15 Drabbles
Feb. 19th, 2006 05:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneSo I was going to work today. Really. But then ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alyse started a drabble tree over on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mckay_sheppard, so I ended up playing with that instead. There are 66 entries so far; alyse's goal is to hit 100, so go contribute! I've written 15 all on my lonesome--don't ever say I don't pull my weight around here. ;-)
Anyway, I thought I'd repost my contributions here, mostly 'cause I want them all in one place. Also, it's a good way to understand why I love drabbling: it's a tonal consistency-free zone. I got to write humor, angst, smut, crack, slash, gen--all in perfectly precise 100-word increments. (Because I am a drabble traditionalist, dammit.) Basically, I got to move through the classic clichés of SGA fandom, all fast-and-dirty-like. Fun!
So here they are. In the order I wrote them, with the lines I took from the previous drabbles in the cut tag (and bolded).
“Why’d you stop?” John asked—okay, whined, his voice breathy and high-pitched. “God, don’t stop.”
“Wait, just—” Rodney grunted, tugging at John’s shoulder. “Turn over.”
John’s legs felt like rubber bands on the verge of snapping. He allowed them to slacken, albeit with regret: Rodney sliding out of him, the sudden emptiness. But he understood, rolling over, repositioning his body, opening his thighs. Rodney hunkered down between them, and their eyes locked in mutual appreciation and agreement as Rodney stroked back in and resumed fucking him—this way now, that way another time; plenty of commas, never a period.
*
“You’re crazy, do you know that? Only a crazy person would recklessly endanger their own life with flashy and gratuitous heroics just to—I don’t even know what you were trying to do, except get yourself killed, clearly, and I don’t need the stress of watching you die—all the times I merely thought you were dead were bad enough, thank you, and I—I—”
Breathe, Rodney, John would say, except that instead of sucking air into his mouth, Rodney is sucking on John’s tongue, kissing him frantically, desperately, hungrily.
A minute ago, John nearly died. It was worth it.
*
Of all the weird alien rituals, this one...is actually not the weirdest. Like Blind Man’s Bluff, spun dizzy and told to find “that which is most vital.” Got that right here, Rodney thinks, hands tight against his sides, but eventually he reaches out into the dark—
—A shiver, the air full of charged particles, and Rodney’s hands abruptly drop down, closing around warm skin and the gentle scratch of a familiar wristband...
The boon he shows the natives is his datapad but the real prize is John: whispering in his ear, silky and reassuring, “Hey, I felt it too.”
*
Rodney stopped, John stumbling into his side. From inside the room, there was an alarmed, “Oh, shit!” and the sound of a lamp getting knocked over. There was also a lot—a lot a lot—of bare skin, hastily being covered.
Rodney stood with his mouth open, gaping, until John grabbed him and jerked him back into the hall.
“What are we going to do?” he asked, after a minute.
“Well,” said John, frowning, “I’d say it’s your duty to talk to Parrish and mine to talk to Lorne.” He looked weary, disappointed. “We totally had dibs on that room.”
*
“Tell us, John.” Teyla’s voice is soft, wanting to help.
But he can’t. He can’t, he can’t—
“We won’t hurt you, John,” Elizabeth promises.
“It’s for the best,” Carson says.
“For everyone,” adds Ford.
Sumner nods his permission, his approval. “It’s okay, John.”
His father ruffles his hair, like he used to. “You can tell us.”
“Tell us.”
“Tell us.”
He closes his eyes. Tries to block out the images he can still see, the voices he can still hear.
“It’s only a matter of time, John,” says Rodney, lips warm against his ear.
Rodney’s a genius. He’s always right.
*
There was something about Major Sheppard’s slouch, his lazy grin, that was practically an invitation to jerk him out of that stupid helicopter and fuck his brains out. What little of them there were, anyway—stupid flyboy, he probably didn’t know his multiplication tables, and yet somehow he was capable of driving all the numbers out of Rodney’s head, filling it instead with images of fucking him, blowing him, kissing that soft, sly mouth...
Not that Rodney was going to do that. Any of it. Hell, after a few more weeks, he was never going to see the Major again.
*
They were having a Laurel and Hardy moment. “Another fine mess,” Rodney groused. “Is this some kind of secret power of yours?”
“No, but I have almost no gag reflex,” John said brightly.
Rodney tried the door again. “And that’s relevant exactly how?”
“Oh, nothing.” John was practically whistling. He knew help was on the way. “Just thinking of ways to pass the time.”
Rodney snorted. “And your brilliant solution is to experiment with how large an object you can—oh.”
John’s lips were red and moist. Rodney sincerely doubted that Laurel and Hardy had ever done anything like this.
*
“It’s going to fall on us,” Rodney said. “Oh, God. It’s going to—”
John tugged on his—on his friend’s shoulders, trying to get him to stay focused, to stay with them. “What’s going to fall, Rodney? Come on, talk to me. What’s going to fall?”
Rodney’s eyes were wide and impossibly blue. “The sky,” he said. “Oh, God. The sky.”
John wanted to laugh. Welling up within him, that emotion, so intense. Beneath them the ground started shaking, as if Atlantis could feel it, too.
Then the shield popped like a soap bubble and the sky came pouring down.
*
The bullet hit Rodney square in the chest. Like a discarded toy he tumbled back; like a ragdoll, he slumped at the base of the tree. John took out his attacker with a perfect, pure shot: but too late, too late.
He knelt over the body. A stain was already spreading across Rodney’s shirt. John touched it with shaking hands—cold, already so cold and...slippery?
Rodney blinked, coming awake with a start and a moan. John had to laugh, dizzy with relief. “You were right,” he said. “It was a good idea to pack lube in your flak jacket.”
*
A year ago, John found out that there really was a place further than Antarctica that he could run to. He wanted to believe in that place, believe that it was his salvage, his salvation. He dreamt Atlantis like a mother, wide open arms, welcoming home the prodigal.
His mouth tastes like ash. Charred grey and inky black, coating his body like a blanket, like a second skin. The world drops beneath him. Hands streaked with red and brown, he grips the jumper controls and spirals upward, into the farther reaches.
There’s so much, so much space to run to.
*
Around the knife, Rodney’s hands give a realistic tremble. John watches through dull eyes. “Thank God we found you,” Rodney whispers.
John doesn’t say a thing.
Fingers shaking but sure, Rodney cuts him down. John tries to stay steady on his feet, but he crumples against Rodney’s body, solid and warm. He still doesn’t believe it. Painfully, he pulls himself upward: lets his lips scrape Rodney’s, tasting sweat and chapstick, his breath.
“What was that for?” Rodney asks, like he has none.
“Nothing,” John whispers. Head coming to rest against Rodney’s shoulder: “I had to make sure you were real.”
*
“Curse you! You foiled my dastardly plan!”
Admittedly, Rodney had been surprised that Hermiod was actually a disgruntled dwarf, formerly employed by the SGC. But it was beginning to sink in.
“Dastardly plan?” He scoffed. “You tried to pass a squid puppet off as an Ancient! Then you tried to kidnap me and stuff me in a broom cupboard!”
“And if it weren’t for those pesky Marines, I would have gotten away with it, too!” the imposter cried, waving his rubber mask as they led him away.
Rodney turned to Ronon. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Snacks?”
“Definitely snacks.”
*
It’s like the black mark all over again. Their stares, their judgement. He can see it in their eyes, he’s not one of them anymore. Only this time it’s worse. In Afghanistan, he screwed up. Here, he didn’t do anything wrong.
There are those who try to be supportive: Cadman with her open, friendly eyes; Stackhouse’s tentative little smile. But he sees disgust on the faces of men he liked and respected; men he thought liked and respected him.
Just because they can’t throw him out for it anymore doesn’t mean they can’t drive him away.
Anyway. They can try.
*
Rodney’s eyes were the same color as the sky; how had he never noticed before? Twenty-four hours of darkness, twenty-four hours without his sight. Five minutes since he’d gotten it back and he was noticing all sorts of things. The play of light and shadow on the waving infirmary partitions. The oil-dark swirl of an aging cup of coffee. The nearly-invisible patterns in the air, after Rodney’s hands traversed the space, moving through it.
Everything was new.
He looked at Rodney. Looked at Rodney; saw all sorts of things.
It was all new. And he knew.
*
Just like the first time, Sheppard takes care to make it slow. Pushing steadily into him, hands firm but gentle on his thighs. “Look at me,” he says. “Rodney, look at me.”
Rodney likes the familiar weight of Sheppard’s body, likes the familiar scent. Sheppard’s trying to smile though it looks somewhat strained; and that, that is familiar, too.
“Look at me, Rodney, look at me,” Sheppard says, his hand stroking along Rodney’s dick as his own dick strokes into Rodney. Burrowing into him, gaze hazel and blurry, and Rodney closes his eyes as he comes.
The crowd goes wild.
***
...And that, believe it or not, is my first ever AMTDI. I'm so proud.
alyse started a drabble tree over on mckay_sheppard, so I ended up playing with that instead. There are 66 entries so far; alyse's goal is to hit 100, so go contribute! I've written 15 all on my lonesome--don't ever say I don't pull my weight around here. ;-)Anyway, I thought I'd repost my contributions here, mostly 'cause I want them all in one place. Also, it's a good way to understand why I love drabbling: it's a tonal consistency-free zone. I got to write humor, angst, smut, crack, slash, gen--all in perfectly precise 100-word increments. (Because I am a drabble traditionalist, dammit.) Basically, I got to move through the classic clichés of SGA fandom, all fast-and-dirty-like. Fun!
So here they are. In the order I wrote them, with the lines I took from the previous drabbles in the cut tag (and bolded).
“Why’d you stop?” John asked—okay, whined, his voice breathy and high-pitched. “God, don’t stop.”
“Wait, just—” Rodney grunted, tugging at John’s shoulder. “Turn over.”
John’s legs felt like rubber bands on the verge of snapping. He allowed them to slacken, albeit with regret: Rodney sliding out of him, the sudden emptiness. But he understood, rolling over, repositioning his body, opening his thighs. Rodney hunkered down between them, and their eyes locked in mutual appreciation and agreement as Rodney stroked back in and resumed fucking him—this way now, that way another time; plenty of commas, never a period.
*
“You’re crazy, do you know that? Only a crazy person would recklessly endanger their own life with flashy and gratuitous heroics just to—I don’t even know what you were trying to do, except get yourself killed, clearly, and I don’t need the stress of watching you die—all the times I merely thought you were dead were bad enough, thank you, and I—I—”
Breathe, Rodney, John would say, except that instead of sucking air into his mouth, Rodney is sucking on John’s tongue, kissing him frantically, desperately, hungrily.
A minute ago, John nearly died. It was worth it.
*
Of all the weird alien rituals, this one...is actually not the weirdest. Like Blind Man’s Bluff, spun dizzy and told to find “that which is most vital.” Got that right here, Rodney thinks, hands tight against his sides, but eventually he reaches out into the dark—
—A shiver, the air full of charged particles, and Rodney’s hands abruptly drop down, closing around warm skin and the gentle scratch of a familiar wristband...
The boon he shows the natives is his datapad but the real prize is John: whispering in his ear, silky and reassuring, “Hey, I felt it too.”
*
Rodney stopped, John stumbling into his side. From inside the room, there was an alarmed, “Oh, shit!” and the sound of a lamp getting knocked over. There was also a lot—a lot a lot—of bare skin, hastily being covered.
Rodney stood with his mouth open, gaping, until John grabbed him and jerked him back into the hall.
“What are we going to do?” he asked, after a minute.
“Well,” said John, frowning, “I’d say it’s your duty to talk to Parrish and mine to talk to Lorne.” He looked weary, disappointed. “We totally had dibs on that room.”
*
“Tell us, John.” Teyla’s voice is soft, wanting to help.
But he can’t. He can’t, he can’t—
“We won’t hurt you, John,” Elizabeth promises.
“It’s for the best,” Carson says.
“For everyone,” adds Ford.
Sumner nods his permission, his approval. “It’s okay, John.”
His father ruffles his hair, like he used to. “You can tell us.”
“Tell us.”
“Tell us.”
He closes his eyes. Tries to block out the images he can still see, the voices he can still hear.
“It’s only a matter of time, John,” says Rodney, lips warm against his ear.
Rodney’s a genius. He’s always right.
*
There was something about Major Sheppard’s slouch, his lazy grin, that was practically an invitation to jerk him out of that stupid helicopter and fuck his brains out. What little of them there were, anyway—stupid flyboy, he probably didn’t know his multiplication tables, and yet somehow he was capable of driving all the numbers out of Rodney’s head, filling it instead with images of fucking him, blowing him, kissing that soft, sly mouth...
Not that Rodney was going to do that. Any of it. Hell, after a few more weeks, he was never going to see the Major again.
*
They were having a Laurel and Hardy moment. “Another fine mess,” Rodney groused. “Is this some kind of secret power of yours?”
“No, but I have almost no gag reflex,” John said brightly.
Rodney tried the door again. “And that’s relevant exactly how?”
“Oh, nothing.” John was practically whistling. He knew help was on the way. “Just thinking of ways to pass the time.”
Rodney snorted. “And your brilliant solution is to experiment with how large an object you can—oh.”
John’s lips were red and moist. Rodney sincerely doubted that Laurel and Hardy had ever done anything like this.
*
“It’s going to fall on us,” Rodney said. “Oh, God. It’s going to—”
John tugged on his—on his friend’s shoulders, trying to get him to stay focused, to stay with them. “What’s going to fall, Rodney? Come on, talk to me. What’s going to fall?”
Rodney’s eyes were wide and impossibly blue. “The sky,” he said. “Oh, God. The sky.”
John wanted to laugh. Welling up within him, that emotion, so intense. Beneath them the ground started shaking, as if Atlantis could feel it, too.
Then the shield popped like a soap bubble and the sky came pouring down.
*
The bullet hit Rodney square in the chest. Like a discarded toy he tumbled back; like a ragdoll, he slumped at the base of the tree. John took out his attacker with a perfect, pure shot: but too late, too late.
He knelt over the body. A stain was already spreading across Rodney’s shirt. John touched it with shaking hands—cold, already so cold and...slippery?
Rodney blinked, coming awake with a start and a moan. John had to laugh, dizzy with relief. “You were right,” he said. “It was a good idea to pack lube in your flak jacket.”
*
A year ago, John found out that there really was a place further than Antarctica that he could run to. He wanted to believe in that place, believe that it was his salvage, his salvation. He dreamt Atlantis like a mother, wide open arms, welcoming home the prodigal.
His mouth tastes like ash. Charred grey and inky black, coating his body like a blanket, like a second skin. The world drops beneath him. Hands streaked with red and brown, he grips the jumper controls and spirals upward, into the farther reaches.
There’s so much, so much space to run to.
*
Around the knife, Rodney’s hands give a realistic tremble. John watches through dull eyes. “Thank God we found you,” Rodney whispers.
John doesn’t say a thing.
Fingers shaking but sure, Rodney cuts him down. John tries to stay steady on his feet, but he crumples against Rodney’s body, solid and warm. He still doesn’t believe it. Painfully, he pulls himself upward: lets his lips scrape Rodney’s, tasting sweat and chapstick, his breath.
“What was that for?” Rodney asks, like he has none.
“Nothing,” John whispers. Head coming to rest against Rodney’s shoulder: “I had to make sure you were real.”
*
“Curse you! You foiled my dastardly plan!”
Admittedly, Rodney had been surprised that Hermiod was actually a disgruntled dwarf, formerly employed by the SGC. But it was beginning to sink in.
“Dastardly plan?” He scoffed. “You tried to pass a squid puppet off as an Ancient! Then you tried to kidnap me and stuff me in a broom cupboard!”
“And if it weren’t for those pesky Marines, I would have gotten away with it, too!” the imposter cried, waving his rubber mask as they led him away.
Rodney turned to Ronon. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Snacks?”
“Definitely snacks.”
*
It’s like the black mark all over again. Their stares, their judgement. He can see it in their eyes, he’s not one of them anymore. Only this time it’s worse. In Afghanistan, he screwed up. Here, he didn’t do anything wrong.
There are those who try to be supportive: Cadman with her open, friendly eyes; Stackhouse’s tentative little smile. But he sees disgust on the faces of men he liked and respected; men he thought liked and respected him.
Just because they can’t throw him out for it anymore doesn’t mean they can’t drive him away.
Anyway. They can try.
*
Rodney’s eyes were the same color as the sky; how had he never noticed before? Twenty-four hours of darkness, twenty-four hours without his sight. Five minutes since he’d gotten it back and he was noticing all sorts of things. The play of light and shadow on the waving infirmary partitions. The oil-dark swirl of an aging cup of coffee. The nearly-invisible patterns in the air, after Rodney’s hands traversed the space, moving through it.
Everything was new.
He looked at Rodney. Looked at Rodney; saw all sorts of things.
It was all new. And he knew.
*
Just like the first time, Sheppard takes care to make it slow. Pushing steadily into him, hands firm but gentle on his thighs. “Look at me,” he says. “Rodney, look at me.”
Rodney likes the familiar weight of Sheppard’s body, likes the familiar scent. Sheppard’s trying to smile though it looks somewhat strained; and that, that is familiar, too.
“Look at me, Rodney, look at me,” Sheppard says, his hand stroking along Rodney’s dick as his own dick strokes into Rodney. Burrowing into him, gaze hazel and blurry, and Rodney closes his eyes as he comes.
The crowd goes wild.
***
...And that, believe it or not, is my first ever AMTDI. I'm so proud.
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Date: 2006-02-20 11:51 pm (UTC)