sga_flashfic | Slip by Lunabee34 [wish fulfillment challenge]

lunabee34.livejournal.com posting in

Pairing: McShep
Rating: Adult
Warning: Cross-dressing

This is my first fic in this comm and I noticed that this latest challenge wasn't closed yet. I hope I'm still under the wire!

John almost gives up on buying the damn thing before he even starts. For one thing, he’s the only man in the whole store, which to be fair, he pretty much expected. And for another, he can’t even say exactly what it is that he’s looking for, only that he doesn’t see it here. The thought of going to another store fills him with a vague sort of despair that must be visible on his face because the sales associates start hovering.

“Not pink,” he says to one. “Peach.”

The color is very important. Pink is many things—it is young; it is innocent; it is feminine and flirty and fragile and delicate. It can even look lurid and cheap at times. But peach is warm and strong—the color of skin, like a second skin. It’s neutral in a way pink can never be, the perfect foil for what lies underneath.

“What about one of these?” she says and lifts up a short slip from a lower rack in the back corner of the store.

The slip is not adorned with lace or appliqués. There’s no beading. The bodice isn’t even demarcated from the rest of the garment. The only nods at extravagance are its scalloped neckline and the intricately braided cords that make up the straps. John looks at the tag. The slip is made of silk. “I’ll take one,” he says.

“And what size will your girlfriend need?”

“Extra large,” John says.

Later, John stands in front of his bathroom mirror and takes off his clothes, sheds who and what he has become. In the mirror, he can see the scar on his neck from the Iratus bug, the single mole on his left hip, the ragged patina that knives and bullets and hot metal have left on his skin over the years. These are what is real, what is irrevocable—not what he wears, but what he can’t escape because they make him who he is.

John doesn’t think he’s a beautiful man; he never has. But other people always seem to and so John has learned to smile like a beautiful man, to lean against doorways like a beautiful man, to wink and smirk and flirt like a beautiful man. John does none of those things now. He’s naked in his bathroom with his uniform crumpled on the cold linoleum and this is a time for honesty. His eyes are shadowed with purple rings of exhaustion and loss that have only gotten worse in the time since the Ancients made them leave Atlantis. John is clean shaven; he’s still a Lt. Colonel, after all, but the angles of his face have grown sharper. He isn’t eating well. None of them are, he suspects.

John takes the peach slip out of the paper bag at his feet. The fabric catches on his gun-callused hands. It weighs nothing.

“Slip,” he thinks. “Slip of paper, slip of a girl, slip of the tongue, slip down the stairs.” John slips it on.

It’s tight across the chest and loose in the hips; it makes his thighs look more muscular than they really are.

John hears Rodney’s key turn in the lock and he has one second of gut-wrenching panic, one moment to wonder if this is too far, too much, the black mark he’s dreaded since he threw a grinning Rodney over a balcony. But John has never been one to run from the hard choices. When Rodney opens the door of John’s bedroom, John is waiting for him.

Rodney is shocked. John can tell. Rodney stops breathing and his mouth falls open. He stands in the doorway for a long time, one hand white knuckled on the knob, the other still gripping the jamb. Then his eyes grow dark and speculative and John knows everything will be alright.

“This is unexpected,” Rodney says, crossing the room and scratching the nail of his index finger over silk, over John’s nipple.

John shudders and then they are kissing, hungry and open-mouthed and wet, and John can pretend that he’s home. Rodney runs his hands down John’s sides, slides his tongue along the scalloped neckline of the slip, sucks John’s nipple through the fabric until the silk has turned dark and rumpled.

John’s cock leaves damp smears across the belly of the lingerie. Rodney slips to his knees and grips John’s cock through a layer of silk. He jerks John off slowly with John’s hands twisted in his thinning hair and then he leans forward and tongues the end of John’s cock where it wets the slip. Rodney groans like his dick is the one getting licked and then he goes after John’s cock in earnest, sucking up great mouthfuls of silk and pulling them tight over John’s cock on the down stroke.

John doesn’t mean to come, not so soon, but he does. Rodney wipes him down after, and in an uncharacteristic display of sensitivity, runs a sink full of warm water in the bathroom and leaves the slip to soak. Rodney doesn’t ask him, “What was that all about?” or “Is this a new thing?” or “What the hell, Sheppard?” He doesn’t even bitch about reciprocity, and John is glad. John lays his head on Rodney’s chest and Rodney’s hands twine in his hair like they always do and when John finally, finally, drifts off to sleep, he dreams of salt and waves and stars sewn into the sky by distant gods.

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eliyes.livejournal.com

he has one second of gut-wrenching panic,

This right here made the fic for me. Well done.

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