Title: Sittin' There Dreaming Instant Pleasure

Rating: Huh. Probably only PG-13, but probably not safe for wee children (or people with any sort of taste or attachment to, like, characterisation) because of lots of talk of sex and alcohol.

Status: This is unbeta'd, but as done as it's going to get. Unless I can't resist writing an equally bad yet pornier sequel.

Spoilers: None. Well, except for the fact that fanon sometimes thinks that Atlantis is an orgy waiting to happen.

Summary: John is teh Shepwhore... right?

Explanation (or, "Author's Note"): This is bad!fic, written to amuse the john_elizabeth livejournal community. Please do not hold it against me.

astropoet wrote: Sorry I must have a really smutty mind because I could have sworn your icon read "yeah, I kind of go down on the galaxy... Which I could believe.

unrehearsed_ wrote: He is the intergalatic whore of the Pegasus galaxy, after all ;)

Little Red wrote: Well, he wishes, at least!!

And then, God help us, there was fic.


There has to be a rule somewhere about drinking with coworkers.

"Four," Ford announces. "Well... five. Are we counting expedition members, or just off-world conquests?"

Teyla blushes.

There should be a rule, John Sheppard decides, trying not to look too closely at what might have happened between his two teammates. There should be a special rule, in fact, about not drinking with coworkers on New Year's Eve, and certainly not letting the conversation degrade into this.

"It isn't fair if we only count off-world rendezvous," Grodin points out. "Anything since we came to Pegasus should be fair game." He reaches across the table for a packet of salt and a handful of the mainland berries that taste surprisingly like lime. Or, rather, that don't taste at all like lime until sufficient quantities of tequila and other alcohols have been consumed. God Bless General O'Neill and his unique view on what constitutes "essential supplies."

"So?" Ford ribs him. "How many?"

"Five," Grodin replies with a grin, and downs the shot.

"Is this a common Earth practice?" Teyla asks. "To retell one's sexual encounters?"

"Only when drunk," John assures her. And, with a glare around the table, "It's also a common Earth practice to exaggerate."

"Who's exaggerating?" Ford practically crows, and borrows Teyla's wrist to use as a salt lick. John does his best not to pay attention.

"Wait, wait, wait." Elizabeth has been rummaging through the contents of General O'Neill's 'care package,' and returns to her seat with chocolate sauce and another bottle. The writing's getting a bit fuzzy, but it looks like Schnapps and a word that starts with a P. Peppermint, must be. She continues, "How are we defining sex?"

Only a diplomat would ask those kinds of questions. "How else're you proposing to define sex?" Beckett gives her a look like he might have to explain a thing or two the next time she comes in for a physical.

"I'm only asking," Elizabeth says, using her no-interpretations-allowed voice that's usually employed for orders that John is likely to disobey, "if we're talking strictly intercourse, or if other sexual acts are acceptable."

John's pretty sure that his life was incomplete without ever before hearing Doctor Weir say intercourse and then watching her try to force open a bottle of Hershey's chocolate sauce with her teeth.

"Okay, Doctor." McKay, apparently having recovered from accidentally inhaling a gulp of 80-proof, turns to her. "State your terms."

Elizabeth pours a trail of chocolate onto her finger and sucks it off in a way that John is absolutely sure is premeditated and meant to kill. She washes it down with a delicate sip of peppermint Schnapps and declares, "Two or more people, one or more orgasm." Her serious face breaks into an evil grin. "Six."

There's a chorus of cheers and "No way"s around the table, and she celebrates her fifteen seconds of notoreity by pouring chocolate directly into her mouth. Some of it ends up on her bottom lip, and John thinks he would die if he wasn't so horribly annoyed.

The slut confessional continues. Beckett, surprisingly, has trumped all of them at ten despite only having gone off-planet three or four times. Bates and Teyla aren't far behind. McKay makes a show of feeling left out, but he claims five, and three of those can even be corroborated.

And Grodin, in a drunken show of gallantry, licks the chocolate sauce from Elizabeth's lips. The last straw.

"When the hell do you people find the time to have this much sex?"

Teyla and Elizabeth share a look. Elizabeth is the one to say, "Come on, Major. You've got to confess, too."

He isn't about to play along. "Aren't we supposed to have a galaxy to save?"

McKay snorts. "Since when has that been the first thing on your mind?"

"Oh, what, and you running off and jumping into bed with that blonde on MX... on that planet last month with the big Easter Island statues... is really productive?"

McKay pops a pretzel in his mouth. "I happen to be very good at multi-tasking."

"What Doctor McKay means to say," Teyla patiently interprets, "is that you have made no attempts to hide your intentions toward attractive females that we encounter off-world. Why would a conversation such as this bother you?"

Her face is the picture of innocent, friendly curiosity. He can still tell she's evil.

"It doesn't bother me," he denies. "It's just giving me a very different opinion of all of you."

"I'm not going to let this go, John." Elizabeth tilts her chair back. Bates sticks a hand behind the back to keep her from tipping all the way back in her less-than-sober state, and John can't help but wonder if Bates was one of the six. He feels like he's swallowed something burning.

"If you're afraid to tell us, we are not going to force you." Teyla, evil big brown eyes and all, knows him far too well.

"Two," he confesses.

"Two!?" McKay starts to cough, and though John is kind of hoping they'll let the man choke, Beckett pats him on the back. "Zelenka can get two!"

"Hey..." Elizabeth ducks back into sobriety long enough to issue McKay a warning look. "I think that's very respectable."

"You do not," Grodin argues.

"There's something to be said for waiting for some kind of... emotional connection. Or for having self-restraint. Or... priorities!" She nods seriously, but then grins at John. "And besides, there's always next year."

He hates them all. All of them. He's mentally cataloguing all the nasty things they've encountered in the Pegasus galaxy that could possibly strike dead the rest of this table -- or, at least, maim them a bit.

He slaps away Elizabeth's hands when she tries to pour one of their alcohol condiments onto his neck. This is at least partly her fault. Not that he's been actively turning down other women because of her, or anything, but... there's something. Something frustrating. He thinks that if he'd known about her six men of the hour he might have tried a little harder to pursue some more local women, that's all. Good lord. They've only been here a few months. Who in hell is supposed to be running this city while everyone's off getting laid, exactly?

Him, he supposes. How charming.

And he's not even thinking about McKay. That's just... he's just not sure his ego can stand that.

"Oh, come on." Elizabeth's pout is mostly faked, but her eyes look a little genuinely hurt and concerned. "Don't be mad at us the whole night. It's not like we're going to remember any of this in the morning."

"Don't worry about it."

Her fake pout deepens. "You really should try to enjoy yourself on New Year's Eve."

"Don't you think I should leave that to the experts?"

John notices that Teyla is conspicuously looking away from them. She isn't the only one.

Elizabeth doesn't seem to take offense at his insinuation, only raises an eyebrow. "If you insist."

She pours a thin line of chocolate sauce beneath her collarbone. Her shirt is cut low -- that wicked tank top that keeps him from being unable to keep his eyes on her face in briefings. She is very, very drunk, which is at no point more apparent than when she straddles his lap and offers him the bottle of Schnapps.

He's sex-deprived, apparently, and drunk, and good God, this is Elizabeth Weir and even if he's still pissed at her for a reason that he is rapidly forgetting, he is not about to say no.

He drinks less of the cool, minty drink than he should because he wants to taste her skin. She tastes of salt and chocolate and shivers when his tongue strays from where he's meant to lick her clean and dips into the hollow of her neck.

She grabs his mouth with hers and kisses him for real until neither of them can breathe.

Oh, God.

He's not entirely sure he can talk, and is saved from having to by a loud wolf-whistle from Beckett's corner of the table. Elizabeth goes go crawl off his lap and return to her own chair, but before she can get far he pulls her tighter against him. Her eyes widen a bit at the action, but she doesn't look surprised.

"It's not about quantity," he whispers in her ear, and refuses to be distracted by the way she still smells like chocolate.

She knows what he's going to say, she has to, but she leans closer to hear the punchline anyway. "Oh, really?"

"It's about quality."

She fixes him with a decidedly promising look and slides off his lap with a good deal more physical contact than is strictly necessary.

"Enjoying yourself?" Grodin asks.

"Mmm," Elizabeth purrs. "So. Who's up for body shots?"


*share the insanity with little red*
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