Fandom: SGA

Characters: Dusty/Allison (implied Carson/Allison)

Rating: R

Warnings: Femslash, language, spoilers for 4:7

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Summary: Instead of hitting her, Dusty very deliberately throws away the core of the fruit, a slam dunk into the wastebasket by Allison's feet. Then she smiles, something hard and flat, and asks, "Was he really that bad in bed?"

Author's Note: Well, the poll never had any definite winner. Apparently, my flist as a whole was every bit as conflicted as I was. So, I wrote the porn. Because if all else fails, always go for the porn. That's my motto.


They're all quiet in the locker room. Almost preternaturally so, in fact. There's none of the usual bullshit that had annoyed Allison so much at first, that she'd grown used to, that she'd started counting on. Bullshit meant everything was alright. It meant they'd made it home. It meant the worst was past.

Allison fumbles with her gun, trying to get it out of the holster, her fingers feeling cold and stiff. She almost drops it, before Dusty grabs her wrist, taking the gun away, silent and tense. There should be teasing here. There should be some smart ass comment about how Allison shouldn't even bother carrying a gun. There should be Dusty smirking and telling Allison to let the grunts do their job.

Dusty turns away, and leaves the room in silence.

And then Doctor McKay is running into the locker room, looking pissed off, snapping, "Goddamnit, Sheppard, I told you I should have gone with you."

The silence shatters and spins apart just like that. Sheppard relaxes for possibly the first time Allison can remember, smiling a little as he brushes his fingers across McKay's arm. Carson brightens as well, some of the color coming back into his face, saying, "Oh, Rodney, believe me, you wouldn't have liked it at all."

Allison looks away, locking gazes with the Major for just a moment. There's grief there, so much grief, one of their own taken and lost back on that world. Allison looks down at the ground, turns on her heel, and leaves as silently as Dusty had.


Dusty says, "God, would you fucking stop pouting," pushing herself up onto the desk beside Allison's computer and swinging her legs. She's got a pale pink fruit in her hand, from the new world the Athosians are inhabiting. Allison had eaten one a few nights ago, and can still remember the sweet, just slightly tangy, taste of the fruit.

Dusty takes a huge bite, a line of clear juice running down her chin that she doesn't bother wiping away.

Allison shakes herself, unsurprised and still unnerved by the flood of warmth low in her gut. She swallows, staring hard at the computer in front of her, managing distractedly, "I'm not pouting. I'm trying to figure—"

"You're pouting. All you've done the last week is work and go back to your quarters. I bet you hug your pillow and cry into it every time the door closes. Probably with the lights dim and some of that crap you call music playing." Of course Dusty interrupts. That's what Dusty does. Her tone is irreverent and sharp, mocking and teasing.

Allison shoots the other woman a sharp look, surprised to find Dusty watching her, head cocked to the side, for once looking serious. Then Dusty smirks, taking another bite of the fruit, licking across her bottom lip and adding, "You need to get your shit together."

And that gives Allison the push she needs to turn the heat gathering in her stomach into something that feels almost like anger. She narrows her eyes, feeling her mouth press tight. She grits out, "I'm sorry if not all of us can just turn off our emotions. I care that we lost—"

Allison cuts herself off when Dusty stands so abruptly that for a moment Allison thinks the other woman might hit her. Dusty has one hand braced on the back of Allison's chair, leaning forward, some of her dark hair falling out of her ponytail and sliding forward across her cheek.

Instead of hitting her, Dusty very deliberately throws away the core of the fruit, a slam dunk into the wastebasket by Allison's feet. Then she smiles, something hard and flat, and asks, "Was he really that bad in bed?" Dusty leaves while Allison is still gaping at her.


"It's not your business who I sleep with." Allison had found Dusty down in one of the gyms. The other woman is doing preacher curls, strands of her dark hair stuck to her face and neck, sweat beading up on her shoulders, running down the long line of her throat.

Dusty ignores Allison until the end of the rep, muscles in her bicep flexing and bunching up, over and over and over again, moving smooth under her skin. Allison finds herself distracted, watching, wondering absently if Dusty is drinking enough water.

The other woman's voice startles her, "Did I say it was?" She has one eyebrow arched, bending to grab the bottle of water by the base of the bench she's beside, taking a long drink. Her shirt is wet and clinging across her stomach. Her sneakers are battered and dirty. The laces don't match.

Allison crosses her arms, "I—you." She doesn't know what to say. At one point she thinks she did. She's pretty sure she did. Dusty snorts, rolling her eyes, resettling herself and starting another set, bottom lip caught just briefly between her teeth. Allison hears herself blurt, "He wasn't bad—bad in bed."

There's another stretch of silence, and then Dusty finishes the set, straightening, stretching her arm across her chest with a skeptical look. Her tone has gone to mocking again, "Right. Of course not. That's why you hid in your room until he left."

Allison winces, reaching out and pushing at one of the machines beside her. The metal is cool and smooth under her fingers, and Dusty is moving to a different bench, saying, "Hey, spot me for this," and laying herself flat. Allison wants to refuse, suddenly, but instead she's moving into place, used to this from all the other times Dusty dragged her down here to make her lift heavy things.

Allison says, watching Dusty settle her feet flat on the ground, expression tense with concentration as she wraps her fingers around the bar, "It wasn't him." And she makes a face again when Dusty has the gall to laugh, long and raucous in the high-ceilinged room.

When Dusty is done, she has one arm flung over her face, snorting into the curve of her elbow. Dusty says, still breathy from laughing, "What, you couldn't get it up?"

And Allison says, "Look, do you want me to spot you for this or not?" and is so grateful when Dusty actually lets it drop. They end up talking about other things, the newest member of their team, and the way the guy actually fits in pretty well, all in all.


"I went to find you."

Dusty looks up, bent over her P-90, carefully cleaning the weapon. She raises her eyebrows, and says, "Congratulations, here I am," before looking back down. Allison shifts her weight from foot to foot, and then makes herself go over and sit beside the other woman.

Allison absently grabs one of the clothes Dusty uses to clean her guns, tracing a stain. It takes her a moment to say, "Back on...that planet. Doctor Beckett left me alone, and I could hear things moving outside, and... I went to find you. It was stupid, I know. I wasn't thinking. I just—"

Allison doesn't realize that her hands are shaking until Dusty twists, throwing one leg over the bench, putting a hand on Allison's back, warm and firm through Allison's shirt. Allison balls her hands up into fists, then straightens her fingers, carefully setting the cloth back where she found it.

When Allison looks up, Dusty is watching her very intently, for once looking serious. It makes Allison look away again, even as she hears herself continue, "I never wanted to be on a 'gate team, you know? Especially not when—" she cuts herself off, because it feels like it might be a betrayal to speak her thoughts.

Dusty doesn't care who might be hurt by the words. It's not in her nature to do so. She says, for Allison, "Especially not when their leader is out to prove a point."

Allison winces, her voice small, "I didn't say that." And Dusty just smirks at her, knowing and infuriating and unrepentant. Finally Allison looks away, down to her hands, across to the far wall. She says, even softer, "Okay, yes. But you're not—you're not like that."

Dusty shrugs, Allison can feel the movement. "I'm just here to kill some sons of bitches. I'm not smart enough to fuck around with the Major's gender equality blah-blah-blah." And Allison laughs, just a little bit, helplessly.

It fades almost as soon as it started. Allison says, on the end of the last ragged chuckle, "I didn't want to die."

For a long moment there's silence, and then Dusty rubs her hand up Allison's back, "You didn't." And Allison shivers, her stomach tightening and warmth rising up across her cheeks. She keeps her head down, so Dusty won't see. They sit in silence for a while longer, until Dusty twists back to her work, and Allison just sits beside her even though she should probably be down in the labs.


There are plenty of people with the ATA gene around the city now, but Allison still keeps coming up with excuses to get Dusty down to the labs for hers. The woman shows up five minutes late, right from her morning run, breathing hard and damp with sweat.

Allison makes a face at her, and Dusty just grins without a shred of apology to be found, grabbing for the nearest piece of Ancient tech and they fall into a familiar rhythm. Allison is better with Wraith tech than she is with Ancient, but she doesn't like that, has been spending a lot of time making sure no one else notices. She doesn't even know why, really.

They're halfway through the pile when Dusty says, out of the blue, "So, I hear Beckett is coming back for a visit."

Allison startles, almost knocking her coffee over. She swallows heavily, avoiding looking in Dusty's direction. Of course, Dusty isn't just going to let the subject drop, or get up and walk away. That would be far too easy.

Instead, Dusty is saying, "I thought you'd be interested in knowing. It's not for another few days, so you have some time to stock up for another stretch of hiding under your bed." The words are so matter of fact that it makes Allison feel embarrassed all over again. She wishes that she had some snappy comeback, that she ever did for Dusty.

All Allison manages is, "How do you even know?"

Dusty shrugs, Allison catches the movement out of the corner of her eye, "Ronon told me when we were sparring yesterday. Explains why Sheppard's been so pissy the last few days." And Allison doesn't ask what that's supposed to mean, because she isn't completely sure she wants to know.

Allison says, "Oh," and hopes that Dusty will just let it drop.

When the other woman actually does, changing the subject to what they're serving for lunch in the mess hall, it startles Allison so badly that she accidentally blurts, "That's it? You're not going to—" she cuts herself off when Dusty starts smirking at her again.

Dusty says, "Well, since you insist..." and then, leaning a little closer, into Allison's space, "Why, exactly, wasn't it his fault?" And she's so close, her hair tangled from her run, her expression curious, her eyes dark, dark, dark.

Allison blurts, without meaning to at all, "He wasn't you." She feels her own eyes going huge, standing straight up and turning sharp on her heel. She thinks Dusty calls after her, but Allison is already out the door, bumping into Zelenka and stuttering through an apology as she throws herself into the nearest transporter.

Dusty shouts, right as the doors close, "Goddamnit, wa—"


"Did anyone ever tell you this is unhealthy?" Dusty asks as she steps through the traitorous door to Allison's quarters. She's showered now, wearing the civilian clothes Allison rarely sees her in, jeans and a white wife-beater, dog-tags outlined against the thin fabric.

Allison stands up slowly, because she'd been sitting on her bed, staring at the floor, wondering what the hell she'd been thinking. She's not—Dusty certainly isn't—It doesn't— Allison shakes her head, and manages, "I had a headache."

For a beat Dusty stares at her, and then the woman is laughing, walking forward as her shoulders lift and shake. Allison tries to take a step back, but there's nowhere for her to go, and then Dusty is resting a hand on Allison's shoulder, mouth crooked up, saying, "Is that what you told Beckett, too?"

There's a sharp flare of upset in Allison's stomach, because goddamnit, she doesn't want to have to talk about him anymore. She frowns, snapping, "I told—" and she never gets the chance to explain, because Dusty is leaning forward and kissing her.

Allison sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, freezing. Dusty's mouth against hers is warm and soft, the other woman's hand on her shoulder heavy. Dusty says, soft and wry, right against Allison's mouth, "I promise you, I am me, so—"

Allison gets both of her hands up, threading her fingers back through Dusty's thick hair, kissing her harder, with an edge of desperation that she hadn't been prepared for, that she hadn't realized she was carrying around at all.

Dusty says, "Finally," between kisses, and Allison's breath hitches in a laugh. Dusty nips at Allison's lower lip, arms wrapping around Allison's ribs in a hug that's tight and secure, that presses them together in a thousand wonderful places.

There's been pressure building inside Allison's head since the mission where everything went to hell. Since before that, maybe. Since the first time Allison ever saw Dusty, all those long months ago. Now it's all snapping, her tensile strength just giving up and giving in, leaving her gasping against Dusty's mouth and trying to pull the other woman closer.

Dusty laughs, short, breathless, saying, "Whoa, you don't need—" and she shuts up when Allison throws her weight backwards, tumbling them both down onto the bed. Allison isn't all too sure what she needs, but she thinks it might be this. It might be Dusty. She'd like it if it were.

Their foreheads knock when they land on the mattress, and Dusty bites off a curse even as she shifts, sliding one of her thighs between Allison's legs, bending, mouth finding the shape of Allison's neck. Allison groans, choking on it, feeling her pulse pound against Dusty's mouth.

Dusty's hair is a little coarse between Allison's fingers, thick, not silky. Allison likes that, tangling her fingers in the strands, holding on while Dusty sucks at the lobe of her ear, blowing across the overheated skin. She rocks up against Dusty's thigh, solid, all muscle. She's aching inside, pleasure shooting up into her stomach, making her legs clench.

Dusty pants against the side of Allison's neck, "Jesus fuck, you're really—" and she cuts herself off with a ragged sound, pushing up with one arm. There's nothing delicate about the way Dusty shoves Allison's shirt up, fingers tangling in the fabric, twisting and yanking until her long fingers are brushing up against the underside of Allison's bra.

Allison shouts, wordless, hips jerking up, looking for that perfect, sweet spot to rub against. Dusty's mouth is warm and wet on her ribs. Her shirt is bunched up under her arms, and it should be uncomfortable. Allison doesn't care, not with Dusty just shoving her bra up, not even bothering with unhooking the damn thing, the other woman's voice dark with appreciation when she says, "Oh, yeah," before brushing the backs of her knuckles across the underside of one of Allison's breasts, following it with her mouth.

Allison looks down, watching Dusty cup her breast, fingers dark against Allison's fair skin. Dusty's hair is falling forward, brushing against Allison's skin, her tongue very pink when she blows across one of Allison's nipples before slowly, deliberately, flicking her tongue across the tip.

Allison's back arches automatically, her body trying to get closer to all the sensations. She keeps one hand fisted in Dusty's hair, trying to hold her in place, managing to squirm her other through one of the arms of Dusty's shirt, tracing warm, soft skin, her fingers curling up when Dusty hums and sucks Allison's nipple into her mouth.

"I need—" Allison's voice doesn't sound like her own, shaky and thick as she jerks up against Dusty's fingers, tracing patterns on her stomach. She doesn't know what she needs. Not with Dusty shushing her, circling her thumb over Allison's belly button, long fingers curling into the waistband of Allison's pants, hitching her hips up.

Allison gasps, neck arching back, hooking one of her legs around Dusty's hips, aching, wanting, needing. Dusty closes her teeth just lightly on Allison's nipple, a there and gone brush of pressure, followed by her wicked tongue, teasingly brushing her thumb back and forth over just the tip of Allison's other nipple.

Dusty is trying to pull open Allison's zipper, but they're pressed too close together, and Allison can't make herself move back, can't stop grinding against the other woman, pleasure building and building. Her toes are curling up in the boots she's still wearing.

Dusty makes a sound, mouth relaxing, breathing hard against Allison's tightened nipple for a long moment as she hitches Allison's hips up again, her hand moving around to the small of Allison's back. A half second later that hand is sliding down the back of Allison's pants. Dusty squeezes at Allison's ass, and Allison feels herself jerk, babbling wordlessly, trying to spread her thighs and wrap them around Dusty's waist at the same time.

"I got you, baby girl, I got you," and Dusty's voice is thick and comforting. Allison groans, feeling the muscles in Dusty's shoulder and arm shift as she moves her hand further down Allison's pants. And then Dusty is moaning, loud in appreciation, fingers sliding over Allison's hot, wet, folds, knowing and sure.

Just like that, Dusty's mouth is back on Allison's breast, hot and wet and the brief brush of her teeth is just sharp enough. Allison wraps her arm around Dusty's neck, not sure where she should push, where she should rock, fire spreading up her spine, her knees hitching up as the muscles in her stomach and thighs go tighter and tighter.

Dusty hums, licking over Allison's nipple, twisting her hand around, fingers moving, short, quick strokes back and forth that have Allison's breath escaping in short, sharp, cries. Allison curls her shoulders over, pressing a desperate kiss to the crown of Dusty's head, shaking apart, pleasure breaking her to tiny pieces.

And Dusty slides two fingers into her, slick and easy. Allison shudders, clenching around them, her body jerking as her breath hitches, her hips rocking jerkily up.

After a long moment, Dusty shifts, fingers sliding out of Allison, dragging a soft moan from Allison's throat. Dusty squirms up, dropping kisses to Allison's collarbone, her neck, her chin, before settling on her mouth. Allison clings to the other woman's shoulders, melting down into her bed, never, ever, wanting to move again.

At least until Dusty pulls back, one elbow braced by Allison's head, resting her chin on her hand. Her mouth is red, kiss swollen, her hair messy and tangled from Allison's hands, her eyes dark. Dusty asks, thick voiced, "So how's the headache?"

And Allison laughs, arching up off the bed, kissing Dusty's mouth and shoving her on her shoulder, toppling her onto her back. Allison murmurs, "I'll live," and starts kissing her way down Dusty's throat.

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