by B. Cavis
by B. Cavis
It has nothing to do with the fact that they were both almost killed today, but then again it does. No part of them is detached when they’re with each other, no matter what names they use. She is always going to be Elizabeth Weir, and he is always going to be John Sheppard, and the fact that sometimes he calls her “Doctor” and sometimes he calls her “Mine” doesn’t change their cores.
The fact that sometimes he will grab his P-90 if he hears her scream and run for her position, intent on killing the cause, and that sometimes he makes her scream for hours on end and relishes the sound doesn’t change anything. He is John. She is Liz.
He man. She woman.
Liz makes a sound like something wounded and desperate underneath his teeth, babbling into the sheets against her face. Her legs are spread wide open, hips moving back and forth slowly in a miserably ineffective attempt to rub her clit against the bed covers. He’s had her on edge for long enough, he knows. If he pulled her up onto her hands and knees right now and pounded into her, she would come hard. Come apart. She’s done it before; gripped the sheets hard in her hands and begged and pleaded and pushed all the air out of her lungs in one primal sound as he did what men are supposed to do to beautiful, overworked, undersexed, tight bodied diplomats.
He loves fucking her. He feels right fucking her. His cock strains upward, seeking something to end its own personal torment, to push inside her, rearrange her, and make her an extension of his being once again. Make himself a part of her.
It would be so easy. So incredibly… easy. And Lord knows she would have no complaints. Not that she ever does (and here, he just has to smirk in stupid, male satisfaction), but tonight requires no further readying of her, no eating her to get her wet enough or strung tight enough. She’s ready.
It’s been long enough.
But… it hasn’t. Not for him. Not yet.
Nothing changes between them-- he doesn’t become a different person when he’s fucking her, and she doesn’t become anyone besides herself when she’s getting fucked. Things are much simpler this way. No confusion over when they’re being lovers and when they’re being friends and when they’re being co-workers, because they are all three of those things all the time. They use common sense when it comes to their daily behavior, not some weird little sign that only makes sense to them, and in John’s opinion that is much easier anyhow, because he’s always forgetting stuff like that.
Nothing changes. Nothing is separate. And that includes the sex.
…He thought she was dead…
When they are needy in one aspect of their lives, they are needier with each other. When she is pushed aside by some asshole of a native who thinks she can’t run things because of the sweet, tight pussy between her legs (she whimpers as he shoves a finger into her and does the “c’mere” motion that his first girlfriend told him would hit a woman’s G-spot), he is the one who winds up on his back, being fucked and owned and ripped apart by her and her sweet, tight pussy. When he has to shut up and let her do something that every male, every military instinct in him says is dangerous and wrong, she has trouble walking without painkillers for a few days.
But she says it’s a good pain. She always says it’s a good pain.
…Her, bleeding out, white and pale, and covered in that red sweater, the color of blood, the color of her blood, the color of her death…
“Talk to me,” he orders, and even though she moans and whimpers out her inability to form a thought, he repeats the order (not a request, not tonight) because some part of him still doubts.
Is she truly here? Or is the sweater red with something besides dye?
“God you’re possessed,” she groans, and he bites down harder than she would let him if she had any say in the matter, leaving teeth marks and the faint signs of an upcoming bruise on the back of her left thigh. It’s right on the place that her leg will hit the edge of her chair anytime she sits down. It’s going to be right on the tip of her diamond, detail oriented mind for the rest of the week. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Talk to me and tell me what I want to hear,” he growls out, and when he uses that tone with her she is no longer in charge of him or anyone else. She arches her back and thrusts her ass up at him, angry and horny and God why won’t he just shut up and fuck her?
“Wha-” another finger pushes inside of her, fucking her slow and deep now, and she bites down on her arm, hard enough to leave a smaller version of the marks he just left on her skin. He pauses, and she growls at him angrily. “God, John, fuck me already!”
He can’t see her eyes. He wants to see her eyes. He pulls his fingers away, ignoring her snarl or frustration, and throws her off balance and onto her back. She grips the bed with her fingers, a reflex of one who is not a soldier. Trying to cling to something means that her hands aren’t free (means that her enemy has the advantage, means that she is in trouble, means that she is dead).
…Him in his dress blues, a flowered wreath in his hand…
Her mouth is hard and all teeth and unrelenting tongue underneath his. She sinks down further into the mattress as he sucks hard on her bottom lip and bites down on her chin. The anger has left her, momentarily, and when he looks down at her, she is regarding him with the half dazed, not entirely aware expression of the sexually aroused and needy. God, he loves to see that look on her face.
“Watch me,” he snarls at her, and she nods, lips parted, tongue peeking out to lick at the air like it can save her.
Nothing can save her. Not from him.
He laves his tongue over her throat, teeth scraping red lines on pale flesh, before the tongue reappears to soothe all aches he may cause. Her skin is brushed red and irritated-- she was rubbing her skin hard against the sheets, trying to reach some just out of reach pinnacle. Trying to orgasm.
Without him, some small, ridiculously in-control part of him growls, and he shoves it away. Not important. Not important.
John has always loved breasts. Big, small, perky, heavy-- all of them. The feels of them fascinates his hands, the taste of them dances across his tongue. Skin texture, nipple size, sensitivity; everything is different, everything is new on each woman he meets. When he was fresh out of his virginity, he would spend hours on end just… thinking.
After his first excursion into Liz’s bed, he had spent days on end jerking off. Thinking of those tits, that ass, the wonderfully tight and strong legs that wrap around him any way they can, trying to suck him into her body, take him into her body, meld him into her body.
Her eyes are glued to him. Good girl.
Liz’s throat contracts when he takes her nipple into his mouth, bites hard, and moves further down her body. He spent half an hour on them earlier, playing and bouncing and pinching and fucking. His cock had looked like sin moving in between her tits, and when she had tilted her chin down and opened her mouth to let him bang against her lips, he had almost-- almost-- blown his cool and blown his chances for peace this evening.
God, he needs peace tonight.
…The flashing lights as the men hit the force field, his blood offering to her ghost…
Her hipbones are a delicate but firm protrusion from underneath meticulously moisturized skin. Last time he was feeling tender and she was feeling like indulging him, she let him run his hands over her skin, working in the white cream until she was oily and slick.
She’d called out something sweet and affectionate when he made her come that night. He didn’t mention it later. Neither did she.
The panties were discarded a long time ago. She had slipped them down to her ankles when they first came in and closed the door, and when he had turned around from making sure they were securely cut off from the rest of the world, she had thrown herself onto the bed and started running her hands over her skin like it was something new and amazing.
He is grateful for it now. When she did it, he felt like taking her and locking her in her room forever, to keep that skin safe. Hole free.
…Liz, skin torn, eyes open as she stares up at God or whatever the dead are looking at, and there is so much blood…
He drags the flat of his tongue over her sparse pubic hair, and when he gets down to where she really wants him to be, she wiggles her hips to try and entice him into more. To try and move him to action. He grabs her underneath her knees, one hand for each leg, and pulls her open and up. Her inner thigh becomes the next casualty of his lust, teeth coming down hard on the delicate skin, and she throws her head back and shakes her head full of bittersweet chocolate hair in overwhelmed need.
Her smell is all around him. Her smell is everything.
“John,” she whimpers, and he knows that he’s heard that voice way too many times for it to still break him, logically, but his cock and his body don’t respond well to logic.
He breaks. He always fucking breaks.
She grips his hair when he finally takes her clit in his mouth, and he knows his scalp will hurt for days but maybe that’s a fair trade off for getting to do this to her. She is wet with arousal and coarse with hair, firm and thick underneath his lips and his tongue and his touch, and when he slips his fingers back into her, she pushes up at him, using all of her strength to compensate for her limited ability to leverage.
“Talk to me,” he orders again, words slightly muffled. For some reason, his tongue has decided it simply can’t live without the taste of Liz on it for a mere second, which vastly limits his ability to do all those important things like, ya know, form words. She seems to understand anyway, and her grip on his hair gets harder. More desperate.
She loves it when he makes her feel both dirty and cherished at the same time. He once made her scream simply by kissing his way around her pussy and calling her a sweet little fuck toy at the same time. John allows himself the brief moment of nostalgia. That had been a very fun night. He’d never known how inventive one could be with scarves until Liz… educated him.
He shakes himself free of the sweet opiate of his memories. The present beckons. The present is much more fun, anyway.
“I need to come. God, John, pleeeeease make me cuh-come!” Liz pants. Her fingers on his scalp keep him tied down to Earth at hearing those words slip forth from her mouth. Usually she plays around the words he wants to hear-- making him want to beg. Usually, she loves to let him squirm.
Maybe she knows how much he needs this tonight. Maybe now she understands. He needs to take something from her-- something deep and something real. Something that will tell his body that she isn’t dead, that he doesn’t have to mourn her.
He needs her to give him something. Something true and something solid. And maybe now she gets that.
…McKay watching her fall, not being able to catch her, not being able to hold her, not being able to do all of the things he would have been able to do for her in her last moments…
She tightens up when his thumb presses against her asshole, and he almost stops. Maybe, whispers his inner gentleman, he should just focus on her. Maybe he should just… ignore this gaping need in his chest and feel thankful that she is still with him; that she is beside him.
And then she relaxes all her muscles and pushes herself down onto his finger, and he swallows hard as her gaze takes him in hand.
…Her eyes, wide and dilated and freaked the fuck out when the bullet sped past her ear and blew another man’s life away…
He closes his eyes (because if he looks at her for another moment, he is going to have to say something he’s not ready to admit) and pushes against her clit with his parted lips until he has it firm in his hold. His tongue presses against the little center of her body, flicking and dragging and owning, and when she screams and throws herself backwards, her ass contracts so hard on his thumb that he can feel himself start to pant against her.
God, she is going to do this around his cock. God, he is going to die inside of her.
She blinks up at the ceiling when she comes down, and he is already slipping on a condom. Usually, she likes to do this part, but he doesn’t think he could survive having her hands on him tonight. He pats her hipbone, and she looks at him for a long moment before turning onto her hands and knees, and pushing her ass up at him like a cat in heat.
“Ask for it,” he whispers, rumbling and powerful in her ear, and she gives her shame up to the wind; the same way she always does when she’s with him. John has no time for irrational body issues or self-esteem problems. He never looks at her like she’s a slut or a whore or any of those other terms that she has worked so hard to move beyond in her professional life; he can slap her ass while she rides him and screams for God, and when she wakes up the next morning he is kissing her neck with infinite gentleness and watching her like she is beauty and grace embodied.
She clings to the memory of his lips on her neck, of his eyes giving her qualities that she’s not quite sure she has, and when she opens her mouth the words come without hesitation.
“Fuck me in the ass, John.”
John cups her ass like it’s been blessed by God. She hugs a pillow tightly and tries not to think about what it might mean that Simon practically begged her for this and she never let him have it. John didn’t say a word.
He didn’t beg. He didn’t insist. He made one move, one placement of his fingers that would have been withdrawn if she hadn’t encouraged him.
He didn’t take. She offered, and that scares a small part of her that says that it is dangerous to get too close to a man; that is leads to nothing but pain and fear and sadness and the bad things that lone wolf women don’t have to deal with.
She lets out a soft noise that he can’t identify when he slips his fingers into her pussy and digs for enough of her lube to moisturize himself. The act should feel clinical; detached. The fact that it doesn’t makes her stomach clench and her body prick up all of its nerve endings in anticipation.
John takes a deep breath, like having air in his lungs will help something, pulls her ass cheeks apart, and presses against her with firm resolve.
She bites down on the pillow. “Loosen up,” he grates out behind her, and the sound is dirty and hot and all too appropriate for what she’s feeling right now. She forces herself to relax, to remember who they are and what they have together (which, even if it has no name, is no less powerful) and to act accordingly.
He slips the head past the tight muscle, groans low and deep in his throat, and she takes that as a good thing.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” he gasps out, and she nods.
He tries to remember the last time he did this with a woman, but for the life of him all he can remember is that there was more booze than anyone had any right to consume involved, and that she had told him about half way in that she was really more interested in straight sex, and that if he wanted to fuck someone up the ass he should turn gay. It had left him feeling shaken and small and weak, and when he had looked back on it days later, he had declared the whole thing as “NEVER HAPPENED” and ignored it for years.
Liz moans when he pushes in further, and her nails make odd noises on the sheets as she clenches them. The pillow is held between her pressed in elbows.
He never wants to forget this.
God she’s so tight. Tighter than his fist, tighter than her mouth or her pussy-- it feels like he is being slowly compacted into a cube, only his flesh isn’t complying by changing shape. She is squeezing him and his fingers are on her hips and he is squeezing her back.
So tiny, he thinks, looking down on her. Not words one often associates with Elizabeth Weir. Her presence makes her the tallest person in the room, easily, and when she steps into the atmosphere, everyone takes notice. Everyone looks.
He’s looking now. He’s seeing her now.
Her skin is tacky with sweat everywhere he touches, and when he puts his hands on her, he feels like the biggest man and the biggest stud that has ever graced the Earth. When he puts his dick in her, he feels like he is the only man who has ever truly made her orgasm-- like he is special and needed and wanted more than any other person in the universe.
John swallows and pushes more of himself in. Liz whines.
“Bad?” he asks gruffly, and she shakes her head quickly.
“N-No… God, just push in faster. Just fucking get it over with,” she groans. “I want your cock in my ass, John…”
The sound he lets out is more pain than pleasure, the movement of his hips more need than desire. Her skin is so soft against him, his brain reports fuzzily, and it takes him a moment to realize that the reason he can’t seem to find breath in his lungs is because he pushed it all out of his body with the groaning thing he was apparently doing without meaning to. She lets out a tiny little screech, like something caught and pinned down against its will, only she’s pushing back at him like maybe she likes being pinned by him; like maybe it’s okay when he’s the one who’s caught her.
He forces his mouth shut, grits his teeth hard, and makes himself be conscientious. “Good?” he groans, and when she speaks he hears every other word, but it’s enough.
“Yeah oh yeah oh God yeah…” Her words are muffled around the pillow, and when he withdraws slowly from her, he feels like the pull of her is going to rip all of the skin from his body. Too tight, too good, too… Liz.
He pushes back in, and she falls down to support herself on her shoulders and upper chest, shoving one hand down between them to finger herself. He can feel her nails scrapping against him, and even though he usually likes being able to do that to her, he can’t find the brain function to do it right now.
…Him, going about his every day life without her there. Breathing, but only just. Living, but only by default…
He starts to move harder, faster, letting centuries of biology take over where he has failed. His hips move, hers respond, and her body is tight and real underneath him. Her ass is tight and real around him. Everything is tight. Everything is real. Everything is right.
He is speaking. When did he start speaking? His tongue has no memory of time, no hesitance about moving without permission, and he lets the words flow because he honestly can’t stop them.
“God, Liz, love being in you, love fucking you, love your ass.” Her nails scrape him, and if he had more of a brain right now, he would recognize it as pain. “So tight, so good… God damn you’re tight.” She is making soft gulping, choking noises against the pillow. She can’t close her mouth all the way when she swallows. “Am I the first in here?” He grinds out, and her fingers jab him as she fumbles on her clit. He keeps going; with each passing moment, her ass pushes back against him with more resolve. “Huh? Am I the first one to fuck this… gorgeous… tight… perfect ass?”
“Ass” comes out sort of jumbled. She’s making him choke on his own tongue with the way her body moves, and the smell of her is making his words die in his throat the same way the sight of Taylor Jenson did in second grade.
Her back is heaving, shoulder blades jerking and dancing like two shark fins under the sea of her skin, and he manages to clear the buzzing in his ears long enough to hear her say “John… John… First. You’re the first,” and he’s gone.
He catches himself before he can fall on her and break her back, hands going on either side of her body and elbows locking him in place. She is still working her clit furiously, and if he had any more breath or energy left in his body, he would help her but he doesn’t. He can’t.
So he does what he can do; does all that he can do-- he drops his head to the space between her shoulder blade, breathing heavily, and offers her the sacrifice of one pure, loving kiss on her skin.
She gasps and thrashes underneath him, and he pulls his head back to avoid getting clocked. Her muscles bunch and shiver, and he drags his forehead across his shoulder to shift the sweaty hair away from his eyes. Her skin is red, her body is tense and strong, and he looks at her and knows that he might never have seen this if fate had been different.
…Elizabeth Weir Born: 1969, Died: 2004...
He pulls out of her and ties off the condom, tossing it away. He’ll deal with where it went and where it has to go later on. She is breathing raggedly, and when he touches her shoulder, she turns her face to the side to look up at him through the corner of her eyes.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, and something in his voice gets through to her maternal instincts, because she turns onto her back with no more complaint than a little grunt and makes herself look as comfortable as humanly possible; as welcoming as she can. He lies down, half on top of her, and she doesn’t complain when his nose (which he knows must be cold-- it’s always cold) finds its way into the crook of her neck.
Her hand tangles in his hair, holding him in place and soothing over the damage she fears she may have done to his scalp. He breathes her in. She is real, he tells himself. She is alive and so is he and there is nothing else to it.
He tells himself that the tremor in his hands when he tucks them both under the covers is from the cold. She tells herself that the she clings to him with something close to desperation for the same reason.
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