Like Prayers To Broken Stone
Title: Like Prayers To Broken Stone
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing(s): Tomin/Vala
Word Count: 584
Rating: NC-17
Summary: As he moves, she can hear the prayers of prostration cross his lips.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 9:19 - Crusade. Written for abyssinia4077's LeapGate ficathon.
"Stay with me."
She reaches out to him, the gesture apparently lazy, careless. Her fingers curl around his tunic for an instant before she allows her hand to fall back on the bed, and her lips almost tilt in a smile.
Tomin shakes his head, drawing away, but she has learned to read him in the weeks since he found her. He hesitates, his eyes falling to where she lies on the bed, and it's no surprise when he sits back down, taking her hand in his.
"Only for a while," he says, and his voice is low, full of false conviction. "We must go to prostration."
She nods in apparent agreement, and when he smiles, she pulls him down towards her. His lips meet hers softly, as if in prayer, afraid she is still so fragile she might break. After a moment, he pulls away long enough for her fingers to find his tunic, twisting in the fabric as she pulls it over his head. The bedsheets fall to her waist as she sits, exposing her bare skin, and his eyes widen in the curious mix of reverence and arousal she's become unaccustomed to.
He climbs on top of her gently as he lays her back down, his soft touch betrayed by the hardness of his body above hers. She draws a leg up beside him as her fingers, feigning inexperience, fumble in the ties of his pants; she has barely begun to pull them down when he rises again, and she allows the barest hint of a pout to cross her lips.
"It is time," he says, and his voice is deeper than before, raw with desire. It takes only the faint trace of her fingertips to make his hips jerk in response, his eyes closing reflexively, and she entwines her fingers with his.
"Stay," she says again, barely breathing the word, and she can feel his body give in before his mind has allowed it.
Outside, she can hear the villagers begin to gather in prostration, their footsteps falling heavy on the ground. The noise seems to drive Tomin to her, and his kiss is less gentle this time, grinding her lips into her teeth as he climbs once more on top of her.
He had been a careful lover even on their wedding night, his caresses barely ghosting above her skin as he had taken his pleasure in her. There is none of that in him now; his hands clutch her skin hard enough that they will surely leave marks, and he raises himself up, not waiting for her assent before he enters her, quick and desperate. As he moves, she can hear the prayers of prostration cross his lips, speeding up in time with his thrusts. Where once he was slow, almost worshipful, he is now demanding, his hands moving to encircle her wrists, binding her in restraint, his flesh driving into hers in castigation. She understands his words; no longer ritual supplication, they now form a prayer for forgiveness, a plea for absolution.
His fingers draw tighter around her skin, and he freezes, shuddering in climax. The final words of the prayer taper off, and she echoes them unconsciously, moving a hand to caress his cheek as he releases her. Already she can see the apology in his eyes, and she wonders whether the contrition is for her or for the Ori.
After a moment, he withdraws from her, but does not leave. His eyes meet hers, and she understands; there are six hours of prostration left to go.
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing(s): Tomin/Vala
Word Count: 584
Rating: NC-17
Summary: As he moves, she can hear the prayers of prostration cross his lips.
Notes: Spoilers up to episode 9:19 - Crusade. Written for abyssinia4077's LeapGate ficathon.
"Stay with me."
She reaches out to him, the gesture apparently lazy, careless. Her fingers curl around his tunic for an instant before she allows her hand to fall back on the bed, and her lips almost tilt in a smile.
Tomin shakes his head, drawing away, but she has learned to read him in the weeks since he found her. He hesitates, his eyes falling to where she lies on the bed, and it's no surprise when he sits back down, taking her hand in his.
"Only for a while," he says, and his voice is low, full of false conviction. "We must go to prostration."
She nods in apparent agreement, and when he smiles, she pulls him down towards her. His lips meet hers softly, as if in prayer, afraid she is still so fragile she might break. After a moment, he pulls away long enough for her fingers to find his tunic, twisting in the fabric as she pulls it over his head. The bedsheets fall to her waist as she sits, exposing her bare skin, and his eyes widen in the curious mix of reverence and arousal she's become unaccustomed to.
He climbs on top of her gently as he lays her back down, his soft touch betrayed by the hardness of his body above hers. She draws a leg up beside him as her fingers, feigning inexperience, fumble in the ties of his pants; she has barely begun to pull them down when he rises again, and she allows the barest hint of a pout to cross her lips.
"It is time," he says, and his voice is deeper than before, raw with desire. It takes only the faint trace of her fingertips to make his hips jerk in response, his eyes closing reflexively, and she entwines her fingers with his.
"Stay," she says again, barely breathing the word, and she can feel his body give in before his mind has allowed it.
Outside, she can hear the villagers begin to gather in prostration, their footsteps falling heavy on the ground. The noise seems to drive Tomin to her, and his kiss is less gentle this time, grinding her lips into her teeth as he climbs once more on top of her.
He had been a careful lover even on their wedding night, his caresses barely ghosting above her skin as he had taken his pleasure in her. There is none of that in him now; his hands clutch her skin hard enough that they will surely leave marks, and he raises himself up, not waiting for her assent before he enters her, quick and desperate. As he moves, she can hear the prayers of prostration cross his lips, speeding up in time with his thrusts. Where once he was slow, almost worshipful, he is now demanding, his hands moving to encircle her wrists, binding her in restraint, his flesh driving into hers in castigation. She understands his words; no longer ritual supplication, they now form a prayer for forgiveness, a plea for absolution.
His fingers draw tighter around her skin, and he freezes, shuddering in climax. The final words of the prayer taper off, and she echoes them unconsciously, moving a hand to caress his cheek as he releases her. Already she can see the apology in his eyes, and she wonders whether the contrition is for her or for the Ori.
After a moment, he withdraws from her, but does not leave. His eyes meet hers, and she understands; there are six hours of prostration left to go.