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Entry tags:
hahahah... sigh...
Fic. Two of 'em, even... Neither got more than me glancing at them. I didn't even stick 'em in Word for spelling...
Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: R. ish. Set: s8, spoilers, etc. Pairing: Sam/Jack.
Notes: Liked the title, needed something to put with it. This appeared.
Theory of Flight
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
&
Disclaimer: Not mine. Set: s7, during Fragile Balance. Rating: PG.
Notes: This has... probably at least been addressed, although I don't know if these exact words have been used. This would be Nos' fault for posting a link to a rather irritating essay. And then Timey's, 'cause Timey and I were talking about how stupid it was... And, I should also write the AU bit where Sam gets to fly the X-302 in the pilot's chair. *grumble*
Punctured
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
She likes to make calculations on his back.
They're small, sometimes. Other times, they're huge and she ends up with her pen covering the skin of his legs.
He is always highly amused at her concentration.
"I've always been a visual person," she defends, on the off chance that he might object.
"This visual enough for ya?" he asks, and he turns, snakes an arm around her waist and pulls. And it's not visual anymore but tactical sensation.
"I was in the middle of something."
His fingers slide across her skin, and she shivers, "I could be in the middle of something."
The numbers dance along his skin as she kisses it, ignoring the way it smudges, and he mocks her for having ink-stained lips, although he admits to finding it rather erotic.
In her lab, when she's alone, and she writes on paper, she misses this.
He likes to count the freckles on her back and sides, the light dusting of melanin that got caught out by the sun. The number shifts and changes as she works or doesn't work. He still hasn't gotten her in that little black bikini.
"You're tickling." she accuses.
"Am not." But his fingers continue their movements. And he's suddenly right. He's not tickling.
Her pen ends up on the floor, forgotten, her mental energy changing its purpose away from mathematical precision and improbabilities to the man who is beneath her and around her and inside of her right this moment.
It's always good, when they're like this.
No cares in the world and no one to object if she screams like a banshee when she comes (not that she screams that often, but when he can make her do it, he is smug for days).
When he's behind his desk, she hopes he misses this.
They don't really talk about anything serious, when they're here. They've never talked about things like this. It's always been about tasting and touching and simply being. She never mentions Jonas or Pete or Martouf (although she only misses Martouf). And he never brings up Sara. They have talked, once, about Charlie.
Mutual agreement won't bring it up again.
When she's out in the field tramping on alien soil, leading her team and pretending that everything is right. That's when she thinks about her doubts. That's when she knows this isn't working, this isn't them. But then she comes back, and he half-smiles at her.
And so she writes equations in pen on his back.
Daniel once accused her of obsessing.
But, then, Daniel has never understood this side of her. Anymore than he has. Teal'c gets it.
She wonders sometimes, when he's asleep and she doesn't want to go searching for her pen, if Janet would have understood.
That's another serious subject she rarely thinks about.
It won't last, of course. Sooner or later, the Air Force will come crashing down on them. When they're ready to make him retire, or when the Joint Chiefs want her working only as a scientist. They will bring the pressure to bear against them and it will tear them apart.
Shreds of duty and honor versus being able to live in the moment.
For Sam, there's really only one moment left to her. It's this one, and it contains Jack.
"You think too much."
"I always have."
His fingers tangle with hers, and then he sighs. "There's a pen on my nightstand, Carter."
A smile tips her lips. "I know."
-finis-
Disclaimer: Not mine. Set: s7, during Fragile Balance. Rating: PG.
Notes: This has... probably at least been addressed, although I don't know if these exact words have been used. This would be Nos' fault for posting a link to a rather irritating essay. And then Timey's, 'cause Timey and I were talking about how stupid it was... And, I should also write the AU bit where Sam gets to fly the X-302 in the pilot's chair. *grumble*
Punctured
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
Well. That had gone well. Major Samantha Carter poked her pen through the sheet of paper and into the blotter. Then did it again. There was something cleanly logical about the mathematics of the force required to perforate the paper and the sponge beneath.
"Hey."
The voice might be young, the body might be young, but the intelligence behind it was still Colonel Jack O'Neill.
"Sir?" Extra force meant the pen didn't leave a mark on the paper.
"Carter, I'm sorry. That could have gone better."
"Oh, it went fine, sir."
"No it didn't."
Fine, if you considered having a teenage boy gain the respect of a room full of pilots a good thing. She would not think about how hard it had been to attempt to run a briefing on her own. Or about how much she'd wanted, just once, to be seen as simply a pilot.
"I should have pushed more."
"Huh?"
Brown eyes were staring at her, then they flicked away. "When they kept telling me there wasn't time, I should have pushed more. Let you pilot."
She blinked. Air Force Majors did not scream in frustration. Or cry. Or any one of a hundred little things women (and men) were normally allowed to do. "I would have liked that." Understatement of the year. She had almost craved the experiences in the X-302. To be that close to the stars that she could reach out and touch them had been phenomenal.
"Yeah."
"They wanted a pilot." She doodled around the holes she'd made. "Not the co-pilot."
"You would have kicked their asses. If I'd pushed."
"Yeah." She wanted to smile, but she couldn't. There was still some section of her brain that was completely devastated about having her authority so completely undermined. A 15 year old boy had commanded the respect of a dozen pilots when she merely garnered their derision.
"Carter, if I could go back in time, I'd push. I'd also kick my ass out of here." He waggled a finger at her. "You let me take over."
The obedience had been so automatic. "I know." She hated herself. And him, in that moment.
"We need to break you of that habit."
"Yes, sir."
"But, first, I think we need cake."
Cake. Like that fixed anything. She stood. "Actually, sir. I have things I need to do. Maybe General Hammond would like cake."
He looked disappointed. "See you around, Carter."
"Yeah." She paused in the doorway, then looked back at him. "Hope you're not so scrawny next time. Sir."
"Hey!"
Her smirk broke out as she left him in there. The SF in the corridor eyed her. "Colonel O'Neill will probably need to be escorted." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, "General Hammond would probably prefer him confined to quarters."
"Yes, ma'am."
-finis-
Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: R. ish. Set: s8, spoilers, etc. Pairing: Sam/Jack.
Notes: Liked the title, needed something to put with it. This appeared.
Theory of Flight
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
&
Disclaimer: Not mine. Set: s7, during Fragile Balance. Rating: PG.
Notes: This has... probably at least been addressed, although I don't know if these exact words have been used. This would be Nos' fault for posting a link to a rather irritating essay. And then Timey's, 'cause Timey and I were talking about how stupid it was... And, I should also write the AU bit where Sam gets to fly the X-302 in the pilot's chair. *grumble*
Punctured
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
She likes to make calculations on his back.
They're small, sometimes. Other times, they're huge and she ends up with her pen covering the skin of his legs.
He is always highly amused at her concentration.
"I've always been a visual person," she defends, on the off chance that he might object.
"This visual enough for ya?" he asks, and he turns, snakes an arm around her waist and pulls. And it's not visual anymore but tactical sensation.
"I was in the middle of something."
His fingers slide across her skin, and she shivers, "I could be in the middle of something."
The numbers dance along his skin as she kisses it, ignoring the way it smudges, and he mocks her for having ink-stained lips, although he admits to finding it rather erotic.
In her lab, when she's alone, and she writes on paper, she misses this.
He likes to count the freckles on her back and sides, the light dusting of melanin that got caught out by the sun. The number shifts and changes as she works or doesn't work. He still hasn't gotten her in that little black bikini.
"You're tickling." she accuses.
"Am not." But his fingers continue their movements. And he's suddenly right. He's not tickling.
Her pen ends up on the floor, forgotten, her mental energy changing its purpose away from mathematical precision and improbabilities to the man who is beneath her and around her and inside of her right this moment.
It's always good, when they're like this.
No cares in the world and no one to object if she screams like a banshee when she comes (not that she screams that often, but when he can make her do it, he is smug for days).
When he's behind his desk, she hopes he misses this.
They don't really talk about anything serious, when they're here. They've never talked about things like this. It's always been about tasting and touching and simply being. She never mentions Jonas or Pete or Martouf (although she only misses Martouf). And he never brings up Sara. They have talked, once, about Charlie.
Mutual agreement won't bring it up again.
When she's out in the field tramping on alien soil, leading her team and pretending that everything is right. That's when she thinks about her doubts. That's when she knows this isn't working, this isn't them. But then she comes back, and he half-smiles at her.
And so she writes equations in pen on his back.
Daniel once accused her of obsessing.
But, then, Daniel has never understood this side of her. Anymore than he has. Teal'c gets it.
She wonders sometimes, when he's asleep and she doesn't want to go searching for her pen, if Janet would have understood.
That's another serious subject she rarely thinks about.
It won't last, of course. Sooner or later, the Air Force will come crashing down on them. When they're ready to make him retire, or when the Joint Chiefs want her working only as a scientist. They will bring the pressure to bear against them and it will tear them apart.
Shreds of duty and honor versus being able to live in the moment.
For Sam, there's really only one moment left to her. It's this one, and it contains Jack.
"You think too much."
"I always have."
His fingers tangle with hers, and then he sighs. "There's a pen on my nightstand, Carter."
A smile tips her lips. "I know."
-finis-
Disclaimer: Not mine. Set: s7, during Fragile Balance. Rating: PG.
Notes: This has... probably at least been addressed, although I don't know if these exact words have been used. This would be Nos' fault for posting a link to a rather irritating essay. And then Timey's, 'cause Timey and I were talking about how stupid it was... And, I should also write the AU bit where Sam gets to fly the X-302 in the pilot's chair. *grumble*
Punctured
by Ana Lyssie Cotton
Well. That had gone well. Major Samantha Carter poked her pen through the sheet of paper and into the blotter. Then did it again. There was something cleanly logical about the mathematics of the force required to perforate the paper and the sponge beneath.
"Hey."
The voice might be young, the body might be young, but the intelligence behind it was still Colonel Jack O'Neill.
"Sir?" Extra force meant the pen didn't leave a mark on the paper.
"Carter, I'm sorry. That could have gone better."
"Oh, it went fine, sir."
"No it didn't."
Fine, if you considered having a teenage boy gain the respect of a room full of pilots a good thing. She would not think about how hard it had been to attempt to run a briefing on her own. Or about how much she'd wanted, just once, to be seen as simply a pilot.
"I should have pushed more."
"Huh?"
Brown eyes were staring at her, then they flicked away. "When they kept telling me there wasn't time, I should have pushed more. Let you pilot."
She blinked. Air Force Majors did not scream in frustration. Or cry. Or any one of a hundred little things women (and men) were normally allowed to do. "I would have liked that." Understatement of the year. She had almost craved the experiences in the X-302. To be that close to the stars that she could reach out and touch them had been phenomenal.
"Yeah."
"They wanted a pilot." She doodled around the holes she'd made. "Not the co-pilot."
"You would have kicked their asses. If I'd pushed."
"Yeah." She wanted to smile, but she couldn't. There was still some section of her brain that was completely devastated about having her authority so completely undermined. A 15 year old boy had commanded the respect of a dozen pilots when she merely garnered their derision.
"Carter, if I could go back in time, I'd push. I'd also kick my ass out of here." He waggled a finger at her. "You let me take over."
The obedience had been so automatic. "I know." She hated herself. And him, in that moment.
"We need to break you of that habit."
"Yes, sir."
"But, first, I think we need cake."
Cake. Like that fixed anything. She stood. "Actually, sir. I have things I need to do. Maybe General Hammond would like cake."
He looked disappointed. "See you around, Carter."
"Yeah." She paused in the doorway, then looked back at him. "Hope you're not so scrawny next time. Sir."
"Hey!"
Her smirk broke out as she left him in there. The SF in the corridor eyed her. "Colonel O'Neill will probably need to be escorted." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, "General Hammond would probably prefer him confined to quarters."
"Yes, ma'am."
-finis-
no subject
no subject
*smooch*