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Title: Sensitivity. And stuff.
Author: tropes
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, McKay/Keller
Rating: PG-13
Recipient: </a></b></a>bluespirit_star
Spoilers: Through 'Brain Storm'
Summary: A love story.

Author's note: Written for the 2008 sga_santa fic exchange. This story would be languishing in google docs if not for the valiant ass-kicking beta skills of </a></b></a>shaenie. Also, Bluespirit, I hope this is something very like what you asked for, if not precisely like. Happy Holidays.

(John sighed and turned to sit on the couch. "You ever hear me talk about women like that?" Rodney was quiet for a long moment. Then, "No. You never talk about them at all.")

Fic: Magpie

Title: Magpie

Author: tropes

Pairing: McKay/Sheppard

Rating: PG-13

Words: ~600

Summary: John hoarded the days and the nights that followed like a magpie, fixated on the shine and sparkle of the scant hours he and Rodney could scrape together, ignoring as best he could how it all managed to clutter his life dangerously -- broken glass glints silver in a certain light.

A/N: Soooo, I started to write for the 'blanket' prompt for oxoniensis's Porn Battle, and the porn wouldn't come. Pun intended. I think this may be a section of the AU I'm planning. Although, maybe not. :D?

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Fic: Untitled Fall Snip

Fic: Untitled Fall Snip
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney preslash, some Rodney/Teyla subtext
Rating: All ages
Spoilers: Through 4x01
Notes: Originally posted for sheafrotherdon's Fall Day Challenge.
Summary: P3X-766 smells like Vermont in October.

It's early spring when they arrive on New LanteaCollapse )



drawn together

Latest Month

January 2009


My salt marsh
-mine, I call it, because
these day-hammered fields

of dazzled horizontals
undulate, summers,
inside me and out-

how can I say what it is?
Sea lavender shivers
over the tidewater steel.

A million minnows ally
with their million shadows
(lucky we'll never need

to know whose is whose).
The bud of storm loosens:
watered paint poured

dark blue onto the edge
of the page. Haloed grasses,
gilt shadow-edged body of dune…

I could go on like this.
I love the language
of the day's ten thousand aspects,

the creases and flecks
in the map, these
brilliant gouaches.

But I'm not so sure it's true,
what I was taught, that through
the particular's the way

to the universal:
what I need to tell is
swell and curve, shift

and blur of boundary,
tremble and spilling over,
a heady purity distilled

from detail. A metaphor, then:
in this tourist town,
the retail legions purvey

the far-flung world's
bangles: brilliance of Nepal
and Mozambique, any place

where cheap labor braids
or burnishes or hammers
found stuff into jewelry's

lush grammar,
a whole vocabulary
of ornament: copper and lacquer,

shells and seeds from backwaters
with fragrant names, millefiori
milled into African beads, Mexican abalone,

camelbone and tin, cinnabar
And verdigris, silver,
black onyx, coral,

gold: one vast conjugation
of the verb
To shine.

And that
is the marsh essence---
all the hoarded riches

of the world held
and rivering, a gleam
awakened and doubled

by water flashing
off the bowing of the grass.
Jewelry, tides, language:
things that shine.
what is description, after all
but encoded desire?

And if we say
the marsh, if we forge
terms for it, then isn't it

contained in us,
a little,
the brightness?

--Mark Doty, Atlantis


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