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oxoniensis' pornathon a week and more ago.
TITLE: Body Shots
SUMMARY: Lick, sip, suck. He's done this before.
His hands are unsteady as he drips the mezcal into the hollow of Teyla's belly button. Her stomach convulses as she laughs, and a clear drop slides down her belly.
John leans down and draws his tongue up the glistening trail. Salt and the fiery taste of the mezcal tingle on his tastebuds, and fiery desire prickles in his groin.
*Lick*.
"You have done this before," she observes when he rises over the dusky curves of her belly.
"A few times," he admits as he bends down. "Hold still..."
He drags his lips from just above the waistline of her hip-high trousers, up to the belly button - a tiny lake of alcohol - and his mouth closes over the small hollow.
*Sip*.
Teyla makes a soft noise, inarticulate as his tongue slides into the crevices of her belly button.
John shivers, too.
The fire sliding down his throat is nothing to the need burning in his belly.
He wants to flip open the edge of that button-down shirt she's wearing, stream his tongue up the well-muscled flesh of her abdomen, and fasten on a dark-tipped breast.
*Suck*.
John wants.
He doesn't take.
Teyla does.
In a fluid movement, she sits up, and flips him onto his back. John begins a protest that dies as she straddles his thighs and bends down to bring her head to his as he props himself up on his elbows. "I am taking my turn now," she says.
John knows better than to hope he's about to get laid. His body doesn't. A steady pulse is already beating in his groin. "That seems fair." He almost manages to keep his voice even as she begins unbuttoning his shirt, baring hot skin to the cool ocean air pouring in the room. She knows what she's doing. She knows what she's doing to him.
He holds still as she slides her fingers down the edges of his shirt, fingertips tracing the edge of his skin, although his hard-on is beginning to ache. He quivers when she takes the bottle with it's golden liquid and the fat worm immersed in the alcohol and spills a little into his own belly-button.
He aches when Teyla plants her hands either side of his torso, and touches her lips to the side of his throat, the base, his breastbone, his abdomen...
"Teyla..." John manages to get out her name before she drinks, her lips curving in a secret smile as her tongue cleans out the crevices of his belly button.
He grabs her shirt and yanks her in.
Mouths meet, passionate and heated; one hand tears at the buttons of her shirt to reveal golden-brown skin. John flips them over so he has the leverage to taste her, to dip his tongue into the lace edge of the bra, to flick lightly across the swelling bud there.
Teyla hauls him up for a kiss, ferocious and uncompromising. "Harder," she whispers when they part, and he obeys.
Forgetfulness sweeps through him like a wave over a beach.
Moments blend and blur.
He remembers the moment Teyla has his erection in her hand - his fingers tangle in her bootlaces. He remembers the moment he slides his fingers under the waistband of her panties and eases them down her thighs to the intoxicating scent of her wetness. He remembers the moment he sweeps his tongue across her clit and the way she says his name - like she can't live without him.
John remembers the moment when he slides into her, slicked to the base of his balls and they move together, rising like eagles on the updraft, thrust and counterthrust. He keeps his mouth from her skin, from her lips, holding himself over her, fighting resentment as her eyes close.
"Teyla." He thrusts a little harder. "Look at me."
Her eyes lock on his face as her hands lock around his nape. Lips part and she smiles at him, warm and sexy and *here*, beneath him, pushing back against him as her nipples stroke his chest with every thrust.
John draws closer, intent on making her lose the control she's never without, trying to lose himself in her. Teyla arches, taut as a bow beneath him as she cries out. He grins and groans as he shoves into her again and watches her eyes close. Her fingers grip his neck, almost unbearable, but he can feel himself fraying at the edges.
He's drowning in her: mouth, arms, legs, body, scent, and the surety of her being, surrounding him, immersing him, intoxicating him like the worm in the bottle of mezcal.
And when John drags his mouth up and meets her eyes, he thinks he drowned her, too.
- fin -
--
TITLE: Ocean Tides
SUMMARY: John complained it was too cold for skin-swimming
John complained it was too cold for skin-swimming.
Teyla disagrees.
The ocean currents flow cool across her skin, but beneath flesh and liquid, her blood pulses with an aching heat.
An invidious current of desire eddies in her body as John's fingers move at a torturously slow pace. Teyla feels like one of the devices of the Ancestors, painstakingly taken apart and studied by a scientist at his leisure. And John is taking his time.
His lips brush hers, feather-like against her skin. He tastes ardently of salt and desire, and Teyla is hungry for more as her hands sculpt his hips, then cup his testicles in her hands, tracing her thumbs the length of his shaft.
He makes an eager noise against her mouth. Teyla laughs as she breaks the kiss and watches him pant in the star-spangled night.
"Are you cold, John?" The teasing question sets a darkness in his eyes, and his hand slips around the back of her nape to draw her back to him.
"Do I feel cold, Teyla?" Water swirls around her hand as she runs her fingers down the hot length of him and he makes a gutteral noise of pleasure.
"No," she breathes against his mouth, watching the lazy haze of desire veiling his eyes as his hand compels her to him. "You do not."
He kisses her in swallows, as though he yearns to consume her. His hands are skimming her skin, claiming her by touch alone.
Half-floating, half-swimming, Teyla uses his body as her anchor, her hands on his shoulders as her guide as she drifts towards him. Her thighs settle on his hips, parted in readiness for the moment of union, and his fingers slide along the curve of her breasts, tingling her nipples with a gentle flick of his fingertips. She gasps into his mouth as pleasure ripples through her breasts and belly.
Teyla presses into his hands, into his body, into his mouth, and rubs herself against him, sensuous and slow. Beneath her hands, his shoulders tense, against her lips, he groans, and his hand clutches at her breast, greedy for more of her.
It takes effort to tear herself away, to gasp for breath at the ache that tenses her thighs as she poises over him. John trails one finger down her belly, and she shivers. His eyes gleam at her as his touch trails through the curls of hair at the apex of her thighs, and she holds herself very still, waiting for what must come next.
The world aches, breathless and hesitant, and John's smile is powerful and teasing as his spare hand cups her head, threading through sodden hair. "Teyla..."
She manages his name in answer as he slides his finger hard against her and her world flashes gold and white, rose and scarlet, blue and silver. Laughter curves her lips as pleasure slides through every nerve and every bone, tiny bubbles sizzling, popping and exploding beneath her skin as she quivers against him, moaning his name.
"I'm here," he rasps, and her lashes lift to as he guides her to him.
Teyla slides down and tastes his pleasure in a kiss, the rush of desire as she takes him as deep as she can bear. She aches with the thick hot length of him piercing her body. He mumbles something into her mouth as she tightens around him, then groans as she tightens her flesh around him and rises, almost relinquishing him entirely.
He leans back as she falls back down on him, and his hand rests on the side of her throat. "Again." Teyla holds his eyes and watches the way his throat works and his eyes unfocus. It is a need, this cycle of loss and possession, possession and loss, and she wants to watch him in the moment of release - to see all his control gone, his expression unguarded, and to know that she has brought him to delight with her body.
So she works him, again and again and again, until John's hand clamps on her neck, and drags her in as his hips jerk, and she rides the shivering tide of his climax drunk on his kisses and with her thighs tight on his hips.
When he loosens his grip, she begins to move away, the cold of the ocean replacing the heat of his body.
John pulls her back for another kiss - a slow, lingering one in the lassitude of intercourse. When he lets her leave, his eyes gleam at her in the darkness, lit only by the moon-sliver in the sky.
"I'm not cold now."
- fin -
oxoniensis' pornathon a week and more ago.TITLE: Body Shots
SUMMARY: Lick, sip, suck. He's done this before.
His hands are unsteady as he drips the mezcal into the hollow of Teyla's belly button. Her stomach convulses as she laughs, and a clear drop slides down her belly.
John leans down and draws his tongue up the glistening trail. Salt and the fiery taste of the mezcal tingle on his tastebuds, and fiery desire prickles in his groin.
*Lick*.
"You have done this before," she observes when he rises over the dusky curves of her belly.
"A few times," he admits as he bends down. "Hold still..."
He drags his lips from just above the waistline of her hip-high trousers, up to the belly button - a tiny lake of alcohol - and his mouth closes over the small hollow.
*Sip*.
Teyla makes a soft noise, inarticulate as his tongue slides into the crevices of her belly button.
John shivers, too.
The fire sliding down his throat is nothing to the need burning in his belly.
He wants to flip open the edge of that button-down shirt she's wearing, stream his tongue up the well-muscled flesh of her abdomen, and fasten on a dark-tipped breast.
*Suck*.
John wants.
He doesn't take.
Teyla does.
In a fluid movement, she sits up, and flips him onto his back. John begins a protest that dies as she straddles his thighs and bends down to bring her head to his as he props himself up on his elbows. "I am taking my turn now," she says.
John knows better than to hope he's about to get laid. His body doesn't. A steady pulse is already beating in his groin. "That seems fair." He almost manages to keep his voice even as she begins unbuttoning his shirt, baring hot skin to the cool ocean air pouring in the room. She knows what she's doing. She knows what she's doing to him.
He holds still as she slides her fingers down the edges of his shirt, fingertips tracing the edge of his skin, although his hard-on is beginning to ache. He quivers when she takes the bottle with it's golden liquid and the fat worm immersed in the alcohol and spills a little into his own belly-button.
He aches when Teyla plants her hands either side of his torso, and touches her lips to the side of his throat, the base, his breastbone, his abdomen...
"Teyla..." John manages to get out her name before she drinks, her lips curving in a secret smile as her tongue cleans out the crevices of his belly button.
He grabs her shirt and yanks her in.
Mouths meet, passionate and heated; one hand tears at the buttons of her shirt to reveal golden-brown skin. John flips them over so he has the leverage to taste her, to dip his tongue into the lace edge of the bra, to flick lightly across the swelling bud there.
Teyla hauls him up for a kiss, ferocious and uncompromising. "Harder," she whispers when they part, and he obeys.
Forgetfulness sweeps through him like a wave over a beach.
Moments blend and blur.
He remembers the moment Teyla has his erection in her hand - his fingers tangle in her bootlaces. He remembers the moment he slides his fingers under the waistband of her panties and eases them down her thighs to the intoxicating scent of her wetness. He remembers the moment he sweeps his tongue across her clit and the way she says his name - like she can't live without him.
John remembers the moment when he slides into her, slicked to the base of his balls and they move together, rising like eagles on the updraft, thrust and counterthrust. He keeps his mouth from her skin, from her lips, holding himself over her, fighting resentment as her eyes close.
"Teyla." He thrusts a little harder. "Look at me."
Her eyes lock on his face as her hands lock around his nape. Lips part and she smiles at him, warm and sexy and *here*, beneath him, pushing back against him as her nipples stroke his chest with every thrust.
John draws closer, intent on making her lose the control she's never without, trying to lose himself in her. Teyla arches, taut as a bow beneath him as she cries out. He grins and groans as he shoves into her again and watches her eyes close. Her fingers grip his neck, almost unbearable, but he can feel himself fraying at the edges.
He's drowning in her: mouth, arms, legs, body, scent, and the surety of her being, surrounding him, immersing him, intoxicating him like the worm in the bottle of mezcal.
And when John drags his mouth up and meets her eyes, he thinks he drowned her, too.
- fin -
--
TITLE: Ocean Tides
SUMMARY: John complained it was too cold for skin-swimming
John complained it was too cold for skin-swimming.
Teyla disagrees.
The ocean currents flow cool across her skin, but beneath flesh and liquid, her blood pulses with an aching heat.
An invidious current of desire eddies in her body as John's fingers move at a torturously slow pace. Teyla feels like one of the devices of the Ancestors, painstakingly taken apart and studied by a scientist at his leisure. And John is taking his time.
His lips brush hers, feather-like against her skin. He tastes ardently of salt and desire, and Teyla is hungry for more as her hands sculpt his hips, then cup his testicles in her hands, tracing her thumbs the length of his shaft.
He makes an eager noise against her mouth. Teyla laughs as she breaks the kiss and watches him pant in the star-spangled night.
"Are you cold, John?" The teasing question sets a darkness in his eyes, and his hand slips around the back of her nape to draw her back to him.
"Do I feel cold, Teyla?" Water swirls around her hand as she runs her fingers down the hot length of him and he makes a gutteral noise of pleasure.
"No," she breathes against his mouth, watching the lazy haze of desire veiling his eyes as his hand compels her to him. "You do not."
He kisses her in swallows, as though he yearns to consume her. His hands are skimming her skin, claiming her by touch alone.
Half-floating, half-swimming, Teyla uses his body as her anchor, her hands on his shoulders as her guide as she drifts towards him. Her thighs settle on his hips, parted in readiness for the moment of union, and his fingers slide along the curve of her breasts, tingling her nipples with a gentle flick of his fingertips. She gasps into his mouth as pleasure ripples through her breasts and belly.
Teyla presses into his hands, into his body, into his mouth, and rubs herself against him, sensuous and slow. Beneath her hands, his shoulders tense, against her lips, he groans, and his hand clutches at her breast, greedy for more of her.
It takes effort to tear herself away, to gasp for breath at the ache that tenses her thighs as she poises over him. John trails one finger down her belly, and she shivers. His eyes gleam at her as his touch trails through the curls of hair at the apex of her thighs, and she holds herself very still, waiting for what must come next.
The world aches, breathless and hesitant, and John's smile is powerful and teasing as his spare hand cups her head, threading through sodden hair. "Teyla..."
She manages his name in answer as he slides his finger hard against her and her world flashes gold and white, rose and scarlet, blue and silver. Laughter curves her lips as pleasure slides through every nerve and every bone, tiny bubbles sizzling, popping and exploding beneath her skin as she quivers against him, moaning his name.
"I'm here," he rasps, and her lashes lift to as he guides her to him.
Teyla slides down and tastes his pleasure in a kiss, the rush of desire as she takes him as deep as she can bear. She aches with the thick hot length of him piercing her body. He mumbles something into her mouth as she tightens around him, then groans as she tightens her flesh around him and rises, almost relinquishing him entirely.
He leans back as she falls back down on him, and his hand rests on the side of her throat. "Again." Teyla holds his eyes and watches the way his throat works and his eyes unfocus. It is a need, this cycle of loss and possession, possession and loss, and she wants to watch him in the moment of release - to see all his control gone, his expression unguarded, and to know that she has brought him to delight with her body.
So she works him, again and again and again, until John's hand clamps on her neck, and drags her in as his hips jerk, and she rides the shivering tide of his climax drunk on his kisses and with her thighs tight on his hips.
When he loosens his grip, she begins to move away, the cold of the ocean replacing the heat of his body.
John pulls her back for another kiss - a slow, lingering one in the lassitude of intercourse. When he lets her leave, his eyes gleam at her in the darkness, lit only by the moon-sliver in the sky.
"I'm not cold now."
- fin -
no subject
Oh, I remember that fic. :D I was hinting for other T/C fics for a few days after. :p
Maybe someday. ^.^ Weir/Caldwell is one of my more favourite Weir ships, it kinda pwns Shep/Weir. Just don't tell the S/W shippers I said that though. ;)