Title: Time Warp
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: Mid 2.21- The Second Double
Disclaimer: The character and Alias universe belong to JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Summary: "You'd look cute in a teddy."

He always loves her in leather. Its tough and primal image suits her well, but he seldom has the opportunity to really see her revel in it. He had been planning to take her to a biker bar to play pool, in hopes that she would dress up for him, but he didn't expect to be indulging those fantasies in a Berlin sex club. As the loud euro trash music thuds into him like a heartbeat, he tries to keep his thoughts focused on their mission and not on how her corset is cinched so tight that he's surprised she could even breathe.

She handles Jurgen so professionally. In fact, if he didn't know better, he might think she has a sideline that she hasn't told him about. It's funny how his life as an agent has brought him places he never would've dreamed of going in his normal life. The club is a trip - garish and heady and very titillating. It has the same orgy of flesh feel of a Vegas strip club, but heavy on the drugs and fetishes. The little devil inside his head can't help but tell him how much fun they could have. He either needs to find Sydney so they can diffuse the tension by laughing at their ludicrous surroundings or rent a playroom and give into temptation. Those moments she spends alone with Jurgen make him insanely jealous, though he would never allow it to show while they are still in the club.

He is glad when the mission is complete and they can make their way to the exit without getting sidetracked. As much as he wants to play, his priority is to get her safely out of there. He remains a step behind, fulfilling the role of a devoted follower by carrying the briefcase and whip for her. It's too easy to get distracted by her slow measured catwalk and the view of the taut leather stretched across her curves. He struggles to remind himself to stay aware of their surroundings. They will have plenty of time to tear each other's clothes off later. Still, he can't help but smile at their cover, knowing that for them, work has a way of bleeding into the rest of their lives. And she is definitely having fun tonight.

They stop at the coat check, and she waits expectantly as he retrieves her trench coat and helps her put it on. His fingers brush over the coat, smoothing it over her shoulders. A stranger on the street would never guess what she wore underneath, though her dramatic make up would suggest they had been out at a nightclub. He likes that he knows her little secret, but then he realizes the flogger might give them away.

As they wait for the limo, he sets down the briefcase to examine the flogger. He notes the fine craftsmanship as he turns it over in his hand. The handle is an intricate lattice of red and black, and its soft thin strands extend for at least two feet. They won't bite into flesh, but they will sting. The saleswoman said that a whip of that length is more for show than practicality, since the wielder will spend more time making sure the strands remain untangled than punishing the target. But then again, he guesses a large part of that scene is more about the implied threat than the physical action. And that is a game Sydney is quite adept at.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he swings the whip in the air to test its balance and finishes with a flick of his wrist. It responds with an unexpected, yet audible pop. Like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, the noise gives him away, and he finds himself the subject of her harsh scrutiny. Sheepishly, he surrenders the whip to her outstretched hand.

When the limo finally arrives, he helps her into the car. His eyes steal another opportunity to linger over her legs as she skillfully navigates the process of sliding across the seat in short skirt and rigid corset.

He starts to slide in next to her, but she motions for him to sit across from her with a curt nod. It's probably for the best, as he doesn't know how much longer he can keep his hands off her. As much as limo sex is appealing, they don't know who could be watching. It is a lesson they have recently learned the hard way, and he has vowed to do everything possible to protect their privacy.

He settles for taking her feet in his lap and watching her short skirt bunch up around her thighs, so her matching silk thong is barely visible. His hands lift one foot, so his thumbs can rub the tight tendons of her achilles. The stilettos are incredibly sexy, but he bets they are a bitch to wear. On impulse, he brings her foot up to his lips and kisses the stiff, pointed leather.

"You were so good in there," he tells her.

"Of course I was," she says with a sly confidence, and he realizes her answer is not just for their driver's benefit - she isn't ready to give up the act just yet.

He starts to massage her calves, fingers working deep into her muscles, and she closes her eyes for a brief moment, losing herself in his touch with a sigh. He can see her posture almost start to relax, but she can't fully let herself go, still trying to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders. No one else would recognize the brief tumult of emotions, but he sees each - the desire to give into his caresses, the futility of their endless missions, the utter frustration of not being able to help out Will, and the reflex that leaves her grabbing for control so she can compartmentalize these emotions and not lose herself in the chaos.

He watches as she reaches the destination of her thoughts, and her eyes pop open. Before he knows it, she slips her foot from his grasp, and plants firmly it on his chest, pinning him against the seat. She uses the slight pressure of the point of her heel to emphasize that she wants to take control tonight.

"I have something for you when we get back to the hotel," she says with a mischievous look that tells him the adventure has only just begun.

* * * * * *

He stands there not believing his reflection in the mirror and silently thanks God that Weiss can't see him now. He knew she had spent way too long in the fetish boutique selecting her mission disguise, and he finally understands the pointed look the sales woman had given him. It's surprising how well the ensemble fits; but then again, she does know his body quite well by now.

He wouldn't call it a teddy exactly, but it feels rather ridiculous all the same. It's more of a corset with garters, and the thong, well, that is just wrong. He may be French, but he has never been a fan of the Speedo, and he doesn't even want to think about the fishnets and heels. Who knew black leather could be so girly? He's just glad she didn't decide to include eyeliner.

Even as he turns in front of the mirror, checking himself out, he can't deny that she knows her fetish wear. She certainly didn't skimp on quality - the leather is almost silky against his skin, and the confining pressure has him hard. He can hear Weiss' voice in his head joking that this brings a whole new meaning to "boy toy."

He can't believe he is actually about to walk through the bathroom door and model this for her. His jaw must have dropped to the floor when she told him the discrete black box from the boutique sitting on the bed was for him. She smiled innocently, saying that she couldn't let Francie be up on her in the gift-giving department. He thought about saying no, but her mood was infectious. It didn't take him long to reach the inevitable conclusion - he would try anything for her. So he takes a deep breath and hopes that she won't laugh.

He opens the door and assumes his game face, sauntering out into the suite, his hips sashaying. He only slightly wobbles in the heels as they pinch his toes and compromise his balance. Weiss would say that for a French boy, he has no grace.

Of course she laughs, but it is a throaty, sexy laugh. It is the type of laugh that makes him hard. Even with the takedown of the Alliance, it has been difficult to find time for their personal lives. She still doesn't laugh enough, and something tells him, he would do a lot more than dress up in a silly outfit to hear that laugh.

"Very nice," she murmurs in approval. "Come stand in front of me." Her command is sharp, but it is accompanied with that signature Bristow grin.

He stops in front of her and cocks his hip to the side in a defiant gesture. He can't help but grin too as he plays along for her.

She is perched at the foot of the bed with one leg draped over the other, and her skirt has crept up her thighs as she sits. He loves the fact the she won't bother to fix it in false modesty. The red leather corset is something else. Not that her curves need the help, but it really does sculpt her in all the right directions. In particular, he can't seem to take his eyes off her breasts, which are displayed in the most tantalizing manner.

She is a rush of color against the functional German elegance of the Spartan hotel room. He's suddenly thankful that the Germans do not share the French predilection for mirrors. The last thing he wants to spend more time on is worrying how is how he looks in this outfit.

"My, my, what pretty legs you have. You should show them off more often." He could be shocked at how blatantly she objectifies him, but he decides he likes it.

She stands up, whip in hand, and struts over to him. The whip slaps absently against her thigh, as she circles around him, inspecting his outfit. Her fingers pull at the corset, testing its tightness. There is a hungry look in her eyes, and he thinks he hears a slight growl in her throat.

He's seen that predatory look on so many missions, but it is a rare occasion when he is its recipient. It always drives him crazy to have to wait until they are safely out of danger before he can properly appreciate her mission attire. Half of the time, she has already changed before they have a chance to be alone, unknowingly stealing the pleasure from him.

It is her ritual, like making up the bed before she takes her morning shower. It's best to do these things quickly so she won't be in danger of lingering. She still doesn't believe him when he tells her he loves all of her aliases. It's not the thrill of making love to a stranger that makes him fantasize about her outfits; it's the opportunity for him to love the facets of her she shares with no one else. Because in the end, it is her aliases that help make her the strong woman she is. Just thinking about one of the few times they threw caution to the wind makes him realize how unmercifully tight the leather thong is.

She circles him again, but this time she drags the flogger over his skin, letting the strands tickle him. When she stops, she is directly behind him. Her breath is on his ear, and he realizes she is not wearing her usual bright clean perfume.

Tonight she has chosen something much darker and more complex. It is the scent from the deep purple bottle on her vanity, and he has always wondered whether she ever wore it. It always seemed too heavy for her. In fact she has dozens of bottles she never wears. As he closes his eyes and breathes her in, he realizes that Sydney doesn't wear these other scents - her aliases do.

He is so entranced by the rhythm of her seductive breath on his ear, that he is startled when he hears the whip crack the air beside him.

"Tell me, Mr. Vaughn, have you been a naughty boy?" She punctuates her question with another pop of the whip, taunting him, letting it whisper against his backside yet not quite touching him.

"I think you have. I see the way you look at me while we are on missions."

"Yes," he admits, knowing he is busted. With his confession, the whip catches him lightly in the ass. It is a rush of sensation, not actual pain, but enough to wake up the nerve endings. More than anything it puts him on notice that there is more to come.

"I saw that smirk in the elevator. Your eyes were all over me tonight," she says. Her statement is followed by another crack of the whip, and this time it catches him full on, and he cannot deny the sharp sting.

"Tell me what you were thinking?" She pauses to wait for his explanation.

"I was thinking you look very good in leather, and that I always miss the good outfits," he says honestly, his mind flashing on her little stint as a lingerie model in the search for Server 47. He never saw her wear the lingerie. He only had a quick look at the lacy things after picking them up from op tech, and before he met up with Weiss to make the drop.

He snaps back to the present when she walks back around and takes a step away from him. She rewards his honesty by boldly spreading her legs and widening her stance. "Well take a good look. I wouldn't want you to miss this one."

He takes a long appraising look at her. Not just anyone could pull off a dom so well, but Sydney has never been just anyone. He marvels at how this Sydney is a sharp contrast to the sweet Sydney of soft cotton tank tops and yoga pants who usually shares his bed.

"Beautiful," he says as he unconsciously kneels before her, once again worshipping her stilettos. His fingers play over the hard muscles of her calves, and skim up her legs, slipping just under her skirt.

"You think I'm going to let you off that easy?"

"I hope not," he grins.

She swats away his hands and pushes him onto all fours with her foot. He feels her gaze grazing over him, and she drags the cool leather strands down his spine and over his, for all purposes bare, ass. If it had been anyone else, his bluff would have been called a long time ago, but this Sydney. He will always trust her. And their bond turns him on all the more. He can't help but shiver in anticipation.

"Mr. Vaughn, I think you had another agenda in the club tonight," she says as she steps up their game.

"And you didn't have another agenda in that boutique?"

"This is not about my agendas. Tell me more about the club."

She drags her fingers through the strands of the flogger and slingshots it at him, this time using more force. He jerks with the impact and feels a warm blush spread across his skin. The fishnets start to bite into his knees, and he just begins to realize how carefully his punishment has been calculated.

"Did you want to take a break from the mission and have a little fun?"

"Can you blame me?" The answering crack of the whip lets him know that he did not give the proper response. The jolt forces him to lean into his hands, as the heels compromise his support and leave his feet awkwardly positioned.

"I think you were jealous. I think you wanted to be restrained just like Jurgen."

He can't deny it. He was acutely aware of every second she spent alone with the German; so much so that he entered the private room a full minute short of the appointed five-minute wait.

"I just couldn't stand the thought of you alone with him." The confession comes out a bit more desperate than he meant for it to.

He senses her mood shift with his and she breaks character for a brief moment by squatting in front of him and cupping his face. She tenderly brushes her lips, lingering against his before she breaks away to regain her control. "Mr. Vaughn, you have been a very naughty boy. And naughty boys need to learn their lessons. Your penance will be twenty lashes."

"As you wish," he responds with complete trust and calmly places his fate in her hands.

She is up again and moving behind him. His muscles tense in preparation, but he still arches his back with each impact in an unconscious attempt to absorb the blows. He can't deny her skill as she lays the lashes on him in quick succession, striping her target.

She stops halfway through to admire her work. "Why Mr. Vaughn, you seem to be blushing."

He can't help but laugh at her seemingly innocent observation.

"Shhh." Her admonition is supposed to be serious but it comes out with a giggle.

She goes back to work to finish his lesson. The sensations build on top of each other, every lash increasing the feeling. It's like the little tendrils of fire that lick over skin, when muscles are strained and over-exerted after a vigorous physical workout.

He loses himself in rhythm, not realizing that the blows have stopped until her cool hands soothe his enflamed skin. "How do you feel?"

The endorphin rush hits him fully, leaving him in a hazy buzz. "It, it feels . . ." his voice trails off . . . "Very warm."

She laughs softly and runs her hands over his ass, slowly caressing him. Her touch is delicate but greatly intensified as her nails trace the raised marks from the whip. She presses gentle little kisses over the red marks as if in apology for their abused state.

He may have thought he was hard before, but now the pressure of the thong is driving him crazy as he endures her calming touches. Her hands slide over his hips and surprise him when they find the hidden catch to release him.

"Thank God," he groans as her hand encircles him, allowing him to thrust against her.

"I think it time to move this party to the bed," she says playfully.

He can only nod in agreement and accept her hand as she helps him up. He is more than ready to move to a more neutral territory. As much as he loves to indulge her fantasies, he is desperate to resume their physical connection. He places his other hand on her shoulder to steady himself as he finally kicks off the heels with a sigh of relief.

"Not a fan of the heels?"

"God, I don't know how you make those things look so easy."

Her eyes glimmer at his mock agony. As she sits him on the bed, he hisses as his over-sensitized flesh meets the coarse stitching on the comforter.

He snakes his arms around her waist and unzips the skirt, so she can shimmy it off her hips. His eyes widen when he sees that she is bare before him, and he guesses she got rid of her panties while he was changing.

She grips his shoulder, even though she doesn't really need the balance, and moves to take off her own heels. He stops her, unwilling to let her perform this task herself. He has been waiting to untie those little bows all night. It only takes a slight tug at each tie. Her own sigh betrays her impatience to be rid of her own heels, and she flexes each arch to relieve the tension.

Before he can move to assist her, she decides they have played long enough and pushes him back against the bed. What he doesn't expect is for her to turn around and straddle his stomach and present him a tantalizing view of her firm backside framed by the corset.

She once again takes his cock in her hands and begins stroking him, but she is startled as he reaches out to take advantage of the target that has been presented to him and slides his hands over her ass. He can feel her arousal against him, confirming what he had known all night - she is just as turned on as he is.

Her hands still at the distraction and she looks back at him over her shoulder. "Do you want me to stop?" she scolds. She grinds her hips into his torso, increasing the friction of his abused skin against the bedding.

All he can do is quickly shake his head longing for her hands to resume their motion. She turns back to her task, but this time she slides her hips towards his face as she carefully lays flat against him. He is momentarily mesmerized by the sight of her glistening and wet, and so close to his lips that he can all but taste her. But he loses all thought as she grips the base of him and lets her tongue play over the head of his cock.

She plays with him, pampering him with teasing little licks and flicks of her tongue along his shaft. Finally she ends his torture by letting her mouth fully engulf him. It takes a few moments before he can think beyond the blissfully wet sensations of her tongue.

But she is there wet, inches from him, and he can smell her arousal. He grips her hips and pulls her back to him so he can taste the flavor that is infinitely her. Her sweet sigh around him encourages him all the more.

This isn't their everyday routine, though they still work each other in a knowing rhythm, each confident in what the other likes. He can't recall her mouth ever feeling quite so exquisite and concedes she knew exactly what she was doing with her little routine. Whatever she did with that whipping has left him in a hypersensitive state and her every touch is infinitely magnified.

It would be easy to focus only on his own pleasure, but this is Sydney, and his release will never be complete unless he knows that he has also claimed hers. He gets such a rush when she loses control, so he works his tongue in fervent devotion, wrapping his lips around her clit, and driving her crazy with suction.

His fervor elicits the same reaction, spurring her to take him deeper into her mouth. Her nose presses against the base of his cock and her throat swallows sinfully around him, pushing him to the edge. The burning heat in his balls threatens to overwhelm him, but somehow finds the focus to hold out, determined to win their contest.

With quick little flicks he paints a message of his love over her clit, and it sets her off, allowing him to find his own release by jerking in spasms into her awaiting mouth. Her hips quiver over him as she gasps for breath and collapses against him in their euphoria.

After a moment, he carefully moves her exhausted form, rolling her back next to him so he can undo the tight laces of the confining corset. He loves that he has reduced her to this sleepy, post-orgasmic haze. The corset and bra are quickly removed, and next he goes to work on his own strange attire. He is thankful that his corset was bound by an army of hooks instead of her knotted laces.

Blissfully naked at last, he pulls her sleeping form into him, spooning around her, and places his lips against the base of her neck. She mumbles unintelligibly, something about cookies, and settles against him. Without another thought, he gladly joins her in sleep.

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