Hey, remember back when I used to write het? Those were good times.
Title: Primitive Science
Summary: "Rodney lays on his back and tries not to think about Indiana Jones."
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 831
Rating/Warnings: R, teh sex, frantic inner monologue
Pairing: Teyla/McKay
A/N: I blame Claude Levi-Strauss for the title and only myself for the parentheses.
Rodney lays on his back and tries not to think about Indiana Jones.
This is so what Indiana Jones would do, he thinks as Teyla slings her ridiculously well-shapen leg over him and mounts him with the same characteristic grace and ease she'd use in mounting a horse (not that there are any horses in Atlantis, obviously- it's just what it reminds him of- though now that he thinks about it he doesn't remember seeing them on Athos, so maybe it's a bad metaphor all around). It's such an anthropologist thing to go off to a distant land and bang the natives, isn't it (wait, that wasn't a metaphor- a bad comparison- anyway-)? Except that Indiana Jones (now that he thinks about it) is an archaeologist and not an ethnographer, which is what he would be in this situation (if anthropology had terms for what goes on around here, which he's pretty sure it doesn't)- but Rodney is a scientist, for christ's sake, not an anthropologist- and he doesn't know what archaeological ethics would say about the matter (he's not even sure if archaeologists even have informants- not living ones, anyway). He supposes he should be keeping better track, but it's not like he can call and renew his subscription to the AJA-
Teyla sighs, and he tries to focus on what's actually happening, including- but not limited to- how incredible she looks right now. If he keeps on thinking about Indiana Jones, one of two things is going to happen. Either he's going to start giggling- which might turn out fine, thought the potential to be misinterpreted is incredible- or he's going to lose his erection- and if that happens, he's never going to be able to have another one, ever again, because Teyla is going to be extremely diplomatic and tell him it's okay and that it happens all the time, even on Athos, and his penis is going to spontaneously invert itself.
So, no pressure or anything.
She says his name, and he's not sure what he should do. He is supposed to be doing something, isn't he? I mean, other than laying here- he's good at that, he's got that down pat, he could lay here all day- but he feels like she's doing all the work, and he isn't sure how she feels about that, exactly, and maybe she'd agree to let him know in the future (if this were to ever happen again, which, he's almost convinced at this point, it won't) when he's not holding up his end of the bargain. Perhaps there's some kind of sign language-
“Rodney,” she says again, her voice ever so faintly tinged with the annoyance that he is getting extremely good (too good) at picking up on. He's really bad at this, isn't he? Sex has always been the one thing (okay, two things, but he really shouldn't have been talked into trying kick-boxing in the first place) he's not ridiculously knowledgeable and innately good at- and, quite frankly (and somewhat literally), it terrifies the fuck out of him.
She sighs again, this time with rather more exasperation (but still plenty of grace). She leans forward, and he stiffens (not in the good way- stupid penis), wondering what he's done wrong. “Stay with me,” she says, and he's worried for a minute that she's come and he didn't even notice (though that possibility seems ridiculous, because at this rate nobody's going to get off), which would just be a complete waste as far as he's concerned. But, instead of jumping out of bed and putting her clothes back on (and spreading rumors among the rest of the staff about his complete inability to fuck like a normal person), she leans forward, running her cool hands over his neck and up to his face (providing a nice counterpoint to all this ridiculous blushing he's doing). She keeps bending down (good god, she's flexible) until she can put her forehead against his (and he really almost does laugh when she does that).
Except now all he can see is her- all he can hear, everything that's touching him- it's all her. And there's still so much to worry about, but it seems somehow more remote now, now that all he can really do is focus (or not focus, depending on your take). And there's something he should be worrying about, he's still convinced of it- but his senses are all starting to overload, and there's just too much- oh, god, it feels so- and all he can do is stop thinking and feel her, everywhere- and, oh-
He's shaking, just a little bit, when she pulls back, looking flushed and satisfied and beautiful. Maybe- just maybe- and almost certainly because of her- he isn't quite so hopeless as previously thought.
She dips her head again, placing it against his for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispers as she untangles herself from him, and she smiles.
Summary: "Rodney lays on his back and tries not to think about Indiana Jones."
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 831
Rating/Warnings: R, teh sex, frantic inner monologue
Pairing: Teyla/McKay
A/N: I blame Claude Levi-Strauss for the title and only myself for the parentheses.
Rodney lays on his back and tries not to think about Indiana Jones.
This is so what Indiana Jones would do, he thinks as Teyla slings her ridiculously well-shapen leg over him and mounts him with the same characteristic grace and ease she'd use in mounting a horse (not that there are any horses in Atlantis, obviously- it's just what it reminds him of- though now that he thinks about it he doesn't remember seeing them on Athos, so maybe it's a bad metaphor all around). It's such an anthropologist thing to go off to a distant land and bang the natives, isn't it (wait, that wasn't a metaphor- a bad comparison- anyway-)? Except that Indiana Jones (now that he thinks about it) is an archaeologist and not an ethnographer, which is what he would be in this situation (if anthropology had terms for what goes on around here, which he's pretty sure it doesn't)- but Rodney is a scientist, for christ's sake, not an anthropologist- and he doesn't know what archaeological ethics would say about the matter (he's not even sure if archaeologists even have informants- not living ones, anyway). He supposes he should be keeping better track, but it's not like he can call and renew his subscription to the AJA-
Teyla sighs, and he tries to focus on what's actually happening, including- but not limited to- how incredible she looks right now. If he keeps on thinking about Indiana Jones, one of two things is going to happen. Either he's going to start giggling- which might turn out fine, thought the potential to be misinterpreted is incredible- or he's going to lose his erection- and if that happens, he's never going to be able to have another one, ever again, because Teyla is going to be extremely diplomatic and tell him it's okay and that it happens all the time, even on Athos, and his penis is going to spontaneously invert itself.
So, no pressure or anything.
She says his name, and he's not sure what he should do. He is supposed to be doing something, isn't he? I mean, other than laying here- he's good at that, he's got that down pat, he could lay here all day- but he feels like she's doing all the work, and he isn't sure how she feels about that, exactly, and maybe she'd agree to let him know in the future (if this were to ever happen again, which, he's almost convinced at this point, it won't) when he's not holding up his end of the bargain. Perhaps there's some kind of sign language-
“Rodney,” she says again, her voice ever so faintly tinged with the annoyance that he is getting extremely good (too good) at picking up on. He's really bad at this, isn't he? Sex has always been the one thing (okay, two things, but he really shouldn't have been talked into trying kick-boxing in the first place) he's not ridiculously knowledgeable and innately good at- and, quite frankly (and somewhat literally), it terrifies the fuck out of him.
She sighs again, this time with rather more exasperation (but still plenty of grace). She leans forward, and he stiffens (not in the good way- stupid penis), wondering what he's done wrong. “Stay with me,” she says, and he's worried for a minute that she's come and he didn't even notice (though that possibility seems ridiculous, because at this rate nobody's going to get off), which would just be a complete waste as far as he's concerned. But, instead of jumping out of bed and putting her clothes back on (and spreading rumors among the rest of the staff about his complete inability to fuck like a normal person), she leans forward, running her cool hands over his neck and up to his face (providing a nice counterpoint to all this ridiculous blushing he's doing). She keeps bending down (good god, she's flexible) until she can put her forehead against his (and he really almost does laugh when she does that).
Except now all he can see is her- all he can hear, everything that's touching him- it's all her. And there's still so much to worry about, but it seems somehow more remote now, now that all he can really do is focus (or not focus, depending on your take). And there's something he should be worrying about, he's still convinced of it- but his senses are all starting to overload, and there's just too much- oh, god, it feels so- and all he can do is stop thinking and feel her, everywhere- and, oh-
He's shaking, just a little bit, when she pulls back, looking flushed and satisfied and beautiful. Maybe- just maybe- and almost certainly because of her- he isn't quite so hopeless as previously thought.
She dips her head again, placing it against his for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispers as she untangles herself from him, and she smiles.