Hibernation3
"Fuck!" Moira swore under her breath. Irritated, puzzled by his odd mood. His insistence on using a condom. His anger. She pursued him. John was standing near the sink, ripping the condom packet open with his teeth. He yanked down his shorts. The material slid to the floor and he stepped out of it. At the same time fumbling with the condom. Trying to pull it on with savage motions. "John? You don't have to–"
"Get on the bed and open your fucking legs," he growled, still trying to put on the latex. He was pissed at her attitude, although he didn't really know why. Pissed at the interruptions. Pissed at Elizabeth's questioning about the four women and her adamant demands for the flash drive. Pissed at Moira's seeming dismissal of any romantic gestures he attempted.
Moira stared. Aroused. Tension radiated from every line of his lean, muscled body. Tight, firm rear clenching as he struggled. Voice low, so low, husky with lust. Dangerous, although she knew he would never hurt her. Still a thrill went through her. The dangerous edge, the intensity of his voice. On his face when he looked at her. She craved that intensity. That danger, to turn it into passion. She slowly neared, as if approaching a wild animal. Felt another ripple of desire, anticipation. She gently touched his arm, felt the strength. "John."
"I said get on the bed and spread your fucking legs," he ordered. Voice so intense it made her body tighten, tingle. Throb with desire and need.
Moira slowly circled round to face him. Saw the condom half on his very engorged, hard cock. She bit her lower lip as he slowly, slowly looked up to meet her gaze. She met his. Gulped. Handsome face stern, serious. Green eyes brilliant, smouldering. Almost lethal in their intensity. Strong jaw shadowed by stubble. Hair disordered, delicious. Lips so kissable, even when formed into a frown. He licked them slowly. Deliberately. Bottom lip wet now.
Moira nearly fell, transfixed. So tight in her lower body, so wet she was drenching the panties just as he had wanted. A tremble shivered in her frame as her nipples hardened against her bra, against her t-shirt for him to see. But his gaze lowered to the visible stain on her green panties.
She swallowed. But fearlessly stepped closer. Gently moved his hands off himself. Gently touched his cock and the condom. Ran her fingers along his skin.
John groaned softly, closed his eyes a moment. Opened them to stare hard at her flushed face, swirling hair. Parted rosy lips. Breasts jutting against her shirt. Panties clinging to her crotch. Wet. He could inhale her arousal now, saw the glistening curls under the green, sheer fabric. He thought he'd burst as her fingers gently plied his cock. His balls tightened painfully. "Moira," he croaked when his earpiece went off loudly.
"Colonel Sheppard, do you copy? Please respond."
John gritted his teeth, unable to move. Unable to speak. He tapped the earpiece. Swallowed. "Sheppard. Copy," he managed to growl.
Moira nearly swooned. He was so dangerous, so sexy. His voice, his face, his body. His hard cock in her hands, jerking slightly at her touch. His need painfully visible. Arousing. Empowering.
"We're beginning the training, sir," the voice informed, oblivious. "The ordnance check and the firing range targets have been implemented. Awaiting your presence, sir."
"Ordnance check," he repeated, trying to focus but Moira's fingers were easing the condom slowly. Which way at first he couldn't tell. He bit his lip, stifling a moan of pure frustration, of anger, of lust. Licked his lips again. Tried to scramble a coherent thought. An order. "I–"
"No." Moira slipped the earpiece off him, onto her ear. "Easy, John, easy," she soothed in a whisper, as if trying to tame him. "Sargent, Colonel Sheppard is involved in some very serious negotiations right now. Do you really need him to supervise training and ordnance checks?"
"Un, ma'am? Uh, no...I mean..."
"Surely he has subordinates for that, doesn't he? He must delegate some of his lesser responsibilities," she reasoned. Slowly slid the condom down his cock, trying to remove it. But it was tight, so tight. Making him shift, groan, grit his teeth.
"Of, of course, ma'am...Major Peterson handles the training duties."
"Well then, he can–"
"But Colonel Sheppard supervises all ordnance maneuvers himself, unless he is off world."
"I see." Moira chewed her lower lip, easing the condom off inch by inch. John's gaze was riveted on her mouth as her fingers slid the confining latex closer, closer to the head. The slowness was excruciating. "Well, sargent, as I said, Colonel Sheppard is extremely busy right now." She eased the condom off with a sudden tug. He jerked in her hands, spilling, dribbling as relief and lust collided. "Sargent, I have Colonel Sheppard's ordnance in hand," she gently grasped, squeezed. Ran her nails lightly along the hard length of him. "And surely Major Peterson can supervise any ordnance training for now. Colonel Sheppard is otherwise engaged and will join you shortly. Um, out." She freed him. Took off the earpiece and tossed it into the sink behind her. "Sorry, John, I...um...I...um..."
John pulled her into his arms, kissed her. Not roughly, but slowly. A long, sensuous kiss. Parting her lips, tongue thrusting in to make her murmur, moan. Guiding her backwards until she bumped into the counter. He slid his hands down to grab her shirt. To yank it up, off as she raised her arms. He yanked off his. Stared at the bra. Kissed her again. Slow, sensuous fingers now plying the bra, yanking it down, down. He fingered her hips, yanked down the panties. She stepped out of them. He grabbed her rear and squeezed to make her yelp, whimper. He lifted her and set her on the counter. She grabbed onto his shoulders as he shoved her thighs apart. Kissed her deeply. A rough, demanding motion of his mouth on hers.
Moira lost herself in his kisses, his touches. His groans. His heavy breathing. He thrust into her suddenly, moaned in relief as she bathed him, enfolded him, clenched on him with erotic pleasure. With demands of her own. Moira writhed, arching as he thrust, thrust. Hard. Deep. But slowly as she could feel every inch of him plying her with exacting detail. She clasped his shoulders tightly as he rocked her on the counter. Her knees bending now as he kissed her. Mouth sliding sloppily to her breasts. Tongue teasing the faint scratch before sucking on the hard nipples. Stubble rough on her skin but erotic. She lost her breath, whimpering in nearly frenzied ecstasy at the way he was taking her.
John tasted, sucked, gently bit her nipple. Began thrusting faster. Hands on her hips to keep her in place. Exulting in the sheer physical pleasure, the sexual gratification of taking her. Dominating her so thoroughly. He was still hard, throbbing as her clitoris began to throb in response. He was so big he nearly struggled to fill her, angling her back a little as she arched, squirmed. Her soft moans and cries, her helpless whimpers only aroused him more and more. Only made him want her more and more. He only wanted to fuck her, fuck her until they were both sated, exhausted at the expense of everything else. Nothing else mattered but this driving need, the lust, the love. He knew was working out his anger as well but didn't care. As long as he didn't hurt her. Wouldn't hurt her. Faster, faster now, grunting loudly as he was coming.
Moira was rocked, banged repeatedly on the counter. Almost hitting the mirror behind her but John kept her in place. Sheathing the hard length of him in her as deeply as he could go. She whimpered, moaned wildly as the pleasure grew, grew. As he wouldn't stop, couldn't stop. She clawed his shoulders, his back as he thrust harder. Her feet flying off the floor now. Knees bent, thighs parted so wide as he took her, took her with intense passion. She flung back her head, hair flying. She arched, cried out in a strangled scream as the climax burst, slamming into her quivering, pulsing body. She sobbed, wept, clung. "John! Oh John, John, John!" she repeated in a stammering staccato. "John, John, John!" She was convinced she would die of an orgasm right then, right there.
John thrust harder, faster. Each motion of his cock punctuated now by the crying of his name. Angling her further back as her noises sputtered into the oh John litany. Her climax pulsing, helplessly pulsing over every inch of him, so tight. Squeezing as he strained, fought, slid as she flooded. He groaned, groaned. Shuddered at last as he shook with violent spasms, coming wildly inside her. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck oh fuck! Moira, my Moira! Fuck that is so fucking sweet!" he nearly shouted, his voice ringing on the bathroom walls. Acoustics echoing their symphony of noises. Their pleasure. He thrust a few more times, jerking, spurting, thinking he might just die right then with a permanent hard-on. But at last the sweet release absolved him.
"John, John, please," she rasped hoarsely, still being rocked but slower, slower now. "The sink. The sink is hurting my butt," she stammered.
"Huh?" He slowed gradually, as her words sunk into him. "Moira? Oh baby, baby, that pert little ass is getting all sore on the counter?" he taunted hoarsely. "We can't have that pert little ass sore, can we? Or that fucking sweet pussy," he growled, unable to stop himself.
"John!" she complained, alarmed at his words, his tone. "What the hell is–"
"Such fucking beautiful tits, baby. I should grab the camera. You are so fucking lush when you come, when I'm deep, deep inside you." He kissed her, ignoring her complaint even as he slowed to stop at last.
"John! John, oh John," she whimpered. Reeling from the thrumming pleasure. The intense orgasms. His odd attitude. "John!"
"Easy, easy, Moira. I'll take care of that pert little ass, don't you worry, baby." With a long exhalation he slid out of her finally. But grabbed her rear. "Wrap," he harshly ordered.
She did so, legs around his hips, arms around his neck. She kissed him gently. Sucked his lower lip. Circled his ear and nibbled as he carried her to the bed. He unceremoniously dumped her onto it. She laughed, but fell silent. Scrambled up to the pillows as he stood, staring at her. He slipped on top of her. Kissed her. Gently now, gentle, slow kisses. Fingers in her hair. Tongue darting, teasing. He nibbled her earlobe. Returned to her mouth as his body shifted on hers, feeling every part of her beneath him. Hot skin. Sweat. Sexual fluids mingling. Limbs tangled.
Moira stroked his arm. His back. His hair. Uncertain. "John?" she asked worriedly. "Why are you pissed?"
He was silent, kissing her throat again. Her shoulder. One hand stroking her side. He didn't want to talk. Just wanted to be with her. Replete after exuberant passion. Hungers sated.
"John? Why are you pissed?"she persisted. "Because, because I told the toast story?"
"No," he quietly answered.
"Because I intercepted that, that sargent?"
"No."
She sighed. "Tell me! Do I have to guess?"
He raised his head to meet her gaze. "How do you like it, baby? You used to do that to me and man that pissed me off! If there's a problem just tell me."
"I do. Now. Why are you pissed? Because I ruined your front swing?"
He smiled. "Back swing. And no."
"Because of the, um, the condom fiasco?"
His smile faded. "No. Well, a little. Your attitude, Moira."
"My attitude? No...no, it's not that. You blew that way out of proportion. You're deflecting like you always do when you are pissed about something else," she reasoned, frowning in thought. She moved slightly under him. "Weir. What happened in her office?"
He stared. "How the hell do you do that?" he wondered. "Even I didn't know why I–"
"Because you bury it, John. Deflect to this whole condom thing. So?"
He kissed her. Rolled off her. Stared up at the ceiling. "Nothing."
"John!" She rolled on top of him. "What is it? Why–"
"Moira, do you want to get married again?"
She stared at him. "What? No."
"No?" He raised a brow, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
She smiled. "One husband is more than enough, John, and last I checked I was still married to you. Unless I can have a husband in the Pegasus galaxy and one in the Milky Way galaxy. Like you do. A wife, an ex-wife, I mean. Not a husband. You don't have a husband as well, do you?"
"Moira," he scolded, trying not to laugh. "I am being serious."
"So am I, sweetie. I have you as my husband so I didn't think I'd be shopping around for another but if you insist I could always audition a few for–"
"Moira! I'm serious! Do you want to get married again? To me!" he clarified before she could respond. "Here. In Atlantis. The whole shebang."
She frowned. Rolled off him but he slid on top of her again, pinning her to the bed. "What? You suddenly want a wedding? The whole bother and fuss? Gown, tux, cake, presents, flowers, guests, the lot? I thought you didn't want all of that. You deplored that! Why would you want all of that now? Oh, is it to show your four fucking ex-lovers you–"
"No! I thought you might. I'm trying to be romantic here, Moira, damn it! Give a guy a break, would you?"
"A break? Romantic? After the most intense sex and orgasms you want to be romantic?"
"Forget it!" he snapped, rolling off her. Turning on his side away from her. Seething.
"John! What the hell is making you so pissy?" she demanded. She touched his bare back. "Did my comments about your lack of romance upset you? It was just a joke. You are romantic! You are the king of romantic gestures! The roses! The chocolates! Your teasing! The jewelry! Oh, the jewelry, John, my God! So extravagant! The fancy dresses! The singing, the dancing! The everything, John! It's only your, um, verbal skills that are lacking in that particular regard but you are getting better. You are! Oh...is it the photos?"
"Doesn't it bother you that we have no wedding photos?" he asked quietly, somewhat mollified by her words, her assurances.
"No. I mean we didn't have time. And I have those lovely photos of you in that tux and you have, well, you have naughty photos of me, porno really."
"Not porno. Artistically nude photos of your pert little ass and other–"
"John! Is that why you are still pissy? You want a full-blown wedding for some photos? I'll put on that dress and you can put on your dress blues and we can have someone take a few photos. If that's all you want. John? What happened in Weir's office?"
He sighed. "No post-coital talking, damn it."
She kissed his back, ran her hand down to his hip. "John," she soothed, "talk to me. You are always happy after sex. Especially exuberant sex. Loud sex. Why are you still pissy?"
"Fuck it!" He turned to her, moved her onto her back. Slid on top of her. Covered her mouth with his hand. "Why can't you stop talking after sex, Moira? Stop badgering me! Okay? I don't want to talk about it! I wanted to fuck so I fucked. I want to rest now so I'm resting now. Got it?" He freed her mouth, saw her surprise, her anger. Worry. He kissed her. "Sorry, sorry! I'm in a pissy mood despite that glorious sex we just had, I don't know why and I don't want to talk about it!"
"Fine. Then get the fuck off me," she stated tersely.
"Fine!" He rolled off her. "Damn it, Moira, I'll handle it! I'll handle all of it! It's not you, Moira, it's never you."
"Handle it?" she muttered. "Like you handle everything, huh, John? Stupid man!" She left him, moved to the bathroom and closed the door.
John cursed, berating himself. Knew he should be happy after the intense sex. So erotic. Primal. And he was. But several things were tangling in his mind at once. All the flak over the flash drive, the mission, not to mention Susan and the constant threat of Moira finding out every little detail of his indiscretion. He frowned, closed his eyes. So tired, sated. But conflicted.