So, yeah.
Title: Fever High
Summary: It's the damnedest thing.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 2174
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, language, genderswap (always-a-girl!McKay), rather a lot of swearing and fucking, het, S1 timeline
Pairing: John Sheppard/Meredith McKay
A/N: Some stories, you plan for obsessively. Other stories sneak up on you in the middle of the afternoon and shout "WRITE ME, DAMMIT, YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT YUROK PHONOLOGY." So here's this. I'm not even sure what to make of it; it's a different style than I usually go for, though I think I sort of like it. It's a little dark, too, mostly because I have a fairly grim view of what life would be like for a girl like McKay (because I sort of am one). So yeah. I know there's more in this verse, though, so we'll see what happens.
It's the damnedest thing.
Dr. Meredith McKay, PhD, PhD, MEng, CSO, HBIC, RCMP, SPCA, ETC, isn't John's type.
She's sort of- thick is the word he wants to use, but he's never known if it was offensive to call a woman that or not; but she's got a full, round ass and tits that enter a room well before she does, so it seems appropriate. She's tall, too, only three or four inches shorter than John.
He never sees her in anything except her science uniform, which is just a little too tight, so that the shirt rides up over her BDUs to reveal a thin sliver of her pale back. She doesn't wear makeup, either, and her curly brown hair is constantly a mess, sprouting out weirdly from the pens and pencils she secures it with while she works.
And none of that- though, you know, John's not going to argue against big tits or anything, it's not like he's gay- is what John's into. Girls who look like Teyla- thin, small, muscular- that's John's type. Teyla and Nancy could be, well, certainly not sisters, but related, certainly. And while John likes assertive, self-reliant women, Meredith is a stone-cold, self-avowed bitch. She's keeping a very public tally of how many members of the military contingent she's reduced to tears, and she- allegedly- kneed at least one of her staff in the balls. And that's too much for John- John's laid back to a fault. John likes girls who are calm and self-regulating, and Meredith obviously isn't.
And John wants to fuck the shit out of her.
He can't explain it; he just wants to bang her until she can't walk anymore. He wants to do stuff to her that's morally reprehensible. He wants to make up new stuff and then do that to her. He wants to fuck her until they're both right at the point of exhaustion, fall asleep with her, wake back up, and fuck her again.
It's kind of fascinating.
He's never been that kind of guy. Sure, he's stolen glances, kept up idle ruminations on what his hairdresser, a waitress, a woman who worked with him- once even the guy at his favorite coffee place, who had really amazing lips- might be like in bed. But it's distasteful, and he knows that. He also knows that women who catch him at it won't sleep with him- not more than once, anyway, and John's not into limited engagements- so he manages, where Meredith's not involved, to keep it to a minimum. But when she's around, his brain, which didn't get the memo that he's not supposed to be attracted to her, is like the Spice Channel on speed.
And it seems like, when he finds out she's- and this is a direct quote from Meredith herself, who screamed it at some poor unsuspecting man on M3X-483- queerer than a three-dollar bill, it should solve his problems. And not only is she gay, she's involved- at least until John gets called to Simpson's quarters at four o'clock one morning, where Simpson is performing the Pegasus equivalent of throwing Meredith's shit onto the lawn.
Never before has John been tempted to write "Cause of Disturbance: lesbian break-up drama" on an official government document before. Plus he gets hit in the head with a surprisingly lacy double D cup bra, which it really doesn't help with the whole not-thinking-about-it thing.
But all the somewhat unsurprising revelation of her sexuality does for him is make him feel ten times more guilty that his mind has turned into the Meredith McKay All Nude Revue. He doesn't know, exactly, why it's worse for him to be fantasizing about someone who he's certain will never want to sleep with him than about someone who might, at some point, consider it; he just knows that it is. And he also knows that it doesn't make any difference at all, because all that changes is that sometimes, Simpson comes too.
And, honestly, it really sucks, because John thinks that he wasn't such a pig, they could be friends. Sometimes it shuts off entirely, and he stops being such a freak around her- when they were testing the human shield, for instance. He couldn't have fucked her even if he'd wanted to- was that what made the difference?- and they had a lovely, totally non-sexualized afternoon together.
He did shoot her, though. That was possibly a little Freudian.
And some days it seems like everybody notices. Ford does, if nothing else; he gives John brotherly sorts of elbow nudges when he catches him staring at Meredith's ass, which is, let's face it, pretty often. But, Ford's a good guy; he doesn't go any further with it than that, for which John is exceedingly grateful. He knows what gets said about Meredith behind her back, especially by the Marines; but the fact that nobody says it to his face is both incredibly encouraging and highly troublesome.
She did once call them a bunch of- what was it?- oh yeah, "small dicked pantywaists who couldn't get laid in a Genii whorehouse holding a sack full of enriched uranium" over the radio once, so he's pretty much decided she can handle it on her own.
And so it goes on and on like this- trying not to stare, failing miserably, pretending not to notice or worry about the appraising looks she gives him out of the corner of her eye- for months. He gets right up to the point where something's just got to give; he passes right out the other side, and it starts to feel like maybe he can get around this.
And then one night, she shows up at his door.
He steps back to let her in, kicking his dirty boxers underneath the bed self-consciously. He doesn't have a chair; he offers her a seat on the bed, but she waves him off, standing uneasily in front of the door. So John sits instead, feeling insanely awkward; and Christ on a cross, he hasn't been this shook up around a woman since his junior prom.
Thankfully, she looks nervous, wringing her hands a little and compulsively readjusting a wayward curl.
"I can't stop thinking about you," she blurts. And while women can say shit like that and get away with it- John would sound creepy, no matter how he said it- Meredith just sounds sad.
"I thought you were gay," John says, presumably because he is an idiot.
She rolls her eyes. "I don't fuck stupid people. Statistically speaking, women are far less likely to act like idiots than men. Therefore, I usually end up with women." It sounds like something she's said before, something she's tired of saying.
"Oh," John replies.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said, snorting in annoyance. She strides over- not that it's very far to go- and yanks him to his feet. Once he's standing, she grabs his shoulders and pulls him down, mashing their lips together.
As kisses go, it's not technically spectacular. He turns his head the wrong way, and their teeth click disconcertingly. But, god, John doesn't even care at all; he catches her face in his hands, holding her like he's terrified she'll slip away from him- and maybe he is, more than a little bit. She's still gripping his shoulders tightly, just as desperate as he feels.
They finally tear away from each other, panting. Meredith touches her lips gingerly; John always thought it was a cliché, but her lips actually look swollen and reddened, like they might bruise.
John really shouldn't feel as satisfied by that as he does.
They crash back together like they've planned it, kissing wildly, fingers fumbling and tugging at their stubborn clothing. And there's probably a whole bunch of stuff they should be worrying about, like foreplay and mood lighting and locking the door, but once they're naked, she pushes him down to the bed and just climbs on top of him.
"We need some-" he manages, putting his hands on her waist to stop her; he feels a little silly when he flashes back to M7G-677, the planet where she spent the better part of a day ending every sentence with, "And that's why I got my tubes tied."
"God, shut up," she mutters. She hitches up, letting out a little hissing breath as she slides down onto him, and holy fucking shit, he's actually inside of her. He almost comes right then, which would really be the most counterproductive thing to happen to him, ever.
They fuck like they can't remember how to stop. She throws her head back while she rides him, mouth open and pouring out all sorts of obscenity and enthusiastic little noises. And it isn't how he pictured this going down, but he has absolutely no complaints about it, not when she looks so good, so relaxed, so perfect.
He's coming before he even realizes, way, way before he wants to; before she can say a word about it, he flips them over, splaying her out on her back so that he can finish her off with his mouth, licking at his own come where it trickles out of her. She watches him do it with a kind of horrified fascination- there's a lot of, "Seriously, that's totally unsanitary- tilt your head, I can't see," there for a minute- until, of course, she's too distracted to look, moaning unreservedly as John works her over with his tongue and fingers. It doesn't take much to bring her off, so he does it again, just so he can see her shake and sigh one more time.
She hauls him up on top of her, kissing him messily, hooking her legs around his waist so that he can push into her again. And, oh, this is how he really wants it, her pinned underneath him, writhing and panting and totally gone on it. He fucks into her hard and fast, braced on his arms above her. She reaches up and grabs hold of the tacky Ancient sculpture behind his bed, using it for support as she pushes back at him, faster and harder until they're just banging together, hard enough that he feels like he'll have bruises.
When she climaxes, she pants out his name, a breathy, low "Oh, John" that just absolutely wrecks him; he comes like somebody hit a switch, hips twitching erratically a few more times. He only just manages to keep from collapsing directly on top of her, pulling gingerly away from her. He does collapse, still; it's just that it's only about half on top of her, which is a marked improvement.
Whoever's on laundry this week is seriously going to hate him.
"Goddammit," she sighs some time later, throwing her arm over her eyes.
"Mmm," he says, in a way that might be interrogative, agreement, or neither, distracted by tracing idle patterns on her hip.
"This was supposed to be a one time thing," she says, accusatory and vaguely pissed. "What was supposed to happen was that it was supposed to be mediocre, and I was supposed to decide that I was just temporarily insane, and you were just some stupid flyboy who couldn't find a clit with both hands and a map."
He raises an eyebrow at her, too tired to undertake a line-item rebuttal of that statement. "Did it work?"
She gives him that tight expression that, he's already learned, means Are you fucking serious?
"Are you fucking serious?" she huffs.
See? He is learning.
"It was good," he says, cautious and sleepy.
"Good?" she echoes incredulously, her tone rising.
"Amazing?" he offers; because, well, it was.
"It was fucking improbable." she sighs. "Sex isn't even supposed to be that good. If I thought it wouldn't seriously impair my ability to walk upright ever again, I'd do it again right this second. Jesus fuck, Sheppard, imagine what it'll be like with practice." She gives a self-effacing little laugh, short and accustomed like she's done it loads of times- and wow, that's new; John suddenly wants to beat the shit out of anyone who's ever made her feel like that. "Unless you're done with this."
He takes a long look at her. She looks about like he feels, which is pretty much totally ruined. Her hair is a catastrophe; her breasts are gravity-flattened against her chest, her nipples pointing in opposite directions. A thin trickle of sweat is drying on her forehead.
He has the oddest urge to lick it off.
"Nope," he tells her confidently. "Still into it."
"Good," she replies, sounding pleased with herself.
"Can we go to sleep now?" he asks tentatively.
"Oh god, I though you'd never ask," she sighs, settling in closer to him.
It's entirely possible he's got a new type.
Summary: It's the damnedest thing.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 2174
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, language, genderswap (always-a-girl!McKay), rather a lot of swearing and fucking, het, S1 timeline
Pairing: John Sheppard/Meredith McKay
A/N: Some stories, you plan for obsessively. Other stories sneak up on you in the middle of the afternoon and shout "WRITE ME, DAMMIT, YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT YUROK PHONOLOGY." So here's this. I'm not even sure what to make of it; it's a different style than I usually go for, though I think I sort of like it. It's a little dark, too, mostly because I have a fairly grim view of what life would be like for a girl like McKay (because I sort of am one). So yeah. I know there's more in this verse, though, so we'll see what happens.
It's the damnedest thing.
Dr. Meredith McKay, PhD, PhD, MEng, CSO, HBIC, RCMP, SPCA, ETC, isn't John's type.
She's sort of- thick is the word he wants to use, but he's never known if it was offensive to call a woman that or not; but she's got a full, round ass and tits that enter a room well before she does, so it seems appropriate. She's tall, too, only three or four inches shorter than John.
He never sees her in anything except her science uniform, which is just a little too tight, so that the shirt rides up over her BDUs to reveal a thin sliver of her pale back. She doesn't wear makeup, either, and her curly brown hair is constantly a mess, sprouting out weirdly from the pens and pencils she secures it with while she works.
And none of that- though, you know, John's not going to argue against big tits or anything, it's not like he's gay- is what John's into. Girls who look like Teyla- thin, small, muscular- that's John's type. Teyla and Nancy could be, well, certainly not sisters, but related, certainly. And while John likes assertive, self-reliant women, Meredith is a stone-cold, self-avowed bitch. She's keeping a very public tally of how many members of the military contingent she's reduced to tears, and she- allegedly- kneed at least one of her staff in the balls. And that's too much for John- John's laid back to a fault. John likes girls who are calm and self-regulating, and Meredith obviously isn't.
And John wants to fuck the shit out of her.
He can't explain it; he just wants to bang her until she can't walk anymore. He wants to do stuff to her that's morally reprehensible. He wants to make up new stuff and then do that to her. He wants to fuck her until they're both right at the point of exhaustion, fall asleep with her, wake back up, and fuck her again.
It's kind of fascinating.
He's never been that kind of guy. Sure, he's stolen glances, kept up idle ruminations on what his hairdresser, a waitress, a woman who worked with him- once even the guy at his favorite coffee place, who had really amazing lips- might be like in bed. But it's distasteful, and he knows that. He also knows that women who catch him at it won't sleep with him- not more than once, anyway, and John's not into limited engagements- so he manages, where Meredith's not involved, to keep it to a minimum. But when she's around, his brain, which didn't get the memo that he's not supposed to be attracted to her, is like the Spice Channel on speed.
And it seems like, when he finds out she's- and this is a direct quote from Meredith herself, who screamed it at some poor unsuspecting man on M3X-483- queerer than a three-dollar bill, it should solve his problems. And not only is she gay, she's involved- at least until John gets called to Simpson's quarters at four o'clock one morning, where Simpson is performing the Pegasus equivalent of throwing Meredith's shit onto the lawn.
Never before has John been tempted to write "Cause of Disturbance: lesbian break-up drama" on an official government document before. Plus he gets hit in the head with a surprisingly lacy double D cup bra, which it really doesn't help with the whole not-thinking-about-it thing.
But all the somewhat unsurprising revelation of her sexuality does for him is make him feel ten times more guilty that his mind has turned into the Meredith McKay All Nude Revue. He doesn't know, exactly, why it's worse for him to be fantasizing about someone who he's certain will never want to sleep with him than about someone who might, at some point, consider it; he just knows that it is. And he also knows that it doesn't make any difference at all, because all that changes is that sometimes, Simpson comes too.
And, honestly, it really sucks, because John thinks that he wasn't such a pig, they could be friends. Sometimes it shuts off entirely, and he stops being such a freak around her- when they were testing the human shield, for instance. He couldn't have fucked her even if he'd wanted to- was that what made the difference?- and they had a lovely, totally non-sexualized afternoon together.
He did shoot her, though. That was possibly a little Freudian.
And some days it seems like everybody notices. Ford does, if nothing else; he gives John brotherly sorts of elbow nudges when he catches him staring at Meredith's ass, which is, let's face it, pretty often. But, Ford's a good guy; he doesn't go any further with it than that, for which John is exceedingly grateful. He knows what gets said about Meredith behind her back, especially by the Marines; but the fact that nobody says it to his face is both incredibly encouraging and highly troublesome.
She did once call them a bunch of- what was it?- oh yeah, "small dicked pantywaists who couldn't get laid in a Genii whorehouse holding a sack full of enriched uranium" over the radio once, so he's pretty much decided she can handle it on her own.
And so it goes on and on like this- trying not to stare, failing miserably, pretending not to notice or worry about the appraising looks she gives him out of the corner of her eye- for months. He gets right up to the point where something's just got to give; he passes right out the other side, and it starts to feel like maybe he can get around this.
And then one night, she shows up at his door.
He steps back to let her in, kicking his dirty boxers underneath the bed self-consciously. He doesn't have a chair; he offers her a seat on the bed, but she waves him off, standing uneasily in front of the door. So John sits instead, feeling insanely awkward; and Christ on a cross, he hasn't been this shook up around a woman since his junior prom.
Thankfully, she looks nervous, wringing her hands a little and compulsively readjusting a wayward curl.
"I can't stop thinking about you," she blurts. And while women can say shit like that and get away with it- John would sound creepy, no matter how he said it- Meredith just sounds sad.
"I thought you were gay," John says, presumably because he is an idiot.
She rolls her eyes. "I don't fuck stupid people. Statistically speaking, women are far less likely to act like idiots than men. Therefore, I usually end up with women." It sounds like something she's said before, something she's tired of saying.
"Oh," John replies.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said, snorting in annoyance. She strides over- not that it's very far to go- and yanks him to his feet. Once he's standing, she grabs his shoulders and pulls him down, mashing their lips together.
As kisses go, it's not technically spectacular. He turns his head the wrong way, and their teeth click disconcertingly. But, god, John doesn't even care at all; he catches her face in his hands, holding her like he's terrified she'll slip away from him- and maybe he is, more than a little bit. She's still gripping his shoulders tightly, just as desperate as he feels.
They finally tear away from each other, panting. Meredith touches her lips gingerly; John always thought it was a cliché, but her lips actually look swollen and reddened, like they might bruise.
John really shouldn't feel as satisfied by that as he does.
They crash back together like they've planned it, kissing wildly, fingers fumbling and tugging at their stubborn clothing. And there's probably a whole bunch of stuff they should be worrying about, like foreplay and mood lighting and locking the door, but once they're naked, she pushes him down to the bed and just climbs on top of him.
"We need some-" he manages, putting his hands on her waist to stop her; he feels a little silly when he flashes back to M7G-677, the planet where she spent the better part of a day ending every sentence with, "And that's why I got my tubes tied."
"God, shut up," she mutters. She hitches up, letting out a little hissing breath as she slides down onto him, and holy fucking shit, he's actually inside of her. He almost comes right then, which would really be the most counterproductive thing to happen to him, ever.
They fuck like they can't remember how to stop. She throws her head back while she rides him, mouth open and pouring out all sorts of obscenity and enthusiastic little noises. And it isn't how he pictured this going down, but he has absolutely no complaints about it, not when she looks so good, so relaxed, so perfect.
He's coming before he even realizes, way, way before he wants to; before she can say a word about it, he flips them over, splaying her out on her back so that he can finish her off with his mouth, licking at his own come where it trickles out of her. She watches him do it with a kind of horrified fascination- there's a lot of, "Seriously, that's totally unsanitary- tilt your head, I can't see," there for a minute- until, of course, she's too distracted to look, moaning unreservedly as John works her over with his tongue and fingers. It doesn't take much to bring her off, so he does it again, just so he can see her shake and sigh one more time.
She hauls him up on top of her, kissing him messily, hooking her legs around his waist so that he can push into her again. And, oh, this is how he really wants it, her pinned underneath him, writhing and panting and totally gone on it. He fucks into her hard and fast, braced on his arms above her. She reaches up and grabs hold of the tacky Ancient sculpture behind his bed, using it for support as she pushes back at him, faster and harder until they're just banging together, hard enough that he feels like he'll have bruises.
When she climaxes, she pants out his name, a breathy, low "Oh, John" that just absolutely wrecks him; he comes like somebody hit a switch, hips twitching erratically a few more times. He only just manages to keep from collapsing directly on top of her, pulling gingerly away from her. He does collapse, still; it's just that it's only about half on top of her, which is a marked improvement.
Whoever's on laundry this week is seriously going to hate him.
"Goddammit," she sighs some time later, throwing her arm over her eyes.
"Mmm," he says, in a way that might be interrogative, agreement, or neither, distracted by tracing idle patterns on her hip.
"This was supposed to be a one time thing," she says, accusatory and vaguely pissed. "What was supposed to happen was that it was supposed to be mediocre, and I was supposed to decide that I was just temporarily insane, and you were just some stupid flyboy who couldn't find a clit with both hands and a map."
He raises an eyebrow at her, too tired to undertake a line-item rebuttal of that statement. "Did it work?"
She gives him that tight expression that, he's already learned, means Are you fucking serious?
"Are you fucking serious?" she huffs.
See? He is learning.
"It was good," he says, cautious and sleepy.
"Good?" she echoes incredulously, her tone rising.
"Amazing?" he offers; because, well, it was.
"It was fucking improbable." she sighs. "Sex isn't even supposed to be that good. If I thought it wouldn't seriously impair my ability to walk upright ever again, I'd do it again right this second. Jesus fuck, Sheppard, imagine what it'll be like with practice." She gives a self-effacing little laugh, short and accustomed like she's done it loads of times- and wow, that's new; John suddenly wants to beat the shit out of anyone who's ever made her feel like that. "Unless you're done with this."
He takes a long look at her. She looks about like he feels, which is pretty much totally ruined. Her hair is a catastrophe; her breasts are gravity-flattened against her chest, her nipples pointing in opposite directions. A thin trickle of sweat is drying on her forehead.
He has the oddest urge to lick it off.
"Nope," he tells her confidently. "Still into it."
"Good," she replies, sounding pleased with herself.
"Can we go to sleep now?" he asks tentatively.
"Oh god, I though you'd never ask," she sighs, settling in closer to him.
It's entirely possible he's got a new type.