SGA fic: "Command And Conquer" - NC-17 [John/Teyla]

[tielan]

FANDOM: Stargate Atlantis
TITLE: Command And Conquer
SUMMARY: Teyla gets this purr in her voice when she's being domme on him. John likes it.
RATING: NC-17
CATEGORY: sex, kink
WARNINGS: explicit sex, (skip warning for possible triggers) Bloodplay, cutting.
WORD COUNT: 1,580
NOTES: For the sga_kinkmeme Round #1 - prompt John, Teyla, flechettes, and hiding/explaining the scars... I didn't fill the prompt very well; there should have been more hiding and trying to explain the scars. But it was fun to write all the same! And thank you to mahoni skieswideopen, anjak_j and sqbr for help with the warning tag!

Command And Conquer

He doesn't ask where she got the knives - exquisite silver things that gleam against black velvet, candleflame reflecting the edge of their sheen in the dark of her eyes.

"You are sure of this, John?"

His heart is pounding at the thought of one of those blades against his skin, delicate as a caress, sharper than a whip's lash. His mouth is dry at the thought of Teyla's fingers wrapped around the handle of the knives, needing little more than barest pressure to split his flesh open - perfect agony, shocking pleasure.

"Yeah," he manages, and holds his hands out for the tie. It's safest when there's no danger of him moving too far, when the damage of a slipped blade can be minimised.

Teyla's good at tying knots - John's had reason to be glad of it before, but there's something in the way she binds him up now that already has him half-hard. It's a big step in their relationship - trust and desire and understanding and need. He's not sure there's anyone else in the city who'd do this for him; he's not sure there's anyone else he'd trust to do this to him.

A shining girder crosses the ceiling of this room - empty quarters far out from the centre of the city, chosen specifically for its isolation. John doesn't want questions asked about his willingness to consent to this.

Teyla doesn't ask questions - at least, not the difficult ones.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

Her breath whispers across his shoulderblade, a delicate brush of air and desire, and John can already feel himself growing hard. "Yes." She's leveraged him so he's standing on tiptoe to keep his balance, his shoulders are wrenched up above his head and his wrists are already a little sore from the ties.

"Good."

She gets this purr in her voice when she's being domme on him. John closes his eyes and lets the tenor of it linger in his ears for a moment before he jerks up in surprise - Teyla's scraping her nails down his back, sharp lines of sensation.

It feels good. A little rough, a lot sensual. Very erotic...

Only he wants it harder.

John wants the sharp bite of pain, the release of knowing he can't control this - the most he can do is beg for it to end.

He doesn't mind begging - not when it's Teyla.

Her hand on his jaw opens his eyes, and she brings his head down for a kiss. A long one. With soft tongue and sharp teeth and his neck beginning to ache and his arms beginning to shake as she makes him crave the sharp nips she dots over his lips and tongue.

"Do you want this, John?"

When he doesn't answer, her hand fists in his hair and he yelps. "Yes! Yes, I want you! This." He corrects, hastily, not meeting her gaze after the betraying blurt. "I want this."

He can feel her eyes on his face for a long, silent moment during which his heart pounds in his eardrums. Then she lets him go and steps back.

The emptiness of no longer being held is like a kind of pain, too, and John lets his head lean against his arm as he tries to regain his breath and the shredded slips of his dignity.

Maybe dignity is the wrong word for this, but he doesn't have anything else that describes it - his self-possession, his pride, his restraint.

'Dignity' is close enough.

Teyla crouches down and picks up one of the knives. Blocky hands, strong fingers, but possessed of exquisite tenderness, elegant grace. John's had those fingers clutching his hair, digging into his back, moulding his buttocks, stroking his cock, probing his anus.

Now John will have the memory of those fingers resting lightly on the handle of the blade that slides gently down from just beneath his ribs to just above where his pubic hair begins.

For a moment, nothing happens. He wonders if the knife is blunt. Then a line too fine for John to see blooms tiny red dots in perfect visual harmony with the sensual pain.

His chest heaves in short pants as Teyla looks up at him and lays the blade on his right side, just under his armpit. He barely feels the downward stroke until she's working on the left, a stinging symmetry.

The knives are sharp - very sharp - and oh God they sting like an itch he can't scratch. When the blood beading up in the wounds starts to spill down his skin, twitching fine hairs as they fall, John wants to swipe at it, to brush it away, but the delicate caress is a torment in and of itself and he can't move...

Warm lips kiss his nipple; suckle it as her hip rubs against his stiff cock. A steady rhythm, measured out to tease him, and his hips rock against hers, pushing the edges of pleasure to the point of pain.

Beautiful, vicious torment.

Teyla laughs as she steps back and admires him as though he's her handiwork.

All John can do is look down at her, the candles hazing the air around her with a surreal glow.

She rises to her toes and kisses him briefly on the lips, then steps around him and is out of his sight.

Not out of his senses, though. Never out of his senses.

John's memory of the time after that is hazy. He knows the blood congeals, drying on his hot skin; he knows Teyla marks patterns into his skin, delicate traceries of blood and steel; he knows when she puts a shallow plastic basin under his feet and pours warm water over his skin, when she unties him and leads him to bed.

He knows that fucking Teyla on a pristine bed with her fingers delicately massaging his stinging weals is the most unbearably erotic screw he's ever had. And if he's the one bleeding, she's the one begging for him to let her come, the tiny thrusts of his hips insufficient stimulation to bring her to orgasm.

Not until she digs her fingers into his buttocks does he respond, the pressure hard enough to jerk him up, his hips digging fiercely into her body with a stifled moan of protest as his back arches and his knuckles clench in the sheets.

"Like that." The purr is back in her voice as one hand finds purchase in his slippery, sweaty hair and yanks his head back. "I want you like that, John."

"Or else?"

He can't help grinning at her desperation, at the knowledge that she wants him - needs him - as much as he wants and needs her.

Then she props herself up on her elbows and undulates beneath him, nipples and belly and hips and thighs... The toss of her head sticks clinging strands of hair to her cheekbones - a wild and wanton lover who holds his eyes like she has him on a leash. "Or we will never do the knives again."

John thinks Teyla's joking. At least, he's pretty sure she is. She enjoyed that - didn't she?

He strokes down the line of her throat with his lips. "You drive a hard bargain, Teyla."

Another undulating caress steals his breath from his lungs. "It is not your bargains that I want hard and driving, John. Now..."

He drives her over the edge with quick clean thrusts, sending her to soar on blissful wings even as she's pinned underneath him. But John doesn't let himself follow. Not yet. He shifts only enough to keep himself simmering, although his belly trembles as her inner muscles contract around him, squeezing him with reflexive pleasure.

Teyla's hand rises to press flat against his cheek, although her lashes don't rise. "You didn't come with me."

"You didn't give me permission."

"Ah." The hand falls to the bed and she props herself up on her elbows again, digs her heels into the bed and thrusts up against him - mimicking his earlier movements as she watches his jaw clench. "Do you need my permission, John?"

"Yes." But if she doesn't stop soon, he's going to come without her allowance. And that's not what this is about.

That's not all that it's about. And Teyla knows that.

"Do you want my permission, John?"

"Yes."

Her mouth finds his, and amidst the thrust of her hips and the bright bite of her teeth, John scrabbles for the last vestiges of control, touches it with one finger, and loses it when she tightens around him on a downwards thrust.

"Yes." Her voice resonates in his ear as he shudders and quakes. "I want you to come for me, John."

And he does, spilling himself into her, raw and exhilarated, like the first burst of powered thrusters pinning him to the back of the seat, like the last moments before ejection when all options are closed down and there's only the freefall, like his body belongs to someone else, is under someone else's control, is under someone else's command.

This is what he wants. What he craves. He joined the Air Force for one form of it; this is just another aspect.

Naked and boneless in her arms, John shivers as Teyla draws her fingertips down the scabbing wounds but revels in the purr of her laughter.

fin