiar tightness, his erection swelling against Rodney's. Dimly, he felt the water on his back, the cool trace of it down his spine, spilling over Rodney's fingers, and those fingers were playing across his ass, moving down, low, across, in.
Fuck, Rodney, whispered fervently into Rodney's mouth, his body hitching between the hand on his cock and Rodney's finger in him, the burn, the pressing heat, crystallizing need into something hard and sharp in his belly. He worked his own hand across Rodney's ass (flesh, tile, God, Rodney's perfect ass), nails scraping skin though the angle was awkward, just playing, which was usually enough to have Rodney rocking against him and swearing softly.
And finally, finally they were working towards it, Rodney hard against him, mouth on his spilling out kisses and oh God keep doing that, please seriously don't stop, stroking and stroking, pulling John along with him, come on come on, and then Rodney let go of John's cock -- fucking let go and John almost howled with frustration -- and pulled John's left hand up to his mouth and licked once, hard, across his wrist.
He came, God in heaven, he came, staring into Rodney's dark, determined eyes, seeing Rodney's wide mouth firm on the pulse point and its bracelet of cuts. Arousal there one minute, need there one minute, and then they were gone, knocked out of him by heat and light and amazement, leaving him boneless and breathless, limp against Rodney, who held him up.
Rodney's head hung low, breath coming fast against John's neck and John needed a moment to realize he'd come too. Fingers shook on John's hip, his ribs, and when Rodney pulled back to look at him, his eyes were hazy with release.
"Good?" Rodney asked hoarsely.
John watched the now-cool water wash their come away, twisting trails of water down his legs, spiraling into the drain.
"Better than a sandwich," he said at last, and Rodney's forehead thunked on his collar bone and John turned his face into Rodney's clean, damp neck, and smiled.
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