Five Men Who Never Wanted Teyla Emmagen
- The Line -
There are moments when he'd like to say something, do something that crosses the unconscious line he's drawn between himself and every woman in Atlantis. He's got more important things to deal with than his own sexual deprivation right now.
The survival of the city, for one.
Still, there's a reason he keeps the training sessions up against Teyla. He might not be able to get down and dirty with any of the women in Atlantis, but there's nothing against getting hot and sweaty while fighting with Teyla. Bates might be suspicious, but there's nothing happening that John wouldn't let the kids watch.
Well, nothing much.
Besides, it works off an edge he might otherwise find himself having to satisfy in the privacy of his own quarters, late at night, when there's no-one around to hear him. Fighting works off certain kinds of restless energy as well as - if not better than - sex.
It's a thin line, but it works.
And it's Teyla.
He's learned to be wary of her staves. She doesn't pull her blows and he doesn't ask her to. It's a matter of his own personal pride and a determination that one day he'll be good enough to lay her out on her ass - and not just when she's distracted or tired.
He's got that much Alpha male in him, anyway.
In the meantime, he watches every move, and follows every lead she gives him, hoping to make a breakthrough and beat her, just this once.
Each time, she fends him off, if not effortlessly, then without any particular desperation. He feels like Agent Smith fighting Neo in the original Matrix movie: up against an opponent who's not really putting anything into the fight.
"You know, you could always let me win," he complains as he picks himself up off the floor yet again.
She dimples, amused. "You would not find satisfaction if I did."
True. But it might soothe his pride a little.
In the next bout, he nearly traps her. Then her stick twirls in her hand and smacks his ankle, right on the bone, and he stumbles before he can get the 'killing' blow in. His ankle aches, but he's not going to say anything about it.
Suck it up, John.
The last bout is furious, driven. He doesn't pull his blows and she meets his every attack with a solid defence, but doesn't retaliate in turn. Instead, she draws him on, letting him spend himself in advance.
Light gleams across throat, shoulders and arms, and he watches the muscles of her body ripple and roll like the waves around the city. But his attack is no less ferocious for his admiration, and her defence is no less unyielding for his aggression.
They fight to a standstill, and although John is exhausted, it's a good exhaustion. He didn't win, but he didn't lose, either.
It's almost like the relief of release after sex.
Almost.
He doesn't let himself think about that too much; if he did, he might put thought into action and she would beat his ass to within an inch of his life. Not that he'd blame her.
It's easier to be affable and friendly than to be teasing and flirtatious; easier to fight her than to fuck her; easier to be Major Sheppard, and not John.
But when she bows her head to him at the end of the bout, John lets his eye glide over the curves of her figure and curses the line.
- fin -
