Prompt: Any* (except Supernatural), any, Jiang Shi/Chinese Vampire
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/706820.html?thread=93399556#t93399556
"So, what does the inscription say?" Vala asked.
Mitchell squinted at it. "My written Chinese is rough. I can speak it okay, but -"
"A jiangshi is guarding this tomb," Daniel said. "To warn people off the great treasure inside."
"What's a jiangshi?" Sam asked.
"Like a Chinese vampire. Drains life force instead of blood. Moves really stiffly." Daniel extended his arms and hopped for emphasis.
Vala giggled behind her hand.
"And if we open this tomb?" Teal'c asked.
"Don't worry, there's no such thing as vampires," Mitchell said. "They're just a myth."
"I believe Daniel Jackson just described a Wraith," Teal'c said.
"Oh." Vala snatched her hand back. "Then I shouldn't have pushed the button?"
"No, you probably shouldn't have." Daniel sighed.
The others stared at him.
Daniel said, "Hello? Wraith? Run!"
The tomb door swung open. Something roared inside.
And SG-1 - they ran.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Monday, March 28, 2016
No. 33
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, Any,
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
- "Jabberwocky" (Lewis Carroll)
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/706543.html?thread=93328111#t93328111
Ronon was down, taken out by a Wraith stunner. Lorne and the rest of his soldiers were spread out to the west beyond the trees, laying down cover fire so they could make it to the gate.
“Ronon!” Parrish shook him desperately. “Wake up. Please!”
“Grab his stunner,” Zelenka said. “Where is the beast?”
Parrish cast a wild look around them, but their little camp clearing was surrounded by dense foliage. Everything was rustling boughs, gunfire, and the sound of Wraith stunners.
Kusanagi was huddled behind Parrish, scrambling to pack the last of the equipment up. The data was the vital part of this mission. It had to make it back to Atlantis, even if one of them didn’t -
The beast broke through the trees with a roar. Parrish and Zelenka screamed and threw themselves backwards. The beast - scaly, brown, mottled, slimy, with open jaws, double rows of razor-sharp fangs slick with saliva, prowled toward them, ignoring Ronon’s inert form completely.
Parrish scrambled up the nearest tree.
“Wait for me!” Zelenka cried, and Parrish leaned down to offer him a hand, nearly overbalanced, screamed again.
“Miko!” Zelenka levered himself up onto one of the lower boughs and clawed his way higher. “Miko, leave the data. Come on!”
As if it understood, the beast swung around and stared at Kusanagi, its tail lashing. Its legs were thick and muscular, and the thing had to be at least twice Ronon’s weight.
Kusanagi stared at it, transfixed.
“Miko!” Parrish pleaded. “Come on. Don’t just stand there. Do -”
The beast lunged.
Kusanagi dove.
Hit the ground. Rolled. Came up beside Ronon. What happened next was a blur. The beast leaped for her, and she screamed, and Parrish and Zelenka screamed, and Ronon came awake roaring, firing his blaster, and the beast landed on the ground.
Its head landed several feet away and rolled. Kusanagi was left standing, holding Ronon’s sword, its edge dripping with green-black gore. She was panting and wide-eyed and her glasses were askew.
“What just happened?” Ronon asked.
“High school kendo,” Kusanagi said. And fainted.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
- "Jabberwocky" (Lewis Carroll)
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/706543.html?thread=93328111#t93328111
Ronon was down, taken out by a Wraith stunner. Lorne and the rest of his soldiers were spread out to the west beyond the trees, laying down cover fire so they could make it to the gate.
“Ronon!” Parrish shook him desperately. “Wake up. Please!”
“Grab his stunner,” Zelenka said. “Where is the beast?”
Parrish cast a wild look around them, but their little camp clearing was surrounded by dense foliage. Everything was rustling boughs, gunfire, and the sound of Wraith stunners.
Kusanagi was huddled behind Parrish, scrambling to pack the last of the equipment up. The data was the vital part of this mission. It had to make it back to Atlantis, even if one of them didn’t -
The beast broke through the trees with a roar. Parrish and Zelenka screamed and threw themselves backwards. The beast - scaly, brown, mottled, slimy, with open jaws, double rows of razor-sharp fangs slick with saliva, prowled toward them, ignoring Ronon’s inert form completely.
Parrish scrambled up the nearest tree.
“Wait for me!” Zelenka cried, and Parrish leaned down to offer him a hand, nearly overbalanced, screamed again.
“Miko!” Zelenka levered himself up onto one of the lower boughs and clawed his way higher. “Miko, leave the data. Come on!”
As if it understood, the beast swung around and stared at Kusanagi, its tail lashing. Its legs were thick and muscular, and the thing had to be at least twice Ronon’s weight.
Kusanagi stared at it, transfixed.
“Miko!” Parrish pleaded. “Come on. Don’t just stand there. Do -”
The beast lunged.
Kusanagi dove.
Hit the ground. Rolled. Came up beside Ronon. What happened next was a blur. The beast leaped for her, and she screamed, and Parrish and Zelenka screamed, and Ronon came awake roaring, firing his blaster, and the beast landed on the ground.
Its head landed several feet away and rolled. Kusanagi was left standing, holding Ronon’s sword, its edge dripping with green-black gore. She was panting and wide-eyed and her glasses were askew.
“What just happened?” Ronon asked.
“High school kendo,” Kusanagi said. And fainted.
Friday, March 25, 2016
No. 32
Prompt: SG1, Daniel Jackson, Dead Again
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/58255.html?thread=14010255#t14010255
"He's dead?" Keller demanded even as her team was shoving him into a stasis pod.
"More like 'dead again'," Lorne said.
Keller punched him in the arm. "Not funny, Lieutenant-Colonel."
"Look, we've dealt with this before, we can heal him," Lorne said.
"Fine." Keller sighed, then reached out for her laptop, fired off a message to Zelenka to have him bring the newly-discovered Ancient healing device. Quicker and more efficient than a Goa'uld hand device. Colonel Caldwell was always twitchy about using one anyway. "But you tell Sheppard."
"It's not Shepppard I'm worried about telling," Lorne said. "It's O'Neill."
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/58255.html?thread=14010255#t14010255
"He's dead?" Keller demanded even as her team was shoving him into a stasis pod.
"More like 'dead again'," Lorne said.
Keller punched him in the arm. "Not funny, Lieutenant-Colonel."
"Look, we've dealt with this before, we can heal him," Lorne said.
"Fine." Keller sighed, then reached out for her laptop, fired off a message to Zelenka to have him bring the newly-discovered Ancient healing device. Quicker and more efficient than a Goa'uld hand device. Colonel Caldwell was always twitchy about using one anyway. "But you tell Sheppard."
"It's not Shepppard I'm worried about telling," Lorne said. "It's O'Neill."
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
No. 31
Prompt: Stargate SG-1/Supernatural, Cameron Mitchell, The Air Force was his way out. But somethings never end.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/218068.html?thread=45881812#t45881812
The Air Force was Cam's way out of The Life. No more living on the road, bouncing from house to house, school to school, chasing things that went bump in the night.
He graduated, he turned eighteen, he took off for the Air Force Academy, and he never looked back.
Until the first time he came face-to-face with a Goa'uld and its voice went deep and inhuman and Cam said, "Christo," because it was a reflex, and the Goa'uld's eyes flashed gold.
Gold, like the demon who'd killed Grandma and Grandpa Campbell in Lawrence all those years ago.
Some things never end.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/218068.html?thread=45881812#t45881812
The Air Force was Cam's way out of The Life. No more living on the road, bouncing from house to house, school to school, chasing things that went bump in the night.
He graduated, he turned eighteen, he took off for the Air Force Academy, and he never looked back.
Until the first time he came face-to-face with a Goa'uld and its voice went deep and inhuman and Cam said, "Christo," because it was a reflex, and the Goa'uld's eyes flashed gold.
Gold, like the demon who'd killed Grandma and Grandpa Campbell in Lawrence all those years ago.
Some things never end.
No. 30
Prompt: Highland/Stargate. Methos, SG-1, any. Methos is decidedly unimpressed.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/245229.html?thread=49600237#t49600237
When Methos heard about the SGC, about how humanity had looked under its collective nose and seen what was there all along – Ancients, Antarctica – he was amused, but decidedly unimpressed. He remembered the so-called "Ancients". Merlin. Morgan Le Fay. Others, with their superior notions of technology and what it meant to be civilized. All of them too afraid to get their hands dirty.
So he enlisted, and he signed on as a lowly marine, and he waited for his chance to go through the gate. He kept himself in check, kept himself impressive enough to be chosen for a gate team, but not so impressive that he'd get stuck in the lab with Lam running tests on him to make sure he was human (he was, just immortal).
Daniel Jackson was a bright young man, knew many languages, and more than once Methos was tempted to test him, see what he knew, but instead he listened to the man ramble to himself as he pored over half a dozen translations at once, and it was like taking a pleasant stroll down memory lane.
Methos had forgotten more physics than Samantha Carter ever learned, but she reminded him how capable humans could be in so short a time. She was brilliant, made leaps in logic that should have defied reason, and she made new and old technology come alive together. Methos liked her, and refused to be charmed by her golden hair and blue eyes.
Methos contemplated Vala Mal Doran, intrigued by the hints of ancient shadows in her eyes, and wondered if he could find a good way to talk to her, find out how old she really was. With her pigtails and incessant flirting, she was hiding something. He hoped it was more interesting than plain old human pain.
As for Cameron Mitchell – he looked too much like a man Methos had once known and loved, but he was all wrong, too cheerful, too sunny, with that mid-western drawl.
When Methos was assigned to Atlantis, he didn't know whether to be excited or relieved. He'd heard so much about it. It was high time he got to see it. Ten thousand years was a long time to wait, even for the immortal and endlessly patient.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/245229.html?thread=49600237#t49600237
When Methos heard about the SGC, about how humanity had looked under its collective nose and seen what was there all along – Ancients, Antarctica – he was amused, but decidedly unimpressed. He remembered the so-called "Ancients". Merlin. Morgan Le Fay. Others, with their superior notions of technology and what it meant to be civilized. All of them too afraid to get their hands dirty.
So he enlisted, and he signed on as a lowly marine, and he waited for his chance to go through the gate. He kept himself in check, kept himself impressive enough to be chosen for a gate team, but not so impressive that he'd get stuck in the lab with Lam running tests on him to make sure he was human (he was, just immortal).
Daniel Jackson was a bright young man, knew many languages, and more than once Methos was tempted to test him, see what he knew, but instead he listened to the man ramble to himself as he pored over half a dozen translations at once, and it was like taking a pleasant stroll down memory lane.
Methos had forgotten more physics than Samantha Carter ever learned, but she reminded him how capable humans could be in so short a time. She was brilliant, made leaps in logic that should have defied reason, and she made new and old technology come alive together. Methos liked her, and refused to be charmed by her golden hair and blue eyes.
Methos contemplated Vala Mal Doran, intrigued by the hints of ancient shadows in her eyes, and wondered if he could find a good way to talk to her, find out how old she really was. With her pigtails and incessant flirting, she was hiding something. He hoped it was more interesting than plain old human pain.
As for Cameron Mitchell – he looked too much like a man Methos had once known and loved, but he was all wrong, too cheerful, too sunny, with that mid-western drawl.
When Methos was assigned to Atlantis, he didn't know whether to be excited or relieved. He'd heard so much about it. It was high time he got to see it. Ten thousand years was a long time to wait, even for the immortal and endlessly patient.
Friday, March 18, 2016
No. 29
Prompt: any crossover. any/any. They are perfect for each other.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/703549.html?thread=92869693#t92869693
Sam and Daniel were perfect for each other. They were the same man in two different bodies, both bookish and sensitive at heart, but soldiers through years of necessity. Dean watched them huddled over an obscure Enochian text and thought it was a shame, that Sam found the one person in the whole universe (or whole other universe) who was perfect for him, and the man was helping them find a way to be permanently separated. Sam was helping Daniel right back, of course.
They'd fallen on each other's problems like starving men on a Thanksgiving buffet. Daniel accepted the existence of angels, demons, and alternate universes with aplomb. Sam accepted the existence of aliens, time travel, and interstellar travel with aplomb. Dean was a bit more skeptical about Daniel's story, about how he and his friends had been trapped in an alternate timeline with no way to fix it and certain danger on the way, but Daniel was a damn good translator, knew a couple dozen languages, including some Dean was sure were made up, and he had Sam were making headway on the question of reversing the spell that had brought them to this frightening reality where their lives were a TV show. And Sam – Sam had always adored science and math, so he'd dived into the problem of time travel and alternate timelines with enthusiasm. He and Daniel spent ridiculous amounts of time at the public library and the university library Daniel had access to, reading textbooks and history books and positing theories.
Dean saw the way Sam smiled at Daniel, the way his face lit up while Daniel waxed enthusiastic about a specific point of Enochian grammar. Sam had smiled at Jessica Moore like that once. Dean had always only seen those smiles from a distance. Up close, Dean understood why Sam had stayed away like he had for all those years. Sam was happy.
Dean saw the way Daniel looked at Sam when Sam wasn't looking, the fondness and the longing and something else, something a little more shadowed and a little more sad than seemed fair. If the man's tale was true, though, then he'd been through hell, even died and come back a few times. He'd fit right in with the Winchesters and Team Free Will. Sadness was on the table all around for the three of them.
Dean saw the way Daniel and Sam lit up at exactly the same moment, when both of them cried, "I've got it!"
And then they realized what solving the problem meant, and their smiles dissolved, and then Sam was reaching up to pull off Daniel's glasses and set them aside, and Daniel was gazing at Sam like a desert wanderer at an oasis, and Dean slipped out of the room to let them say their goodbyes.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/703549.html?thread=92869693#t92869693
Sam and Daniel were perfect for each other. They were the same man in two different bodies, both bookish and sensitive at heart, but soldiers through years of necessity. Dean watched them huddled over an obscure Enochian text and thought it was a shame, that Sam found the one person in the whole universe (or whole other universe) who was perfect for him, and the man was helping them find a way to be permanently separated. Sam was helping Daniel right back, of course.
They'd fallen on each other's problems like starving men on a Thanksgiving buffet. Daniel accepted the existence of angels, demons, and alternate universes with aplomb. Sam accepted the existence of aliens, time travel, and interstellar travel with aplomb. Dean was a bit more skeptical about Daniel's story, about how he and his friends had been trapped in an alternate timeline with no way to fix it and certain danger on the way, but Daniel was a damn good translator, knew a couple dozen languages, including some Dean was sure were made up, and he had Sam were making headway on the question of reversing the spell that had brought them to this frightening reality where their lives were a TV show. And Sam – Sam had always adored science and math, so he'd dived into the problem of time travel and alternate timelines with enthusiasm. He and Daniel spent ridiculous amounts of time at the public library and the university library Daniel had access to, reading textbooks and history books and positing theories.
Dean saw the way Sam smiled at Daniel, the way his face lit up while Daniel waxed enthusiastic about a specific point of Enochian grammar. Sam had smiled at Jessica Moore like that once. Dean had always only seen those smiles from a distance. Up close, Dean understood why Sam had stayed away like he had for all those years. Sam was happy.
Dean saw the way Daniel looked at Sam when Sam wasn't looking, the fondness and the longing and something else, something a little more shadowed and a little more sad than seemed fair. If the man's tale was true, though, then he'd been through hell, even died and come back a few times. He'd fit right in with the Winchesters and Team Free Will. Sadness was on the table all around for the three of them.
Dean saw the way Daniel and Sam lit up at exactly the same moment, when both of them cried, "I've got it!"
And then they realized what solving the problem meant, and their smiles dissolved, and then Sam was reaching up to pull off Daniel's glasses and set them aside, and Daniel was gazing at Sam like a desert wanderer at an oasis, and Dean slipped out of the room to let them say their goodbyes.
Monday, March 14, 2016
No. 28
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, Evan Lorne/David Parrish, Evan goes to David's quarters after they get back from stumbling upon the dead Wraith to make sure David is okay (S02E03, Runner).
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/702314.html?thread=92728682#t92728682
David knew he needed to schedule a time to see Heightmeyer. He was a soldier, not a scientist. He didn't deal with dead bodies. He didn't deal with bodies. He was a botanist. He was –
v He ran to the bathroom again, fell to his knees, retched up bile because his stomach was already empty. He brushed his teeth again – and Ancient bathrooms were so tiny but so water-efficient and a hydroponic garden using this tech – and he went back to his room. Sat down on the edge of his bed.
Closed his eyes.
Saw the desiccated corpse.
Opened his eyes again, breathing hard.
And there was a knock at the door.
Immediately David was on his feet, smoothing down his hair, fixing his shirt. He initiated the lock with one hand, prepared to see Kusanagi or Zelenka or Brown, ready with a cheerful smile.
It was Major Lorne.
"Dr. Parrish," he said, and had he always had such blue eyes? "I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
Kusanagi wouldn't have bought a smile, but she'd have given him props for trying and then given him some of her coveted red bean candy. But Lorne – David couldn't lose face in front of a soldier. Couldn't.
So he ratcheted up the brightness of his smile a notch and nodded. "I'm totally fine. Just fine. I was about to –"
His world tilted sideways. Oh! Oh. His knees were buckling. His vision was going spotty.
Warm hands clasped his shoulders, hauled him upright. Lorne walked him over to the bed, sat him carefully down on the edge of it, and then Lorne sat beside him. Lorne put an arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, breathe. It'll be all right. Do you need to throw up? I can carry you to the bathroom."
David was trying to breathe, but his lungs were on lockdown.
"Do you want me to call Heightmeyer? Or Beckett?" Lorne lifted a hand to his little radio, but David shook his head.
No. He could get through this. He had to.
"Aw, hell." Lorne dragged David close and held him tightly, rubbing a big warm hand up and down his back soothingly. "Hey. You're all right. You're gonna be okay. Probably not for a while, but it's gonna be okay."
"Not for a while?" David managed to gasp out.
"First time I saw a body like that, I puked, right then and there in front of Teal'c," Lorne said. "Alien planet. Mining outfit. I'm a surveyor, you know? That's how I got picked for the SGC. And the natives on the planet – Unas, giant reptilian bastards – they'd taken one of my guys and messed him up, then put his corpse up on display like some kind of fucked-up scarecrow. And when I saw his body – I lost it. Puked. Had nightmares for days. So if you need to puke, or you want me to get someone, I will. No judgment. Seriously."
Lorne's voice was low and steady, soothing. David could hear his heartbeat. If he breathed in time with Lorne's heartbeat, he felt better. Everything was okay. Not okay, but at least better. As long as he didn't close his eyes. As long as he didn't –
"It's okay," Lorne said again, and he smoothed a hand over David's hair, the gesture almost absent in its affection. "You're safe. You're alive."
David nodded fractionally. He could hold himself together as long as Lorne was holding him together. David reached out, curled his hand against Lorne's beating heart. Heard Lorne's breath hitch. David lifted his head, slid his hand higher to tangle his fingers in Lorne's hair and pull him down for a kiss – only his fingers tangled in the chain of Lorne's dogtags, and both of them froze.
"David," Lorne said gently, disentangling the chain from David's shaking hand, "if you want to do this, no one can know, and that's not fair to you. Right now you're in a very vulnerable place. If, after you've dealt with this trauma, you want to try again, and you're willing to do so in strict secrecy, let me know. Otherwise – otherwise I'll be here for you, and I'll lead our gate team as I always have. Okay?"
"Okay," David said, and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the steady sound of Lorne's heartbeat.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/702314.html?thread=92728682#t92728682
David knew he needed to schedule a time to see Heightmeyer. He was a soldier, not a scientist. He didn't deal with dead bodies. He didn't deal with bodies. He was a botanist. He was –
v He ran to the bathroom again, fell to his knees, retched up bile because his stomach was already empty. He brushed his teeth again – and Ancient bathrooms were so tiny but so water-efficient and a hydroponic garden using this tech – and he went back to his room. Sat down on the edge of his bed.
Closed his eyes.
Saw the desiccated corpse.
Opened his eyes again, breathing hard.
And there was a knock at the door.
Immediately David was on his feet, smoothing down his hair, fixing his shirt. He initiated the lock with one hand, prepared to see Kusanagi or Zelenka or Brown, ready with a cheerful smile.
It was Major Lorne.
"Dr. Parrish," he said, and had he always had such blue eyes? "I just wanted to make sure you're all right."
Kusanagi wouldn't have bought a smile, but she'd have given him props for trying and then given him some of her coveted red bean candy. But Lorne – David couldn't lose face in front of a soldier. Couldn't.
So he ratcheted up the brightness of his smile a notch and nodded. "I'm totally fine. Just fine. I was about to –"
His world tilted sideways. Oh! Oh. His knees were buckling. His vision was going spotty.
Warm hands clasped his shoulders, hauled him upright. Lorne walked him over to the bed, sat him carefully down on the edge of it, and then Lorne sat beside him. Lorne put an arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, breathe. It'll be all right. Do you need to throw up? I can carry you to the bathroom."
David was trying to breathe, but his lungs were on lockdown.
"Do you want me to call Heightmeyer? Or Beckett?" Lorne lifted a hand to his little radio, but David shook his head.
No. He could get through this. He had to.
"Aw, hell." Lorne dragged David close and held him tightly, rubbing a big warm hand up and down his back soothingly. "Hey. You're all right. You're gonna be okay. Probably not for a while, but it's gonna be okay."
"Not for a while?" David managed to gasp out.
"First time I saw a body like that, I puked, right then and there in front of Teal'c," Lorne said. "Alien planet. Mining outfit. I'm a surveyor, you know? That's how I got picked for the SGC. And the natives on the planet – Unas, giant reptilian bastards – they'd taken one of my guys and messed him up, then put his corpse up on display like some kind of fucked-up scarecrow. And when I saw his body – I lost it. Puked. Had nightmares for days. So if you need to puke, or you want me to get someone, I will. No judgment. Seriously."
Lorne's voice was low and steady, soothing. David could hear his heartbeat. If he breathed in time with Lorne's heartbeat, he felt better. Everything was okay. Not okay, but at least better. As long as he didn't close his eyes. As long as he didn't –
"It's okay," Lorne said again, and he smoothed a hand over David's hair, the gesture almost absent in its affection. "You're safe. You're alive."
David nodded fractionally. He could hold himself together as long as Lorne was holding him together. David reached out, curled his hand against Lorne's beating heart. Heard Lorne's breath hitch. David lifted his head, slid his hand higher to tangle his fingers in Lorne's hair and pull him down for a kiss – only his fingers tangled in the chain of Lorne's dogtags, and both of them froze.
"David," Lorne said gently, disentangling the chain from David's shaking hand, "if you want to do this, no one can know, and that's not fair to you. Right now you're in a very vulnerable place. If, after you've dealt with this trauma, you want to try again, and you're willing to do so in strict secrecy, let me know. Otherwise – otherwise I'll be here for you, and I'll lead our gate team as I always have. Okay?"
"Okay," David said, and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the steady sound of Lorne's heartbeat.
No. 27
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, Rod McKay + (canon) John Sheppard, This Sheppard has an air of danger that his geeky, too-thin Sheppard never has.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/702314.html?thread=92722282#t92722282
It's a subtle difference, but this John Sheppard is dangerous. It's the way he carries himself – just like the John he knows, he sees every day – that deliberately insouciant stroll, his tendency to lean instead of stand. But even when he's kicked back in his chair in the mess hall, fingers laced behind his head, he's alert. He notices everything around him, tracking who comes in and out of the room, who's moving around him (and he never, ever, ever sits so anyone can have his back).
And when he smiles, it's just as charming as Rod knows, just as charming as to make Rod wary when introductions John to any single female friends, but there's an edge to it. A restraint. There's something going on under that smile, and Rod thinks if he really knew it, he wouldn't like it.
This John is stronger. Physically. Rod would expect emotionally, too, shouldering the burden of military command of Atlantis, but the play of muscles in his forearms when he fidgets with a pen on his desk, the way his t-shirt stretches taut across his chest when he sheds his jacket is new and unsettling. Rod's John is lean, whipcord thing, strong in a hungry, aescetic way, from too many late nights staring at a whiteboard and making calculations, too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Rod is a little afraid of this John Sheppard, of the easy way he wears a gun on his thigh, the way he comes to full alertness when there's a loud sound or something out of the ordinary, but Rod likes him a little more than his own John Sheppard, and when he goes home, he will forever compare the two.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/702314.html?thread=92722282#t92722282
It's a subtle difference, but this John Sheppard is dangerous. It's the way he carries himself – just like the John he knows, he sees every day – that deliberately insouciant stroll, his tendency to lean instead of stand. But even when he's kicked back in his chair in the mess hall, fingers laced behind his head, he's alert. He notices everything around him, tracking who comes in and out of the room, who's moving around him (and he never, ever, ever sits so anyone can have his back).
And when he smiles, it's just as charming as Rod knows, just as charming as to make Rod wary when introductions John to any single female friends, but there's an edge to it. A restraint. There's something going on under that smile, and Rod thinks if he really knew it, he wouldn't like it.
This John is stronger. Physically. Rod would expect emotionally, too, shouldering the burden of military command of Atlantis, but the play of muscles in his forearms when he fidgets with a pen on his desk, the way his t-shirt stretches taut across his chest when he sheds his jacket is new and unsettling. Rod's John is lean, whipcord thing, strong in a hungry, aescetic way, from too many late nights staring at a whiteboard and making calculations, too much coffee and not enough sleep.
Rod is a little afraid of this John Sheppard, of the easy way he wears a gun on his thigh, the way he comes to full alertness when there's a loud sound or something out of the ordinary, but Rod likes him a little more than his own John Sheppard, and when he goes home, he will forever compare the two.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
No. 26
Prompt: Any, Any, gonna wash that man right out of my hair
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700959.html?thread=92560927#t92560927
Rodney was the best damn hairdresser in Hollywood, and everyone knew it. But he also did sometimes have personality conflicts, and he was pretty sure that his last big blow-up with Sam Carter at Stargate Studios was what had landed him at this job, on the set of Atlantis, some kind of ridiculous shipwrecked beach drama with the likes of Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex running around shirtless and pretending to call for help but generally getting caught up in pointless drama. It wasn't the show Rodney objected to – he'd worked on far, far worse, Todd the Wraith, anyone? – but the principal actor. John Sheppard. Because his hair was notoriously impossible to work with. The man's head was a hundred cowlicks, and all his hair did was stick up all over the place.
Rodney had a plan.
"Zelenka, don't touch that," he snapped. "And Kusanagi, are you deaf? I said the volumizer, not the hair dryer."
John, sitting in the makeup chair, looked amused at Rodney's array of hairdressing implements. "You know none of that's going to work. Just give me a comb and –"
"Are you the hairdresser? No. I am. Now shut up while I make you beautiful."
"I'm already beautiful."
"Fine! More beautiful! Just be quiet while I exhibit my genius." Rodney had done much research, talked to past hairdressers who'd worked with the man, and he had a plan.
But the gel didn't work. Egg whites didn't work. Glue-and-water didn't work. An industrial-strength polymer from the gaff crew didn't work.
Rodney shoved John into the shower for the hundredth time without even letting the man take off his clothes and scrubbed at his hair, outraged, because nothing was working and the producers wanted the man's hair to stay down and John had the temerity to laugh at him –
And then they were kissing and they were both completely wet, and Rodney was laughing too, and the next day, when John sat down in the make-up chair, Rodney gave him a comb, and when the producers freaked out, Rodney flipped them off and set to work on Ronon's dreadlocks.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700959.html?thread=92560927#t92560927
Rodney was the best damn hairdresser in Hollywood, and everyone knew it. But he also did sometimes have personality conflicts, and he was pretty sure that his last big blow-up with Sam Carter at Stargate Studios was what had landed him at this job, on the set of Atlantis, some kind of ridiculous shipwrecked beach drama with the likes of Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex running around shirtless and pretending to call for help but generally getting caught up in pointless drama. It wasn't the show Rodney objected to – he'd worked on far, far worse, Todd the Wraith, anyone? – but the principal actor. John Sheppard. Because his hair was notoriously impossible to work with. The man's head was a hundred cowlicks, and all his hair did was stick up all over the place.
Rodney had a plan.
"Zelenka, don't touch that," he snapped. "And Kusanagi, are you deaf? I said the volumizer, not the hair dryer."
John, sitting in the makeup chair, looked amused at Rodney's array of hairdressing implements. "You know none of that's going to work. Just give me a comb and –"
"Are you the hairdresser? No. I am. Now shut up while I make you beautiful."
"I'm already beautiful."
"Fine! More beautiful! Just be quiet while I exhibit my genius." Rodney had done much research, talked to past hairdressers who'd worked with the man, and he had a plan.
But the gel didn't work. Egg whites didn't work. Glue-and-water didn't work. An industrial-strength polymer from the gaff crew didn't work.
Rodney shoved John into the shower for the hundredth time without even letting the man take off his clothes and scrubbed at his hair, outraged, because nothing was working and the producers wanted the man's hair to stay down and John had the temerity to laugh at him –
And then they were kissing and they were both completely wet, and Rodney was laughing too, and the next day, when John sat down in the make-up chair, Rodney gave him a comb, and when the producers freaked out, Rodney flipped them off and set to work on Ronon's dreadlocks.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
No. 25
Prompt: Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, These Vicious Masks
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700901.html?thread=92490981#t92490981
They wore such vicious masks because it was the only way to keep the truth concealed. Rodney called him stupid and suicidal when he called himself heroic. He called Rodney insufferable and arrogant when Rodney was always right, had saved their lives over and over again. Because if they broke that boundary, if they got too close or were too gentle, the truth would be written all over their faces, in every shared glance and every casual touch.
I miss you. I want you. I love you. You're mine. I'm yours.
So they kept slinging verbal barbs at each other, and when that became too much for the people around them, they dialed it down to sarcasm, and somewhere along the way, after the hundredth time they'd saved each other, it became grudging affection, and finally, when they kissed it was a surprise to no one.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700901.html?thread=92490981#t92490981
They wore such vicious masks because it was the only way to keep the truth concealed. Rodney called him stupid and suicidal when he called himself heroic. He called Rodney insufferable and arrogant when Rodney was always right, had saved their lives over and over again. Because if they broke that boundary, if they got too close or were too gentle, the truth would be written all over their faces, in every shared glance and every casual touch.
I miss you. I want you. I love you. You're mine. I'm yours.
So they kept slinging verbal barbs at each other, and when that became too much for the people around them, they dialed it down to sarcasm, and somewhere along the way, after the hundredth time they'd saved each other, it became grudging affection, and finally, when they kissed it was a surprise to no one.
Monday, March 7, 2016
No. 24
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard, Rodney McKay (+ Team), "Say Goodnight to the Bad Guys"
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700591.html?thread=92449967#t92488111
John stood beside Rodney overlooking the medical isolation bay. "Say goodnight to the bad guys, Rodney. It's time to go."
Rodney gazed down at the dozen sleeping figures. "But they're so cute!"
"They were a lot less cute before they got hit with the Ancient de-aging device and were shooting at us," John pointed out.
The Genii soldiers, once an elite strike force team, had been reduced to toddler-hood. Lorne had emergency-retrofitted them with pajamas by cutting down t-shirts and turning them into onesies with his previously undisclosed mad sewing skills, and now the twelve of them were curled in a massive puppy pile on the bed Carson and his team had cobbled together by wiring together several cots from the infirmary.
One moment the team was receiving fire from all sides, the next there was a glowing light from the Ancient device John had activated, the one they'd retrieved in hopes of it being a weapon, and then there was crying. Lots of crying. From toddlers swimming in the clothes the Genii soldiers had been wearing.
"But now they're so small and defenseless," Rodney said. "They look just like regular children."
"Because they are regular children. For now." None of them had had their adult memories and had, for no good reason, trusted Ronon the most. He'd endured their crying and demands for hugs and piggyback rides with surprising aplomb. He'd been the one to talk them into coming into the jumper, coming back to Atlantis, submitting to exams by Carson, and then eating and being bathed and put to bed.
"Zelenka thinks the effects will wear off in the morning," John reminded Rodney.
Rodney sighed. "I know."
"And then, we'll have hostages."
"Mostly naked hostages, unless their clothes grow with them."
John grimaced. "Right." He turned away from the window and radioed for Lorne. Rodney followed him, and together they returned to the rec room where Teyla and Ronon were engaged in some kind of Pegasus board game that was sort of like mancala but had different colored stones and way more rules and seemed infinitely more complicated.
"How are the children?" Teyla asked.
"You mean the hilariously shrunken enemies?" Ronon snickered and scooped up a handful of glittering stones, considered them.
"They were frightened children," Teyla said, her tone reproachful.
"They're sleeping like angels," John assured her, with no small amount of sarcasm. "I'm sure they'll be back to their devilish selves in the morning."
The Genii might have been more devilish if they hadn't awoken stark naked and tangled all up with each other in a highly inappropriate fashion. Lorne returned the bare essentials of their uniforms – underwear, trousers, shirts – and Rodney and John joined Elizabeth in the control tower to listen while she made the call to the Genii.
Karma was a bitch, and Rodney and John had all kinds of photos of toddler Genii to prove it.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/700591.html?thread=92449967#t92488111
John stood beside Rodney overlooking the medical isolation bay. "Say goodnight to the bad guys, Rodney. It's time to go."
Rodney gazed down at the dozen sleeping figures. "But they're so cute!"
"They were a lot less cute before they got hit with the Ancient de-aging device and were shooting at us," John pointed out.
The Genii soldiers, once an elite strike force team, had been reduced to toddler-hood. Lorne had emergency-retrofitted them with pajamas by cutting down t-shirts and turning them into onesies with his previously undisclosed mad sewing skills, and now the twelve of them were curled in a massive puppy pile on the bed Carson and his team had cobbled together by wiring together several cots from the infirmary.
One moment the team was receiving fire from all sides, the next there was a glowing light from the Ancient device John had activated, the one they'd retrieved in hopes of it being a weapon, and then there was crying. Lots of crying. From toddlers swimming in the clothes the Genii soldiers had been wearing.
"But now they're so small and defenseless," Rodney said. "They look just like regular children."
"Because they are regular children. For now." None of them had had their adult memories and had, for no good reason, trusted Ronon the most. He'd endured their crying and demands for hugs and piggyback rides with surprising aplomb. He'd been the one to talk them into coming into the jumper, coming back to Atlantis, submitting to exams by Carson, and then eating and being bathed and put to bed.
"Zelenka thinks the effects will wear off in the morning," John reminded Rodney.
Rodney sighed. "I know."
"And then, we'll have hostages."
"Mostly naked hostages, unless their clothes grow with them."
John grimaced. "Right." He turned away from the window and radioed for Lorne. Rodney followed him, and together they returned to the rec room where Teyla and Ronon were engaged in some kind of Pegasus board game that was sort of like mancala but had different colored stones and way more rules and seemed infinitely more complicated.
"How are the children?" Teyla asked.
"You mean the hilariously shrunken enemies?" Ronon snickered and scooped up a handful of glittering stones, considered them.
"They were frightened children," Teyla said, her tone reproachful.
"They're sleeping like angels," John assured her, with no small amount of sarcasm. "I'm sure they'll be back to their devilish selves in the morning."
The Genii might have been more devilish if they hadn't awoken stark naked and tangled all up with each other in a highly inappropriate fashion. Lorne returned the bare essentials of their uniforms – underwear, trousers, shirts – and Rodney and John joined Elizabeth in the control tower to listen while she made the call to the Genii.
Karma was a bitch, and Rodney and John had all kinds of photos of toddler Genii to prove it.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
No. 23
Prompt: Any SciFi, Any/Any,
Believing the strangest things
Loving the alien - SGA post series
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699969.html?thread=92356417#t92356417
John stared at the sign in horror. Behind him, Lorne, Teyla, Ronon, and Rodney were struggling out of the cab with all their worldly possessions in a single backpack each.
"This has got to be a joke," John said.
"O'Neill has a sick sense of humor," Rodney said, "but what makes you say that?"
And he stared at the sign.
Lorne stared at the sign.
"I don't get it," Ronon said. "What's wrong with nails? You use them for building stuff, right?"
"Not those kinds of nails," John said.
"Atlantis Nails." Teyla said wistfully.
The T on the sign flickered and sparked and then exploded in a shower of glass tubing.
"O'Neill expects us to run this place till he sends for us." Rodney stared at the dingy store front grimly.
Lorne sighed. "Orders are orders."
So, in they went.
It was a good cover. An Atlantis reference for a tiny bit of comfort from home. But something so far outside of any of their comfort zones that the IOA wouldn't even glance in their direction. In a small town, but not so small that their arrival would make a lot of waves.
They got the shop up and running in two weeks, between a lot of elbow grease and surprising know-how on Lorne's part. John re-established the supply relations the previous business-owners had had. Rodney made them all watch hours upon hours of instructional videos on YouTube. Teyla went around town handing out fliers for the grand opening.
Hardly anyone showed up, despite the specials they were offering. Some of the old ladies who'd once been regulars came by, but as soon as they saw that the majority of the staff was white men, they backed out quickly, and the place remained empty.
Until the day there was a heat wave and the AC broke and all of them were reduced to taking off their shirts (except Teyla, who wore a tank top and shorts), and one woman came in. She asked for a manicure, and while she was waiting for Rodney to set up a station, she tapped away at her phone.
And then four of her friend showed up.
And the place went from empty to incredibly busy, and if Ronon was shirtless the entire time, oh well. John and Lorne occasionally took advantage of their military physiques as well, but Rodney could only be badgered into a tank top at best, which was a shame, because he was solidly muscular and broad across the shoulders.
They had a system. John and Rodney did prep work (scrubbing, sanding, clipping), Ronon did the massages and the base coats of paint, and Lorne did the fine art (and also henna tattoos on the side). Teyla handled all the appointments, John did the books, all of them cleaned. And the business limped along just enough to keep them alive.
On Sundays they closed the shop and did chores around the cramped apartment they all shared upstairs, and they waited for word.
And they waited.
Life running Atlantis Nails wasn't horrible. They became fond of their regular customers, got to know them and their families and their lives. Lorne was good at providing a listening ear. Rodney was good at commiserating with a good rant when the situation called for it. John would offer practical solutions.
But the ladies loved Ronon the most.
"Of course they love the alien," Rodney muttered.
"It's because he has such strong hands," Lorne said diplomatically. "Gives great massages."
Rodney slewed Ronon a look. "You never give me massages."
"Lorne gives me tattoos."
Lorne experimented on Ronon an awful lot with his henna tattoos. Every experiment succeeded.
The door swung open, and John said, "We're closed. Sorry – we forgot to turn the sign over."
There was silence. Then laughter. Familiar laughter, if about half an octave too high.
A teenage boy stood in the doorway, doubled over with laughter.
"Are you all right?" Teyla asked. She was reaching for the gun she kept under the counter.
"Hoo boy," the kid said, straightening up and wiping his eyes. "The old man certainly has a sense of humor." But then he grinned, and something about his grin was uncannily familiar. "Hey, kids, I'm here with word. It's time to go."
Lorne pulled on his shirt and said, "Finally."
Believing the strangest things
Loving the alien - SGA post series
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699969.html?thread=92356417#t92356417
John stared at the sign in horror. Behind him, Lorne, Teyla, Ronon, and Rodney were struggling out of the cab with all their worldly possessions in a single backpack each.
"This has got to be a joke," John said.
"O'Neill has a sick sense of humor," Rodney said, "but what makes you say that?"
And he stared at the sign.
Lorne stared at the sign.
"I don't get it," Ronon said. "What's wrong with nails? You use them for building stuff, right?"
"Not those kinds of nails," John said.
"Atlantis Nails." Teyla said wistfully.
The T on the sign flickered and sparked and then exploded in a shower of glass tubing.
"O'Neill expects us to run this place till he sends for us." Rodney stared at the dingy store front grimly.
Lorne sighed. "Orders are orders."
So, in they went.
It was a good cover. An Atlantis reference for a tiny bit of comfort from home. But something so far outside of any of their comfort zones that the IOA wouldn't even glance in their direction. In a small town, but not so small that their arrival would make a lot of waves.
They got the shop up and running in two weeks, between a lot of elbow grease and surprising know-how on Lorne's part. John re-established the supply relations the previous business-owners had had. Rodney made them all watch hours upon hours of instructional videos on YouTube. Teyla went around town handing out fliers for the grand opening.
Hardly anyone showed up, despite the specials they were offering. Some of the old ladies who'd once been regulars came by, but as soon as they saw that the majority of the staff was white men, they backed out quickly, and the place remained empty.
Until the day there was a heat wave and the AC broke and all of them were reduced to taking off their shirts (except Teyla, who wore a tank top and shorts), and one woman came in. She asked for a manicure, and while she was waiting for Rodney to set up a station, she tapped away at her phone.
And then four of her friend showed up.
And the place went from empty to incredibly busy, and if Ronon was shirtless the entire time, oh well. John and Lorne occasionally took advantage of their military physiques as well, but Rodney could only be badgered into a tank top at best, which was a shame, because he was solidly muscular and broad across the shoulders.
They had a system. John and Rodney did prep work (scrubbing, sanding, clipping), Ronon did the massages and the base coats of paint, and Lorne did the fine art (and also henna tattoos on the side). Teyla handled all the appointments, John did the books, all of them cleaned. And the business limped along just enough to keep them alive.
On Sundays they closed the shop and did chores around the cramped apartment they all shared upstairs, and they waited for word.
And they waited.
Life running Atlantis Nails wasn't horrible. They became fond of their regular customers, got to know them and their families and their lives. Lorne was good at providing a listening ear. Rodney was good at commiserating with a good rant when the situation called for it. John would offer practical solutions.
But the ladies loved Ronon the most.
"Of course they love the alien," Rodney muttered.
"It's because he has such strong hands," Lorne said diplomatically. "Gives great massages."
Rodney slewed Ronon a look. "You never give me massages."
"Lorne gives me tattoos."
Lorne experimented on Ronon an awful lot with his henna tattoos. Every experiment succeeded.
The door swung open, and John said, "We're closed. Sorry – we forgot to turn the sign over."
There was silence. Then laughter. Familiar laughter, if about half an octave too high.
A teenage boy stood in the doorway, doubled over with laughter.
"Are you all right?" Teyla asked. She was reaching for the gun she kept under the counter.
"Hoo boy," the kid said, straightening up and wiping his eyes. "The old man certainly has a sense of humor." But then he grinned, and something about his grin was uncannily familiar. "Hey, kids, I'm here with word. It's time to go."
Lorne pulled on his shirt and said, "Finally."
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
No. 112
Prompt: any mythology. any siblings. "I'm so telling on you." Celtic triumvirate
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699166.html?thread=92236574#t92236574
"I am so telling on you." Brighid curled her feet under her, picking slowly away at her knitting.
Cerridwen, about to reach into the fridge, paused. "What? Why? And to whom?"
"To Morrigan," Brighid said.
"What could you possibly have to tell her?" Cerridwen reached into the fridge for the apple juice and drank out of the carton just to spite her sister.
"I saw you snogging Arawn behind the green oak tree where what's-his-face keeps his heart."
Cerridwen shrugged with deliberate insouciance. "So what? It was Beltane. Lots of people were snogging. Don't think I didn't see you snogging that mortal boy who was dressed as Cernunnos."
"Ah, but I did not give my mortal boy my divine cauldron and let him use it to make Nine Riders and set them loose in the Middling Lands."
Cerridwen choked on another mouthful of apple juice, swallowed it down and collapsed into a fit of coughing. "What? I didn't –"
Brighid pointed to the mirror on the wall, the one whose twin hung in the tower of Shalott, where little Halflings were running from a black-clad wraith on a horse.
Cerridwen swore. "I didn't. I mean – he said he was just going to borrow it to revive his favorite horse. Please don't tell Morrigan."
Brighid raised her eyebrows. "What's in it for me?"
"Please please please –"
The front door banged open. Morrigan, wearing scale maille and battle greaves and carrying a shining sword, burst into the kitchen.
"Did you hear? The Middling Lands are going to war! Arawn has loosed a war machine with dark elves and all manner of evil creatures, and the dwarves and light elves and Halflings and even the mortals will be pitted against them. It's going to be glorious!" She pushed past Cerridwen, snatched her lunch box out of the fridge, and departed with a whoop.
Cerridwen and Brighid stared at the empty for a doorway for a long moment.
Then Cerridwen smirked at Brighid. "Ha! Fine! Tell Morrigan what I did." And she sashayed out of the room.
Brighid rolled her eyes. Morrigan was no help. So she yelled, "Mum! Guess what Cerridwen did!"
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699166.html?thread=92236574#t92236574
"I am so telling on you." Brighid curled her feet under her, picking slowly away at her knitting.
Cerridwen, about to reach into the fridge, paused. "What? Why? And to whom?"
"To Morrigan," Brighid said.
"What could you possibly have to tell her?" Cerridwen reached into the fridge for the apple juice and drank out of the carton just to spite her sister.
"I saw you snogging Arawn behind the green oak tree where what's-his-face keeps his heart."
Cerridwen shrugged with deliberate insouciance. "So what? It was Beltane. Lots of people were snogging. Don't think I didn't see you snogging that mortal boy who was dressed as Cernunnos."
"Ah, but I did not give my mortal boy my divine cauldron and let him use it to make Nine Riders and set them loose in the Middling Lands."
Cerridwen choked on another mouthful of apple juice, swallowed it down and collapsed into a fit of coughing. "What? I didn't –"
Brighid pointed to the mirror on the wall, the one whose twin hung in the tower of Shalott, where little Halflings were running from a black-clad wraith on a horse.
Cerridwen swore. "I didn't. I mean – he said he was just going to borrow it to revive his favorite horse. Please don't tell Morrigan."
Brighid raised her eyebrows. "What's in it for me?"
"Please please please –"
The front door banged open. Morrigan, wearing scale maille and battle greaves and carrying a shining sword, burst into the kitchen.
"Did you hear? The Middling Lands are going to war! Arawn has loosed a war machine with dark elves and all manner of evil creatures, and the dwarves and light elves and Halflings and even the mortals will be pitted against them. It's going to be glorious!" She pushed past Cerridwen, snatched her lunch box out of the fridge, and departed with a whoop.
Cerridwen and Brighid stared at the empty for a doorway for a long moment.
Then Cerridwen smirked at Brighid. "Ha! Fine! Tell Morrigan what I did." And she sashayed out of the room.
Brighid rolled her eyes. Morrigan was no help. So she yelled, "Mum! Guess what Cerridwen did!"
No. 22
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, While on an offworld mission, the team comes across a bunch of Nordic looking people, who are led by a man named Odin.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699166.html?thread=92240414#t92240414
John, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon stepped through the gate – and right up against giant double doors for some kind of medieval-looking hall. The doors swung open into a massive banquet hall where a bunch of tall, blond, strong-looking men and women were seated around a table feasting on just about everything under the sun.
The man at the head of the table, dressed in an amalgamation of armor and furs, rose up and hoisted his goblet.
"Welcome, Travelers! You who are brave enough and strong enough to traverse the Bifrost road are welcome in the Hall of Odin!" He had a deep, booming voice.
"Odin?" Rodney echoed.
"You don't think –" John began, but then Teyla stepped forward, a bright smile on her face.
"Thank you for your kind welcome, Odin," she said. "I am Teyla, and these are my companions Ronon, Rodney, and John. We are peaceful explorers from the City of Atlantis –"
"Peaceful? Carrying P-90's and Berettas and a...what is that?"
A man rose up from the end of the table near Odin. He was tall and blond and strong, but he was also wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
Teyla balked, cast a confused look at John.
John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "We really are people, but sometimes we've gated into sticky situations, and it never hurts to be prepared."
"Calm yourself, Steve Rodgers," the man who called himself Odin said, laughing jovially. "Warriors are welcome in my hall so long as they come in peace."
John and Rodney exchanged looks.
"Did he just – ?" Rodney asked.
"Pretty sure he did," John muttered out of the corner of his mouth, then pasted on his most charming smile. "We do absolutely come in peace. We're interested in seeking mutually beneficial trade agreements or allies in the war against the Wraith."
"I'm sorry, did you say Atlantis?" A man popped up from seemingly nowhere beside the Earth-looking man; this new man was older, unshaven, dark-haired, sharp-eyed.
"Yes, also known as the City of the Ancestors," Teyla said, and she wasn't catching the references, not catching them at all, because the dark-haired man was wearing a white-t-shirt, and John was pretty sure he could make out a faint blue circular glow emanating from his chest.
"Say, Odin, you don't happen to have a son named Thor, do you?"
Odin beamed and clapped the shoulder of the massive blond, bearded man to his right. "You've heard of my son and his valiant deeds?"
"Yes," John said. "Heard of many of them. Thor, God of Thunder, wielded of the Hammer – uh –"
"My girlfriend's sister calls it Mew-Mew," Thor said, and this was just unreal.
"Hold on." The dark-haired man with the glow under his t-shirt held up a hand. "You said your names were Teyla, Ronon, Rodney, and John. As in...John Sheppard?"
A red-headed woman clad all in black lifted her head. "Did you say John Sheppard?"
It was John's turn to blink. "You've heard of us?"
Ronon said, "How did you know what our weapons are?"
"Are you from Earth?" Teyla asked. She'd realized something strange was going on.
"Earth?" Odin echoed blankly, and Thor supplied, "Midgard."
"Ah!" Odin beamed. "Friends from Midgard are always welcome." He waggled his eyebrows at Steve Rogers. "A surprising number of your kind have proven worthy of passage to Midgard."
"How have you heard of us?" Rodney asked.
The red-headed woman grinned. "Syfy Channel. Watch it religiously."
"You mean, a TV show?" Rodney's voice went up.
"You recognized us first," Steve Rogers said, and holy crap, was he really Steve Rogers?
"From comic books I read as a child," Rodney snapped.
"Rodney," John said in a low voice, "was there an explosion behind us when we stepped through the gate?"
"No."
"Quantum mirror."
"Also no."
"So..."
"Yes."
John cleared his throat. "Well, Odin All-Father, thank you for your generous welcome to your feasting hall, but I think we'd better be going. Right now."
"I thought you wanted to trade." The red-haired woman smirked at him, positively predatory.
Rodney glared and muttered, "Back off, Black Widow."
Teyla also looked confused. "John –"
"I have it on good authority you're busy with your own Interdimensional alien wars, and we're busy with our intergalactic alien war, so we won't bother you any longer." John grinned and started backing toward the gate.
"John," Teyla said in a low voice, "there's no dialing device."
"Nonsense." Odin waved them in. "Join us! There is plenty of food and drink. I would like to learn more about your people!"
"I bet Loki has the dialing device," Rodney grumbled under his breath.
Teyla smiled brightly again. "Thank you. Come, John, Rodney, Ronon, let us not offend our host's hospitality." And into the hall they went.
They emerged through the gate in Atlantis three days later hungover, well-fed, and with a trade agreement for the best apples the World Tree had to offer. Rodney discovered up close and personal that Natasha Romanov liked nerdy scientists (and it was John's turn to say Back off, Black Widow!), John was quicker at math than Tony Stark, and Ronon and Teyla still weren't sure how any of Odin's other earth-based guests knew half of their team.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699166.html?thread=92240414#t92240414
John, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon stepped through the gate – and right up against giant double doors for some kind of medieval-looking hall. The doors swung open into a massive banquet hall where a bunch of tall, blond, strong-looking men and women were seated around a table feasting on just about everything under the sun.
The man at the head of the table, dressed in an amalgamation of armor and furs, rose up and hoisted his goblet.
"Welcome, Travelers! You who are brave enough and strong enough to traverse the Bifrost road are welcome in the Hall of Odin!" He had a deep, booming voice.
"Odin?" Rodney echoed.
"You don't think –" John began, but then Teyla stepped forward, a bright smile on her face.
"Thank you for your kind welcome, Odin," she said. "I am Teyla, and these are my companions Ronon, Rodney, and John. We are peaceful explorers from the City of Atlantis –"
"Peaceful? Carrying P-90's and Berettas and a...what is that?"
A man rose up from the end of the table near Odin. He was tall and blond and strong, but he was also wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
Teyla balked, cast a confused look at John.
John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "We really are people, but sometimes we've gated into sticky situations, and it never hurts to be prepared."
"Calm yourself, Steve Rodgers," the man who called himself Odin said, laughing jovially. "Warriors are welcome in my hall so long as they come in peace."
John and Rodney exchanged looks.
"Did he just – ?" Rodney asked.
"Pretty sure he did," John muttered out of the corner of his mouth, then pasted on his most charming smile. "We do absolutely come in peace. We're interested in seeking mutually beneficial trade agreements or allies in the war against the Wraith."
"I'm sorry, did you say Atlantis?" A man popped up from seemingly nowhere beside the Earth-looking man; this new man was older, unshaven, dark-haired, sharp-eyed.
"Yes, also known as the City of the Ancestors," Teyla said, and she wasn't catching the references, not catching them at all, because the dark-haired man was wearing a white-t-shirt, and John was pretty sure he could make out a faint blue circular glow emanating from his chest.
"Say, Odin, you don't happen to have a son named Thor, do you?"
Odin beamed and clapped the shoulder of the massive blond, bearded man to his right. "You've heard of my son and his valiant deeds?"
"Yes," John said. "Heard of many of them. Thor, God of Thunder, wielded of the Hammer – uh –"
"My girlfriend's sister calls it Mew-Mew," Thor said, and this was just unreal.
"Hold on." The dark-haired man with the glow under his t-shirt held up a hand. "You said your names were Teyla, Ronon, Rodney, and John. As in...John Sheppard?"
A red-headed woman clad all in black lifted her head. "Did you say John Sheppard?"
It was John's turn to blink. "You've heard of us?"
Ronon said, "How did you know what our weapons are?"
"Are you from Earth?" Teyla asked. She'd realized something strange was going on.
"Earth?" Odin echoed blankly, and Thor supplied, "Midgard."
"Ah!" Odin beamed. "Friends from Midgard are always welcome." He waggled his eyebrows at Steve Rogers. "A surprising number of your kind have proven worthy of passage to Midgard."
"How have you heard of us?" Rodney asked.
The red-headed woman grinned. "Syfy Channel. Watch it religiously."
"You mean, a TV show?" Rodney's voice went up.
"You recognized us first," Steve Rogers said, and holy crap, was he really Steve Rogers?
"From comic books I read as a child," Rodney snapped.
"Rodney," John said in a low voice, "was there an explosion behind us when we stepped through the gate?"
"No."
"Quantum mirror."
"Also no."
"So..."
"Yes."
John cleared his throat. "Well, Odin All-Father, thank you for your generous welcome to your feasting hall, but I think we'd better be going. Right now."
"I thought you wanted to trade." The red-haired woman smirked at him, positively predatory.
Rodney glared and muttered, "Back off, Black Widow."
Teyla also looked confused. "John –"
"I have it on good authority you're busy with your own Interdimensional alien wars, and we're busy with our intergalactic alien war, so we won't bother you any longer." John grinned and started backing toward the gate.
"John," Teyla said in a low voice, "there's no dialing device."
"Nonsense." Odin waved them in. "Join us! There is plenty of food and drink. I would like to learn more about your people!"
"I bet Loki has the dialing device," Rodney grumbled under his breath.
Teyla smiled brightly again. "Thank you. Come, John, Rodney, Ronon, let us not offend our host's hospitality." And into the hall they went.
They emerged through the gate in Atlantis three days later hungover, well-fed, and with a trade agreement for the best apples the World Tree had to offer. Rodney discovered up close and personal that Natasha Romanov liked nerdy scientists (and it was John's turn to say Back off, Black Widow!), John was quicker at math than Tony Stark, and Ronon and Teyla still weren't sure how any of Odin's other earth-based guests knew half of their team.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
No. 111
Prompt: Harry Potter, Harry Potter, he decided that Hogwarts was too dangerous and switched schools after 1st or 2nd year.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92188923#t92188923
When the Triwizard Tournament comes around, Ron is admittedly dazzled by the beautiful, pale-haired part-Veela girl when the Beauxbatons students enter the Great Hall. He doesn't pay much attention to the other students who come along with her, because they all speak French. There's one boy who looks too small, too young to be eligible to put his name into the cup. If anything, he appears to be some sort of hired companion for another girl, a smaller version of the beautiful part-Veela girl, likely her little sister.
So Ron is surprised when he bumps into the bloke – sleek black hair, bright green eyes, just as pretty as the rest of the Beauxbatons students – and he speaks perfect English.
"Sorry, mate."
"'S all right," Ron says, and then the boy blinks at him.
"Ron? Ron Weasley?"
It's Ron's turn to blink. "Do I know you?"
And then the boy grins, and his smile is so familiar, and he pushes his hair up over his forehead, and Ron sees the lightning-bolt scar.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92188923#t92188923
When the Triwizard Tournament comes around, Ron is admittedly dazzled by the beautiful, pale-haired part-Veela girl when the Beauxbatons students enter the Great Hall. He doesn't pay much attention to the other students who come along with her, because they all speak French. There's one boy who looks too small, too young to be eligible to put his name into the cup. If anything, he appears to be some sort of hired companion for another girl, a smaller version of the beautiful part-Veela girl, likely her little sister.
So Ron is surprised when he bumps into the bloke – sleek black hair, bright green eyes, just as pretty as the rest of the Beauxbatons students – and he speaks perfect English.
"Sorry, mate."
"'S all right," Ron says, and then the boy blinks at him.
"Ron? Ron Weasley?"
It's Ron's turn to blink. "Do I know you?"
And then the boy grins, and his smile is so familiar, and he pushes his hair up over his forehead, and Ron sees the lightning-bolt scar.
No. 21
Prompt: Stargate Atlantis, Rodney McKay/ John Sheppard, John isn't the only one with the Ancient Gene: Rodney has it too. Unfortunately, Rodney has a nasty reaction every time he attempts to use it.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92173307#t92173307
Rodney tells everyone he doesn't have the gene. Since he was one of the earliest people involved in working on the Ancient control chair in Antarctica and has never sat in it and Beckett's mouth twists oddly whenever someone mentions giving Rodney the gene therapy, everyone thinks it's true.
John knows it's not. He's seen the shudder that passes through Rodney every time he reaches up to initiate a door lock. Rodney hunches his shoulders against the sensation, the gesture ever so minute that most people don't notice it, but John's a soldier is trained to watch the way people move, assess their threat level. Rodney's not a threat. He's on his way to being a friend, because almost dying to save each other is an excellent basis for friendship, and John doesn't want to see him hurt unnecessarily.
Sometimes John shirks his own duties to keep Rodney company in the lab and act as his human light switch. John has noticed that his light switch duties correspond to times when the rest of the science contingent is mad at Rodney and has left the labs to avoid throwing things at him, but he doesn't say anything, just obeys commands like, "Touch this," and, "Touch it again," and, "Think on," and, "Try thinking at it differently."
It all comes to a head when John is failing to initiate an important device that Rodney is sure will help save dozens of lives in the infirmary. Rodney growls, snatches it from him, presses his palm to it, and it comes to life. A shudder runs through his entire body, and John lunges at him, ready to snatch the device back, because it's hurting him, it's –
No. That's not pain. That's...pleasure. Rodney's eyes squeezed tightly closed, lips parted, flush spreading up his throat. That's –
John's dreamed of seeing that. Has a decade and a half in the military to pretend he never dreams of seeing it, because regs.
Rodney's panting, and John thinks, to hell with it, and he leans over, kisses Rodney, and Rodney kisses him back, and they end up on the floor trying to get into each other's clothes, and John mumbles, "The door," between kisses, and Rodney thinks it locked, which results in him bucking his hips against John's, and when they're finally naked and about to seal the deal, every Ancient device in the lab lights up.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92173307#t92173307
Rodney tells everyone he doesn't have the gene. Since he was one of the earliest people involved in working on the Ancient control chair in Antarctica and has never sat in it and Beckett's mouth twists oddly whenever someone mentions giving Rodney the gene therapy, everyone thinks it's true.
John knows it's not. He's seen the shudder that passes through Rodney every time he reaches up to initiate a door lock. Rodney hunches his shoulders against the sensation, the gesture ever so minute that most people don't notice it, but John's a soldier is trained to watch the way people move, assess their threat level. Rodney's not a threat. He's on his way to being a friend, because almost dying to save each other is an excellent basis for friendship, and John doesn't want to see him hurt unnecessarily.
Sometimes John shirks his own duties to keep Rodney company in the lab and act as his human light switch. John has noticed that his light switch duties correspond to times when the rest of the science contingent is mad at Rodney and has left the labs to avoid throwing things at him, but he doesn't say anything, just obeys commands like, "Touch this," and, "Touch it again," and, "Think on," and, "Try thinking at it differently."
It all comes to a head when John is failing to initiate an important device that Rodney is sure will help save dozens of lives in the infirmary. Rodney growls, snatches it from him, presses his palm to it, and it comes to life. A shudder runs through his entire body, and John lunges at him, ready to snatch the device back, because it's hurting him, it's –
No. That's not pain. That's...pleasure. Rodney's eyes squeezed tightly closed, lips parted, flush spreading up his throat. That's –
John's dreamed of seeing that. Has a decade and a half in the military to pretend he never dreams of seeing it, because regs.
Rodney's panting, and John thinks, to hell with it, and he leans over, kisses Rodney, and Rodney kisses him back, and they end up on the floor trying to get into each other's clothes, and John mumbles, "The door," between kisses, and Rodney thinks it locked, which results in him bucking his hips against John's, and when they're finally naked and about to seal the deal, every Ancient device in the lab lights up.
No. 20
Prompt: any, any, dark AU
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92197371#t92197371
When the Wraith spill through the gate, Elizabeth doesn't recognize him at first, because spiky hair isn't common among the long-haired Wraith, but his hair is white in an army of white.
And then he lifts his head and fixes her with that cold, reptilian gaze, and she realizes that underneath the pale, clammy skin and flattened, reptilian features, he's John Sheppard.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92197371#t92197371
When the Wraith spill through the gate, Elizabeth doesn't recognize him at first, because spiky hair isn't common among the long-haired Wraith, but his hair is white in an army of white.
And then he lifts his head and fixes her with that cold, reptilian gaze, and she realizes that underneath the pale, clammy skin and flattened, reptilian features, he's John Sheppard.
No. 19
Prompt: any. any. coffee shop AU
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92200955#t92200955
Elizabeth Weir runs a tight ship at Atlantis Coffee. Teyla is in charge at the cash register, taking orders and ringing people up, because she has a pleasant smile and remembers everyone's names. Evan is in charge of drawing up the menus every week and decorating the sign that goes out on the pavement. He's created an elaborate fantasy world of circular wormhole gates, space ships, and alien planets that he uses on the menus and signs, and the customers love it. Rodney is in charge of making the orders. He has it down to a science, and he has Radek and Aiden well-trained to follow his exacting recipes. Carson bakes the pastries, because his Scottish grandmother was some kind of baking savant and more than one customer has accused Carson of putting crack in the croissants. John does the books, because he's unnaturally good at math, and because he's so fast at it, he ends up bothering Rodney behind the counter, experimenting with his recipes and sometimes - Rodney only admits this under duress - improving them. Ronon has the best taste in music, so it's his job to arrange for the local artists who come through and play, and at any given moment, Atlantis is filled with gentle music, soft conversation, and the delicious scent of fresh-brewed coffee.
http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/699131.html?thread=92200955#t92200955
Elizabeth Weir runs a tight ship at Atlantis Coffee. Teyla is in charge at the cash register, taking orders and ringing people up, because she has a pleasant smile and remembers everyone's names. Evan is in charge of drawing up the menus every week and decorating the sign that goes out on the pavement. He's created an elaborate fantasy world of circular wormhole gates, space ships, and alien planets that he uses on the menus and signs, and the customers love it. Rodney is in charge of making the orders. He has it down to a science, and he has Radek and Aiden well-trained to follow his exacting recipes. Carson bakes the pastries, because his Scottish grandmother was some kind of baking savant and more than one customer has accused Carson of putting crack in the croissants. John does the books, because he's unnaturally good at math, and because he's so fast at it, he ends up bothering Rodney behind the counter, experimenting with his recipes and sometimes - Rodney only admits this under duress - improving them. Ronon has the best taste in music, so it's his job to arrange for the local artists who come through and play, and at any given moment, Atlantis is filled with gentle music, soft conversation, and the delicious scent of fresh-brewed coffee.