By Lyta
Mature adults only, please.
*****
Rating: Since I can’t call it NC-17 anymore, that’s
not what it’s rated. So instead…
Today’s fic was brought to you by the letters N and C and the
number 17. And
it’s not suitable for the kiddies.
Pairings: All pre-series,
Sam/Jonas Hanson, Daniel/Sarah G., Jack/Sara,
Teal’c/Drey’auc, and featuring the special guest pairing of… *drum
roll*
Bra’tac/Amonet. *insert
screams of horror*
Summary: It’s not the sex.
Warnings: Sex, some of it
disturbing and dark. Non-con in one
vignette.
Category: Pre-series vignettes/snippits
Spoilers: Erm, it’s pre-series, people; therefore, NO
SPOILERS AT ALL.
Season: Yet again, it’s
pre-series. Pre. Series.
Archive: Ask first,
please.
Author’s Notes: A series of short pre-series snippits. Fits nanda’s backstory challenge. Thanks to my betas, Julie and Aud. I think this is gen by Stargate standards,
despite the fact that it’s about 5 different pairings.
Disclaimer: Disclaim, datclaim, I don’t own them. And dudes, if you sue me, I’m so broke you’ll
never recover your own legal fees.
No canon relationships were harmed in the making of this fan
fiction unless they were already broken.
*****
It is not sex that leads him to heresy, to the realization that the
goa’uld are not gods. After all, Bra'tac
is there to please her, not the reverse, and the terror that keeps his
inexperienced body from finding release also prolongs the pleasure of the
goddess. There must be something wrong
with him, because she has eyes like blue crystal, a face like a sunrise, and
she is a goddess; still, he cannot lose himself inside her.
He would call her his goddess, but smooth, black hair and serrated
steel tickles and teases the entrance to his symbiote pouch as she rides him,
and he knows who belongs to whom.
Amonet writhes on top of him, purring such words as “my young
stallion” and “I will make you first prime someday”. The first thrills him as Amonet praises his
so-called stamina. Years later, he rolls
his eyes at the memory of the silly, empty phrase.
“First prime,” though, that echoes in his ears as he pounds into a
terrified girl on a sun-dappled forest path, proving his manhood at the expense
of her bruises and her shame. Her silent
tears stain him more than all the times with Amonet combined, haunting him even
when he is an old man. He hurts the girl
anyway, the mingled taste of power and perfumed sweat driving him to
completion. After, as he pulls on his
tunic, a cool breeze trails up his spine like the flat of Amonet’s knife.
Bra’tac is no longer sure he wants to be first prime. He does not like who he is becoming, or the
sick twisting in his gut when he sees the girl across the market square. Her face pales when their eyes meet, and she curls
into herself, shoulders hunching and head dipping in a silent bow he does not
deserve. He did not prove his manhood
that day; he proved he was weak.
Amonet is a goddess - why does her body against his make him
tremble with disgust instead of delight?
Why does her favor make him feel less of a warrior, more of a beast?
Why does she work so hard to keep him a secret?
A goddess should not tumble off him, surprised and frightened
(terrified?) the day Apophis returns early.
A goddess would not shove Bra’tac and his uniform behind the nearest
cover, whispering, “Silence or death.”
And after Amonet greets Apophis (did her kiss still taste of
Bra’tac’s sweat?) and sweeps out of the room, treacherous and composed and
still naked from the waist up, a god would not preen in the mirror sheltering
the
This creature cannot be a god.
And his selfish, abusive mate is certainly no goddess. His world reeling, Bra’tac touches his chest
and stares at the blood on his fingertips.
*****
“No, Jonas, it’s not the sex.
The sex is great,” Sam stammers, sure he can smell the lie. “It’s just… I’m not sure this is right.” That one was the truth.
Jonas is absolutely still, staring at the half-eaten croissant on
her plate. The diner clinks and murmurs
around them, and someone laughs in the kitchen.
She wonders if it was cowardly to do this in a public place, if she is
being overly dramatic about his temper.
Sam pushes on. “I’m not
ready for this kind of commitment. My
career is just taking off, and I want some time to be… me… before becoming
‘us’.”
His gaze lifts to hers. The
magnetic tug of him washes over her: sweet and rough with a hypnotic
undercurrent of brokenness.
She swallows hard. “I’m
very, very sorry, Jonas, but I’m not marrying you.” The quiver in her voice is
from regret, she tells herself.
His face twists with a red flash of something unstable and
frightening, and she flinches back against the sticky vinyl seat, heart
pounding.
It really isn’t the sex.
*****
“It’s not Charlie, Jack. It’s
not sex, either, and there’s no one else.
I have to do this to survive. I need to heal, and you’re determined not
to.” Sara touches his cheek, and then
pulls her hand away with a sigh. “I’m
sorry you had to come home to this, but maybe, just maybe this will be good for
you, too.”
He wants to tell her he really *is* alive again, to sit on the
sofa, hold hands, and tell her about another planet with sand and pyramids and
robed, dancing people and a dead god.
Tell her a dirty, black-haired boy and a dorky archeologist breathed
life back into his dead frame. “I’ve
stopped smoking.”
A dog barks in the distance.
He should have gotten Charlie a dog, a big black Lab that slobbered
affection.
Sara’s voice is gentle and broken.
“That’s… nice, Jack. I have to go
now.” She reaches for the suitcase at
her feet.
“No.” His voice is harsher
than intended. He tames it. “No, put down your bags, Sara. You can have the house; you can have
everything.”
He spins on his heel with military precision, and walks out the
door in search of other planets.
*****
“It’s not the sex, Daniel, or the lack of it at any particular
time. It’s the lack of *you*. This isn’t going to work if you won’t be here
with me.”
Sarah walks toward him through a sunbeam, heels clacking on the
museum's tile floor. Golden motes of
ancient dust swirl in her wake. “Part of
you is always in Ancient Egypt, or
She is lovely and vibrant, stunning really, in the gold halo of
settling dust. He should focus more on
her. Focus – that key word in the text,
maybe it means “focus”, or “attention”.
Like an addict, his gaze returns to the scroll.
“Daniel, those people are dead.
That bloody scroll won’t be hurt if you pay attention to a live person
for a few hours.” Her hand rests on his,
pulling his attention back to her. “Not
even if the person is you.”
Daniel cups her face in his palms.
“You’re right, Sarah. I’m an
asshole. I’ll… try harder.” As he kisses her, hieroglyphics roll through
his mind.
*****
It is not just joining. It
is more.
They fumble to please one another at first, and sometimes one or
both do not achieve release. Teal’c
suspects that she, too, has had more skilled lovers.
It is the meaning of the act.
It is beauty, and joy.
Commitment.
He kisses her neck, idly tongues the cooling sweat. Along with the expected salt, it smells and
tastes faintly of bittersweet sakara bread.
Delightful.
“Come back safely, my love,” Drey’auc whispers.
“I will.”
*****
The end.
Feedback would be appreciated.