Author: Little Red
Summary: The one where alien moonshine makes them do telepath sex.
Author's Note: For Ness. I pretended this was for the icon challenge, but really it wasn't. Icon by natushka.
John Sheppard looks at her across the table and, with a start, knows exactly what she's going to do to him when dinner is over.
Elizabeth's head is down, her eyes flickering curiously over the table right in front of her like her hands or her silverware are doing something strange that only she can see. They're two meters apart, at least, and yet he can hear her breathing like her mouth is against his ear, like she's straddling his lap and stroking fingers between them and panting instead of talking because no actual words are required.
He shakes his head, remembering where he is -- off-world, a banquet, an official diplomatic function -- and writes it off as a premonition. Or a flashback. Or a hopeless, pathetic fantasy.
Until he glances at Elizabeth again to see if she caught his momentary lapse in concentration (she's always the one that does, and shoots him that I'd-be-amused-if-this-were-another-place-and-time look). She has moved from staring at her fork to studying the wine inside her glass with an intensity of someone trying to tell their own fortune. A blush crawls up her cheek, and though he's only had her twice before, and a long time ago, he knows what that specific color means.
They both get up from the table at once, like it was planned. She speaks to their hosts, excusing them for being tired, and he avoids the looks he knows the rest of his team must be sending them.
"I can have someone show you to your quarters if you do not remember the way," says the alien royal highness, an old man who always has a glass of wine in his hand and a perpetual knowing smirk on his face. He doesn't seem at all put out that they're rudely blowing off his dinner party.
"We'll find it," John says, too eagerly, and Elizabeth sends him another look (it's probably meant to be the one that means let me do the talking, but it only serves to raise the temperature in the air immediately against his skin by five or six degrees).
Like he knows what's going on, the alien king says, "You are welcome to join us for drinks later in the evening if you are sufficiently rested."
John thinks he hears Ford snicker. He doesn't care.
On the way to the guest quarters he touches a hand to the small of Elizabeth's back to encourage her to move faster or just to make contact, and the spark of connection makes him literally stagger with heat and... something. She grabs his hand to keep him upright, and it feels like fire as she pulls him along.
skin skin hot naked touch tongue feeeeeeeeeel...
He imagines (remembers?) how her skin tastes, how her muscles shift and move to keep herself standing as he fucks her against a wall (and he never did that to her before, he remembers) and how she tastes with alien wine still in her mouth and sweat on her skin and the sound she makes when-
He all but throws her against the nearest wall as soon as they've entered the room. His room, her room, it doesn't matter, and at that moment he wouldn't care if they were still inside the dining hall, he just needs to touch her.
He has both her hands pinned to the wall on either side of her head and kisses her (wine, sweat) and she makes the exact sound he was expecting. He kisses down the front of her throat, abandoning his hold on her wrists to undo the buttons on her shirt, and every single kiss is like fireworks sending off bursts of slowly falling color into his mind.
Why didn't he remember this? How could he have ever thought he could live without this?
He feels fingers in his hair, but it's almost like they're digging deeper, under his skull, stroking sensation directly into his brain until he can feel all over his body what he's doing to her.
She gasps, once, ragged, and though their clothes are still on it feels like he's already inside her. His forehead collapses to her shoulder as he tries to get a grip.
He doesn't know what's going on. It's too fast. It's too much. It's too-
Elizabeth doesn't appreciate his hesitation, and she pushes him back toward the bed. His knees hit the mattress, and he sinks backward, letting her fall on top of him. Her weight and curves are just what he needs, like he has been starved for sensation. He just looks at her for a second. He's never seen eyes so green.
Her lips meet his and she tastes like wine and it feels like they've been kissing for hours, days, like they never stopped kissing since four months ago when they (rationally) (foolishly) agreed, the morning after their second indiscretion, that they couldn't work together and sleep together.
She tastes like wine.
"The wine..." he breathes between her lips, incomprehensible, but somehow she understands.
"I'm not drunk," she replies, and she's right, this isn't drunk. "I feel..."
She doesn't say it but it rushes inside him like the sensations are his -- and maybe they are -- and he rolls her over into the alien mattress that feels about twenty miles deep, like they'll never escape it again. His hands slip under her shirt and hers go to the buckle of his belt and he isn't sure whose fingers are whose anymore but the clothes slide off button by button, fiber by fiber, and then they're naked together. Again. Thank God. He lays his hand over her ribs, under her breast, and they both breathe in at once, slowly, like his skin her skin their skin are like wisps of air, feeding slow fires in their chests.
And her right hand is on him, over his heart, just touching, and he can feel every ridge on her fingers, every molecule. It's like he's been walking around as half a person for four whole months, like this is who he really is.
He doesn't kiss her, but he thinks about it, and she tilts her head back and parts her lips and sighs like he has.
"We said..." she moans on a breath, and he has no idea how she can talk at all when she feels like this (how does he know how she feels?). "We said we wouldn't do this again."
And he knows how hard it was for her, knows, somehow remembers how she tried to touch herself at night thinking of anything but him, how spent minutes in the mirror before seeing him to remind her of her resolve, how she snapped an elastic band against her wrist for weeks whenever she thought of it. Of him.
Of them, after a party on the mainland, tipsy but not drunk, needy and alone and too weak to resist, making out behind a tree for half an hour lips teeth tongue breathing-
Of the first time they gave in for real, sober, exhausted, run ragged after the city was attacked and she thought he was dead and he thought she was kidnapped and they clung to each other and kissed and babbled endearments they didn't (couldn't) really mean and it felt... so... good-
His skin smarts sharply. He bends down and kisses her wrist, slowly, gently, again and again.
They said they wouldn't do this again.
"Mitigating circumstances," he mumbles, and he can feel her smile, feel the way energy washes through her to her toes, and she pulls his head to hers and kisses him. Too weak to resist.
Both of them.
They were always too weak to resist.
And it hits him like a wave -- he's kissing her misses her loves her wants her feels her understands her, wants to bury himself inside her body heart mind and never let go, wants to feel like this with his skin on fire forever. He's just kissing but it's like his hands are everywhere, like her hands are over him and inside him and touching every inch of skin he has ever had. He brushes his hand once (for real, he thinks, but it might all be an illusion) over her breast and feels a passing fear of cancer, a desire for children, remembers a high school dance spent mostly under the bleachers, remembers boys and girls and remembers him. She touches his back and he feels like all his scars are exposed, like he has told her everything about himself even though they have barely said a word since they walked in here.
He says one now. "... love..." but that's not the word he's looking for, and he corrects, "I know you."
Her memories feelings thoughts dance all through him like electric current across his nervous system, like every cell in his body is alive with her and this and them. She arches her back underneath him, gasping; she's close and he hasn't even touched her, and he's hard and panting and the sensation is too intense to let him move on his own but she flips him over and sinks down onto him and he might be screaming because it's just too much too much and he can't imagine ever getting closer to her, and she doesn't move and neither does he but he comes and comes and comes and everything goes black.
John wakes up first, groggy, and he spends a minute just trying to blink away the grey.
Elizabeth is lying next to him, naked, unconscious, breathing, and though her body is still warm and real and there, he feels horribly bereft, like a hole has been carved out of his chest and head and limbs. Like he's been made hollow.
He keeps closing and opening his eyes, but the grey doesn't go away. He thinks he has a headache, but he can't quite sense the pain. Her skin looks dimmer than it did, and when he touches her, he feels only flesh.
And that scares him, like he has suddenly gone blind, because he knows she is so much deeper and just can't feel it.
He's afraid to wake her, afraid she'll take away this last bit of her he still has, but he has to, if only to make sure she's all right. "Elizabeth."
She snuggles closer to him before waking, like she knows what's coming. His skin hums, his exhausted nervous system offering up a pale nod toward his usual reaction to a beautiful woman naked in his arms -- more so, even, because it's her -- but it doesn't feel like enough.
Still, it feels a bit better. He tries to make himself relax.
"John." She opens her eyes, blinks, and frowns. "What...?"
He pulls her closer, reflexively. "I don't know. I remember-"
He remembers. His fingers brush over her hair and he remembers the night before only in broad strokes, knows that they had sex and that it was more than that. That he saw inside her, saw the private and reserved Elizabeth Weir, and though he can't now remember the details while his head is fuzzy and his body exhausted, he doesn't think he'll ever be the same.
"Shit," she says, and her eyes well up, and he wonders if she remembers more than he does. "We're so stupid."
His heart pounds weakly (his heart's still there and still working, that's good), and, more than anything, he wants to be able to read her mind. "I think it's a safe assumption that we were drugged," he offers.
"Not that," she groans, and gently lays her hand on his chest, bridging the gap. Maybe it's an aftereffect of whatever happened the night before, or maybe it's just that he's forgotten what normal sensation feels like, but her touch feels like more than a touch. If the last time she cut him off from her naked body and off-duty friendship in the name of duty and honor resulted only in his avoiding the control tower and jerking off more and yelling a lot at the junior members of the expedition... he doesn't know what he'll do this time. It's dramatic to say that he won't survive, because he will, but the part of him that still feels hollow, feels like when they separated their thoughts and minds and bodies as the drug wore off the night before some of him got lost in her forever, wonders if he'll survive the separation intact.
He still asks. "What?"
"Thinking we could just call it off. That I could just..." A single tear rolls down her cheek, and she covers her face, as though a simple emotional display could possibly change his opinion of her after he saw her entire being spread out on this mattress. "Shit."
He kisses her forehead, the backs of her hands, her lips. She doesn't resist him, doesn't tell him off, and that's a good sign. "We were both wrong," he admits. After all, when she walked away last time, he let her. Even counted himself lucky that it had ended before he'd fallen too far and made a real fool of himself.
Her breathing is shaky, but her voice is strong. He knows this about her now -- her rational mind never gives in completely to fear or grief or even love. He also knows this doesn't mean she loves less. "So what are we going to do?"
He knows too much about her to let her walk away again. He knows she doesn't really want him to. "We keep doing this," he decides, and hopes like hell she won't overrule him. "And we don't let it interfere with our jobs."
She nods. "Can we do that?"
They only saw each other, not the future. "I think so."
She rests her head against his shoulder, and it feels good. "Are you sure we're not still... under the influence?"
Of something, maybe, but not the alien wine. "Pretty sure. But we should probably bring back some of it for testing. That was..."
Elizabeth snorts. "Pretty potent, yeah. We're going to have to explain ourselves to the others," she reminds him.
It's his turn to groan. "You mean, I will." None of them will give her any hassle beyond a few smirks or awkward looks, but he has to go off-world with them. Never having done it before, he isn't sure, but he suspects that running off in the middle of an off-world banquet to have sex with his commander is not something that he'll ever live down.
Totally worth it. And by the way the King smiled at them, it may not even have been accidental. He should feel violated, maybe, but it's hard to feel anything but content with Elizabeth dozing on his shoulder like this. He should probably thank His Royal Highness, if he gets the chance.
John kisses her forehead, and she sighs, and even though everything still looks a little grey, he feels pretty damned good.
Yeah, he'll definitely have to thank the old man in the morning. For now, though, there's no way that he can pull himself away.
*send feedback to little red*
back to Atlantis index - back to the badlands