fic: these voices in my head (stargate: atlantis)
five senses challenge response: smell.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: This is easier.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sheppard/Weir
SPOILERS: The Long Goodbye (2x16)
SOUNDTRACK: "Addicted" (Kelly Clarkson)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Two hour fic'ing, because it suddenly occurred to me that I've contributed very little in the way of sparky!porn. Unbeta'd. Sorry.
FOR: havocthecat
WORDS: 938
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; September 2009.
* * * * *
These Voices in My Head by anr
* * * * *
it's like i can't breathe
without you inside of me
*
They have (never) done this before.
*
She has a feeling --
No.
She has a thought. It's easily dismissed.
(She lies.)
*
John grabs her arm as she steps out of the transporter, grabs her arm and turns her around, spins her to the wall, steps up behind her and presses against her back, warm, warm, his breath hot on her neck and his fingers running down her arms until he can tangle his fingers in hers, clenched against the wall.
"Not," she manages, lies, "not like this."
*
In the infirmary, Beckett walks over.
*
They make their way towards his quarters without speaking, side by side and almost close enough to touch, little breezes eddying around her fingers with each sway of his arm, teasing her, her thoughts drifting here and there, there and here, until --
He catches her when she falls towards him, her fingers snagging the neck of his t-shirt and pulling, tugging him to her, her mouth moving to his, waiting and ready and, yes.
"Too far," he says, nods, his lips moving against hers, and his agreement steadies her somehow.
She draws back with effort, running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, tasting him. "Not here," she says, "not here. We --"
His fingers tighten around her elbows, digging into her flesh.
She steps back. And back. And back again until he has to move, has to follow her.
Twisting out of his grip, she hurries.
*
There was a ceremony, once.
Nuptial flowers in her hair, at her wrists, perfuming the very air. She remembers feeling dizzy, intoxicated, overwhelmed. Remembers falling falling falling --
*
Her quarters are closer.
*
He tried to kill her yesterday.
(She knows the feeling.)
This is easier.
*
She pins him against the windows once they're inside, washing her hands across his shoulders, his chest, lower, lower.
"Off," he says, or maybe she does, and the lights in her room dim, city lights and stars fading in behind him, his fingers skimming her throat.
Her breath catches.
*
"Bed rest," says Beckett, crossing his arms. "Forty-eight hours."
"Twenty-four," she negotiates.
In the next bed, John shifts in his sleep, frowning a little, lips parting.
She --
*
She remembers the music, alien and unfamiliar and singing, too, maybe. She didn't know the words, couldn't parse the language.
"This was a bad idea," she remembers.
She laughed and held him tighter. "Not our worst. Not yet."
He smiled. "Not yet."
*
She pulls off his shirt, tugs off her own, anchors herself against him with her fingers in his dog-tags, holding him close, closer, sliding her lips against his, and again, tasting and teasing and then, yes, like that. Their teeth click.
His palms smooth down her spine, her hips. She pushes against him and feels his reaction, feels him push back, fingers slipping under her waistband, pulling her in tight. She grinds against him and slides her tongue into his mouth, hears him groan, hears herself.
*
She remembers.
*
They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, his thigh between her legs, pushing up against her, making her gasp, arch. She can't stop kissing him.
He swears against her neck, mouth open on her skin, teeth on edge, pulls back and then her hands are above her head, his fingers clenched around hers, pushing her into the mattress, her legs parting around his hips, drawing him in, dragging him closer.
She tries to say his name, tries to form the right syllables, can't, and he swears again, covering her mouth with his, stealing them instead, sliding in, too fast, too slow.
She wraps her legs around him, holds his hands and breathes.
*
Yesterday was a bad idea.
(Not their first.)
*
"Alright," agrees Beckett. "Twenty-four." He points with his tablet. "But if I find out that you've left your quarters --"
John wakes with a start, looking over at her, blinking twice. "I heard --" He yawns, shakes his head. "We can go?"
She nods.
*
Too much too much too much --
She breaks too soon, muscles tightening, flexing, pulling him in even deeper even as he keeps moving even strokes in and out and in and out and he licks her lip, lets go of one of her hands and finds her hip, hitching her leg higher, sliding in again, further, further, her hand on the back of his neck now, fingers furrowing through sweat-damp hair and locking there, holding on holding on tight.
"Can't --" he gasps, closing his eyes, his forehead nudging hers. "God. Fuck. Can't --"
She leans up, pulls down, kisses his jaw, his cheek, nips at the curve of his ear, breathes out, "John."
*
He had grass stains on his back, after.
*
After, John blinks twice, looks down at her, trembles. "That was --"
He's still inside her, on her, hot and heavy and real real real --
"Not us," she lies.
*
He kissed her goodbye with one hand in her hair, his other holding hers against his chest, the sounds of his ship, her ship, warming up loud in the field.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
She smiled and thought, if only. Smiled though. "Not if I get you first."
*
In her quarters, she watches him sleep.
(She can still smell the flowers.)
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: This is easier.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sheppard/Weir
SPOILERS: The Long Goodbye (2x16)
SOUNDTRACK: "Addicted" (Kelly Clarkson)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Two hour fic'ing, because it suddenly occurred to me that I've contributed very little in the way of sparky!porn. Unbeta'd. Sorry.
FOR: havocthecat
WORDS: 938
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; September 2009.
* * * * *
These Voices in My Head by anr
* * * * *
it's like i can't breathe
without you inside of me
*
They have (never) done this before.
*
She has a feeling --
No.
She has a thought. It's easily dismissed.
(She lies.)
*
John grabs her arm as she steps out of the transporter, grabs her arm and turns her around, spins her to the wall, steps up behind her and presses against her back, warm, warm, his breath hot on her neck and his fingers running down her arms until he can tangle his fingers in hers, clenched against the wall.
"Not," she manages, lies, "not like this."
*
In the infirmary, Beckett walks over.
*
They make their way towards his quarters without speaking, side by side and almost close enough to touch, little breezes eddying around her fingers with each sway of his arm, teasing her, her thoughts drifting here and there, there and here, until --
He catches her when she falls towards him, her fingers snagging the neck of his t-shirt and pulling, tugging him to her, her mouth moving to his, waiting and ready and, yes.
"Too far," he says, nods, his lips moving against hers, and his agreement steadies her somehow.
She draws back with effort, running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, tasting him. "Not here," she says, "not here. We --"
His fingers tighten around her elbows, digging into her flesh.
She steps back. And back. And back again until he has to move, has to follow her.
Twisting out of his grip, she hurries.
*
There was a ceremony, once.
Nuptial flowers in her hair, at her wrists, perfuming the very air. She remembers feeling dizzy, intoxicated, overwhelmed. Remembers falling falling falling --
*
Her quarters are closer.
*
He tried to kill her yesterday.
(She knows the feeling.)
This is easier.
*
She pins him against the windows once they're inside, washing her hands across his shoulders, his chest, lower, lower.
"Off," he says, or maybe she does, and the lights in her room dim, city lights and stars fading in behind him, his fingers skimming her throat.
Her breath catches.
*
"Bed rest," says Beckett, crossing his arms. "Forty-eight hours."
"Twenty-four," she negotiates.
In the next bed, John shifts in his sleep, frowning a little, lips parting.
She --
*
She remembers the music, alien and unfamiliar and singing, too, maybe. She didn't know the words, couldn't parse the language.
"This was a bad idea," she remembers.
She laughed and held him tighter. "Not our worst. Not yet."
He smiled. "Not yet."
*
She pulls off his shirt, tugs off her own, anchors herself against him with her fingers in his dog-tags, holding him close, closer, sliding her lips against his, and again, tasting and teasing and then, yes, like that. Their teeth click.
His palms smooth down her spine, her hips. She pushes against him and feels his reaction, feels him push back, fingers slipping under her waistband, pulling her in tight. She grinds against him and slides her tongue into his mouth, hears him groan, hears herself.
*
She remembers.
*
They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, his thigh between her legs, pushing up against her, making her gasp, arch. She can't stop kissing him.
He swears against her neck, mouth open on her skin, teeth on edge, pulls back and then her hands are above her head, his fingers clenched around hers, pushing her into the mattress, her legs parting around his hips, drawing him in, dragging him closer.
She tries to say his name, tries to form the right syllables, can't, and he swears again, covering her mouth with his, stealing them instead, sliding in, too fast, too slow.
She wraps her legs around him, holds his hands and breathes.
*
Yesterday was a bad idea.
(Not their first.)
*
"Alright," agrees Beckett. "Twenty-four." He points with his tablet. "But if I find out that you've left your quarters --"
John wakes with a start, looking over at her, blinking twice. "I heard --" He yawns, shakes his head. "We can go?"
She nods.
*
Too much too much too much --
She breaks too soon, muscles tightening, flexing, pulling him in even deeper even as he keeps moving even strokes in and out and in and out and he licks her lip, lets go of one of her hands and finds her hip, hitching her leg higher, sliding in again, further, further, her hand on the back of his neck now, fingers furrowing through sweat-damp hair and locking there, holding on holding on tight.
"Can't --" he gasps, closing his eyes, his forehead nudging hers. "God. Fuck. Can't --"
She leans up, pulls down, kisses his jaw, his cheek, nips at the curve of his ear, breathes out, "John."
*
He had grass stains on his back, after.
*
After, John blinks twice, looks down at her, trembles. "That was --"
He's still inside her, on her, hot and heavy and real real real --
"Not us," she lies.
*
He kissed her goodbye with one hand in her hair, his other holding hers against his chest, the sounds of his ship, her ship, warming up loud in the field.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
She smiled and thought, if only. Smiled though. "Not if I get you first."
*
In her quarters, she watches him sleep.
(She can still smell the flowers.)
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*