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campylobacterTITLE: "Bookends, or Six Ways 'Til Sunday"
AUTHOR: campylobacter
CATEGORY/PAIRING: Daniel/Vala
RATING: NC-17/Adult to PG-13/Teen, depending on the chapter
STATUS: complete
SEASON/SPOILERS: post-Continuum
ARCHIVE: Permission granted; drop me a URL if, for some reason, you aren't afraid to archive it -- I'll link to it from my blog.
GENRE: humor; romance: het, first time
WARNING: Implied bisexuality; language: f-bombs, the c-word... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Don't act like you're hurt and wank at me.
SERIES: none
WORD COUNT: 13,182
DISCLAIMER: Stargate: SG-1 characters belong to MGM; any others are fictitious scenery and resemble your mom.
SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS/PREMISE: After an unexpected guest drops by, Daniel's apartment is never the same again. (The Home Crasher Trope meets archaeo-linguistics and pirate-goddess sexual mayhem, in that point of character development after Continuum.) Only enough plot to sustain the slap-slap-kiss porn.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1/10: The Front Door Rattles (PG-13/Teen) [1137 words]
Chapter 2/10: You're Trashing My Place (PG-13/Teen) [1181 words]
Chapter 3/10: A Point of Resistance (NC-17/Adult) [1109 words]
Chapter 4/10: Two Doorposts Beneath a Lintel (R/Mature) [1220 words]
Chapter 5/10: How She Wears My Name (NC-17/Adult) [1358 words]
Chapter 6/10: The Precarious Bed (NC-17/Adult) [1496 words]
Chapter 7/10: Something Simple (NC-17/Adult) [1149 words]
Chapter 8/10: Choke and Throttle (PG-13/Teen) [1189 words]
Chapter 9/10: Dining on the Spoils (PG-13/Teen) [1306 words]
"Well, according to what Mitchell told me when he gave you driving lessons, that's not such a good idea."
"He says I drive as well as he does — maybe better."
I doubt he phrased it that way. "It's not so much your skill in operating a vehicle that's at issue, but your observance of traffic laws."
"All right then, you're driving me somewhere there's food that's not over-packaged, over-processed, reheated, reconstituted, unnaturally dyed, or artificially preserved."
We go to an organic market instead of a Greek cafe, where she samples nearly half the fresh produce she's gathered before we reach the register.
"You really oughtta rinse off that carrot..."
"Why? Can't possibly be worse than the quasi-food items in the base commissary."
"Um, bacteria? And most people peel—"
"Ridiculous! That's the best part!"
I have to look away from the way she's licking the carrot or I'll bend her over the nearest produce bin and— oh look: locally prepared hummus, pita bread, tabbouleh, baba ghanouj...
"So, where are we dining on the spoils?" she asks when we're back on the road, sucking tahini off her fingers.
"There's a good al fresco location ten minutes away, if you can wait that long."
"Ah! Making camp." She never seems to mind eating outdoors when we go off-world.
Actually, she never seems to mind eating. "If there's any food left."
When we drive onto a gravel road in a semi-wooded area, Vala unbuckles the seat belt and leans halfway out the window. I hook my fingers into her waistband and pull her back in.
"Road's rough — don't want you to fall out."
"But there's an applauding tree over there." She's pointing ahead to a mass of shimmering leaves trembling atop a tall, pale trunk among various evergreens.
"That's a quaking aspen." Its common name doesn't dispel her fascination. All other foliage stands still, but for the one shivering in a high breeze only it can feel.
At the end of the road, a modest chalet and two small outbuildings occupy a large, sunny clearing. The wool blanket I store behind the front seat now serves as adequate cover to bare dirt and low scrub.
"Are you trespassing for leisure, Daniel?" she asks, smirking and popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.
"Not per se..." I let her feed me a dolma dripping with olive oil. "It's a foreclosed property."
Lunch without forks or spoons eventuates from hand-fed bites of assorted fruits, vegetables, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean staples, to a feast of her fingers, lips, and tongue. Despite the blanket, pebbles and uneven ground make an uncomfortable surface for my back, bearing the weight of her on top of me. Before we get naked and sweaty, I sit up. "We left dessert in the truck—"
"Oh no we didn't," she murmurs into my neck.
"Yes, we did. Trust me."
She sits back and pouts; I use the opportunity to scoop her upright and drag her squealing to the truck, where I yank open the passenger door and hoist her onto the seat.
I grab one of the extra bottled waters from the sack on the floorboard where we'd left the baklava, and take a long pull, swishing the water in my mouth. "Perfect height for dessert," I say, kissing the "oh" of realization from her lips.
She wastes little time in unzipping her skin-tight leather pants while my mouth travels across her belly, tasting smooth skin and firm flesh, but before I tongue her navel, she becomes stiff and unresponsive.
"Something wrong?" I look up to see her head turned toward the driveway.
"Predictably wrong, as we seem to have established a pattern for being interrupted."
The sound of a car engine and the crunch of gravel reach my ears, so I pull up her zipper. Fucking shit. I hate this planet.
An older couple emerge from a luxury sedan and approach. We engage in greetings and introductions: Frank and Shirley Henderson, accountant and legal secretary; Daniel Jackson, archaeologist; Vala Mal Doran—
"Mergers and acquisitions," she volunteers before I can provide a pretext.
"So, are you two looking to buy this place?" asks the wife, looking askance at Vala's leather and the mess she made of my hair.
"Yes, actually," I confess, pulling Vala to my side as I had when we inhabited Harrid and Sallis. "I contacted the realtor several weeks ago, but it wasn't until today the decision became clear."
"Care to join our picnic?" Vala smiles in invitation, with a sidelong glance at me.
"Wouldn't dream of horning in on you two lovebirds." The husband winks at me in approval. "Just stopped by the old place to say goodbye. We're moving down to Phoenix tomorrow morning."
"This was your home?"
"Until four years ago, when we sold it and moved up to Broadmoor," sniffs the wife. "Too bad about the last buyer. Lost it in one of those stupid adjustable rate mortgages."
"The shed's still here, but he let the lawn go all to hell." The man shakes his head in reproach.
"No grass to mow." I shrug. "Anyway, I'm used to dirt in my line of work."
They laugh politely.
"Our sons loved it here. They wouldn't get off the shed." The man glances at the outbuilding with a low-pitched roof. "I had to threaten them: I'll get a rabid pit bull to rip out your intestines so your mother can use them to knit an ugly hat if you don't get off the damn shed." He then turns to Vala. "Got kids or plan on having any?"
"Oh, lots and lots," she purrs. "At least a dozen. We just started to practice mak—"
"Vala," I interject, finding a serendipitous distraction. "The wildlife's making off with the leftovers."
We shoo away several birds and enterprising ants before tossing the food back into canvas shopping bags.
"Mind taking our picture in front of the gazebo?" asks the woman, holding out her handheld device. "The last owner seems to have done away with the fountain."
When I try bypassing the intrusive anti-shake feature, the man assists me with less technical expertise than I have. "You oughtta get yourself one of these." His voice drops to a whisper: "So you can make your own amateur porn."
After posing stiffly in their designer golf wear, they advise us to pave over the gravel before it snows, and to make sure our kids keep off the damn shed. As they drive away, Vala calls out, "See you at prostration."
"Vala."
"Well, well, well. It's not trespassing if it's your house, is it?" She brandishes two bent slivers of adopted scrap metal, bounds up the verandah steps, and goes straight to the front door before I can stop her, my hands fumbling with folding the blanket.
"C'mon, haven't you misbehaved enough for one weekend?"
She remains focused on picking the doorknob while replying, "Last night I ran away from a person I don't recognize: boring Vala, appropriate Vala, Vala who realizes Tomin deserves better. That you, Daniel, I'd never deser—"
"Vala, no." I put my hand on her shoulder. "No matter how inappropriate or sneaky you behave, or how self-absorbed and defensive I can become, it's not about deserving some reward."
"You know, Daniel," she starts on the deadbolt, "Jacek was always looking for the Big Score, the Last Job, the Final Caper that would enable him to give up playing confidence games and live… live the rest of his life comfortably, honestly."
"I'm not your Big Score, Vala."
"Of course not, darling." Her eyes move from the lock and fix on me. "You're..."
I read the meaning in her glance, and her words become mine. "You're the rest of my life."
Her face lights up with a radiant smile; she pushes open the front door. "After you."
Next Chapter 10: 100% Down (NC-17/Adult) [2099 words]
Entire "Bookends" story on 1 page at Google Docs
AUTHOR: campylobacter
CATEGORY/PAIRING: Daniel/Vala
RATING: NC-17/Adult to PG-13/Teen, depending on the chapter
STATUS: complete
SEASON/SPOILERS: post-Continuum
ARCHIVE: Permission granted; drop me a URL if, for some reason, you aren't afraid to archive it -- I'll link to it from my blog.
GENRE: humor; romance: het, first time
WARNING: Implied bisexuality; language: f-bombs, the c-word... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Don't act like you're hurt and wank at me.
SERIES: none
WORD COUNT: 13,182
DISCLAIMER: Stargate: SG-1 characters belong to MGM; any others are fictitious scenery and resemble your mom.
SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS/PREMISE: After an unexpected guest drops by, Daniel's apartment is never the same again. (The Home Crasher Trope meets archaeo-linguistics and pirate-goddess sexual mayhem, in that point of character development after Continuum.) Only enough plot to sustain the slap-slap-kiss porn.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1/10: The Front Door Rattles (PG-13/Teen) [1137 words]
Chapter 2/10: You're Trashing My Place (PG-13/Teen) [1181 words]
Chapter 3/10: A Point of Resistance (NC-17/Adult) [1109 words]
Chapter 4/10: Two Doorposts Beneath a Lintel (R/Mature) [1220 words]
Chapter 5/10: How She Wears My Name (NC-17/Adult) [1358 words]
Chapter 6/10: The Precarious Bed (NC-17/Adult) [1496 words]
Chapter 7/10: Something Simple (NC-17/Adult) [1149 words]
Chapter 8/10: Choke and Throttle (PG-13/Teen) [1189 words]
Chapter 9/10: Dining on the Spoils (PG-13/Teen) [1306 words]
"Well, according to what Mitchell told me when he gave you driving lessons, that's not such a good idea."
"He says I drive as well as he does — maybe better."
I doubt he phrased it that way. "It's not so much your skill in operating a vehicle that's at issue, but your observance of traffic laws."
"All right then, you're driving me somewhere there's food that's not over-packaged, over-processed, reheated, reconstituted, unnaturally dyed, or artificially preserved."
We go to an organic market instead of a Greek cafe, where she samples nearly half the fresh produce she's gathered before we reach the register.
"You really oughtta rinse off that carrot..."
"Why? Can't possibly be worse than the quasi-food items in the base commissary."
"Um, bacteria? And most people peel—"
"Ridiculous! That's the best part!"
I have to look away from the way she's licking the carrot or I'll bend her over the nearest produce bin and— oh look: locally prepared hummus, pita bread, tabbouleh, baba ghanouj...
"So, where are we dining on the spoils?" she asks when we're back on the road, sucking tahini off her fingers.
"There's a good al fresco location ten minutes away, if you can wait that long."
"Ah! Making camp." She never seems to mind eating outdoors when we go off-world.
Actually, she never seems to mind eating. "If there's any food left."
When we drive onto a gravel road in a semi-wooded area, Vala unbuckles the seat belt and leans halfway out the window. I hook my fingers into her waistband and pull her back in.
"Road's rough — don't want you to fall out."
"But there's an applauding tree over there." She's pointing ahead to a mass of shimmering leaves trembling atop a tall, pale trunk among various evergreens.
"That's a quaking aspen." Its common name doesn't dispel her fascination. All other foliage stands still, but for the one shivering in a high breeze only it can feel.
At the end of the road, a modest chalet and two small outbuildings occupy a large, sunny clearing. The wool blanket I store behind the front seat now serves as adequate cover to bare dirt and low scrub.
"Are you trespassing for leisure, Daniel?" she asks, smirking and popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.
"Not per se..." I let her feed me a dolma dripping with olive oil. "It's a foreclosed property."
Lunch without forks or spoons eventuates from hand-fed bites of assorted fruits, vegetables, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean staples, to a feast of her fingers, lips, and tongue. Despite the blanket, pebbles and uneven ground make an uncomfortable surface for my back, bearing the weight of her on top of me. Before we get naked and sweaty, I sit up. "We left dessert in the truck—"
"Oh no we didn't," she murmurs into my neck.
"Yes, we did. Trust me."
She sits back and pouts; I use the opportunity to scoop her upright and drag her squealing to the truck, where I yank open the passenger door and hoist her onto the seat.
I grab one of the extra bottled waters from the sack on the floorboard where we'd left the baklava, and take a long pull, swishing the water in my mouth. "Perfect height for dessert," I say, kissing the "oh" of realization from her lips.
She wastes little time in unzipping her skin-tight leather pants while my mouth travels across her belly, tasting smooth skin and firm flesh, but before I tongue her navel, she becomes stiff and unresponsive.
"Something wrong?" I look up to see her head turned toward the driveway.
"Predictably wrong, as we seem to have established a pattern for being interrupted."
The sound of a car engine and the crunch of gravel reach my ears, so I pull up her zipper. Fucking shit. I hate this planet.
An older couple emerge from a luxury sedan and approach. We engage in greetings and introductions: Frank and Shirley Henderson, accountant and legal secretary; Daniel Jackson, archaeologist; Vala Mal Doran—
"Mergers and acquisitions," she volunteers before I can provide a pretext.
"So, are you two looking to buy this place?" asks the wife, looking askance at Vala's leather and the mess she made of my hair.
"Yes, actually," I confess, pulling Vala to my side as I had when we inhabited Harrid and Sallis. "I contacted the realtor several weeks ago, but it wasn't until today the decision became clear."
"Care to join our picnic?" Vala smiles in invitation, with a sidelong glance at me.
"Wouldn't dream of horning in on you two lovebirds." The husband winks at me in approval. "Just stopped by the old place to say goodbye. We're moving down to Phoenix tomorrow morning."
"This was your home?"
"Until four years ago, when we sold it and moved up to Broadmoor," sniffs the wife. "Too bad about the last buyer. Lost it in one of those stupid adjustable rate mortgages."
"The shed's still here, but he let the lawn go all to hell." The man shakes his head in reproach.
"No grass to mow." I shrug. "Anyway, I'm used to dirt in my line of work."
They laugh politely.
"Our sons loved it here. They wouldn't get off the shed." The man glances at the outbuilding with a low-pitched roof. "I had to threaten them: I'll get a rabid pit bull to rip out your intestines so your mother can use them to knit an ugly hat if you don't get off the damn shed." He then turns to Vala. "Got kids or plan on having any?"
"Oh, lots and lots," she purrs. "At least a dozen. We just started to practice mak—"
"Vala," I interject, finding a serendipitous distraction. "The wildlife's making off with the leftovers."
We shoo away several birds and enterprising ants before tossing the food back into canvas shopping bags.
"Mind taking our picture in front of the gazebo?" asks the woman, holding out her handheld device. "The last owner seems to have done away with the fountain."
When I try bypassing the intrusive anti-shake feature, the man assists me with less technical expertise than I have. "You oughtta get yourself one of these." His voice drops to a whisper: "So you can make your own amateur porn."
After posing stiffly in their designer golf wear, they advise us to pave over the gravel before it snows, and to make sure our kids keep off the damn shed. As they drive away, Vala calls out, "See you at prostration."
"Vala."
"Well, well, well. It's not trespassing if it's your house, is it?" She brandishes two bent slivers of adopted scrap metal, bounds up the verandah steps, and goes straight to the front door before I can stop her, my hands fumbling with folding the blanket.
"C'mon, haven't you misbehaved enough for one weekend?"
She remains focused on picking the doorknob while replying, "Last night I ran away from a person I don't recognize: boring Vala, appropriate Vala, Vala who realizes Tomin deserves better. That you, Daniel, I'd never deser—"
"Vala, no." I put my hand on her shoulder. "No matter how inappropriate or sneaky you behave, or how self-absorbed and defensive I can become, it's not about deserving some reward."
"You know, Daniel," she starts on the deadbolt, "Jacek was always looking for the Big Score, the Last Job, the Final Caper that would enable him to give up playing confidence games and live… live the rest of his life comfortably, honestly."
"I'm not your Big Score, Vala."
"Of course not, darling." Her eyes move from the lock and fix on me. "You're..."
I read the meaning in her glance, and her words become mine. "You're the rest of my life."
Her face lights up with a radiant smile; she pushes open the front door. "After you."
Next Chapter 10: 100% Down (NC-17/Adult) [2099 words]
Entire "Bookends" story on 1 page at Google Docs
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2009-12-16 04:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-16 07:39 pm (UTC)And yes, the story does structurally end at this chapter, but I wanted an even count of chapters for the "bookend" motif, so I figured a porn denouement wouldn't hurt.