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minific for A.j. Atlantis, Liz/John, etc. ANGST ALERT
SPOILERS PROBABLY OMG
ten minutes of Sparky for myA.j.
"Am I so different?" she asks, murmuring the words against his neck.
No, he thinks, hands sliding down her naked skin as he sets his mind to proving her words a lie. Not differentnotdifferent... When she comes apart beneath him, her eyes wide and dark, there is no sense that this is manufactured (it isn't).
Elizabeth had never been one to fake her orgasms, and now--
She's alive and rescued and covered in sweat. And it doesn't matter that Colonel Carter said quarantine, and Dr. Keller couldn't be sure. This is Elizabeth Weir.
"John," she says, a little while later, her voice catching (like it always had), her hands on his chest as she rocks slowly above him. Her eyes are almost distant, full of memories or pain.
He reached up and tangles his fingers in her hair, tugging until she drops forward enough to kiss him.
"Don't think, Elizabeth," he whispers into her mouth.
"What if--"
"Don't. Think."
This is real, this is them--he's (trying to) convinced of that. Her hands map the skin of his chest and sides and her mouth closes on the spot on his throat that makes him jump. She makes a noise of amusement and bites lightly, before sucking.
He's going to have a hickey, and Lorne is going to mock the shit out of him.
When she climaxes, she clenches tight around him afterwards, urging him with soft words (words he was always a little shocked to hear from Dr. Elizabeth Weir), and then he's gone himself, hands clenching on her hips (leaving bruises she never rebukes him for).
Quiet, she slips a little to the side and tucks herself under his chin.
"I needed that," she whispers.
"I know."
They drift into sleep, and he wonders what his dreams will be filled with. Not her dying, now. Not anymore.
ten minutes of Sparky for myA.j.
"Am I so different?" she asks, murmuring the words against his neck.
No, he thinks, hands sliding down her naked skin as he sets his mind to proving her words a lie. Not differentnotdifferent... When she comes apart beneath him, her eyes wide and dark, there is no sense that this is manufactured (it isn't).
Elizabeth had never been one to fake her orgasms, and now--
She's alive and rescued and covered in sweat. And it doesn't matter that Colonel Carter said quarantine, and Dr. Keller couldn't be sure. This is Elizabeth Weir.
"John," she says, a little while later, her voice catching (like it always had), her hands on his chest as she rocks slowly above him. Her eyes are almost distant, full of memories or pain.
He reached up and tangles his fingers in her hair, tugging until she drops forward enough to kiss him.
"Don't think, Elizabeth," he whispers into her mouth.
"What if--"
"Don't. Think."
This is real, this is them--he's (trying to) convinced of that. Her hands map the skin of his chest and sides and her mouth closes on the spot on his throat that makes him jump. She makes a noise of amusement and bites lightly, before sucking.
He's going to have a hickey, and Lorne is going to mock the shit out of him.
When she climaxes, she clenches tight around him afterwards, urging him with soft words (words he was always a little shocked to hear from Dr. Elizabeth Weir), and then he's gone himself, hands clenching on her hips (leaving bruises she never rebukes him for).
Quiet, she slips a little to the side and tucks herself under his chin.
"I needed that," she whispers.
"I know."
They drift into sleep, and he wonders what his dreams will be filled with. Not her dying, now. Not anymore.