itsallovernow | Not the Porn You're Looking For

I started this a few months ago, and then due to the whole traveling, show, exhaustion thing, lost momentum on it, but after finishing the SG-1 porn draft, I felt compelled to finish it.

It's the final Trading Card Porn story for Season 2 (at least in my porn heavy universe), and while it is ENTIRELY plot free (unlike the other stories which at least have a cursory plot), it is, I think, what it needs to be for that "series" (and yes, I use the term loosely.

My fabulous

crankygrrl is revising her LGM porny gift, and this is in no way a substitute for that offering, but I was really tickled to bring a concept that we fostered several years ago full cycle.

Title: If You Play Me Backwards, I Sound Like the Very Devil
Author: Thea
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Post-LGM, pt. 1 (and if you haven't seen up that far, well what're you doing reading this?). Beta free. All mistakes and assaults upon the English language are mine and mine alone.

*
Her throat is graveled, raw, words coming out like harsh warnings instead of legitimate grace, pitched low. Chiana's perched on the console, one leg dangling, the other at an awkward angle.

"You're relieved," Aeryn says, too tired to couch the words in anything smacking of civilian favors. She's been on duty all night, but now her guard has expanded to include Moya, the stars, the universe. An easier task, perhaps, than guarding John's sleep.

The girl turns towards, shadows under her eyes. "Is he…?"

Aeryn shrugs. "For now."

She puts her fingertips on the console, and when Chiana touches her cheek, says good night, she doesn't brush her away.

***

Her skin is salty sweet, thin and cool, hands hot on his back. She thrusts her pelvis forward, tightening around his cock. John moans, rolls his hips, slow and languid. They've done this often enough that finding a rhythm is easy, keeping it even easier, but usually it's fast, frantic, and now he wants slow, wants to savor.

He presses her into the mattress, mouth against her neck, suckling and she groans, rocks against him.

Aeryn grabs his head, kisses him, hard and fierce, tongue slick and musky in his mouth. He tastes her, tastes himself, kisses her back with all the words he's withholding.

He softens his kiss, softens his touch, lets a little of his ardor, his amour bleed through. Her nails scratch his skin and when he tilts her head, sees her gaze, he knows it's too much. That she loves him isn't really a question, that she's willing to speak it – with hands or with sex or with mouths-is the issue. And being here, in this moment, with him? That speaks volumes.

Aeryn palms his cheek, eyes dark, moving away just so slightly. She squints, eyes crinkling like she's looking for understanding, and all he can give her is his mouth on her skin, his words painted onto her body. He moves down, mouth hot against her breast, fingers tracing her name, tracing his love onto her skin. She hitches, arches off the bed at his fingers on her thigh, his name desperate in her throat. Need full in her throat. That's all it takes. Words and breath and within those moments, sweet and savoring is over. He needs her, needs to make her scream, needs to erase everything else that the day has brought.

He withdraws and she whimpers, eyes darkening. John rolls her on to her belly, slides back in with a deep thrust. She gasps, grasps for one of the pillows they've knocked to the floor, shoves it under her hips when he slips back in. The angle is steep, sharp, feels like he's hitting bottom and whatever thoughts he was having, whatever visions have been haunting him vanish in the onslaught of sensation – her skin, her scent, her sex tight around him, hips thrusting back. Noises curl low and deep in her throat. Skin slaps against skin, bodies and muscles and bone connecting with a solid thud. Christ, it feels like he's fucking right through her. It feels terrifying, and amazing.

She rolls back her hips, half on her knees, high enough up so that he can get his hand between her thighs. Concentration is hard won, but he's determined to focus. He wants this to be good, to be right, to blow her mind, to bring his back.

It's a lot to ask of fucking, but he's always been an over-achiever and she's no slouch herself. Tightening around him, she arches her back and drives hard, drives deep and tight and then it's too much – friction and fast cars and furious rage at the thing in his head. He's fighting to keep Scorpy out of his vision while he's frelling his girl's brains out. It's so fucking unfair. His goddamned bad luck and the lunatic fringe who wants him as their poster boy and all he really wants – most of what he really wants – is here in his arms, thrashing with pleasure under his touch, under his assault.

He snarls, slams his hips against hers, fighting for purchase, for placement. Fighting for his own sweet, sorry self. Aeryn gasps, groans, at the onslaught, fucks him back like she's fighting a battle. His chest catches, tightens like a cage, like steel bands with his love for her. He cries out her name, hauls her back against his chest, biting down hard on the join of her neck and shoulder, one hand on her breast, the other on her sex. She growls, grabs his head, covers his hand as she climaxes against him and he comes in the waves, in the aftermath of her orgasm.

Tilting her head, palming her narrow jaw with his bigger hands, he kisses her, sloppy and fierce. She kisses him back, shivering against him.

"Don't wanna be alone," John slurs. Before, always before, he's asked. He's past the point of asking now.

"You won't be," she says. "Not for very long."
***
Aeryn's hair is loose around her shoulders, which isn't a surprise, just odd. She's been bound tightly, all in, roped and fraying 'round the edges lately as Crichton spirals apart. But the soldier is missing her gun, and Chiana looks close, closer, sees bruising on her collarbone, smells sex, feels her mouth tilt up.

Except Aeryn doesn't look like a woman well-frelled, she looks like a soldier without a battle, looks a little lost without a weapon at her side.

"Can you stay on watch for a few more arns?"

It's a real question, not an order.Chiana cocks her head. She's still upset with D'Argo, still shaken, a little scared at how near their escape had been. Regardless, she mostly just wants to curl up in D'Argo's bed, frell away her own fears.

But Aeryn never asks for favors.

Chiana nods, and relief sweeps Aeryn's sharp features.

"Thank you," she says stiffly.

Chiana licks her lip. "You're not the only one who loves him." Aeryn's eyes go wide, startled, but she merely shrugs, leaves.

*
Waking up in the dark stopped being fun about a monen ago. Now John sleeps with the lights dimmed. It makes the nightmares easier to shake, has helped with the whole stubbing his toe on his boots and random detritus, too.

When the door slides open, he turns his head, sees Aeryn enter and pull the curtain shut behind her.

"Thought you had watch," he mumbles, hating his own petulance, his own joy at her return.

"Not yet," she says, and takes off her clothes. It's a lie, he was there earlier when they distributed duty assignments. He doesn't care. Instead, he concentrates on her actions, enjoying them now. Before, earlier, he'd wanted her skin, wanted her heat, wanted comfort. He's awake now, pissed off and back to horny, and by some small miracle, Aeryn's returned to answer his needs.

John flips back the covers and she climbs in next to him without hesitating. Her skin is warm, and he slips his arm around her waist, pulls her tightly to him, lets his hand drift to fondle the curve of her ass. Slipping his fingers between her cheeks, he gets a surprised gurgle of pleasure from her. Her eyes darkena and she bites her lip.

His body responds to the noise, to her slick flesh, hardening against her thighs. Aeryn raises her eyebrow, slides her hand down to stroke him. He chokes, breath hitching in pleasure.

"Are you certain?"

"Did a little temporary exorcism when you left," John murmurs, mouth against her neck. "Nightmares are great for that." He pauses. "Wanna try again?"

Her mouth against his is all the response he needs.
***
John asks her to stay before she takes off her boots. He kisses her neck, hand slipping between her thighs, catching her between lust and sheer nerve. Her nails claw into his back, scratch along his spine, and she whispers she can't, she has to stand watch.

He doesn't ask again, stripping her of her vest and shirt as he strips away her defenses, his own pretense. Her pretenses had been left on the floor in command half an arn ago with his stuttered words, with the feel of his skin against her fingertips, hair brushing her cheek.

Elbowing him back, Aeryn takes off her boots, her gun belt, her pants and shirt while he watches, thumb on his mouth, so frelling quiet that it unsettles her. John's gaze has always been something to revel in. Now it weighs heavily, uncomfortable like ill-fitting armour. What does he want? What does he need? And frell, is she enough to answer any of it? Aeryn hesitates, naked, uncertain, suddenly wanting to cover herself. She turns her face and his fingers are on her shoulder, sliding to her elbow, tangling with her fingers. He grips her hand and she meets his eyes.

"It helps," he says, mumbling. "When you're here. It's quiet. He's… quiet."

"Take off your clothes," she says, voice low, moves to help him, hands at his belt, at the fastening of his pants. He pulls his shirt off over his head, tosses it to the floor. He puts his hands on her waist, kisses her cheek and she stills. The gestures is far too chaste for her comfort, she cups him through the leather of the pants, seeking reassurance. He's hardening, runs his hand down over the backs of her thighs, draws his fingers up over her spine.

Tugging down his pants, undoing his boots, she strips him bare, chivvies him to the bed. The gold sheeting is pooled, and Aeryn grabs it, flips it smooth and then pushes him gently. His hands caress her outer thigh, curve around her ass, stroking and teasing, but not venturing further. Frell. She can't do this, can't be chaste, can't be naked and nascent and comforting. She doesn't know how, only knows strength and sex and stoicism. Even now, he defeats her comprehension, rides roughshod over her understanding of how to help, what to do.

So she does the only thing she can, kneels down, strokes his thighs as he rests his hand on her head. Her fingers slip easily over his hardening cock and she brings her mouth to meet her grip. He moans, low and deep and her cunt tightens. She wants to shove him against the bed, frell him into oblivion, make him forget, make him make sense.

He shudders and she withdraws, looking up at his face from her place on her knees. He's softening quickly, and she sits back on her heels, hurt and a little confused.

"I thought," his cheeks are red, with shame, with anger, she doesn't have a frelling clue. "Can you come here, just… be here. With me."

Hesitating, hands in her lap, she finally stands, sits on the edge of the bed while he scoots over to accommodate her body.

"Lie down," he murmurs. "Won't kill you, babe, I promise."

Bitterness laces his voice, for her, for himself, she doesn't know. She's giving him this, she thinks, makes herself lie next to him.

"Keep seeing Nosferatu," he says into her ear. He circles the tip of her breast, slides down to flatten his palm on her stomach, rubs his thigh against hers. Her sex throbs. She wants to grab his hand, shove it between her legs, order him to frell her while he spells out his nightmares.

"Not gonna have sex with you with that in my head," he says, and his voice is maddium steel. He's not relenting. "I'm workin' on kicking him out."

She doesn't care who's in his head, she's wound up, wants release. She squirms under his touch, turns towards him, "Please," she mutters. He meets her eyes, gaze hard,"All right," he says, and then his fingers are moving down, slipping up and in and she wants to weep in gratitude.

He bites his lip, concentration fierce and focused and she keeps her eyes open, locked with his until she comes. Eyelashes fluttering shut, she moves to kiss him as she milks his fingers with her cunt. His tongue is cool, lips warm as he kisses her, as he draws her to him, withdraws from her and rests slick, sticky fingers on her hip.

"I've got watch in an arn."

"I'm sure I'll fall asleep by then." It's a reversal of his earlier words, but she's grateful for the lie. John's voice is flat, not dissapointed, more... empty.

He pulls the sheeting up, sprawls across her, too warm, too much body in this small bed, but she allows it, curls her hand towards his nape and touches him there, stroking slowly until his breathing evens out.

When it's time to leave, she untangles herself, dresses quickly, looks down at him before she leaves. His mouth is contorted in pain, limbs twitching, and it leaves her lost. Leaving now feels like a dereliction of duty. Aeryn walks out his door with a knot in her gut. She's a soldier, and this smacks of abandoning her post.

When exactly had duty turned into love? Or was it the other way 'round?
***

"I know," she says, to his declaration of … something. If she had her own words to offer, she'd claim his love. Offer him something in return, even if she's not quite sure what. As it is, the knowledge, the spoken knowledge of his commitment hangs heavy, an ominous cloud over them both. He doesn't have room right now to be giving his love away, shouldn't have spare thoughts for anything but his sanity. She certainly doesn't.

"You should rest," Aeryn says finally, not knowing what else to say. "Get some sleep."

He guffaws, the sound edgy, jaded. "Rest, maybe. Sleep's overrated."

Tilting his head, brushing his lips against her neck, he murmurs into her ear.

"Been a hell of a day and I'm not ready to go to sleep." His teeth graze her earlobe, bite down and she shudders. "Come to bed with me."

"All right," she says, before she can change her mind.