Blue Skies Prompt #12: Ladykiller (Stargate Atlantis)
Title: Ladykiller
Author: fifmeister
Prompt: #12 - sultry
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Character(s)/Pairing(s): implied Sheppard/Weir, with appearances from the rest of the team
Genre: Humor, mostly.
Rating & Warnings: PG
Word Count: 651
Summary: Sheppard finds himself failing at living up to his reputation.
Sheppard knows he has a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man. Ladykiller. Heartbreaker. Lothario. Don Juan. It's not like he hasn't heard the Captain Kirk whispers in Atlantis' hallways. Hell, sometimes they aren't even whispers.
If he's totally honest with himself, he guesses he can see where the rep comes from. There was that one hot Ancient chick, Chaya. And the girl from the Cloister. And the blonde from that planet with the Tower. And...some others, but, well, they all kind of blend together after a while. It's not like it's his fault that all the women in the Pegasus galaxy are so mysteriously attractive and conveniently sexually liberated.
But he's at least self-aware enough to realize that at this particular moment, he's doing a pretty poor job of living up to that reputation.
He and his team are on another agrarian planet making more trade deals with another batch of Pegasus natives. Or finishing trade deals, to be more specific. And as luck would have it, this particular culture likes to celebrate the conclusion of successful diplomatic relations by throwing big, wild parties.
Big, wild parties filled with more food and booze than even Ronon can put away. And dancers. Lots and lots of lithe, sultry, scantily-clad dancers with heaving bosoms, legs that go straight on 'til morning, and flexibility that would make a contortionist green with envy. Dancers who are decidedly not shy about getting rather up close and personal with the men feasting at the tables.
But for some reason beyond even his own comprehension, Sheppard keeps finding his eyes drawn to the head of the table instead of following the dancers' gyrating hips. It's weird, he tells himself. Weird that he keeps getting so distracted. It's not like there's anything all that interesting at the head of the table. Just the city's prime minister and a handful of other officials.
And Elizabeth.
It's only on rare occasions that she leaves Atlantis, given that running the city keeps her hands plenty full. Not to mention that she's not big on combat situations, which tend to comprise roughly 90% of off-world missions. But on this particular occasion, her Ph.D-trained-negotiator presence had been required to complete the trade agreement.
To say that the prime minister had not been impressed with Sheppard's diplomatic skills would be an understatement.
He suppresses a scowl as he thinks of it, his eyes shooting back to the head of the table for the umpteenth time. Elizabeth is laughing at something the prime minister said, her head thrown back and her eyes all lit up. Her hair is slightly tousled from the breeze blowing through the outdoor pavilion, a barely visible flush on her cheeks.
Sheppard screws up his face and shifts in his chair, reaching up to tug at his collar.
"Is it just me, or is it awfully warm on this planet?" he complains.
"I find the temperature quite comfortable, myself," Teyla says. Ronon grunts. McKay rolls his eyes.
"You're just hot and bothered from watching the dancers," he mumbles around a mouthful of roasted meat.
Sheppard glances back at Elizabeth. Again. "No, I really don't think it's that."
McKay rolls his eyes again, attention focused on the heaping platters of food in front of him. Ronon grunts some more. Teyla just smiles that mysterious knowing smile of hers.
A dancer whirls by in a gust of perfumed flesh and almost-translucent fabric, and Sheppard tries to focus on her movements. Instead, he suddenly finds himself besieged by mental images of Elizabeth wearing one of the dancing outfits-though calling them outfits is a little optimistic; they're really more like strategically-placed strips of cloth held together by ribbons...
He swallows hard. At the head of the table, Elizabeth is in her element, still laughing and talking and smiling prettily.
His fingers yank at his collar again.
It's going to be a long feast.
Author: fifmeister
Prompt: #12 - sultry
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Character(s)/Pairing(s): implied Sheppard/Weir, with appearances from the rest of the team
Genre: Humor, mostly.
Rating & Warnings: PG
Word Count: 651
Summary: Sheppard finds himself failing at living up to his reputation.
Sheppard knows he has a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man. Ladykiller. Heartbreaker. Lothario. Don Juan. It's not like he hasn't heard the Captain Kirk whispers in Atlantis' hallways. Hell, sometimes they aren't even whispers.
If he's totally honest with himself, he guesses he can see where the rep comes from. There was that one hot Ancient chick, Chaya. And the girl from the Cloister. And the blonde from that planet with the Tower. And...some others, but, well, they all kind of blend together after a while. It's not like it's his fault that all the women in the Pegasus galaxy are so mysteriously attractive and conveniently sexually liberated.
But he's at least self-aware enough to realize that at this particular moment, he's doing a pretty poor job of living up to that reputation.
He and his team are on another agrarian planet making more trade deals with another batch of Pegasus natives. Or finishing trade deals, to be more specific. And as luck would have it, this particular culture likes to celebrate the conclusion of successful diplomatic relations by throwing big, wild parties.
Big, wild parties filled with more food and booze than even Ronon can put away. And dancers. Lots and lots of lithe, sultry, scantily-clad dancers with heaving bosoms, legs that go straight on 'til morning, and flexibility that would make a contortionist green with envy. Dancers who are decidedly not shy about getting rather up close and personal with the men feasting at the tables.
But for some reason beyond even his own comprehension, Sheppard keeps finding his eyes drawn to the head of the table instead of following the dancers' gyrating hips. It's weird, he tells himself. Weird that he keeps getting so distracted. It's not like there's anything all that interesting at the head of the table. Just the city's prime minister and a handful of other officials.
And Elizabeth.
It's only on rare occasions that she leaves Atlantis, given that running the city keeps her hands plenty full. Not to mention that she's not big on combat situations, which tend to comprise roughly 90% of off-world missions. But on this particular occasion, her Ph.D-trained-negotiator presence had been required to complete the trade agreement.
To say that the prime minister had not been impressed with Sheppard's diplomatic skills would be an understatement.
He suppresses a scowl as he thinks of it, his eyes shooting back to the head of the table for the umpteenth time. Elizabeth is laughing at something the prime minister said, her head thrown back and her eyes all lit up. Her hair is slightly tousled from the breeze blowing through the outdoor pavilion, a barely visible flush on her cheeks.
Sheppard screws up his face and shifts in his chair, reaching up to tug at his collar.
"Is it just me, or is it awfully warm on this planet?" he complains.
"I find the temperature quite comfortable, myself," Teyla says. Ronon grunts. McKay rolls his eyes.
"You're just hot and bothered from watching the dancers," he mumbles around a mouthful of roasted meat.
Sheppard glances back at Elizabeth. Again. "No, I really don't think it's that."
McKay rolls his eyes again, attention focused on the heaping platters of food in front of him. Ronon grunts some more. Teyla just smiles that mysterious knowing smile of hers.
A dancer whirls by in a gust of perfumed flesh and almost-translucent fabric, and Sheppard tries to focus on her movements. Instead, he suddenly finds himself besieged by mental images of Elizabeth wearing one of the dancing outfits-though calling them outfits is a little optimistic; they're really more like strategically-placed strips of cloth held together by ribbons...
He swallows hard. At the head of the table, Elizabeth is in her element, still laughing and talking and smiling prettily.
His fingers yank at his collar again.
It's going to be a long feast.