.picspam: orange-fleece!Rodney and John-related neck porn

[aesc]

There are two impulses behind this picspam, which itself has two foci.

1: Between the ineffable suckiness of yesterday and the fact that my stock collection has become woefully thin in terms of images I haven't used, I decided it would be a good idea to start going through my DVDs and pulling caps as a way to cheer myself up and be productive. I

Comments

[chopchica]

chopchica: god, i love rodney in his orange fleece
shetiger: mmm
chopchica: he just looks so warm and snuggly!
shetiger: like he's just ready and waiting to be cuddled
shetiger: just walk right up and wrap your arms around him
chopchica: yes!
chopchica: i don't know how john managed to resist for so long
shetiger: well, there's always antarctica sex
chopchica: no, see, i want later in the series fic where at some point they go back to earth and rodney remembers he owns it and didn't bring it with him last time - which was very stupid of him - so he does this time and runs around wearing it and john just stares and stares and remembers what rodney looked like the first time he saw him and rodney keeps moving his hands, and john is just a man, dammit!

[aesc]

later in the series fic where at some point they go back to earth and rodney remembers he owns it and didn't bring it with him last time - which was very stupid of him - so he does this time and runs around wearing it and john just stares and stares and remembers what rodney looked like the first time he saw him and rodney keeps moving his hands, and john is just a man, dammit!

Yes, please. Want. Please.

And the fleece is smooth and synthetic against John's hands, and when he works his way up and under Rodney's shirt, Rodney is warm.

[chopchica]

Except Rodney's still talking and that shouldn't be so hot, but John's learned long ago that Rodney is capable of the impossible. Rodney's saying things like, wait and, Colonel and, oh!. The last one is John's favorite, so he ignores everything else and inches his fingers up towards Rodney's nipples.

[chopchica]

argh! open tags!

[aesc]

*pets* You were distracted--it could happen to anyone, really.

[aesc]

so he ignores everything else and inches his fingers up towards Rodney's nipples.

*falls right down dead*

Rodney quivers against him and coherence collapses into choked-off nonsense, and God he's hot, the orange fleece unzipped now and John's fingers skate over sweat and quivering flesh, and oh, Rodney says again.

[chopchica]

I'm...somehow I've started *writing this*. I have intro sentences and everything!

He knows his hands are cold, and Rodney’s skin is warm, so warm, and John rubs until Rodney’s nipples are chilled buds underneath his fingertips, so sensitive that each new scrape makes Rodney shiver convulsively.

[aesc]

and John rubs until Rodney’s nipples are chilled buds underneath his fingertips,

Nnnnng. Nnnnng.

I'm...somehow I've started *writing this*. I have intro sentences and everything!

For the second time in this post, I can say FLAWLESS VICTORY!

And keep writing! Keep! *nudges encouragingly with visions of John's hands warming against Rodney's skin and Rodney's breath brushing across John's cheek when he bends close to nip at Rodney's collar bone*

[chopchica]

Here, I'm backing you up to the beginning:

The day after the Daedalus returns, Rodney shows up for the department heads meeting wearing possibly the most orange thing John’s ever seen. He looks like a traffic cone - a traffic cone with waving hands. It’s ridiculous and so Rodney. John grins at him and doesn’t remember until later.

Later, when he’s alone and stroking himself idly, thinking about Rodney, because he stopped thinking about anybody else long, long ago, and then it comes back to him in flashes - Antarctica, cold, white and empty; the chair, glowing orange, and Rodney’s twisted face above him, orange all around him, god.

He jerks himself hard - once, twice, three times - and on the fourth, comes so hard all he can see is orange.

If you *really* want to encourage, feel free to write a couple of lines about John's neck! ;)

[aesc]

If you *really* want to encourage, feel free to write a couple of lines about John's neck! ;)

Hmmm... Okay, howzabout:

The vaults of the abandoned complex tower above them, and John cranes his head back to follow the beam of his P-90 up and up into the shadows.

And Rodney... Rodney should be looking for the energy signature they came to find.

But the half-light and shadow pick out the play of tendon and muscle under the fine skin of John's neck, the faintest sheen of sweat from the hot day, flex and give, flex and give as John tries to look everywhere at once and ends up looking at Rodney, who finds himself caught by the hollows and valleys of John's neck, and wondering how much the curve where neck becomes shoulder would taste like salt.

[chopchica]

mmmmmm. I love it when John derails Rodney, because almost nothing ever does.

Your writing is so wonderfully descriptive and sensual. I want to write like you when I grow up.

[aesc]

I love it when John derails Rodney, because almost nothing ever does.

Hee! It is great, isn't it?

And thank you! *wriggles happily*

[chopchica]

I'm writing out of order, or I'd paste more for you. I figure you'd rather read the end at the end.

[aesc]

*bounces with anticipation*

Oh, and:

Later, after the mission goes horribly wrong and the blood and the smoke and shouting, Rodney will corral John in his room and push him against the wall, push his head to the side to watch the effortless movement, the contours of John's neck as they tense and change, and he'll taste that place, that curve, and it will taste like salt and life, and John's pulse will beat on under the skin.

[chopchica]

*feels faint*

I've decided it's only fair to have Rodney discover just how much John likes it when people play with his neck.

[sunnyd_lite]

okay...there's just no point in ME writing neck-fic after that. *wonders if she should start smoking just to have a cigarette now*
and it will taste like salt and life, and John's pulse will beat under the skin G'uh