Fic for 20thcenturyvole: Transference
I've been getting lots of good comment fic lately. siriaeve wrote me SGA/due South, which you must pester her for more of, and also, John and Rodney in Italy, which, likewise. Then stellahobbit riffed on John becoming entranced by Rodney's belly, which led, tangentially, to:
The eighth comment fic that I owe. Yays?
I would say, "I don't know where this recent spate of productivity is coming from," except, I'm not sure if I can really be considered productive if I'm not actually writing any of the things I'm supposed to be. Hmm. Could there be such a thing as productive procrastination, I wonder?
Title: Transference
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: Humor
Length: ~1600 words
Summary: “You’re stealing my cool!” John complained.
A/N: Written for 20thcenturyvole. Inspired by stellahobbit. Totally my fault.
Transference
This weird little crush he had on Rodney was making John feel fourteen again, and this was not a good thing.
“Ooops, sorry!” he said as his knee knocked the table and caused the water pitcher to slosh all over the report Elizabeth was reading from. Earlier, he’d gotten oatmeal in his hair when his tray had suddenly detached itself from his fingers and clattered to the floor of the mess, earning hoots and cheers, and when he’d first arrived at the briefing, he’d tripped over a chair and somehow managed to drop one of the M&Ms he’d been eating down Teyla’s shirt.
“That’s all right,” Elizabeth said, after blinking at him for several long seconds. “Colonel, are you sure you’re...?”
“Yep, fine,” he said, carefully glancing at everyone but Rodney.
Rodney took the opportunity to steal several of John’s M&Ms.
The rest of the day passed pretty normally, at least by Atlantis’ standards-which meant that John knocked over an entire case of 5.56 mm rounds, spilling them all across the armory floor; furthermore, he nearly poked Zelenka’s eye out by gesturing a bit too broadly with a metal pointer. He also, somehow, provoked Major Lorne into giving him a wedgie.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” Lorne said, apologetic and horrified, immediately afterward. “I don’t know what came over me!”
“Why don’t you think about it while you’re cleaning up the spilled rounds in the armory,” John said, and walked stiffly all the way back to his quarters.
The next morning, it was worse. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?” Rodney asked. “We’re indoors.”
“No reason,” said John, though without the effortless calm that usually came so easily to him.
“What, did you run into a doorknob? And hey, what’s that on your chin?”
It most certainly wasn’t a zit-or so he would argue to his grave. Besides: “What’s that in your ear?”
“What, this?” Rodney said casually, fingering the little gold loop. “An earring.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
John was still spluttering when Elizabeth walked into the briefing room. The look she gave him reminded him of his fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Ward, when she was feeling particularly put-upon. “John, I would appreciate it if you would remove your sunglasses while we conduct this meeting.”
“Um,” said John.
“Colonel.”
He took them off.
For the first ten minutes or so, he was fine. Then Zelenka passed around a series of printouts for everyone to peruse. John blinked down at his. He shifted in his seat. He adjusted the distance between his face and the report. Then he discreetly tugged his sunglasses out of his pocket (this took several tries, as the pesky earpiece kept snagging) and held them between his nose and the stack of papers on his lap.
“What are you doing?” Rodney asked.
John glanced up at him, guiltily. Rodney was draped languidly across his chair, his shoulders back, his arms loose. John had never seen him look so relaxed.
He swallowed. “Um. Reading?”
“No, with the glasses,” Rodney said, reaching forward and snatching them out of John’s hand, despite his attempts to pull them to safety. Either Rodney’s reflexes had improved, or his were going down the toilet.
Rodney turned the sunglasses over, then raised them to his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he said, his mouth dropping open in surprise. “These are prescription!”
John slumped further into his chair.
*
Miko offered to lend him her spare pair of glasses. John started to have something that felt suspiciously like an asthma attack, but luckily it turned out that Radek had a spare pair, too, and even if they made everything look a little fuzzy around the edges, at this point, John was in favor of anything that maintained the illusion that he was just very, very drunk.
Radek was a good guy, though. He clearly sensed that John was feeling upset at this ego- (if not life-) threatening turn of events. “Do not worry,” he said. “A great number of cool people have worn corrective eyewear.”
“Such as?” John said.
“Ahh, well.” Radek picked invisible lint off his lab coat. “There is, of course, ah. John Lennon?”
Nodding enthusiastically, John seized on that. “Who else?”
“Fox Mulder,” Simpson suggested.
“Yes, on occasion,” Radek admitted. “But I am not sure that Colonel would consider...”
“What are you talking about?” John said. “Mulder was totally cool. Although he really needed to learn how to do this without-oh.”
Miko hurriedly picked up John’s gun and handed it back to him.
Several hours later, they had progressed beyond a discussion of their favorite X-Files episodes (John came down firmly for ‘Small Potatoes,’ although he saw Simpson’s point about ‘Jose Chung’s From Outer Space’) and moved on to debating whether Deckard was a replicant or not. Radek had brought out his bootleg copy of the International Cut as evidence and was getting sucked further into an intense fight with Miko over whether it or the Director’s Cut was superior when Rodney stopped by. “Hey,” said John, pushing the Twizzler he was sucking on to the side of his mouth. “We’re just about to watch Blade Runner. You wanna join us?”
Rodney finished fishing around in his desk and pulled on a pair of fingerless leather gloves that, against all the laws of man and nature, managed not to look stupid. “Nah,” Rodney said. “Nick and Laura have challenged me to a game of HORSE.” He smirked, deftly plucking the basketball out from under his arm and setting it spinning on his index finger. “They’re totally going down.”
John waved him away. “Yeah, well, your loss.” He flopped back down in the beanbag chair, adjusting his glasses, and beckoned in Simpson’s direction.
“Pass the Pocky,” he said.
*
When John skipped off to bed, he had a sugar headache and the Alias theme song stuck in his head. When he woke up, it had all gone to hell.
He barged into Rodney’s room. “Okay,” he announced, as Rodney sat up, grabbed a lighter and a packet of Marlboros off the bedside table, and calmly lit a cigarette. “This has gone too far! My hair is flat and we need to have really dirty sex right now!”
He folded his arms across his chest (blocking his t-shirt’s “Obey gravity! It’s the law!” iron-on) and thrust his chin up into the air, defiantly.
Rodney released a slow puff of smoke. “Okay,” he said. “Though I’m not really seeing the connection.”
“You’re stealing my cool!” John complained. “You see, I possibly, maybe, have been thinking lately about some sort of...exchange between us, and-”
“What kind of exchange?” Rodney asked, managing to sound almost disinterested-and therefore, that much cooler.
“Um,” said John. He fidgeted. He hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, and was suddenly aware that he was standing there in a (totally hilarious) t-shirt, boxer shorts, and gym socks with a big hole in the left toe. “Like...bodily fluids, maybe?”
“Ahh,” said Rodney. He stubbed out his cigarette and tugged off his own boxers in one clean movement. “So,” he said, casually swiping a hand down his chest. “You wanna blow me?”
“Yes!” said John, eagerly bouncing up onto the bed. “Because I give awesome blowjobs, and that’ll snap me out of this weird, post-adolescent, dorky funk!”
It didn’t. The blowjob he proceeded to give Rodney was possibly the messiest, sloppiest one of his life-though it certainly deserved points for enthusiasm. Still, John was feeling pretty bent out of shape about it until Rodney kissed him firmly on his mouth, then slid gracefully down his body and deep-throated him like a porn star.
John shouted something in Klingon when he came.
*
In the morning, John discovered that he was allergic to wheat germ, and Rodney figured out how to reassemble a P-90 in 8.4 seconds.
“This,” said John, arching back against the strong span of Rodney’s shoulders, “is totally unfair.”
“Did you ever think,” Rodney said, thrusting forward and making John moan, “that it works both ways? That it might also bother me that you’re stealing my geek?”
“Why would that-oh, harder, yeah-bother you? You get to do all kinds of cool stuff and beat Lorne at poker and throw knives at seagulls with Ronon.”
“Like I told Elizabeth, they were quite possibly dangerous, man-eating seagulls; and anyway, what’s wrong with hanging out with Radek in the labs and watching movies? I used to like doing that. Here, hang on, I want to touch your cock.”
They shifted position, and John very nearly crushed his discarded glasses under the heel of his hand, except Rodney managed to toss them neatly onto the center of the nightstand at the last second.
“Miko does make great Rice Krispie Treat squares,” John admitted, slurring a little as Rodney began fisting his dick. He found himself having disturbing thoughts about the fingerless gloves.
“Not to mention,” Rodney continued, stroking into him, stroking his hand over him, “that I seem to be forgetting certain things that I used to consider basic knowledge. Nothing essential to our survival, but-”
He halted, abruptly, balls flush against John’s ass. John bit back a sob as Rodney swooped down, lowering his mouth to John’s ear. “Remind me,” he said. “What are the names of all the actors who have played Doctor Who?”
John let out a gasping breath. “You want the list alphabetically, or in chronological order?”
Rodney twitched inside him, his eyes rolling back in his head. Watching him, feeling him come undone, John had never felt cooler.
************
20thcenturyvole asked for: “Something in which John outs himself as an enormous geek to the entire science team and is accepted as such! That's not too guilt-inducingly plotty.” Well, this certainly meets that last qualification. ;-)
And yes, I know, I keep using the same X-Files jokes over and over. But they never stop being funny! Well, to me, anyway.
The eighth comment fic that I owe. Yays?
I would say, "I don't know where this recent spate of productivity is coming from," except, I'm not sure if I can really be considered productive if I'm not actually writing any of the things I'm supposed to be. Hmm. Could there be such a thing as productive procrastination, I wonder?
Title: Transference
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: Humor
Length: ~1600 words
Summary: “You’re stealing my cool!” John complained.
A/N: Written for 20thcenturyvole. Inspired by stellahobbit. Totally my fault.
Transference
This weird little crush he had on Rodney was making John feel fourteen again, and this was not a good thing.
“Ooops, sorry!” he said as his knee knocked the table and caused the water pitcher to slosh all over the report Elizabeth was reading from. Earlier, he’d gotten oatmeal in his hair when his tray had suddenly detached itself from his fingers and clattered to the floor of the mess, earning hoots and cheers, and when he’d first arrived at the briefing, he’d tripped over a chair and somehow managed to drop one of the M&Ms he’d been eating down Teyla’s shirt.
“That’s all right,” Elizabeth said, after blinking at him for several long seconds. “Colonel, are you sure you’re...?”
“Yep, fine,” he said, carefully glancing at everyone but Rodney.
Rodney took the opportunity to steal several of John’s M&Ms.
The rest of the day passed pretty normally, at least by Atlantis’ standards-which meant that John knocked over an entire case of 5.56 mm rounds, spilling them all across the armory floor; furthermore, he nearly poked Zelenka’s eye out by gesturing a bit too broadly with a metal pointer. He also, somehow, provoked Major Lorne into giving him a wedgie.
“I’m so sorry, sir!” Lorne said, apologetic and horrified, immediately afterward. “I don’t know what came over me!”
“Why don’t you think about it while you’re cleaning up the spilled rounds in the armory,” John said, and walked stiffly all the way back to his quarters.
The next morning, it was worse. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?” Rodney asked. “We’re indoors.”
“No reason,” said John, though without the effortless calm that usually came so easily to him.
“What, did you run into a doorknob? And hey, what’s that on your chin?”
It most certainly wasn’t a zit-or so he would argue to his grave. Besides: “What’s that in your ear?”
“What, this?” Rodney said casually, fingering the little gold loop. “An earring.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
John was still spluttering when Elizabeth walked into the briefing room. The look she gave him reminded him of his fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Ward, when she was feeling particularly put-upon. “John, I would appreciate it if you would remove your sunglasses while we conduct this meeting.”
“Um,” said John.
“Colonel.”
He took them off.
For the first ten minutes or so, he was fine. Then Zelenka passed around a series of printouts for everyone to peruse. John blinked down at his. He shifted in his seat. He adjusted the distance between his face and the report. Then he discreetly tugged his sunglasses out of his pocket (this took several tries, as the pesky earpiece kept snagging) and held them between his nose and the stack of papers on his lap.
“What are you doing?” Rodney asked.
John glanced up at him, guiltily. Rodney was draped languidly across his chair, his shoulders back, his arms loose. John had never seen him look so relaxed.
He swallowed. “Um. Reading?”
“No, with the glasses,” Rodney said, reaching forward and snatching them out of John’s hand, despite his attempts to pull them to safety. Either Rodney’s reflexes had improved, or his were going down the toilet.
Rodney turned the sunglasses over, then raised them to his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he said, his mouth dropping open in surprise. “These are prescription!”
John slumped further into his chair.
*
Miko offered to lend him her spare pair of glasses. John started to have something that felt suspiciously like an asthma attack, but luckily it turned out that Radek had a spare pair, too, and even if they made everything look a little fuzzy around the edges, at this point, John was in favor of anything that maintained the illusion that he was just very, very drunk.
Radek was a good guy, though. He clearly sensed that John was feeling upset at this ego- (if not life-) threatening turn of events. “Do not worry,” he said. “A great number of cool people have worn corrective eyewear.”
“Such as?” John said.
“Ahh, well.” Radek picked invisible lint off his lab coat. “There is, of course, ah. John Lennon?”
Nodding enthusiastically, John seized on that. “Who else?”
“Fox Mulder,” Simpson suggested.
“Yes, on occasion,” Radek admitted. “But I am not sure that Colonel would consider...”
“What are you talking about?” John said. “Mulder was totally cool. Although he really needed to learn how to do this without-oh.”
Miko hurriedly picked up John’s gun and handed it back to him.
Several hours later, they had progressed beyond a discussion of their favorite X-Files episodes (John came down firmly for ‘Small Potatoes,’ although he saw Simpson’s point about ‘Jose Chung’s From Outer Space’) and moved on to debating whether Deckard was a replicant or not. Radek had brought out his bootleg copy of the International Cut as evidence and was getting sucked further into an intense fight with Miko over whether it or the Director’s Cut was superior when Rodney stopped by. “Hey,” said John, pushing the Twizzler he was sucking on to the side of his mouth. “We’re just about to watch Blade Runner. You wanna join us?”
Rodney finished fishing around in his desk and pulled on a pair of fingerless leather gloves that, against all the laws of man and nature, managed not to look stupid. “Nah,” Rodney said. “Nick and Laura have challenged me to a game of HORSE.” He smirked, deftly plucking the basketball out from under his arm and setting it spinning on his index finger. “They’re totally going down.”
John waved him away. “Yeah, well, your loss.” He flopped back down in the beanbag chair, adjusting his glasses, and beckoned in Simpson’s direction.
“Pass the Pocky,” he said.
*
When John skipped off to bed, he had a sugar headache and the Alias theme song stuck in his head. When he woke up, it had all gone to hell.
He barged into Rodney’s room. “Okay,” he announced, as Rodney sat up, grabbed a lighter and a packet of Marlboros off the bedside table, and calmly lit a cigarette. “This has gone too far! My hair is flat and we need to have really dirty sex right now!”
He folded his arms across his chest (blocking his t-shirt’s “Obey gravity! It’s the law!” iron-on) and thrust his chin up into the air, defiantly.
Rodney released a slow puff of smoke. “Okay,” he said. “Though I’m not really seeing the connection.”
“You’re stealing my cool!” John complained. “You see, I possibly, maybe, have been thinking lately about some sort of...exchange between us, and-”
“What kind of exchange?” Rodney asked, managing to sound almost disinterested-and therefore, that much cooler.
“Um,” said John. He fidgeted. He hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, and was suddenly aware that he was standing there in a (totally hilarious) t-shirt, boxer shorts, and gym socks with a big hole in the left toe. “Like...bodily fluids, maybe?”
“Ahh,” said Rodney. He stubbed out his cigarette and tugged off his own boxers in one clean movement. “So,” he said, casually swiping a hand down his chest. “You wanna blow me?”
“Yes!” said John, eagerly bouncing up onto the bed. “Because I give awesome blowjobs, and that’ll snap me out of this weird, post-adolescent, dorky funk!”
It didn’t. The blowjob he proceeded to give Rodney was possibly the messiest, sloppiest one of his life-though it certainly deserved points for enthusiasm. Still, John was feeling pretty bent out of shape about it until Rodney kissed him firmly on his mouth, then slid gracefully down his body and deep-throated him like a porn star.
John shouted something in Klingon when he came.
*
In the morning, John discovered that he was allergic to wheat germ, and Rodney figured out how to reassemble a P-90 in 8.4 seconds.
“This,” said John, arching back against the strong span of Rodney’s shoulders, “is totally unfair.”
“Did you ever think,” Rodney said, thrusting forward and making John moan, “that it works both ways? That it might also bother me that you’re stealing my geek?”
“Why would that-oh, harder, yeah-bother you? You get to do all kinds of cool stuff and beat Lorne at poker and throw knives at seagulls with Ronon.”
“Like I told Elizabeth, they were quite possibly dangerous, man-eating seagulls; and anyway, what’s wrong with hanging out with Radek in the labs and watching movies? I used to like doing that. Here, hang on, I want to touch your cock.”
They shifted position, and John very nearly crushed his discarded glasses under the heel of his hand, except Rodney managed to toss them neatly onto the center of the nightstand at the last second.
“Miko does make great Rice Krispie Treat squares,” John admitted, slurring a little as Rodney began fisting his dick. He found himself having disturbing thoughts about the fingerless gloves.
“Not to mention,” Rodney continued, stroking into him, stroking his hand over him, “that I seem to be forgetting certain things that I used to consider basic knowledge. Nothing essential to our survival, but-”
He halted, abruptly, balls flush against John’s ass. John bit back a sob as Rodney swooped down, lowering his mouth to John’s ear. “Remind me,” he said. “What are the names of all the actors who have played Doctor Who?”
John let out a gasping breath. “You want the list alphabetically, or in chronological order?”
Rodney twitched inside him, his eyes rolling back in his head. Watching him, feeling him come undone, John had never felt cooler.
************
20thcenturyvole asked for: “Something in which John outs himself as an enormous geek to the entire science team and is accepted as such! That's not too guilt-inducingly plotty.” Well, this certainly meets that last qualification. ;-)
And yes, I know, I keep using the same X-Files jokes over and over. But they never stop being funny! Well, to me, anyway.