So I impulsively started a little bitty porny thing at 2 a.m., and it kind of kept going, and now, four hours and four thousand words later, I give you team!porn, the breakfast of champions.
Works and Plays Well With Others
If he’d thought about it, which he hadn’t, John would have figured Ronon for the slutty one in the relationship, because he was just very physical, pretty much in all senses and with all that implied – or possibly Rodney, who turned into a cartoon character when he caught the scent of potential sex, jaw on the floor, eyes telescoping out of his head, tongue rolling out like a red carpet. Hell, John might even have figured it would be him, because let’s face it, he was pretty fucking repressed, prior to the whole live, streaming orgy happening in his bedroom on a daily basis...thing.
It wasn’t supposed to be Teyla, for Christ’s sake.
He made the mistake of saying something to that effect to Rodney, who got all agitated and acted like Teyla needed some kind of defending. “She is an elegant, sensual woman who is very in touch with her...inner...places,” Rodney said. Ronon raised his eyebrows. “Well, you know what I mean! This beautiful woman gives you everything you could ever want, and what do you do? You insult her. Men are pigs.”
“I wasn’t insulting her,” John said, although in retrospect he could see where it might have come out like that. “I mean slutty in an...empowering way. I just meant that she’s hot. And, um...sex...sex-positive. Not like, a nympho or something.”
Ronon shrugged. “She’s a woman. That’s how they are. You know,” he added, dropping his voice into something like superstitious reverence, “how they...keep going.”
“Yes, women and their magical power of multiple orgasms,” Rodney said disdainfully. “They also fly through the air and curdle milk by looking at it. They are an eerie race.”
“You don’t have to be like that,” John said, because Ronon looked a little hurt. It was never a bad thing to let the tall, dark, and scorching hot one know who was on his side, after all.
John shrugged. “You’re getting all defensive. It’s like you have this big brother gene that just goes totally out of control for no apparent reason sometimes.”
Rodney looked at him for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes and said, “Stay away from my sister.”
John hoped he was talking about Jeannie, because otherwise they were all going to need so much therapy.
She was the slutty one, though.
Early in the relationship, John thought that he was imagining it, or else – for a brief but thrilling period – that she was extra-super-enhanced slutty just for him. She had this weird, sly way of going about it, so that by the time John’s double-take was done, she was just Teyla again, cool, classy Teyla, and he got very confused. Because it was all just...really hard to believe.
She took over for him on watch at three in the morning on M9R-242, and as he gathered up his gear and moved past her toward the tent, she put just the very tip of her finger in her mouth, then slid it down the shell of his ear to his earlobe and murmured, “Sleep well, John,” in a tone that pretty much guaranteed that no such thing would be happening that night. Even Ronon’s snoring didn’t dampen the mood, and he was this close to dry-humping Rodney, and he still kept thinking it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t really have happened. Not his Teyla.
That was the thing about Teyla. Stuff that would have been plain garden-variety sexy on another woman were in a whole different stratosphere with her, because it was so unexpected. Like the way she sometimes wouldn’t let him take his boots off, or his pants, or even his frigging sidearm, just pushed him down to the bed, opened his belt, and climbed on top of him with her high-slit skirt hiked up around her hips and nothing on underneath, and it was her fucking him, just as much as when Ronon spread him out and pounded his ass. You just didn’t look at Teyla in the halls and– Well, maybe you imagined. But then you felt really, really guilty about objectifying her, because you were pretty sure it was just your dirty mind making you wonder if she’d run the bedroom the way she ran the floor in sparring practice.
It wasn’t just John’s dirty mind; she totally did.
She was even meaner with Ronon. Sometimes John and Rodney would just lie there, watching in awe as she rode Ronon deep into the mattress, making him sweat and strain and bite his lip to keep from whimpering – and then just stop, freeze every single muscle and just kneel there, looking down at him with glittering eyes and one perfect bead of sweat sliding from her temple down the side of her face. John couldn’t break Ronon and neither could Rodney, but Teyla could do it by doing nothing at all, just by watching him until he trembled and said, “Please, please, don’t, please, anything you want,” in a shaken voice.
She owned Rodney’s ass, too, but she didn’t make him beg – hell, she barely let him talk, for which miracle alone John was willing to consider the possibility that she was technically a goddess. Whenever Rodney got all existential on their asses, all analytical about what are we doing and why are we doing this and has anybody considered the possible ramifications of blah blah blah, Teyla would press a finger to his lips and then strip off her clothes with smooth, unhurried movements, lying back on their off-white sheets, and of course he followed her like she was magnetized. Teyla spent a lot of those crucial early weeks subtly training Rodney to shut up and make her come, so that by the time John stumbled out of a three-week non-stop binge of spine-melting, brain-frying, see-God-when-you-come sex with Ronon, there was suddenly this guy on his team who could make Teyla come with his pinky finger, and sadly, it wasn’t John.
John liked to think he’d gained a lot of ground since then, but Rodney was still the one who considered Teyla’s first orgasm to be basically foreplay. John wouldn’t say that Rodney was Teyla’s favorite – Teyla was too sweet to have favorites – but John was willing to admit that if he were in her shoes, he’d be pretty fucking fond of the guy who could find his g-spot and check e-mail at the same time. He was already pretty fucking fond of just watching it – the way Teyla would sit on Rodney’s lap and bring her heels up to the edge of his desk, the way Rodney’s wrist bent gracefully as he sank the fingers of the hand that wasn’t using his wireless mouse deep inside her, his chin grazing her shoulder, her hips undulating in a slow, hypnotic rhythm until her toes curled and her fingers gripped helplessly at the sides of his thighs and she growled, “Now, Rodney.” That usually marked the end of the e-mail session, as Rodney started to circle the first two fingertips of his mouse-hand around her clit and Teyla started to moan with throaty abandon and John started to calculate the odds that he was really too old to come in his pants.
All debauchery aside – and, yeah, there was a fair amount of debauchery to push aside, but all debauchery aside, in some ways they weren’t that non-traditional. Gun to his head, John would admit that on some level they were coupled up: he fucking loved Ronon so much that it sometimes swung him back and forth between nausea and euphoria, like ten hits of the most cutting-edge designer club drug there was, jammed straight into his heart like an adrenaline shot, and Rodney worshiped Teyla from her sardonic eyebrows to the grubby calluses on the bottom of her feet.
Hey, Rodney was his best friend, and best friends shared. If they occasionally swapped dearly-beloveds – or, you know, bodily fluids – then that just meant they were really good friends. If they moved into a four-room suite with one queen-sized bed and one that John was pretty sure was whatever came after a king so that they could do it more easily and more often – well, everybody should have friends like John’s. Wasn’t his fault that other people apparently didn’t.
Truthfully, John wasn’t one hundred percent sure how this thing they did got started, except that it happened all at once – one minute he was just the guy with the best and hardest-working team in Atlantis, and the next minute there was some kind of sexual tsunami, and by the time the storm died down he was in love, polyamorous, bisexual, and a voyeur, all of which was pretty much news to John. It was a weird month.
He sometimes thought Teyla was the only one who really got how weird it was. Not that it was just another day at the office for Rodney or Ronon, but still, Rodney had never been the kind of guy who needed to be told to think outside the box, and Ronon had been through the whole life-turned-upside-down thing before, and this time compared so favorably that there was no way he was going to question it. But Teyla was like John: the things she’d always been able to fall back on were things like duty and responsibility and acceptable risks, and sometimes he’d put his arms around her in bed and feel her heart pounding against his chest and her fingers digging into his back, and he’d find it weirdly comforting to know that she was just as fucking terrified as he was, out here somewhere past the end of all the maps, thirty-odd years old and finally figuring out that the world wasn’t so much flat after all.
There was an edge of desperation between them, early on, that John was pretty sure came from their need to burn off that fear with someone who knew what it was. He tore one of her little pink shirts one time, and she left gouges down his back that occasionally blossomed up red with blood.
He actually saw the moment that Teyla stopped being afraid. He was lying on his back, with his elbows digging into the mattress and his hands up so that Teyla could grab them and lean her weight on them, and she was warm and sweaty, her hair falling everywhere around their faces, rocking him slowly deeper into her with every thrust of her hips. He felt her body go taut and still, felt Rodney’s added weight push him further down, flatten her against him, saw the flare of panic in her eyes, one last moment’s resistance, and then the sudden knowing peace. He brushed her hair back softly, and then he could see Rodney better, as Rodney nuzzled the top of Teyla’s head and said, “Is this – are you okay? Does it – because we can stop if it – Teyla?”
“No,” she said, her eyelids flickering from half- to fully raised. She shifted a little, and John managed to bite down on his moan, but Rodney didn’t, and John could almost feel Rodney’s cock slide in deeper as her hips twitched up into his broad hands. “No,” she said again, and she moved again, and John could see the tension in her pretty neck and feel it along her sides where his hands stroked. “No need to stop.” She smiled down at John, wide and wild and happy, and he thought, fuck it, Teyla’s not scared and neither am I.
And from then on, it was true.
Teyla was the slutty one, and also the one with the least heightened sense of irony, which was great news for Ronon, who had failed to grasp the beauty of Star Trek, Batman, or Back to the Future, but had totally, totally embraced Earth culture insofar as it concerned porn.
“How many of these are there?” he asked with wide eyes after his first time, and John and Rodney exchanged looks, wondering how to say pretty much infinite amounts without running the risk of completely short-circuiting Ronon’s brain.
John loved Ronon more than football, more than flying, more than porn, but he didn’t love anything enough to make him take seduction tips from Jesse Jane; he just couldn’t do it, and Rodney felt, if anything, even more strongly about the subject. “You know nobody takes this stuff seriously, right?” he said, and John elbowed him hard in the ribs, because he’d already learned that if you dissed porn to Ronon, he acted like you told him that rainbows were a myth and there was a separate race of Wraith who fed off kittens.
Teyla didn’t really give a damn about porn, but she quite sensibly had a vested interest in anything that got Ronon’s dick hard, coupled with little to no cultural baggage surrounding the whole cheeseball porn thing, so she was perfectly willing to be Ronon’s go-to girl on that score.
John had mixed feelings about it all. Undeniably, parts of it were hot, but they inevitably came paired up with something either absurd or faintly creepy, which just seemed cruel, like how the sight and sound of Ronon’s big hand coming down on Teyla’s perfect ass over and over in slow, hard smacks would have been, wow, so fucking awesome, if they didn’t feel the need to talk all the way through it about what a bad girl she was, or some other shlocky crap that made John’s head hurt. Other parts were...hot in a way, but also kind of...weird when it was someone you knew and cared about, rather than some interchangeable video vixen – like the tit-fucking and the way he striped her burnished skin with pale come, or the way he liked it when she put on red lipstick and moaned hungrily around his cock. John was never sure what the turn-on-to-freak-out ratio was there.
He was cool with the reverse cowgirl, though, even if she blathered a lot about how big Ronon’s cock was. There was something about the sleek angle of her back as she leaned forward and the way Ronon’s hands slid around her flexing thighs, and after all, it wasn’t like he didn’t have a big cock. John could never honestly say that Ronon and Teyla hadn’t learned anything worthwhile from porn.
Ronon also learned how to use a digital camera, cluttering up John’s computer with naked pictures of Teyla, all splayed legs and arched back and fingering herself, and John finally gave up erasing them and started burying them in folders marked “Vacations, 1985-1995.”
Most of the time John figured that whatever kept Ronon happy could only make him happy in the long run, so he didn’t question it. It only really got to him once, and that was partially because he’d jerked off to one of those damn girlie-magazine pictures and was filled with bitterness about it, because what could be more fucking pathetic than jerking off to fake porn of a woman that he could have spent that same fifteen minutes having actual sex with if he wanted? So he took that embarrassed and irritable mood home with him, and there was Ronon, slumped on the couch with his legs splayed out and rubbing himself through his underwear while watching a bunch of undressed and oversexed women in a movie that was actually called Undressed & Oversexed, and it pissed John off, and it pissed him off even more that he somehow knew the name of the movie at a glance, and he slammed the laptop shut and said, “It’s all fake, you know. The tits, the orgasms, you name it. It’s all bullshit.”
Ronon looked up at him, puzzled, and said, “I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say...” John mumbled.
“I know what the real world is like,” Ronon said. “Sometimes I just like something that – isn’t that. Sometimes.”
And then he felt like a complete shit, because if there was anybody in two galaxies who deserved a little bit of escapist enjoyment, surely it was Ronon. So he righted the computer again and sat down beside Ronon, leaning against him with his hand on Ronon’s warm thigh, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to apologize straight out, but he murmured, “Go ahead, turn it back on.”
Ronon hesitated for a moment, then put his arm around John’s shoulders and said, “Nah. We could just – fuck around for real.” And John was momentarily speechless, but he nodded quickly and let Ronon bear him down to the couch with strong hands and sweet, cautious kisses.
Teyla was Ronon’s very favorite playmate, but John was here for real, and he didn’t plan on going anywhere, ever.
John, it turned out, was into watching. Maybe it was his natural laziness; Ronon was in his twenties and still making up for that decade-ish dry spell, Rodney was overcaffeinated and lived by the principle that if a little was good, a lot was better, and Teyla was...slutty, in a highly empowered and sex-positive way. It was easier to become a voyeur than to try to keep up.
Or maybe that was just a rationalization, because otherwise he’d been a voyeur since, say, puberty and hadn’t realized it, which was nearly thirty years of being totally oblivious, and that was lame. Or else watching Rodney and Teyla fuck like cats in heat had actually altered John’s sexuality in some profound way, and while it wouldn’t be so bad to have your sexuality altered by Teyla, come on, Rodney?
Not that John would ever admit it under any form of duress, but he thought Rodney was kind of his favorite to watch. He had such an intense, serious look on his face during sex, and he turned all red and kind of pursed his lips adorably, and he had an ass that really no pants truly did justice to, and he lit up from inside somehow when he came – the room actually seemed to get brighter.
John loved to watch him fuck Teyla – on top of her, pushing up and down so that his biceps flexed, and really, Rodney had very sexy biceps, clothing truly just did not do him any favors at all, or sometimes doggy-style, with one hand closed around her shoulder and one low on her hip, his eyes closed and his head thrown back, her breasts swaying as she rocked in time with his thrusts. They were both pragmatic and thorough, so they’d made an encyclopedic study of places in the suite that they could have sex. John wasn’t sure what their favorites were, but he liked the shower, with Rodney’s hands skidding off Teyla’s glistening skin, and the table that Teyla kept mostly full of houseplants, leaving just enough room for her to sit at the perfect height for Rodney to fuck. If plants grew better when you even just talked nicely to them, John wasn’t surprised that Teyla’s plants were always thriving.
John was into watching, but sometimes when Rodney and Teyla were giving the ficus one hell of a show, he couldn’t resist getting down on his knees and running his tongue down the crack of Rodney’s ass, which made his hips stutter and made him say, “Oh, God, oh, holy – John....”
Rodney wouldn’t let anyone give him a decent rimjob if he had fair warning; he always overthought it. Maybe John should’ve felt bad about capitalizing on those moments when Rodney was in no condition to object to much of anything, but he didn’t. He liked holding Rodney’s cheeks apart and working his tongue inside, and it was taking time, but he was getting more adept at that certain fluttering motion that made Rodney scream like a girl.
He also loved mornings when they all woke up together, because he always woke up first, and John liked to watch more than just the fucking; he liked to watch them. Rodney sacked out on his stomach, his head turned just far enough to the side so that he didn’t suffocate in his pillow – Rodney had this way of looking like he was enjoying his sleep as much as he enjoyed food and sex, like he was getting some really quality shuteye. Teyla on her back, her sleek hair turning into a rat’s nest underneath her, with Rodney’s arm tucked around her waist and her own arms splayed up above her head in a position that would have made John’s hands go completely numb but somehow didn’t seem to bother Teyla, and really set the rack off nicely, too. Ronon, looking so weirdly young and innocent, twitching restlessly like all his dreams were just as much action movies as his real life was.
John was usually the first to wake up and Ronon was usually the last. But maybe the best part of the morning was in between there, when Rodney’s eyes fluttered blearily open and John could see him take in the situation, his big, giant brain grudgingly coming online enough to remember where he was and why he was here with this gorgeous woman sleeping beside him. Then he’d smile at her, just a pure, honest smile that wasn’t meant to flatter her and wasn’t for the benefit of the guy watching him, but just because most days Rodney lived a pretty happy life. Which hadn’t always been true.
If anyone had changed as much as John had, it was probably Rodney.
Usually Rodney kissed her awake after that, and if John was really lucky, they’d have languid, sleepy sex amidst the tangled sheets, with Rodney still not quite awake and everything more unguarded than usual on his face, murmuring endearments against her neck and her cheek. It used to be that the moving around would wake Ronon up and he’d subtly or not so subtly bug John to give him a blowjob, but he’d gotten used to the fact that John almost couldn’t stand to look away, so now Ronon just left him to it and took himself in hand. Sometimes right before he came he’d reach over and grab Rodney’s hand, pull it across to help finish him off, but usually Ronon just left the show to go on undisturbed.
If they didn’t have anywhere to be for a while, John liked to eel down and push Teyla’s thighs apart when Rodney gave up his spot to go get cleaned up. She hummed pleasantly while he stroked her inner thighs, and she tasted like her and Rodney both. She usually came once right away, which John privately suspected had more to do with the limbered up, sensitized state Rodney left her in than it did with John’s talents, but he was willing to take credit for her next one, even though technically it was usually a joint effort; Teyla liked to use the edges of her fingers alongside her clit while John lapped slowly over the tip of it.
John felt he’d always been at his best as a team player, in spite of what certain authority figures had been known to say about him in the past. It had just taken him a while to find exactly the right team.