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grammarwomanTitle: Wanting Contact (Shake Those Hands)
Fandom/Characters: Stargate: Atlantis, McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Word count: 970
Author's notes: Originally written almost two years ago for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheafrotherdon's Festival of Hands. This was the first fic I ever posted, and I'm still rather chuffed with it. In the interests of consolidating my work (*brief SQUEE at the notion*), I thought I'd put it up here.
Sheppard had never considered himself to be a hands kind of guy. Legs, definitely, nice and lean and strong (he hoped Teyla never caught him looking, especially when she wore that workout skirt with the slits up to there, but he guessed that might have been the motivation behind some of her harder whacks). Breasts, of pretty much any type (he was a guy, all right? Some things are hard-wired into the system). But hands? And in particular, Rodney's hands?
They were like...bumblebees. (He snorted at the irony, considering Rodney's loud and frequent protests about missions with the potential for near-fatal encounters with stinging insects and his constant need to be on guard against anaphylactic shock.) For a guy who wasn't all that graceful or sleek (kind of stocky and solid, really), Rodney had hands that defied all the laws of his precious physics. They swooped, and fluttered, and darted from target to target. They stabbed at data on computer screens, managed impossibly delicate repairs to Ancient equipment, and punctuated McKay's every thought. Whether they were conducting invisible orchestras (John grinned at the thought of massive choirs singing Rodney's praises), or snapping after a train of facts leading to a frantic solution, Rodney's hands rarely failed to draw John’s attention.
It was getting almost embarrassing, how John found himself zoning out in staff meetings just watching those hands in action, with the vague idea that if he could pay enough attention to them, he could crack their code and learn the secret language of Rodney, or at the very least, why the hell he found them so fascinating. (It occurred to him after the third time Elizabeth asked him if he was feeling OK, and if so, he could attempt to focus on the briefing, that it might have been safer to stare at Teyla’s legs.)
The dreams were what pushed John over the edge. One had Rodney furiously typing out commands on John’s back (the pounding of the shower the next morning felt so similar that John kept turning around to make sure McKay wasn’t standing there). Another featured Rodney grabbing John by the wrists and pulling him back to safety from where he was dangling over the edge of a cliff (the phantom pain from McKay’s grip had John checking for bruises all day). The third was clearly an impatient wake-up call from his subconscious: Rodney was tracing designs all over John’s (naked!) body, making him light up like an Ancient finger paint program. John woke up feeling like his skin was on fire where he had been touched, and his impressive erection bobbed a cheery greeting at him. (The fact that he nearly came when he flashed back to the vision of Rodney’s hands exploring him just hammered the point home.)
Of course, that day John kept running into Rodney (and his hands) wherever he went. In the mess hall, Rodney clutched his coffee while moaning his thankful prayers to the god of caffeine. (John sternly reminded his twitching cock that it had gotten off less than an hour ago.) Then there was a staff meeting, where McKay excitedly babbled about the contents of a newly-discovered lab, sketching possible uses in the air. John ran out of the room (as casually as he could) once it was over to go hide in the firing range. When Rodney’s voice relayed over John’s earpiece, asking him to try out his natural gene on some of the new equipment, John stuttered his way through an explanation about needing to catch up on paperwork. He considered actually going to his office to make it less of a lie, but the thought of Rodney being able to corner him there sent him out onto a balcony, breathing through what felt like a panic attack.
Given his recent run of luck, John was not surprised that Rodney managed to track him down. He didn’t even bother to ask how, hearing in his head Rodney’s smug assurance “Genius here, remember?”
“Sheppard, it’s remarkable how much this doesn’t look like you sitting at a desk, filling out forms, which leads me to believe that you’re avoiding me for some reason, so if you could skip the feeble excuses and explain what’s going on…Sheppard? Sheppard?” McKay snapped his fingers in front of John’s face. “Honestly, what is your problem?”
John looked at Rodney’s hands and couldn’t help himself – he blushed.
“OK, seriously, we need to get you down to Carson, because you’re flushed and probably feverish and delusional if you can’t tell the difference between your office and this balcony. Come on!” He wrapped a hand around John’s forearm and turned to go.
John felt like he had been stung, immediately reacting to Rodney’s touch, as a fast-spreading warmth radiated out from the contact, leaving him short of breath and his vision focused down to Rodney's hands. “Rodney, wait,” he croaked.
When Rodney looked back at him, puzzled, John realized that even if he could talk, he had no idea what to say. His hands took over, the one under Rodney’s grasp pulling the confused man towards him, while the other slid along Rodney’s jaw to the back of his head.
Rodney’s lips were just as incredible as his hands, as it only took them a startled heartbeat to open up under John’s. His mouth was even more talented, tasting of coffee and need as they kissed, firing off shocks of pleasure down John’s spine.
When Rodney’s hands slid under his shirt, painting pictures of lustful intentions and writing volumes of future plans, John thought briefly of falling off cliffs and skin glowing in the dark before guiding Rodney towards the nearest transporter and back to his room. He couldn’t wait to find out what else Rodney’s hands could do.
Fandom/Characters: Stargate: Atlantis, McKay/Sheppard
Rating: R
Word count: 970
Author's notes: Originally written almost two years ago for
sheafrotherdon's Festival of Hands. This was the first fic I ever posted, and I'm still rather chuffed with it. In the interests of consolidating my work (*brief SQUEE at the notion*), I thought I'd put it up here.Sheppard had never considered himself to be a hands kind of guy. Legs, definitely, nice and lean and strong (he hoped Teyla never caught him looking, especially when she wore that workout skirt with the slits up to there, but he guessed that might have been the motivation behind some of her harder whacks). Breasts, of pretty much any type (he was a guy, all right? Some things are hard-wired into the system). But hands? And in particular, Rodney's hands?
They were like...bumblebees. (He snorted at the irony, considering Rodney's loud and frequent protests about missions with the potential for near-fatal encounters with stinging insects and his constant need to be on guard against anaphylactic shock.) For a guy who wasn't all that graceful or sleek (kind of stocky and solid, really), Rodney had hands that defied all the laws of his precious physics. They swooped, and fluttered, and darted from target to target. They stabbed at data on computer screens, managed impossibly delicate repairs to Ancient equipment, and punctuated McKay's every thought. Whether they were conducting invisible orchestras (John grinned at the thought of massive choirs singing Rodney's praises), or snapping after a train of facts leading to a frantic solution, Rodney's hands rarely failed to draw John’s attention.
It was getting almost embarrassing, how John found himself zoning out in staff meetings just watching those hands in action, with the vague idea that if he could pay enough attention to them, he could crack their code and learn the secret language of Rodney, or at the very least, why the hell he found them so fascinating. (It occurred to him after the third time Elizabeth asked him if he was feeling OK, and if so, he could attempt to focus on the briefing, that it might have been safer to stare at Teyla’s legs.)
The dreams were what pushed John over the edge. One had Rodney furiously typing out commands on John’s back (the pounding of the shower the next morning felt so similar that John kept turning around to make sure McKay wasn’t standing there). Another featured Rodney grabbing John by the wrists and pulling him back to safety from where he was dangling over the edge of a cliff (the phantom pain from McKay’s grip had John checking for bruises all day). The third was clearly an impatient wake-up call from his subconscious: Rodney was tracing designs all over John’s (naked!) body, making him light up like an Ancient finger paint program. John woke up feeling like his skin was on fire where he had been touched, and his impressive erection bobbed a cheery greeting at him. (The fact that he nearly came when he flashed back to the vision of Rodney’s hands exploring him just hammered the point home.)
Of course, that day John kept running into Rodney (and his hands) wherever he went. In the mess hall, Rodney clutched his coffee while moaning his thankful prayers to the god of caffeine. (John sternly reminded his twitching cock that it had gotten off less than an hour ago.) Then there was a staff meeting, where McKay excitedly babbled about the contents of a newly-discovered lab, sketching possible uses in the air. John ran out of the room (as casually as he could) once it was over to go hide in the firing range. When Rodney’s voice relayed over John’s earpiece, asking him to try out his natural gene on some of the new equipment, John stuttered his way through an explanation about needing to catch up on paperwork. He considered actually going to his office to make it less of a lie, but the thought of Rodney being able to corner him there sent him out onto a balcony, breathing through what felt like a panic attack.
Given his recent run of luck, John was not surprised that Rodney managed to track him down. He didn’t even bother to ask how, hearing in his head Rodney’s smug assurance “Genius here, remember?”
“Sheppard, it’s remarkable how much this doesn’t look like you sitting at a desk, filling out forms, which leads me to believe that you’re avoiding me for some reason, so if you could skip the feeble excuses and explain what’s going on…Sheppard? Sheppard?” McKay snapped his fingers in front of John’s face. “Honestly, what is your problem?”
John looked at Rodney’s hands and couldn’t help himself – he blushed.
“OK, seriously, we need to get you down to Carson, because you’re flushed and probably feverish and delusional if you can’t tell the difference between your office and this balcony. Come on!” He wrapped a hand around John’s forearm and turned to go.
John felt like he had been stung, immediately reacting to Rodney’s touch, as a fast-spreading warmth radiated out from the contact, leaving him short of breath and his vision focused down to Rodney's hands. “Rodney, wait,” he croaked.
When Rodney looked back at him, puzzled, John realized that even if he could talk, he had no idea what to say. His hands took over, the one under Rodney’s grasp pulling the confused man towards him, while the other slid along Rodney’s jaw to the back of his head.
Rodney’s lips were just as incredible as his hands, as it only took them a startled heartbeat to open up under John’s. His mouth was even more talented, tasting of coffee and need as they kissed, firing off shocks of pleasure down John’s spine.
When Rodney’s hands slid under his shirt, painting pictures of lustful intentions and writing volumes of future plans, John thought briefly of falling off cliffs and skin glowing in the dark before guiding Rodney towards the nearest transporter and back to his room. He couldn’t wait to find out what else Rodney’s hands could do.
