FIC: Bound State (NC-17)
Title: Bound State
Author: Kajikia
Recipient: ladyjax
Pairing/Rating: Teyla/Rodney, NC-17
Length: ~1,500 words
Request: Sometimes, Teyla gets tired of being on top. Sometimes, Rodney needs to take control (if this turns out to be smut, all the better)
Warnings: Mild kink (Shibari)
Teyla knows where the pornography is stored on Atlantis's servers.
Some of it is beautiful and some of it is laughable and some of it is thrilling, but she does not find any of it shocking until she finds the images of men and women bound with rope.
The images are not particularly explicit, the ropework and composition skilled and artful, but the first picture still makes her breath catch with a combined sense of recognition and alienness.
She goes through all the images slowly, and worries them over in her mind long after she has closed the files, and in the end, she asks Rodney about it.
She is sprawled out on his bed, amusing herself while she waits for him to finish his last calculations. When she shows him the image on her tablet, he says distractedly, "Oh, that's, uh, shibari."
"It is meant to be titillating?"
Rodney snorts, and keeps typing. "It's a naked woman, of course it's meant to be titillating." He hesitates. "But it's not just the pictures, the woman is supposed to, um, enjoy it, too."
Teyla makes a noncommittal noise and Rodney looks at her. "I take it your people don't do this," he says dryly.
"No, in truth," she says slowly, "we do. But it is done for meditation, not sexual gratification. We remain clothed, and the binding on the body takes different patterns."
Teyla cannot find the words to explain it. It is the deepest, hardest form of meditation her people practice, always done with a trusted teacher or friend, and only in instances of great distress. Teyla has not undergone the binding meditation since Charin died. She wonders if she will be able to do so again without thinking of these images.
Rodney is focused on her now, turned away from his computer. "Do you...we could-"
She puts the tablet aside and stands up, crossing the distance between them to straddle Rodney's thighs, sinking onto his lap. "I'm not interested in meditating now," she says, low and smooth.
"Oh," Rodney says, a little breathy, and opens his mouth to her kiss.
***
She remembers only bits and pieces from their first time, flashes of sense-memory: the smell of Rodney's sweat, the taste of his skin, the feel of his wrists pinned beneath her hands. It was easy to blame on the enzyme, and when she climbed into his bed in the infirmary afterwards, and he kissed her back so desperately, it was easy to blame that on the enzyme, too.
When it happened after that, she blamed it on the thrill of the fight, the exhilaration of survival, on volcanoes and Wraith and Genii.
But when he made her laugh in bed, her smile pressed against the curve of his shoulder, she knew that these weren't isolated incidents, weren't exceptions, but part of their friendship.
Now, standing in front of his door with her arms full of rope, she knows she is changing something, pushing something, even if she cannot say exactly what. She is tired, and hurting, and her heart is full of grief, and she just wants to lay these burdens down for a time.
Rodney opens the door and his eyes widen when he sees the rope. She lifts her chin, and like that, his uncertainty is gone. He gives her a firm nod and steps aside to let her in.
She hands him the rope, arm-lengths and arm-lengths of it, from the best markets of Elakai, dyed blue as the oceans of Atlantis, and smooth and cool to the touch as water, too.
Then she begins to undress.
He takes a deep breath, but doesn't say anything, just uncoils the rope and folds it in half. Teyla feels something ease in her chest at his silent assent.
When she is naked, she turns away from him and folds her arms behind her back, palms pressed to her elbows. It is the closest thing to the Athosian way that she remembers from the photographs.
She can feel the heat of his body when he steps up close behind her. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, and he wraps the doubled rope around her arms.
He avoids her wrists and keeps the binding light.
He makes a knot above her forearms and then wraps the rope around her chest, above her breasts. It is not light this time. He loops the rope under and then over itself at her back and wraps it around again in the opposite direction, under her breasts. She can feel it when she breathes now.
His face is clear and intent as he works, like the placement of the rope is a mathematical problem to be solved.
He continues the pattern down over her ribs and belly. He stops at the new scar on her side, fingers not quite touching it, and Teyla closes her eyes against the sting of grief. For a minute they are silent, just breathing together, and then Rodney goes on, framing the scar with the interlocking lines of rope.
He knots the rope behind her back when he is done, and she pulls just a little at the binding, testing it. It holds, tight against her skin.
Rodney moves around in front of her again and meets her eyes, and she kneels. He puts one hand out, not quite touching her shoulder, but there to steady her if she needs it.
He takes that deep breath again, not quite startled, not quite steeling himself, and wraps the rope around her ankles.
She sits back on her heels when he is done, and he ties the ankle bindings into the knots at her back.
She feels it in that instant, the hard kick of bound trapped helpless that always hits her when the binding is complete.
The first time, Charin had let her fight it out, until her muscles were exhausted and burning with the strain.
Then she knelt in front of Teyla and brought her chin up with firm fingers. "You see?" Charin said. "There are some trials in life that you cannot defeat, cannot escape. Struggling against them is futile at best, and self-destructive at worst."
Teyla has spent too much time on the fighting mats with her father to apply that lesson outside of meditation, but she learned not to fight that first beat of panic, and she lets it wash over her now.
In its wake, it leaves the beginnings of mindfulness. She feels light, calm, and the press of the rope against her body is not a trap, but a reminder of her own physicality, of her own existence.
When she opens her eyes again, Rodney is kneeling in front of her, watching her warily.
It is almost like the meditation she is used to, and yet...The elaborate crisscross pattern makes her sharply conscious of the weight of her breasts and the curve of her waist, makes her skin tingle and her nipples harden.
"I want-" Rodney says, and cuts himself off. He reaches out and tugs, delicate and careful on the harness of rope, and she feels it over her entire body. Rodney repositions her, nudging her thighs apart, pushing her shoulders back.
Then he bends forward, almost folded in half over his knees, and flicks his tongue across her clitoris.
Teyla gasps and jerks hard, but the rope holds her still.
"Shhh," Rodney soothes, breath warm against her skin.
He uses his mouth with the same single-mindedness that he tied the rope, and strokes one blunt finger over the slick, sensitive folds of her labia.
He has done this for her before, many times, but she has always been able to move, to direct him with touches and words. It's like the panic, she realizes after a moment, something she can either fight or give in to.
She sighs, and sways just a tiny bit closer to Rodney.
In the end, her orgasm rolls over her like a slow, golden tidal wave, washing her mind clean.
When she comes back to herself, Rodney is in the process of undoing the knots. She can feel the beginnings of strain in her shoulders and upper thighs, but mostly she feels languid and warm, like new amber left out in the sun.
She lets him help her up and into bed, lets him rub the knots out of her muscles.
She can feel herself settling back into her own mind. The grief is still there, but the sharp, cracked feeling of before has eased.
"Hey," Rodney says softly, like a greeting, and she smiles at him.
"Are you-was that okay?" he asks, and he looks anxious.
"Yes," she says, and means it, "it was exactly right."
"Good, because, I've, um, never done that before."
She blinks at him, and he flushes. "I-when you asked about it, I thought maybe it was something you wanted, so I ordered some books."
Oh, she thinks, oh, and leans up to kiss him, slow and sweet and careful.
"You are exactly right," she says, and he presses his forehead to hers.
Author: Kajikia
Recipient: ladyjax
Pairing/Rating: Teyla/Rodney, NC-17
Length: ~1,500 words
Request: Sometimes, Teyla gets tired of being on top. Sometimes, Rodney needs to take control (if this turns out to be smut, all the better)
Warnings: Mild kink (Shibari)
Teyla knows where the pornography is stored on Atlantis's servers.
Some of it is beautiful and some of it is laughable and some of it is thrilling, but she does not find any of it shocking until she finds the images of men and women bound with rope.
The images are not particularly explicit, the ropework and composition skilled and artful, but the first picture still makes her breath catch with a combined sense of recognition and alienness.
She goes through all the images slowly, and worries them over in her mind long after she has closed the files, and in the end, she asks Rodney about it.
She is sprawled out on his bed, amusing herself while she waits for him to finish his last calculations. When she shows him the image on her tablet, he says distractedly, "Oh, that's, uh, shibari."
"It is meant to be titillating?"
Rodney snorts, and keeps typing. "It's a naked woman, of course it's meant to be titillating." He hesitates. "But it's not just the pictures, the woman is supposed to, um, enjoy it, too."
Teyla makes a noncommittal noise and Rodney looks at her. "I take it your people don't do this," he says dryly.
"No, in truth," she says slowly, "we do. But it is done for meditation, not sexual gratification. We remain clothed, and the binding on the body takes different patterns."
Teyla cannot find the words to explain it. It is the deepest, hardest form of meditation her people practice, always done with a trusted teacher or friend, and only in instances of great distress. Teyla has not undergone the binding meditation since Charin died. She wonders if she will be able to do so again without thinking of these images.
Rodney is focused on her now, turned away from his computer. "Do you...we could-"
She puts the tablet aside and stands up, crossing the distance between them to straddle Rodney's thighs, sinking onto his lap. "I'm not interested in meditating now," she says, low and smooth.
"Oh," Rodney says, a little breathy, and opens his mouth to her kiss.
***
She remembers only bits and pieces from their first time, flashes of sense-memory: the smell of Rodney's sweat, the taste of his skin, the feel of his wrists pinned beneath her hands. It was easy to blame on the enzyme, and when she climbed into his bed in the infirmary afterwards, and he kissed her back so desperately, it was easy to blame that on the enzyme, too.
When it happened after that, she blamed it on the thrill of the fight, the exhilaration of survival, on volcanoes and Wraith and Genii.
But when he made her laugh in bed, her smile pressed against the curve of his shoulder, she knew that these weren't isolated incidents, weren't exceptions, but part of their friendship.
Now, standing in front of his door with her arms full of rope, she knows she is changing something, pushing something, even if she cannot say exactly what. She is tired, and hurting, and her heart is full of grief, and she just wants to lay these burdens down for a time.
Rodney opens the door and his eyes widen when he sees the rope. She lifts her chin, and like that, his uncertainty is gone. He gives her a firm nod and steps aside to let her in.
She hands him the rope, arm-lengths and arm-lengths of it, from the best markets of Elakai, dyed blue as the oceans of Atlantis, and smooth and cool to the touch as water, too.
Then she begins to undress.
He takes a deep breath, but doesn't say anything, just uncoils the rope and folds it in half. Teyla feels something ease in her chest at his silent assent.
When she is naked, she turns away from him and folds her arms behind her back, palms pressed to her elbows. It is the closest thing to the Athosian way that she remembers from the photographs.
She can feel the heat of his body when he steps up close behind her. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Yes," she says, and he wraps the doubled rope around her arms.
He avoids her wrists and keeps the binding light.
He makes a knot above her forearms and then wraps the rope around her chest, above her breasts. It is not light this time. He loops the rope under and then over itself at her back and wraps it around again in the opposite direction, under her breasts. She can feel it when she breathes now.
His face is clear and intent as he works, like the placement of the rope is a mathematical problem to be solved.
He continues the pattern down over her ribs and belly. He stops at the new scar on her side, fingers not quite touching it, and Teyla closes her eyes against the sting of grief. For a minute they are silent, just breathing together, and then Rodney goes on, framing the scar with the interlocking lines of rope.
He knots the rope behind her back when he is done, and she pulls just a little at the binding, testing it. It holds, tight against her skin.
Rodney moves around in front of her again and meets her eyes, and she kneels. He puts one hand out, not quite touching her shoulder, but there to steady her if she needs it.
He takes that deep breath again, not quite startled, not quite steeling himself, and wraps the rope around her ankles.
She sits back on her heels when he is done, and he ties the ankle bindings into the knots at her back.
She feels it in that instant, the hard kick of bound trapped helpless that always hits her when the binding is complete.
The first time, Charin had let her fight it out, until her muscles were exhausted and burning with the strain.
Then she knelt in front of Teyla and brought her chin up with firm fingers. "You see?" Charin said. "There are some trials in life that you cannot defeat, cannot escape. Struggling against them is futile at best, and self-destructive at worst."
Teyla has spent too much time on the fighting mats with her father to apply that lesson outside of meditation, but she learned not to fight that first beat of panic, and she lets it wash over her now.
In its wake, it leaves the beginnings of mindfulness. She feels light, calm, and the press of the rope against her body is not a trap, but a reminder of her own physicality, of her own existence.
When she opens her eyes again, Rodney is kneeling in front of her, watching her warily.
It is almost like the meditation she is used to, and yet...The elaborate crisscross pattern makes her sharply conscious of the weight of her breasts and the curve of her waist, makes her skin tingle and her nipples harden.
"I want-" Rodney says, and cuts himself off. He reaches out and tugs, delicate and careful on the harness of rope, and she feels it over her entire body. Rodney repositions her, nudging her thighs apart, pushing her shoulders back.
Then he bends forward, almost folded in half over his knees, and flicks his tongue across her clitoris.
Teyla gasps and jerks hard, but the rope holds her still.
"Shhh," Rodney soothes, breath warm against her skin.
He uses his mouth with the same single-mindedness that he tied the rope, and strokes one blunt finger over the slick, sensitive folds of her labia.
He has done this for her before, many times, but she has always been able to move, to direct him with touches and words. It's like the panic, she realizes after a moment, something she can either fight or give in to.
She sighs, and sways just a tiny bit closer to Rodney.
In the end, her orgasm rolls over her like a slow, golden tidal wave, washing her mind clean.
When she comes back to herself, Rodney is in the process of undoing the knots. She can feel the beginnings of strain in her shoulders and upper thighs, but mostly she feels languid and warm, like new amber left out in the sun.
She lets him help her up and into bed, lets him rub the knots out of her muscles.
She can feel herself settling back into her own mind. The grief is still there, but the sharp, cracked feeling of before has eased.
"Hey," Rodney says softly, like a greeting, and she smiles at him.
"Are you-was that okay?" he asks, and he looks anxious.
"Yes," she says, and means it, "it was exactly right."
"Good, because, I've, um, never done that before."
She blinks at him, and he flushes. "I-when you asked about it, I thought maybe it was something you wanted, so I ordered some books."
Oh, she thinks, oh, and leans up to kiss him, slow and sweet and careful.
"You are exactly right," she says, and he presses his forehead to hers.