Samantha Carter moves with a grace and agility that Teyla Emmagan appreciates, basks in. Samantha is golden energy, perfect to meet the morning sun. Her blue eyes are bright, and her skin is slick with perspiration. She is a magnificent opponent.
Teyla sees that the brawler in Sam would like nothing better than to throw down her sticks and punch, kick--perhaps bite. Sam refrains, though the shadow of her effort appears briefly: the slight furrow of her brow, the tenseness of her posture between movements. Her warrior's integrity, however, overrides her urge to give in to the blood-lust, to fly in rage at her opponent.
Teyla knows that overcoming that which is a challenge, when there are easier or more preferred paths, is a challenge itself. She acknowledges Sam's struggle with the swinging arcs of her sticks, one blow landing on Sam's hip, another on her abdomen. Teyla grunts as the wood meets Sam's body, the force of it causing tremors in her arms.
Sam winces, tries to make the most of the situation, swings one of her sticks toward Teyla's ribs. She moves many milliseconds too slow.
Teyla parries the blow away. A moment of utter stillness envelops her. She could easily fell her opponent now. Does she wish to?
She does.
Teyla glides forward. Her sticks move in a swift, swooping motion, and they take Sam's feet out from under her. Sam begins her fall to the mat. She does not give up even in defeat. Her sticks drop from her hands, and she reaches for Teyla's torso. She pulls, yanks, momentum aids her. Teyla falls.
They land hard. One of Teyla's elbows hits the mat, the other hits Sam's ribs. Gravity brings Teyla to rest lying across the taller woman's body.
Teyla admonishes herself for letting the fall be so out of control. She looks at Sam, whose face is only inches away, and her thoughts cease. The Colonel's eyes are bright, her cheeks flush from their exertions. She is gazing at the ceiling, catching her breath, the joy of battle making her glow.
Teyla feels Sam's heart racing beneath her own, and she then realizes her position. She is lying atop Sam, and has made no effort to move. She fits along the other woman's curves. If this were Athos, if this were another day, it would be pleasing: a rest in the arms of someone both beautiful and a warrior. But here, on Atlantis, the situation makes her feel awkward. She tenses.
Sam meets her eyes, and Teyla can see the acknowledgment of the moment, their position, the way this could go. There is also the start of something warm in those sky-colored eyes, much like the dawn now brightening the room. Sam's breath is returning to normal. She smiles, a bit wonderingly. Teyla smiles back, the budding awkwardness fading away.
She kisses Sam. Chaste but with a slight parting of her lips. She feels Sam sigh, feels an arm gently curve around her. The kiss deepens. Their tongues intertwine, each lick is slow and wet as they taste one another. Breath, so recently steadied, is starting to quicken. Their hands flow across one another, sliding underneath fabrics, caressing. Teyla shifts into straddling Sam, seeking friction. Sam arches into her, gasping. They move together, finding a slow, but firm rhythm.
They come.
Afterward, Sam's head falls back against the mat and she closes her eyes, smile on her lips. Teyla lies beside her, reveling in the feel of Sam's body beside hers. She is content, though she is aware that Atlantis and her people are awakening, and they both have their duties elsewhere. Teyla takes a few more moments.
But only a few.
Sighing at the thought of ending this serenity, she stands, as does Sam, and they part with an unspoken promise to do this again.
As she makes her way back to her quarters, passing through beams of the morning sun, Teyla smiles.
The end