unamaga | i feel so much better now

It's. It's so green!

(also, Rodney loves to put his hand on John's knee when he's sitting and the kilt hikes up, because there's warm skin curving over bone and cartilage and muscle that twitches under his palm, and scratchy hair and it always makes John shiver, always always. Rodney's never sure if it's because someone could see -- like Rodney would ever allow that to happen, he likes John exactly where he is, thanks -- or if it's something else, like maybe how just wearing the kilt makes John's skin tingle and flare, hypersensitive to Rodney's touch, or maybe it's that Rodney can, and he does, something so male, resting his hand on John's knee the way John has probably done a hundred times before, thousands of times with so many different girls, and John melts exactly like those girls, leaning to the side so that the rough tartan brushes against the back of Rodney's hand and there's nothing better, nothing at all.)

THE QUESTION IS. IS HE WEARING IT LIKE A TRUE SCOTSMAN?

oh, oh, that's just - well, okay, ridiculously hot, but also incredibly sweet. john just melting and giving that up for rodney is. *flails madly*

OF COURSE HE DOES. what, you think rodney would let him get away with it otherwise?

AHAHA. GOOD BOY. I didn't think he would but that John is sneaky, sneaky!

(And slinky!)

SO SLINKY.

and if john were to somehow manage underwear, i'm sure rodney would find out during the course of the day and punish him appropriately.

Mmmm, I kind of think John would do that JUST so he could be *ahem* punished.

;)

Awww! *throws awesome-day vibes atchoo*

I WANT THAT KILT. I think I could put it together with something really nice and stuff.

UM, i wrote you comment fic but it is too big for a comment. D:

You mean like JARED PADALECKI stuff? Because I can totally get behind that.

OH MY GOD I'D ASK WHY THIS HAPPENED IF IT WEREN'T SO FABULOUS. ♥

I laugh because that's apparently a planet they visited. And John is either very displeased or trying to hide his glee at the wind delicately caressing his equipment beneath his awesome kilt.

And green is my favorite color. DOUBLE SPECTACULAR!

...*facepalm* a NWS warning thanks to your comments woulda been nice.

I -was- gonna say "It's very very green!"

Ronon, unsurprisingly, wore a kilt as if he were born to it. He didn't stand any differently, didn't keep his fingers around his gun any more than he usually did, and he seemed perfectly content to sit with his legs splayed open even though Teyla was sitting directly across from him with an odd look on her face.

And right then, Rodney hated him more than he had ever hated anyone in the history of ever.

"Is this really necessary?" he hissed at Sheppard – who had also taken his pantslessness gracefully, and was sitting with his ankles crossed loosely in front of him. Rodney tried desperately not to find the rare sight of Sheppard legs bare in public arousing, but really. While his own legs were toned enough and not that terrible, Sheppard's were oddly vulnerable and skinny, knobby around the knee in a way that made Rodney wonder about teenager growth spurts and gangly, awkward limbs.

Sheppard cleared his throat.

"Oh, right, yes. Sorry," Rodney said and quickly averted his eyes to stare at the wooden ceiling. A few moments went by. Rodney fidgeted. “These things chafe. How can anyone wear them all the time?”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” Sheppard drawled.

Rodney peered at him suspiciously. “Why aren’t you bothered? I get that captain caveman over there wears leathers all the time, but you wear government issued fabrics just like I do.”

“What can I say?” Sheppard spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the entire room, smirking.

-

At dinner, Rodney actually folded his hands together in his lap and thanked whatever deity would listen that nothing on the table resembled haggis. A lot of the fish looked like it had citrus involved somehow (a fact which Sheppard sadly confirmed after his first bite) but Rodney was completely fine with only eating the almost-lamb and might-be-chicken.

Especially since he'd spied the various puddings, drop scones, and pies they were being served for dessert. Oh god, was that nearly-rhubarb?

-

"Oh my god, why did you let me keep eating? My stomach is never going to be the same, I'm going to die, and it will be all your fault," Rodney moaned.

Sheppard affected the air of the extremely put-upon (he was very good at it by now) and helped Rodney out of his chair, onto his feet. "I told you to stop four times, McKay, and you wouldn't listen."

They trundled down the path away from the tavern, following the distant figures of Ronon and Teyla to the inn on the outskirts of town, Rodney falling behind a few steps when a sharp stab of pain lodged itself behind his ribs. Sheppard either didn't notice or didn't feel they were in any danger here, so he didn't slow down to wait for Rodney to catch up – which was the only reason Rodney saw when the gust of wind blew past them and Sheppard's kilt flew straight up in the back.

“You bastard! You left your boxers on?”

Sheppard wisely pushed the kilt down over his ass and started to back away from the crazed scientist contorting his own fingers in impotent expressions of rage.

“I,” Rodney said in a tightly controlled voice that was somehow more frightening than a yell, “am going to make you wish you hadn’t done that.”

He swept past Sheppard without another word, walking fast. When Sheppard finally reached the inn and found their room (after a mix up with the keeper, who seemed to have thought he should sleep in her room that night), Teyla and Ronon were sharing one bed on the left side of the room, and Rodney was curled up with his back to the door on the other. No matter how Sheppard poked and prodded and downright ordered, Rodney wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the night.

---

The next two days were an exercise in agony.

They were scheduled to stay on the planet for however long it would take to form some sort of alliance (Elizabeth knew her history and, Earth-born Celts or not, any race whose temper could make it legendary was not a race she wanted to be on the bad side of), and the native people required that the team wear native clothing the entire time – meaning, the three men had to don borrowed kilts. This gave Rodney ample opportunity to ambush John whenever he wanted: in the hallway on the way to breakfast, sliding his fingers into the leg of John’s boxers and teasing the base of John’s cock until he moaned, then slipping away as if nothing had ever happened; getting a hand on him underneath the table at lunch, pinching just below the head with his pointer and thumb as John was reaching for his drink and making him knock it over.

It went on and on for so long John thought he’d go crazy with frustration, hard almost constantly, with his only (short) reprieves being when he gave up and ducked into the bathroom to jerk himself off (or the nearest unoccupied room, something he’d had to resort to after Rodney had very innocently licked a bit of gravy from his thumb and then dropped it beneath the dinner table to drag over the slit of John’s cock).

“It’s too bad,” Rodney had said conversationally once, while his hand was gently, torturously caressing John’s balls through the cloth. “It would be so much easier if only you hadn’t worn these.”

On the third morning, while he was getting dressed and mentally preparing for the day ahead, John finally got a clue.

-

Rodney seemed to know that something had changed, because he made John wait all afternoon, teetering on the knife edge of anxious arousal, before he finally touched him. But, god, it was so worth it to finally feel the smooth skin of Rodney’s palm brushing against the shaft; to have that pleasantly surprised expression rounding Rodney’s blue eyes.

They were mostly alone – thank god – so Rodney didn’t even disguise the way he leaned in to speak against the shell of John’s ear.

“There. That’s better,” he whispered, and John felt it down to his toes.

Eep, sorry, that was my fault. Deleting!

Meep, don't! I'll screen if you want, but I put up a warning!

Oh, um, I already did? I think I can dig it back up... it wasn't that good anyway *shrug*

You don't need to delete! I just worry when I accidently access pr0n on government computers...

That is a good worry to have! I'm so used to just commenting in other people's journals (I'm like a horribly perverted elf, that way) that I don't even think about it.

I'll put it back up, with warnings in the header, too.

There is no good or bad here, only porn! And anyway, I thought it was absolutely lovely. ♥

Well, there's a warning on the post now (Thanks Mel!) So I think we're all good.

...and god bless the 'reply by e-mail' function.

And sometimes, when it's just the two of them or there's appropriate cover, John will widen his legs until Rodney's hand naturally slides off, fingers brushing cold trails -- Rodney's hands are always cold -- down John's inner thigh. It's invitation and request, as subtle as only John can do, and Rodney always has to swallow back a chuckle because John is never good at handling his own needs. His martyr complex is too deep, too rich, for him to really be able to say, Hey, Rodney, you wanna stroke me off? And Rodney finds he's totally okay with that, because it's so much hotter to know John's struggling with the very concept of wanting, of extending this invitation that can so easily be dismissed.

So Rodney runs his nails back and forth against muscle that jumps under his touch, skin quivering as Rodney does nothing sexual except how it's all sexual. He'll move his hand back slowly, the kilt bunching up around his forearm to rub the skin red and raw, a point of almost-pain to counteract that first glance of hot, silken skin, already damp and rising to his touch, meeting him the only way John can.

He takes John's cock into his fingers, his fist, rubbing and touching carefully so his wrist hardly moves, the tartan already throwing readable shadows for anyone who cares to look.

No one does, of course. Rodney isn't taking these kinds of chances.

John is so eager, biting his lip to keep back the whimper Rodney wants to hear, shivering with the need to rock, to push his hips into Rodney's waiting palm, to press cock and balls even closer to the skin he needs. Rodney hisses once -- stay still! -- and John does, gulping the only audible sound he can make right then. He stays frozen as Rodney rubs his thumb over the head of John's cock, wetting it to draw long, wet trails down veins that bang against Rodney's fingers, hot like a furnace against his cold hands.

Rodney is smiling, now, at nothing at all because he knows what's going to happen later, what always happens later, when John's mouth is tight and hot surrounding him, sucking away thoughts along with his come -- but that's for later. For now, there is just touching John, glancingly soft or punishingly hard, strokes that tease and are just the right amount of almost-but-not-quite-pain, imitating the trick Rodney does with his teeth. There is cupping John's balls, warm and heavy, using the base of his thumb to rub John's cock up towards his kilt, sensitive skin against good Scottish wool, and it has to hurt, has to at least be uncomfortable, but John just stays where he is, half leaning towards Rodney with his lips turning blue.

Rodney does chuckle now, secure that no one can see or hear, and leans forward to say, "Breathe," low and amused just so he can see John gasp, roughly inhaling while his body takes advantage of his laxity, of Rodney's hand suddenly tight and pulling along his cock, to come so hard that the tartan turns a darker green, the only evidence Rodney needs.

Wiping his hand on John's leg, letting the hair catch most of the remains, Rodney replaces it on John's knee and smugly stares at whatever he's supposed to be paying attention to.

John breathes, or tries to, body loose as it settles against Rodney's arm in unconscious echo of every time John's ever done the same thing, or thought about it, or just wanted it, plainly and without artifice.

Rodney almost kisses the spiky hair that brushes his chin, but doesn't. "Almost done," he says, and John hums what could've been a purr, licking his lips for later.

Sorry 'bout that! I kind of assume people know I'm a huge pervert and that most conversations I engage in will involve dirty words or devolve into fic. :\

“There. That’s better,” he whispered, and John felt it down to his toes.

You are so, so good. That line is killer.

I can keep that in mind for the future! :D

Luckily, no one else here at the Library of Congress noticed the talk of cock.

...I hope.

i feel so much better now

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More, very NC-17!

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