I'm usually to be found over at the SG-1 site, but this was a challenge from a friend and I enjoyed writing it so much! I hope any McShep fans might like it - let me know what you think, either way!

"Ow! Ow ow ow!" Rodney snatched his foot back and glared resentfully. John rocked back on his heels, sighing.

"You said they were aching," he pointed out, mildly, although not attempting to reach for Rodney's size eights again. His hands, resting on his thighs, twitched. Rodney edged back up against the wall, and curled his feet protectively under himself.

"Yes. Yes I did. And they are. Why anyone thinks standing for 48 hours is a fun way to spend a weekend, I'll never understand." He took a deep breath, obviously working himself up into a righteously ranting mood. "All for the sake of spotting some bird that no-one's seen in, like, two hundred years or more, and why, I ask you, must I be subjected to Carson's twitcher fanaticism on what was supposed to be a weekend of rest and..."

"Rodney."

Derailed, he stopped for a second. "Yes?"

"Shut up," and John tackled him, arms round his waist, swooping down in a loop over his butt, finishing up with an ankle in each hand and Dr Rodney McKay sprawled rather ungraciously before him, shrieking like a girl.

"Aieeee, leggo, uncle, uncle...!" He rolled like an electric eel, but John held on for grim death, until the struggles subsided, albeit grumpily. He drew one thumb down the length of the foot in his right hand, felt the tremor that shivered through his prisoner and smirked. Rodney huffed, but didn't start fighting him again. Instead he manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position, adjusting a pillow behind his head, and surveyed his capturer censoriously down the length of his nose. Releasing one foot, John focused his attention on the other, using both thumbs now, drawing repeated half circles on the pad under the big and little toes.

"It's a fetish, you know." The tone was hectoring. One dark eyebrow quirked, but the thumbs didn't cease their movement.

"The reason the Chinese didn't take over the world..ooh... is foot fetishism." A small indrawn breath was followed by an audible swallow, and the toes splayed briefly, convulsively. Grinning, John started on the ball of the foot, using the heel of his hand as a tool.

"Yes. Um." Rodney was aiming for scientific detachment, focusing his eyes on the potplant on his desk. "Well, the Chinese used to bind the feet of their women. It was considered inconceivable that a woman have a foot longer than three inches. Three inches!" His eyes met John's earnestly. "They used to bend the feet of little girls so that the toes touched the soles of the foot, then bind it tightly and keep it bound for years. The flesh and bone just rotted away."

Revolted, John stopped his massage, although he didn't let go of Rodney's foot. "Why? What possible good did that do?" He looked at the foot in his hands, trying to imagine it three inches long, and winced. "It's disgusting."

"It is."

Both men sat in subdued silence for a moment, then Rodney heaved a sigh.

"It was a sexual thing. Men used to , er, use a woman's feet instead of her, um you know..."

"Her hoo-ha?" His sarcastic tone was in vain however as Rodney nodded eagerly. "Exactly! They used to find feet more sexual than breasts, or, or hoo-ha's. And because of this, this kink they crippled their women, made them unable to work in the fields, or to travel alongside their men to new lands... "

John nodded thoughtfully. "So, the Chinese didn't take over the world." Without warning he ran the four fingers of his left hand over the relaxed sole of Rodney's foot, eliciting a shocked oouff, and renewed squirming. "How, though, Rodney McKay, does that sad, gruesome story relate in any way whatsoever to my massaging your lillywhite sore feet?" There was a certain degree of exasperation present in his tone.

"Well, it's a fetish." Rodney pointed at him accusingly. "You, with my feet. And the touching."

"You're just over-sensitive." His thumb dug into the heel again, rotating with a deep pressure, and Rodney's butt rose off the bed. "And ungrateful, into the bargain."

McKay's voice was breathless. "Oh, bite me, Sheppard!"

"OK." John leaned forward and sank his teeth delicately into side of the arch, nipping hard enough to leave an imprint. Grinning again at the shriek that threatened to shatter the water glass beside the bed, he nibbled up the length of the foot, as if he were eating ripe corn, taking the little toe into his mouth and sucking on it, hard, and finishing by sweeping his tongue along the groove under all five toes.

Rodney had lost all coherence, and was moaning pitifully, between gasps. His eyes were wide and, John noted smugly, his chest was heaving like the heroine's in a particularly bad bodice-ripper. He heaved a fake sorrowful sigh, and carefully put the foot down, patting the ankle above it and leaning back again.

"I can see you hate it." He shook his head, and looked doleful. "I'll go see if Ronon wants to spar," getting off the bed, and brushing down his shirt, "he owes me a rematch. I'll check in on you later," and he turned and started for the door.

"John."

It was barely more than a breath, and Sheppard turned around, hiding a smirk. Rodney was rumpled and flushed, but looking penitent. Without a further word, he held up the other foot, smiling tentatively. With a growl, John divested himself of his shirt, and dived back at the bed. Rodney slapped off the light, and chuckled, which turned into a slightly hysterical giggle as teeth were applied yet again to one of the more sensitive parts of his foot.

For a moment silence reigned. Then:

"It is too a fetish." Rodney's voice was muffled.

Another pause. Then a grunt.

"Maybe a little one," grudgingly. "Now shut up!"