Complete Control
by Vanessa Nichols

Complete control. That's what this is all about, after all. Complete. Control.

His eyes are shut, forehead creased with concentration, with thinking, and she wants to tell him that he doesn't have to do that. That thinking is not required here. That she always has--and always will--think enough for the both of them. For any of them.

For one of them. For him.

But she's not going to think about HIM. Not now. Not when there's a delicious pressure building in her womb, when her thighs are starting to shake just a little, when fire is licking at her senses. Burning is bliss, and bliss is control, and she's in COMPLETE control.

Her fingers clench around his as she pushes them into the pillow underneath his head. Clench and fist and she's riding him just a little bit harder now. He gasps when her mouth latches onto his ear, sucking the lobe between her teeth, biting just a little. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him buck beneath her and that gives HER cause to gasp as she releases his ear and finds his mouth. Lips mash together; teeth clashing incessantly as she sucks on his tongue and he tries to claim it back.

Janet finally worked it out today. Not that it's ever been a secret. They've only ever been discreet. Asked her quietly if she was using protection. She found it a little amazing that it'd taken her two month's to figure it out. Guess the good doctor was half-asleep when last month's physical results went across her desk.

She assured Janet that everything was fine; safe.

Her hands untangle from his, fingernails scratching lightly down his arms. Their lips separate with an audible pop, oxygen desperately gulped, and she leans back with a languid motion that defies the tenseness radiating from her body.

Her hips gyrate on top of his and fire crawls along her spine.

Before she left, Janet had asked, does he know? and she had felt like snapping 'know WHAT?' but Janet didn't wait, just answered herself. Right. Of course not. Then, as she was rising to leave, just... be careful, Sam. This would... hurt him. He wouldn't... understand.

And she felt like laughing. Like if she DIDN'T laugh then she would die. But laughter would have been an uncontrollable reaction and she was--always is--in complete control. So she just nodded and walked away and said nothing.

"God," she gasps now, as his hands move to skim her thighs and up her abdomen. Fingers firm with knowledge, with learned observance, press and tease her flesh; palms scraping over hardened nipples. She moans, softly, and rocks against him urgently.

When his hands leave her breasts and move to her hips, fingers digging into her waist, she shakes her head. "No," she groans, and his eyes screw shut even tighter as she frees them from her skin and buries their tangled hands into the mattress. SHE'S in control here, not him. Not him, not them, just her.

Just her. In control. The way it's meant to be. The way it can never be with... him.

Which is why she's here now. Why she's not... there. Why she's not being wooed with cautious glances and bittersweet smiles. Not letting herself keep falling further in love. Because falling is dangerous, falling is terrifying. Falling is uncontrollable and she is always--ALWAYS--in control.

And even though she didn't laugh today, didn't even smile, she's still amused--even now--with Janet's... advice. Because even if he DID know--and there's always the chance that he DOES know--he would understand. She knows he would. She does, after all.

They're using who's there instead of each other. Employing substitutes. And it's better this way. Much better. Because it was stupid to fall in the first place, idiotic and foolish and it shouldn't matter that the falling was out of their control. They're BETTER than that. They KNOW better than that. So she's in control, now, and so is he, and they're never gonna be uncontrollable again. Never, not ever.

And she's close; so very, very close. Her body jerks hard against his, fingers entwined and fisting, hips grinding. His cock is sliding in and out of her body with frantic impunity, his pelvis catching hers and her clit with every connection. Fast and hard and his eyes are still closed as he starts muttering breathless obscenities.

She leans down and kisses him. Once. Twice. Biting just a little but not enough to... oh...

She's already fading, limbs liquid, when he comes moments later. Her frame sinks, covering his, and when she frees their fingers, his hands flex to regain circulation, resting eventually on her forearms. It's almost a hug.

"I read your book yesterday," he says then, breathing slowly returning to normal.

Her body is quite comfortable right now, sprawled on top of his, so she doesn't move. "Which one?"

With her cheek pressing against his ribcage she can hear the words vibrating in his chest as he answers her. It's the book she wrote when Anise was guinea-pigging them. With pillow-talk, she muses, he's in a league all of his own.

"Your theory that it's the Stargate's themselves that regulate the matter of the wormhole is intriguing."


"Yeah." His hands are still curled around her forearms and he moves them, absently, stroking her sweat-damp skin. "I got the impression that you believe it's the naqueda in the 'Gate's that control how the wormhole operates, how it stays 'in line' between 'Gate's, sotospeak."

That IS what she believes. "And you don't?"

"Well... control is an illusion; an idea. I agree that the naqueda in the Stargate's probably buffer the matter, surround its path, but control? Nothing that powerful can be 'controlled'."

You're wrong, she thinks. Lots of things can be controlled. Powerful things, even. She rolls off of him--his eyes are open now--and starts searching for her clothing. "Let's get some dinner."

He props himself up on his elbows, gaze slightly narrowed as he watches her step into her panties and refasten her bra. "Control IS fallible, Sam."

She doesn't want to hear this. "I feel like pizza--you?"

"Sooner or later, everything controlled falls apart, breaks down. Control," he repeats, voice strangely flat, "is an illusion."

Her t-shirt is yanked on with more force than she would like. "Hawaiian, I think. You like pineapple, right?"

He sighs quietly, eyes blinking shut briefly, and then shrugs. As she does up her jeans, he rises and starts collecting his own clothing. "Pineapple's great," he agrees, smiling at her.

She nods decisively, running a hand through her hair. "Good. Hawaiian it is."

The room is left without another word, her footsteps just a little tense in the hallway. Jonas is wrong, she affirms to herself silently. Very wrong. Control is NOT an illusion. Control is real; extremely real. And useful, too. She would know, after all.

She's IN control. Complete control.


Silverlake: Authors / Mediums / Titles / Links / List / About / Plain Style / Fancy Style