![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
music would not go awry
Mel: Both my parents have really good vision - my mom wears reading glasses sometimes, but that's still better than me.
Eye Doctor: [tinkling laugh] Ah, yes, well most people have better vision than you, don't they? Obviously there are the blind, but you're right up there, aren't you? Hah hah hah! Look up, darling, I must numb your eyeballs now.
Rock. \m/ So now I can't wear my contacts for a while until my eyes start, you know, feeling smaller than golf balls. I look like such a geek in these glasses, man. They're huge and they have...tortoise shell coloring. I need a cool pair of glasses with black frames or something. I could totally pull it off, right? Right? Ah, well. In other news, I have a on pair of red galoshes with white polka dots. This, I feel, is beautiful, and completely adds to my dorky image.
Dear friends, join me in my rain boot frolicking.
And also, prompt me. Don't know how many I'll get to, but leave as many as you'd like! Woo.
no subject
no subject
It probably shouldn't be such a surprise to find Rodney's good at it. He's built for it: the perfect shoulders, hunched in and down to protect his ears, a little natural padding just above his waist that helps him shake off the shock like John can't when he's slammed into the rink's wall, sturdy thighs and calves that help him balance on the thin blades.
Plus, he's ruthless, John notes dimly as he's forced against the Plexiglas for the fifth time, desperately trying to keep the puck between his skates.
"Just give it up, Sheppard," Rodney grunts behind him, and John falters, nearly falling sideways at the way that hits him right in the gut.
Rodney takes the opportunity to swipe the puck from between his legs, getting a hit in on John's unprotected knee with the side of the stick for good measure. John doesn't even try to follow him, slumping down on the ice until he's laid full out like a sea-star, limbs arranged carelessly around him. He hears Rodney crowing, "GOAL!" in the background, but it seems very far away, and all he cares about at the moment is the dull ache in his - everywhere.
There's a second of complete silence while Rodney tries to figure out where John's gone to, then a distinctly huffy sigh and the soft woosh of blades on ice as Rodney skates up to John's side.
"You giant baby," Rodney accuses.
"Shut up," John answers lamely.
The tip of Rodney's stick prods him in the side, and he curls up around it, groaning unhappily. Even football doesn't hurt this much. And football has tackling.
"Oh my god," Rodney says, "I've broken you, haven't I? Can you move? Is your spine severed?"
John rolls onto his back again, staring at Rodney's flushed, stupid face and his worried, stupid eyes. "And yet you're still poking me. Why are you still poking me?"
"Oh." The poking stops abruptly. John makes a grateful sound and tries to remember what moving his fingers feels like. "You should get up or else your muscles will end up stiff and there will be no living with you. Up. Come on, Sheppard. God, you're heavy."
With very little help on John's part, they manage to stagger off the ice and into the changing rooms. Rodney deposits him none-too-gently on the wooden bench between the lockers and kneels down to untie his skates. It feels like heaven to get his feet out of them, and he wonders if Rodney would believe him if he blamed his horrible hockey skills on bad equipment.
Probably not, he thinks mournfully, and mentally prepares himself for the teasing.
It doesn't come right away like John had expected. Instead, Rodney's carefully helping him undress, one hand curled around the sole of his foot to warm his toes up while the other gets John's fingers moving so they can unbutton his own pants. It takes longer than it probably should, and by the end John's shivering so hard his teeth and knocking together, but Rodney shucks his own clothes off fast enough and gets them both - somehow - into the showers.
no subject
The first blast of water hurts, like being hit with a thousand tiny needles. Once Rodney fiddles around the with the knobs a little, though, it settles into something more comfortable, and John can happily lean against the cinderblock wall under the spray and let his knees creak as much as they'd like.
"Someone's getting old," Rodney sing-songs.
John opens his mouth to say something about how few months separate them, but Rodney's suddenly right against him, pressing their steadily warming bodies together from thigh to shoulder and kissing him with wet lips that taste like cold and affection.
"Okay, maybe," John allows when they break, figuring he can swallow his pride if it will get him Rodney's undivided attention for a little while.
Rodney grins at him like he knows exactly what John's doing, and drags his mouth up the curve of John's jaw to his ear, nipping at the lobe until John whines and pushes his hips up against Rodney's, looking for friction. Teasingly, Rodney licks a stripe down John's neck, unerringly finding the sensitive spot just next to the hollow of his throat that never fails to make him writhe.
"To the victor go the spoils," Rodney murmurs happily, and sinks down to his knees to claim his prize.
no subject
This is just what I wanted. Rodney being awesome and then locker room sexing! Nnnnngh.
You did just fine. ;)
no subject
I always knew that hockey was the game of champions.
no subject
Word. ;)
no subject
OMG. SWEATY HOCKEY MCSHEP!!
*flaps*
no subject
Comfy porn because Rodney's had a bad day and John has too, but Rodney just looks so cute when he's miserable that John finds a spark of energy somewhere and then there's comfiness and porn.
no subject
"Everything alright?" John asks softly, and Rodney spins around, hand on his chest as if to keep his heart behind his ribs. "Sorry."
"What are you doing here? No, I don't -" Rodney says, hands fluttering dismissively. "Everything is not alright - don't get up, just - Simpson nearly blew up the entire west pier, Kavanaugh threatened to feed me lemon bars - he should be tried for attempted murder and hanged at the court's earliest convenience because, really, I have had about enough of this - this shit. As if I don't already have problems to keep me occupied -"
John puts his hand on Rodney's arm, stilling him. "Rodney."
And all the fight suddenly goes out of Rodney's body, like a switch has been hit. He slumps on the bed, half over John in a way that suggests he's trying to be discreet about his need to touch.
John doesn't mention the pile of snotty tissues Rodney may or may not be lying on top of, or the fact that he can hardly breathe as it is.
"C'mere," he says instead, gathering Rodney in against his chest. Rodney goes easily, seemingly too exhausted to do more than murmur a sullen, half-hearted protest that twists something in John's chest and makes him drop a kiss on the exposed length of Rodney's neck. The skin is soft and a little sweaty against John's chapped lips, and Rodney makes such an adorable, indignant noise that John does it again and again, following the curve down to Rodney's bare shoulder.
By the time his mouth reaches the sharp rise of Rodney's shoulder blade, his hand has made its way down over the slight swell of Rodney's belly and past the waistband of those ridiculous atomic model boxers, fingers curling around the warm, familiar weight of Rodney's cock.
"Oh," Rodney sighs, wide palm stroking up John's forearm again and again, hypnotic.
John matches his pace to Rodney's, times the space between each hitching breath by the feel of Rodney's stomach pressing against the inside of his wrist. It's slow and not quite sweet; a sharp inhale, and Rodney's coming over John's fingers, shivering through it with his head craned around awkwardly to kiss whatever part of John he can reach. When the aftershocks fade, he tries to turn around, but John keeps him still, pressing fast, adoring kisses all over Rodney's back and shoulders, lingering only long enough to pay homage to a freckle or a scar with a touch of tongue.
"Go to sleep, buddy," he whispers. "I've got you."
no subject
Thank you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Also, I think that you'd look h0t in black librarian frames. *nodnod*
Prompt: Ronon and Lorne are stuck babysitting Rodney and Radek off world because Sheppard had to escort Teyla to...something?
no subject
"No," Colonel Sheppard says cruelly.
-
The mission is a disaster, and Lorne's not even entirely sure how any of it happened, just that two hours after their first check in, he finds himself suspended above a lake of alien alligators by his feet, with McKay strung up opposite him, looking just about as terrified as Lorne feels.
Just in case anyone's curious, a gator's teeth coming so close to eating your head you can feel the woosh of air? Not fun.
The four of them stumble back through the wormhole with a couple of cuts and bruises, Ronon holstering his gun with the air of someone who has just been forced to deal with idiots.
Lorne vaguely wonders if he's picked that little trick up from McKay or if he's always had the knack. Zelenka seems to be wondering the same thing, because he looks between Ronon and McKay with something like trepidation, as if he expects Ronon to suddenly burst out into a rant about power distribution and those who can't work it.
"Ah," Colonel Sheppard says, ambling into the gate room and looking disgustingly relaxed. "Take it the mission went well, then?"
no subject
no subject
Mel! Darling! I ♥ you times infinity + 3! This is even funnier than what I had imagined! *HUGGLES*
no subject
Both my parents have bad eyesight but thankfully I got my dad's genes since they are slightly less bad than my moms :p
Pompt?
John + Rodney + Cookie Dough = Naked Eating? Something Else?
no subject
"Shouldn't we be worrying about salmonella or something?" John asks dubiously. He eyes the scoop of raw cookie dough Rodney's holding out for him to take. "I mean, there are eggs in that, right?"
Rodney scowls at him, eyes narrow. "Honestly. Would I be eating it right now if I thought I was going to be poisoned?"
John sighs and takes the spoon, leaning in to put his mouth around it. It's grainy and very sweet, and he almost forgets he has to chew until he feels the scrape of a chocolate chip along the roof of his mouth. He must be making some sort of noise, because when he opens his eyes up again - when did he close them anyway? - Rodney's staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, with his cheeks flushed, mouth parted and red.
"Oh," he murmurs.
"Wha - Rodney -" John breaks off with a muffled moan, hands curling in the front of Rodney's shirt as Rodney kisses him and kisses him, tongue chasing the vague taste of cookie dough.
no subject
no subject
Loved this thank you *hugs*
no subject
Glasses are hot. ROWR.
Hmm, prompt... John/Rodney with their baby girl. *DEVIOUS SMILE*
no subject
Rodney jealously hugs the bundle of blankets closer to his chest, turning a little so John can only see a tuft of cream fabric over Rodney's shoulder. This is just getting ridiculous, he thinks petulantly. Rodney's had her all morning and he got to feed her lunch. John feels scarily like stamping his foot and running to tell Teyla Rodney's being mean.
"You can have her when I'm done," Rodney says, as if this is a great concession and John had better be grateful that Rodney is such a nice guy.
John's not buying it.
"You said you would be done with her by four. It is now six and it's my turn."
no subject
no subject
Oh yes, I am the height of fashion. Or, you know, dorkiness. But I am totally down with dorkiness. And it appears that most of the people I know are, too. Especially Josh, who keeps trying them on.
However, I will sympathize as best I can with your eye-drop-ness. (I cannot fully sympathize for I have never had the eyedrops - it is the blessing of having abnormally large eyes (the one time anyone has brought it up, I was all "Not in my eyes." and the eye doctor went "Well, possibly your eyes are big enough that I will able to see without the aid of drops." and that was the end of that).)
But your boots win at life. It is only very occasionally I wish to have neat rain boots. Today is one of those days. *steals them away so she can bask in a world of red patterns*
no subject
I got them at Target for, like, fifteen dollars. THEY ARE A GODSEND in the city because then you don't have to walk around with wet pants the entire day. *hugs them to bosom*
no subject
*laughs* I have not heard/read that pronunciation in years /flashbacks to when it just opened. I just suck it up with the wet pants until I get home. Then I put on my pajama pants and the world is good. And warm. *sends you warm, dry pajama pants*
no subject
Maybe some undercover-thug!John? [/subtle] Or maybe, to keep with the poor eyesight theme, the thrilling story of how John got his glasses and, in the process, gave Rodney a whole new kink?
no subject
The club is disgustingly populated by the time John gets there at midnight; he supposes that someone - who isn't him - would call it "hoppin'". Tugging on the bulky yellow chain around his neck that Ronon insisted was "bling bling", he steels himself for what is about to come. He can already feel how uncomfortable it's going to be, anxiety creeping up his spine.
"Oh, for god's sake, can't you horrible people go live in New York and leave the rest of the world some peace and quiet?"
John nearly falls over himself trying to see the source of the voice, and if he looks uncool, at least everyone else is doing the same thing and won't notice. The man - who can't be a day older than John himself - is stocky, but primly dressed in khaki pants that fit a little too well around the crotch and a long sleeved shirt. He's not ugly by any means, but he's not exactly fit either.
Uncomfortably, John wonders if he's about to witness his first public beating.
For some reason, though, the crowd disperses even as the man keeps spouting indignant, angry words and waving his arms around like a man-shaped windmill. John steps closer, very aware of the strange clothing he's wearing and how his pants are hanging low on his hips.
"What, you want a piece too, bucko?" the man all but yelps, red in the face.
"Um," John says slowly, "are you all right, sir?"
The man gapes for a few long moments, obviously taken aback.
"Right, forget I asked." John quickly turns and heads back towards the line into the club, pulling out his cover fee and shoving it at the bouncer. Hopefully the man won't follow him into the club and blow his cover.
-
Less than an hour later, John's wormed his way in next to one of the guys he's supposed to be sticking close to, and he's honestly wondering if MTV really does have it right and anyone willing to show their boxers to the entire world and wear a gold tooth is a complete moron.
"Yo, yo, yo," John says stiltedly, "I'mma gonna go smack me a bitch, er, get some beer."
No one at the table seems to think this is strange, and he escapes the VIP lounge with his life, but his sanity has already taken a major hit. At least the people nearer to the bar seem to be more normal - one of the men sitting close to the tap is wearing glasses and gazing out over the crowd sedately.
"I'll take one of whatever he's having," John tells the bartender, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.
He doesn't even look to see who he's shouting at until a glass slams down in front of him, drink sloshing over the side. When he looks up to complain, familiar, indignant blue eyes are staring back.
"YOU!" they say in hilarious unison.
John sighs, because this is his life, and lets his head hit the bar a few times.
no subject
And hey, I hadn't read that glasses-fic before, so it's like I got two for one! I understand Rodney's fixation; John in glasses is a thing of beauty (*cough*especially when he's on his knees*cough*).
no subject
(Bden's, not the girl's)
or this:
?
I would totally rock the bright red glasses, don't you think? And Mikey's Ray Bans are just the most precious thing to ever exist, ever.
You sound presh in your galoshes, darlin. *draws hearts around you*
Hmmm! *taps finger against lips* Would you be up to writing some Panic! children shenaniganating in the rain? Say, Bden and Ryan being precious and playful and DARLING? :D
no subject
"Dude. You're kind of insane," Ryan notes.
A mighty wave of water hits him, high enough to wet his jeans up to the knees, and Ryan just sighs, gazing at Brendon with resigned affection.
Brendon, who's wearing bright pink rubber galoshes, a lime green scarf that's pulled up over his nose, and a puffy black jacket that makes him look like a dark side Michelin Man. He probably can't see through his stupid glasses, and the scarf's pulled too high for Ryan to see his smile, but he's radiating gleeful smugness all the same, and Ryan has never been all that good at saying no.
"Fine, fine," he sighs, and Brendon lets out a squeal of delight, launching himself at Ryan and knocking him back into the bus siding. They go tumbling when Ryan loses his footing, and land, face-to-face, in a puddle that might be more grease and oil than actual rainwater.
Despite himself, Ryan starts laughing.
Brendon wriggles around like Ryan's a cushy dog bed instead of a person, his scarf sliding down his neck and turning an ugly mud color as it soaks up the water.
"Ryyyy-aaaaan Rooo-ooossss," he sing-songs in a hushed whisper, "you need to laugh more."
Ryan snorts inelegantly and pushes until Brendon rolls off into a different (but equally dubious) puddle, pouting all the way. They lie there for a minute, sides pressed together; Brendon's still practically vibrating with restrained energy, though, and it's sweet that he's trying to be calm for Ryan, but there'll be time for calm later, on the tour bus.
Elbowing him in the side just to hear his indignant squeak, Ryan says, "First one to fifteen wet hugs gets a prize. Extra points for Spencer."
"Oh, no fair, you'll get him easy!" Brendon whines, but he's already scrambling to his feet and trying to push Ryan back down into the puddle with a hand in the middle of Ryan's face. By some miracle, they both get their legs under them.
They stand facing each other, eyes narrowed with distrust.
"Five," Ryan says, "four, three -"
Brendon leans in and presses a kiss to Ryan's mouth; it tastes like dirty water, and Ryan's still standing there with his thumb against his lower lip when Brendon laughs and jogs off, throwing a happy, "I'm gonna win!" over his shoulder.
no subject
HEART YOU, BB!!!! <3333
no subject
John. Rodney. GLASSES.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Seriously.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
YOU SHOULD HAVE BITTEN HER.
no subject
no subject
*snuggles*
no subject
you so cute, bb
*cookies*
no subject
no subject
That is all.
Mmmm sweatshirt!Rodney. I think I have kind of a thing for sweatshirt!Rodney. Nnngh.