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Title: Blissful Ignorance
Author: Ky (Venom_69)
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Category: Smuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!!
Pairing:
S/J
Summary: Fingertips convey the message clearly: You Are Mine.
Rating: This is about as adult as it gets, kids.
Archive:
My site. Anywhere else, sure, just let me know where so I can come visit.
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, never will.
Promise to put them back in the state I found them. Song isn't mine either.
Author’s notes: Not quite my normal kind
of fic... I was emotionally blackmailed. Again. Anyone else see a pattern here? Hope you like it, chicket honey.
Date:
27/01/06
Copyright © to Venom, 2006
***
Closing your eyes to disappear
You pray your dreams will leave
you here
But still you wake and know the truth...
***
Strong hands hold her down, aided by the rope that
already binds her wrists tightly.
Her first instinct is to go rigid with fear - and, perhaps, shock - but the soldier
within her is demanding that she fight. Struggle, kick, scream, do anything necessary. Survive.
Years of training flash
before her eyes in a split second but she finds herself unable, or unwilling, to properly recall the implementation of any
of the moves that she spent hours perfecting. There is nothing that prevents her from screaming, but her voice appears to
have abandoned her as well.
No!
There is something cold against her back, more than the slight breeze
that blows through her bedroom. Metal. The serrated edge licks at her skin. She imagines the knife as it slices easily through
the fabric of her shirt, flawlessly cutting along the seams.
Do Something!
She doesn't move and hears
the knife being put on her bedside table with one hand while the other pulls away the shreds of her clothing, easily avoiding
her bound hands. Peripheral vision kicks in and she see the offending object. It is one of her own, from a set that rests
on her kitchen bench.
Just how long was he in the house?
Weight that sits upon her bare thighs - the
very same feeling that woke her - is warm and heavy. The harsh sounds of unfamiliar breathing in her personal space ring in
her ears.
Shivers of fear and anticipation run through her in equal waves. Blood pulses around her body at a fast pace
to match the racing of her heart and she is almost - but not quite - ashamed to feel moisture between her thighs.
Sadistic...
Her logical mind taunts her, but she ignores it.
Fingertips trace the naked length of her spine, one vertebra at a
time. Each bone that presses against the barriers of skin on her back is tenderly touched. Each scar is paid equal attention.
Is he wondering how she got those scars?
No, of course not, he already knows. He was with her when she obtained
almost each one of them, but his fascination is new and fresh.
"You're very pale."
She doesn't reply, choosing
rather to bite her lip and concentrate on not arching into the light touch of calloused fingers against her.
There
is a certain familiarity in his touch, a determined sense of ownership that should scare her but instead she finds comforting.
"I like pale."
A sarcastic retort of being happy to please is on the tip of her tongue, but that is quickly
swallowed in a sharp gasp as he traces the marks on her neck. His marks.
Fingertips convey the message clearly: You
Are Mine.
She does not argue.
His tactile inventory of her back forgotten, he shifts, moving forward. Any thoughts
that she may have had about this whole situation are lost as she feels the head of his penis run through the moisture at the
apex of her thighs.
It's a - mostly - automatic reaction as her thighs part as much as possible to allow him in.
"Don't
plan on fighting me tonight, huh?" His voice carries an apathy that she knows he does not feel. "It hasn't been that long
since I was here... surely you aren't ready to beg yet?"
She is, but she will not admit it.
Lying in her own
bed, naked, hands bound to her headboard, with him sitting on her thighs seems to make her complacent.
But he already
knew that, didn't he?
Her legs are not bound by anything other than his weight upon them, but it still makes for
a slightly tighter fit when he begins to push his way into her. He is met with resistance initially and she feels her body
stretch to accommodate him with ease.
The feeling - that very first feeling of contact - is unlike anything else that
she knows. There is acceptance in the first thrust, dominance in his power over her and awe at the feeling of being full.
Oh
God...
His hands hold her hips firmly. She knows that he skin will soon be flecked with blues and purples. Fingertip
imprints will mar her white flesh and she will wear the physical reminder for days. They will make her smile in memory while
a wave of heat will wash over her.
Nonsensical words make their way from her mouth. Each thrust is accompanied by a
trail of wet fire that leaves her burning, but silently begging for more. His pace is fast, methodical, and she automatically
raises her hips, pushing back against him.
A delicious pressure builds quickly, low in her belly. His name has become
her mantra, panted out of parched lips in between pleas to a deity that she doesn't really believe in.
The air is heavy
and oppressive around her, it smells of sex. Of them. Beads of sweat trail her body, ferociously clinging to her while
she fights to catch a breath, her lungs protesting at the lack of oxygen.
It doesn't take long. An explosion is set
off behind her clenched eyes, lights dancing in an unknown pattern before her while the pressure in her belly reaches a crescendo
before dissipating in a rush of sensation as she gulps air gratefully.
His movements don't slow and there is a painful
kind of pleasure associated with each thrust, her internal muscles clenching in protest around the hardness that invades them.
Her body is sensitive, demanding that the stimulation end. He doesn't notice - or doesn't care - and the rough treatment makes
her shudder continuously, prolonging the sweet agony.
She doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when
he follows a few moments later, her name drawn out into a long groan as he empties himself inside of her.
His body
collapses on to hers, sated. He hasn't lost all of his energy though, because he immediately rolls to the side, moving to
untie her.
Her voice, she knows, is hoarse from screaming. "Thank you."
"Anytime." There is silence, their panting
the only sound in the dark of night. "I ruined your shirt." He says and there is a slight hint of pride in his gruff voice.
"You
can buy me a new one then."
He 'mmm's' in response and she knows that by tomorrow afternoon there will be a new shirt
waiting to be ruined.
The game that they play is dangerous, but she never really sees his face enough to confirm his
identity - which she knows - so she pretends that it doesn't count.
Ignorance, after all, is bliss.
Her body
is sated, even thought her mind knows that he will be gone by dawn.
Strong hands pull her close and her body instinctively
fits itself into his own, sleep already claiming her.
***
End
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