TITLE: "In Love and War"

AUTHOR: Little Red

RATING: NC-17 for sex.

CATEGORY: John/Elizabeth smut. PWP.

SUMMARY: ... and then they done sex? That's all there is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First pr0n posting yay! All A.j.'s fault. Also fits one of the list of challenges A.j. and I gave Claira that she never took us up on.


***


Elizabeth tends to kill him when he tickles her, but he does it anyway. He forgets sometimes -- hell, forgets his name sometimes when she licks at the stubble on his neck just so. Her skin is right there and he knows all her weak spots, and God, he loves making her laugh.

She squeals, scrambling for escape, laughing so hard she fails to get her limbs organized enough to stand up. He all but lunges across the bed after her, grabbing hold of her hips and dragging her back to the mattress. Her skin is slick with sweat and he holds on a little too tight, but she never minds marks that stay hidden beneath her clothes. He can't get over the fact that no one but him ever gets to see them.

"Bastard," she curses him, flipping him onto his back with strength and leverage that comes from nowhere. She pins his devious hands to the sides and finds her breath. Her hair hangs in her face, damp and wild, and she licks her lips in that way that makes him groan and bring his hips off the bed. He's warned her about doing that in briefings. She has had to stop drinking things altogether in staff meetings if she wants him to pay attention, and God help them all if she starts chewing on a pen (and she does all the time, the evil wench, and he knows she knows).

He can't keep still, even though she's got his upper body immobilized with her hands on his wrists. She's sitting on his stomach and he can feel how wet she is and if he doesn't figure out how to flip her or move her or get her somewhere where he can do something about it he's going to go mad in about thirty seconds.

Completely.

The Captain who passed him out of basic hand-to-hand training clearly never anticipated that he'd ever be pinned down by an opponent with no official combat experience and half his muscle mass (and he can see the way the delicate muscles in her arms and stomach react and tense when he tries to throw her off). And yes, thinking of the Academy and Captain Grayson with the bad teeth and the smoker's cough is a very good idea if he wants even a chance of keeping it together when Elizabeth leans over so her breasts are right in his face and she starts to slide down his body. Slowly.

Oh. God. She nibbles at his neck, his collarbone, and her breasts are rubbing his chest whenever she moves. Her thighs are still holding him down and her heat is close enough to feel and he needs to be inside her right now right now. He fights her grip on his wrists, but she's surprisingly strong and apparently his extremities are completely useless when all the blood in his body is pooling in a very central location.

She sucks bruises into the skin of his neck where they will not be hidden by anything but a turtleneck and she moves in a way that's too evil to not be totally deliberate. His legs slip in the sheets when he tries to buck her off, and he all but growls her name in frustration. Elizabeth laughs into the hollow of his neck and it shoots all the way through him like lightning. She shouldn't be able to still do this to him, not after three months and every possible opportunity he can get to get her alone, but she still can and he's afraid (amazed, hopeful, desperate) that this might never, ever get old.

She pauses in the retribution she's taking out on his body to lick her lips again, the vixen, and ask, "Mercy?"

She has reduced him to whimpers. Whimpers. He is so fucking glad they're on the same side and feels a little bit bad for all the alien diplomats she must terrify on a daily basis. Finally, he comes up with actual words. "Damn you."

Elizabeth grins and he looks away to keep from coming just from that (and from the hard nipples against his chest, her tongue on her lips, the hot skin and weight that's all over him like a comforter, the look in her eyes that is demanding and controlling and still begging and so totally his).

She doesn't move. He looks back and she's giving her own hands puzzled glances, like she can't quite figure out where to go next if she has to keep his tickling fingers at bay.

"I won't," he promises, and the voice doesn't sound at all like his but he really likes sounding this way, likes being the one who's under her or over her and is totally at her mercy either way. She likes it, too, and believes him, because she lets go (one hand, then the other) and shuffles herself into position in a way that isn't totally graceful but is still fucking hot.

He's so ready when she grabs his cock that his hips spring to life all on their own and pitch her forward. She grabs his shoulders as her balance is completely knocked over and collapses into the crook of his neck, laughing hysterically.

"Your fault." It's easy to blame her. It's all her fault. He's the one who courted her, who cornered her, who propositioned her with four pints of dutch courage in him three months ago, but he had absolutely no chance from the get-go and will swear it to the last. All her fault.

She lifts her head, smiles like she's innocent and asks, "Try again?"

"Second down?"

She gets herself back up with his help -- she doesn't even flinch when he touches her ribs for support, trusts his word that he won't tickle her again or trusts that he's so desperate by this point that he won't risk it -- and hovers above him. "So help me God, if that's a sports metaphor, I'll never forgive you."

She doesn't fuck him yet, positioning herself slowly, running her fingers up and down the length of his dick with a slow tenderness that belies the power inherent in her position (she's careful with her nails and he's always been grateful for that). Or maybe it's meant to be torture, he isn't sure, and all he can do is grind his teeth and somehow hold still and not throw her off again. There's a feral look in her green eyes and he swears this woman could eat him alive in small bites if she wanted to and he'd enjoy every minute of it and beg her for more. He's never begged anyone before. He's never wanted to.

She takes him in slowly and he bites his lip. He loses sight of her when his eyes roll back and so he is completely surprised when she changes tactics midway and sinks down onto him, bone to bone. He gasps and she hums and he feels his fingers knit into the bedsheets to keep from moving before she's ready because the feel of her muscles inside adjusting and fitting and molding to him is just so good.

And then she moves.

She's close, somehow -- evil woman gets off on tormenting him, and he knows it, has always known it, and he thinks this is why he can't get over her -- but not close enough. He finds her clit but doesn't let himself think about it, reaches for statistics and passing yards and interceptions and the league standings from 1995-1997 and rubs her hard just the way she likes it and holds on. Her back arches and she makes a noise that he swears to God or the Ancients or anyone else who can hear him that he never wants anyone else but him to hear from her throat ever again.

She collapses on his chest, past control now, weak and at his mercy. She wraps her arms around his shoulders reflexively as soon as he even thinks about moving. The motion of rolling her to her back slips him out of her body and he sinks in again like (and she'd really kill him for this if he ever said it aloud, so he won't) sliding into home. She whimpers as he moves but he knows it's a good sound, knows from what she tells him that she loves feeling him inside her after she comes, and he loves a woman who can tell him something like that and not blush. She wraps one leg around his back to help him, and he's driving in and out of her and she says his name because she knows he loves it and needs it and he comes so hard inside her body that he can't breathe.

For a few minutes, there's silence and uneven breaths and her fingers making spirals up and down his spine.

Then, "Off," she commands.

He slips out and rolls to her side obediently, but her waist is right there next to his hand and he thinks she might be too drowsy to kill him but not quite too tired to laugh.

She twitches against his touch, and half-heartedly tries to slither away from his tickling hand before he decides that post-coital torture is too cruel even for them and pulls her close.

"Hate you," she informs him, one green eye open and trained on him and promising revenge at a later date.

"Love you," he tosses back, and kisses her forehead.

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