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DISCLAIMER: Yeah, the SG-1 guys are all property of MGM, World Gekko Corp and Double Secret productions. This is all in fun, no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. All other characters, ideas, etc., herein are copyrighted to the author.
TITLE: Into the Light
AUTHOR: Rowan Darkstar
RATING: NC-17
CATEGORIES: Angst, Sam/Jack UST
ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for the LJ SG1 By Hand Ficathon for the following prompt:
Primary Character(s): Major Samantha Carter
'Ship to be Included: Author's Choice
Acceptable Humour/Fluff Level: Balanced Mix
Prompt: So what, exactly, was so entrancing about "The Light" that kept them all rooted in place so long...?
The Humour Level said Balanced Mix, and I think I went all dark and angsty. Sorry.:)
Many many thanks to my marvelous betas -- Teddy E, Amilyn and AnnaK
"Into the Light"
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2007
She startles awake in the darkness, shadows of ghosts' fingers brushing along the inside of her thighs. Three days back on Earth, sleeping beneath the shelter of her own down comforter, and she can't shake the memories.
*****
"Carter? Carter!" She jerked into awareness. Scanner in her hand. The Colonel. Goa'uld temple. Mission. Light. Crystals. Skin. Caresses. Warm breath. Oh, my God...
"Sir. Yes, sir..." Her voice was thin and hoarse and she felt naked in BDUs and Kevlar.
"Carter...?" Dark eyes gone glossy; The Light rippled through their depths like sun in a prism.
"I'm on it, sir," she said, because she needed him to turn away.
She avoided the Light as much as possible. New technology draws and enthralls her. She has long substituted the wonder and euphoria of science for the satiation of deeper needs neglected. The merging in this place was both thrilling and intrusive. Light and energy and crystals buzzing heat between her legs like the motor of her Indian. She wanted to get out as soon as possible.
She wanted everyone to fall asleep and leave her alone in that room of wonder.
*****
Daniel felt it the same. She knows he did. He understood. The Colonel jolted them out of their haze one evening, and the two moved silently into the temple entryway. There came a moment when Daniel met her gaze, and she saw the reflection of vulnerability. She felt the desire. The flush burned up her throat and she looked away.
She couldn't meet the Colonel's gaze. He was starting to think she was angry with him, but this couldn't be helped. Angry spats could be smoothed over. The other possibilities...
*****
On the fourth day, he touched her.
Fifteen minutes in The Light. Lost in a world of sensual vibrance she had barely known in her life much less recent times. He must have called her name a few times without response. She failed to sort out the sound from the cries in her dreams.
Jack O'Neill clamped a hand to the back of her neck.
She nearly climaxed on the spot, nerve endings raw and livid. From then forward, the ghostly fingers took on the texture of The Colonel's calloused and nimble hands. Some kind of symbiotic connection in the circle of the radiation. Or at least that's what she keeps telling herself.
*****
She felt sick when they left the temple. Hiking down the grimy beach with the Colonel grinding on her ragged emotions. The contrast was disorienting. Bliss to anguish in a matter of minutes. She took a while to understand why she wanted to tear at her own skin and throw a right jab at the Colonel's jaw. Withdrawal. They were in withdrawal.
Take me back, was all she could think. I need this...
She was terrified of having an orgasm in the middle of a mission, Daniel and the Colonel and Teal'c in clear view of the show.
*****
Coming home was harder than withdrawal.
She's known addiction and she doesn't want to go back. But the rush of this place was so strong...buried desires and thirsts denied have awakened and she doesn't know how to quell the need, how to restore the status quo.
Everything she touches feels grey and cold, and she keeps losing the thread of conversation to whispers on skin.
She runs her fingers over mission binders and pliers and laptop keyboards and she remembers soft hands and silk scarves and a warm tongue between her legs. She wants the high so badly the ache grows physical. Twice she slips out of rooms of the SGC, just so no one will see her cry. She wouldn't be able to explain what hurt.
She wakes in the darkness, shadows of ghosts' fingers brushing along the inside of her thighs.
Alone in her Earthly room, the familiar outlines of the window panes shadowed across her ceiling, she can only sink into the sensations.
The muscles of her inner thighs quiver against her sheets.
She can smell him. "Carter..."
She pushes the covers down off her chest, the cool air soothing her skin and she closes her eyes to take in the sensation. She has asked Janet to check them over, test and re-test, never really saying why. But she swears the sensitivity of every nerve in her body has been heightened, and part of her just wants it to stop. She's spent so many years training herself not to feel. Janet assures her time and again that they are fine. That any residual sensations she's experiencing will fade in time. She shifts her leg beneath the blanket and a fold in the sheet brushes feather-light against her panties. The shiver is fierce and instantaneous, an ice cube drawn up her spine in July.
"Jack," she whispers; she can't explain the tears. She feels grateful for the shelter of darkness. The moment can be coded into dreams and slumber and denied by even her own pride.
She smoothes an open hand down the outside of her hip and thigh, circles gently. There is no planning or intent to the motion, only an instinctive act of soothing and comfort. The pressure and sensation calm her, steady her breathing. She draws in the air, lets her chest open and relishes in the sensation as she lifts a knee and works the tense muscles of her thigh with the heel of her hand. A tender sigh escapes her lips, and for a moment she is back in that place. In that world of sensual plentitude and comfortable exploration.
She scratches lightly at the inside of her thigh.
Her free hand moves to cradle her breast, massages idly and her eyes close at the reassurance. She pulls at the tense muscles of her shoulder, cups the back of her neck.
The sharpness of her own gasp startles her in the quiet. His hand is warm and strong and moves with a tenderness and compassion she has never known...
She opens her eyes to the shadows, breathing rapid, senses clear. She shouldn't do this. Not in the tainted memory of an alien drug, not with her C.O. all tangled in the mix.
The pulsing between her legs keeps time with the beat of her heart and she feels the warmth there in contrast to the cool air snaking beneath the displaced blankets. Her hips are circling almost imperceptibly, burning to release the knots, the pull. Her hand moves from breast to mouth, and she bites at the nail of her thumb, indecisive and lingering.
Her hips persist in their dampened circles, the movement shifting the silk of her panties against her warm flesh.
There is still a tightness in her throat she writes off to the hormone rush.
She lets her hand slide down the inside of her thigh. She draws the tips of her fingers ever so gently along the crotch of her panties. The thrill is deep and the relief almost immediate. The soft moan rises from the back of her throat, unbidden. "Oh, God..." she breathes into the cool air.
For a moment she merely cups her hand at the juncture of her thighs, stabilizing and savoring the warmth and pressure. The pulse against her fingers is strong.
She begins a gentle return pulsing pressure with the tips of her middle fingers. The reaction up within her is immediate and she feels the moisture seeping into the thin cloth. She knows she will need to work everywhere around her clit tonight, everywhere but the central point, for as long as she can to make this last. She's can't weather direct contact. The ride will go too fast and play to the surface thrill. The deeper satisfaction is vital this time. Too many memories on her skin to compare.
She lets her fingers draw teasing circles on silk and the shivers of pleasure are sharp and border on pain. She imagines his hand between her thighs -- and lets go.
No...I can't...think about...
She is beyond choosing whether to do this. Her body won't be denied or quieted, the need is too great.
Sam slides her hand down the flat of her belly, pleasuring in the firmness of her own muscles beneath her fingers. Her nails edge beneath the elastic of her panties and she feels the increase in warmth as her hand descends. Her middle finger finds its familiar path into the center of her folds, burrowing and nestling and she gives herself over to the inherent satisfaction of flesh against flesh. She lets her hand ripple and knead the welcoming softness. Her hips rise and warm to the rhythm of her hand.
The memories slide over her vision, dancing through the window-shadow on her ceiling and beneath the dark of her lids. She lets her finger follow her natural curves within.
Silk sheets and warm sun, her own hair long as she had once worn and loved it. Satin locks sliding over naked shoulders and filtering daylight like gauzy bed curtains. His hands are solid and gentle, smoothing down the length of her back, her battlescars softened or vanquished, her body as it had been before her first journey Offworld.
"Jack..." Her hand moves in circles, massages, responding to the phantom caresses on her skin. She curls into herself, rolls onto her side, to her stomach, lifting her hips as she feels the cool silk shift and fall down the line of her hip. His purposeful hands stroke from her shoulders to the small of her back. Every tense muscle softens and eases beneath his touch. Every need is fed. Hands cup her ass as he eases her down and buries himself within her.
"God..." She's almost too wet now, slipping and missing, and she brushes the back of her wrist between her legs to lessen the moisture.
The fingers of her free hand slide upward to wind around the edge of her mattress, bracing against the rhythm.
She feels more real, more whole than she has in weeks. Months, perhaps. She's been in cold denial since the moment he told her he cared, strapped to an alien torture device and speaking with the sincerity of a child. The emotions flood her now, unbridled and jagged.
She slides two fingers inside and her hips feel strong and solid and the relief is indescribable. She doesn't know how long it's been since she gave in to more than just a fast and necessary scratch to an itch, since she's felt like Samantha.
The pressure builds in her thighs. Muscles pull as though gathering for a jump and she feels powerful and young and she knows she's so close... She backs off for a moment, lets go entirely and tries to weather the loss and breathe in the stillness. She is so near the edge that her exhale quivers and her body pushes forward, drawing stimulation from the mere movement of the air. She feels she's aware of every molecule of texture on her skin. Animalistic in movement, she leans into her outstretched arm, bites lightly at the supple skin, imagines his taste knows it from memory.
The desperation in the soft cry falling from her own lips pushes her beyond patience.
Her hands knows what she needs. They move on instinct, and mere moments pass before she feels the knot building in her belly.
She can't believe how hard the wave hits. Too much stimulation can take the edge off the climax. Some nights she can almost be too high to finish in kind, she has to take off the edge in a rush and come back for a second round to feel the true release. Not tonight.
Her orgasm comes like the rush through the gate -- fast and reckless and the embodiment of all her desires for her life in this universe. She peaks at such a desperate high for so long it hurts. In the crash of pleasure, she feels his weight upon her back, his hands grasping her hair and his gasp of orgasmic breath in her ear. She feels the tension and heat in his muscles, gathered tight against her own. She claws at her headboard and cries out into the darkness.
She is breathless and spent and tousled as she lets her weight collapse into her mattress, hand pinned beneath her to shelter her from further stimulation. She's had every drop she can take. No more...no more...
The pounding of her heart seems unbearably loud, her pulse a primitive drum in her ear.
She is surrounded by silence and still air. He's gone. He isn't with her in the afterglow. He was never there.
Sam Carter lies in the expanse of the empty house, tangled in a sea of relief and pleasure and the hollowed out pain of loss and desolation. Sleep will overtake her; tear stained and flushed and defeated. She knows she will wake in the morning, wash away the sensations and memories beneath the heat of the shower like so much dust. She will don her layers for the outer world and smile and laugh with the guys.
She will try to forget.
She will close her eyes and block out the Light.
*****
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