TITLE: Five Ways Teyla Never Bolted
SUMMARY: John seduces Teyla.
CATEGORY: PWP. PWP. PWP. PWP. PWP. That about sums it up, I think.
RATING: R.
DATE WRITTEN: February 2006
NOTES: Right. I promised Alli sex by morning, so here it is! Prompted by her fic Liaisons and the line: John wonders dimly... if he tugged her back into his room, let the doors slide closed, how would she react? Would she panic and bolt... or would she come willingly?

Each segment is a drabble in and of itself.

Five Ways Teyla Never Bolted

Teyla pauses at the door, and John turns back to see her face.

In this she is hesitant, as she's always been when it comes to them. Still, she gives no resistance as he draws her into the room and lets the door hiss shut behind her.

The silence stretches between them as he turns her towards him, and brushes the soft wisps of hair from her face. Her eyes are dark as the shadows above them, and veiled in the reserve behind which she hid for so many years.

He tilts her face up to his and kisses her.

--

Something in John knows this is wrong.

Teyla's hands push against him, desperate and ineffectual. Her body arches in protest, writhing to get away from the lean body that pins her. Her eyes are dark and hollow with the terrifying knowledge of what is about to happen to her.

But his hands are on her skin and his mouth is fierce on hers, and his instincts urge him on; want, take, have.

There's a part of him that isn't participating - a part of him that's yelling things about responsibility, about leadership, about friendship, about trust.

Something in him doesn't care.

--

The reflected light of sea and sky turns the curves of her body into shadows in the night.

Here are shoulder and arm, breast and waist, hip and thigh, and the long line of torso that runs down to the shadowy darkness between her legs. John sheaths himself slowly, aching, and her fingers tighten on his shoulders as her body flexes around him.

Trust and desire, lust and belief, their breaths mingle in the salty air, sea and sweat. The jerky rhythms of passion thrust up, thrust down, moving, moving, always moving.

He exults in Teyla's body and his own.

--

The scent of Teyla is delicate, musk and salt, and she quivers as his fingers stroke her intimately.

"Colonel--"

"Shh," he quiets her, watching the way she struggles to breathe. "And it's John."

His name becomes an inarticulate groan on her lips as he touches her, tastes her, teases her into pleasure. This isn't his usual deal, but she's anything but usual.

He feels her hand skimming through his hair as she writhes, impaled on the knife-edge of bliss; his captive, unstruggling in exquisite orgasm.

At last, the flush fades from her dusky skin and he kisses her, smirking.

--

Teyla's hands frame his shoulders and throat, thumbs resting in the hollow between John's collarbones as she bends and dots slow kisses on his skin, pushing him down onto the bed to writhe at her touch.

He rolls them over. Her eyes are lidded, heavy as his mouth covers hers. She cradles his jaw as her tongue traces his lips, savouring the taste of him with an intensity that curls in his belly. He draws his mouth down the curve of her throat, smooth milk coffee with a hint of cinnamon when she purrs with pleasure.

They take it slow.

- fin -