greenapple: sufjan plays the typewriter (writing)
[personal profile] greenapple
Flat On My Back, Feet In The Thorns
Stargate Atlantis
McKay/Sheppard; AU, PWP
1900 words
July 2009
Adult content: language, sex
Summary: in which McKay and Sheppard are women, there is no Stargate, and they still fight a war against life-sucking freaks


Meredith slams the door behind her and tosses her stuff onto the living room floor.

“I don’t know what you’re so pissed about all of a sudden,” Joan says. She unholsters her Beretta and gives it a once over before placing it on the coffee table, next to the golfing and surfing magazines (Joan’s) ringed with coffee cup stains (Meredith’s).

“That was unnecessary, and dangerous.” Meredith flops down into the computer chair. “It was unnecessarily dangerous!”

Joan shakes her head. “Look, I thought you of all people would be thrilled to have the opportunity to know more about their whole society or whatever. Anyway.” Joan rolls her eyes. “We were just talking,” she says in her nasal drawl, the tell-tale sound of Joan’s walls coming up, of Joan putting on her gameface of casual cool.

Joan, bless her, is a great partner, but she likes to keep her cards a little closer to her chest than Meredith thinks is strictly healthy. She’d once offered to shoot Meredith in the leg just for asking what her favorite color was. Of course, that was a while back, before they’d started working together. Before Meredith learned to read her moods.

Meredith struggles with her boots, clucks her tongue when the mud stuck in the tread oozes out onto her hands. “And then he tried to eat you!” Because she’s learned to read Joan a little better, now, but not how to keep her mouth shut.

“Look, Steve’s okay, he’s just-”

“Steve!” Meredith tosses up her hands and lets them fall back onto her lap with a loud, exasperated thwack. “You’re on a first-name basis with these creeps, now?”

Joan just shrugs her shoulder — the one that hadn’t taken a hit from one of the big, masked, leather freaks. She perches on the edge of the couch and unfastens her belt and thigh holster.

“I saw the way he was looking at you. And you were…” Meredith twirls her hand, angrily, in the air. She looks down at her feet in her bloody socks. Flexes her toes. “It was kind of gross, actually.”

“Wow.”

When Meredith looks up at Joan, she has one artfully-plucked brow arched and the beginnings of a champion smirk working in the corner of her mouth.

“What,” Meredith demands. She can feel her chin tilting up defensively, and she crosses her arms above her chest.

“No, it’s just-” Joan bends down to unlace her boots, the front of her tank top gaping open. Her dogtags clunking softly down against her shirt. The small curves of her breasts still shine a little with sweat; speckled with grit, the left one smudged with gravedirt.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered.” Joan’s voice is muffled and strained while she unlaces her boots, tugs first one, then the other off. Places them neatly side-by-side next to the couch with her socks rolled inside. “Or kinda angry that you’re using my sexuality against me just because you decided to get all, territorial or something.”

Joan lifts up her hips to undo her jeans, and sinks back to the couch with a sigh. She’s not wearing underwear, as usual. Her thick, dark thatch peeks out from between the flaps of her button fly. She slouches into the cushions of the couch; beside her, her loose hands are empty and open and tired.

Meredith remembers the way those hands had held her pistol, the cold and sharp look to her she got when she was hunting. The way she took down six undead tonight without blinking, her mouth set in a hard line, her nostrils flaring at the smell of blood. How for a while afterward, when she turned to look at Meredith it was with that same look.

Meredith huffs. “Oh, I’m sorry, was I oppressing you? Because I find the thought of you flirting with a dead guy to be a little barfmaking?”

“Yeah, come on.” Joan pitches her voice to match Meredith’s and mocks, “‘And then you were all smiling at him and flashing your ankle, and it was unseemly.’” She flips Meredith off. “I was trying to get information from him, jackass. Not trying to suck his dick.”

“Well, but-”

“And if I had been trying to suck his dick, that’d be my business, and you’d still be a jackass.”

Meredith lifts one foot into her lap and rolls her sock down gently, wincing when the fresh scab on a blister comes off with the sock. She stares at the blood for a while, not really seeing it.

“So how was the new night vision sight? Because if you’re getting too much image noise, I think I know of a way to improve the design without decreasing the tube life…” Meredith sneaks a contrite glance at Joan.

Joan rocks her head wearily on the back of the couch to look at Meredith. She smiles, showing off her perfect little overbite, the uneven jag of bottom teeth seeming even more charming in comparison. “It was pretty awesome. Kinda big, though. Heavy. Can you make it lighter?”

“I-” Meredith fidgets with her toes, hating the blush that heats her face, loving the way Joan’s smile makes her feel. Good, and tight, and like there’s not enough air to breathe, and hot. Really hot. “Yeah, I can try. I mean-” She looks up and meets that smile head on, and wow, that’s a rush.

“Yes.” Because she’s discovered she can do anything, if Joan asks her to.

Joan lets her eyes slip half-closed and Meredith finishes undressing. Peels off her gory t-shirt with a heartfelt, “Yuck!” and tosses it onto the untidy pile of boots, socks, jacket, backpack, crossbow. She fingers the grass-stained rip in her pants unhappily, and drops those into the pile, too. Next comes the inspection of her bruises and scrapes, the litany of low-level complaints, the secret pride she takes in each and every one of her injuries, every time.

She’s twisted half around to inspect a sore and reddening blotch of skin on her side, when Joan says, “Hey.”

“Hm,” Meredith says, absently.

“You did good out there. Thanks for the, you know.” When Meredith looks up, Joan is rubbing the back of her neck with one hand and making a stabbing motion with the other. “You’ve been practicing?”

Meredith straightens. Can’t help the proud skew of her mouth. “Yeah. Teyla showed me some new moves.”

Joan lets out a breath. “Oh.” She blinks. Her voice is small and a little lost-sounding when she says, “You’ve been practicing with Teyla?”

“Aha!” Meredith points a finger at Joan. “Who’s jealous now?”

“I’m not jealous.” Joan’s bottom lip purses into a definite pout.

Meredith puts her hands on her hips above the waistband of her boxers, and does a little victory shimmy.

“Oh, come here. Jesus.” Joan crooks her fingers at Meredith, and Meredith goes, taking slow and saucy steps toward her until she’s standing wide with Joan’s skinny knees between her strong legs. And then Joan leans forward and kisses her open-mouthed on her soft belly, and Meredith has trouble standing at all. Joan’s callused fingers stroke her thighs underneath her underwear. Inch upward to spread her open and Joan makes a sound against Meredith’s stomach when she finds her already so wet.

Joan pushes one finger inside her, and Meredith barks a high, sharp moan against her clenched teeth. Tightening around Joan. Pulling her in. Needing more.

“Joanie.” Meredith has her fingers in the irrepressible spikes of Joan’s hair, and Joan is kissing her stomach, over and over. Nuzzling her sparse, red-tinted curls.

“Yeah,” Joan breathes, and pulls Meredith down on top of her, struggling with the straps of her bra, shoving them down to get to her heavy breasts, stuffing the tip of one in her mouth like she’s been starving for it. Biting at her and digging her fingers into her back. God, yeah. Post-hunt sex is always the best sex. When they aren’t both too tired or beat up to enjoy it, that is. And speaking of-

Joan winces in pain when Meredith shifts her weight, and Meredith pulls back sharply, leans off Joan and starts to kneel, pushing Joan’s legs apart, saying, “No, let me do this, this time, I want to.” And then Joan gets her skinny butt out of her stupid skinny black jeans, and Meredith guides her hips and legs until she’s angled toward Meredith’s mouth, until she can get at everything. Fingers in Joan’s cunt and her mouth sliding over her lips, over her clit, and Joan sucks in air, breath hissing between her teeth, but it’s the good kind of sound, the best kind.

Joan’s still coming down off the rush of the hunt, still tense and waiting for another fight, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Meredith knows her when she’s like this, knows it takes her a while before she can get there, a long lazy while of kissing and licking and soft appreciative sounds. Meredith slides two long fingers in and out of her, patiently working her clit with her mouth, and she can feel it when Joan finally starts to really let go and forget everything and just enjoy it. Rocking up into her, asking for more, for harder. Then her legs are going stiff and shaky and one heel digs into Meredith’s back, the other sliding on the floor; her toes curling and her hands clenching and she’s saying, “Mer, Mer,” like it’s a warning, like she’s about to go off like one of her precious guns. Then Joan arches her back and lifts her hips up off the couch and Meredith’s got her, holding her up, sucking her clit while Joan cries out like a flock of birds and she flutters tight and fast and hard over Meredith’s fingers.

Meredith smiles into Joan’s thatch and pulls back to watch the last spasms of Joan’s cunt. Her fingers shiny and wet with her. Her mouth and nose full of her.

Joan shifts, and groans, when Meredith pulls out. Joan’s bad knee makes a snap-crackle-pop when she flexes it.

Joan flops back, looking dazed, the gold in her green eyes catching the light from the rising sun, looking too bright, looking like glass. She stretches out onto the couch and, “Oh, God, I love this life,” she exhales into the cushions, already half asleep.

“Hey, what about me?” Meredith sits back on her heels and wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“Later, later,” Joan grumbles.

“Selfish,” Meredith says, kissing the naked curve of Joan’s ass, kissing the hair that clings to the wet heart-shape of her cunt between her legs, kissing the wing of her shoulder blade. Pets Joan’s hair at her nape, ruffling it against the grain. Tracing there the dark and swirling ink of a single, small cross under her fingertip: another story about Joan she doesn’t know.

“I love you, you know,” she whispers. Sits back onto the floor, her hands clasped around her knees, stunned with the truth of it. Her voice so quiet now she can barely hear herself: “I think you’re crazy, and I love you.” One of these days she’s going to have the courage to say it to Joan’s face, and damn all of Joan’s boundaries and walls and damn the consequences.

“Ng?”

Meredith clears her throat and says, loud enough for Joan to hear through her sleepy fog, “I said I love our life, too.”

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