Mmm.
Title: Backfire
Summary: Teyla knows exactly what this is about.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 1133
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, completely gratuitious corset porn
Pairing: Team Shep = OT4
A/N: This has nothing to do with anything, except that there are just never enough corsets.
Teyla knows exactly what this is about.
She has been trading for a living ever since she was thirteen years old, and she has seen every possible variation on the treatment of women. She has been to worlds where she was not to talk, worlds where she was honored as a deity, worlds with hobbles and crowns and epithets for her to wear. She has been to places where they cried to see her leave and places where they could not get rid of her quickly enough. As John so charmingly puts it, this is not Teyla's first rodeo.
Thus, Teyla is aware that this is just another trial, another attempt to make her less than she is. It is another way to make her pay for the crime of having been born a woman. Teyla also knows that this particular punishment, this one is going to- what is the expression that Rodney uses? Oh, yes. Backfire.
This is going to backfire on them quite spectacularly.
John puts his arms around her, wrapping the stiff garment over the thin shirt they have given her, leaving the long, loose laces to trail down her back. The fasteners are difficult, the metal unforgiving, but John manages, his deft fingers joining the clasps and studs together.
He walks around her, his eyes taking in the way the corset hangs, the way it sits, loosely hugging her body. Apparently satisfied, he disappears from her view and begins adjusting the lacing. His fingers brush against her back as he works, the laces making soft rushing noises as he threads them through the eyelets: first the bottom, fitting it to her waist and hips; then the top, where the corset rises almost to the undersides of her breasts.
“This isn't working right,” John says, stepping around and looking her over. “Your, um.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck; she raises an eyebrow at him. “You're kinda in the way.”
“I got it,” Ronon says, detaching himself from the wall and stepping in quite close to her. His large hands cradle her breasts through her shirt, lifting them up and out of the way with a gentleness that might surprise someone who did not take the time to know him.
As Ronon distracts her, drawing circles with his thumbs, John steps behind her again and pulls the garment upwards, pulls the top lace tighter until it is snug around her ribs. “Much better. You can let go now.”
Ronon gives him a look over her shoulder. “Why?”
“Good point,” John agrees. “Keep your fingers out of the way.”
He does release her, though not before he bends down and presses his lips to hers, just long and deep enough to get her hopes up. He just grins at the way her eyes narrow, settling back against the table and watching as John works.
“I'm going to start pulling now,” John warns. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“I would not keep it a secret,” she chides him, light and playful.
John does not comment, though it is not hard to imagine him rolling his eyes at Ronon. “Deep breaths,” he tells her, and then he begins to pull.
It does not hurt like she had assumed that it would; the corset gets tighter and tighter, closer and closer, as John cinches it. He pulls quite hard, so much that it almost makes her tip over, but somehow it does not feel like too much.
“How does that feel?” John asks, stopping for the moment.
She feels as if she is an inch taller than she was when they began, like her spine is finally straightened in a way that hours of exercise could not accomplish. She feels solid, compacted, complete. She feels a little lightheaded and more than a little like someone should paint her on a temple wall, like men should throw themselves down at her feet and worship her.
“It feels as if it could be tighter,” she tells him.
John presses a kiss to her spine, above the low neck of her borrowed top. “Just a little more,” he agrees, pulling the laces again.
He has only just finished knotting the long strings together when the bright green hanging that serves as the door to their tent flaps violently open; it is Rodney, who shoves the tapestry out of his path as if it has offended him in some way.
“Those complete imbeciles have an Ancient water purification system, and they're using it to make moonshine,” he says, cradling his tablet with one arm and gesturing wildly with the other, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen. “I can't believe they haven't-” he looks up, noticing her for the first time. “Holy shit.” He stares at her, open mouthed. “Can we trade them for that?” he babbles. “Ask them if we can trade them for that. I'm sure we've got something-” he snaps his fingers. “We could give them Ronon.” Ronon glares at him, his expression tinged with faint amusement.
“They are not going to like me very much,” she says, smiling in the way that makes her teeth flash, makes her look not unlike a predator. “And I do not think they will be inclined to let me have this outfit.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rodney swears, still gaping at her openly. “Have I mentioned I'm actually very rich, albeit not in this galaxy? I'll put an order in with the Daedalus. I'll get you one for every day of the week if you want.”
Teyla is slightly surprised. She would like to know why, if such things are available, women on Atlantis never wear them; but by the way he keeps looking at her, she thinks she already knows the answer.
“We might have to get one for Sheppard, too,” Ronon remarks, looking appraisingly between herself and John.
“Hey,” John says in protest, but it is just a moment too late to be convincing. A gong sounds from outside. “Show time,” John says with a sigh. “Ronon, take point.”
“You ready?” Ronon asks her gruffly.
“Please,” John says, his lips curling into a smirk. “They won't even know what hit them.” She matches his grin with her own. Satisfied, Ronon lifts up the fabric from the doorway and exits, ducking his head so that he can pass; John is right behind him.
Before she joins them, Teyla pulls Rodney in by his tactical vest, pressing her lips almost harshly to his, taking his mouth without hesitation. And then she leaves, not waiting to see if he follows.
She knows he will; who would not?
Summary: Teyla knows exactly what this is about.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 1133
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, completely gratuitious corset porn
Pairing: Team Shep = OT4
A/N: This has nothing to do with anything, except that there are just never enough corsets.
Teyla knows exactly what this is about.
She has been trading for a living ever since she was thirteen years old, and she has seen every possible variation on the treatment of women. She has been to worlds where she was not to talk, worlds where she was honored as a deity, worlds with hobbles and crowns and epithets for her to wear. She has been to places where they cried to see her leave and places where they could not get rid of her quickly enough. As John so charmingly puts it, this is not Teyla's first rodeo.
Thus, Teyla is aware that this is just another trial, another attempt to make her less than she is. It is another way to make her pay for the crime of having been born a woman. Teyla also knows that this particular punishment, this one is going to- what is the expression that Rodney uses? Oh, yes. Backfire.
This is going to backfire on them quite spectacularly.
John puts his arms around her, wrapping the stiff garment over the thin shirt they have given her, leaving the long, loose laces to trail down her back. The fasteners are difficult, the metal unforgiving, but John manages, his deft fingers joining the clasps and studs together.
He walks around her, his eyes taking in the way the corset hangs, the way it sits, loosely hugging her body. Apparently satisfied, he disappears from her view and begins adjusting the lacing. His fingers brush against her back as he works, the laces making soft rushing noises as he threads them through the eyelets: first the bottom, fitting it to her waist and hips; then the top, where the corset rises almost to the undersides of her breasts.
“This isn't working right,” John says, stepping around and looking her over. “Your, um.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck; she raises an eyebrow at him. “You're kinda in the way.”
“I got it,” Ronon says, detaching himself from the wall and stepping in quite close to her. His large hands cradle her breasts through her shirt, lifting them up and out of the way with a gentleness that might surprise someone who did not take the time to know him.
As Ronon distracts her, drawing circles with his thumbs, John steps behind her again and pulls the garment upwards, pulls the top lace tighter until it is snug around her ribs. “Much better. You can let go now.”
Ronon gives him a look over her shoulder. “Why?”
“Good point,” John agrees. “Keep your fingers out of the way.”
He does release her, though not before he bends down and presses his lips to hers, just long and deep enough to get her hopes up. He just grins at the way her eyes narrow, settling back against the table and watching as John works.
“I'm going to start pulling now,” John warns. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“I would not keep it a secret,” she chides him, light and playful.
John does not comment, though it is not hard to imagine him rolling his eyes at Ronon. “Deep breaths,” he tells her, and then he begins to pull.
It does not hurt like she had assumed that it would; the corset gets tighter and tighter, closer and closer, as John cinches it. He pulls quite hard, so much that it almost makes her tip over, but somehow it does not feel like too much.
“How does that feel?” John asks, stopping for the moment.
She feels as if she is an inch taller than she was when they began, like her spine is finally straightened in a way that hours of exercise could not accomplish. She feels solid, compacted, complete. She feels a little lightheaded and more than a little like someone should paint her on a temple wall, like men should throw themselves down at her feet and worship her.
“It feels as if it could be tighter,” she tells him.
John presses a kiss to her spine, above the low neck of her borrowed top. “Just a little more,” he agrees, pulling the laces again.
He has only just finished knotting the long strings together when the bright green hanging that serves as the door to their tent flaps violently open; it is Rodney, who shoves the tapestry out of his path as if it has offended him in some way.
“Those complete imbeciles have an Ancient water purification system, and they're using it to make moonshine,” he says, cradling his tablet with one arm and gesturing wildly with the other, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen. “I can't believe they haven't-” he looks up, noticing her for the first time. “Holy shit.” He stares at her, open mouthed. “Can we trade them for that?” he babbles. “Ask them if we can trade them for that. I'm sure we've got something-” he snaps his fingers. “We could give them Ronon.” Ronon glares at him, his expression tinged with faint amusement.
“They are not going to like me very much,” she says, smiling in the way that makes her teeth flash, makes her look not unlike a predator. “And I do not think they will be inclined to let me have this outfit.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rodney swears, still gaping at her openly. “Have I mentioned I'm actually very rich, albeit not in this galaxy? I'll put an order in with the Daedalus. I'll get you one for every day of the week if you want.”
Teyla is slightly surprised. She would like to know why, if such things are available, women on Atlantis never wear them; but by the way he keeps looking at her, she thinks she already knows the answer.
“We might have to get one for Sheppard, too,” Ronon remarks, looking appraisingly between herself and John.
“Hey,” John says in protest, but it is just a moment too late to be convincing. A gong sounds from outside. “Show time,” John says with a sigh. “Ronon, take point.”
“You ready?” Ronon asks her gruffly.
“Please,” John says, his lips curling into a smirk. “They won't even know what hit them.” She matches his grin with her own. Satisfied, Ronon lifts up the fabric from the doorway and exits, ducking his head so that he can pass; John is right behind him.
Before she joins them, Teyla pulls Rodney in by his tactical vest, pressing her lips almost harshly to his, taking his mouth without hesitation. And then she leaves, not waiting to see if he follows.
She knows he will; who would not?