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sga_santa2005-12-19 09:35 pm
sgasesa-admin.livejournal.com) wrote in sga_santa2005-12-19 09:35 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Dissolved Girl
Author:
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saeva'... he'd always been a blackout sort of drunk, the kind that got caught on tape doing things he never remembered,
sometimes fucking people he wouldn't have even thought about touching if he was sober.'
Author's Note: Written for
tafkarfanfic's prompt here at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif){kind=small}
sga_santa. Contains mature themes of a dark nature, may squick some.tafkarfanfic, I hope you like this. I wanted to write something gen and Teyla-centric, but I've always been better at the psychologically messed up darkfic anyway. S2 SPOILERS through Conversion.>>>>
That'd been his problem before, back when he was doing rescue like it was nothing, like there was no toll. He'd kept his eyes on the prize -- soldiers home safe and flying, flying, flying, so much so that he'd been blind-sided by reality when it happened. Ended up with two dead friends for his trouble and a one-way trip to Antarctica unless he kissed so much ass he'd never get the shit taste out.
What he hadn't expected was to like the place. He hadn't expected to end up with a whole new philosophy - or maybe an understanding of one he'd been trying to capture for years - on the way. But he had and he'd learned that the key to life, to contentment, to being able to sleep with yourself at night and wake up with yourself in the morning, was to take life as it was and not what you wanted it to be.
It was something, he'd found, not a lot of people got.
It was something that Teyla got, in the way she smiled vaguely at the antics of the people from Earth around her, maybe surprised by them, maybe not surprised at all but just amused; it was something she got in the way that she smiled at him and told him, in not so many words, that it was all right that he'd kissed her when she didn't want it. It was something she got in the way that if would've been all right if the last shreds of his lucidity hadn't stopped him and he'd happily, explosively fucked her up against the wall of the practice room. She would have forgive him and damn protocol and fraternization regs. Technically, they didn't apply to her anyway.
She'd forgiven him for letting his wants get away from him, and that should have been the end of it because she was his friend and they were teammates and you didn't want to fuck your teammates. Okay, he wanted to fuck his teammates, possibly all of them at different points, but he chalked that up to not getting laid in over three years and tried not to think about it too hard.
Except it was possible he'd drank a little too much of the vodka -- well, it wasn't really vodka, was it, even though he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if they'd set a shot of Smirnoff down next to him and made him pick out one -- and he wasn't seeing things too clearly now. E.g., he was thinking about Antarctica again. I.e. that lead to thoughts of before Antarctica, which led to more drinking, and then led to more thoughts about before Antarctica. QED, he was fucked.
Well, no, he wasn't. That was sort of the problem. He wasn't fucked but he was tempted; he was tempted by the sort of thing no decent commander would be tempted by, though John hadn't had a lot of examples to live by in that department. His dad, maybe, who'd never brought a woman home after John's mom had left them, abandoning them both to fate and the military because she couldn't take it anymore. Now, he hadn't had that option, had he? He'd had to stick it out while she'd run off by herself or maybe with the fucking milkman; his dad hadn't talked about it much so he didn't know.
See, this was why thinking was bad. Thinking, in fact, was really killing his zen, his half-tipsy buzz and good feelings at the way the not-vodka rushed through him in a cloud of warmth and touch. Or maybe the warmth was because there was a woman he didn't recognize curled up against his side, a fair bit more drunk than he was, trying to get into his pants. Either way, thinking was really overrated here.
John smiled, his smile feeling dopey and uneven, but the woman was too far gone to notice or care as she fidgeted with the tie of his pants, the back of her hand brushing against his erection through the BDUs every couple of movements, until he decided it was time to get up and move this somewhere more private. More private like one of the backrooms he'd spotted earlier on their way into the meeting hall where a big party was going on to celebrate some sort of local holiday, a party that rivaled the ones he had only vague memories of from college, before he'd joined the service. He hadn't asked what holiday and they hadn't offered, already half-drunk and more than welcoming to the newcomers through the gate.
Maybe, if he'd been thinking about it, he would have suggested they come back later, when the natives weren't fucked on not-vodka and feeling very, very welcoming, but at the time Rodney's eyes had lit up at all the food and the women walking around half-clad in equal degree and even Teyla and Ronon had seemed interested. It turned out Teyla liked to party, if the way she was sloshing back shots and flirting with the locals was any indication. It turned out that his in-control desire to fuck her up against a wall wasn't really so in control after all, but he wasn't going to think about that either.
Why think about that when he had a very willing, very interested, not at all Teyla-like woman still fucking with the tie of his pants and a backroom he could probably find to fuck her in if that was what he wanted?
"Hey now," the words slurred around him, a little slow, a little more casual than the bunched nerves in his shoulders felt like they should be, and he slowed her hands. "Lets take this somewhere... else. I'm not much for public sex."
And she blinked up at him, dazed, maybe a little confused, so he decided to lead by example, taking the hands he already had squeezed between his and pulling her up off of the couch-like thing that wasn't quite a couch because it didn't have a back, but wasn't exactly not a couch either. Bench? Maybe he could find a bench in the backroom and fuck her on one of those; he wasn't sure he had his head in the game enough to manage a good go up against a wall.
Not-Teyla smiled, so smashed on not-vodka that she probably would have agreed to anything right then, and he smiled back, still dopey but a little less uneven, nudging her towards the back, asking if she knew anywhere a little more private. Not that private seemed to be a big thing here he noticed as he caught a glimpse of far more of Ronon than he'd ever really needed to see outside a locker room and blinked at the white, white skin underneath him. Huh, the way Ronon was grinding into her, the way she looked, John had to wonder, even drunk -- he was so drunk, he could tell that now -- if maybe there wasn't some sublimated something going on that had to do with Wraith.
There were backrooms, backrooms full of things like furniture, like little versions of the meeting room that Ronon was fucking in right now and Teyla was flirting in and Rodney was, well, John hadn't checked on Rodney in a while but with any luck he was getting laid too, and John grinned, not feeling dopey at all now. Cool, they even had a bench-like thing, and he smiled at not-Teyla, not bothering with her name because he didn't really want to know it in the morning, if he remembered any of this.
There was a reason he barely remembered any of the parties from college; he'd always been a blackout sort of drunk, the kind that got caught on tape doing things he never remembered, sometimes fucking people he wouldn't have even thought about touching if he was sober. The chaplain's daughter, that was a good example. Maybe Ronon wasn't the only one with some issues there. But she'd been a hot little thing, all dark brown hair that dragged over John's chest when she went down on him, her wide, wide matching brown eyes closed until he'd sunk his fingers into her scalp, bunching the hair there while she sucked.
That one he'd still had video tape of until he went to Atlantis and every once in a while, drunk on contraband alcohol that seemed so easy to get in the cold nights, he'd even worked out ways to rewatch it in private. It'd been only one of the tapes he'd destroyed before coming to Atlantis. Even tipsy - drunk, drunk and tipsy too - he was pretty sure the woman giggling into his ear in between sucking on his neck and kissing him wasn't as hot as that girl had been, wasn't as hot as a certain someone was in the next room, her skin flushed with alcohol and her smile flirty at the locals.
But it'd been three years, so he wasn't going to be picky. A fuck was a fuck and tits were tits and there wasn't any camera here to capture any imperfections, any fumbling, so he fumbled all he damn well pleased, forcing his fingers into her skirt while she gasped against his shoulder and ripping off the thin material of her underwear - light blue even in the dark of the room, he noticed, pocketing them before he moved on - when she was pinned against the wall. Her hands came up to his shoulders, pressing there, nails digging in even through the thick material of his regulation jacket, and he slammed her just a little bit harder against the plaster wall behind her the next time he thrust forward.
Maybe he had the dexterity for a wall fuck after all. The way she was pinning herself against him, thrashing forward and back to his thrusts, she made it easy to wedge her against the dark blue wall behind her. A knee shoved in between her legs, making her groan, and his hands around her wrists held her smaller body so easily as he used his other hand to free himself, not bothering to drop his pants. He didn't need to from this angle, which was something John knew from experience and other tapes of him, fucking squirming, moaning brunettes, just like the one twisting her hips against him right now, up against concrete and wood and plaster and once even adobe, when they'd gone out for a weekend trip to the desert.
The half-Indian girl that worked at the resort his buddy Tim had booked them at had been good too, the way she struggled underneath his hold and whimpered when he'd finally shoved into her, her tears mixing with sweat against his neck until he'd let her down, gently. That one he remembered the name of and he'd been sure to look her up again when Tim and he went back, but that time she hadn't let him fuck her. He'd still had the tape though so he was okay with that.
But now, now he was hanging out of his pants, his erection rubbing against her bare thighs when he hiked her higher, looking for the perfect angle of entry. It was just like flying and a lot like math, looking for the right way to get in without a lot of turbulence, and she whimpered too, just like Imala had when he'd popped her cherry, though there wasn't that resistance here, just a tightness he didn't expect. A tightness he didn't expect at all, from the way she'd been rubbing against him earlier, panting like a little slut. Sluts weren't tight, right? It didn't seem like they should be, but this one was, the way she clenched around him, almost painfully.
Almost painful was still damn good from his perspective and he thought she thought so too, from the way she was whining breathlessly, whining into his ear, her head beating in rhythm with his thrusts against the wall, mumbling something John couldn't make out in the haze of sensations around him. He'd been wrong - she was hot, not as hot as Teyla, or Imala, but hot enough to make this good for him, the way her voice went low and quiet until she was just breathing and clenching around him, punctuated by needy little moans.
On his own lips he could hear himself whisper 'So good' before everything, from the lock of his legs to the muscles in abs to his throbbing dick clenched in one absolutely fantastic release. He hoped that, in the morning, he remembered this.
Well, no, okay, he really hoped he didn't remember being walked in on by one angry looking man about twice his girth. Because that part? That had sucked.
Thoughts? Comments? Feedback?
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- Andrea.
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Oh. I like me darkfic so much. Oh it's what I run to first when I have fic in a queue, dark.
And this? Was very nice. On so many levels.