SGA fic: Down The Wind, To Prey At Fortune - NC-17 [John/Teyla] - REPOST
This is a repost of a fic I temporarily posted a week ago. (It was up for about three hours before I took it down again.) I didn't like the ending and rejigged it so I was more satisfied with it.
TITLE: Down The Wind, To Prey At Fortune
AUTHOR: Tielan
SUMMARY: He doesn't need a reminder that she wants him, but it's reassuring to have it.
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: John/Teyla.
CATEGORY: Um... Character study through kink?
NOTES: My first square for
kink_bingo: Sex Toys (worn under clothing).
Down The Wind, To Prey At Fortune
"Colonel, would you pass the water, please?"
John begins to lean across the wide table for the water jug that's just out of reach. He stops with his hand halfway there, and gets to his feet to pick up the jug, shooting an apologetic look at the speaker - IOA representative Aurelia Dixon-Smythe.
Ms. Dixon-Smythe raises perfectly-shaped eyebrows at him but barely hesitates in her presentation as John eases himself back into the chair and pours a drink for Dr. Jackson.
"Thanks," murmurs Dr. Jackson after he's taken a long drink. "You okay?"
"Fine. Why?"
Behind the rimless glasses, Dr. Jackson's has the expression of a man who isn't really sure if he should bring it up, but will anyway. "You seem uncomfortable."
"Just a bit stiff."
John forces himself to sit still for the rest of the meeting. And not to wriggle as there are rounds of questions, reasonable requests, unreasonable demands, and then handshakes and promises that everyone will see what they can do.
It's all John can do not to twitch in his chair.
--
The cool, damp leather feels so good against his balls - or maybe it's the fingertip that smooths the divider bands down against the flesh of his scrotum, just a little tight between his testicles but far from uncomfortable.
"If you keep touching me like that, I'll be late to the meeting," he warns.
The glittering look she shoots him as she runs the fastening strap over the top of his penis nearly makes him decide to be late to the meeting, anyway.
--
"Is it just me or does she really not like Woolsey?" Rodney demands at the 'reception' in the mess hall. It's hard to make trestle tables look particularly elegant, but tablecloths hide a multitude of sins, and the greenery has a distinctly Athosian look and smell to it.
The chatter is still slightly stiff military, though.
"Huh?" John scans the room looking for the 'she' Rodney was referring to. He finds her as the IOA representative moves through the crowd. "Dixon-Smythe? Yeah, I noticed she avoided shaking his hand when she arrived. Probably political."
"It's the IOA. When isn't it politics?" Rodney shrugs as Teyla finishes a conversation with Mr Desai and drifts casually but quite directionally towards Ms. Dixon-Smythe. "Look like Teyla's going in for the kill."
John also recognises the keen focus of the hunter in Teyla, even if she's moving casually. He doesn't even realise he's shifted until the leather cockstrap - now dried and shrunk just on the verge of discomfort - holds his testicles in a grip that's both exquisitely firm and caressingly tender.
Teyla's head turns towards his, unerring, and her smile is long and slow and wicked.
He stands in the middle of a room full of important people socialising, and it feels like she's got her fingers wrapped around his cock.
Mind-blowingly hot.
When she turns away, releasing him - and John's not kidding himself, he's the prey and she's the predator here - Rodney's looking at him with a look that's somewhere between wary and wry.
"I don't want to know," he says when John tries to give an explanation. "I really, really don't."
--
He shoves her hips back and takes her in his mouth. The long shudder of her sigh is echoed in his own throat as his lips close around her nub. He shifts his hips, rubbing himself against the cloth of his trousers in aching hunger while the cockstrap squeezes his growing erection.
Her hands clench in his hair, almost kneading his skull, angling his head so he's giving it to her just how she likes it.
--
Making polite dinner conversation is hell when the voice on the edge of John's hearing is the one he wants whispering in his ear that this torment is over.
It's not painful. It doesn't hurt. It's just the reminder - the soft squeeze every time he moves his hips, as hard to ignore as if she fondled him every time. It's kept him on the edge all day, and he's not sure how much longer he can take this.
"So," Dr. Jackson asks after a conversation about the intricacies of rebuilding Satedan society and congratulations on navigating some tricky discourse with the Genii, "should I ask how long you and Teyla have been an item? Or is that old news by now?"
It's not like Atlantis doesn't already know. They're not advertising that they're a couple, but they're not hiding it either. Kanaan of Athos is polite to John, and John is civil back. They'll never be friends, but no-one expects or even needs them to be.
"Old news," he says, nonchalant. John would bet dollars to donuts that O'Neill already knows - Sam's been aware of it for months now.
"And new toys?"
"Hm?" John looks up and does his best not to betray himself, but the strap rubs him just so and he stills immediately and puts on his most innocent expression. "What?"
Blue eyes twinkle at him from behind glasses. "Pinches a little, doesn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Jackson's lips twitch with something that's caught between laughter and sadness - and maybe a touch of something like envy - as he simply says, "My wife's people were good with leather, too."
--
She puts a drink in his hand when he's talking 302s with another IOA rep, and answers questions with politic smoothness before Carter calls her over to talk about the Wraith.
"A clever woman," says Mr. Desai, nodding his approval. "One who knows how to get what she wants, I imagine."
"Oh, she definitely does."
The conversation is innocuous enough, but he has a feeling the wizened old man is twinkling at him behind the half-moon glasses. He wonders if he's wearing a sign on his back.
He wonders why it doesn't bother him more than it does.
--
She's making little hiccupy noises, her fingers digging into his thighs, like the way the cockstrap bites into his balls with every thrust. He feels like he's about to burst, but he hold on, smears kisses up her throat, behind her ear, across her jaw
"Teyla," he coaxes, and her mouth seeks his blindly as she spasms hard around him, a lightning strike of sensation that nearly undoes him.
John trembles in her arms, in her body, in her mouth, as she claims him with lips hot as a brand on his skin. He feels possessed, marked, stamped with her signature, the nip of the cockstrap a physical reminder that she's bound him to her, that he belongs to her, that she wants him.
"Come to me, John." She murmurs between kisses, her body clenched around him. Her flesh tugs slickly at him as he pulls away and plunges deep, ebbing and flowing in swift tides of hunger and want and need and the thin, tight ache of the cockstrap. "Come for me."
He orgasms in her with a gush and a moan against her mouth. Her smile is golden against his lips. They ease back against the wall, his body lightly leaning into hers as their kisses soften, and their breaths slow, and the thunder of their heartbeats eases.
Teyla's fingertip traces a line of sweat down his body to the strap of leather wound around his genitals. "You wore it all day."
"Yeah. It was...interesting." A smile touches his lips. "I might wear it again sometime."
She laughs at that, and kisses him again, loose and fluid in the aftermath of sex.
John doesn't need the cockstrap as a reminder that Teyla owns him, body and soul, but it's a reassurance all the same.
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I'd whistle her off and let her down the wind,
To prey at fortune.
~ Othello, Act 3, Scene iii ~
- fin -
TITLE: Down The Wind, To Prey At Fortune
AUTHOR: Tielan
SUMMARY: He doesn't need a reminder that she wants him, but it's reassuring to have it.
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: John/Teyla.
CATEGORY: Um... Character study through kink?
NOTES: My first square for
kink_bingo: Sex Toys (worn under clothing).
Down The Wind, To Prey At Fortune
"Colonel, would you pass the water, please?"
John begins to lean across the wide table for the water jug that's just out of reach. He stops with his hand halfway there, and gets to his feet to pick up the jug, shooting an apologetic look at the speaker - IOA representative Aurelia Dixon-Smythe.
Ms. Dixon-Smythe raises perfectly-shaped eyebrows at him but barely hesitates in her presentation as John eases himself back into the chair and pours a drink for Dr. Jackson.
"Thanks," murmurs Dr. Jackson after he's taken a long drink. "You okay?"
"Fine. Why?"
Behind the rimless glasses, Dr. Jackson's has the expression of a man who isn't really sure if he should bring it up, but will anyway. "You seem uncomfortable."
"Just a bit stiff."
John forces himself to sit still for the rest of the meeting. And not to wriggle as there are rounds of questions, reasonable requests, unreasonable demands, and then handshakes and promises that everyone will see what they can do.
It's all John can do not to twitch in his chair.
--
The cool, damp leather feels so good against his balls - or maybe it's the fingertip that smooths the divider bands down against the flesh of his scrotum, just a little tight between his testicles but far from uncomfortable.
"If you keep touching me like that, I'll be late to the meeting," he warns.
The glittering look she shoots him as she runs the fastening strap over the top of his penis nearly makes him decide to be late to the meeting, anyway.
--
"Is it just me or does she really not like Woolsey?" Rodney demands at the 'reception' in the mess hall. It's hard to make trestle tables look particularly elegant, but tablecloths hide a multitude of sins, and the greenery has a distinctly Athosian look and smell to it.
The chatter is still slightly stiff military, though.
"Huh?" John scans the room looking for the 'she' Rodney was referring to. He finds her as the IOA representative moves through the crowd. "Dixon-Smythe? Yeah, I noticed she avoided shaking his hand when she arrived. Probably political."
"It's the IOA. When isn't it politics?" Rodney shrugs as Teyla finishes a conversation with Mr Desai and drifts casually but quite directionally towards Ms. Dixon-Smythe. "Look like Teyla's going in for the kill."
John also recognises the keen focus of the hunter in Teyla, even if she's moving casually. He doesn't even realise he's shifted until the leather cockstrap - now dried and shrunk just on the verge of discomfort - holds his testicles in a grip that's both exquisitely firm and caressingly tender.
Teyla's head turns towards his, unerring, and her smile is long and slow and wicked.
He stands in the middle of a room full of important people socialising, and it feels like she's got her fingers wrapped around his cock.
Mind-blowingly hot.
When she turns away, releasing him - and John's not kidding himself, he's the prey and she's the predator here - Rodney's looking at him with a look that's somewhere between wary and wry.
"I don't want to know," he says when John tries to give an explanation. "I really, really don't."
--
He shoves her hips back and takes her in his mouth. The long shudder of her sigh is echoed in his own throat as his lips close around her nub. He shifts his hips, rubbing himself against the cloth of his trousers in aching hunger while the cockstrap squeezes his growing erection.
Her hands clench in his hair, almost kneading his skull, angling his head so he's giving it to her just how she likes it.
--
Making polite dinner conversation is hell when the voice on the edge of John's hearing is the one he wants whispering in his ear that this torment is over.
It's not painful. It doesn't hurt. It's just the reminder - the soft squeeze every time he moves his hips, as hard to ignore as if she fondled him every time. It's kept him on the edge all day, and he's not sure how much longer he can take this.
"So," Dr. Jackson asks after a conversation about the intricacies of rebuilding Satedan society and congratulations on navigating some tricky discourse with the Genii, "should I ask how long you and Teyla have been an item? Or is that old news by now?"
It's not like Atlantis doesn't already know. They're not advertising that they're a couple, but they're not hiding it either. Kanaan of Athos is polite to John, and John is civil back. They'll never be friends, but no-one expects or even needs them to be.
"Old news," he says, nonchalant. John would bet dollars to donuts that O'Neill already knows - Sam's been aware of it for months now.
"And new toys?"
"Hm?" John looks up and does his best not to betray himself, but the strap rubs him just so and he stills immediately and puts on his most innocent expression. "What?"
Blue eyes twinkle at him from behind glasses. "Pinches a little, doesn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Jackson's lips twitch with something that's caught between laughter and sadness - and maybe a touch of something like envy - as he simply says, "My wife's people were good with leather, too."
--
She puts a drink in his hand when he's talking 302s with another IOA rep, and answers questions with politic smoothness before Carter calls her over to talk about the Wraith.
"A clever woman," says Mr. Desai, nodding his approval. "One who knows how to get what she wants, I imagine."
"Oh, she definitely does."
The conversation is innocuous enough, but he has a feeling the wizened old man is twinkling at him behind the half-moon glasses. He wonders if he's wearing a sign on his back.
He wonders why it doesn't bother him more than it does.
--
She's making little hiccupy noises, her fingers digging into his thighs, like the way the cockstrap bites into his balls with every thrust. He feels like he's about to burst, but he hold on, smears kisses up her throat, behind her ear, across her jaw
"Teyla," he coaxes, and her mouth seeks his blindly as she spasms hard around him, a lightning strike of sensation that nearly undoes him.
John trembles in her arms, in her body, in her mouth, as she claims him with lips hot as a brand on his skin. He feels possessed, marked, stamped with her signature, the nip of the cockstrap a physical reminder that she's bound him to her, that he belongs to her, that she wants him.
"Come to me, John." She murmurs between kisses, her body clenched around him. Her flesh tugs slickly at him as he pulls away and plunges deep, ebbing and flowing in swift tides of hunger and want and need and the thin, tight ache of the cockstrap. "Come for me."
He orgasms in her with a gush and a moan against her mouth. Her smile is golden against his lips. They ease back against the wall, his body lightly leaning into hers as their kisses soften, and their breaths slow, and the thunder of their heartbeats eases.
Teyla's fingertip traces a line of sweat down his body to the strap of leather wound around his genitals. "You wore it all day."
"Yeah. It was...interesting." A smile touches his lips. "I might wear it again sometime."
She laughs at that, and kisses him again, loose and fluid in the aftermath of sex.
John doesn't need the cockstrap as a reminder that Teyla owns him, body and soul, but it's a reassurance all the same.
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I'd whistle her off and let her down the wind,
To prey at fortune.
~ Othello, Act 3, Scene iii ~
- fin -