![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
TITLE: What Dreams Have Come
PAIRING: John/Teyla, prompt dreams
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: post-Spoils Of War.
NOTES: Written for the Porn Battle V. There's a strong angst undercurrent in this. As in, really strong. I was going to post another fic tonight, but I think I'll just cruise. Too tired.
What Dreams Have Come
They began, long ago, as typical wet-dreams.
Teyla lying naked and asleep in his bed, her skin hidden by the sheet that John would pull off, her arms warm and open as she welcomed him into his bed, into her body. Teyla laughing at him over her staves, with sweat beading her skin in the sunlight as he disarmed her and took his 'winnings'. And no matter how hard John took her, or how fast he came, she was there with him, hot and needy, with her flesh like cool silk against his hot skin, and her cries muted beneath his mouth as he spilled into her.
He never invited the dreams; but he wasn't ashamed of them either. Attraction was attraction, and his body wanted what his mind knew was impossible.
-
For a few weeks after his conversion to the Iratus, his dreams took on a domination-edge.
John would push her down into the bed and take her hard while her eyes burned up at him, terror and hunger and the lust-link bright between them as they rutted like beasts. Teyla would roll them over, and John's shoulderblades would kiss the floor the way he'd kiss her - hard and violent, with a biting edge. He would take what he wanted, demanding what she wanted to give anyway. And Teyla would fit him between her thighs, slick and hot and exquisitely tight, press his hands into her breasts and ride him like she fought him - hard and with no quarter - her own, blue-skinned sex toy.
He was glad she walked away when he tried to apologise. If it was okay to involuntarily dream, it was hypocritical to apologise for something he wasn't entirely sure he regretted.
-
Sometime after they dragged Ronon back from Sateda - after John realised just how much of a family Atlantis was to him and just what he'd do to keep it - the dreams softened, slowed.
She drew him into her room and her hand at his nape would draw his mouth down to hers. His clothes would melt away, and she always slipped his dogtags off once his shirt was gone. "You belong to me, not them," she would say, and John would let go of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, USAF, and become just 'John'. He'd taste her curves with his fingers and his tongue, feel fine muscles tremble in splintering self-control as he teased her, and slide into her with the deep relief of a man coming home. And then they'd make love slowly, lazily driving each other on with every thrust and counter-thrust, until one or the other or both gave way in smiles and laughter, in soft words and lingering kisses.
For the six weeks he was stuck on Earth, John didn't dream of Teyla at all - at least, not in a sexual way - and he felt as though he'd lost something beyond precious to him, even if it was only hope.
-
Recently, his dreams involved her coming to him, involved him swallowing his fears and his tensions, shutting up the little voice that said he's an emotional screwup and shouldn't fuck her up the way he's fucked himself up, and letting her turn to him emotionally and not just physically.
Until he discovered that his dreams had been, for a while, another man's reality.
Keller was the one to betray it. "An old friend of hers from Athos," she'd said, gently innocent where Carson would have known enough to hesitate over telling John. "She's struggling with losing an emotional anchor as well as her lover."
And as she hugged him out on the balcony, John knew he would never be to her what Kanan of Athos had been to her - a refuge, an anchor.
That night, he dreams again.
"John?" She turns from the window with the bulge of her pregnancy clear beneath the light nightgown she wears. John presses his hands against the curve of it, presseds his mouth against hers, and she makes no demur.
Light flicks of his tongue match his fingers' delicate caresses. Her hands skim his shoulders, and he nearly chokes on the aching, painful need for her. As he pushes her down to the edge of the bed, and kneels between her thighs, he tries not to think about the Athosian man giving her the son she now carries. When John's tongue slides smoothly against her, Teyla whimpers, and her fingers linger at his cheek, clenches in his hair as she takes what he has to give her - all he has to give her - rides out the orgasm and is satisfied.
John wakes in his own bed, aching and hard.
fin
PAIRING: John/Teyla, prompt dreams
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: post-Spoils Of War.
NOTES: Written for the Porn Battle V. There's a strong angst undercurrent in this. As in, really strong. I was going to post another fic tonight, but I think I'll just cruise. Too tired.
What Dreams Have Come
They began, long ago, as typical wet-dreams.
Teyla lying naked and asleep in his bed, her skin hidden by the sheet that John would pull off, her arms warm and open as she welcomed him into his bed, into her body. Teyla laughing at him over her staves, with sweat beading her skin in the sunlight as he disarmed her and took his 'winnings'. And no matter how hard John took her, or how fast he came, she was there with him, hot and needy, with her flesh like cool silk against his hot skin, and her cries muted beneath his mouth as he spilled into her.
He never invited the dreams; but he wasn't ashamed of them either. Attraction was attraction, and his body wanted what his mind knew was impossible.
-
For a few weeks after his conversion to the Iratus, his dreams took on a domination-edge.
John would push her down into the bed and take her hard while her eyes burned up at him, terror and hunger and the lust-link bright between them as they rutted like beasts. Teyla would roll them over, and John's shoulderblades would kiss the floor the way he'd kiss her - hard and violent, with a biting edge. He would take what he wanted, demanding what she wanted to give anyway. And Teyla would fit him between her thighs, slick and hot and exquisitely tight, press his hands into her breasts and ride him like she fought him - hard and with no quarter - her own, blue-skinned sex toy.
He was glad she walked away when he tried to apologise. If it was okay to involuntarily dream, it was hypocritical to apologise for something he wasn't entirely sure he regretted.
-
Sometime after they dragged Ronon back from Sateda - after John realised just how much of a family Atlantis was to him and just what he'd do to keep it - the dreams softened, slowed.
She drew him into her room and her hand at his nape would draw his mouth down to hers. His clothes would melt away, and she always slipped his dogtags off once his shirt was gone. "You belong to me, not them," she would say, and John would let go of Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, USAF, and become just 'John'. He'd taste her curves with his fingers and his tongue, feel fine muscles tremble in splintering self-control as he teased her, and slide into her with the deep relief of a man coming home. And then they'd make love slowly, lazily driving each other on with every thrust and counter-thrust, until one or the other or both gave way in smiles and laughter, in soft words and lingering kisses.
For the six weeks he was stuck on Earth, John didn't dream of Teyla at all - at least, not in a sexual way - and he felt as though he'd lost something beyond precious to him, even if it was only hope.
-
Recently, his dreams involved her coming to him, involved him swallowing his fears and his tensions, shutting up the little voice that said he's an emotional screwup and shouldn't fuck her up the way he's fucked himself up, and letting her turn to him emotionally and not just physically.
Until he discovered that his dreams had been, for a while, another man's reality.
Keller was the one to betray it. "An old friend of hers from Athos," she'd said, gently innocent where Carson would have known enough to hesitate over telling John. "She's struggling with losing an emotional anchor as well as her lover."
And as she hugged him out on the balcony, John knew he would never be to her what Kanan of Athos had been to her - a refuge, an anchor.
That night, he dreams again.
"John?" She turns from the window with the bulge of her pregnancy clear beneath the light nightgown she wears. John presses his hands against the curve of it, presseds his mouth against hers, and she makes no demur.
Light flicks of his tongue match his fingers' delicate caresses. Her hands skim his shoulders, and he nearly chokes on the aching, painful need for her. As he pushes her down to the edge of the bed, and kneels between her thighs, he tries not to think about the Athosian man giving her the son she now carries. When John's tongue slides smoothly against her, Teyla whimpers, and her fingers linger at his cheek, clenches in his hair as she takes what he has to give her - all he has to give her - rides out the orgasm and is satisfied.
John wakes in his own bed, aching and hard.
fin
Tags: