esteefee

Callahan's Crosstime Saloon AU?

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:21:09 GMT

dhewlett on twitter:

Okay, popular twitter consent seems to have me acting in a brewery...a Sci Fi beer nerd series? ...who am I to argue with my peeps!?
---
I could work in a pub! I'm not so keen on people, but I get along fantastically with beer! Perhaps that's my real job calling?

so, he wants me to write a Callahan's Crosstime Saloon'ish AU where 'the weirdest things' keep happening in Rodney's pub and John, his favorite customer, has to run around cleaning up the mess?

with *shudder* PUNS? I don't DO puns!

A Fair Trade Ficlet: A Smarter Tradition (R)

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 23:25:59 GMT

Title: A Smarter Tradition
Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: R for mention of boy shenanigans
Words: ~1,220
Categories: AU, ER, part of the Fair Trade series
Warnings: none
Summary: John gets cranky during Fleet Week. He has a stupid plan not to take it out on Rodney.

Written for mcsmooch while the Blue Angels pass overhead: A Smarter Tradition.

Shex Links

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 05:51:10 GMT

I have been listed as an "author of note" on nrrrdy_grrrl's Rex Files (Sheppard/Dex section), but that's not the coolest bit, the coolest bit is all the lovely, lovely Shex recs, stories and authors she has gathered together in one place, so if you are at all inclined toward that pairing, check it out!

Birthday Iowa Snippet for Cate (G)

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 19:01:00 GMT

For Cate, and posted with her permission, a bashfully-written snippet set in her A Farm in Iowa 'verse (~500 words):

Entropy Dance

by esteefee

Every year around his birthday, John does what Rodney too knowingly terms his "entropy keep-away dance," but what John thinks of as his usual yearly cleaning binge. While mucking out the barn, hidden behind a pile of rusted out chains, he finds a wooden toy boat, sky blue paint chipped in a familiar pattern that brings back a sense memory so vivid he has to kneel for a second and finger the rough and the smooth and breathe in the hay-scented air, hearing echoes of his grandfather's deep chuckle. When he's ready he puts it aside to give to Finn, a faint smile on his face, knowing it won't hold a candle to the Hot Wheels or the K'NEX, but hoping just the same his own son will play with it for a day or so, dreaming of ships that never sailed on endless green fields.

In the living room, when John is tacking down a strip of molding in the corner by the stairs, he finds a single earring that surely must've belonged to his grandmother. It's a single, small pearl, with the tiniest diamond chip possible set below—it must've cost his grandfather dear, and even then it wouldn't have been worth much, comparatively-speaking, but how his grandmother must've mourned its loss. And here it was the whole time, maybe kicked into the corner in a hasty run down the stairs and then trapped by the shadows, held safe over the years from brooms and vacuum cleaners by the fragile defense of a broken piece of molding.

John places the earring in the shallow bowl on the shelf where they keep odd and precious things—a tiny, round token from San Francisco's metro system, the first Sacagawea golden dollar Rodney ever got in change, a small, silver Irish cross, the origins of which are a complete mystery, a steel penny John found and kept for good luck when he was in the service, and a jade ring one of Finn's little daycare girlfriends had given him, much to his puzzlement.

Reminding himself to show Rodney the earring later, John continues with his cleaning. After dusting, he softly rubs wood oil of the non-lemon variety over all the ancient wood, bringing up the old shine hiding within. Wedged in a crack in the floor in the gap between Rodney's desk and the bookshelf in his office, John finds a wadded up, discarded sheet of paper covered end to end with equations—like a secret blueprint, bursting to the edges with elegant, forceful thoughts, Rodney's wild mental flights mapped on paper.

John traces them with a finger, awed all at once and all over again by the complexity of his boyfriend's mind.

Carefully, he refolds the paper along the original creases and pushes it back into its secret space for someone else to find, someday.

Then John gathers up his cleaning supplies and goes to the kitchen to make lunch, entropy pushed back just a little for another year.

:::

Happy Birthday, sweet girl!

Podfic: Infinity Cubed read by Wihluta

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 23:25:57 GMT

wihluta has recorded Infinity Cubed, the missing scene from Möbius, as a podfic! (please right-click and save.)

Please comment here at her original post. Thanks, wihluta! Due to her tireless efforts, everything but one little snippet of the Fair Trade series is available in recorded format, and all in her lovely voice.

♥ ♥ ♥

Swine Flu: Sheppard/McKay sniplet for poor Miss Lacey (R)

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 01:57:50 GMT

I wrote a little comment sniplet for poor Miss Lacey, who is sick. Go feed her chocolates! ::pets::

Original Teamfic: Into the Blue (Gen, R)

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 22:48:56 GMT

Author: esteefee
Pairing: none. Original team gen
Rating: R
Words: 2,049
Categories: h/c
Warnings: Torture (non-explicit)
Spoilers: Tiny for 38 Mins
Summary: Where does John go when bad shit happens?

Into the Blue

by esteefee

Rodney's eyes are wide and blue and they're just about all John can see when the head of the Farzgol's military points at John and they drag him into the tiled room behind the glass window. Ford's yell echoes behind the slammed door, so if Rodney says anything, John can't hear it.

Hurry, Teyla. I think you'd better double-time it.

:::

For one brief summer when John was sixteen, his dad got stationed in Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii, and John learned to surf.

He remembers: the first time he stood up, and how two seconds later he whanged his head on the board falling down again, making his buddy Manuku crack up and inhale water he was laughing so hard.

The next day John was riding the waves all the way to the shore.

:::

They'd already stripped his tac vest, the leader going straight for the C-4 that had started this whole mess. One tiny, well-placed charge meant to rescue victims of a cave-in (Ford really is the best demolitions expert John has ever seen. The guy is an artist) had led to kidnappings and threats and assumptions and John's eyes locking on Rodney's whenever he can, because yeah, maybe these people are stupid enough to assume that Rodney manufactures all their explosives, that he is the only scientist on the team, so of course he must be the guy, but they've hit upon the truth in their idiocy. Rodney could probably make higher explosives in his sleep.

And John is here to say no way. No matter what.

Even as they yank off his shirt and pants and tie him to the heavy wooden chair and, hey, lookee here, they've discovered the fun applications of electricity.

John drags his eyes away and nails Rodney's big blue ones again. Rodney looks like he's about to stroke out—his hands are balled into fists and his face is flushed, jaw popping. He mutters something John can't make out behind the glass, but John just shakes his head and deliberately slouches.

His heart is pounding so hard he can feel his pulse dragging against the heavy rope on his wrists.

He's been here before, and he tries to prepare himself, remembering the blue.

:::

Sometimes the waves wouldn't behave, and the surfers would straddle their boards for long minutes, waiting. Talking, or just bobbing in silence. At first John chafed at the inactivity, at having to wait. But then he noticed the way the others would stare out to sea, eyes half open as if they were looking for something other than the next wave, and he began looking, too. And then he began to see it, in the vastness of the blue, and in the rhythm of the swells, and the way the energy flowed, moving them up and down, but never moving the water itself. Unceasing, like eternal music, and when he met Manuku's eyes he saw approval there, and John smiled, a little sheepishly, embarrassed at his earlier impatience.

The waves would come.

:::

There's no car battery, just some weird tubes held together with mesh, and the electrodes aren't car jumpers but sticks with metal ends, but it's a field telephone, all right, or the alien equivalent, and John knows it, because they've stripped him to his boxers and doused him with water, and Rodney knows it, because he's staring at John with utter horror while still babbling something vicious-toned out of the side of his mouth to the leader, who is getting more and more pissed if his expression is any indication.

And Ford—John jerks his chin, indicating that Ford should look away, because Ford shouldn't see this. God, the kid's already had to put the paddles John's chest himself. But Ford's lips press together in a pout and his jaw clenches.

John frowns and jerks his chin again. The woman in the brown khaki uniform is bending down to pick up the electrodes, and John is running out of time. His heart—God, he has to slow it down or he's going to have a heart attack when this starts. He takes a deep breath and then another one, holding it the second time, thinking of the blue, of Manuku smiling as they bobbed on the waves, waiting, and John stares at Rodney and smirks a little and slumps down in the chair.

She walks over, her face severe and grim, hair cut ragged and short, and he sees her hands rise, sees the harsh bones of her wrists and the curious shadows of the wires twisting across her skin, and then he closes his eyes because he doesn't want to see this, he wants to see—

:::

The first time John shot a curl, the translucent blue surrounded him and he reached out and touched it in complete awe, his shout of delight bouncing against the hollow roar that was his entire universe. He chased it through, following the leading edge just as it threatened to collapse around him, until finally it did, swamping him in a warm funnel of salt that felt like the touch of a fond hand.

:::

He comes to with every bone in his body aching, pulled stiff by bundled, twitching muscles, and his back still thrown in a tight arc until he shudders to a rest. The back of the chair is digging into his skull and he lets his head roll down, blinks watery eyes and sees McKay screaming at the military leader. John hopes to God he isn't screaming the formula to Agent Orange or napalm or anything.

Ford is turned away, his shoulders in a furious line, but he spins back when the leader says something, and that woman is leaning toward John again. God, his chest and ribs are burning, and his heart is tripping—it's too soon, they're going to kill him at this rate—Rodney tries to grab the leader's arm and one of the goons pulls him back and smacks him with a fist.

John bucks in his chair, watches helplessly as Ford struggles forward and gets knocked back. This could all get out of hand way too quickly. But then the woman touches John's slick chest with the contacts and the shock hits him, throws him back, and it's everything. Pain is his whole world, and he stares up into the blue.

:::

Manny came on base to say goodbye right before John's father got shipped out. He gave John a shark-tooth necklace, and John gave him a brand-new board leash and some Alpha Flight comics.

Years later he saw Manuku's name mentioned in a pro surfing mag and read an article where they called him the "Buddha of the Waves."

John kind of wished he could write to Manny and thank him for teaching him something he'd found damned useful later on in life.

:::

Hearing comes back first, and it's the beautiful sound of something blowing up sky-high, the deep rumble of underground shockwaves traveling through the bunker.

John opens his eyes and sees the fear in the woman's, and he wants to say something witty but his jaw is locked up still. No matter—the doors are kicked open and suddenly both rooms are swarming with familiar uniforms, and grim-faced marines are staring at the woman with raging eyes that could laser through her.

Gunny Torveld, who John knows did two full tours in Afghanistan, takes one look at the device on the floor and shoots John an expression that almost winces in sympathy, which is saying a lot for a marine.

"Mind cutting me loose?" John manages to say, his throat hoarse and sore, but he doesn't want to think why, and Torveld nods and pulls his Ka-Bar and cuts John free.

And then it's pure embarrassment, because he actually has to help John back into his shirt and pants and boots and standing. John's muscles feel like they've been through a taffy-pull, and every so often they go through a series of twitching spasms that almost lays him out on the floor.

"Think you can find where they stashed my vest? I want every bit of my C-4 back, too."

"Sir, yes, sir," Torveld says, but he delegates it to Dyson, who digs up the rest of the team's stuff. Teyla shows up around then and stays by John's other side. The military leader and all the other soldiers they've subdued are bound up and kneeling in the other room, all in a line along the wall.

Rodney is pacing back and forth in front of them, getting his ya-yas out by shooting them fierce looks and, as John staggers in, is asking one of the marines "...are the Geneva Conventions in effect here, Sergeant? I'm unclear on whether they apply, or if we just see what would happen if we applied those electrodes to Commander Do Unto Others' testicles." Rodney spins around and sees John. "Or perhaps the major would like to do it himself."

"Nah, I'm good," John says, trying to make his limp look like an amble as he approaches the leader. John doesn't even know the guy's name. "That is, unless you actually told him anything useful. You didn't, did you, McKay?" John doesn't look at Rodney as he waits for the answer.

"Oh, yes. I told him." Rodney huffs. "I gave him the top secret formula for cyanoacrylate." After a pause and a smirk, Rodney adds, "Superglue."

John grins. "I didn't know you knew that. We could've had some fun with it." John gives the leader a long stare and then crouches down, ignoring the protest of aching muscles so he can get up close and personal with the sweating man. "You're awfully lucky," John says silkily. "Because if you were any goddamned good at your job, we'd have to kill you right now."

Ford makes a sound that John will have to smack him for later. He knows his acting skills are pretty poor, but it's no fair rubbing his nose in it.

Besides. He's had a tough day.

John stands up and has to wait a second while his heart decides to stop skipping around and settles into a regular beat. Carson is going to have a shit-fit about all this. He'll probably want to put him on that portable monitor thing again for a while to make sure things are okay.

But they are. Things are peachy keen. And soon he'll be going home, and Carson will tsk-tsk over the burn marks on his chest, and Dr. Weir will give him that wide-eyed look that she'll hide behind stern brusqueness. She'll make him go see Heightmeyer, and John will spend his mandatory hours trying to figure out if she's read his classified record and knows about his time as a POW, knows he's done this before, danced in the chair to the puppeteer's tune. Rodney will hover more than usual and talk about things John can't understand; Teyla will offer him tea and meditation sessions, but John will go out to the pier and do his meditating there, watching the waves. The waves are always there for him.

And things will be fine. Hell, they already are, because his team is fine—he turns to Teyla and says, "Thanks for the speedy back-up," giving her a grateful smile. She smiles back serenely, but puts a hand on his arm that betrays her underlying concern.

The team, armed once again, troops out with his marines, leaving behind the bound-up military goons and their leader, another address to lock out of the database, another disappointment for Dr. Weir, who was basing hopes on ten thousand year-old records and outdated intelligence from another trading partner.

Okay, maybe John is a little worn out, because he's glad as hell to see the jumper is parked close, a hell of a lot closer than the gate, where the team walked from originally.

He makes it up the ramp and takes a seat on the bench, prompting a look of surprise from McKay, but thankfully no one calls him on his decision not to trust his piloting skills to his shaking, twitching hands. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, and when he hears the DHD fire he opens his eyes again and turns his head and watches them go through.

Straight on home, into the blue.

End.

I haf no internets

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 00:50:56 GMT

I haf no internets and I must scream. No phone line neither. Hopefully this situation will improve shortly, but pity me. Oh, pity me.

ETA: chkc sent hilarious chibi!Rodney to the rescue!

ETA2: OMG IT'S BLINKING IN AND OUT COMPLETELY RANDOMLY AND DRIVING ME BONKY!!!!!!!!!@%#*!&@! PLEASE WHERE IS THE PORN I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT MY PORN?

Sheppard/McKay AU: Infinity Cubed (A Fair Trade MS, NC-17)

Wed, 22 Jul 2009 03:39:48 GMT

Title: ∞³
Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~3,202
Categories: AU, ER, John h/c, Series
Warnings: are at the bottom.
Summary: A missing scene from Möbius, from the Fair Trade AU, in which John owns
a coffee roastery and Rodney designs exhibits for science museums. Nothing much happens
here except for poker and sex.
A/N: This was supposed to be for kisa_hawklin's birthday except
it's late late late. Happy late birthday, Kisa! ~:

∞^{^³}

by esteefee

Lately, in the afternoon, when the sunlight hits the western windows of the roastery, painting the old floorboards red and gold, burning the edge of John's arm where it rests on the varnished table so he has to turn sideways and wedge his elbow in the corner to read the paper, he'll look across and see Rodney squinting and fussing with the contrast on his screen, and John will heave himself up and limp over to draw the shade that is one foot away from Rodney right hand.

Rodney won't even notice, of course; not for a long time, until night has fallen and he's blinking at the diagrams on his screen again because now it's been hours, and John has long since finished his paper and the final roast and is working on a crossword or puzzling over the books. John can hear Sandi sweeping up in back, and Ahs has already rolled out the trash and is bagging the day's extra pastries to go to the shelter. Pretty soon they'll be locking up and John will have to confiscate Rodney's laptop, because Ronon and Teyla are coming over tonight so Ahs can kick all their asses at poker. Usually it's just John and Zeke and Sandi that he rooks, but tonight he has some new suckers. Including Rodney, if John can tear him away from his computer.

"Rodney. C'mon, buddy, time to shut down."

"In a minute, in a minute," Rodney says in that way that means he hasn't engaged brain to mouth at all. It's okay; it's not even the fifteen-minute warning yet. John just wanted to make the first foray into Rodney's three-gated alarm system.

John gets up and goes in back. He has some bagging to do now that the beans have cooled, and it'll help his hip to move around a little since he'll be sitting down to play for a couple of hours.

The fresh, oily beans slip through the scooper and down the hole into the bag sitting on the scale. John measures out a pound then lets the bag drop on the counter a couple of times to settle the beans. Folding down the bag takes a few practiced flips, and then he tucks in the wire flaps and admires Sandi's brand-new Doubledoc logo for a moment before pushing the bag aside and starting on the next.

It takes him about ten minutes to finish up all the beans in the hopper, then he rolls all the bags to the store room and sets them on the shelf.

It's a good batch. And it's been a good day, even if his hip aches a little. He wonders if he can get Rodney to rub it down with some Tiger Balm for him tonight, or if that would be too geriatric and weird. Then again, if he goes through with the surgery there will probably be bedpans or worse in his future.

But it's a good day, so he's not thinking about that shit.

"Hey, boss—Dr. Dex is here." Ahsarvat pokes his head in and flashes a too-eager smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your shorts on. You'll get your hands on my wallet soon enough."

Ahs looks innocent. "I am enjoying these fun social customs with my new American friends."

"Ahs, you grew up in Philly, remember?" John limps over and pushes him toward the front room.

"Philly is a lot like Bangladesh, boss. Only with hoagies."

"Hoagies? There are hoagies?" Rodney says, looking up from his computer finally.

"Not tonight, Rodney. We're ordering pizza. From that frou-frou place you like."

"Mmm. Goat Hill. I hope we get the potato garlic."

John kind of hopes they don't all decide on the garlic, if only for his own sake, but doesn't say so out loud. Rodney can be sensitive about things like that, and would probably refuse to kiss him or let John blow him for a day or something annoying and Rodney-like. Instead, he says 'hey' to Dex and gets a gentle clap on the shoulder.

"What can I get you, Doc?"

"Coffee. Gotta be up for a surgery, so make it a decaf."

John can practically hear Rodney trying not to snort with derision, but then Rodney can drink a full cup of joe and crash into bed two minutes later.

John brews it up fresh and by the time it's done Ahs has already pushed two tables together and laid the felt poker cover over it. Then he goes around setting out chips and dip. Teyla knocks on the door right around then and everyone gets up to greet her. John makes up her favorite late night drink, a chai latte, and brings it over when he comes to say 'hi.'

"John." She smiles and he's knocked over, as always, by her beauty and serene intelligence.

"Hi, Teyla. Chai?"

"Thank you. It's been...a long day." She does look tired, and he wonders if she lost a patient or something, but she brightens when she takes a sip of the chai, and squeezes his hand before sitting down next to Ronon, who has one arm hooked behind Sandi's chair. And then John sees the open seat Rodney has saved next to him, so he sits down and Rodney's fingers ruffle up into his hair. He leans over automatically and gives Rodney a brief kiss on his temple, nuzzling the soft skin there, feels more than sees Rodney's cheek curve in a smile and—

—and suddenly it's weird. Because everyone is here—a good chunk of the people he gives a damn about in the world are all here in one room—he's not sure why he thinks about it right then except they're all looking at him expectantly for some reason, and John realizes this is the first time he and Rodney have been really obvious in front of all of them. Obviously together. He gets a cold sinking sensation that freezes him in his chair.

But Teyla is smiling at them both, and Sandi is grinning from ear to ear. Ronon is grabbing some tortilla chips but looks up briefly to smirk and slide the deck of cards over. Then he nonchalantly tosses a chip in the air and catches it in his mouth to crunch on it with his even teeth.

Ahs says, "Dr. McKay, boss tells me you are a genius, yes? But you must promise not to take advantage of us poor, intellectually unendowed people." He swipes the cards from John and deftly shuffles the deck.

Then he proceeds to clean them all out.

:::

It's not too late when John rides his bike next to Rodney to his little house up the street, but John is kind of exhausted, anyway, and still a little freaked out by what happened earlier. Not that anything happened. By what didn't happen, maybe.

Too many years in the service, too many years of hiding, and then too many years of being alone. He's just not used to this—but he feels like he's been holding something fragile all evening, not wanting to let go of it, and wishing a little he could share it with Rodney, but kind of scared to, at the same time.

So once they're inside and have finished getting ready for bed, John tugs Rodney away from his one last email and walks him into the bedroom, his chin hooked over Rodney's shoulder and one hand trapped under the waist of Rodney's T-shirt, palm against the smooth skin of his belly.

Rodney grumbles, "I didn't get a chance to save to draft," but there's no fight in his voice, and he lifts his arms obligingly when John strips off his T-shirt, and he kicks off his shoes and lets John tug off his pants. Rodney's boxers are bright yellow with infinity symbols sprinkled in various sizes all over, and John palms his cheeks, squeezing once appreciatively and making Rodney yelp before pushing them down and off.

Then Rodney crawls onto his bed then turns over and says, "You still have—" he waves, "with the clothes. Off."

Even though Rodney's already seen the scars, John still turns slightly to the right before pulling off his shirt and dropping his jeans and shorts. He leaves them in a puddle with his sneakers and socks and then leans onto the bed with all his weight on his good hip, keeping his bad leg straight and resting his arm over the knotted tangle of raised skin. He can feel it, rough and unpleasant, pressing underneath his forearm, when he rolls over to kiss Rodney, who rises to meet him.

"Good day today," John murmurs against Rodney's lips. He still feels it, a thin-skinned bubble of warmth in his chest, a mystery centered on this impossible, crazy guy who just decided, somehow, for them both, that they needed each other around.

Rodney just sighs and kisses him back, a little tired-seeming but still enthusiastic enough that John thinks he won't mind if John scrapes the edges of his teeth over Rodney's pink nipple to make it perk up and then sucks it even harder so he can bite, just a little, applying pressure until Rodney jerks and moans and paws at John's shoulder, Rodney's impatient Get on with it gesture that is fast becoming familiar.

John is impatient too, has wanted this for hours, it feels like. He's not sure Rodney has any idea how pretty he looks like this, all flushed pink, the thin skin of his shoulders showing tracings of blue veins marbling the strong muscles. John presses his teeth into a thick bicep, and Rodney cuffs him on the side of the head, saying, "Freak." But there's altogether too much affection in his voice, and it resonates in John's gut, threatening to shatter the fragile thing hiding in his chest, and he has to duck his head down and rest his forehead against Rodney's shoulder for just a second.

Rodney's hand drifts into his hair and scratches tentatively, but he doesn't, thankfully, say anything, and after a moment John lifts his head and continues his way down, kissing the smooth swell of Rodney's stomach and curling his hand around Rodney's soft cock. He cradles it to pull the lax shaft and head into his mouth, sucking him hard, resting his cheek on Rodney's groin.

Rodney moans softly, still petting restlessly through John's hair, pushing against the grain and raising shivers on John's skin. John plants his left hand on the bed by Rodney's waist to give himself better leverage and starts a good rhythm, going down and sucking hard on the way up, turned on by Rodney's whimpers and the taste and smell of him, the way his cock rides against John's tongue. After a while John lets go of the shaft to reach down to his own cock so he can stroke himself, but it's too distracting and hard to keep his balance, his hip aching a little from the strain, so he stops and focuses on Rodney's cock in his mouth, Rodney's hands running over him, and when John teases his balls with a gentle hand, Rodney cries out sharply and comes, his fingers digging into John's shoulder.

John lets Rodney's come collect in his mouth before pulling away to swallow harshly, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips. When he turns his head Rodney is staring at him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth open and loose, expression come-blissed. Rodney licks his lips and John's cock jerks, reminding him, but his arousal seems strangely unimportant. He pushes his palm on the base of his cock to quiet it down, and settles next to Rodney again, this time resting his head on Rodney's chest to listen as his breathing slows to normal.

It feels good to just lie here and not think, just feel like he's in the right place finally, with the right person. With someone his friends have accepted. The last time he'd felt like this was ten years ago and a war away, on his wedding night. He's amazed the thought doesn't send him screaming, but somehow it doesn't, and he just floats in the moment.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" comes Rodney's wry voice, and then Rodney is tugging at him, pulling him up for a kiss. And, no, it's not like John's forgotten his hard-on—in fact, he's been absently stroking it while lying there—but now he pushes it rudely against Rodney's thigh and says, "Nope," then snickers when Rodney rolls his eyes.

"Come here," Rodney says imperiously, and proceeds to wrap his arms around John and twists unexpectedly, trying to roll him over.

Oh, shit, John has time to think, freezing up in an effort to lock his hip, but he lands awkwardly and the momentum of his leg pulls it to a bad angle, making him gasp and jack-knife, clutching at his thigh. He bumps right into Rodney, who yelps when their elbows knock, and then they are both still—John sitting upright with his right leg in both hands, his left trapped under Rodney, who is half reclining and rubbing his arm, staring at him in alarm.

"Sorry," John says when he can speak. He feels himself grimacing, and smoothes his expression and shrugs. "Equipment issues, remember?"

"Oh! I—did I—?"

"Not your fault." John makes himself smile. "It got caught funny."

"Because I pushed you." Rodney's mouth twists.

John shakes his head. "I wasn't ready. I just need to be ready. Anyway—" he lies back down and strokes himself, "losing momentum, here. Help a guy out?"

The worried look eases, and Rodney leans over him, his mouth hovering over John's groin. John offers him his cock, and Rodney takes in the head, pouting his lips and tongue over it, so warm and wet and soft. John shifts his grip to the base of his shaft to give Rodney more room and slowly jacks himself into Rodney's mouth, then closes his eyes and focuses on the wet sounds Rodney's making sucking on him, and the way his tongue is smoothing around and down and up and around again, over and over. John feels the bed shift, feels Rodney nudging the inside of his good leg, and John shivers a little and bends his knee, making room, giving Rodney access. It's no secret anymore, not to Rodney, that John likes his ass played with, loves being fingered, comes harder with Rodney's fingers or cock up his ass. Another first, trusting someone with that information. With Nancy, he hadn't known, and later, he'd kept his enjoyment to himself, only letting go once he was out of the service and discovered the solo enjoyment of a good dildo.

But Rodney is better than any goddamned sex toy, getting two fingers good and slick with spit and sliding them in halfway before gathering a little more wet and coming back, pressing up, and John rocks his fist down while Rodney fucks him with his fingers and sucks the head of his cock, and it doesn't get any better than this, forcing noises from the back of John's throat that sound almost fake, they're so dirty. He feels his face and chest grow hot, and then his nuts draw up and he's coming hard, squeezing down on Rodney's fingers while they curled up and rub just exactly right.

"Jesus Christ!" John yells. Rodney just hums and sucks him, swallowing him down like he's candy, or coffee. John shudders and feels himself go totally limp, wincing when Rodney eases out his fingers. Rodney smirks a little as he rolls off the bed, and he smiles down at John for a long moment before padding off into the bathroom.

"Sounded like you enjoyed that," Rodney says over the sound of the sink.

"Uhh," John tries to reply. His mouth doesn't work quite right. He's cooling down fast in the drafty room, so he rolls to his good side to loosen up the sheet, then puffs it over his bad hip to keep it warm.

He lifts it again a minute later, when Rodney comes back in, to let him slide underneath, and then Rodney reaches up and snaps off the light and plops his pointy chin on John's chest.

"Ow?" John nudges Rodney's head with his cheek trying to get him into a more comfortable position.

Rodney makes a disgruntled sound and shifts over. "Tonight was...I enjoyed myself tonight. Despite the utter humiliation at Ahsarvat's hands. Your friends. I liked your friends. Your friends seemed to...like me?"

Automatically, John wraps an arm over Rodney's back and hugs him. "They did, yeah. Of course."

"I never thought—" Rodney huffs, and John has to nudge him into continuing. "A scientist is accustomed to solitary pursuits." The formal words are at odds with Rodney's quiet, small voice, and John gathers him upwards to kiss his cheek, to kiss the down-tilted corner of the mouth John knows is there. Maybe Rodney is as surprised by all this as John is. Funny how that really hadn't occurred to him.

"Well, get used to being—you're with me, now." But there has to be a better way to say it, so John palms the side of Rodney's head and whispers in his ear, "This is it for me, Rodney. I hope you know that."

"God, John," Rodney whispers back. "You'd better. You'd really had better, because I was counting on it. Forever. Infinity."

John heaves a relieved breath. "Infinity cubed," he says a little stupidly, and Rodney snorts a little, which, yeah, okay, it's mathematically impossible, but suddenly nothing seems impossible, and John's thinking crazy things like scribbling it on his own boxers with a Sharpie, ∞³, over and over, just to hear Rodney call him romantic sap.

John's pretty comfortable with that.

Rodney stirs in his arms, twisting to try to pull himself on top of him, but John quickly eases him over to his good side so his hip is out of the way, and Rodney slots in naturally, like he was expecting it, and now they're skin against skin, a little too warm and sticky, but John can feel every breath Rodney's taking, feels the rub of their chest hair and the softness of their dicks pressing next to each other. It's intimate and warm, and John almost laughs realizing he's been waiting for something all night, maybe for the bubble to crack and burst and bleed, but now it feels like it's just expanded to include them both inside.

And it's good. It's so goddamned good in here.

"Teyla almost had Ahs beat for a while there," Rodney says sleepily.

"She did." John smiles thinking of the way Teyla's eyes gleamed when she won that one big pot and said, "Come to poppa!" then scooped up all the chips.

"I'll have to learn how to count cards."

"You'll have to get yourself a poker face first, sport."

"Hrm."

But Rodney is obviously too sleepy to frame a good rebuttal, and a few seconds later he makes a funny snuffling sound. John tucks the edge of the sheet between them so it won't slip free during the night, and then he closes his eyes.

Behind them, in the dark, he can almost see forever.

End.

A/N: To my mind, Ahs is a naturalized American (some call it first generation American, others argue first generation means first generation born in America), and he immigrated to Philly when he was young enough to acculturate, and thus straddles many distinct cultures, his formative East Indian cultures, and his American east and west coast cultures. He's thus in a prime position to poke fun at/take advantage of people's stereotyping.

Goat Hill Pizza in Potrero Hill, SF. God, their pesto pizza.

Warnings: John is mildly disabled due to injury; we do hope it isn't permanent.

chkc birthday fic: Crunch! +bonus porn

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 07:58:05 GMT

Happy day to you, wonderful girl. You bring us all so very much happiness.

You give us awesome chibi and even awesomer cool girl joy, your porny illos are to make us run to our bunks, and you're just all-around wonderful to be near.

yay! chkc, here's hoping you have the bestest day. Hope the weather is bright and you get to do all the most bestest things you love with all the people you love to be with.

A present fic, Sheppard/McKay, FT, PG, because you like things that go crunch:

Crunch

by esteefee

Crunch.

"Sheppard? Where are you?"

"I'm right here, Rodney." Sheppard's voice floated reassuringly out of the dark, just a few meters ahead and to Rodney's right. Rodney stepped forward blindly and brushed up against what felt like Sheppard's sleeve.

"Don't walk so fast." Crunch. Crunch. Rodney shivered and tried not to imagine what was making that sound under his boots. Leaves? It had to be leaves. Leaves that had blown into the long-empty corridor. Leaves that sometimes seemed to move and skitter before their feet as they shuffled their way blindly toward what they hoped was the exit. "Try not to leave me behind, Colonel."

"Rodney, we're barely moving here. It's pitch black if you haven't noticed."

"Oh, I assure you I have, and why couldn't we have waited for Lorne to break us out back there where the door locked us in and Teyla and Ronon out—"

"I'm not sitting around waiting to be rescued," Sheppard muttered, then said louder, "Besides, you told me yourself the LSD wouldn't be able to penetrate whatever put our electronics and flashlights on the fritz, so how would he know where to find us?" Which was just ludicrous, but just then something skittered and then crunched under Rodney's foot again, and he gasped and sidled sideways, bumping right into Sheppard, who staggered and grabbed at him to keep them both upright. "McKay! What the hell?"

"Sorry! Sorry."

"Okay, look." Sheppard turned him, and Rodney could feel his warm hands gripping him, steadying him. It was kind of reassuring, really. Sheppard smelled good, too, a data point Rodney had recorded early on in their...well, working relationship? Association.

"What? What?" Rodney asked irritably. It really was entirely too dark in here, and Sheppard's breath was soft on his face, and Rodney wanted nothing more than to clutch hold of him like a scared date at a horror movie.

"I know you get a little...weirded out by small spaces, and when it's dark it feels closed in like that, but we're almost out of here."

"It's not the dark," Rodney said quickly. "I'm hardly afraid of the dark, Sheppard. I'm not an infant!"

"Oookay," Sheppard said, making a three-course meal of the word.

"I'm not! It's not the dark."

"Then what is it?" Sheppard coaxed him back into movement down the corridor, one arm loosely caging Rodney's shoulders.

Crunch.

Rodney jerked.

Sheppard sighed.

"Well, if you must know, it's that. It's that crunching sound."

There was silence for a moment, and then Sheppard responded, "You mean the leaves?"

"If that's what they are," Rodney said, his voice low. "I'm...unconvinced."

"What the hell else could it be?"

"They're...it's just that they...sometimes it sounds like they're moving. Skittering."

Sheppard froze, and his arm clamped tightly around Rodney's shoulders.

"Well, fuck," Sheppard said, his voice going funny.

"Sorry—" It occurred to Rodney in retrospect that bringing up the possibility of bugs underfoot to a man who'd been almost fatally attacked by one was perhaps a little insensitive.

"No, that's just great." It sounded like Sheppard had started breathing a little fast.

"I did say I'm sorry—"

Sheppard pulled him around and Rodney wasn't sure if he reached out or if Sheppard did but suddenly he was being held tightly in Sheppard's arms, wrapped up strongly, his face pressed against Sheppard's neck. It was...strange. Not anything like Rodney had expected, holding Sheppard, but he was hardly one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he hugged back as hard as he could.

They stood there for a moment, and Rodney realized he couldn't hear anything—no skittering, nothing but the sound of their breathing, which started to calm. And in spite of the bulkiness of their tac vests, Rodney felt how their bodies seemed to fit together comfortably. He never would have thought Sheppard could fit with someone like that, least of all with him, but it was wonderful feeling Sheppard relaxing into his arms.

"Okay," Sheppard whispered finally. "Call me crazy, but I think this is the weirdest thing we've ever done."

"You're crazy," Rodney whispered back, because he could name about ten things easily weirder without even straining himself, but Sheppard suddenly laughed a little.

"Thanks, Rodney," he said, and started to pull back. Right before he did, though, Rodney could swear he felt Sheppard's lips brushing lightly over his cheek.

"It's just leaves," Sheppard said firmly, and Rodney nodded hard even though Sheppard couldn't see him.

"Leaves. Just leaves," he squeaked, and Sheppard clapped him on his vest.

"Good man. Let's go."

Together they crunched their way toward home.

End.

[AND! The bonus porn-at-home sequel! Because it's not a birthday without the birthday suit]:

The debrief was minimal—Went to Ancient outpost. Colonel Super Gene pushed button on ridiculous Ancient weapon, which turned everything off, including the doors and our equipment. Trudged the tediously long way home—so Rodney got to spend a little time in the lab double-checking that none of his precious laptops were permanently damaged. Then he got into an argument with Zelenka about silicone- versus biological-based computing and whether Wraith tech would have been affected by the Ancient technology—outcome undetermined despite argumentative volumes—and then Rodney went to the mess late for dinner.

No John, which was strange, because usually by that time he would have had his gonads crushed by either Teyla or Ronon during his late afternoon work-out and would just be finishing a tray full of carbs. Rodney grabbed him a wrapped sandwich and a bag of potato chips just in case and headed over to John's quarters.

Rodney tried knocking, then tried the door, then tried knocking again.

"Yeah?" he finally heard.

"It's Rodney. I brought you a sandwich?"

The door swooshed open, and Rodney was already stepping in before he realized a) John was dripping wet; and b) he was wearing only a towel; and c) he was dripping wet wearing only a towel.

Rodney had to swallow twice before he could speak. Then he repeated, "Sandwich?" and held it up, only to realize he'd just crushed it in his hand.

John's half-smile of welcome started to change into something else, but he turned away before Rodney could see it, saying, "Sorry, you caught me just as I was getting out."

The skin of John's back was flushed pink as if he'd spent a lot of time under the hot water. Rodney's eyes helplessly followed the curve of his spine down to the dimples just over his towel-covered ass. Hastily, Rodney looked away and went over to John's desk to drop off the squished sandwich and the little bag of chips.

"So, I—" Rodney took a peek. John's towel had slipped a little while he bent to dig through his drawer. Holy cow. Holy cow. Rodney spun away and stared down at the sandwich. "Turkey. The sandwich is turkey, I'm pretty sure," he babbled, "and the chips are Lay's, which I know are your favorite."

"McKay, are you...wow, you're blushing."

"What? No, I certainly am not." Rodney stared down at the squished sandwich and tried to work his way down from 134,261,672 in sevens.

"You are, too." And—Jesus—that was John's voice, rough and dark, coming from behind him, lifting the hair on the back of Rodney's neck. "Haven't you ever seen a guy in a towel before?"

"Of course I have," Rodney scoffed. 134,261,630...134,261,623...

"Your ears are pink."

"I have naturally fair skin."

"And the back of your neck."

"It's-it's warm in here—" And, God, he could feel John so close behind him now, damp heat all along his back.

"Hey, McKay," John whispered. "It's okay."

Rodney swallowed and turned around carefully. He had to be careful because he wasn't imagining it—John really was so close, the damp skin of his chest was almost brushing Rodney's uniform shirt. Rodney raised his head and saw the look in John's eyes.

"Oh." Rodney said.

"Yeah." John cocked his head, looking uncertain, but when he licked his lips Rodney couldn't wait any longer, so he tilted forward and—

Oh. Oh. This was—much more than Rodney had anticipated. John's lips were soft, full, the granite of his stubble an achingly wonderful contrast to the sweet pull of his nibbling, sucking mouth. Rodney had to reach up and steady himself by putting his hands on John's shoulders, registering, skin, oh, God, John's skin, the strong muscle of John's shoulders and neck, always hidden by the veil of his thin black T-shirts or heavy uniform shirts, now silky, naked beneath Rodney's fingers. John's tongue rasped below Rodney's lower lip before sliding inside Rodney's mouth, and Rodney shocked himself with a sexy groan, a sound he made unselfconsciously, but seemed to trigger something in John because suddenly Rodney felt hands grabbing his hips, lifting him up onto the desk, pushing him back so John could wedge between his legs and—

Crunch.

—the forgotten bag of potato chips exploded under Rodney's butt. John chuckled into Rodney's mouth, and after pulling back to scowl indignantly at him, Rodney couldn't help smiling a little at John's open grin.

"Way to kill the mood, Sheppard," Rodney said as grumpily as he could, considering the erection pressing against the fly of his uniform pants.

John's eyes narrowed as if in challenge, and he planted his hands on Rodney's thighs to anchor himself before slithering to his knees. It was the sexiest goddamned thing Rodney had ever seen in his life, so he felt justified in blurting, "That'll be hell on your knees."

John looked up at him disbelievingly.

Rodney crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. "I rely on those knees almost daily to rescue me from the most ridiculously dangerous situations—"

"Fine, fine. Who's killing the mood now?" John said, but then ducked his head and pulled off his towel, dropping it on the floor and using it as a cushion. "Better?" he said, looking up, but Rodney was too busy staring at John's hard cock to pay attention to the smug smirk he just knew was decorating John's face.

Rodney swallowed. "Better," he said weakly.

"Good." Evidently John's patience was at an end because suddenly his hands were all over Rodney's waist, yanking him closer to the edge of the table and unfastening his trousers with deft, sure movements. And even though Rodney had known where this was heading, knew it all along in the subroutine that was composing the red-hot Honcho Magazine letter in the back of his brain for the last ten minutes, it wasn't until he felt John's strong hand grasping his cock and tugging him down and saw that dark head bending over him, not until that last split second before he felt John's mouth on him that Rodney realized, dear God, John Sheppard is going to suck my cock.

And then he was. John was taking him in, all wet, wet, smooth and hot, sliding and slurping around the head so sweetly that Rodney had to grip hard on the edge of the desk and start counting backward again or this would be over embarrassingly fast, tragically soon. Once John had him as slick as he seemed to want he kept going down, sucking downward on Rodney's cock until Rodney felt like he was being swallowed whole.

And then John came back up for a heaving breath, and went back down again in a steady rhythm, and something broke in Rodney's chest watching, feeling this—he couldn't put a name to it beyond devotion, or perhaps determination, or the strange combination of both that was the heart of Sheppard, placed like a gift in Rodney's hand. Rodney's breath swelled, and he lifted his hand and put it on the back of John's head, felt John's rhythm almost break, then rush forward even faster, and Rodney let John move through his fingers, let his palm run over and down through the thick, stiff short hair and the straining muscles of John's neck, and Rodney moaned, "John. God, John," and he came inside John's mouth.

John slowed and sucked gently and swallowed, and then pulled away and rested his forehead on Rodney's thigh. Rodney was trembling too hard to sit up anymore, so eased himself down, the chips and the sandwich following him down to the floor so he ended up on his knees in front of John with the mess scattered around them, but John didn't seem to notice—he was staring right at Rodney through half-lidded eyes that were almost electric with need. Rodney pulled him in only to be attacked by John's mouth on his, the bitter taste of his own come on John's lips.

"What do you need?" Rodney said when he pulled away, but John was already answering, pulling Rodney's hand down to his cock, which was hot and heavy and drum-tight in his hand. Jesus, John had to be hurting, and he didn't even have a foreskin, which was an appalling, criminal atrocity the Americans perpetrated on their infant males, but which meant Rodney would be damned if he would jerk John off dry. Rodney quickly licked his palm, getting it good and wet, and leaned his cheek against John's shoulder so he could look down and watch while he jerked him off.

John let out a grateful moan when Rodney first stroked him tip to root, but then went strangely silent, gasping into Rodney's hair. Rodney assumed it was a habit from having to live in tight quarters due to a military career, and vowed to himself he would train John out of it. Assuming he would have a chance.

He'd like to have a chance.

It wasn't long before John was clutching his shoulder and gasping, "Rodney, God, yeah, like that," and lunging his hips into Rodney's fist, and then John stiffened and his cock spurted, creamy and thick over his naked stomach and Rodney's hand. John gave a weak moan and then slumped against Rodney—of course, getting spunk all over Rodney's shirt, but Rodney didn't have the heart to complain.

He'd be soaking potato chip stains out of his pants for days anyway.

"You've got good hands," John said a minute or so later, and Rodney realized he'd drifted a little, still holding John at an awkward angle, his back against the leg of the table.

"Yes, well, years of training—"

John gave a muffled snort, and Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Not that kind of training. Infant."

"I'll bet."

"Please, can we get off this floor?"

"Good idea."

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, though, because once John retrieved his towel, wiping himself off casually and pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of track pants, an awkward silence settled between them. Rodney made himself useful by cleaning up the potato chips as best he could and trying to fix John's sorry excuse for a sandwich. He stopped when John caught him at it, and then John was smirking at him, and Rodney couldn't help grinning back, even though he knew he had a ridiculous, lopsided smile.

But then John tugged his hand and said, "C'mere," and kissed him. And John said, "Thanks for bringing me dinner."

"Oh, it was hardly any trouble—"

"Even if you sat on my chips."

"That wasn't my fault!"

"And mushed my sandwich."

"It's turkey!"

"I like turkey."

"I know!" Rodney scowled. "Why'd you miss dinner, anyway?"

John's face went funny—first wince-y, then constipated, and then blank, as if he was hoping Rodney hadn't noticed the traffic accident his features had undergone a moment before.

Rodney jabbed a finger at him. "Don't even! You're hiding something."

John sighed and then went over to the bed and pulled out one of his combat boots from underneath then flipped it over to show Rodney the sole. It took Rodney a moment to make sense of what John was asking him to look at—blue paint? Pixie dust? And then he recognized the iridescent, vibrant flakes of color trapped between the treads of John's boot.

Rodney shivered. "Wings?"

John shrugged, but it looked more like a shudder. "Iratus, I think. Long, long dead, though."

"Jesus Christ. Those idiotic Ancients with their insane experiments—" That long corridor. The entire time they were walking—

"Come on." John nudged him. "Don't do that. Don't even thing about it. Or you'll end up taking a two hour-long shower."

"Ha. Oh."

John grinned sheepishly and ducked his head. "Hey, you want to sleep here tonight?"

Rodney did, he really did, but—"Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"No. But I think—just for tonight—I want you to. I mean—" John rubbed the back of his head, looking away, "Hell, Rodney, you know we won't get away with it most of the time, or even a lot of the time. But if things weren't the way they are, I'd ask you to. So..."

"All right." God, anything to get that lost expression off of John's face. "Just for tonight."

And John smiled.

Well, of course, John's bed was too short, and too narrow for two grown men, and his mattress was plain wretched, and somehow some potato chip crumbs ended up scratching under Rodney's hip all night long.

It was close to perfect.

End.

Happy birthday, chkc!

ETA: changed time stamp and made it public and stuff.

fandom meta: on boys in slash

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 23:05:04 GMT

So...I had a weird thought today when I was responding to an email from someone, in that I found myself assuming the person I was responding to was a woman. Which, granted, I try not to do (usually I obliquely try to hint/ask) but usually end up doing anyway for efficacy's sake.

But that led me to wondering and then realizing, yeah, of course, there must be some guys out in slash fandom who might not want to identify themselves as male even if they are, because they might get treated as oddities or alien, and it's easy to be anonymous online.

I do know at least some guys in slash that I've met through cons and the like, but mostly slash fans online identify as women either outright or, again, obliquely ("the first time I got pregnant," etc...) I have no idea what the real percentages are, but I would guess it's at least 90/10.

And though it's nice, I have to say, as a woman (yes, I am ovarian) to be part of a group for once that is predominantly female (boy, that's a rare thing for me, considering all my other pursuits in life), I feel kinda...well I don't want to say tainted, but almost like I'm unconsciously participating in the same kind of bullshit that I encounter in other aspects of my life (computer industry; sports pursuits; hell, buying groceries).

So *if* there are any guys out there on my flist and I've been assuming incorrectly, I'm sorry about that. Let me know if I'm getting it wrong. And if that's the way you prefer it, that's fine, too, I get that, nothing worse than feeling singled out when you don't want to be, but I just want to say I know it sucks being in the minority, or being invisible all the time. So, secret wave hello.

bestest CHIBI birthday ever!

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:41:37 GMT

chkc made me the BESTEST CHIBI BDAY PRESENT EVAR:

RIGHT HERE.

Seriously, if I had like one finger of this girl's talent I would do nothing but draw all day long. Fortunately, I do not, and so I can feed myself by working and stuff. :)

Thank you so much, chkc. ::glees::

John's happy flying! His oenoes tragic faces! Rodney to the rescue and John's flolopping gleeful hugs!

That's exactly how I felt getting this gift.

fandom meta: on warnings

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:28:59 GMT

It has become clear to me recently, due to the present ongoing discussion re: warnings, that I've made some assumptions as a writer that were unfair to readers who might have triggers. So, to clarify: I always warn for any non-consensual sex, or rape, torture, character death or disability that appears in my stories (I've added a note in my profile to indicate as much.) I thought that was *normal*. The warnings will always be linked to in the header of the story.

In addition, I'm about halfway through adding "Warnings: none" to the headers of all of my stories that don't require any warnings, just so that anyone happening upon them will know there are no (anticipated) triggers in those stories.

If there are other things you as a reader feel I should warn for, let me know. I do occasionally warn for something else, such as blasphemy (sexual) or violence to innocent little animals (hey, bug!John needed to eat), but that's for squick, not for triggers. I don't write incest or suicide, and I don't even know what chan is, so they're not on my list. But if you're ever reading one of my stories and are disturbed and upset and didn't feel warned, please do let me know.

This is my responsibility as a writer, as a person who gives a damn about the people who are trusting me with their minds. That's what I think, anyway.

Sheppard/McKay story: Performance Review (NC-17)

Mon, 08 Jun 2009 08:01:10 GMT

Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3,581
Categories: ER, Supposedly PWP but I'm bad at those.
Spoilers: none. floaty.
Warnings: Um. Blasphemy.
Summary: All systems can benefit from a little peer review.
A/N: Really, just inspired by Crys' Chibi Fierce!Rodney and John!Belly.

Performance Review

by esteefee

It's performance review time again, and they're both bunkered in Rodney's quarters with radios on Extreme Emergency Override Only (Atlantis Better Be Sinking. And on Fire.) with the doors locked, locked, locked. Rodney is at his desk with two laptops and four personnel forms open, and Sheppard is sprawled on Rodney's couch using a clipboard and paper, for God's sake, tapping a pencil against his lips. He's already nibbled dents into the metal bit that holds the eraser, and every so often he pushes his hand into his hair and groans softly.

Rodney knows just how he feels. He's already run out of nice ways to say "shouldn't be allowed near sharp objects," and is staring into space trying to think up yet another synonym for "incompetent" when his eyes focus on John, who's put the clipboard aside and is arching in a lazy stretch, socked toes flexing, spine bowing so his untucked black T-shirt creeps up to expose a flash of belly and a slice of his hip bone, including that muscle that runs over it and draws a path down to his groin. John's fingers land on skin to scratch idly. Scritch. Scritch.

Colonel Goddamned Teasy-Flirt, Rodney thinks, exasperated and aroused at the same time, and he flicks his eyes up to John's face, except John is oblivious; isn't even looking at him, but is going for the full-on stretch now, arms going back, face twisting into a yawn, and he rubs one absurd, curvy eyebrow with his knuckles, looking about three years old, and wrinkles his nose. When he opens his eyes and catches Rodney staring at him, he blinks in surprise and then smiles a little bashfully.

"Uh, hey."

"Hey, yourself." Rodney licks lips gone suddenly dry, and realizes he's put his feet down and rolled his chair forward on automatic pilot, drawn by the magnetic force that is one stupefyingly, ridiculously hot Lieutenant Colonel daring to lounge on his sofa with one of his socks rolled down so it shows his bony shin. And his shirt is still rucked up and Rodney thinks if he moves fast enough he can maybe bury his nose in John's warm belly.

Because he can. He's allowed to now, performance evaluations be damned.

"You done already?" There's something a little breathless about the way John asks, and Rodney thinks if he dared to look he'd catch it on John's face, but they're both new enough to this that he has a little mercy and doesn't look; he'd rather let it sneak up on both of them.

"Not even close. I still have two anthropologists, three physicists and a zoo-keeper." Rodney keeps rolling forward stealthily, glad he'd applied WD-40 to his wheels just last week.

"Zoo-keeper?" John's hand drops to his thigh and Rodney can see his fingers tapping there. Rodney rolls a little faster.

"Well...biologist."

John chuckles low, and when Rodney's chair bumps up against the sofa, his hand comes up and catches Rodney's knee to cup it warmly. "I've got three privates, a lance corporal, a gunny, two second lieutenants, and Major Lorne." John's thumb rubs over the ball of muscle on Rodney's knee, making him shiver.

"You win."

John gives him a frowning smile. "I do?"

"Yes. You are way deeper in the hole than I am."

"I definitely am." John lets his other arm drop back over his head. "What do I win?"

Rodney looks helplessly down at the way John's stretch has pulled up his Air Force ROTC T-shirt even higher, exposing more of his pale stomach so he's all spread out like a creased and rumpled smorgasbord. John has a pencil mark on his lower lip and his hair has achieved a level of disheveledness usually only possible after sweaty and rigorous frottage, and Rodney wonders how much more tousled he can make it in the next half hour.

But first, he leans over and succumbs to the pull of the hollow below John's hip that's been calling to him, right where John's fingers scratched so lightly and teasingly. Rodney bends down low enough to rub his nose there and smell John, musky and salty, and John rumbles a low sound of encouragement, whispers Rodney's name, his hand cupping the back of Rodney's head.

"We're gonna miss our deadlines."

"Screw the bureaucrats," Rodney mumbles against John's clean-tasting skin, and noses his way down, pushing aside the loose waist of John's BDUs. How they ever stay on his hips, Rodney will never know. Magnets, maybe, or sheer force of will. Maybe they're ATA controlled, which would explain why Rodney's weaker gene failed to make them fall off all the many times he tried by staring at John's ass during long hikes off-world, his only distraction from the burning in his own calves and his shortness of breath in those early days before he'd gotten in shape.

He likes his own shape now, likes the way John looked at him when he had Rodney naked in his double bed—speaking of which, this maneuver would be a lot easier there instead of here, where he's fighting the wheels of the chair to stay close enough to nibble on the soft lower swell of John's belly, not to mention he's risking his back seizing up, but he doesn't want to stop. He still can't quite believe this is his, that he can do this, that John is letting him, and maybe he moans a little too desperately, because John says, "Hey, hey," his stomach moving under Rodney's lips, and his fingers touch Rodney's cheek, easing him up and away.

"You're gonna hurt your back like that." John looks concerned, and not about his back.

"No, I know, of course." Rodney sighs and pushes himself up again, but John grabs the chair and rolls him over, clutches him by the waist, and then in some inexplicable move suddenly has Rodney tucked under him, their legs tangled together and the chair overturned beside them, its wheels still spinning in outrage.

"Much better," John says in perfect satisfaction while Rodney stares up at him, completely overwhelmed.

"You...you—"

"I've always been good at 3-D maneuvers," John says, not modestly at all, and Rodney bats at his shoulder. But John laughs and kisses him quiet, still such a surprise, how their lips fit, how John can go from annoying and teasing to so damned tender and serious and then hot, swiveling his hard cock against Rodney's thigh, his tongue pushing into Rodney's mouth, leaving Rodney breathless with wanting it so badly. How could he have known? He couldn't have. There was no previous data to build from, and for all he called John the Captain Kirk of Pegasus, he'd never actually seen him with anyone to know John could be like this.

And he never would have suspected John could be like this with him, anyway.

"But I want—" Rodney says breathlessly when John pulls away, and John frowns, waiting, then bends and licks once at Rodney's lower lip as if trying to coax the rest out. "Oh, God," Rodney says, incapable of articulating it because of that tongue, and that mouth, and the way John has moved on and is nuzzling his way past Rodney's jaw and over to his ear.

This leaves John's own ear exposed for attack, and Rodney lifts his head and rubs his lips against the shell. John stiffens in his arms; Rodney isn't sure if that's a good thing or not, so he does it again, and feels John actually shudder.

"Okay?" Rodney whispers.

John is still, and after a moment he shrugs.

"That's not an answer," Rodney says, disgruntled, but John is already nosing his way down to Rodney's neck, and he's found that spot that always makes Rodney's toes curl up into tight balls of Dear God. Suddenly his shirt is peeling open as if by magic, and John is mouthing his way down the gap he's created, and it's all so unfair because Rodney wanted to do something, he had a plan, seeing John all laid out, and as is apparently developing into some sort of pattern, Rodney's entirely too big brain has yet again failed him at the critical moment and he finds himself once again shivering under John's mouth and clever, diabolical hands, now unzipping his trousers, and—

"Wait, wait—"

Sheppard looks up; he's kneeling on the edge of the sofa, his hands full of Rodney's pants, which are already halfway down his legs, and Rodney is entirely aware he looks quite ridiculous, and that this is an absurd point in the proceedings to pause for reflection, except he finally, finally is, and that's the important thing, so he clutches onto it with both hands and takes a deep breath.

"Not," he says carefully, "that I have any problem with the direction things are heading in..."

"Okay," John says, frowning, and he finishes taking off Rodney's pants, but then sits on the side of the couch.

"Or, mind you, any complaints whatsoever about past...performance."

John's eyes narrow.

"I just—I just, it's just that, I had something, an idea, and it seemed to be going that way, and then the chair, and the spinning, and before I knew it—"

"Hey, hey, breathe, buddy." John leans over him and brushes one hand over his chest. "What's the rush?"

And that is entirely the problem, because it always seems like there is such a terrible rush, at least in Rodney's mind, and things happen so quickly, as if time suffers under completely different rules in the Sheppard Zone, or maybe it's the Rodney and John Zone, because really Rodney can't put the blame solely on John's shoulders.

John's shoulders. Which are still fully dressed in his worn ROTC T-shirt while Rodney is lying here in his unbuttoned shirt and boxers and white socks.

"No rush," he says. "You're right. Just—" Rodney pulls his legs up and around so he can stand up, and then he bends over John and tugs on his shirt. John shoots him a bemused look but lifts his arms, letting Rodney pull it off him, and then John's hair is sticking every which way and all that skin—a wealth of skin, like a herd of horses or a pack of dogs, Rodney thinks idly—the wealth of John's skin is revealed to him. He pushes on John's shoulder, and feels the minute resistance before John falls back and then swings his legs up so he's lying on the sofa again.

"Better?" John asks, still looking puzzled, and there's a subtle tension to him now that wasn't there earlier, as if he's uncomfortable, or worried he'll screw something up, which isn't what Rodney was after at all. He wants to get them back to where they were before, when this was lazy and easy and John was just there, puddled under him on the couch.

Well, the best things between them have always started with a kiss, including that very first one after-hours in the jumper bay when John reconfigured the power conduit solo using the crystal from the navigation subsystem by following Rodney's In-the-Event-You-Might-Have-to-Kiss-Your-Ass-Goodbye Emergency Fixit Manual. John's eyes had lit up as bright as the power module, and Rodney had just had to. Just had to.

Just like he does now, leaning over, skin touching skin as his stomach brushes against John's side, and then he kisses John deep and slow, because there's no rush. He's not anxious anymore. John's mouth opens under his just like it did back then—easily, gratefully—and it blows Rodney's mind all over again, a cognitive dissonance that does not compute, will not compute, because John could have anyone, but John wants him. Badly, if the shaky gasp is any indication, or the moan when Rodney's hand, seeking support, plants itself on John's chest just over his nipple.

"This? You like this?" Rodney asks, but John doesn't answer, just kisses him again. Rodney's starting to realize that asking isn't going to get him the answers he needs; that maybe he isn't the only one who feels out of control. Which explains a lot, really. So, Rodney is deliberate this time when he kisses down to John's ear and captures the tip between his lips and flicks his tongue against it. He has his hand on John's chest and feels the shiver, feels John's nipple grow hard under his palm.

It's not power he feels then, but relief. This is just like science, only better. Because it's John.

Rodney slides his hand down John's abdomen to the waist of his BDUs, and John sucks in his breath. The resulting gap makes it easy for Rodney to slip his fingers underneath, and he finds out shockingly fast that John has gone commando—his hard cock slips into Rodney's hand, and John lets out a choked sob.

"Rodney—" John's hips flex upward. Squeezing in response, Rodney lets John push his cock through his fist a couple of times before pulling away his hand.

Not tonight. He's done with quick and furious hand-jobs and frantic rub-offs. Rodney carefully lifts the front of John's BDU's and unfastens and unzips them, peeling them open to reveal John's pretty cock, flushed red and tight against his belly. Everything about the man is a contradiction in beauty and strength, one that Rodney plans to resolve by repeated exposure, if nothing else. He bends and lets the flat of his tongue rest on the notch just below the head of John's cock, that little, sensitive spot he's rubbed with his thumb, making John jerk. There's a fresh, clear pearl of liquid hanging in the slit, and Rodney dabs it out with a lick, smiling when John groans.

"Jesus Christ."

"I assure you, there's no way Jesus gave head nearly as well as I do."

John snickers, and Rodney punishes him by yanking his pants off, and then his socks, leaving him completely naked and staring up at him, a slight smile on his face. After a while John crosses his arms on his chest as if he doesn't know what to do with them, and Rodney realizes he's just been standing there, staring.

"You gonna get naked?" John says finally, his voice low.

"Soon, soon." Rodney is distracted by the wealth, by the way John's thigh muscles flex as he shifts his leg, at the bunching of his biceps and the twitching of his cock with his heartbeat. "If I had any talent at all for—" Rodney sweeps his hands over John to illustrate, "—I would, you know. I would draw you, or paint you. Or in marble, I think, even if it took years. Even if I went blind doing it—"

"Jesus, McKay—" John sits up suddenly and grabs his hand, trying to pull him down. Rodney lets him, until he's on one hip beside John on the couch and they're kissing again. But then Rodney stops and pulls back, determined to finish what he's started.

"My turn still," he murmurs, and now John is naked, nothing but shivering skin and silky hair under Rodney's palms, and when Rodney reaches John's cock he turns and angles so he can take it into his mouth, so he can wet it with his tongue and suck it in, and John makes a heartbreaking sound, relief and pain and hope and need all tangled into a cry that sends shivers down Rodney's spine. So Rodney curls his fist at the base of John's cock and begins to stroke, trying to meet his lips with his fist. He can feel the strength in the shaft in his hand, but feels the give there as well, the tenderness of thin skin and hollow vessels. Soon his spit makes everything smoother, and he starts stroking faster, easing back to taste the precum bubbling from the head of John's cock. Rodney licks lazily there for a few beats, being a little selfish because it's been so long since he's done this, and he's missed it.

John tastes good. Rodney almost laughs, because he knows what John's reaction would be to that—Jesus, McKay, you'll eat anything—and Rodney thinks maybe he's losing his mind a little, and a huge part of it is his sheer relief because he's not uncertain any longer. He's not off-balance. He's blowing John, and John is loving it, if the twitching of his thighs is anything to go by, or the way he's moaning out loud and petting Rodney's back and neck.

"God, Rodney, Rodney, wait, no, I'm—"

Rodney's left hand has been curled around John's thigh for balance, and he feels it go rock-hard, and then John's cock does, too, and Rodney times it perfectly, pulls back and flicks the head lightly with his tongue, and John shouts and comes, spurting into his mouth over and over, trembling and shaking and still coming, until Rodney has to pull away to swallow and finish him with his hand. John makes a weird, whimpering sound and spurts again, hard enough to dribble more come over Rodney's fingers and onto his own stomach, and then he grabs Rodney's hand to keep him still.

Rodney smiles, knowing it's his pure evil genius grin but helpless to stop it, because he's pretty sure he just blew John's mind. And John is still trembling, his hand clenched around Rodney's as if he doesn't want either of them to let go of him. Finally, John releases him with a shaky sigh, and Rodney does too, peeling his sticky hand away and making John yelp a little because, yeah, he must be pretty sensitive, Rodney is guessing.

John has his other hand over his face and he's muttering, "God. Jesus, God." Rodney has to shift around so he can see him better.

"You all right?"

"All right?" John drops his hand. "I think you broke something. I swear to God I've never come that hard in my life." He sounds almost accusing, except there's a gleam in his eye.

Rodney has to resist the urge to bounce. "Well, I did warn you."

"Yes, you did. Jesus has nothing on you."

"And I'm very good at fixing things, you know. I mean, in case you really are broken."

John rolls his eyes. "Smart ass."

Rodney grins.

"Come here."

Rodney goes. As soon as he's in grabbing distance, John grabs, hauling him down and kissing him, licking the corners of Rodney's lips and then pushing his tongue into Rodney's mouth. "You're incredible," John mutters, then kisses him again. "I don't know if I—" He stops and rubs his thumb over Rodney's lip.

"This isn't a competition," Rodney says, a little pissed off, and then pauses for thought. "Because if that's why you've been—" He shuts up and kisses John again. Right now his dick is so hard it's about to do the macarena; not a good time to start a fight.

But John isn't an idiot; he pulls away. "Why I what? Doing what?"

Rodney shrugs uncomfortably. "Why you've just. Sort of. You've been, you know—taking over things. With us."

John frowns, and his eyes go inward. Then he smiles, except it's a little sad. "Only because...hey, look, don't take this wrong, but sometimes you get...you seem worried. I hate that." John shrugs. "I've just been trying to show you you don't have to worry. About us."

"I don't have to worry." Is that all? Rodney's chest bubbles with relief.

"Yeah. Because we're good."

"We are, aren't we?"

John's smile is full blown this time.

Rodney glares. "Except I've got a hard-on that could drill through Ancient metal."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes."

"We could use that, you know. We still haven't figured out how to cut our way through to that secret compartment in sub-level six—"

Rodney is about to punch him, but John is already pushing him down against the back of the couch, and he's squirreling his hand into Rodney's boxers, and that—yes, that right there, the way John grips him, so sure and tight and unlike anyone else, as if John's hand knows him, knows exactly how much pressure Rodney likes, and how he likes it when John thumbs the edge of his foreskin over and over the head, smoothing his precum around so its all slidey and slick in there, soft skin against soft skin while he strokes down and up and over and down again—God.

And John nudges away the edge of Rodney's shirt to latch onto his nipple and sucks and nips while he strokes Rodney's cock, creating a current between his nipple and his cock, cock and nipple, so that Rodney just tilts his head back and arches his chest and moans and whines and comes so hard that later—much, much later—he finds a tiny dab of dried come on the Ancient wall sconce next to the back of the couch.

But that's after they wash up and unwrinkle John's performance evaluation for Private Peters while John makes terrible, awful, dirty puns, and after they finally finish their reviews and turn them in and go back to Rodney's quarters and fall asleep and Rodney realizes, in reviewing his own performance, that for the first time in his life he has a) successfully navigated a sticky emotional issue in a serious relationship with someone without b) screwing it up or putting his foot in his mouth, and that c) he got a fucking great orgasm out of it in the process. And also, by the way, d) he blew John's mind.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

End.

Sheppard/McKay story: Ache (PG)

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 04:36:28 GMT

Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG
Words: 2,159
Categories: ER, H/C
Spoilers: The Eye
Warnings: none
Summary: These hands can also heal.
A/N: I really hate the tag for The Eye. I think
it belittles the two hours of tension and violence
that precede it. Anyway, here's my take.

Ache

by esteefee

John's wrists and finger joints ached from the recoil of the P-90, from clenching the hand grip and the LSD so hard for hours, so tightly he could still see the ridges embedded in his palms.

Rodney was sitting at the console mumbling something about getting various systems back online, and since the storm had finally passed, he suddenly wanted John to go restore the generators he'd disabled. John looked up, ready to protest, because, Jesus, he was tired, but Rodney wouldn't seem look at him.

And then John caught the expression on Elizabeth's face, and suddenly realized maybe they both knew more about what had happened during the storm than he'd guessed, because he'd seen that particular expression before on Corporal Dryer's face after their raid went bad that time in Panjwai.

They were the only two that got out alive, that time.

Elizabeth's expression flickered blank again, diplomat-smooth, but John had seen it, all right. Yeah, wraith were one thing, but the Genii were human, just like them. And John had killed a lot of them today. Of course, he'd thought Elizabeth had been murdered at the time, and that Rodney was in enemy hands, but he didn't think that would cut him any slack with a civilian. Hell, John had put a bullet through one of them just inches away from her.

John flicked one last look at Rodney then left to restore the generators, his hands still aching.

:::

He swung by the infirmary afterward and found Teyla tending to Carson, who had a concussion. John bound up her wounds when she was done, putting butterflies over the worst of them. Teyla look worn down from her own battle, and he leaned in closer, but not too close, just wanting her to know he was there. Still, he felt the hum of her tension and gave her space, knowing what that was like, and settled for her weary smile when he finished bandaging her cuts. He wanted to take care of Rodney's—he'd seen the blood on his sleeve—but Rodney hadn't shown, was still too busy getting the city back online, John guessed.

Ford was following John around like a shadow, a little too much awe in his eyes, and John remembered taunting Kolya about keeping score. Well, near as John could figure it while he and Ford were zipping the bodies into bags, from the positions on the floor and adding in the fifty-five Sora had reported over the open band, John had killed 62 today.

The fifty-five were the ones that crawled the worst beneath his skin, the way he'd done it by flipping a switch. Like bugs on a zapper. Except even cleaner—no bodies, no tags, no trace. A cowardly way to kill, John figured, and a chill ran through him as he finished zipping up the last of the bags, this time for Pierson, one of their marines. Together, Ford and John piled the two bags onto a gurney to wheel them to the transporter and down to the convenient stasis room they'd located early on, where their other dead waited until they might regain contact with Earth.

There was an anteroom down here with shelves where they kept personal effects, a shrine with pictures and candles, and a drawer filled with dog tags. John added Pierson's and McKenzie's to the tangled pile.

The room was cold, and he rubbed his hands together, leaving as quickly as he came.

:::

John leaned on the doorframe of Elizabeth's office and stared at top of her head.

"We should send them their dead," he said abruptly, just to see her head jerk up, her eyes narrow. Yeah, he'd been right about that look. At least she didn't appear half-drowned anymore, and seemed to have recovered her steel. Sometimes it was easy to see she grew up in a military family.

"We'll do that," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Teyla and Ford have already taken Sora down to the holding cells. And I'm almost done with my account. For the report."

He hoped she didn't expect him to finish his so soon. He needed time to let the edges dull a little. It wasn't like he was going to lose any of the faces. Not for a long time to come.

"How much did Kolya tell you?" he asked and shrugged, "while it was going on, I mean."

"We heard it all—he kept the radio on. He didn't seem to think we were much of a security risk."

"Guess he was wrong about that." Rodney had filled John in a little about how Elizabeth had outfoxed Kolya into deserting Atlantis.

"And about you, as well." The look flickered behind her eyes again, like a shadow through calm waters. "You should get changed into some dry clothes."

"Yeah."

"Our people will start gating back soon. Rodney has all the critical systems back up and said he was going to go raid the mess." She smiled wryly.

"Sounds like a plan."

He didn't see Rodney in the mess, but there were signs he'd been there—half a pot of fresh, hot coffee on the side table, and an open drawer of MREs that had obviously been raided for Rodney's particular favorites. John grabbed a couple labeled as beef stew and made his way to Rodney's quarters.

John should be going to his own. He should get out of his wet tac vest and damp uniform, take a hot shower, put on his softest sweats and crash out on his bed. Maybe rub some Tiger balm onto his damned shoulder, which was sore from his hasty impact with the deck below the grounding station.

And his hands were still stiff with cold.

But Rodney had refused to meet his eyes ever since this whole thing was over, had barely spoken to him except to fill him in on what had happened in jittering, disjointed glimpses, and John needed to know he was okay, at least enough to get some rest, to wind down for now—Rodney was never any good turning off after a crisis. John could maybe help him with that, if Rodney would let him. If he could stand having John around.

Hell, at least he could let John take care of that cut; the last he had seen, Rodney had wrapped a half-assed bandage around his jacket, like that would take care of it. John doubled back to grab a spare first aid kit.

It was weird going to Rodney's quarters in the middle of the night without having to worry about bumping into anyone, without having to sneak. He just walked right up to the door and knocked. After a moment the door slid open and there stood Rodney, an awkward shadow hovering in his darkened room.

"Oh, it's you," he said flatly and stepped back. The glow of his laptop revealed a half-eaten MRE and a cup of coffee. Rodney went back to his desk and sat down, his shoulder turned and hunched against the curve of his cheek.

"Yeah. Me. Carson's got a concussion, so I thought I'd do the first aid," John said, holding up the first aid kit as if he needed an excuse to be here. But maybe he did, because Rodney was still hunched over like he—for chrissake—expected John to hit him or something. This was worse than John had thought it would be, and he reduced his expectations from crawling into bed together and warming each other up to just dressing Rodney's wound and getting the hell out.

"Let me take care of that and I'll get out of your hair." His voice was maybe a little colder than he meant it to be, because Rodney jerked.

"Forgive me for not being more," Rodney waved his hand, "hospitable, but I'm tired, Major. I've had a difficult day pulling miracles and lightning and what-have-you out of my ass," he said before offering his arm.

John dropped the first aid kit on the desk and yanked off his tac vest finally, sighing to be free of the weight at last. He started to crouch down by the chair, but his knees cracked painfully and he said, "Hey, think maybe we can do this over there?" He pointed at the bed.

Rodney nodded stiffly and moved over to the bed while John waved on the light. Christ, Rodney looked like hell—skin pale except for a couple of pink spots high on his cheeks, a little sweaty, and a good scruff of shadow coming in. Looking at him still made John's heart turn right over though, every damned time.

John pulled the chair over to the bed and took Rodney's arm. "Let's get this off—jeez, Rodney, you'd never have earned a merit badge with this crap," he said, unwinding the mess of a field dressing Rodney had applied over his jacket.

"Thank you very much," Rodney muttered, "but I had better things to do with my time than tramp about in nature getting bug bites and sleeping on rocks with a bunch of under-washed pre-adolescents."

"Mmmm. Campfires and s'mores and circle-jerks."

Rodney started to respond, but then yelped when the last of the bandage pulled free with a moist sound. "Ow! Ow-ow-ow!"

"Sheesh! I'm sorry—"

Rodney yanked his arm away and shot John such a look of hurt that John's stomach plummeted straight to his boots. It was such a stupid thing, such a stupid, small thing to lay on the shit-pile that was his day, but somehow knowing he'd hurt Rodney on top of it all was enough to make the cold ache in his hands and his gut come flaring back ten-fold.

"God." He sat back and took a deep breath, the weight on his chest unbearable. He almost didn't register Rodney's voice saying miserably, "Oh, I know you think I'm a wimp and a coward, Major, but not all of us can be shining examples of courageous derring-do."

"What?" John looked up.

Rodney jutted his chin. "Just say it—I know how disappointed you are in me that I caved so easily and revealed our plan to Kolya."

There were some times when Rodney's absolute self-centeredness really took the fucking cake. John could almost hate him for it if he didn't know how much of it came from Rodney being so damned uncertain that anyone really cared about him. Near as John could figure it, the only person ever to really take care of Rodney had been Rodney himself, and that nearly broke John's heart to think about.

So, John just took a breath and said hoarsely, "I'm not disappointed. Never—I wasn't thinking that. I was thinking what a shit-heel I am to hurt you again when that's the last thing I came here to do. I was thinking, Jesus, I've been doing nothing but hurt people—kill people—all fucking day long." John stopped talking then because he lost the last words, broken on straining notes the way his voice still did sometimes as if he were twelve years old, and he clenched his hands together, relishing the ache this time because it kept him from doing something ridiculous like crying like a goddamned baby.

"Hey." A warm hand touched John's shoulder, bled heat right through his shirt, and he looked into Rodney's eyes. "Don't—they came here, it wasn't your—"

John clenched his jaw and glanced away again.

"Okay, okay...sorry, I was an ass and jumped to conclusions. Not my usual—I pride myself on better logic than that."

John could see the effort Rodney was putting into it—into playing it normal—and he gave him a quick smile of thanks and said, "So, let's just get this done, because, God, I'm tired. Aren't you tired?"

"Tired. Yes. Very." Rodney held up his arm, eyes firm on John's, with so much trust shining there that John felt warmed straight through.

It took a while to get the long cut cleaned and dressed. It was deep enough in the middle that it could have used some stitches—it would probably scar—but it was a little late for that, the edges already scabbed over and curling down, so John taped them as close as he could with careful, careful hands, smeared antibiotic ointment over every exposed inch, and taped gauze over the whole thing, then bound tape over the gauze. It would hold for the night, at least, and Carson could do a better job in the morning.

In the morning, when their people would return, and they could begin repairing the city, and help the Athosians repair their village, and then they would hold services for poor Pierson and McKenzie.

For now, all John needed to worry about was stripping off all his damp clothing and crawling into Rodney's arms, and tucking his aching hands under Rodney's clean, worn T-shirt, warming them on the soft swell of his belly, and when Rodney bent and kissed John lightly, once on his lips, once on his forehead, and rubbed his cheek there, John knew there was one place safe. One person who understood and wasn't afraid of who he was. And that was plenty.

He wasn't cold anymore.

End.

Nada: 10 things about me meme

Tue, 26 May 2009 17:46:35 GMT

Because crysothemis did it, and if she can be brave, so can I.

10 things about me:

My pseud is from a book by H. Beam Piper called Little Fuzzy. - I highly recommend it.
I just started writing fiction a few years ago - I really don't know what the hell I'm doing.
Posting personal stuff online still seems rude to me. - Like an intrusion.
I like legos - but not as much as plain old wooden blocks.
I haven't missed an opportunity to jerk off since puberty. - Is it okay to call it jerking off if I'm a girl? I always figured it's pretty much the same.
I started writing around the time I discovered slash. - The two are intimately connected.
I have lots of friends but I like to be alone.
I've been using Photoshop since 1.0. - But I still can't use Illustrator.
I have three tattoos - two of which are visible to casual view.
I wear my socks inside-out - they just feel fuzzier that way.

Podbooks and Podfics of Fair Trade Stories recorded by Wihluta

Tue, 26 May 2009 06:25:17 GMT

Fair Trade and Möbius are now available as one spanking podbook or as individual mp3s thanks to reader wihluta, podbooker cybel and archivist general_jinjur.

Here is the complete list of wihluta's recordings, all the Fair Trade stories to date:

Fair Trade as mp3
Möbius as mp3
Both as Audiobook (m4b)
Infinity Cubed as mp3
Fairly Competent as mp3

I swear, the things fandom does just make me all teary-eyed sometimes. It's all about cooperating for the greater good of porn. :)

Podfic: Möbius recorded by wihluta

Sun, 24 May 2009 10:02:13 GMT

wihluta has recorded Möbius as a podfic! Which means either she has tremendous vocal stamina or an extremely large supply of coffee beans.

I'll add permalink as soon as it's up on the archive.

Diplomatic Relations (gen, G)

Mon, 11 May 2009 23:30:40 GMT

For merrilily. :)

737 wds, Team, gen.
Summary: Rodney gets them out of a sticky situation.

Diplomatic Relations

by esteefee

Things were getting a little iffy. Even Teyla was starting to look tense, her seemingly endless calm tightening down into rigid formality, and Ronon had started fingering the butt of his blaster in a way that had John marking who to shoot first and exactly which exit to push Rodney through.

Rodney, of course, was escalating his rant about the critical nature, the absolute, imperative need he had to get behind the oh-so-sacred stone carved altar from which the energy signature was pulsing its sexy come-hither straight into his tricorder—

"Oh, for God's sake stop calling it that, you pointy-eared geek."

"Hey, Rodney, do they call it a 'tricorder' because it records three kinds of signals, or because it has three little screens on it?"

"I swear I will kill you with my mind."

—and just when John was pretty darned sure this was all going to end with blood and tears and possibly the use of the C-4 tucked in his vest pocket, Rodney stopped his ranting long enough to pull his thermos out of his pack and open it.

The scent of coffee—real coffee, thanks to a recent Daedalus run—came wafting out, and John closed his eyes and sniffed jealously.

"What—what is that smell?" Prime Minister Odair said, his face losing a little of the apoplectic redness that made John think he was a step away from a McKay-induced stroke (he wouldn't be the first Head of State to be felled by Rodney's charms.)

"Coffee," Rodney said shortly. "Nectar of the Gods." He poured some into the cap that served as a cup.

Odair drifted closer. "The Gods?" It looked like he wasn't so much walking as being pulled by his nose, and John hid a grin and let his hand drop away from his P-90. Around them, the various (armed) acolytes also relaxed minutely.

Rodney did a little bit of a double-take as he caught on to Odair's interest. "Yes, it's, ah, very valuable." He sniffed, and John could see his hesitancy, could almost read the equation running through McKay's mind. Access to altar = possible(ZPM)/beloved(Coffee). Rodney straightened his shoulders. "This coffee...we use it as an offering when, er, requesting the Gods' permission to access their sacred," he coughed, "mysteries."

Slowly, and really, really reluctantly, Rodney held out the stainless-steel cup. John heard Teyla make an undiplomatic noise on his right, and saw Ronon's lips twitch.

Odair took the cup, held it to his nose, and then lifted it high and turned in a circle. His voice boomed, "An offering is made of the sacred nectar, Coffee!"

"An offering!" the acolytes all cried. "An offering!"

John bit down hard.

Turning back to Rodney, Odair intoned, "In the name of the Gods, as their holy vessel, I drink of your offering, Supplicant." He lifted the cup and sipped, and his eyes widened. He drank again, more deeply, and didn't stop until his head was tilted back and he could catch the very last drops.

Rodney made a pitiful sound. John stepped on his foot.

"Your offering has been found worthy. Your petition is granted," Odair said, smiling. He waved his hand toward the altar. Rodney shrugged his backpack more firmly over his shoulder and started walking.

"I'll just hold this for you," Odair said, smoothly intercepting the thermos as Rodney passed.

Rodney froze, and for a second John was worried he might be the one to stroke out for a change. But then he gave a stiff little nod, and let go of the thermos. Odair smiled smugly and nodded him on.

John came up beside Rodney and gave him a pat on the back as they went behind the iron gate. "There's more back on Atlantis, buddy," John reassured him.

"Yes, yes, I know, but this was the good stuff! My special-ordered blend!" Rodney made that pitiful sound again, like a chew toy being squished under a tire. John gave him another pat, and then smirked at Teyla, who was trying hard not to smile.

Ronon just looked bored. Maybe he'd been hoping for the shoot-out.

It came as almost an anti-climax when twenty minutes later Rodney croaked out, "Eureka," and pulled an almost fully-charged ZPM from the foot of the altar.

On their way back home, sans one thermos but plus one ZPM and a blissed-out McKay, John made a mental note to order at least a case of Rodney's special blend.

After all, Pegasus was a pretty dangerous place.

End.

A/N: This was just bit of silliness inspired by merrilily getting the Fair Trade coffee that monkey_junkey and I sent to her up in Canada, and me thinking about coffee as being a gesture of good will across nations, and, well. There you have it.

New podfic up of Fair Trade (read by wihluta)

Sun, 10 May 2009 19:19:11 GMT

Hey everyone: wihluta has the patience of a saint (and perhaps a fair amount of lemon tea) because she's done a reading of Fair Trade as a podfic, with plans to do Möbius as well:

http://wihluta.livejournal.com/199500.html

\o/ Love her voice! She gives my pitiful story some nice polish, don't you think?

fandom: cute SGA cast clip

Sat, 09 May 2009 21:44:08 GMT

I don't know why I never saw this before (maybe because I joined the fandom when it was almost over? :) but this is hilariously cute: in 2007 SGA won the Spacey for fave TV show in Canada, and Joe, et alia recorded a really funny acceptance speech. \Team/ + David Nykl!

Team fic: Wild Thing (Gen, PG)

Sat, 09 May 2009 04:19:17 GMT

Author: esteefee
Pairing: none. Team gen
Rating: PG
Words: 1,263
Categories: h/c
Warnings: Implied violence to a small furry creature.
Spoilers: Conversion
A/N: Little experimental; sorry about that.

At sga_flashfic: Wild Thing.

Sheppard/Dex PWP: Bleeding True

Sat, 02 May 2009 08:03:14 GMT

For atlantiskink:

Title: Bleeding True
Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: NC-17 (yis)
Kink: knife-play
Words: ~1000
Categories: ER, PWP, bondage, kink
Spoilers: None
Notes: Oh, surely someone has done this before. Ronon and knives? It's a gimme.

Bleeding True

by esteefee

There are three different blades Ronon uses almost daily. One is for eating, one is for killing, and one is to shave around his beard—the edge on that blade is extra fine, far too fine to use in battle or it would be uselessly damaged after a single blow.

He holds that perfectly honed blade over the smooth, fresh-washed skin of Sheppard's lower back and whispers, "Now."

Detecting a faint tensing, Ronon waits for it to fade into relaxed trust, and then cuts one smooth, double curve from below John's lowest rib to the swell of his round ass.

Blood beads in the wake of Ronon's cut. A perfect depth—the blade is so fine Ronon only had to use the lightest pressure.

Sheppard doesn't make a sound, not until Ronon bends over him and licks back along the trail. And the noise Sheppard makes, one of disbelieving pleasure, makes heat throb in Ronon's hardened cock. He blows on the damp, red line and watches chill bumps rise on Sheppard's skin.

Ronon wasn't sure Sheppard would like this; was pretty sure he was just letting Ronon do it because he'd asked. Because Ronon hardly ever asked anything of him.

"I want to cut you," Ronon had said, and Sheppard's eyes had widened for a moment before he nodded, a single jerk of his head. He hadn't asked any questions, either.

Now Ronon says, "Wraith bleed black." With a deft hand he matches the first cut with a second, almost perfectly, so the set of curves looks like the beginning of a red wave.

Sheppard makes a whimpering sound and shifts one knee upward on the bed. Reaching beneath Sheppard's hip, Ronon grasps his hard cock and adjusts it for him, since Sheppard can't—Ronon has bound him too well.

He licks up the blood trail again and hears Sheppard gasp.

"I cut myself sometimes, when I was a runner. Cut myself to make sure I was still bleeding true," Ronon whispers.

But this is better. The crimson is so deep and pretty against the untanned skin of Sheppard's ass. Ronon makes the third cut an equal distance from the others, so excited now he ends the cut just a little too soon—stopping right before his hand starts to shake.

"God. Ronon," Sheppard whispers unevenly, no lazy drawl now. Ronon bends and rubs his cheek against the new wound, marking himself in Sheppard's blood.

It's not enough, and it's too much. Ronon can't take anymore. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he says, raising his head, and he sees Sheppard's wrists twist in their bindings. "But first—" Ronon puts down the knife, setting it on the square white gym towel on his nightstand, and then spreads Sheppard's cheeks with his palms.

"Oh! God!" Sheppard jerks when Ronon flicks his tongue against his hole and then plants a kiss there in mouth-worship of their connection, of the trust between them.

He prepares Sheppard with the slick stuff Teyla gave him, her eyebrows raised in a question she wouldn't ask. Ronon's eyes are torn between the red curves of his cuts and the way Sheppard opens to his fingers with a soft moan. Then Ronon holds the head of his cock against Sheppard's hole and pushes in.

So sweet, the way Sheppard gives warmly, enfolding him in heat and binding muscle. And the way Sheppard flexes around him, helping to work himself down onto Ronon's shaft.

"Yeah, that's it," Ronon says. He grips Sheppard's hips, one thumb just covering the top of the far left cut mark, and he pulls Sheppard further onto his cock.

Sheppard groans into the pillow, his fingers clenching on his bindings. "Go. Go," he mutters hoarsely, and Ronon does—fucks into him with long strokes in the rhythm Sheppard has taught him he likes best. Sheppard has taught him so many things—about trust, and about belonging. Ronon brushes his thumb hard against the cuts he's made in Sheppard's skin, and when Sheppard gasps again in pleasure, Ronon thinks maybe he's taught Sheppard something, too.

"Yes, yes, God. Please, Ronon," Sheppard says, his hands twisting again, his back arching to meet Ronon's thrusts. Ronon slides his right hand down Sheppard's belly and cups his cock in his fist. "God, yeah," Sheppard pants, working himself into Ronon's fist and then lunging back onto Ronon's cock.

His excitement overwhelms Ronon's control, and he thrusts fast and hard as he begins to come. He drops his weight onto his left hand, suddenly weak with the pleasure rushing through him, and his cock jerks inside Sheppard's warmth. Ronon feels the pulse of his blood pounding, pounding, and he pushes in one last time as deeply as he can.

Sheppard is still waiting, trembling with need beneath him, when Ronon recovers enough to start stroking his cock. He feels the beginnings of it, a fluttering of Sheppard's muscles ringing the base of Ronon's softening shaft, and then Sheppard groans deeply and comes in Ronon's hand. Ronon strokes him, and presses a grateful kiss on the back of Sheppard's neck while he shudders through his orgasm.

Then they both sag down to the bed, and Ronon's hand ends up trapped beneath them. Sheppard makes a displeased sound, and Ronon chuckles hoarsely as he pulls himself free.

"Sorry," he says, and kneels up to retrieve the knife. There's a line of blood on edge of the blade, and Ronon wipes it clean on his thigh before cutting Sheppard's bonds. Ronon thinks he'll keep the leather scraps his drawer, wrapped in the blood-stained square of towel, for memory.

Sheppard lies limp, still trembling slightly while Ronon carefully applies some ointment to the cuts. He doesn't want Sheppard to scar. That's not what this is about. And maybe Sheppard will let him do it again, sometime; Ronon wants his canvas to remain perfect.

"C'mere," Ronon says when he's done, pulling Sheppard onto his side and into his arms.

Sheppard makes a sleepy protest and turns his head, rubbing it against Ronon's cheek.

"Okay?" Ronon asks.

"Yeah. More than okay," Sheppard whispers hoarsely.

Ronon smiles, and then they settle together, two double curves on the white sheets.

End.

Sheppard/McKay story: Missing Piece (PG)

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 22:38:39 GMT

Another mcsmooch!

Title: Missing Piece
Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG
Words: ~2,850
Categories: FT
Spoilers: The Return
Warnings: none

At mcsmooch: Missing Piece.

fans rock: Fair Trade and friends

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 00:51:39 GMT

So I had an awful day--worked my Sunday away--but I got a sweet reward because afterward I rode my bike to visit monkey_junkey at her work, where she gifted me with the pound of Fair Trade beans that I'll be mailing to merrilily as a prize for naming Rodney's blend in Möbius.

But first I have to make John's Fair Trade logo and slap it on there. :)

ETA: The logo!