the red dress

McKay's orienting the newest intake of scientists from the SGC. They finally got the idea to not send new scientists and new soldiers on the same trip and are alternating the rotations these days, much to John's relief. It means he can assign seasoned marines to ride herd on the newbies, and McKay's veterans don't have to oversee the idiots while teaching the FNGs who really runs Atlantis at the same time. It's saved on catastrophes too.

It also means John has nothing to do with his afternoon, though.

He never thought he'd find anything about Richard Woolsey preferable to Elizabeth's directorship; he certainly never thought it would be in regard to bureaucratic paperwork, but with Woolsey in charge, the SGC and IOA can't get a word in edgewise to criticize. John's paperwork is done on time, then Woolsey massages everything into a form that keeps the REMFs fat and happy.

John pokes around his quarters, looking for something to entertain himself until McKay goes off duty.

Once McKay does show up, the two of them won't have any problems finding something fun to do, of course. Since the last return from Hermea, that hasn't been a problem. Finally, he settles on doing his laundry. That kills an hour or two.

He's hanging up his uniform shirts when he spots it in the closet.

The red dress from Hermea, a material reminder of the six months he spent as a woman. He never wore it anywhere but when he tried it on to shut the saleswoman up.

Almost without instruction from him, his hand reaches out and strokes the satiny fabric. Rodney had looked at him like John was the sexiest thing ever when he had it on. He still does. What John remembers is how sensual the dress felt, clinging to his skin and his curves and angles, sliding over him with every movement, and how aroused he'd been, wet and wanting Rodney inside.

He shudders a little, cock hardening in his BDUs.

They've done everything two guys can do to each other since he got his dick back and most of it makes him pretty happy; the hand jobs, blowjobs, frottage, rutting against each other, teasing, kissing until his head is spinning, docking, rimming, even some light bondage. And yeah, there's nothing on any planet in Pegasus that's better than fucking McKay, but John tenses up and turns off every time McKay fucks him. It's not awful or anything, McKay's careful and makes a point of hitting John's prostate, but as far as John's concerned? If he never did it again, he wouldn't be missing much. McKay's noticed too, which makes John feel like a jerk.

He rubs the red fabric between his finger and thumb, loving the silky slip of it and wanting to feel the way he had when he wore it - wanting that hollow, almost hungry ache between his legs, almost imagining he's feeling it again.

The idea to put on the dress is there in his head, tempting him unbearably, and John's taking it out and laying it across the bed without thinking it out.

He checks his watch. At least another two hours before Rodney has the new scientists sufficiently cowed to leave them alone. He has time.

His cock presses deliciously against the fly of his pants as he goes into the washroom and starts the shower, setting the water to warm, then digging out the razor and shaving cream plus the lotion that's been sitting at the back of a drawer since he came back from Hermea. He resists the urge to shove his hand down his pants and stroke.

He shaves after he showers. First his face, then, tongue caught between his teeth as he works, his legs and his chest. He contemplates his reddened, eager cock and the curling dark hair at the base, but there's no way he's shaving his crotch. Hell, he didn't when he was woman either.

It's a strange feeling, though, as he smooths the lotion down his legs, as if he's becoming the John Sheppard that was a woman again. He teases his fingers up the sensitive skin inside his thighs and gasps, wanting more, wanting McKay to come back and touch and push inside, fuck him until he's limp and mindless, more and more turned on as he sinks into the fantasy. Working the lube up his ass is easy and exciting for the first time as he pretends his fingers are sliding inside his cunt instead, the slick his own juices making him soaking wet, a trickle slithering down the inside of his leg.

The dress slips over his bare skin in a cool caress, warming to his body heat, still fitting except where the skirt catches on his erection. He lifts it free, presses his cock down between his thighs, shaking at the sensation, and smooths the fabric down over hip and thigh.

Oh, Jesus. He's not going to last.

John fumbles his radio off the nightstand.

"McKay," he says, " My quarters. Right now."

"Sheppard, I'm in the middle of - "

John shifts and the tip of his penis brushes against the satin, making him moan before he can stop himself. "McKay...."

"I'm on my way."

John's sprawled on his bed, legs spread wide, holding on the edges of the mattress to keep from touching himself and writhing when McKay lets himself in. The dress is pulled taut and obscene over the press of his erection, a dark spot from the wet tip leaking through the fabric. He thinks he looks like a whore. He doesn't care. He's so ready it nearly hurts.

"Fuck," McKay breathes out. "John."

John spreads his legs wider, canting his hips up, desperate.

"Do it," he pants. "Do me."

McKay's already fumbling open his pants.

"But you don't like - "

"Fuck me, McKay," John grits out, "or I'm going to use my own fingers."

"No, no, no," McKay protests.

He's hard already, trousers pushed down just enough to free his erection as he crawls onto the bed between John's spread thighs. He runs his hands up John's legs under the dress, pushing the skirt up until he has his hands on John's ass, pulling the cheeks open wider.

"Are you - "

"I'm wet for you, okay," John says, rough and wild, "I'm so wet, I'm so goddamned wet, so just fuck me."

The burn of Rodney entering him merges with the hot memory of the first time he'd done it to John as a woman and John arches his entire body, wanting more of it, wanting him deeper, wanting it harder, so aroused and lost he doesn't know anything but the feeling of being filled and connected, hot sparks of sensation burning up his spine, melting him from the inside out.

Rodney finds a fast, perfect rhythm, hitting his prostate every stroke and John bites his lips, but he can't hold back the moans and whimpers and he keens like an animal when the dress catches against his cock and he comes, untouched and completely out of control.

The dress is a wreck afterward, the seam under one arm torn loose, twisted, wrinkled, and stained with sweat and spunk.

John skins out of its uncomfortable clutch and drops it into the trash with real regret.

"We'll get you another one," Rodney promises when John crawls back into bed with him. He runs his hand up John's smooth calf. "Stockings and a garter belt too."

John's cock twitches happily as he imagines it.