Fic: Sports and Other Metaphors
Okay, so I have two fics for you today, where almost there were none. (Drama!) At the beginning of January, I got my picfor1000 assignment and almost had a heart attack when I saw this:
After I'd finished sobbing hysterically at siriaeve and randomeliza (and of course cursing slodwick's name *g*) I decided to try to actually write a story. This didn't go so well, for numerous reasons too boring to mention, but skip forward about six weeks and here I am with not one story, but two! The second's about twice as long as it's supposed to be, though, so we'll just consider it a bonus. The second game in today's fanfic double header. =)
Here's the first story; I'm putting the second in a separate post. Doesn't matter what order you read 'em in. I hope you enjoy.
Title: Sports and Other Metaphors
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Set after 'Tao of Rodney'
Length: 1,000 words
Summary: Life throws John curveballs; will he step up to the plate?
A/N: Huge thanks to honey_babes, siriaeve, shusu, and wychwood for looking this over. And thanks to slodwick for running this challenge, which is a brilliant idea, even when it made me want to hit myself in the head with a bat. ;-)
SPORTS AND OTHER METAPHORS
Bottom of the ninth
Rodney is dying. He knows it. John knows it, and he can’t help but admire Rodney’s determined practicality, even as it rips at him: Rodney is dying. He's dying, and John is out of time, but everything he wants to say, all the things he wants to tell him, can’t get past the choked tightness of his throat.
Three strikes you’re out
“In the way a friend feels about another friend,” John says, and he feels the impossible: tears wet against his cheeks; and yet: That is not it at all, that is not what I meant, at all-
But Rodney’s going, he’s going, he’s-
Extra innings
-bouncing back up onto his feet, alive and hungry, and John sits with him while he scarfs down a gigantic piece of lasagne, already talking about everything he’s going to do in the next five minutes, five months, five years.
John doesn’t say much of anything at all.
A swing and a miss
He touches Rodney’s arm as they leave the mess. Rodney turns. “I-” he says. “I just wanted to say-” And he goes mute again.
“We’re good,” Rodney says happily, and John can only nod. Good.
Foul ball
Rodney’s wormed his way under the console. His jacket’s off, his arms streaked with dirt, highlighting the carelessly developed cords of muscle. His shirt is rucked up and John can see a thin stripe of white stomach as Rodney squirms, rolling over onto his belly so he can address something farther to the back. His ass lifts into the air, full and round, and John can’t help it, the burble of almost hysterical laughter that escapes his mouth. “Rodney,” he says. “You look-You look so-”
“Yes, ha ha, Colonel, very funny. Pass me the-no, not that, THAT, right there-”
John swallows what he was going to say, whatever he was going to say, and finds the missing piece.
Infield fly
“Rodney,” John says determinedly, marching into Rodney’s quarters. “I want you to listen-”
“Hello, John,” Teyla says, looking up from the cup of tea balanced on her knee. She smiles. “Will you join us?”
John’s jaw clicks shut, thrown-he was there, he was ready; he was out of words before he’d even begun.
Curveball
“I’ve been thinking,” Rodney says.
“There’s a surprise.” John looks away from Rodney when he speaks, back to the magazine in his hand: attempting, poorly, to disguise that he’s been perusing Rodney’s movements, the quick work of his hands, and not this article on Tiger Woods.
Rodney puts his tools down. He looks…nervous? “I’m not sure if this is appropriate to bring up, this type of situation isn’t exactly covered by Miss Manners, but it’s driving me crazy, wondering, so I’ll. Um.” He swallows; John empathizes. But then he speaks, and whoever knew that Rodney would be the braver man? “When I had telepathy, did I, um, overhear you think-”
“Yes!” John says, terrified and relieved and on his feet; “Yes,” taking Rodney’s face in his hands and finally, finally, making that connection.
First base
Rodney breathes surprise into John’s mouth, but it tastes sweet, as do his hands, fisting John’s shirt, pulling him closer, devouring him.
“Bedroom. Now,” Rodney breathes, and they scramble to their feet, stumble…
Slide
…through the door, tumble onto the bed. Rodney’s breathing is coming fast and low. John tastes his neck, the frantic beating of his heart. Alive, alive, alive!
Third base
Neither of them has it in them to be particularly dainty about this. Rodney paws at John’s pants, barely bothering to lower the fly before he’s shoving his hand in, grasping John’s dick. John makes a pathetically needy sound and Rodney laughs, nips at his ear. The crowd, John thinks, goes wild.
Signaling
“What do you want?” Rodney pants.
You, John thinks inarticulately. He squeezes his eyes shut, panting, biting his lip.
“Fuck me,” he says.
Pitching and catching
The smell of sweat, the slap of skin on skin, as wholesome and all-American as apple pie.
Grand slam
Lights explode behind John’s eyes. His whole body is humming, singing, soaring-up through the sky, carrying both him and Rodney home.
Post-game analysis
“Are you humming the theme from The Natural?”
John shifts. “No?”
“Well, I suppose it could be worse. There was a chance you’d be the type who shouts ‘Touchdown!’ when he comes.”
“Next time?” John suggests, and though he’s kidding, he still can’t hide the slight edge to his words.
Rodney’s too sated to manage much of a grimace. “Next time I’ll have to gag you, then.”
“Kinky.” Never has that word been uttered with such relief.
Rodney grins against his skin. “You know,” he says, “far be it for me to question such an incredibly desirable result, but, uh, before? I was actually going to ask you something else.”
John blinks, but refrains from pushing himself onto his elbow. “You were?”
“Yeah, you’d, uh, thought something about my having a chance with Doctor Esposito if I actually took it, and-”
Now John is up on his elbow. “You were going to ask for my advice about a woman?”
Switching teams
Rodney appears blithely unaware that this might not be the best post-coital chatter. “Yes, but this works. I mean, I can be a, a switch hitter.”
Swing away
It’s such a stupid, careless thing to say, yet Rodney seems so pleased with himself, enthusiastic about this new endeavor. John realizes he must envy him a little: his freedom with words, his willingness to just go out there, swinging and swinging like he’ll never run out of chances.
But: “This isn’t a game to me, Rodney,” John hears himself saying. And it should be too much, too revealing, especially when he’s lying here, already naked.
But Rodney just lets out another pleased puff of air and curls against John's side like a contented cat. "I don't like games anyway," he says, "they're a stupid waste of time." And John freezes with his hand above Rodney's hair, still a little too afraid of this.
Clincher
"But we have time," he says after a minute. Rodney warm and alive in his arms: deserved or not, a second chance.
"We do," says Rodney with a slow smile. "Ready for another round?"
"You bet," John grins. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he's won.
After I'd finished sobbing hysterically at siriaeve and randomeliza (and of course cursing slodwick's name *g*) I decided to try to actually write a story. This didn't go so well, for numerous reasons too boring to mention, but skip forward about six weeks and here I am with not one story, but two! The second's about twice as long as it's supposed to be, though, so we'll just consider it a bonus. The second game in today's fanfic double header. =)
Here's the first story; I'm putting the second in a separate post. Doesn't matter what order you read 'em in. I hope you enjoy.
Title: Sports and Other Metaphors
Rating: R
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Spoilers: Set after 'Tao of Rodney'
Length: 1,000 words
Summary: Life throws John curveballs; will he step up to the plate?
A/N: Huge thanks to honey_babes, siriaeve, shusu, and wychwood for looking this over. And thanks to slodwick for running this challenge, which is a brilliant idea, even when it made me want to hit myself in the head with a bat. ;-)
SPORTS AND OTHER METAPHORS
Bottom of the ninth
Rodney is dying. He knows it. John knows it, and he can’t help but admire Rodney’s determined practicality, even as it rips at him: Rodney is dying. He's dying, and John is out of time, but everything he wants to say, all the things he wants to tell him, can’t get past the choked tightness of his throat.
Three strikes you’re out
“In the way a friend feels about another friend,” John says, and he feels the impossible: tears wet against his cheeks; and yet: That is not it at all, that is not what I meant, at all-
But Rodney’s going, he’s going, he’s-
Extra innings
-bouncing back up onto his feet, alive and hungry, and John sits with him while he scarfs down a gigantic piece of lasagne, already talking about everything he’s going to do in the next five minutes, five months, five years.
John doesn’t say much of anything at all.
A swing and a miss
He touches Rodney’s arm as they leave the mess. Rodney turns. “I-” he says. “I just wanted to say-” And he goes mute again.
“We’re good,” Rodney says happily, and John can only nod. Good.
Foul ball
Rodney’s wormed his way under the console. His jacket’s off, his arms streaked with dirt, highlighting the carelessly developed cords of muscle. His shirt is rucked up and John can see a thin stripe of white stomach as Rodney squirms, rolling over onto his belly so he can address something farther to the back. His ass lifts into the air, full and round, and John can’t help it, the burble of almost hysterical laughter that escapes his mouth. “Rodney,” he says. “You look-You look so-”
“Yes, ha ha, Colonel, very funny. Pass me the-no, not that, THAT, right there-”
John swallows what he was going to say, whatever he was going to say, and finds the missing piece.
Infield fly
“Rodney,” John says determinedly, marching into Rodney’s quarters. “I want you to listen-”
“Hello, John,” Teyla says, looking up from the cup of tea balanced on her knee. She smiles. “Will you join us?”
John’s jaw clicks shut, thrown-he was there, he was ready; he was out of words before he’d even begun.
Curveball
“I’ve been thinking,” Rodney says.
“There’s a surprise.” John looks away from Rodney when he speaks, back to the magazine in his hand: attempting, poorly, to disguise that he’s been perusing Rodney’s movements, the quick work of his hands, and not this article on Tiger Woods.
Rodney puts his tools down. He looks…nervous? “I’m not sure if this is appropriate to bring up, this type of situation isn’t exactly covered by Miss Manners, but it’s driving me crazy, wondering, so I’ll. Um.” He swallows; John empathizes. But then he speaks, and whoever knew that Rodney would be the braver man? “When I had telepathy, did I, um, overhear you think-”
“Yes!” John says, terrified and relieved and on his feet; “Yes,” taking Rodney’s face in his hands and finally, finally, making that connection.
First base
Rodney breathes surprise into John’s mouth, but it tastes sweet, as do his hands, fisting John’s shirt, pulling him closer, devouring him.
“Bedroom. Now,” Rodney breathes, and they scramble to their feet, stumble…
Slide
…through the door, tumble onto the bed. Rodney’s breathing is coming fast and low. John tastes his neck, the frantic beating of his heart. Alive, alive, alive!
Third base
Neither of them has it in them to be particularly dainty about this. Rodney paws at John’s pants, barely bothering to lower the fly before he’s shoving his hand in, grasping John’s dick. John makes a pathetically needy sound and Rodney laughs, nips at his ear. The crowd, John thinks, goes wild.
Signaling
“What do you want?” Rodney pants.
You, John thinks inarticulately. He squeezes his eyes shut, panting, biting his lip.
“Fuck me,” he says.
Pitching and catching
The smell of sweat, the slap of skin on skin, as wholesome and all-American as apple pie.
Grand slam
Lights explode behind John’s eyes. His whole body is humming, singing, soaring-up through the sky, carrying both him and Rodney home.
Post-game analysis
“Are you humming the theme from The Natural?”
John shifts. “No?”
“Well, I suppose it could be worse. There was a chance you’d be the type who shouts ‘Touchdown!’ when he comes.”
“Next time?” John suggests, and though he’s kidding, he still can’t hide the slight edge to his words.
Rodney’s too sated to manage much of a grimace. “Next time I’ll have to gag you, then.”
“Kinky.” Never has that word been uttered with such relief.
Rodney grins against his skin. “You know,” he says, “far be it for me to question such an incredibly desirable result, but, uh, before? I was actually going to ask you something else.”
John blinks, but refrains from pushing himself onto his elbow. “You were?”
“Yeah, you’d, uh, thought something about my having a chance with Doctor Esposito if I actually took it, and-”
Now John is up on his elbow. “You were going to ask for my advice about a woman?”
Switching teams
Rodney appears blithely unaware that this might not be the best post-coital chatter. “Yes, but this works. I mean, I can be a, a switch hitter.”
Swing away
It’s such a stupid, careless thing to say, yet Rodney seems so pleased with himself, enthusiastic about this new endeavor. John realizes he must envy him a little: his freedom with words, his willingness to just go out there, swinging and swinging like he’ll never run out of chances.
But: “This isn’t a game to me, Rodney,” John hears himself saying. And it should be too much, too revealing, especially when he’s lying here, already naked.
But Rodney just lets out another pleased puff of air and curls against John's side like a contented cat. "I don't like games anyway," he says, "they're a stupid waste of time." And John freezes with his hand above Rodney's hair, still a little too afraid of this.
Clincher
"But we have time," he says after a minute. Rodney warm and alive in his arms: deserved or not, a second chance.
"We do," says Rodney with a slow smile. "Ready for another round?"
"You bet," John grins. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he's won.