SGA – That's No Way to Tell a Lie
Oct. 9th, 2006 11:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archive1. The October 2006 Frankenstein Mix is up and running. Get on it!
2. Could Bruce/Lana be the new OTP? Huh.
Stargate: Atlantis
Sheppard/McKay
Rated Adult
That's No Way to Tell a Lie
It starts at the end.
Everything starts at the end.
After John says his piece, McKay -- Rodney -- just gives him this look.
It's the "how fucking stupid do you think I am?" look, followed in short order by the "if you think I'm going to accept your repressed, militaristic dysfunctional bullshit, you so have another think coming, Major," look.
"I'm not a Major anymore," John points out. It's a perfect non-sequitur. Except that this time Rodney crosses his arms as though every thought in John's brain is being written above his head on bright yellow, Atlantis-sponsored post-it notes.
John waves his hand over his head, twice, just to make sure that this isn't actually happening.
Atlantis has been known to sell him out on occasion; she probably thinks it's for his own good.
John will feel better after he ends this. He'll be able to breathe again. He'll be able to think straight again. No more worrying about McKay out in the field. No more midnight post-sex runs until his knees ache, because he's so keyed up he can't sleep alone. No more of Teyla's quietly understanding looks when he's down on his knees in the sparring room, panting from overexertion because he can't have this, and he won't try, and the pretending is killing him.
No more squeezing his own knee during meetings to focus because he's in the same room with McKay, and he can't stop staring at the hollow of McKay's neck or thinking about what McKay's fingers feel like inside him, stretching him, filling him, making him feel like he's alive when he's spent so long as one of the living dead.
John doesn't mean to spend the night. It just sort of happens. He's tired. They're tired.
Near-death experiences are always exhausting.
John's boots clang against the frame of McKay's bed when he tries to kick them off, but military boots don’t get kicked off. They have to be unlaced, one hook at a time.
Everything in John's life is work.
McKay's asleep by the time John's feet are free.
The sex is just --
If the sex were just sex --
If McKay were just a depository --
If John could just manage to transfer all his aggressive, possessive, slightly obsessive-compulsive mannerism to someone else -- his life would be so much easier.
Nothing in John's life is ever easy.
There's this line in his life, and every decision he makes is about this line. How close will he step? How far will he go? Is today closer or further away? Will tomorrow change? Is he going to trip over some unseen wire and go sprawling on his face?
McKay tripped, fell, and landed on John's mouth.
McKay tripped, fell, and landed on John's dick.
McKay tripped, fell, and John landed on his dick.
John's lies need some work.
The second time is so much better than the first that afterwards, McKay rolls over and pokes John in the ribs, twice.
"Ow, what the hell are you doing?'" John would squirm away, but that would require relocating to the floor.
"I was just checking to make sure you're real and not a figment of my imagination, because we all know how much of my head trauma you're responsible for, and it's not as though this would be the first time I'd gotten stuck inside a virtual reality."
John snorts and twists McKay's right nipple in response. "Is that real enough for you?"
"OW! What the hell? I need those! What if I have to give birth to your alien baby someday -- who's going to feed it if I don't have nipples? You?"
The freedom of John's laugh is like a first breath after sprinting with Ronon. "If you have my alien baby, I will definitely feed it too."
"I should hope so, Colonel."
There's a lot of muttering from McKay about deadbeat dads as John gets dressed to leave.
The first time is not great. John would love to say that it's completely how he imagined it would be. That there were soft beds wide enough for two, and that McKay hit the right spot every time, and that they had Gun Oil on special delivery from the Daedalus. John would love to be able to say that it was perfect and just right and they made out like teenagers for hours first.
But that would be a lie. The first time sucked. A lot.
Of course that's normally what happens when you have to perform for a crowd of aliens.
John's so over his performance anxiety by now.
It's only afterwards, with stripes of McKay's come on the back of John's hand, that he realizes that they might have a problem. It's not a serious problem of course, John just has to wash his hands before he runs into anybody else. John just has to wipe his hand somewhere unobtrusive, like the wall, or he could just lick it away. Then it would disappear like it never happened. John's very good at pretending that things have never happened. It's been a while since he's tasted himself; he tastes bitter like Athosian tea and stunted expectations.
He wasn't planning on doing this, except that McKay's eyes are huge, and it's been a long time since John gave someone a hand job. He'd tried to give McKay a blow job, but the hair pulling and the yowling made that impossible.
John's always known that McKay was a screamer, and that panicworryexcitement of being caught is like being coming back to life.
John doesn't mean to kiss McKay. He doesn't even think he wants to kiss McKay, he just wants him to shut up for five seconds. Between the flailing hands and the motor-mouth it's almost more than John's life's worth to duck in and cover McKay's mouth with his own, but at least now McKay's being quiet for longer than two seconds.
It turns out McKay's mouth is good for something besides insults and egomania.
John Sheppard has never thought about kissing Rodney McKay. Never. Not once in their one hundred and thirty-eight off–world missions -- ninety-six of which have been life-threatening, seventy-four of which have ended with someone in the infirmary, forty-eight times of which have not even been that serious.
Everything changes after that one-hundred and thirty-ninth mission.
It starts at the end.
Everything starts at the end.
It's called a beginning.
-end-
+ Improv: stripes, bitter, clang, post-it, wire
+ Title from the James Dean Bradfield song.
+ My beta is off being productive, so all mistakes are mine.
2. Could Bruce/Lana be the new OTP? Huh.
Stargate: Atlantis
Sheppard/McKay
Rated Adult
It starts at the end.
Everything starts at the end.
After John says his piece, McKay -- Rodney -- just gives him this look.
It's the "how fucking stupid do you think I am?" look, followed in short order by the "if you think I'm going to accept your repressed, militaristic dysfunctional bullshit, you so have another think coming, Major," look.
"I'm not a Major anymore," John points out. It's a perfect non-sequitur. Except that this time Rodney crosses his arms as though every thought in John's brain is being written above his head on bright yellow, Atlantis-sponsored post-it notes.
John waves his hand over his head, twice, just to make sure that this isn't actually happening.
Atlantis has been known to sell him out on occasion; she probably thinks it's for his own good.
John will feel better after he ends this. He'll be able to breathe again. He'll be able to think straight again. No more worrying about McKay out in the field. No more midnight post-sex runs until his knees ache, because he's so keyed up he can't sleep alone. No more of Teyla's quietly understanding looks when he's down on his knees in the sparring room, panting from overexertion because he can't have this, and he won't try, and the pretending is killing him.
No more squeezing his own knee during meetings to focus because he's in the same room with McKay, and he can't stop staring at the hollow of McKay's neck or thinking about what McKay's fingers feel like inside him, stretching him, filling him, making him feel like he's alive when he's spent so long as one of the living dead.
John doesn't mean to spend the night. It just sort of happens. He's tired. They're tired.
Near-death experiences are always exhausting.
John's boots clang against the frame of McKay's bed when he tries to kick them off, but military boots don’t get kicked off. They have to be unlaced, one hook at a time.
Everything in John's life is work.
McKay's asleep by the time John's feet are free.
The sex is just --
If the sex were just sex --
If McKay were just a depository --
If John could just manage to transfer all his aggressive, possessive, slightly obsessive-compulsive mannerism to someone else -- his life would be so much easier.
Nothing in John's life is ever easy.
There's this line in his life, and every decision he makes is about this line. How close will he step? How far will he go? Is today closer or further away? Will tomorrow change? Is he going to trip over some unseen wire and go sprawling on his face?
McKay tripped, fell, and landed on John's mouth.
McKay tripped, fell, and landed on John's dick.
McKay tripped, fell, and John landed on his dick.
John's lies need some work.
The second time is so much better than the first that afterwards, McKay rolls over and pokes John in the ribs, twice.
"Ow, what the hell are you doing?'" John would squirm away, but that would require relocating to the floor.
"I was just checking to make sure you're real and not a figment of my imagination, because we all know how much of my head trauma you're responsible for, and it's not as though this would be the first time I'd gotten stuck inside a virtual reality."
John snorts and twists McKay's right nipple in response. "Is that real enough for you?"
"OW! What the hell? I need those! What if I have to give birth to your alien baby someday -- who's going to feed it if I don't have nipples? You?"
The freedom of John's laugh is like a first breath after sprinting with Ronon. "If you have my alien baby, I will definitely feed it too."
"I should hope so, Colonel."
There's a lot of muttering from McKay about deadbeat dads as John gets dressed to leave.
The first time is not great. John would love to say that it's completely how he imagined it would be. That there were soft beds wide enough for two, and that McKay hit the right spot every time, and that they had Gun Oil on special delivery from the Daedalus. John would love to be able to say that it was perfect and just right and they made out like teenagers for hours first.
But that would be a lie. The first time sucked. A lot.
Of course that's normally what happens when you have to perform for a crowd of aliens.
John's so over his performance anxiety by now.
It's only afterwards, with stripes of McKay's come on the back of John's hand, that he realizes that they might have a problem. It's not a serious problem of course, John just has to wash his hands before he runs into anybody else. John just has to wipe his hand somewhere unobtrusive, like the wall, or he could just lick it away. Then it would disappear like it never happened. John's very good at pretending that things have never happened. It's been a while since he's tasted himself; he tastes bitter like Athosian tea and stunted expectations.
He wasn't planning on doing this, except that McKay's eyes are huge, and it's been a long time since John gave someone a hand job. He'd tried to give McKay a blow job, but the hair pulling and the yowling made that impossible.
John's always known that McKay was a screamer, and that panicworryexcitement of being caught is like being coming back to life.
John doesn't mean to kiss McKay. He doesn't even think he wants to kiss McKay, he just wants him to shut up for five seconds. Between the flailing hands and the motor-mouth it's almost more than John's life's worth to duck in and cover McKay's mouth with his own, but at least now McKay's being quiet for longer than two seconds.
It turns out McKay's mouth is good for something besides insults and egomania.
John Sheppard has never thought about kissing Rodney McKay. Never. Not once in their one hundred and thirty-eight off–world missions -- ninety-six of which have been life-threatening, seventy-four of which have ended with someone in the infirmary, forty-eight times of which have not even been that serious.
Everything changes after that one-hundred and thirty-ninth mission.
It starts at the end.
Everything starts at the end.
It's called a beginning.
-end-
+ Improv: stripes, bitter, clang, post-it, wire
+ Title from the James Dean Bradfield song.
+ My beta is off being productive, so all mistakes are mine.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 06:59 pm (UTC)I'm... replete. Yeah.
It was the image of gun oil that did it (for some hideously Freudian reason I'm not going to examine.)
Oh, wow.
♥
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:33 pm (UTC)And it's in the pudding.
I've inhaled too many bleach fumes today.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:43 pm (UTC)okay, there was no good place for that to go.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 07:53 pm (UTC)heeee. Poor Rodney. Not really.
Seriously, you done good, sweetie.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 10:20 pm (UTC)I love how fragmentary and slightly detached/numb this is.
John just has to wipe his hand somewhere unobtrusive, like the wall, or he could just lick it away. Then it would disappear like it never happened. And for some reason, this was the line that hit me right in the gut.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 09:59 pm (UTC)*I totally just made this up, but I think the point is pretty obvious.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-09 10:57 pm (UTC)Also, I think you might be onto something with the Bruce/Lana. I'm worried, but
yousomebody will write it.no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 10:00 pm (UTC)Over my dead body. And yours.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 02:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 03:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-11 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 04:10 am (UTC)(Yes, I am a trifle worried there is a website called CheapLubes.com.)
Anyhoozle, there was fic, wasn't there? And I really, really liked it. I love stories that talk about how truly fucked-up John Sheppard is. And this
There's this line in his life, and every decision he makes is about this line. How close will he step? How far will he go? Is today closer or further away? Will tomorrow change? Is he going to trip over some unseen wire and go sprawling on his face?
...just killed me.
(Apologies if you get this twice, BTW; I screwed up the HTML tagging and had to try again. Stupid coding.)
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Date: 2006-10-11 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 04:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-11 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2006-10-11 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-13 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-13 08:37 pm (UTC)loveliness all over the place!
Date: 2006-10-14 02:16 am (UTC)Re: loveliness all over the place!
Date: 2006-10-19 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-29 06:37 pm (UTC)