New SGA fic: Infatuated, Lorne/Teyla, R
Title: Infatuated
Rating: R
Pairing: Evan Lorne/Teyla Emmagan
Spoilers: vaguely for 'Sunday'
Warnings: het, kind of porny
Author's Notes: This is the full version of my contribution to the Porn Battle. The prompt I used was: 'Lorne/Teyla, paint brush'.
Since the moment they’d met, Evan had wanted to paint her. He wanted to capture the dark shade of her skin and the pale highlights of her hair, the soft curve of her smile and the hard flex of her muscle. He wanted to touch her beauty, possess it, immortalize it on canvas.
“I have noticed you watching me,” she says to him, months later. He’s embarrassed - he flushes and stammers out an apology. “Your gaze is different,” she reassures him bemusedly, and her mouth curls with good humour.
When they train together (sticks lashing out, feet scurrying across the mat) Evan can’t stop himself from watching the graceful way she moves with him, against him, even though it means he hits the ground more often than even Sheppard. Sometimes she’ll disarm him, and then they’ll grapple, hand to hand, until she wrestles him to the floor, pinning him down with her weight on his chest and her hands on his wrists. She’ll grin down at him, panting, her sweat glittering on her forehead and above her lip and across her chest and, god, he wants.
One night he misses their session. He’s caught up in a landscape, absorbed in Atlantis’s clean lines and staggering beauty. When she comes by his quarters Evan has a palette in one hand and a wet brush in the other, and somehow he finds himself inviting her in, showing her his current project and some of his recent works, explaining different medias and techniques. She listens attentively, openly interested, and asks if she can watch while he paints.
She sits close by - not so close as to distract him, but close enough that she can watch the fine movements of his hands - and he picks his landscape up exactly where he left off. He falls into his work again, forgetting where he is, forgetting that she’s watching him.
He almost jumps when she speaks. “You look at your canvas,” she says, “the same way you look at me.” There is no accusation in her voice, no hostility or embarrassment, and when he turns to her she looks confident and brave and beautiful.
“Yes,” he replies, because it’s all he can think to say.
She watches him for a moment more and then rises, closes the short distance between them, and slowly strokes two fingers from his elbow to his wrist. “Do you want to paint me?” she asks, soft and sultry. Certain.
The movement of her arm draws his eyes to her inner elbow and he licks his lips. “Yes, I would.”
Ducking her head slightly she looks up at him through her lashes, playing coy, but there’s a predator shining out through her eyes and Evan shudders. “Where do you want me?” she asks, voice husky. “On your bed?”
With a flash of bright white teeth she backs away from him, hands already tugging at the hem of her top. She peels it up and off, ignoring the static-charged discord of her hair as she tosses the shirt aside and runs a palm along her flat stomach, dipping her fingers tantalizingly into her pants. Evan’s breath catches (beautiful - so, so beautiful) and he has to follow her, has to watch raptly as she removes them. Her bra and panties match, pink and lacy and delicate against her skin. She sits on his bed, scoots back until her heels are on the mattress, and then leans back on her elbows.
“How should I pose?” she asks, splaying her knees open in suggestion. He reaches out and touches the arch of a foot, an ankle, curls his palm around a calf. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding his paint brush, damp from rinsing off one colour, prepared for the next.
He wants to stroke her leg, touch the soft skin of her inner thigh, so he crawls onto the bed, too, crawls between her legs. His lips follow after his hands and fingers, kissing and licking and biting up up up until his mouth is pressed against her panties, tasting her through the cotton. She gasps, then, and presses herself hard against his tongue.
The paint brush drags against her skin with his inattention and she quivers against the bristles. “Cold,” she says, but he doesn’t listen.
He needs to paint her.
Against her skin he drags his paintbrush, cataloguing every dip and curve of her body. He explores her belly button, the lines of her abs, the valley between her breasts, the dimple at her throat. She turns her head to allow the brush to stroke her neck, her jaw, her cheekbone, her eyebrow.
The brush turns down, between her eyes, and stops at the tip of her nose. He realizes that he has laid himself on top of her, fitted their bodies together. Her lips are inches from his own and their breaths mingle, their hearts pound the same frantic rhythm.
She says his name and suddenly he’s not painting anymore. He shakes off the artistic haze and now he’s just lying on her, with her, touching her everywhere it counts -
Oh, he thinks. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. Her hands are on his shoulders, he realizes, and her ankles hooked around his own.
She’s surrounding him, he muses, and perhaps it’s always been that way. Perhaps that’s what this is all about.
Then, in a moment of perfect understanding, he knows what he’s doing, and with whom, and brushes his lips against hers. He says her name, for the first time that night, for the first time that he can remember, against the softness of her mouth.
“Teyla,” he says. “Teyla.”
And she laughs, cups his face, and kisses him.
Rating: R
Pairing: Evan Lorne/Teyla Emmagan
Spoilers: vaguely for 'Sunday'
Warnings: het, kind of porny
Author's Notes: This is the full version of my contribution to the Porn Battle. The prompt I used was: 'Lorne/Teyla, paint brush'.
Since the moment they’d met, Evan had wanted to paint her. He wanted to capture the dark shade of her skin and the pale highlights of her hair, the soft curve of her smile and the hard flex of her muscle. He wanted to touch her beauty, possess it, immortalize it on canvas.
“I have noticed you watching me,” she says to him, months later. He’s embarrassed - he flushes and stammers out an apology. “Your gaze is different,” she reassures him bemusedly, and her mouth curls with good humour.
When they train together (sticks lashing out, feet scurrying across the mat) Evan can’t stop himself from watching the graceful way she moves with him, against him, even though it means he hits the ground more often than even Sheppard. Sometimes she’ll disarm him, and then they’ll grapple, hand to hand, until she wrestles him to the floor, pinning him down with her weight on his chest and her hands on his wrists. She’ll grin down at him, panting, her sweat glittering on her forehead and above her lip and across her chest and, god, he wants.
One night he misses their session. He’s caught up in a landscape, absorbed in Atlantis’s clean lines and staggering beauty. When she comes by his quarters Evan has a palette in one hand and a wet brush in the other, and somehow he finds himself inviting her in, showing her his current project and some of his recent works, explaining different medias and techniques. She listens attentively, openly interested, and asks if she can watch while he paints.
She sits close by - not so close as to distract him, but close enough that she can watch the fine movements of his hands - and he picks his landscape up exactly where he left off. He falls into his work again, forgetting where he is, forgetting that she’s watching him.
He almost jumps when she speaks. “You look at your canvas,” she says, “the same way you look at me.” There is no accusation in her voice, no hostility or embarrassment, and when he turns to her she looks confident and brave and beautiful.
“Yes,” he replies, because it’s all he can think to say.
She watches him for a moment more and then rises, closes the short distance between them, and slowly strokes two fingers from his elbow to his wrist. “Do you want to paint me?” she asks, soft and sultry. Certain.
The movement of her arm draws his eyes to her inner elbow and he licks his lips. “Yes, I would.”
Ducking her head slightly she looks up at him through her lashes, playing coy, but there’s a predator shining out through her eyes and Evan shudders. “Where do you want me?” she asks, voice husky. “On your bed?”
With a flash of bright white teeth she backs away from him, hands already tugging at the hem of her top. She peels it up and off, ignoring the static-charged discord of her hair as she tosses the shirt aside and runs a palm along her flat stomach, dipping her fingers tantalizingly into her pants. Evan’s breath catches (beautiful - so, so beautiful) and he has to follow her, has to watch raptly as she removes them. Her bra and panties match, pink and lacy and delicate against her skin. She sits on his bed, scoots back until her heels are on the mattress, and then leans back on her elbows.
“How should I pose?” she asks, splaying her knees open in suggestion. He reaches out and touches the arch of a foot, an ankle, curls his palm around a calf. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding his paint brush, damp from rinsing off one colour, prepared for the next.
He wants to stroke her leg, touch the soft skin of her inner thigh, so he crawls onto the bed, too, crawls between her legs. His lips follow after his hands and fingers, kissing and licking and biting up up up until his mouth is pressed against her panties, tasting her through the cotton. She gasps, then, and presses herself hard against his tongue.
The paint brush drags against her skin with his inattention and she quivers against the bristles. “Cold,” she says, but he doesn’t listen.
He needs to paint her.
Against her skin he drags his paintbrush, cataloguing every dip and curve of her body. He explores her belly button, the lines of her abs, the valley between her breasts, the dimple at her throat. She turns her head to allow the brush to stroke her neck, her jaw, her cheekbone, her eyebrow.
The brush turns down, between her eyes, and stops at the tip of her nose. He realizes that he has laid himself on top of her, fitted their bodies together. Her lips are inches from his own and their breaths mingle, their hearts pound the same frantic rhythm.
She says his name and suddenly he’s not painting anymore. He shakes off the artistic haze and now he’s just lying on her, with her, touching her everywhere it counts -
Oh, he thinks. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. Her hands are on his shoulders, he realizes, and her ankles hooked around his own.
She’s surrounding him, he muses, and perhaps it’s always been that way. Perhaps that’s what this is all about.
Then, in a moment of perfect understanding, he knows what he’s doing, and with whom, and brushes his lips against hers. He says her name, for the first time that night, for the first time that he can remember, against the softness of her mouth.
“Teyla,” he says. “Teyla.”
And she laughs, cups his face, and kisses him.