Title: Still Frame Author: A.j. Rating: R/NC-17 Summary: She wonders if there will be bruises tomorrow. [()] Elizabeth knows she’s screaming, but she just can’t seem to stop. Teeth, tongue, lips. All three are playing her throat, moving wet and rough against the straining tendons. His stubble playing a hard and delicious counter-argument that she knows she’ll pay for later. Has done before. Will again. And she’s really not caring as long as he keeps circling her clit like that. “Say my name,” his voice vibrates against her neck, almost lost in her continuous keen. “Say it.” “J-john..” Because when he says it like *that* – dark hard command voice that knows better than everyone else in the room – she has to do what he says. The muscles of his back are hard under her the pads of her fingers, she notices fuzzily. Her vision is graying at the edges with each grinding thrust of his hips, and she can’t see much from her position almost under the coffee table. It’s like all the little details of her life melt away when they’re like this. It doesn’t matter that they’re five days away from running out of food. Or that the talks with the Mkzcks are going rapidly south. None of that matters here. Not enough to count or distract from this. This is about escape and his stubble on her breastbone. Her screaming his name into the ceiling and pissing off Peter next door. It’s about taking something for themselves. Elizabeth isn’t stupid. She didn’t have that privilege, not with the places she’s been and with the deals she’s brokered. Simon used to laugh and call her an idealist. A hippie tree-hugger in a power suit, tilting at windmills to make the world a better place. Maybe she is that. But she’s also practical. She needs this connection, this tactility. John’s tilts his hips just a little higher, changing his angle and causing quick starbursts behind her eyes. When they clear, his eyes are dark and focused directly on her. “Focus on this, Liz.” “Kay...” She is so going to have rug burn all over her back and ass tomorrow. Which is going to suck because she’s got meetings all afternoon and she’s fairly certain the ‘I’m sorry, I got fucked blind and can’t sit for more than ten minutes at a stretch’ excuse is really going to fly. Although, under normal circumstances, she’d pay good money to see how Carson would react to that. John knows she’s wandered again because he’s gone and she’s gasping and cold and completely open and vulnerable. “What-?” “Up and over.” And then she’s on her knees and leaning over the coffee table. She’s got just enough time to grab the outside edge and brace herself because there he is again. A few quick nudges and his cock’s back deep inside her, rhythm strong as if they hadn’t stopped. He’s marking her. Her neck, breasts, hips, and cunt are *his* right now, just like his teeth and tongue and hands and cock are hers. John’s hands are on her hips, and she wonders if there’ll be bruises there tomorrow. They’re normally not this rough. They can be gentle and funny and mock each other with bad porn names until they’re laughing too hard to continue with the oral sex. This is rare for them, this animalism. But she almost died again. Walked into Zelenka’s lab at the wrong moment – or just the right one – and got knocked back out into the hall. She has a bruise on her cheek from where her face connected with the floor, and a small lump from the wall. She was unconscious for forty-five minutes. That was two days ago. She’s awake now. Very much so, if the sparks running up and down her spine are any indication. Her knuckles are white on the tabletop, and she’s pushing back hard into his thrusts. And she just can’t stop screaming. -fin-