(no subject)
Anti-gloom remedies:
1. Some Verses by aesc-so, so beautiful, and so domestic and happy and perfectly John and Rodney, oh.
2. David Hewlett GRAND, GLORIOUS PICSPAM OF BIRTHDAY GLEE! Oh David! ♥
3. They've been up for a couple of hours, but in spite of their best efforts at coffee and showers and clothes and more coffee, they're slumped on the couch, John absently rubbing newsprint fingerprints into his jeans and Rodney scowling at his laptop. It's raining, cold and damp, and the unrelenting gray is trying to creep in under the front door and through the windowpanes. John yawns and thinks about more coffee, but getting up and walking to the kitchen seems like more trouble than it's worth. He yawns again, jaw cracking, and the power flickers, and Rodney slams his laptop shut, says, "That's it, I'm going back to bed," stomps out of the living room with more energy than either of them have had all morning. John blinks after him and says, "Okay."
They strip back down to boxers and unmake the bed and slide under the comforter, and John feels a little guilty and a little giddy at being so lazy, whispers "I feel like we're having a slumber party," and kisses Rodney rather than give in to the ridiculous urge to giggle. Rodney snorts anyway and kisses him back, and he tastes like coffee and smells like shampoo, and it's warm, cocooned together, and they doze to the sounds of rain pelting the roof, of foghorns.
(John's not sure what time it is when he rouses again; it's still raining, still gray, and he's tucked up tight against Rodney's back. Rodney's hairline is damp, like he slept hard and sweated. John noses the nape of his neck, follows the curve of his skull around behind one ear, and Rodney shivers and pushes back, bossy even when he's mostly asleep. John's with the program, though, slips an arm around Rodney's body, rubs slow circles over his belly until Rodney shivers again and moans low. He shoves Rodney's boxers down just enough to get them out of the way, does the same to his own, fits himself snug against the crease of Rodney's ass and rocks against him, and oh, yeah, that's good. He reaches back around and gets a good grip on Rodney before he can start to feel neglected, and now they're moving together sloppily, nothing close to rhythmic or graceful, sheets sliding underneath them, tangling around their legs. John hooks his chin over Rodney's shoulder so he can watch, murmurs, "Come on, come on, come on," until Rodney's eyelashes flutter, until he spills hot over John's hand, and then John's there too, panting hard into Rodney's neck, and the rain's still sheeting down outside, and there's no reason in the world why they can't just stay right here.)
1. Some Verses by aesc-so, so beautiful, and so domestic and happy and perfectly John and Rodney, oh.
2. David Hewlett GRAND, GLORIOUS PICSPAM OF BIRTHDAY GLEE! Oh David! ♥
3. They've been up for a couple of hours, but in spite of their best efforts at coffee and showers and clothes and more coffee, they're slumped on the couch, John absently rubbing newsprint fingerprints into his jeans and Rodney scowling at his laptop. It's raining, cold and damp, and the unrelenting gray is trying to creep in under the front door and through the windowpanes. John yawns and thinks about more coffee, but getting up and walking to the kitchen seems like more trouble than it's worth. He yawns again, jaw cracking, and the power flickers, and Rodney slams his laptop shut, says, "That's it, I'm going back to bed," stomps out of the living room with more energy than either of them have had all morning. John blinks after him and says, "Okay."
They strip back down to boxers and unmake the bed and slide under the comforter, and John feels a little guilty and a little giddy at being so lazy, whispers "I feel like we're having a slumber party," and kisses Rodney rather than give in to the ridiculous urge to giggle. Rodney snorts anyway and kisses him back, and he tastes like coffee and smells like shampoo, and it's warm, cocooned together, and they doze to the sounds of rain pelting the roof, of foghorns.
(John's not sure what time it is when he rouses again; it's still raining, still gray, and he's tucked up tight against Rodney's back. Rodney's hairline is damp, like he slept hard and sweated. John noses the nape of his neck, follows the curve of his skull around behind one ear, and Rodney shivers and pushes back, bossy even when he's mostly asleep. John's with the program, though, slips an arm around Rodney's body, rubs slow circles over his belly until Rodney shivers again and moans low. He shoves Rodney's boxers down just enough to get them out of the way, does the same to his own, fits himself snug against the crease of Rodney's ass and rocks against him, and oh, yeah, that's good. He reaches back around and gets a good grip on Rodney before he can start to feel neglected, and now they're moving together sloppily, nothing close to rhythmic or graceful, sheets sliding underneath them, tangling around their legs. John hooks his chin over Rodney's shoulder so he can watch, murmurs, "Come on, come on, come on," until Rodney's eyelashes flutter, until he spills hot over John's hand, and then John's there too, panting hard into Rodney's neck, and the rain's still sheeting down outside, and there's no reason in the world why they can't just stay right here.)