Kisses and writing
Feb. 7th, 2006 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowThere's a lot of great writing going on, not the least of which a post ep for Ethon from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cofax7 and a lovely series of pairing drabbles (although drabble doesn't quite do them justice) from elishavah, among them one for My Name is Earl, along with a Vala and Jack, and a Vala and Shepphard. Why yes, I am too lazy to go find the links.
Got my Remix assignment, deciding a little fear was good for my soul. I am... a tiny bit intimidated, but I don't actually know my remixee so that makes it a little easier than last time. I still anticipate much squirmy and moaning on my part, and not in the fun getting some way.
So, there's this absolutely fabulous story meme going around about Five Kisses, and I wanted to try my hand at it, so started with the obvious. But I'd really like to try something more obscure, see if the format is as fun when the characters are uncertain. I'd particularly like to do one for Vala, or perhaps Mitchell. But I'm equally intrigued at how one could do this for Earl:) Blame Eli, I was sort of kidding about wanting fic for this (although I've seen musings of Earl/Wonderfalls crossovers and that sounds fascinating. However, after Eli's brilliance, I just want more).
So, first the obvious.
Long Ride for a Short Bus - Five Kisses in Uncharted Territory
She reeks of illness, of sweat and vomit and the stink of near death. Her hair curls in stiff, sticky tendrils along her brow and her hand is slack in his. That's the best thing he's seen today, her fingers limp and lax, real sleep stealing over her, holding her taut. The blanket rises and falls as her breathing evens to a steady wheeze. The new tissue does its work, knitting her system back together.
He is not astonished at her bravery in the face of death. He's been to war, has seen the tapestry of bravery before. He is instead awed by the hungry look in her eyes, by her sheer will to live, to not expire in the face of her body's betrayal. Peacekeepers line up to die, to be cannon fodder, and now she is more than that. If she had died, when she does, he might name her as one of his dead. He will at least name her an ally, a friend.
He rests his hand on the curve of her forehead, eyes following over the long line of her pale throat. That she's beautiful has not escaped him. But it is… secondary in his attentions to her skill as a warrior. Crichton is just as beautiful in his own way, uniform features and a strong, well-muscled body. He would be infinitely less trouble. On second thought, he'd likely have to muzzle the alien and that was an entirely different sort of adventure. Aeryn would be direct, would likely have a set of orders ready to put into play, have certain expectations. D'Argo has no interest in proving himself both on the battlefield and in the bedroom. His taste in that area runs more to soft curves, sweet temptations.
Aeryn twitches, head turning in feverish dismay and he abandons the random, slightly traitorous thoughts of sex and skin, strokes her forehead, bends down, presses his lip to her damp brow. Murmurs an order of rest, offers kind lies. There will be enough time for truth when she wakes up.
***
John grips the amnexus conduit in one hand, presses against the leak in the wall with the other. He's balanced between pressures, shirt stretched taut over his body, feet braced wide in the narrow corridor and he's shouting her name. She stops directly in front of him, holding tightly to the patching sealant.
"A little help," he grits out. She raises an eyebrow.
"Majikword."
"Bite me?"
"Nooo," she draws out the denial, making him sweat. "I don't think that's right. Unless it's like all of those other things you've taught me and changes according to your mood."
"Please." His tone edges on snide, teases at repentant.
She shrugs. Puts her empty hand on the sweet curve of his pectoral muscle, fingers against his collarbone, wrist bumping against his nipple. He shivers slightly, blinks and she licks her lips, smiles slightly, lacing it with just a hint of menace, a morsel of want. Gives into the heady temptation of having him spread out before her, of getting back a little of her own for his relentless teasing.
"Don't let go," she orders, low and rich.
His eyes widen, lips part and she kisses him, tongue slipping between his teeth. His eyelashes flutter against her cheek and he tastes like mint and clean water and heat. She deepens the kiss as his body tilts forward towards her and takes his tongue into her mouth, moaning low in her throat. She feels the shift in his body, the slackening in his muscle tone and leaps back as amnexus fluid sprays out of the tear, covering him and splashing against the wall, dripping onto her boots as he struggles to grab hold the conduit.
"Fuck!!" He shakes the fluid out of his eyes.
"I warned you not to let go," Aeryn says, voice grave, mouth set in a serious line. He tilts his eyebrow up at her, wipes his face on his shoulder.
"Nice," he mutters, glaring, but his eyes track her mouth until she turns, moves to patch the wall.
***
He tilts her chin up, lips brushing softly against hers as she clenches his shirt, fingers opening and closing, kneeding him like a cat. Her nails scrape at his skin through the soft fabric and he tucks her head in under his chin.
Her hair tickles his skin, soft as dandelion fluff, her scalp oily and musky, streaks of dirt darkening the white strands.
"I was tu - trying to… to give it back."
He doesn't believe her, knows it doesn't much matter.
"It's a start, Chi," he says against the sharp angle of her cheek, the rainwater taste of her tears, brackish and thin against his tongue.
"She just told me to keep it." He keeps her close, keeps his own grief at bay.
"Maybe she thought it looked better on you." She hiccup-sobs into his chest, thumps her small fist against his shoulder.
"No… no, it…I… she's always been mad before."
"I think…she doesn't need it Chi. 'S the idea, of having things, of having a little of your own… she was moving away from that… before…"
She scrubs her face against him, snot and tears and it's not the first time a girl in the throes of heartbreak has used him as a dishrag. He's happy to be of service, happy for the comfort that her lithe young body offers him. She's working on being strong, for that, he can be a pillar.
Her eyes are clear when she moves away, her mouth a sweet curve, a comfort offered, grief telegraphed and shared. "Got a lot to do," she says, "Lots to clean up."
"Yeah," he says. "There's a hell of a lot to repair."
***
The blanket obscures the bottom half of his face, pulled taut around his body, flaring out in a lumpy bunch near the edge.
She teases the silky flap away from his mouth earning a half-hearted slap for her efforts. Crumbs obscure his lips, are stuck up around his nose slits in decorative patterns. If she had a stylus, she could play connect the dots like Crichton let her do with the freckles on his arm that one time.
"Love is overrated," she says, and squats down next to him on the bed.
"If you don't want to experience copious amounts of vomit, I suggest you leave." There's not nearly enough venom in the warning, but she does take heed. Rygel rarely kids about vomit.
"Eating yourself into a stupor isn't so drad either." Her voice is gentle.
"Hmmph."
"Is that… do you have mila syrup in there?" Chiana yanks at the blanket, pulling it back to reveal a mountain of food, the tin of syrup balanced precariously on tops. She strips off her glove, dips her finger into the syrup and licks off the sticky sweetness, rolling her eyes back in pleasure. "You know, if Oren hadn't turned out to be a Peacekeeper spy, you two could have had a lot of fun with this."
His glare is hot, sharp along the grain of her skin. "What the frell do you think I had it out for? I wouldn't risk any of you stealing it!"
"Where'd you get it?"
The silence stretches out, then Rygel says softly, "The other one… he'd purchased it… perhaps for the same…"
She cuts him off, uncomfortable suddenly with the idea of the… dead Crichton and sex. It seems… improper. She dips her finger into the tin again. "Good for them, then."
He nods, and looks down at his horde, disconsolate. She sucks the syrup off her skin, scraping the nail with her teeth, then runs the pad of her bare finger over his brow ridge, once, twice. Does the same with her thumb.
"Welcome home," she says softly.
***
Her vibrations run up into his small body, the tiny shudders, the hum of fear, of sadness.
His palm flat against her flooring, he whispers to her in Hynerian, sings her a lullaby learned in his own crèche. There's no one around to hear his voice, hear the rusty scratch of old words and older melody.
He's been here the longest, knows her tilts and rhythms, has learned in the last few cycles of her hurts and fears, finds that he cares more than he could have thought. It is not the greatest surprise of his life.
"Be at peace," he murmurs when the lullaby comes to a close. "He was a good ship…" He pauses, reconsiders. He's never lied to her before.
"He was a loyal ship, and impetuous, young. But he had a valiant heart, and a good death."
It wasn't much of a comfort, but there's a different sort of solace in truth. Her flooring hums, and he lays his other palm flat, keeps his touch constant and steady.
cofax7 and a lovely series of pairing drabbles (although drabble doesn't quite do them justice) from elishavah, among them one for My Name is Earl, along with a Vala and Jack, and a Vala and Shepphard. Why yes, I am too lazy to go find the links.Got my Remix assignment, deciding a little fear was good for my soul. I am... a tiny bit intimidated, but I don't actually know my remixee so that makes it a little easier than last time. I still anticipate much squirmy and moaning on my part, and not in the fun getting some way.
So, there's this absolutely fabulous story meme going around about Five Kisses, and I wanted to try my hand at it, so started with the obvious. But I'd really like to try something more obscure, see if the format is as fun when the characters are uncertain. I'd particularly like to do one for Vala, or perhaps Mitchell. But I'm equally intrigued at how one could do this for Earl:) Blame Eli, I was sort of kidding about wanting fic for this (although I've seen musings of Earl/Wonderfalls crossovers and that sounds fascinating. However, after Eli's brilliance, I just want more).
So, first the obvious.
Long Ride for a Short Bus - Five Kisses in Uncharted Territory
She reeks of illness, of sweat and vomit and the stink of near death. Her hair curls in stiff, sticky tendrils along her brow and her hand is slack in his. That's the best thing he's seen today, her fingers limp and lax, real sleep stealing over her, holding her taut. The blanket rises and falls as her breathing evens to a steady wheeze. The new tissue does its work, knitting her system back together.
He is not astonished at her bravery in the face of death. He's been to war, has seen the tapestry of bravery before. He is instead awed by the hungry look in her eyes, by her sheer will to live, to not expire in the face of her body's betrayal. Peacekeepers line up to die, to be cannon fodder, and now she is more than that. If she had died, when she does, he might name her as one of his dead. He will at least name her an ally, a friend.
He rests his hand on the curve of her forehead, eyes following over the long line of her pale throat. That she's beautiful has not escaped him. But it is… secondary in his attentions to her skill as a warrior. Crichton is just as beautiful in his own way, uniform features and a strong, well-muscled body. He would be infinitely less trouble. On second thought, he'd likely have to muzzle the alien and that was an entirely different sort of adventure. Aeryn would be direct, would likely have a set of orders ready to put into play, have certain expectations. D'Argo has no interest in proving himself both on the battlefield and in the bedroom. His taste in that area runs more to soft curves, sweet temptations.
Aeryn twitches, head turning in feverish dismay and he abandons the random, slightly traitorous thoughts of sex and skin, strokes her forehead, bends down, presses his lip to her damp brow. Murmurs an order of rest, offers kind lies. There will be enough time for truth when she wakes up.
***
John grips the amnexus conduit in one hand, presses against the leak in the wall with the other. He's balanced between pressures, shirt stretched taut over his body, feet braced wide in the narrow corridor and he's shouting her name. She stops directly in front of him, holding tightly to the patching sealant.
"A little help," he grits out. She raises an eyebrow.
"Majikword."
"Bite me?"
"Nooo," she draws out the denial, making him sweat. "I don't think that's right. Unless it's like all of those other things you've taught me and changes according to your mood."
"Please." His tone edges on snide, teases at repentant.
She shrugs. Puts her empty hand on the sweet curve of his pectoral muscle, fingers against his collarbone, wrist bumping against his nipple. He shivers slightly, blinks and she licks her lips, smiles slightly, lacing it with just a hint of menace, a morsel of want. Gives into the heady temptation of having him spread out before her, of getting back a little of her own for his relentless teasing.
"Don't let go," she orders, low and rich.
His eyes widen, lips part and she kisses him, tongue slipping between his teeth. His eyelashes flutter against her cheek and he tastes like mint and clean water and heat. She deepens the kiss as his body tilts forward towards her and takes his tongue into her mouth, moaning low in her throat. She feels the shift in his body, the slackening in his muscle tone and leaps back as amnexus fluid sprays out of the tear, covering him and splashing against the wall, dripping onto her boots as he struggles to grab hold the conduit.
"Fuck!!" He shakes the fluid out of his eyes.
"I warned you not to let go," Aeryn says, voice grave, mouth set in a serious line. He tilts his eyebrow up at her, wipes his face on his shoulder.
"Nice," he mutters, glaring, but his eyes track her mouth until she turns, moves to patch the wall.
***
He tilts her chin up, lips brushing softly against hers as she clenches his shirt, fingers opening and closing, kneeding him like a cat. Her nails scrape at his skin through the soft fabric and he tucks her head in under his chin.
Her hair tickles his skin, soft as dandelion fluff, her scalp oily and musky, streaks of dirt darkening the white strands.
"I was tu - trying to… to give it back."
He doesn't believe her, knows it doesn't much matter.
"It's a start, Chi," he says against the sharp angle of her cheek, the rainwater taste of her tears, brackish and thin against his tongue.
"She just told me to keep it." He keeps her close, keeps his own grief at bay.
"Maybe she thought it looked better on you." She hiccup-sobs into his chest, thumps her small fist against his shoulder.
"No… no, it…I… she's always been mad before."
"I think…she doesn't need it Chi. 'S the idea, of having things, of having a little of your own… she was moving away from that… before…"
She scrubs her face against him, snot and tears and it's not the first time a girl in the throes of heartbreak has used him as a dishrag. He's happy to be of service, happy for the comfort that her lithe young body offers him. She's working on being strong, for that, he can be a pillar.
Her eyes are clear when she moves away, her mouth a sweet curve, a comfort offered, grief telegraphed and shared. "Got a lot to do," she says, "Lots to clean up."
"Yeah," he says. "There's a hell of a lot to repair."
***
The blanket obscures the bottom half of his face, pulled taut around his body, flaring out in a lumpy bunch near the edge.
She teases the silky flap away from his mouth earning a half-hearted slap for her efforts. Crumbs obscure his lips, are stuck up around his nose slits in decorative patterns. If she had a stylus, she could play connect the dots like Crichton let her do with the freckles on his arm that one time.
"Love is overrated," she says, and squats down next to him on the bed.
"If you don't want to experience copious amounts of vomit, I suggest you leave." There's not nearly enough venom in the warning, but she does take heed. Rygel rarely kids about vomit.
"Eating yourself into a stupor isn't so drad either." Her voice is gentle.
"Hmmph."
"Is that… do you have mila syrup in there?" Chiana yanks at the blanket, pulling it back to reveal a mountain of food, the tin of syrup balanced precariously on tops. She strips off her glove, dips her finger into the syrup and licks off the sticky sweetness, rolling her eyes back in pleasure. "You know, if Oren hadn't turned out to be a Peacekeeper spy, you two could have had a lot of fun with this."
His glare is hot, sharp along the grain of her skin. "What the frell do you think I had it out for? I wouldn't risk any of you stealing it!"
"Where'd you get it?"
The silence stretches out, then Rygel says softly, "The other one… he'd purchased it… perhaps for the same…"
She cuts him off, uncomfortable suddenly with the idea of the… dead Crichton and sex. It seems… improper. She dips her finger into the tin again. "Good for them, then."
He nods, and looks down at his horde, disconsolate. She sucks the syrup off her skin, scraping the nail with her teeth, then runs the pad of her bare finger over his brow ridge, once, twice. Does the same with her thumb.
"Welcome home," she says softly.
***
Her vibrations run up into his small body, the tiny shudders, the hum of fear, of sadness.
His palm flat against her flooring, he whispers to her in Hynerian, sings her a lullaby learned in his own crèche. There's no one around to hear his voice, hear the rusty scratch of old words and older melody.
He's been here the longest, knows her tilts and rhythms, has learned in the last few cycles of her hurts and fears, finds that he cares more than he could have thought. It is not the greatest surprise of his life.
"Be at peace," he murmurs when the lullaby comes to a close. "He was a good ship…" He pauses, reconsiders. He's never lied to her before.
"He was a loyal ship, and impetuous, young. But he had a valiant heart, and a good death."
It wasn't much of a comfort, but there's a different sort of solace in truth. Her flooring hums, and he lays his other palm flat, keeps his touch constant and steady.
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no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 12:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 12:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 12:57 pm (UTC)The final one with Rygel is lovely, as they all are, but we don't often see the smallest member of the crew communing with the largest. Honesty in place of kind lies, but I think Moya would appreciate that more.
I love D'Argo's tenderness, his awareness of how Aeryn has grown beyond her culture, and his idle speculation. (muzzling John, eh? *g*)
Aeryn's having fun, isn't she, in the corridor. :)
Chi's grief is palpable, as is Rygel's. Those two are closer than I'd ever have thought, back when she was introduced.
Remix, yay!
no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 03:07 pm (UTC)Anyways...that was lovely. Thank you
no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 05:53 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it and thanks so much for the feedback!!
no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 03:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 06:08 pm (UTC)And, dude, you have a lot to answer for. This was not my plan for this morning.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-07 06:26 pm (UTC)Hee - it may not have been your plan, but my joy in it's existence is no less for all of that:)
no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 07:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 06:04 am (UTC)And this paragraph is brilliant:
She scrubs her face against him, snot and tears and it's not the first time a girl in the throes of heartbreak has used him as a dishrag. He's happy to be of service, happy for the comfort that her lithe young body offers him. She's working on being strong, for that, he can be a pillar.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 07:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-08 07:17 am (UTC)