SGA fic: Five alien rituals that Lorne will never admit he enjoyed (PG)
I am still trying to work through the five things prompts!
Title: Five alien rituals that Lorne will never admit he enjoyed
For: ozsaur
Rating: PG
Words: About 1000
1. Two nights and three days of slavery.
All things said, Evan had never set out to own a slave. He's already feeling bad about the whole thing, but then again - it's not like he'd asked for it. And it was for a good cause.
"The collar suits you," he says, after Parrish is brought back into the room. He says it because he has to give their hosts the impression that he's okay with this, that there aren't any bad feelings. They seem antsy, and the antsy types are never predictable.
Still, it's pretty funny when Parrish blushes, and reaches up to finger his collar - brown leather, plain and functional, and barely half an inch wide.
Their hosts - and their guards - nod approvingly, and push Parrish forward. "He will serve you for the duration of your stay," the big man in town - Grend - says. He clears his throat pointedly.
Parrish jumps slightly, blushes again, and says, "I will."
Grend nods again. "His servitude will demonstrate your good will, your willingness to give yourselves to others in their time of need."
Evan smiles. "Great."
"And then we will be willing to trade the secrets of our technology."
Excellent. That's excellent news. Parrish fidgets. Oh, right. "Especially your secrets for such excellent harvests," Evan clarifies.
"Indeed."
"Sounds good."
Grend pushes Parrish forward again. "Serve him."
And then they're gone.
Evan sits back in the chair - it's really comfortable - and smiles up at Parrish. "Ready to serve?"
Parrish rolls his eyes, but blushes again - high, hectic colour on his cheeks, trailing right down to his shoulders. "Yes."
Fantastic. Reaching into his pack, Evan pulls things out - sunscreen (courtesy McKay), and muscle liniment (thank you, Carson), and puts them on the table. Glancing up, he sees Parrish's eyes are a little wider; something in his expression is anticipatory and apprehensive at the same time.
Evan smirks, and reaches into the pack again, this time pulling out a sheaf of paper and a laptop (from Sheppard, who'd called the mission a milk-run).
"So," he asks, leaning back again, "how are you at double checking supply requisition forms?" He holds out the stack of papers. "Because I'm really not in the mood."
Parrish is pretty hot, but he looks kind of stupid with his mouth hanging open.
2. P3X-588: The Kitten Ritual.
Truthfully, they'd been less like kittens and more like leopards, but Evan still likes to call it the Kitten Ritual. It sounds better than the They Might Eat You But if Not We'll Trust You Ritual.
Sure, being sealed (weapon-less) in a canyon with half a dozen creatures sporting teeth as long as his hand had been pretty daunting. But after half an hour, after the first questioning head-butt at his leg, he'd gotten over it.
An hour in - surrounded by lounging, sunning ritual leopards - he'd really started to relax. It was the fur - really soft. And the sun. And the fact that he wasn't being gnawed.
Then he'd started wondering about the leopards - were they captives? And if so, what was up with that? "Hey," he'd asked, "you guys ever allowed out of here?" Because the canyon wasn't exactly small, but maybe they went a little stir-crazy in there. Evan would.
Apparently it had been the right question to ask, because moments later, the locals had walked into the canyon and declared Evan and his people trustworthy and noble.
The leopards had licked his hands, bumped their heads against his legs, and walked out of the canyon.
He was pretty sure the last one out had smirked at him.
3. Flowers. And Weaving.
"The daisy-chains," the priestess said, "symbolise our relationship with nature and each other. We weave them and think on how we can better live our lives, and love the world around us." She smiled beatifically at Evan.
He nodded. Her daisy chains were perfect. His - he glanced down at his hands.
"No, my dear." She reached out and touched his fingers. "You must try not to snap the heads of the flowers off the stems."
Right. He could do this. And it was kind of relaxing, if you ignored the sap.
4. Pie.
"Faster, Major," Parrish called. "They're gaining on you."
Evan had to take Parrish's word for it, because he wasn't going to waste precious seconds looking up at his competitors.
The almost-pie eating competition was an annual event on P3X-923, and Evan and his team had arrived just in time. Tradition dictated that each new group of arrivals to the planet had to enter a contestant.
Evan had been the team's choice. "You're the leader, sir," Stackhouse had said.
Cowards. But Evan could do pie. He really, really could. Especially since it was pretty damn delicious - even if it was a disturbing green colour - and a smiling woman served each new pan.
He was going to win this thing. Rumour had it there was a trophy in it.
5. The room with the frescos.
"Decorate one another," the leader of the Tryadans said. She gestured, and two men stepped forward, each holding a tray covered in shallow bowls. The bowls were filled with bright, colourful paints; Evan could see they were thick, needing heavy brushes, or fingers.
"Retire to the anointing room," she continued. "When you are finished, your work will be judged."
Evan stiffened, frowning, and she smiled. "Fear not. There is no shame in the judging. The patterns that you make simply tells us who you are, to each other and yourselves."
The anointing room was fresco and tile, aqua and sky with flashes of bright yellow. They took their time, Cadman picking reds and oranges as her colours, Parrish choosing greens and browns. Stackhouse took the purples, the faintest blues, and Evan traced their hands and backs with thin, black swirls and feathery brushstrokes that tied all of their colours together.
They took their time, and the room was silent, save for the sounds of wet brushes against skin, and the occasional contented hum.
When they emerged, the leader and her entourage stood, unspeaking.
And then she smiled.
Title: Five alien rituals that Lorne will never admit he enjoyed
For: ozsaur
Rating: PG
Words: About 1000
1. Two nights and three days of slavery.
All things said, Evan had never set out to own a slave. He's already feeling bad about the whole thing, but then again - it's not like he'd asked for it. And it was for a good cause.
"The collar suits you," he says, after Parrish is brought back into the room. He says it because he has to give their hosts the impression that he's okay with this, that there aren't any bad feelings. They seem antsy, and the antsy types are never predictable.
Still, it's pretty funny when Parrish blushes, and reaches up to finger his collar - brown leather, plain and functional, and barely half an inch wide.
Their hosts - and their guards - nod approvingly, and push Parrish forward. "He will serve you for the duration of your stay," the big man in town - Grend - says. He clears his throat pointedly.
Parrish jumps slightly, blushes again, and says, "I will."
Grend nods again. "His servitude will demonstrate your good will, your willingness to give yourselves to others in their time of need."
Evan smiles. "Great."
"And then we will be willing to trade the secrets of our technology."
Excellent. That's excellent news. Parrish fidgets. Oh, right. "Especially your secrets for such excellent harvests," Evan clarifies.
"Indeed."
"Sounds good."
Grend pushes Parrish forward again. "Serve him."
And then they're gone.
Evan sits back in the chair - it's really comfortable - and smiles up at Parrish. "Ready to serve?"
Parrish rolls his eyes, but blushes again - high, hectic colour on his cheeks, trailing right down to his shoulders. "Yes."
Fantastic. Reaching into his pack, Evan pulls things out - sunscreen (courtesy McKay), and muscle liniment (thank you, Carson), and puts them on the table. Glancing up, he sees Parrish's eyes are a little wider; something in his expression is anticipatory and apprehensive at the same time.
Evan smirks, and reaches into the pack again, this time pulling out a sheaf of paper and a laptop (from Sheppard, who'd called the mission a milk-run).
"So," he asks, leaning back again, "how are you at double checking supply requisition forms?" He holds out the stack of papers. "Because I'm really not in the mood."
Parrish is pretty hot, but he looks kind of stupid with his mouth hanging open.
2. P3X-588: The Kitten Ritual.
Truthfully, they'd been less like kittens and more like leopards, but Evan still likes to call it the Kitten Ritual. It sounds better than the They Might Eat You But if Not We'll Trust You Ritual.
Sure, being sealed (weapon-less) in a canyon with half a dozen creatures sporting teeth as long as his hand had been pretty daunting. But after half an hour, after the first questioning head-butt at his leg, he'd gotten over it.
An hour in - surrounded by lounging, sunning ritual leopards - he'd really started to relax. It was the fur - really soft. And the sun. And the fact that he wasn't being gnawed.
Then he'd started wondering about the leopards - were they captives? And if so, what was up with that? "Hey," he'd asked, "you guys ever allowed out of here?" Because the canyon wasn't exactly small, but maybe they went a little stir-crazy in there. Evan would.
Apparently it had been the right question to ask, because moments later, the locals had walked into the canyon and declared Evan and his people trustworthy and noble.
The leopards had licked his hands, bumped their heads against his legs, and walked out of the canyon.
He was pretty sure the last one out had smirked at him.
3. Flowers. And Weaving.
"The daisy-chains," the priestess said, "symbolise our relationship with nature and each other. We weave them and think on how we can better live our lives, and love the world around us." She smiled beatifically at Evan.
He nodded. Her daisy chains were perfect. His - he glanced down at his hands.
"No, my dear." She reached out and touched his fingers. "You must try not to snap the heads of the flowers off the stems."
Right. He could do this. And it was kind of relaxing, if you ignored the sap.
4. Pie.
"Faster, Major," Parrish called. "They're gaining on you."
Evan had to take Parrish's word for it, because he wasn't going to waste precious seconds looking up at his competitors.
The almost-pie eating competition was an annual event on P3X-923, and Evan and his team had arrived just in time. Tradition dictated that each new group of arrivals to the planet had to enter a contestant.
Evan had been the team's choice. "You're the leader, sir," Stackhouse had said.
Cowards. But Evan could do pie. He really, really could. Especially since it was pretty damn delicious - even if it was a disturbing green colour - and a smiling woman served each new pan.
He was going to win this thing. Rumour had it there was a trophy in it.
5. The room with the frescos.
"Decorate one another," the leader of the Tryadans said. She gestured, and two men stepped forward, each holding a tray covered in shallow bowls. The bowls were filled with bright, colourful paints; Evan could see they were thick, needing heavy brushes, or fingers.
"Retire to the anointing room," she continued. "When you are finished, your work will be judged."
Evan stiffened, frowning, and she smiled. "Fear not. There is no shame in the judging. The patterns that you make simply tells us who you are, to each other and yourselves."
The anointing room was fresco and tile, aqua and sky with flashes of bright yellow. They took their time, Cadman picking reds and oranges as her colours, Parrish choosing greens and browns. Stackhouse took the purples, the faintest blues, and Evan traced their hands and backs with thin, black swirls and feathery brushstrokes that tied all of their colours together.
They took their time, and the room was silent, save for the sounds of wet brushes against skin, and the occasional contented hum.
When they emerged, the leader and her entourage stood, unspeaking.
And then she smiled.