26 November 2007 @ 03:40 pm
I am back, back, back!  
I am back from my extended Thanksgiving wanderings, full of nog and laden down with wine and wrapping paper and such. And after a long hiatus from being able to do anything productive (read: productive in the way *I* want to be productive, as opposed to the way my employer likes me to be productive) I have many days ahead in which to write. This is glee inducing as I have 283697154 fics I owe (hyperbole aside) including new Iowa (no, Merrie does not arrive in this next story, but you will meet her mother), new Honky Tonk John (probably wearing a red plaid shirt and sporting stubble, because hello, hot), my massively overdue The Team Fights WildFires in the American West fic (Teyla flies planes! Carson is a weather man! Rodney runs everything and swears! John flies helicoptors! Ronon is a smokejumper!) and then some others that are actually set in Pegasus. Go figure.

SO. Two things:

1) First five people to leave a McKay/Sheppard prompt get a drabble *flexes fingers*

1) [John impressing Rodney with his geekitude: R]
2) [Finn, aged 16, goes on a date: PG]
3) [Woolsey finds himself defending Sheppard and McKay: PG]

2) Tell me, flist, how I go about buying and running a website for my fics. *props chin on hand*. I have a lot of them. [ profile] siriaeve thinks I need a site. I have absolutely no idea how to go about doing this. Is it expensive? Do I have to be tech smart to run one? I'm not sure a site is definitely the way to go, but I'm all ears for opinions and advice on the subject.

In conclusion: NOG. *goes to unpack*
09 May 2007 @ 10:40 pm
Rodney realizes (too late – some genius) that he's utterly fascinated by John's broad hands. They shouldn't be note-worthy (callused by gestures, worn smooth by guns): they're ordinary, too-often dirty, the type to pluck at orders, hide in pockets, push at sleep. Rodney's watched them lift in silence, cup a radio, conjure flight, but he's never felt them tremble, never reeled from the shock of them bare against his skin until now. It's only with John sleeping that he feels the confidence to take one, cradle it, study the stretch of skin over bone, the geography of bruises, a lifeline's web.

(Fingers flex in his and he looks up, caught. But John merely smiles, rubs his cheek against a pillow, threads their fingers together and pulls him under, offers reprieve).