Fic: One Brief Hour, by wojelah (NC-17)
Title: One Brief Hour
Author: wojelah
Summary/Description: Written to the prompt: "Established relationship; John's a little uncomfortable with his desire to be dominated sexuality but, now that he and Teyla are in a
committed relationship, he's ready to broach the subject."
Rating: NC-17.
Characters/Pairing: John/Teyla
Spoilers: For the opening of S5.
Warnings: Mild bondage. I mean, really mild.
Recipient: saeva
Notes: I am so late, it is shameful. I can only grovel apologetically. Thank god for omglawdork . Title is from Walt Whitman's One Hour To Madness And Joy
Teyla has known John Sheppard a very long time.
The Lanteans came to Pegasus nearly twelve years ago. She is hard pressed, some days, to remember what her life was like before they came. Of course, now that Torren is an active, inquisitive eight and possessed of uncles like Ronon Dex and Rodney McKay, there are days when Teyla is hard pressed to remember which day it is, but that is beside the point.
The point is that the Lanteans have been here for more than a decade, and that she has been among them for nearly as long. She has been of them for a slightly shorter duration, but as time passes, the distinction grows harder to make - and less important. She has been on Atlantis for a long time, and she always has been aware of John Sheppard.
She knows just as well that she has always been on the edges of his own awareness. For years they circled, always teammates, always family, always allowing the opportunity to remain just that: opportunity. Unrealized potential. They both made mistakes; they moved, on occasion, out of sync and out of tune; they bandaged and argued and laughed. And always - always - John Sheppard has been an piece of Teyla's sense of home in Atlantis - of her sense of self, among the Lanteans.
He was there when her people left Atlantis and left her behind. She was there when Ford escaped through the gate. He has been there through a thousand small triumphs and griefs, and to the extent he permitted, she has been there for his. As time has passed, more and more has been permitted. He was there when Kanaan died, when Torren was barely two. He was there after, as she grieved. She regrets, to this day, that she did not go through the gate to Earth for his father's burial.
They have been a pairing for nearly five years, and she surprises herself, on occasion, with how greedy she can be for more. That said, she has never been one to regret that which cannot be changed, and she thinks that perhaps they needed that first span of time to recalibrate - to grow accustomed to the idea before it attained its potential.
John Sheppard is not the only person in the Pegasus galaxy who dislikes the idea of placing his innermost thoughts in the care of another. Teyla knows that the difference is only that she is slightly less clumsy about it. But after twelve years, they have learned to read each other fairly well. If nothing else, she has become a much better guesser.
The first time the idea came to Teyla, they'd been frantic for the touch of skin to skin, riding the high that only came after those missions that went terribly, terribly wrong before some sort of miracle managed to make it all come out mostly right. They'd been tangled in their clothing and each other and she'd nearly snarled at him when she ordered him to hold still, her hands tight around his biceps, pinning him to the floor.
John had gone very, very quiet, but the look in his eyes had her fumbling with the snarled fabric. By the time she'd freed them both, she'd been wound so tightly that she couldn't help the slow, aching grind of her hips against his and the short, panting gasps she didn't dare hold back. By the time she'd freed them both, and he'd surged against her, rolling them over, letting go just long enough to let them shove the most critical pieces of clothing out of the way. It was nothing short of a relief to feel him sink down into her - to let the world splinter around her for a minor eternity.
Much, much later, when she had the luxury of reconsidering the moment, she'd wondered.
John stops her, after lunch. "You look... amused," he grins. "Want to share with the rest of the class?"
Teyla just arches a brow. "The phrase, I believe," she answers, "is 'if you can't say something nice....'"
"Ouch," John winces. "What did I do this time?"
"It is not what you did," she chuckles, walking away down the hall, "it is what you have not done." She looks over her shoulder to see him looking sheepish and slightly guilty. "But you will pay for your failure to practice when we train this afternoon."
"Ah," Sheppard manages.
"Don't worry," she says, turning around. "I am looking forward to it." This is true, if not for the reasons she is implying. A small mischief, but she enjoys teasing him. "I will meet you in our quarters at four o'clock," she adds, and turns away. "We will begin with a run."
She cannot quite hear what he mutters as she rounds the corner, but she is almost certain it involves heavy sarcasm. As she heads back to their room to check that she has what she needs, she is grinning - and just a little nervous.
The second time Teyla thought about it, they were curled in bed - a lazy, blessedly calm morning. Torren was visiting Halling and Jinto, the latter of whom had become a cross between older brother and idol: the prospect of an entire week at the settlement had her son bouncing with excitement long before he got into the jumper. She'd felt a twinge at that, watching him hurry off with barely a goodbye, burbling to Lorne about the plans they had to go hunting.
She'd considered the possibility that she should feel something more than a twinge, but then John had shifted next to her and she decided she'd just be grateful for the chance to relax. She'd rolled over, her hands holding his over their heads as they kissed, deep and slow. He'd reached for her, running a hand down her side, over her thigh, but she'd batted him away. Sliding down the length of his body, brushing his cock gently with her cheek, she'd felt his breath catch and hold.
Looking up at him, she'd said only, "Be still." He'd nodded, and she'd proceeded to take him apart, gently and inexorably, until he arched beneath her and she tasted bitter salt. It wasn't until the he had calmed and she'd slid back up for another kiss that she noticed his fists, white-knuckled against the bed. When they pulled apart for breath, his eyes were closed. She'd taken his hands in hers, uncurling them gently, until he hauled in a breath and pulled her against him. His body against hers was utterly loose - and John Sheppard never relaxed. Not completely.
Teyla took it under advisement.
John is due to arrive in ten minutes. She has, with help, cleared the room of everything but the bed, and even that has been pushed to the side. Ronon will tease her about it mercilessly, but it will be worth it. She has everything she needs - it is not much, and it is out of sight until she should want it. Now she is stretching: regardless of what happens, there is exercise of some sort in her future and she is no longer twenty and indestructible. And it will help her to center.
Teyla is nervous. She and John - they exist in equilibrium, and it is an occasionally delicate balance. From the beginning, twelve years ago, they have been well-matched, but they are not perfect. He has the ability to hurt her like no other; it happens rarely, and occasionally, it is even the wake-up call she needs. She knows it is the same in turn for him. John holds her as his equal, of that she has no doubt. But he is also oddly, awkwardly tender - as if he does not believe she will be there in the morning. She understands the feeling: it is hard not to, given the hazards of life in this galaxy. All the same, she needs him to believe it - not just for his sake, but for hers: she, too, needs the reassurance.
This is the third time. She hopes it is the charm.
John walks in the door five minutes late. As usual.
Teyla is bent over her knee, the other leg extended behind her. She holds the stretch slightly longer than necessary, giving him time to look around. She hears him walk across the room and knows he is trying to work out what is happening.
"Okay," he says eventually, "so apparently we're redecorating."
She brings her legs together, gathers herself, and stands. "Hardly. But I thought today we could practice without the bantos, and Ronon is training in the smaller practice room." She can almost hear him roll his eyes, but it is a plausible explanation: they will be sparring hand-to-hand, and he must pay more attention when fighting in close spaces. The fact that John has limited experience with the discipline is simply a convenient way to ensure that he ends up on his back and off his guard.
It takes her ten minutes - she could have waited longer, but she wants to conserve his energy.
He's not breathing particularly hard, but Teyla knows she has his attention: she's straddling his chest, her knees resting on his upper arms. Now that the time is here, she isn't nervous at all. "John," she says quietly. "Do you trust me?"
His eyebrows fly up. "It depends. Are you about to ask me if that outfit makes your hips look big? Because I don't trust anyone who asks me that question."
"I am not," she assures him, and fights the smile that threats. "You may count yourself among the fortunate."
"Then, yes. I do." He hasn't moved, which suggests she is on the right track. He's grinning at her, but the honesty beneath the amusement takes her breath away.
She leans down and kisses him, just the other side of chaste, and feels him shift beneath her. "If you trust me," she murmurs as she pulls away, "go lay down." She stands, and offers him a hand up.
He takes it. "Somewhere more comfortable, you mean?" He is curious, but she knows him: he will not ask. Not unless she does something wholly unexpected - which is, of course, her plan - and possibly not even then. Her skin starts to tingle with anticipation - and then he surprises her. "Mind if I get comfortable?" he asks. He doesn't wait for an answer; just starts to strip down.
Teyla laughs. It's not as if the direction of her thoughts is not clear: John is simply unaware of the details. "Not at all," she answers, and follows him across the room. It makes certain things much easier, after all.
John stretches out, arms behind his head, closing his eyes. She walks to the foot of the bed and admires him for a moment - enjoying the smattering of grey at his temples, the fine lines at the corners of eyes and mouth, and the fact that they have survived for her to witness them. The whole length of him, from head to foot, is a sheer aesthetic pleasure. The fact that she is intimately familiar with that span of skin and muscle and strength is enough to make her aware of the throb of her pulse.
John cracks an eyelid. "You're staring," he says, and lets his eyes fall shut again as he smirks.
"And you," she laughs, curling her wrist around his foot and leaning down for the coil of silk she'd affixed to the bed earlier, "are vain enough to enjoy it." She loops the cord around and tightens the knot in one smooth movement.
It's not till the knot brushes his ankle that he starts, sitting up on his elbows. "Teyla," he says.
"John," she replies, holding his gaze. "Trust me." He watches her carefully for a long moment; there's a question lurking in his eyes that she knows he does not want to put into words. She does not need him to. "John," she says again. "Let me do this."
She does not say for you, but she thinks he hears it anyway, because he closes his eyes and after a long pause, he relaxes, sinking back down on the bed and putting one arm over his face. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
Teyla does not reply - just moves to his other leg and reaches for the cording. She keeps her movements fluid; running a hand down the line of his calf as she tightens the knot, she is not surprised to find his muscles nearly rigid. She moves to the arm that isn't covering his eyes and twines her fingers with his. "If," she murmurs, "this is not to your liking, you have only to say the word, and I will stop." She wraps the cord lightly about his palm, and curls his fingers over the grip as she completes the knot at his wrists. The silk is cool compared to the heat of his skin.
The corner of his mouth quirks. When she pulls his other arm away from his face, his eyes are clear and amused, but wary. She leans in for another kiss, and his free hand comes to cup her cheek.
This kiss is hardly chaste. When she lifts her head away, John's lips are red; she can feel the whisker-burn on her own skin. They are both breathing hard. She's leaning over him, one knee on the bed, one hand next to his head, supporting her weight; the other hand is ruffling the fine hairs at the back of his neck. John's free hand is on her hip, pulling her close, and it is tempting to simply loose the cords and let this end before it begins. To do that, however, would be to lose any chance at this opportunity, and she is beginning to be confident that she has read him correctly.
Those knots are not tight; he could slip them if he chose. He is still tense - still watchful - but the tension is beginning to shift into arousal. As she lowers herself slightly, brushing against his chest and feeling her body's anticipation, he moves to hold her and the cords bring him up short. He mutters something she cannot make out, and she laughs. She nips at his lower lip gently and then stands, capturing his hand and winding it into the cord.
When he is completely bound, she walks to the foot of the bed, trailing her fingers lightly along his skin as she goes. John has not yet objected, and the signs of his interest are quite clear. He watches her through half-lidded eyes; there is something in them that sends sparks down her own spine. When she stops moving, watching him in turn, he lifts his chin slightly and grins. "Planning on bringing me in for Show and Tell?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Hardly." She tugs at the laces of her tunic. "Although I am happy to give you a show, tonight you will be doing the telling." She shrugs out of the top and makes quick work of the rest of her clothing.
John's eyes are wide open. He tries to speak, swallows, and tries again. "Oh, really."
She doesn't let him get any farther, but slides up onto the bed, along his body, until they are face-to-face, his cock hot against her belly, her breasts pressed firmly against him. He tugs harder at the cords. She traces the line of his shoulder with the barest brush of fingertips, then gives into the urge to taste, winding a path along neck and jaw until her mouth is just by his ear. "I promise," she whispers, and even as John shudders at the puff of air on sensitive skin, she bites down gently on his earlobe.
He arches against her. "Teyla," he says, strangled. She stays very still. "I don't - I can't," he grits out.
"You will," she assures him, and slides her thumb over the line of his cheekbone. She pushes herself up and away, sliding off the bed. She's going to push him tonight - it is her entire intent - but not just yet. Instead, Teyla does what she's been wanting to do since John stretched out on the bed: gives in to the desire to touch.
She traces the long bones of his fingers, brushing gently; she runs her hands up each arm in firm, sweeping strokes. She runs her fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp and tugging gently at the roots, watching his eyes close in enjoyment. She touches palm to cheek and yelps when he catches her with an unexpected swipe of his tongue. John laughs as she scolds, but there's the slightest ragged edge to it, and it gives her goosebumps.
She gets her revenge by digging her thumbs into the arch of his instep - he yelps, this time, and kicks against the restraints. As she kneads her way up each calf, John subsides with a groan. By the time she skates her hands over the plane of his chest, he has gone completely still beneath her.
She is on her hands and knees above him; when she scratches her nails lightly over a nipple, his eyes open, glittering. Now, perhaps, it is time to begin. "Tell me, John," she says, and the anticipation makes her voice husky.
"Tell you what?" he jokes, but his voice is tight with tension.
"Tell me what you want."
"I - " He swallows. She will not help him over this crossing, for all that every fiber of her body demands that she move, touch, taste. He has given her the clues, for all he will never ask directly, and this is her answer.
"Tell me," she says a third time, her eyes locked with his. He needs to understand this - that he can ask, that he can demand. That she cherishes his need - that it is hers as well.
"I want," he manages, and Teyla decides that it is progress.
She sits back, smiling, and then reaches out and runs a single finger along his cock, from base to tip. His breath hisses through his teeth. "This?" she asks, and he nods, almost curtly. She wraps her hand around him and begins to stroke - far slower, far more gently, than she knows he prefers. He thrusts helplessly and tries to reach for her again, choking off something that sounds like a curse as, again, the bonds hold him back. "What do you want, John?" Teyla asks again, relentless, and twists, gently, at the end of her stroke. He is hot and smooth and heavy in her palm; every inch of her skin feels hyperaware. She smooths her other hand over his inner thigh and feels him shiver.
John hauls in a breath. When he speaks, his voice is gravelled and desperate. "I want you," he answers, finally, and she can feel something in him ease with the admission, even as the force of his answer spikes her own arousal.
She shifts forward. "In good time," she answers, and takes him in her mouth. She knows him - knows just where and what will pull him to pieces - and she puts it to full use, until he is trembling. He is so close, and she is not far behind; she can feel the tension coiling between them. They are so close, so very, very close, that when she releases him and sits back, her groan echoes his.
He is laid out before her, taut and straining and unbelievably beautiful. Teyla cannot help the wave of heat that sweeps through her; cannot help but touch herself, the pressure of her fingers not nearly enough. "Jesus," John chokes. "You have - you - I -," he says, as if the words are being torn out of him. "Teyla," he groans. "I need - let me -Teyla"
She could not refuse if she tried. She straddles his hips and sinks down slowly, guiding him into her, shaking with the effort. They both cry out; they are both fighting for air. Teyla is wound so tightly that she is almost afraid to breathe. Beneath her, John struggles for any kind of purchase against the sheets. "No," she bites out. "Wait." He freezes. "Wait, John. Until I say." She gathers her control and starts to move.
Her hands are fisted against her thighs; her shoulders tight with effort. She rocks slowly, taking him as deeply as she can, focusing on his body beneath her, on the point of their joining, on the maddening sense of near-completion. He - they - are on the brink, just there, just holding, and she marvels that he has let her take him even this far. When he shudders, hard, beneath her, she knows it will not be long. She realizes that the rumbling in her ears is his voice - when she makes out the words, when she hears him beg, "Please, this, this, God, this, you, this, please, please, please, please," and she knows they are there, and says, simply, "Yes."
The joy of it rushes through her - that he can ask, and she can give, and it sings in every nerve as she drives her hips down, until she is nearly mindless in her pursuit, the word "yes" falling from her lips, over and over and over, counterpoint to John's own chanting. Finally, she hits just the right angle, just unexpectedly enough, and the moment shatters - he shatters - and she knows nothing except the feeling of her body around his, entirely, brilliantly complete.
When she can think again, she is slumped forward against his chest, the thudding of her own heart no steadier than his.
"Um," he says in her ear. "Ow."
She laughs, and summons the energy to slip the knots at his wrists and ankles. She is still trembling, just barely; the weight of his arms around her when she settles back against him is welcome. She can feel the ache seeping into her muscles - neither of them are precisely young: even twelve years ago, they would both have been sore, after that. John, she is certain, will not hesitate to grumble.
A shiver takes her by surprise - a last, lingering aftershock - and John smooths a hand down her back. She is drifting towards sleep when he speaks again. "How did you know?"
She smiles against his skin. "I guessed," she answers, and leaves it at that.
O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me in defiance of the world!
- Walt Whitman, One Hour to Madness and Joy
Author: wojelah
Summary/Description: Written to the prompt: "Established relationship; John's a little uncomfortable with his desire to be dominated sexuality but, now that he and Teyla are in a
committed relationship, he's ready to broach the subject."
Rating: NC-17.
Characters/Pairing: John/Teyla
Spoilers: For the opening of S5.
Warnings: Mild bondage. I mean, really mild.
Recipient: saeva
Notes: I am so late, it is shameful. I can only grovel apologetically. Thank god for omglawdork . Title is from Walt Whitman's One Hour To Madness And Joy
Teyla has known John Sheppard a very long time.
The Lanteans came to Pegasus nearly twelve years ago. She is hard pressed, some days, to remember what her life was like before they came. Of course, now that Torren is an active, inquisitive eight and possessed of uncles like Ronon Dex and Rodney McKay, there are days when Teyla is hard pressed to remember which day it is, but that is beside the point.
The point is that the Lanteans have been here for more than a decade, and that she has been among them for nearly as long. She has been of them for a slightly shorter duration, but as time passes, the distinction grows harder to make - and less important. She has been on Atlantis for a long time, and she always has been aware of John Sheppard.
She knows just as well that she has always been on the edges of his own awareness. For years they circled, always teammates, always family, always allowing the opportunity to remain just that: opportunity. Unrealized potential. They both made mistakes; they moved, on occasion, out of sync and out of tune; they bandaged and argued and laughed. And always - always - John Sheppard has been an piece of Teyla's sense of home in Atlantis - of her sense of self, among the Lanteans.
He was there when her people left Atlantis and left her behind. She was there when Ford escaped through the gate. He has been there through a thousand small triumphs and griefs, and to the extent he permitted, she has been there for his. As time has passed, more and more has been permitted. He was there when Kanaan died, when Torren was barely two. He was there after, as she grieved. She regrets, to this day, that she did not go through the gate to Earth for his father's burial.
They have been a pairing for nearly five years, and she surprises herself, on occasion, with how greedy she can be for more. That said, she has never been one to regret that which cannot be changed, and she thinks that perhaps they needed that first span of time to recalibrate - to grow accustomed to the idea before it attained its potential.
John Sheppard is not the only person in the Pegasus galaxy who dislikes the idea of placing his innermost thoughts in the care of another. Teyla knows that the difference is only that she is slightly less clumsy about it. But after twelve years, they have learned to read each other fairly well. If nothing else, she has become a much better guesser.
The first time the idea came to Teyla, they'd been frantic for the touch of skin to skin, riding the high that only came after those missions that went terribly, terribly wrong before some sort of miracle managed to make it all come out mostly right. They'd been tangled in their clothing and each other and she'd nearly snarled at him when she ordered him to hold still, her hands tight around his biceps, pinning him to the floor.
John had gone very, very quiet, but the look in his eyes had her fumbling with the snarled fabric. By the time she'd freed them both, she'd been wound so tightly that she couldn't help the slow, aching grind of her hips against his and the short, panting gasps she didn't dare hold back. By the time she'd freed them both, and he'd surged against her, rolling them over, letting go just long enough to let them shove the most critical pieces of clothing out of the way. It was nothing short of a relief to feel him sink down into her - to let the world splinter around her for a minor eternity.
Much, much later, when she had the luxury of reconsidering the moment, she'd wondered.
John stops her, after lunch. "You look... amused," he grins. "Want to share with the rest of the class?"
Teyla just arches a brow. "The phrase, I believe," she answers, "is 'if you can't say something nice....'"
"Ouch," John winces. "What did I do this time?"
"It is not what you did," she chuckles, walking away down the hall, "it is what you have not done." She looks over her shoulder to see him looking sheepish and slightly guilty. "But you will pay for your failure to practice when we train this afternoon."
"Ah," Sheppard manages.
"Don't worry," she says, turning around. "I am looking forward to it." This is true, if not for the reasons she is implying. A small mischief, but she enjoys teasing him. "I will meet you in our quarters at four o'clock," she adds, and turns away. "We will begin with a run."
She cannot quite hear what he mutters as she rounds the corner, but she is almost certain it involves heavy sarcasm. As she heads back to their room to check that she has what she needs, she is grinning - and just a little nervous.
The second time Teyla thought about it, they were curled in bed - a lazy, blessedly calm morning. Torren was visiting Halling and Jinto, the latter of whom had become a cross between older brother and idol: the prospect of an entire week at the settlement had her son bouncing with excitement long before he got into the jumper. She'd felt a twinge at that, watching him hurry off with barely a goodbye, burbling to Lorne about the plans they had to go hunting.
She'd considered the possibility that she should feel something more than a twinge, but then John had shifted next to her and she decided she'd just be grateful for the chance to relax. She'd rolled over, her hands holding his over their heads as they kissed, deep and slow. He'd reached for her, running a hand down her side, over her thigh, but she'd batted him away. Sliding down the length of his body, brushing his cock gently with her cheek, she'd felt his breath catch and hold.
Looking up at him, she'd said only, "Be still." He'd nodded, and she'd proceeded to take him apart, gently and inexorably, until he arched beneath her and she tasted bitter salt. It wasn't until the he had calmed and she'd slid back up for another kiss that she noticed his fists, white-knuckled against the bed. When they pulled apart for breath, his eyes were closed. She'd taken his hands in hers, uncurling them gently, until he hauled in a breath and pulled her against him. His body against hers was utterly loose - and John Sheppard never relaxed. Not completely.
Teyla took it under advisement.
John is due to arrive in ten minutes. She has, with help, cleared the room of everything but the bed, and even that has been pushed to the side. Ronon will tease her about it mercilessly, but it will be worth it. She has everything she needs - it is not much, and it is out of sight until she should want it. Now she is stretching: regardless of what happens, there is exercise of some sort in her future and she is no longer twenty and indestructible. And it will help her to center.
Teyla is nervous. She and John - they exist in equilibrium, and it is an occasionally delicate balance. From the beginning, twelve years ago, they have been well-matched, but they are not perfect. He has the ability to hurt her like no other; it happens rarely, and occasionally, it is even the wake-up call she needs. She knows it is the same in turn for him. John holds her as his equal, of that she has no doubt. But he is also oddly, awkwardly tender - as if he does not believe she will be there in the morning. She understands the feeling: it is hard not to, given the hazards of life in this galaxy. All the same, she needs him to believe it - not just for his sake, but for hers: she, too, needs the reassurance.
This is the third time. She hopes it is the charm.
John walks in the door five minutes late. As usual.
Teyla is bent over her knee, the other leg extended behind her. She holds the stretch slightly longer than necessary, giving him time to look around. She hears him walk across the room and knows he is trying to work out what is happening.
"Okay," he says eventually, "so apparently we're redecorating."
She brings her legs together, gathers herself, and stands. "Hardly. But I thought today we could practice without the bantos, and Ronon is training in the smaller practice room." She can almost hear him roll his eyes, but it is a plausible explanation: they will be sparring hand-to-hand, and he must pay more attention when fighting in close spaces. The fact that John has limited experience with the discipline is simply a convenient way to ensure that he ends up on his back and off his guard.
It takes her ten minutes - she could have waited longer, but she wants to conserve his energy.
He's not breathing particularly hard, but Teyla knows she has his attention: she's straddling his chest, her knees resting on his upper arms. Now that the time is here, she isn't nervous at all. "John," she says quietly. "Do you trust me?"
His eyebrows fly up. "It depends. Are you about to ask me if that outfit makes your hips look big? Because I don't trust anyone who asks me that question."
"I am not," she assures him, and fights the smile that threats. "You may count yourself among the fortunate."
"Then, yes. I do." He hasn't moved, which suggests she is on the right track. He's grinning at her, but the honesty beneath the amusement takes her breath away.
She leans down and kisses him, just the other side of chaste, and feels him shift beneath her. "If you trust me," she murmurs as she pulls away, "go lay down." She stands, and offers him a hand up.
He takes it. "Somewhere more comfortable, you mean?" He is curious, but she knows him: he will not ask. Not unless she does something wholly unexpected - which is, of course, her plan - and possibly not even then. Her skin starts to tingle with anticipation - and then he surprises her. "Mind if I get comfortable?" he asks. He doesn't wait for an answer; just starts to strip down.
Teyla laughs. It's not as if the direction of her thoughts is not clear: John is simply unaware of the details. "Not at all," she answers, and follows him across the room. It makes certain things much easier, after all.
John stretches out, arms behind his head, closing his eyes. She walks to the foot of the bed and admires him for a moment - enjoying the smattering of grey at his temples, the fine lines at the corners of eyes and mouth, and the fact that they have survived for her to witness them. The whole length of him, from head to foot, is a sheer aesthetic pleasure. The fact that she is intimately familiar with that span of skin and muscle and strength is enough to make her aware of the throb of her pulse.
John cracks an eyelid. "You're staring," he says, and lets his eyes fall shut again as he smirks.
"And you," she laughs, curling her wrist around his foot and leaning down for the coil of silk she'd affixed to the bed earlier, "are vain enough to enjoy it." She loops the cord around and tightens the knot in one smooth movement.
It's not till the knot brushes his ankle that he starts, sitting up on his elbows. "Teyla," he says.
"John," she replies, holding his gaze. "Trust me." He watches her carefully for a long moment; there's a question lurking in his eyes that she knows he does not want to put into words. She does not need him to. "John," she says again. "Let me do this."
She does not say for you, but she thinks he hears it anyway, because he closes his eyes and after a long pause, he relaxes, sinking back down on the bed and putting one arm over his face. "Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
Teyla does not reply - just moves to his other leg and reaches for the cording. She keeps her movements fluid; running a hand down the line of his calf as she tightens the knot, she is not surprised to find his muscles nearly rigid. She moves to the arm that isn't covering his eyes and twines her fingers with his. "If," she murmurs, "this is not to your liking, you have only to say the word, and I will stop." She wraps the cord lightly about his palm, and curls his fingers over the grip as she completes the knot at his wrists. The silk is cool compared to the heat of his skin.
The corner of his mouth quirks. When she pulls his other arm away from his face, his eyes are clear and amused, but wary. She leans in for another kiss, and his free hand comes to cup her cheek.
This kiss is hardly chaste. When she lifts her head away, John's lips are red; she can feel the whisker-burn on her own skin. They are both breathing hard. She's leaning over him, one knee on the bed, one hand next to his head, supporting her weight; the other hand is ruffling the fine hairs at the back of his neck. John's free hand is on her hip, pulling her close, and it is tempting to simply loose the cords and let this end before it begins. To do that, however, would be to lose any chance at this opportunity, and she is beginning to be confident that she has read him correctly.
Those knots are not tight; he could slip them if he chose. He is still tense - still watchful - but the tension is beginning to shift into arousal. As she lowers herself slightly, brushing against his chest and feeling her body's anticipation, he moves to hold her and the cords bring him up short. He mutters something she cannot make out, and she laughs. She nips at his lower lip gently and then stands, capturing his hand and winding it into the cord.
When he is completely bound, she walks to the foot of the bed, trailing her fingers lightly along his skin as she goes. John has not yet objected, and the signs of his interest are quite clear. He watches her through half-lidded eyes; there is something in them that sends sparks down her own spine. When she stops moving, watching him in turn, he lifts his chin slightly and grins. "Planning on bringing me in for Show and Tell?"
She raises an eyebrow. "Hardly." She tugs at the laces of her tunic. "Although I am happy to give you a show, tonight you will be doing the telling." She shrugs out of the top and makes quick work of the rest of her clothing.
John's eyes are wide open. He tries to speak, swallows, and tries again. "Oh, really."
She doesn't let him get any farther, but slides up onto the bed, along his body, until they are face-to-face, his cock hot against her belly, her breasts pressed firmly against him. He tugs harder at the cords. She traces the line of his shoulder with the barest brush of fingertips, then gives into the urge to taste, winding a path along neck and jaw until her mouth is just by his ear. "I promise," she whispers, and even as John shudders at the puff of air on sensitive skin, she bites down gently on his earlobe.
He arches against her. "Teyla," he says, strangled. She stays very still. "I don't - I can't," he grits out.
"You will," she assures him, and slides her thumb over the line of his cheekbone. She pushes herself up and away, sliding off the bed. She's going to push him tonight - it is her entire intent - but not just yet. Instead, Teyla does what she's been wanting to do since John stretched out on the bed: gives in to the desire to touch.
She traces the long bones of his fingers, brushing gently; she runs her hands up each arm in firm, sweeping strokes. She runs her fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp and tugging gently at the roots, watching his eyes close in enjoyment. She touches palm to cheek and yelps when he catches her with an unexpected swipe of his tongue. John laughs as she scolds, but there's the slightest ragged edge to it, and it gives her goosebumps.
She gets her revenge by digging her thumbs into the arch of his instep - he yelps, this time, and kicks against the restraints. As she kneads her way up each calf, John subsides with a groan. By the time she skates her hands over the plane of his chest, he has gone completely still beneath her.
She is on her hands and knees above him; when she scratches her nails lightly over a nipple, his eyes open, glittering. Now, perhaps, it is time to begin. "Tell me, John," she says, and the anticipation makes her voice husky.
"Tell you what?" he jokes, but his voice is tight with tension.
"Tell me what you want."
"I - " He swallows. She will not help him over this crossing, for all that every fiber of her body demands that she move, touch, taste. He has given her the clues, for all he will never ask directly, and this is her answer.
"Tell me," she says a third time, her eyes locked with his. He needs to understand this - that he can ask, that he can demand. That she cherishes his need - that it is hers as well.
"I want," he manages, and Teyla decides that it is progress.
She sits back, smiling, and then reaches out and runs a single finger along his cock, from base to tip. His breath hisses through his teeth. "This?" she asks, and he nods, almost curtly. She wraps her hand around him and begins to stroke - far slower, far more gently, than she knows he prefers. He thrusts helplessly and tries to reach for her again, choking off something that sounds like a curse as, again, the bonds hold him back. "What do you want, John?" Teyla asks again, relentless, and twists, gently, at the end of her stroke. He is hot and smooth and heavy in her palm; every inch of her skin feels hyperaware. She smooths her other hand over his inner thigh and feels him shiver.
John hauls in a breath. When he speaks, his voice is gravelled and desperate. "I want you," he answers, finally, and she can feel something in him ease with the admission, even as the force of his answer spikes her own arousal.
She shifts forward. "In good time," she answers, and takes him in her mouth. She knows him - knows just where and what will pull him to pieces - and she puts it to full use, until he is trembling. He is so close, and she is not far behind; she can feel the tension coiling between them. They are so close, so very, very close, that when she releases him and sits back, her groan echoes his.
He is laid out before her, taut and straining and unbelievably beautiful. Teyla cannot help the wave of heat that sweeps through her; cannot help but touch herself, the pressure of her fingers not nearly enough. "Jesus," John chokes. "You have - you - I -," he says, as if the words are being torn out of him. "Teyla," he groans. "I need - let me -Teyla"
She could not refuse if she tried. She straddles his hips and sinks down slowly, guiding him into her, shaking with the effort. They both cry out; they are both fighting for air. Teyla is wound so tightly that she is almost afraid to breathe. Beneath her, John struggles for any kind of purchase against the sheets. "No," she bites out. "Wait." He freezes. "Wait, John. Until I say." She gathers her control and starts to move.
Her hands are fisted against her thighs; her shoulders tight with effort. She rocks slowly, taking him as deeply as she can, focusing on his body beneath her, on the point of their joining, on the maddening sense of near-completion. He - they - are on the brink, just there, just holding, and she marvels that he has let her take him even this far. When he shudders, hard, beneath her, she knows it will not be long. She realizes that the rumbling in her ears is his voice - when she makes out the words, when she hears him beg, "Please, this, this, God, this, you, this, please, please, please, please," and she knows they are there, and says, simply, "Yes."
The joy of it rushes through her - that he can ask, and she can give, and it sings in every nerve as she drives her hips down, until she is nearly mindless in her pursuit, the word "yes" falling from her lips, over and over and over, counterpoint to John's own chanting. Finally, she hits just the right angle, just unexpectedly enough, and the moment shatters - he shatters - and she knows nothing except the feeling of her body around his, entirely, brilliantly complete.
When she can think again, she is slumped forward against his chest, the thudding of her own heart no steadier than his.
"Um," he says in her ear. "Ow."
She laughs, and summons the energy to slip the knots at his wrists and ankles. She is still trembling, just barely; the weight of his arms around her when she settles back against him is welcome. She can feel the ache seeping into her muscles - neither of them are precisely young: even twelve years ago, they would both have been sore, after that. John, she is certain, will not hesitate to grumble.
A shiver takes her by surprise - a last, lingering aftershock - and John smooths a hand down her back. She is drifting towards sleep when he speaks again. "How did you know?"
She smiles against his skin. "I guessed," she answers, and leaves it at that.
O to be yielded to you whoever you are, and you to be yielded to me in defiance of the world!
- Walt Whitman, One Hour to Madness and Joy