New Fic: Fleeing the Astronomers
Title: Fleeing the Astronomers
Characters/Pairings: Teyla/Bates
Rating: Somewhere around R or NC-17
Spoilers: Through Suspicion
Written For:
trobadora asked for a pinch hit over at
teyla_bates, and then it turned out that the original author's going to be able to post - which, yay! This was done by the time I knew, so hey, up it goes. :D
Author's Notes:
smittywing and
raisintorte and
omglawdork are terrible influences - and patient betas. :D Title corrupted from Walt Whitman's When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer, which suits Teyla pretty well here.
Summary: She needs, all she knows is that she needs, and that she needs to win; it is all she can remember.
There are days when Teyla wishes they had never come. Days when she wishes she had never heard of Atlantis beyond legend, when she stood alone and undisputed - and unconflicted - as leader of her people. Days when she had a right to her own anger.
She has been so careful, in the days since the expedition came, to temper her reactions and strive for understanding. She has been a trader all her life, and caution is always her first instinct, but it has never before been imposed as such a constant demand. On Atlantis, though, it is continual - and critical. It had taken no great skill to realize too many of these newcomers would undervalue her because of her sex, among other things, and she will not give them more reason. Sheppard has never seemed so inclined, but he has always been different. She knows Sheppard shares her anger, knows he would shout it from the towers with her, but that only stokes her rage. It is her fury. She should not need Sheppard's presence to condone its expression.
Elizabeth would understand, Teyla supposes. She is certain, in fact, that Elizabeth would, but Elizabeth has been distant and over-formal these last several days, and tonight Teyla has no desire for understanding. She craves movement, action, freedom. Tonight, with her people in self-exile on the mainland and a city full of strangers surrounding her, her options are limited at best. She packs a bag - bantos and skirt and a bottle of water - and radios in, and even the obligatory check-in with Sheppard is an irritation. Her skin is practically twitching with pent-up tension; even a thirty-minute run to the farthest of the explored balconies is not enough to shed the aggression that rides her.
The balcony is wide and moonlit; the wind is high, and beyond the railing whitecaps gleam silver. She knows there are no patrols scheduled this way for some time; Sheppard had told her as much, the comprehension in his voice oppressive as he replied to her question. She is alone.
She strips, efficient, feeling the wind abrade her skin as she dons her gear and grabs the bantos. She runs through the basic movements almost too-quickly, but at this moment, she is not interested in form and function. She wants speed, wants violence, wants opposition; she cannot have the third, so she will settle for two out of three. She marks through the exercises from start to finish, two sticks to one stick to none, and when she finishes she is still wild, sweat-slick and unsatisfied. She runs the third set again, no sticks, out of sheer desperation.
She is two-thirds through the progression when a noise from behind has her whirling. A figure emerges from the shadow of the wall. Bates, she registers, barely, before he moves forward and drops into a fighting crouch. His mouth is set in a smirk; his eyes glint. She smiles, hard and challenging, and she knows she must look feral. For once, she allows herself not to care.
They circle once before Bates strikes, feinting left before striking right, low and hard. The jolt of her forearm against his is electric and satisfying and she wants more, letting loose a flurry of blows. Bates matches her, but barely; he has broken a sweat by the time they break apart. He is still smirking - if anything, it has grown broader, more self-satisfied. Teyla sees in it everything that makes her feel trapped and ill-equipped and awkward, and it drives her forward, blow after blow. Neither of them are pulling their punches. The wind howls in her ears, and a voice in her head sings with it in glee, although the night is silent but for the sound of their breathing and an occasional grunt when a hit connects with particular force.
The fight is loose in her blood, humming in her bones as she forces Bates back into the shadow he came from, backing him up step by hard-won step. She grins, teeth bared and hair flying, until suddenly Bates turns the tables with a move that McKay would have seen coming. She is pressed against the wall, an arm heavy against her throat. She breaks the hold, but Bates is leaning in, face in shadow, his other hand slammed up against the wall next to her head, and she has run out of room to maneuver. At least, she knows he thinks so - he is close enough that she can see it in his eyes, smug and over-confident, and Teyla is finished holding back.
She surges forward, laughing once, short and harsh, as Bates, like any man, curls inward to protect what is most important. She should not do this - she knows she should not - and it sharpens the need that has dogged her all night into something fierce and hard and defiant. She takes advantage of his distraction to flip their positions, wedging her thigh between his legs and dragging his head down to kiss him, hard and open-mouthed. When she lets him go, they are both panting, and she can feel, against her leg, the pressure growing in his groin. Teyla has been aware of her own arousal since their encounter began. And yet, even now, flying so high she wants to leap out of her skin, this needs to be a fair fight - which is why she presses up, and in, and then simply backs away, dropping into stance, poised on the balls of her feet, waiting for a response.
Bates swallows, and she can see the strain bunching along his muscles as he takes two steps forward out of the darkness and into the moonlight. His eyes are steady on hers as he approaches, but he is no longer smiling. He swallows again, and moves to the ready.
She has him off balance, and she has no intention of giving up the advantage. She offers a few, almost desultory, punches, then turns vicious, ramping up the attack and sweeping his feet out from under him. Teyla hears the breath whistle out of his lungs as he hits the ground full on; then she is straddling him, her knees tight around his upper thighs, before he manages to draw breath. She runs her hands down his chest, pressing hard against hard muscle, her nails snagging the soft fabric of his shirt. She lets her hand travel lower, cupping hard and tight around the heat of his cock, and feels him tense under her. His head falls back, and she takes advantage of the moment, wrestling the shirt free of his waistband. The skin under her hands is firm; she shoves the fabric up to reveal a line of dark hair trailing over chest and abdomen. She leans forward and tweaks his nipple just shy of too-hard - and then his hands grab her wrists and the world turns, and she is on her back, the full length of his torso against hers.
He grinds his hips down hard, and she gasps, her legs falling wide, arching up and into the pressure. She sees the corners of his eyes crease, watches his gaze spark with hunger, before he drops his head to bite at the junction of neck and shoulder. His hand is on her breast, thumbing her nipple through the cloth; she gasps again as he nips an earlobe, and then his mouth is on hers. Her hands are on his back, and she knows she will leave marks; the thought makes her bear down harder. Bates groans against her lips, pressing down; she rises up to meet him even as she bites his lower lip none-too-gently. She is so tied up in the sheer exhilaration, in the lack of boundaries, that she only writhes harder when he shifts slightly, spreading her thighs wide. He is not careful as he yanks fabric aside, pressing up and in with a blunt finger; the shock of it wrings a cry from her lips as she arcs into that touch. She burns, free for the first time in what feels like forever; only the knowledge that she wants to win this match lets her regain her self-control.
Teyla grabs for his waist, and he is distracted enough that he does not realize her intent until she simply pops off the button at his waist with a frustrated yank. He growls as it skitters into the dark, and she laughs. Then they are wrestling, twining around each other and fighting for dominance. A particularly well-placed roll of the hips and she wins, pinning him down, yet again. He shoves against her, but her hand is on his zipper and he freezes, the muscles in his neck taut, sharp-edged in the silver light. She laughs again, and rocks against him, teasing. Every nerve is on fire; his stare sweeps over her and she arches into it like it is a touch, preening like a cat. She tugs the zip down so slowly - almost, but not-quite cruel; he sucks in a breath as she shoves pants and underclothes down just far enough. His cock is hard, fluid gleaming at the tip, and Teyla is done with waiting.
A moment of space, just enough for breath, as they both shift, and then she sinks down onto him. Another moment, suspended in time, as she stares up at the moon, the wind at her face and Bates beneath her, filling her - just a moment, and then it shatters. Bates groans, and she falls forward, her arms on either side of his head, holding her up just enough to hold his stare. She has to move, could not stop herself if she tried, aching to snap the final links that hold her bound tonight. Neither one of them looks away, even as she feels him coil tighter beneath her, as she angles her body so he brushes there - oh, just there - with every relentless rise and fall of her hips.
They are racing for the edge and they both know it; the match hangs in the balance. She cannot hear the wind over the sound of his breath, over the thudding of her pulse; the moon is reflected in his eyes. She hangs a thread; she knows he does too, feels it in the grip of his hands on her waist, tight enough to bruise. She needs, all she knows is that she needs, and that she needs to win; it is all she can remember. Then finally, finally, he cracks, coming apart beneath her, eyes slamming shut, hips jerking up, and that is all it takes. She lets go, head flung back and back bowed, heat blooming brilliant along every vein, in every muscle, and she flies.
The cold returns her to herself: the chill of the balcony, the sting of the wind. Bates is beneath her, quiet but for the rasp of his breathing. She shifts, feels him slip from her, and meets his gaze when he opens his eyes. The empathy in them weighs her down as she settles into her skin. She does not want it, but it is a fair price to pay for victory. Teyla gathers herself together and stands; turns away to collect her gear as Bates shifts behind her. When she looks again, he is standing, collected, shirt untucked and tugged down. They look at each other, considering, then Bates nods, brief but not curt, and walks off into the dark. She watches him go, then turns back to the water, lifting her face to the wind, gazing back at the moon.
Characters/Pairings: Teyla/Bates
Rating: Somewhere around R or NC-17
Spoilers: Through Suspicion
Written For:
trobadora asked for a pinch hit over at
teyla_bates, and then it turned out that the original author's going to be able to post - which, yay! This was done by the time I knew, so hey, up it goes. :D
Author's Notes:
smittywing and
raisintorte and
omglawdork are terrible influences - and patient betas. :D Title corrupted from Walt Whitman's When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer, which suits Teyla pretty well here.
Summary: She needs, all she knows is that she needs, and that she needs to win; it is all she can remember.
There are days when Teyla wishes they had never come. Days when she wishes she had never heard of Atlantis beyond legend, when she stood alone and undisputed - and unconflicted - as leader of her people. Days when she had a right to her own anger.
She has been so careful, in the days since the expedition came, to temper her reactions and strive for understanding. She has been a trader all her life, and caution is always her first instinct, but it has never before been imposed as such a constant demand. On Atlantis, though, it is continual - and critical. It had taken no great skill to realize too many of these newcomers would undervalue her because of her sex, among other things, and she will not give them more reason. Sheppard has never seemed so inclined, but he has always been different. She knows Sheppard shares her anger, knows he would shout it from the towers with her, but that only stokes her rage. It is her fury. She should not need Sheppard's presence to condone its expression.
Elizabeth would understand, Teyla supposes. She is certain, in fact, that Elizabeth would, but Elizabeth has been distant and over-formal these last several days, and tonight Teyla has no desire for understanding. She craves movement, action, freedom. Tonight, with her people in self-exile on the mainland and a city full of strangers surrounding her, her options are limited at best. She packs a bag - bantos and skirt and a bottle of water - and radios in, and even the obligatory check-in with Sheppard is an irritation. Her skin is practically twitching with pent-up tension; even a thirty-minute run to the farthest of the explored balconies is not enough to shed the aggression that rides her.
The balcony is wide and moonlit; the wind is high, and beyond the railing whitecaps gleam silver. She knows there are no patrols scheduled this way for some time; Sheppard had told her as much, the comprehension in his voice oppressive as he replied to her question. She is alone.
She strips, efficient, feeling the wind abrade her skin as she dons her gear and grabs the bantos. She runs through the basic movements almost too-quickly, but at this moment, she is not interested in form and function. She wants speed, wants violence, wants opposition; she cannot have the third, so she will settle for two out of three. She marks through the exercises from start to finish, two sticks to one stick to none, and when she finishes she is still wild, sweat-slick and unsatisfied. She runs the third set again, no sticks, out of sheer desperation.
She is two-thirds through the progression when a noise from behind has her whirling. A figure emerges from the shadow of the wall. Bates, she registers, barely, before he moves forward and drops into a fighting crouch. His mouth is set in a smirk; his eyes glint. She smiles, hard and challenging, and she knows she must look feral. For once, she allows herself not to care.
They circle once before Bates strikes, feinting left before striking right, low and hard. The jolt of her forearm against his is electric and satisfying and she wants more, letting loose a flurry of blows. Bates matches her, but barely; he has broken a sweat by the time they break apart. He is still smirking - if anything, it has grown broader, more self-satisfied. Teyla sees in it everything that makes her feel trapped and ill-equipped and awkward, and it drives her forward, blow after blow. Neither of them are pulling their punches. The wind howls in her ears, and a voice in her head sings with it in glee, although the night is silent but for the sound of their breathing and an occasional grunt when a hit connects with particular force.
The fight is loose in her blood, humming in her bones as she forces Bates back into the shadow he came from, backing him up step by hard-won step. She grins, teeth bared and hair flying, until suddenly Bates turns the tables with a move that McKay would have seen coming. She is pressed against the wall, an arm heavy against her throat. She breaks the hold, but Bates is leaning in, face in shadow, his other hand slammed up against the wall next to her head, and she has run out of room to maneuver. At least, she knows he thinks so - he is close enough that she can see it in his eyes, smug and over-confident, and Teyla is finished holding back.
She surges forward, laughing once, short and harsh, as Bates, like any man, curls inward to protect what is most important. She should not do this - she knows she should not - and it sharpens the need that has dogged her all night into something fierce and hard and defiant. She takes advantage of his distraction to flip their positions, wedging her thigh between his legs and dragging his head down to kiss him, hard and open-mouthed. When she lets him go, they are both panting, and she can feel, against her leg, the pressure growing in his groin. Teyla has been aware of her own arousal since their encounter began. And yet, even now, flying so high she wants to leap out of her skin, this needs to be a fair fight - which is why she presses up, and in, and then simply backs away, dropping into stance, poised on the balls of her feet, waiting for a response.
Bates swallows, and she can see the strain bunching along his muscles as he takes two steps forward out of the darkness and into the moonlight. His eyes are steady on hers as he approaches, but he is no longer smiling. He swallows again, and moves to the ready.
She has him off balance, and she has no intention of giving up the advantage. She offers a few, almost desultory, punches, then turns vicious, ramping up the attack and sweeping his feet out from under him. Teyla hears the breath whistle out of his lungs as he hits the ground full on; then she is straddling him, her knees tight around his upper thighs, before he manages to draw breath. She runs her hands down his chest, pressing hard against hard muscle, her nails snagging the soft fabric of his shirt. She lets her hand travel lower, cupping hard and tight around the heat of his cock, and feels him tense under her. His head falls back, and she takes advantage of the moment, wrestling the shirt free of his waistband. The skin under her hands is firm; she shoves the fabric up to reveal a line of dark hair trailing over chest and abdomen. She leans forward and tweaks his nipple just shy of too-hard - and then his hands grab her wrists and the world turns, and she is on her back, the full length of his torso against hers.
He grinds his hips down hard, and she gasps, her legs falling wide, arching up and into the pressure. She sees the corners of his eyes crease, watches his gaze spark with hunger, before he drops his head to bite at the junction of neck and shoulder. His hand is on her breast, thumbing her nipple through the cloth; she gasps again as he nips an earlobe, and then his mouth is on hers. Her hands are on his back, and she knows she will leave marks; the thought makes her bear down harder. Bates groans against her lips, pressing down; she rises up to meet him even as she bites his lower lip none-too-gently. She is so tied up in the sheer exhilaration, in the lack of boundaries, that she only writhes harder when he shifts slightly, spreading her thighs wide. He is not careful as he yanks fabric aside, pressing up and in with a blunt finger; the shock of it wrings a cry from her lips as she arcs into that touch. She burns, free for the first time in what feels like forever; only the knowledge that she wants to win this match lets her regain her self-control.
Teyla grabs for his waist, and he is distracted enough that he does not realize her intent until she simply pops off the button at his waist with a frustrated yank. He growls as it skitters into the dark, and she laughs. Then they are wrestling, twining around each other and fighting for dominance. A particularly well-placed roll of the hips and she wins, pinning him down, yet again. He shoves against her, but her hand is on his zipper and he freezes, the muscles in his neck taut, sharp-edged in the silver light. She laughs again, and rocks against him, teasing. Every nerve is on fire; his stare sweeps over her and she arches into it like it is a touch, preening like a cat. She tugs the zip down so slowly - almost, but not-quite cruel; he sucks in a breath as she shoves pants and underclothes down just far enough. His cock is hard, fluid gleaming at the tip, and Teyla is done with waiting.
A moment of space, just enough for breath, as they both shift, and then she sinks down onto him. Another moment, suspended in time, as she stares up at the moon, the wind at her face and Bates beneath her, filling her - just a moment, and then it shatters. Bates groans, and she falls forward, her arms on either side of his head, holding her up just enough to hold his stare. She has to move, could not stop herself if she tried, aching to snap the final links that hold her bound tonight. Neither one of them looks away, even as she feels him coil tighter beneath her, as she angles her body so he brushes there - oh, just there - with every relentless rise and fall of her hips.
They are racing for the edge and they both know it; the match hangs in the balance. She cannot hear the wind over the sound of his breath, over the thudding of her pulse; the moon is reflected in his eyes. She hangs a thread; she knows he does too, feels it in the grip of his hands on her waist, tight enough to bruise. She needs, all she knows is that she needs, and that she needs to win; it is all she can remember. Then finally, finally, he cracks, coming apart beneath her, eyes slamming shut, hips jerking up, and that is all it takes. She lets go, head flung back and back bowed, heat blooming brilliant along every vein, in every muscle, and she flies.
The cold returns her to herself: the chill of the balcony, the sting of the wind. Bates is beneath her, quiet but for the rasp of his breathing. She shifts, feels him slip from her, and meets his gaze when he opens his eyes. The empathy in them weighs her down as she settles into her skin. She does not want it, but it is a fair price to pay for victory. Teyla gathers herself together and stands; turns away to collect her gear as Bates shifts behind her. When she looks again, he is standing, collected, shirt untucked and tugged down. They look at each other, considering, then Bates nods, brief but not curt, and walks off into the dark. She watches him go, then turns back to the water, lifting her face to the wind, gazing back at the moon.