The Effects of Foreign Policy snippet

Jul. 31st, 2008

Fandom: SGA

Characters: John/Meredith

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Not mine!


John has no idea what the Grand Poobah of the Willobi's saying. He knows it's some kind of ritual prayer, and he's fairly certain that he's going to be required to repeat it verbatim at some point later on in the evening. It's important, he's sure.

He also really doesn't give a damn about it.

Meredith is sitting across from him, on the women's side of the table, and John knows he should stop staring but he's honestly having a hard enough time trying to keep from drooling. Anything else would require more self control than he currently has to spare.

Meredith is probably the only woman in the hall with short hair, which might be part of the reason why her outfit seems so revealing. With her shoulders bear and her bodice laced up tight she's all pale, smooth skin and so much cleavage that it should be illegal. And John can still remember what she'd looked like when she walked in, her skirt slit all the way up to her hips, miles and miles of curves in all the right places and he just wanted to—

Ford kicks him under the table again, hissing out of the corner of his mouth, "Sir, say the thing, sir!" and some part of John's brain was apparently paying attention, because he manages to fake his way through it, staring at Meredith the entire time.

He's just raising his cup to toast when she finally looks away from the conversation she'd been having with one of the few scientists. And he knows he's busted. And he knows he should look away and pretend that he wasn't just leering at her. Instead he smiles sheepishly, feels himself blush, and forgets to drink until Ford kicks him in the leg again.

He needs to get that kid some softer shoes.


They're assigned individual rooms, because they're guests of honor and Teylan has been friends with some noble or another his whole life. John looks around the room, which is surprisingly well stocked for the Pegasus, and kicks his boots off.

He's just poking at the fire, wondering if it would get too stuffy in the room if he got it going, when there's a knock at his door. John figures it's either Ford (the kid has trouble sleeping alone off world) or Teylan's noble friend ending up in the wrong room by accident.

It's Meredith.

She's still wearing The Dress, which John can't help but giving capital letters. It deserves it. The light blue fabric looks soft and touchable, though not really half as touchable as she does, and John picks his jaw up off the floor and manages a smile that he hopes looks friendly and not predatory, stepping back to allow her in and asking, "So how's your room?"

Meredith shrugs, walking over to his fireplace and kneeling in front of it. John stares at the curve of her thigh and feels uncomfortably warm under the collar. She says, "Well, the feng shui is way off, but there's a separate room for the toilet and there's even running water and the lock even works this time though I'm willing to bet I'm not the only one with a key."

John bobs his head, even though she's not looking at him, and manages, "Yeah," which he is sure is neither as cool nor suave as he desperately wants to be. And then he realizes that she's actually starting a fire, and takes a half step closer, "Does your fireplace not work?"

Meredith makes an impatient sound, rubbing her hands together when she straightens. The firelight paints her skin golden and John grabs his hands behind his back and holds on. Meredith stares at him for a long moment, her chin up and her eyes sharp, and then she shifts, looking a little awkward and unsure for the first time when she blurts, "I've heard fire makes it nicer."

For a moment John just stares at her, her big blue eyes and crooked mouth and the way she's picking at the fabric of her dress by her hip. And then she winces, and ducks her head, and John says, "Oh. Oh!" And has to catch her arm when she starts for the door.

She's staring at the floor, talking a million miles an hour, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I just thought. Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I hope you have a good night and I'll see you tomorrow and—"

Her skin is so soft when he slides his hand across her cheek, turning her face towards his. She cuts off mid-sentence, blinking up at him, her skin staining pink and John says, still feeling kind of blown out of the water by the whole thing, "Oh," and shifts a little closer to her, watching her expression for any flashes of panic.

And she makes an impatient noise, grabbing two handfuls of his hair and dragging his mouth down to hers.

Kissing Meredith is kissing Meredith. There's nothing else in the world to compare it to, and John doesn't even try. He just groans, fingers sliding back into her short, spiky hair, cupping the back of her head as his other hand curves around her waist, pulling her against him.

She fits against him perfectly, and she makes a little sound against his lips when they press together. He can feel all her curves, the swell of her breasts against his chest, the soft lines of her waist leading into her hips and ass right below his hand.

John drags his mouth away from hers, staring down at her and groaning, "God, tell me that you're not drunk, or drugged, or being mind controlled by—"

Meredith laughs at him, pulling him back down, her mouth sweet and demanding, opening his and taking as she wants. John groans, and gives, and thanks whoever thought to put this big soft rub in front of the fire because there's no way they're getting all the way across the room to the bed.

John strokes his hand up and down the line of her spine, groaning a little each time he reaches her shoulders where the fabric ends, her soft, soft skin under the pads of his fingers. She pulls away from him, dragging her teeth across his bottom lip before she says, "There's a zipper back there. The laces are just for show."

John groans, pressing his face against the curve of her neck, his hips jerking just a little, helplessly. She laughs at him again, but the sound is all fondness, and her hands are pulling his shirt out of his pants, sliding up his back and pulling him closer.

She goads, "Come on already, this thing is insanely uncomfortable and it's been cutting off my breathing for the past four hours." And John kisses the soft skin behind her ear, reveling in the little breathy moan that draws from her throat as his fingers find the zipper.

The dress slides down her body, and gets hung up on the swell of her hips. John decides to be helpful and push it the rest of the way off, and then he has to make himself take a step back, just to look at her.

The only thing she's wearing under the dress are some tiny white underwear. John drags his gaze up and down her body, long toes, the curve of her thighs, the darker hair he can see beneath the underwear, the dip of her belly button, the breasts that she's crossing her arms over.

John says, "Hey, no," stepping forward, running his hands down her arms to her wrists, squeezing gently. She's staring at some point around his shoulder, her cheeks stained red, and John nuzzles against her hair, rubbing his thumbs in little circles over her wrists, "You're way too beautiful to try to cover up."

She snorts and rolls her eyes, voice sharp, "Oh, fuck you, I am no—" and he kisses her again, sliding an arm around her back, cupping the weight of one of her breasts in the other. She moans against his mouth after a long moment, one arm curling around his neck, and he can feel it when her knees go weak, the way she sways into him.

He says, "You are," and she just nods, mouth red and kiss stung, eyes bright and shining, "so perfect," she gasps, tilting her head back when he mouths at her neck, his thumb sliding across her erect nipple, "I can't even believe you want—"

That gets her attention, and she cuts him off, voice firm and knowing, "Well I do." And then she shifts a little, blinking and biting at her bottom lip, "But could you, um, maybe take off some of your clothes? I'd like to see you naked now."

John grins, ducking his head and stepping just far enough away from her to pull his shirt off. He rubs at the back of his neck, suffering a brief flash of panic that maybe he won't be what she expected, but then she's hooking her fingers into his waistband and pulling him closer, going, "Hm," and running one hand up over his stomach and chest.

She grins up at him, "Hi," and he can feel her clever fingers working open his pants, pushing them off his hips. John smiles back, and then gasps when she cups his erection through his underwear, fingers stroking up and down. "So, happy to see me?"

"Very happy. More than happy. Thrilled," John's voice is thick, and he smiles dopily when she laughs sweetly again. He feels like he's walking on sunshine, and reaches down to shoves his underwear down, because he wants to be naked with her, so very, very badly.

She hums, her smile wicked when she steps back, stepping out of her own underwear and then crooking her finger at him. John is to her in a second, hands on her waist as he bends over, enough to lower his mouth to her breasts. The angle makes his back ache but it's so, so worth it for the way she grips at his hair and groans.

When she sinks down, John follows her, kissing and sucking at her skin as she leans back against the thick rug, blanketing her with his body. Her hips are rocking, just tiny little circles against nothing and John slides his hand down her stomach, breath catching when she spreads her thighs for him, tilting up into his touch.

John groans, squeezing his eyes shut, sliding one of his legs between her thighs and stroking across her cheek with his free hand. She gasps, "Kiss me," and he shifts up, finding her mouth with his while she clings to his shoulders, and he strokes light and slow across her clit, listening to the way her breath hitches and feeling the way her body jerks until he feels sure enough to speed up, little circles that have her making tiny little sounds in the back of her throat and when her body bows up it's the most beautiful thing John's ever seen.

She skin is stained red all across her breasts, up her neck, across her cheeks. She's breathing hard, panting against his mouth, and John kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, until she shoves at his shoulders, pushing him over onto his back.

When she moves over him, straddling him, her hands on his chests, John groans and tries real hard not to comes just from the sight of it.

She says, her voice breathy, "I'm on the pill, and I'm clean, you're clean, right?"

John nods, jerkily, his hands curving around her hips, "I am, I totally am," and she smiles at him, wild and joyful. And then she's sinking down onto him, her fingers curling up on his chest, her head thrown back, a groan ripped from her throat.

John gasps, "Oh, yeah," gripping at her hips, and realizes he's just made it to the promised land. She's wet and hot and tight around him, her breasts pale and heavy, her eyes heavy lidded and her bottom lip caught between her teeth, "Oh, fuck, you're—" there aren't even words for what she is, because nothing that came before her has ever even come close to comparing.

She curls over him, her hips circling and moving and he shifts to meet each movement, their body's moving in tandem. She's panting, and he slides a hand across her stomach, wanting to see her come again, to feel it from inside her this time, gritting his teeth and holding off orgasm with everything he can.

"Come for me, please, please," and she groans, going down to one elbow, her body clenching tight around him.

And John jerks up off the rug, pulling her down into a kiss, falling down over that edge.

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