A recent meme on LiveJournal took 10 fiction genres and invited people to write a single sentence for each that would both show off their fandom and be a miniature example of the genre. Only 10? I ended up with 30.



Sheppard called and called on his headset, saying Rodney's name over and over again, then Teyla's and Ronon's, his heart hammering in his chest like a wild thing; but all he could hear was a faint trill of a bird in the distance, the sound muted by the trees, and somewhere closer to hand, something heavy moving through the underbrush as the faceless Wraith drones closed in.


Wanted one genius astrophysicist to join Atlantis gate team for exploration, technology discovery, battles, Wraith hunting, Ancient Ascended Priestess baiting, snarking at what passes for technology in backward civilisations, Wraith fleeing, blowing up 5/6th of a solar system (or maybe 7/8th  - it's not an exact science), trade negotiating, snarking at everyone else's lack of intelligence, experiencing mediaeval village life, cock-blocking Sheppard (who never sees it coming), running for your life and other day to day occurrences in the Pegasus galaxy – adventure guaranteed or your money back.


The marines have their shrine down in Little Tripoli, a row of photographs on a wall above a long table with, here and there, the remains of a candle burnt in the memory of one of the faithful, but here in the laboratories all Rodney has is a laptop and a set of papers, scribbled over in red, and a silent acknowledgement inked carefully into the margin—You weren't completely right, Peter, but you weren't completely wrong—and that has to be enough.


If he hadn't been wearing black stockings and lacy knickers under his uniform when he'd crash-landed that F16 in Bosnia, the CIA would never have been able to blackmail John Sheppard into assassinating Nobel Peace Prize winner, the most reverend Monsignor Rodney McKay, the eminence grise to a Canadian monarchy bent on world domination, and John would never have betrayed his country for the love of his life.


John Aloysius Sheppard born 5 January 1967, is of tall stature, perfect; black Haire, of an unrulyness; hazel Eye of great vivacitie; he is of a quiete temper, temperate (loving Venus a little, but Mars more); faithfulle to those few Friends thatte he cherisheth and, though known as a man of manifold and prodigious Charmes, will be acquainted (familiarly) with but a very few, so thatte few men will say they truly know him (Aubrey's Brief Lives).


Rodney had long ago concluded that the Ancients were skeevy perverts masquerading as high-minded ascetics seeking enlightened ascension, but even he couldn't have imagined that they'd create a device that would convert him into John Sheppard's jock strap and that he'd enjoy it.


Sometimes, when he leaves the casino at dawn, he sees that the skies above the deserts are like the green ice that he remembers from those days before Vegas PD, when he was still Major John Sheppard and serving out of McMurdo base: skies that are cold, remote, and hiding in their far reaches omissions and sins more terrible than he could commit in a lifetime of trying.


Although no-one ever expected ex-Air Force and the Navy to gel, Special Agent John Sheppard knew that he was starting to make headway in fitting into the team: Ducky happily explained the etymology of the word palanquin taking in on the way the history and chemical properties of lipstick, the level of cocaine likely to be deposited in a sample of Sherlock Holmes's hair and the Landing of the Treinta y Tres Orientales; McGee fixed his laptop after only three times of asking; Abi hugged him when he was hurt without looking as if she'd rather hug a rabid rattlesnake; Ziva's attempts to kill him were scaled back to grievous bodily harm and he had hopes that by the following week they'd be down to mere assault; and Gibbs… well, Gibbs hit him over the back of the head when he said something stupid, invited him back home to see a boat and kissed him senseless in the basement.


John laughed and laughed as Rodney's body jerked with the impact of each bullet, and he was still laughing when he pretended to blow the smoke from the muzzle, spun the gun on his forefinger and holstered it in one slick move.


Rodney thought bitterly that it was bad enough that not even he had been able to curb John Sheppard's penchant for riding nuclear bombs into enemy hive ships, that they really didn’t really have to drive the point home by folding the flag from the empty coffin and presenting it to him as if he were some sort of weeping widow; but his hands, silenced from their usual eloquence, reached out despite himself to take the soft folds into them and his fingers shook and shook as they clutched at all that was left of John.


August 22 1979: Came home from school  -such a waste of time as I had to correct the teachers 50 billion times today, they're all such morons (ha!) – and Mom said the nice gentlemen waiting for me were here to talk to me about my school project but they were all morons too (ha!) for not realising that the only thing that had stopped me from making it for real was that it's really hard for an eleven-year-old with no credit rating to get enough funds to buy weapons-grade uranium (ha! ha!).


"It was just like Sheppard," Rodney said, "that he'd think that he wasn't worth going back into battle for, that he'd send them out to safety and sacrifice himself for others and so," Rodney said as he hefted his gun in his shaking hands, "we'll just have to prove him wrong and that we’ve learned from the best about never leaving a man behind."


Fable/Fairy Tale
Once upon a time Charming Prince John pricked his finger upon a needle and fell into a deep sleep, which explained that shocking bed-hair, and when handsome Prince Rodney battled his way through the thorns – and ow, thorns! said Rodney, hoping he wasn't allergic – John could only be woken by a kiss from his true love and that, oddly, didn't stop Rodney for the merest micro-nano-second because John's mouth was soft and his lips were full and pouty, even in sleep, and Rodney's all for experimentation, really…


John showed the things to Rodney and said something stupid like I have here the Rod and the Sword and the Shield, and you have the Cup, so we have to go on this, like, quest thing together and slay the demons at the uttermost end of time so that we may save the entire world and then we'll have sex and Rodney, because he's the genius, filtered out all the bits that didn't matter and they had the sex right there and then, because genius is better than heroics any day of the week, right? and he's much better at world saving when he's had a good orgasm.


Aries  Mar 21 - Apr 19 : You'll inspire disbelief, jealousy, and not a little hatred in your minions when a heated domestic dispute between you and your partner will be needlessly prolonged this week after it repeatedly turns to thunderously loud blow jobs administered in the laboratory storage closet.


Rodney complained to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen that it was bad enough that every Wraith looked like Legolas on crack and wanted to drain the life out of his chest, but those damned zombies on M35-J7 were a zillion times worse: they wanted to eat his priceless brain and all Sheppard did was to offer them the cruet.


Rodney almost died of laughing when he saw Ronon demonstrate traditional Satedan dances on Cultural Appreciation night – as he said to Elizabeth later when he'd got his breath back and Ronon had stopped threatening to hit him, this was the best idea she'd ever had to help them assimilate into the Pegasus galaxy and didn't Ronon just look darling in a pink tutu and pointe shoes?


"It'll be all right, Rodney, I promise," babbles John over and over again, his voice breaking almost on each breath as he presses onto the pressure bandage on the gaping wound in Rodney's chest; and Rodney's shocked, pained eyes are staring up at him like he's all Rodney can see and he's filling Rodney's world with pain and blood, and all John can do is babble and fight to keep death at bay and lean down to touch Rodney's bloody lips with his own and promise and promise and promise.


Dr Meredith Rodney Ingram McKay, 1968 – 2040, beloved partner of John: I bent the universe to my will, but it wasn't enough.


"It is a far, far better mathematical proof that I do here, than you have ever done; it is a far, far better brain that I've got in here than you have inside your fluffy little Czech head—and what do you mean, I'm murdering Great Literature when you know I despise all English majors even those who don't get my sister pregnant?"


Wraith come so softly,
Culling on snow-silent wings,
Age withers, too soon.


If ever Katie Brown met Jennifer Keller, they'd certainly agree that Rodney's the worst boyfriend in two galaxies: he's always late for dates, he never remembers birthdays, doesn't see the point of anniversaries (Are we proving a negative here or what?), never brings flowers (they make him sneeze) and is apt to eat most of the chocolates first before handing over a half-empty box—but now, sitting here out on the pier in the quiet of a Lantean summer, evening, while the air's still warm with the last of a sun going down behind the sea, in splendour, yet cool with the faint kiss of sea spray, his feet dangling in the water and John's hand in his, fingers tangling together, and John's voice in his ear telling him to Look right there, Rodney because the first star has just appeared over Atlantis's central tower… now he smiles, realising that he's got this romance thing down pat, after all.


Rodney hoped that John was kidding when he asked if Rodney had found the blueprints for a light sabre and an X-wing in Atlantis's Database yet, because really, it was pretty worrying that the military commander responsible for Rodney's safety couldn’t seem to tell the difference between science fiction and the real thing.


John smiled, nosed his way to the base of Rodney's thick, lovely cock and licked up it, from root to crown in one hot-tongued swoop until Rodney's back arched and his fingers scrabbled at John's hair and he made a wordless, needy little sound that stabbed its way into John's heart with the promise it brought and sent a flicker of lightning down John's spine until his own cock twitched with the feeling that he'd explode.


"You know," says Rodney, gasping and clutching hard at his pillow, "if you're going to insist on fucking me to music, can we do it to something with a bit more rhythm to it than Folsom Prison Blues?"


The ray gun that the woman took from the bosom of her gown and pointed at him – and why did he never see that coming? – was made from copper pipes and glass tubes and, to John's secret delight, despite his chagrin and the danger, it puffed out tiny little clouds of steam and smoke.


Ro'nee was the brightest cave man in the entire… the entire place, and once he'd perfected the big round thing he set it up on its end for all the tribe to admire, and he called it a Gate, (quickly, before J'n could say it was to be called something else. because J'n didn't usually let him name new things) and he asked, shyly if J'n would lie to walk through the Gate with him and see what was on the other side.


It wasn't any use of course, he knew that: McKay only had eyes for Sheppard, which was particularly annoying because Kavenaugh, brushing a hand over his ample pony-tail, knew that he had far better hair than Sheppard ever would.


He scanned the saloon quickly, before pushing open the swinging doors and heading for the huge polished bar at the other side of the room, his back crawling when the tinny notes of the piano faded into harsh, jarring chords into a suddenly silent room, and he had to put a hand on the hilts of his pistol, tied low down on this right thigh, to comfort himself before leaning onto the bar and asking if anyone had seen Rodney McKay, the fastest brain in the galaxy.


John hated the Genii—they never could play nice and he'd already been stabbed, beaten, tied up, fed on by a Wraith, had his arms and legs broken, burned, and been beaten again and you know, Kolya was coming back again with the glowing hot iron thing and he'd just about had enough of it and wanted to go home.