Um, ficlets?
Okay, I know I've been in a weird mental-space these past few days but I didn't think it was the kind of mental space that would suddenly have me writing entries for the porn battle because really, seriously, I don't write porn. I don't know how to write porn.
And I seem to be on a mission to ship Elizabeth Weir out to every member of SG-1 (though there are no Elizabeth/Sam prompts! *wails at misfortune*)
Regardless, two here, and no clue if there will ever be more where these came from because, seriously, I have no idea what's getting me to write this.
things which are precious, Daniel/Elizabeth, sacrifice
Daniel is trembling in her arms, head thrashing, and goosebumps covering his skin even as she wipes sweat from his brow.
This was not what was supposed to happen when they sent her away from Atlantis, to a six month forced sabbatical at SGC. Nowhere did her orders mention being trapped in a pit on an alien world with SGC's most famous civilian, nowhere did it mention dying with him, and Daniel has a much better track record at coming back from the dead than she does.
She's read all the reports, met Daniel, known Daniel, known his lack of hesitation for self-sacrifice, but never expected to be sacrificed alongside. She shouldn't have been surprised when he didn't hesitate before offering himself to take the punishment meant for two SG teams, though he did seem a little surprised when the villagers assumed Elizabeth was part of the bargain.
Daniel shifts again, muttering as Elizabeth draws him tighter and she strokes his arm, whispering in his ear, some babble about holding out a little bit longer that even she doesn't pay attention to. When his mouth opens as if to shout, only the quietest whisper escapes, a long stream of names - some she recognizes and some she doesn't - and finally, in desperation, she bends over and kisses him.
He freezes - every limb rigid - for just a second before relaxing, reaching up to turn the brief kiss into a battle of tongues until Elizabeth finally has to pull back and gasp for air. Still feverish, still moving as though he's half blind, he responds like a man on a mission and this is Daniel Jackson, the man she'd admired back when he was the young linguist with so much potential who disgraced himself and then disappeared, the man who's saved the planet, the galaxy, the universe more times than she can count. Plus, he's not so hard on the eyes and when you're probably going to die in a pit far from home, you don't get choosy about your final hours.
So when his hands creep under the hem of her shirt she leans over to nibble the skin on his neck, whisper Italian in his ear, and when his fingers trace up her spine, around her ribcage, circle in towards her breasts she unzips his jacket and opens his belt, popping open one BDU button at a time.
Soon he is on top of her, both their shirts rucked up, and pressing down groin-to-groin, breathing in short staccato gasps as his movements slowly fade and exhaustion once again seizes his muscles. At his frustrated whimper Elizabeth reaches down, takes him in hand, and strokes, long and slow and unceasing until he finally climaxes with a high keening from deep in his throat, and collapses next to her.
Unsatisfied, she's about to take matters into her own hands but he reaches across, sliding two fingers inside her and stroking with his thumb. When his mouth finds her one exposed breast she finally comes, relishing the warmth and and peace that follows more than the climax itself.
She removes the bandana from his head, using it to clean them as much as possible before quickly replacing clothes, trying to save as much heat as possible. After they are zipped and buttoned, he pulls her close, pressing against her and breathing warmly onto the back of her neck. "Two more days," she whispers and his arms tighten for just a second. Maybe they'll make it.
impossible aches, Jack/Elizabeth, wounds
The glass he puts in her hand is cold, condensation forming on the outside to drip over her fingers. Elizabeth stares into his eyes before tossing it back, feeling the strong Athosian liquor burn its way down her throat.
General O'Neill settles on top of her trunk - stuffed full of nearly everything she plans to take back to Earth. His hands are empty and Elizabeth remembers Daniel telling her that Jack rarely drinks anything but beer.
There are hints of Sheppard in the older soldier across from her, a similar wariness, a reticence, a promise of danger emanating from beneath his skin. When she last saw him, he hadn't really been there and she'd lost Atlantis then too, never really had it. Even as the alcohol heats her blood, she feels cold and trapped, and she stands, escaping out the door to her balcony where she can look over the ocean, breathe in the salty alien air of a home she might never see again.
He leaves her alone for five minutes and then comes out, standing close behind her and reaching around to cover each of her hands. She doesn't relax her grip on the railing. There are calluses on his fingertips and palms, rough against her hand, and she can see tiny scars across his knuckles, slightly whiter than the tanned skin. Faint, longer scars reach to where his sleeves hit mid-forearm. It makes her think of grad school - a soldier's memoir assigned for a seminar and a passage about the deep wounds hurting more after they've become scars, about the wounds that leave no scars.
Reading it then, safe in her ivory academic tower, she thought she understood.
But now, in her tower of metal and glass, her tower which has been fought for, which has seen blood spilled, she finally understands.
"This is our home," she whispers, because she cannot scream it at the Ancients claiming the corridors below her, because every member of her team is leaving behind part of their being when they step through the 'gate tomorrow.
Jack's fingers tighten around hers and he leans in close so she can feel his breath on the back of her neck as a warning before he kisses behind her ear, trailing down to where her neck meets shoulder and she pulls away for a second, then turns so he can wrap his arms around her waist.
There is an intensity to his movements and a silent confidence that reminds her he was once Special Ops and by the time he gets her into bed, all one long, graceful dance, their jackets are gone, shoes long forgotten, and her shirt comes over her head before he leans her back onto the pillows. He straddles her hips, pulling off his own shirt, and freezes as her fingers reach up to trace the scars that cross his torso. Most are faded with age and she tries to find the story in his skin, recognizes some from reports she read outside the Oval Office, surrounded by boxes and boxes of the most amazing story never told.
With a grunt he interrupts her thoughts, lowering himself down to kiss her, slowly working his way down her torso with fingers and soft lips surrounded by stubble. He is so methodical that her hips arch off the bed before he even unzips her pants. She reaches down to brush across his shoulders, the top of his head, as he removes the last of her clothing and she fumbles in the drawer next to her, hands him a condom, while he strokes the crease above her thigh.
He doesn't ask her twice, rolling on the condom and entering her, letting her roll him onto his back so she can have that modicum of control as her life spins away from her grasp. When she can feel her climax building, her breath coming short and sharp, he pulls her down so his mouth can reach her breasts and reaches his other hand between them, crooking his thumb to give her something harder to rub against. His hips still when her muscles clench around him and he lets her ride it out before turning them again, laying her down and pumping into her until he reaches his own climax.
When it's done - used condom tied and tossed and bedsheet haphazardly pulled over them - Elizabeth lies on her back staring at the ceiling, unable to thank him for the distraction. His hand - long fingers and rough calluses - is splayed across her stomach as though he can feel the wound deep inside - the empty, pulsing ache shaped like a city, shaped like a dream.
Sleep in the Dust of the Earth, Stargate SG-1, Daniel/Jonas/Sam, silence
Jonas doesn't react when the door opens and voices stream in. They'd locked him in this cell four months after Langara fell. In the two months he's been here, nothing good has come through that door.
When he sees the familiar faces, he steels himself for another trick, silently follows them into the hallway like he's done so many times. He considers believing when they actually take him to the surface where he blinks eyes unused to this much light and looks over the wasteland that was home. The man on his right says something about refugees being taken to another planet, the woman on his left about him coming back with them, and then they're at the DHD and the stargate he's dreamed about and dialing the address that has haunted him and he steps through, Doctor Jackson on one arm and Colonel Carter on the other, and he still doesn't believe it.
When their feet hit SGC's ramp he collapses, letting the metal grind into his kneecaps and bite the skin of his palms. He could keep this prostration for hours. The Ori soldiers physically took Langara, but the Prior was determined to win its heart. When he'd finally found Jonas, hiding deep and organizing the rebellion, he'd seen in him a man he could use, focused all his attention on subverting Jonas to the Ori. For two months the only words he's heard were from the book of Origin, stories of salvation read by men who made his life hell. He hasn't spoken a word since his capture.
There are tests, followed by bland food, more tests, and then evaluations and eventually he is lead to VIP quarters, Carter and Jackson again on each arm, still convinced he will turn a corner and it will all be gone.
They talk as they put him into bed. He doesn't hear the words but he thinks Colonel Carter sounds worried, Doctor Jackson angry, and when they turn to go Jonas grabs her sleeve, clutches it like a lifeline, knowing that if he's left alone they won't come back. They lie down on either side of him and he manages to close his eyes, holding tightly so they can't disappear.
He wakes to feather-soft touches, to Sam's lips on his shoulder and Daniel's fingers in his hair and he doesn't know if they are comforting him from a nightmare or if he's currently in a dream to avoid a nightmare so he lies still and silent as they continue their ministrations. Daniel finds each scar - they'd given him the scars of a Prior, cut his skin over and over until the Ori symbols stood out angry and livid - as though he somehow, impossibly, knows where they will be, not just the ones on his hands and face but the ones normally hidden beneath the clothing slowly being removed. He traces the scars first with fingers, then with lips, focusing so intently that Jonas almost expects each scar to be gone as he moves to the next. Sam strokes his arms and back, working fingers into tense muscles, forcing his body to relax.
Once Daniel has mapped every scar he comes back up to focus on Jonas, carding through his hair, rubbing thumbs along his cheekbones, and Sam bends down, uses fingertips and lips to slowly bring forth the first erection Jonas has had in months. He is grateful for the condom she places on him before taking him into her mouth, because even with the thin barrier the stimulation is almost more than he can bear and he opens his mouth as though he can make a sound only to find Daniel cover his lips with his own. They work him slow and thorough and leave him spent on the mattress, clutching the sheets and more alive than he can remember feeling.
Jonas watches as Daniel crosses over him, wraps himself around Sam, and initiates much fiercer contact than they brought to Jonas. He marvels at the gasps, at the beauty of athletic, healthy bodies - at how alive and strong Daniel is and at Sam's feminine grace, which doesn't stop her from dominating this coupling. Only when they are done and look back at him does he realize he is sobbing, silent tears streaking down his cheeks.
Sam grabs the box of tissues and they hold him until he calms - Sam's softness on one side and Daniel's warmth on the other. Between them, safe, Jonas closes his eyes and finally dares to believe that when he wakes, this will not be a dream.
And I seem to be on a mission to ship Elizabeth Weir out to every member of SG-1 (though there are no Elizabeth/Sam prompts! *wails at misfortune*)
Regardless, two here, and no clue if there will ever be more where these came from because, seriously, I have no idea what's getting me to write this.
things which are precious, Daniel/Elizabeth, sacrifice
Daniel is trembling in her arms, head thrashing, and goosebumps covering his skin even as she wipes sweat from his brow.
This was not what was supposed to happen when they sent her away from Atlantis, to a six month forced sabbatical at SGC. Nowhere did her orders mention being trapped in a pit on an alien world with SGC's most famous civilian, nowhere did it mention dying with him, and Daniel has a much better track record at coming back from the dead than she does.
She's read all the reports, met Daniel, known Daniel, known his lack of hesitation for self-sacrifice, but never expected to be sacrificed alongside. She shouldn't have been surprised when he didn't hesitate before offering himself to take the punishment meant for two SG teams, though he did seem a little surprised when the villagers assumed Elizabeth was part of the bargain.
Daniel shifts again, muttering as Elizabeth draws him tighter and she strokes his arm, whispering in his ear, some babble about holding out a little bit longer that even she doesn't pay attention to. When his mouth opens as if to shout, only the quietest whisper escapes, a long stream of names - some she recognizes and some she doesn't - and finally, in desperation, she bends over and kisses him.
He freezes - every limb rigid - for just a second before relaxing, reaching up to turn the brief kiss into a battle of tongues until Elizabeth finally has to pull back and gasp for air. Still feverish, still moving as though he's half blind, he responds like a man on a mission and this is Daniel Jackson, the man she'd admired back when he was the young linguist with so much potential who disgraced himself and then disappeared, the man who's saved the planet, the galaxy, the universe more times than she can count. Plus, he's not so hard on the eyes and when you're probably going to die in a pit far from home, you don't get choosy about your final hours.
So when his hands creep under the hem of her shirt she leans over to nibble the skin on his neck, whisper Italian in his ear, and when his fingers trace up her spine, around her ribcage, circle in towards her breasts she unzips his jacket and opens his belt, popping open one BDU button at a time.
Soon he is on top of her, both their shirts rucked up, and pressing down groin-to-groin, breathing in short staccato gasps as his movements slowly fade and exhaustion once again seizes his muscles. At his frustrated whimper Elizabeth reaches down, takes him in hand, and strokes, long and slow and unceasing until he finally climaxes with a high keening from deep in his throat, and collapses next to her.
Unsatisfied, she's about to take matters into her own hands but he reaches across, sliding two fingers inside her and stroking with his thumb. When his mouth finds her one exposed breast she finally comes, relishing the warmth and and peace that follows more than the climax itself.
She removes the bandana from his head, using it to clean them as much as possible before quickly replacing clothes, trying to save as much heat as possible. After they are zipped and buttoned, he pulls her close, pressing against her and breathing warmly onto the back of her neck. "Two more days," she whispers and his arms tighten for just a second. Maybe they'll make it.
impossible aches, Jack/Elizabeth, wounds
The glass he puts in her hand is cold, condensation forming on the outside to drip over her fingers. Elizabeth stares into his eyes before tossing it back, feeling the strong Athosian liquor burn its way down her throat.
General O'Neill settles on top of her trunk - stuffed full of nearly everything she plans to take back to Earth. His hands are empty and Elizabeth remembers Daniel telling her that Jack rarely drinks anything but beer.
There are hints of Sheppard in the older soldier across from her, a similar wariness, a reticence, a promise of danger emanating from beneath his skin. When she last saw him, he hadn't really been there and she'd lost Atlantis then too, never really had it. Even as the alcohol heats her blood, she feels cold and trapped, and she stands, escaping out the door to her balcony where she can look over the ocean, breathe in the salty alien air of a home she might never see again.
He leaves her alone for five minutes and then comes out, standing close behind her and reaching around to cover each of her hands. She doesn't relax her grip on the railing. There are calluses on his fingertips and palms, rough against her hand, and she can see tiny scars across his knuckles, slightly whiter than the tanned skin. Faint, longer scars reach to where his sleeves hit mid-forearm. It makes her think of grad school - a soldier's memoir assigned for a seminar and a passage about the deep wounds hurting more after they've become scars, about the wounds that leave no scars.
Reading it then, safe in her ivory academic tower, she thought she understood.
But now, in her tower of metal and glass, her tower which has been fought for, which has seen blood spilled, she finally understands.
"This is our home," she whispers, because she cannot scream it at the Ancients claiming the corridors below her, because every member of her team is leaving behind part of their being when they step through the 'gate tomorrow.
Jack's fingers tighten around hers and he leans in close so she can feel his breath on the back of her neck as a warning before he kisses behind her ear, trailing down to where her neck meets shoulder and she pulls away for a second, then turns so he can wrap his arms around her waist.
There is an intensity to his movements and a silent confidence that reminds her he was once Special Ops and by the time he gets her into bed, all one long, graceful dance, their jackets are gone, shoes long forgotten, and her shirt comes over her head before he leans her back onto the pillows. He straddles her hips, pulling off his own shirt, and freezes as her fingers reach up to trace the scars that cross his torso. Most are faded with age and she tries to find the story in his skin, recognizes some from reports she read outside the Oval Office, surrounded by boxes and boxes of the most amazing story never told.
With a grunt he interrupts her thoughts, lowering himself down to kiss her, slowly working his way down her torso with fingers and soft lips surrounded by stubble. He is so methodical that her hips arch off the bed before he even unzips her pants. She reaches down to brush across his shoulders, the top of his head, as he removes the last of her clothing and she fumbles in the drawer next to her, hands him a condom, while he strokes the crease above her thigh.
He doesn't ask her twice, rolling on the condom and entering her, letting her roll him onto his back so she can have that modicum of control as her life spins away from her grasp. When she can feel her climax building, her breath coming short and sharp, he pulls her down so his mouth can reach her breasts and reaches his other hand between them, crooking his thumb to give her something harder to rub against. His hips still when her muscles clench around him and he lets her ride it out before turning them again, laying her down and pumping into her until he reaches his own climax.
When it's done - used condom tied and tossed and bedsheet haphazardly pulled over them - Elizabeth lies on her back staring at the ceiling, unable to thank him for the distraction. His hand - long fingers and rough calluses - is splayed across her stomach as though he can feel the wound deep inside - the empty, pulsing ache shaped like a city, shaped like a dream.
Sleep in the Dust of the Earth, Stargate SG-1, Daniel/Jonas/Sam, silence
Jonas doesn't react when the door opens and voices stream in. They'd locked him in this cell four months after Langara fell. In the two months he's been here, nothing good has come through that door.
When he sees the familiar faces, he steels himself for another trick, silently follows them into the hallway like he's done so many times. He considers believing when they actually take him to the surface where he blinks eyes unused to this much light and looks over the wasteland that was home. The man on his right says something about refugees being taken to another planet, the woman on his left about him coming back with them, and then they're at the DHD and the stargate he's dreamed about and dialing the address that has haunted him and he steps through, Doctor Jackson on one arm and Colonel Carter on the other, and he still doesn't believe it.
When their feet hit SGC's ramp he collapses, letting the metal grind into his kneecaps and bite the skin of his palms. He could keep this prostration for hours. The Ori soldiers physically took Langara, but the Prior was determined to win its heart. When he'd finally found Jonas, hiding deep and organizing the rebellion, he'd seen in him a man he could use, focused all his attention on subverting Jonas to the Ori. For two months the only words he's heard were from the book of Origin, stories of salvation read by men who made his life hell. He hasn't spoken a word since his capture.
There are tests, followed by bland food, more tests, and then evaluations and eventually he is lead to VIP quarters, Carter and Jackson again on each arm, still convinced he will turn a corner and it will all be gone.
They talk as they put him into bed. He doesn't hear the words but he thinks Colonel Carter sounds worried, Doctor Jackson angry, and when they turn to go Jonas grabs her sleeve, clutches it like a lifeline, knowing that if he's left alone they won't come back. They lie down on either side of him and he manages to close his eyes, holding tightly so they can't disappear.
He wakes to feather-soft touches, to Sam's lips on his shoulder and Daniel's fingers in his hair and he doesn't know if they are comforting him from a nightmare or if he's currently in a dream to avoid a nightmare so he lies still and silent as they continue their ministrations. Daniel finds each scar - they'd given him the scars of a Prior, cut his skin over and over until the Ori symbols stood out angry and livid - as though he somehow, impossibly, knows where they will be, not just the ones on his hands and face but the ones normally hidden beneath the clothing slowly being removed. He traces the scars first with fingers, then with lips, focusing so intently that Jonas almost expects each scar to be gone as he moves to the next. Sam strokes his arms and back, working fingers into tense muscles, forcing his body to relax.
Once Daniel has mapped every scar he comes back up to focus on Jonas, carding through his hair, rubbing thumbs along his cheekbones, and Sam bends down, uses fingertips and lips to slowly bring forth the first erection Jonas has had in months. He is grateful for the condom she places on him before taking him into her mouth, because even with the thin barrier the stimulation is almost more than he can bear and he opens his mouth as though he can make a sound only to find Daniel cover his lips with his own. They work him slow and thorough and leave him spent on the mattress, clutching the sheets and more alive than he can remember feeling.
Jonas watches as Daniel crosses over him, wraps himself around Sam, and initiates much fiercer contact than they brought to Jonas. He marvels at the gasps, at the beauty of athletic, healthy bodies - at how alive and strong Daniel is and at Sam's feminine grace, which doesn't stop her from dominating this coupling. Only when they are done and look back at him does he realize he is sobbing, silent tears streaking down his cheeks.
Sam grabs the box of tissues and they hold him until he calms - Sam's softness on one side and Daniel's warmth on the other. Between them, safe, Jonas closes his eyes and finally dares to believe that when he wakes, this will not be a dream.