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In a fit of writing and insanity, I posted my first Stargate story tonight. Stupid Bellinis, making me brave.
Title: Rationale
Author: elly427
Summary: 'She's so tired.' Sam Carter, denial and rationale.
Classifications: Sam/Jack, Sam/Peter (sort of.) Angst.
Spoilers: Grace, Chimera, Death Knell
Archive: SJD-yes, SJAdult, Helio2. Others, please ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks for bring it up. Or, Stargate SG-1 and
its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double
Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story
for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged
hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original
characters, situations, and story are the property of the author.
Author's notes: Inspired by the Death Knell pic (you know the one. The one here: www.gateworld.net/sg1/s7/graphics/716_31.shtml. Thaaaat’s right.)
For K, because she gets it, even when she mocks me.
[][][]
Rationale:
1. A reasoned exposition of principles; an explanation or statement of reasons; a set of reasoned rules or directions.
2. The fundamental reason, the logical or rational basis (of anything).
[][][]
She's exhausted. Completely and totally exhausted. And she has a boyfriend.
That's enough to convince her it's okay to put her head down on his shoulder. It's enough to make it okay to let him pull her closer, to let him rub his cheek against her hair. It's enough.
It's enough to let him refuse to have them separated, enough to collapse back into his arms on the bed in the makeshift Alpha site infirmary. Enough to be okay with his hand slowly stroking the skin that has been bared when her t-shirt rides up during the doctor's examination.
Because that shiver that racks her tired, sore body? That's okay, because she's got Peter, and she's not the sort of woman to cheat on her lover.
She also believe she's not the sort of woman to wilfully ignore regulations. So it's okay when he guides her to one of the few rooms in the barracks that was left untouched by Anubis' attack. It's alright that he enters the room with her, right by her side, one arm firmly locked around her waist.
She's exhausted. She has a boyfriend waiting at home to whom she will have to explain her cuts and bruises.
That's enough to prevent her from protesting when he tugs the rest of her shirt from her pants, enough to stand there, mostly passive, let him peel the sodden garment from her body and drop it on the floor. It's enough to let him do the same with her boots, socks and pants.
It's okay that she's standing in front of him in a grey sports bra and black panties, swaying slightly because she is so. tired. and she's got Peter a hundred thousand light years away, and he is pulling his shirt over his head, so she's not the only one half dressed anymore.
His pants, shoes, socks hitting the floor? Not a problem. She's bone weary and has Peter. That little shiver of awareness, of attraction that works its way through her tired limbs? It's okay.
His hands, brushing down her arms, warming her because he's kind and thinks she's shivering because of cold and because she's tired are more than fine, are enough to make her less tired, which is starting to make this, standing barely dressed in a locked room with her CO, less okay but maybe that's fine.
And leaning forward, touching her tongue to that spot where his neck meets his shoulder, just above, then below, his dog tag chain, tasting skin that tastes like dirt and dust and his sweat and maybe, though she hopes not, tears? It's okay. She's tired.
The shudder that works its way across his skin that momentarily dislodges her mouth from him? Well, it's not necessarily sexual. More likely he's tired too.
She is exhausted. Has been for three days.
She has a boyfriend.
His hands in her hair are to be expected, she supposes. The slow turning of her head, that tentative first brush of his lips against hers? She's been standing so long; maybe this is just a hallucination.
And so it's perfectly normal to deepen the kiss, to open her mouth and suck his bottom lip, bite it softly with her teeth, because if this isn't a dream, she might need to stop. But she's so tired. How could there be anything wrong with this? This gentle play of lips and teeth and tongue, wet and hot after days of being high and dry, alone. What's wrong with finally, finally leaning on him?
She's so tired.
And if she sags against him, wraps her arms around his neck, lets the kiss get a little out of control, a little frantic, a little desperate, well, she can't be expected to keep everything under control all the time. If she could get home she's sure she'd be turning to Peter for comfort, except a little voice in the back of her mind reminds her she can never, ever tell him about this, can never tell him why she will arrive home, broken into a million shining pieces, why she needs to drink from his mouth, feel a heat that is from a human body and not a burning sun.
She needs this, needs the man in front of her, needs his hands on her body, needs him to lead her to the bed, to turn her and seat her on the edge, to push her back and gently lay on top of her, hard and hot and so, so different from her lonely days in the dessert. She needs to gasp, to groan, to whine a little when he pulls his mouth away to pull her sports bra over her head, needs to dig her nails into his naked back as he sucks at her throat, then groans at the sight of her bare breasts, moves down to lick and taste the sweat-flavoured skin.
She's too exhausted; it won't do to have a shower remove the sweat, the pain of the last few days. She needs him, and it's alright, acceptable, because she hasn't slept well in so long and regs don’t matter because she has someone who shares her bed at home.
And it makes his hands sliding her underwear down her legs without hesitation okay, makes the trail of kisses he makes from her breast to her belly fine. Makes the ten minutes he takes learning the flesh of her stomach perfectly acceptable to her tired mind.
The wave that passes over her body as she feels him breathe her in? That first moan at his tentative touches to her sensitive slit? His growing confidence, the way he laps up her arousal frantically, as if he can't get enough of the taste? It's nothing Peter wouldn't do for her. If he could.
But he can't, so she forgets about him for just a minute, tangles her hands in the wonderful grey hair that is such a contrast to the pale gold of her skin, of her hair. Pulls him into her further, writhes beneath him, because no one but him can do this, no one but this man lying cradled between her thighs, licking and sucking and nipping, and she is no longer tired, is no longer thinking of anyone but him and what his mouth, his hands, his entire being is doing to her.
And she breaks. Heat, warm, comfortable, blessedly human heat rushes through her body, makes her arch her back and twist her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer even as her hips retreat towards the bed, the sensations at once too. much and not. enough.
So much more than okay.
Then he is covering her again, his body warm over hers, bringing her back down, his mouth open and wet and tasting of her, showing her who she is, something she had been afraid she had lost these last three days.
He shifts, and she feels him, hard and hotter than the rest of him, not demanding, just there. And she is still tired, but she needs him, needs to mark the end of her trials with something, and he seems to be it.
What she wants is to roll him over, to climb on top of him and ride him, let him watch as she takes in the pleasures of her own body and his. But she is tired, so tired now that she could merely roll into his arms and sleep for days, days and days until she returns through the Stargate to the man currently warming her earth-bound bed.
So instead she finds those last reserves of strength that the orgasm he has given her had replenished, and she moves her hips, nudges against him, traps him hard between their bodies and absorbs his groan with smiling lips.
He wants to speak but she will not let him, cannot face what he might say, so she lets one hand move down his back, sure, steady, confident, but with a sense of weariness. Trails her hand down and in, across, finds him, hot and hard and so, so what she needs, and guides him to her opening. Lets his heat push into her wetness and finds everything she wants and needs after three days in the dessert.
Wet skin slaps against wet skin, mouths break away and gasp and moan. She clenches around him, knowing Peter likes it, knowing Jonas liked it, and finding, profoundly, he is just another man. He braces himself, puts his hands next to her head and begins to thrust deeper, harder, makes an effort to grind himself against her, to part her wet folds and move his pubic bone against her. His arms muffle some sounds and enhance others, and soon, sooner than she'd like, she's at the edge, ready to careen over as his grinding and the sound of their mingled moans are filtered through his skin.
He feels her tighten and she watches as he screws up his face in concentration even as a smirk of epic proportions graces his lips. She can almost hear his thoughts, feels his pride at bringing her to this point twice in one night, especially when she is so, so tired. The smirk changes, softens, morphs into a pained smile as he thrusts into her HARD, hitting her clit just right and she is coming coming coming, and he is spilling inside her, heat and wet and so, so good, all she wanted the last three days.
It is minutes or hours later when she comes to herself and finds she is sprawled half on top of him. Peter nearly builds a wall down the middle of the bed after sex, and she is tired now so she takes advantage, curls into him, brings her leg up so her thigh just brushes his now-soft cock, still wet with her and him.
She hears him sigh, wants to comfort him, to reassure him what they've done is okay, fine, alright, will not effect them, isn’t wrong. But she is tired, exhausted even, and she has to face her boyfriend tomorrow, lie about the cuts and scraps and finger-shaped bruises on her hips, on her thighs, has to explain why she doesn't want to have sex after being away, has to look General Hammond in the eye and not tell him why she is okay, why her three long, lonely days in the desert no longer haunt her.
She sleeps, and it’ll be okay
[][][]
‘I'm saying you're missing something vital from your life. And the sad part is you have no idea what I'm talking about.’
[][][]
Title: Rationale
Author: elly427
Summary: 'She's so tired.' Sam Carter, denial and rationale.
Classifications: Sam/Jack, Sam/Peter (sort of.) Angst.
Spoilers: Grace, Chimera, Death Knell
Archive: SJD-yes, SJAdult, Helio2. Others, please ask.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks for bring it up. Or, Stargate SG-1 and
its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double
Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story
for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged
hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original
characters, situations, and story are the property of the author.
Author's notes: Inspired by the Death Knell pic (you know the one. The one here: www.gateworld.net/sg1/s7/graphics/716_31.shtml. Thaaaat’s right.)
For K, because she gets it, even when she mocks me.
[][][]
Rationale:
1. A reasoned exposition of principles; an explanation or statement of reasons; a set of reasoned rules or directions.
2. The fundamental reason, the logical or rational basis (of anything).
[][][]
She's exhausted. Completely and totally exhausted. And she has a boyfriend.
That's enough to convince her it's okay to put her head down on his shoulder. It's enough to make it okay to let him pull her closer, to let him rub his cheek against her hair. It's enough.
It's enough to let him refuse to have them separated, enough to collapse back into his arms on the bed in the makeshift Alpha site infirmary. Enough to be okay with his hand slowly stroking the skin that has been bared when her t-shirt rides up during the doctor's examination.
Because that shiver that racks her tired, sore body? That's okay, because she's got Peter, and she's not the sort of woman to cheat on her lover.
She also believe she's not the sort of woman to wilfully ignore regulations. So it's okay when he guides her to one of the few rooms in the barracks that was left untouched by Anubis' attack. It's alright that he enters the room with her, right by her side, one arm firmly locked around her waist.
She's exhausted. She has a boyfriend waiting at home to whom she will have to explain her cuts and bruises.
That's enough to prevent her from protesting when he tugs the rest of her shirt from her pants, enough to stand there, mostly passive, let him peel the sodden garment from her body and drop it on the floor. It's enough to let him do the same with her boots, socks and pants.
It's okay that she's standing in front of him in a grey sports bra and black panties, swaying slightly because she is so. tired. and she's got Peter a hundred thousand light years away, and he is pulling his shirt over his head, so she's not the only one half dressed anymore.
His pants, shoes, socks hitting the floor? Not a problem. She's bone weary and has Peter. That little shiver of awareness, of attraction that works its way through her tired limbs? It's okay.
His hands, brushing down her arms, warming her because he's kind and thinks she's shivering because of cold and because she's tired are more than fine, are enough to make her less tired, which is starting to make this, standing barely dressed in a locked room with her CO, less okay but maybe that's fine.
And leaning forward, touching her tongue to that spot where his neck meets his shoulder, just above, then below, his dog tag chain, tasting skin that tastes like dirt and dust and his sweat and maybe, though she hopes not, tears? It's okay. She's tired.
The shudder that works its way across his skin that momentarily dislodges her mouth from him? Well, it's not necessarily sexual. More likely he's tired too.
She is exhausted. Has been for three days.
She has a boyfriend.
His hands in her hair are to be expected, she supposes. The slow turning of her head, that tentative first brush of his lips against hers? She's been standing so long; maybe this is just a hallucination.
And so it's perfectly normal to deepen the kiss, to open her mouth and suck his bottom lip, bite it softly with her teeth, because if this isn't a dream, she might need to stop. But she's so tired. How could there be anything wrong with this? This gentle play of lips and teeth and tongue, wet and hot after days of being high and dry, alone. What's wrong with finally, finally leaning on him?
She's so tired.
And if she sags against him, wraps her arms around his neck, lets the kiss get a little out of control, a little frantic, a little desperate, well, she can't be expected to keep everything under control all the time. If she could get home she's sure she'd be turning to Peter for comfort, except a little voice in the back of her mind reminds her she can never, ever tell him about this, can never tell him why she will arrive home, broken into a million shining pieces, why she needs to drink from his mouth, feel a heat that is from a human body and not a burning sun.
She needs this, needs the man in front of her, needs his hands on her body, needs him to lead her to the bed, to turn her and seat her on the edge, to push her back and gently lay on top of her, hard and hot and so, so different from her lonely days in the dessert. She needs to gasp, to groan, to whine a little when he pulls his mouth away to pull her sports bra over her head, needs to dig her nails into his naked back as he sucks at her throat, then groans at the sight of her bare breasts, moves down to lick and taste the sweat-flavoured skin.
She's too exhausted; it won't do to have a shower remove the sweat, the pain of the last few days. She needs him, and it's alright, acceptable, because she hasn't slept well in so long and regs don’t matter because she has someone who shares her bed at home.
And it makes his hands sliding her underwear down her legs without hesitation okay, makes the trail of kisses he makes from her breast to her belly fine. Makes the ten minutes he takes learning the flesh of her stomach perfectly acceptable to her tired mind.
The wave that passes over her body as she feels him breathe her in? That first moan at his tentative touches to her sensitive slit? His growing confidence, the way he laps up her arousal frantically, as if he can't get enough of the taste? It's nothing Peter wouldn't do for her. If he could.
But he can't, so she forgets about him for just a minute, tangles her hands in the wonderful grey hair that is such a contrast to the pale gold of her skin, of her hair. Pulls him into her further, writhes beneath him, because no one but him can do this, no one but this man lying cradled between her thighs, licking and sucking and nipping, and she is no longer tired, is no longer thinking of anyone but him and what his mouth, his hands, his entire being is doing to her.
And she breaks. Heat, warm, comfortable, blessedly human heat rushes through her body, makes her arch her back and twist her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer even as her hips retreat towards the bed, the sensations at once too. much and not. enough.
So much more than okay.
Then he is covering her again, his body warm over hers, bringing her back down, his mouth open and wet and tasting of her, showing her who she is, something she had been afraid she had lost these last three days.
He shifts, and she feels him, hard and hotter than the rest of him, not demanding, just there. And she is still tired, but she needs him, needs to mark the end of her trials with something, and he seems to be it.
What she wants is to roll him over, to climb on top of him and ride him, let him watch as she takes in the pleasures of her own body and his. But she is tired, so tired now that she could merely roll into his arms and sleep for days, days and days until she returns through the Stargate to the man currently warming her earth-bound bed.
So instead she finds those last reserves of strength that the orgasm he has given her had replenished, and she moves her hips, nudges against him, traps him hard between their bodies and absorbs his groan with smiling lips.
He wants to speak but she will not let him, cannot face what he might say, so she lets one hand move down his back, sure, steady, confident, but with a sense of weariness. Trails her hand down and in, across, finds him, hot and hard and so, so what she needs, and guides him to her opening. Lets his heat push into her wetness and finds everything she wants and needs after three days in the dessert.
Wet skin slaps against wet skin, mouths break away and gasp and moan. She clenches around him, knowing Peter likes it, knowing Jonas liked it, and finding, profoundly, he is just another man. He braces himself, puts his hands next to her head and begins to thrust deeper, harder, makes an effort to grind himself against her, to part her wet folds and move his pubic bone against her. His arms muffle some sounds and enhance others, and soon, sooner than she'd like, she's at the edge, ready to careen over as his grinding and the sound of their mingled moans are filtered through his skin.
He feels her tighten and she watches as he screws up his face in concentration even as a smirk of epic proportions graces his lips. She can almost hear his thoughts, feels his pride at bringing her to this point twice in one night, especially when she is so, so tired. The smirk changes, softens, morphs into a pained smile as he thrusts into her HARD, hitting her clit just right and she is coming coming coming, and he is spilling inside her, heat and wet and so, so good, all she wanted the last three days.
It is minutes or hours later when she comes to herself and finds she is sprawled half on top of him. Peter nearly builds a wall down the middle of the bed after sex, and she is tired now so she takes advantage, curls into him, brings her leg up so her thigh just brushes his now-soft cock, still wet with her and him.
She hears him sigh, wants to comfort him, to reassure him what they've done is okay, fine, alright, will not effect them, isn’t wrong. But she is tired, exhausted even, and she has to face her boyfriend tomorrow, lie about the cuts and scraps and finger-shaped bruises on her hips, on her thighs, has to explain why she doesn't want to have sex after being away, has to look General Hammond in the eye and not tell him why she is okay, why her three long, lonely days in the desert no longer haunt her.
She sleeps, and it’ll be okay
[][][]
‘I'm saying you're missing something vital from your life. And the sad part is you have no idea what I'm talking about.’
[][][]
