Thursday and tiny fic
Feb. 16th, 2006 12:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowNot much to report on a Thursday, just a full day of workin', dancing and staying out of trouble. Mostly.
Having watched GEM two nights ago, I wanted to write something immediately post that moment. I just like the idea of that being such a pivotal moment, and of things still unsettled, of their being things left that are deliberately ignored.
Shadowing
You draw away because his almost death, his false absence is still fresh behind your eyes, and truth be told – and they are all about the truth tonight, so much truth your teeth ache, your head spins – you're still angry, can still taste frustration, fear, the rush of near loss. You don't mind coming to him like this, a little lost, a little ravaged, ready to ravage back, but he'd laid it out before you close to a monen ago in a foul smelling passageway with his cock half hard against your arse and his hands on your skin. Laid it out like a battle plan.
He wants something more.
You wanted something less.
And now, you're here.
This isn't a compromise, it's a conciliation. You've conceded in this, but you aren't ready to abandon your anger, your fear, or your need quite yet.
His fingers cling to your hair as you withdraw, but there's something in the clear blue of his eyes that says… well, you're not quite sure what it says. He can be just as confusing with his wordless gestures as with his nonsensical words.
"Hey," he whispers, soft against your skin. He touches his lips to your cheekbones and your eyes flutter shut. You still feel Talyn's anger in your veins, his glee at success, frustration at failure, his own fear and conciliatory offering. It's an echo in your blood, in your heart and mind and gut that you'll be glad to lose. Perhaps not glad, but able to lose. Amazing as it was to be linked, it's better to be your own self in your own mind. The discovery of that sense, of that self is still too new to abandon with utter willingness.
"I need to sleep," you say, not meaning it exactly, but needing distance, needing space, needing it all as much as you want… other things. He frowns at that, turns it to his advantage.
"Sleep here," he says, and it's barely a request.
You consider it. There is something appealing about sleeping tucked into this alcove, sleeping tucked against him, his hands on your skin, scent in your nostrils, presence known.
"Fine," you say, pushing off the platform, stripping down to skin. He watches, wide eyed, fully clothed. You don't intend to make things easy. For either of you. He bites his lip and your pulse pounds in your throat as his eyes track your body. You flush, caught in a feedback loop as powerful as the neural bleedback ravaging Crais. Unfair. This is terribly unfair.
"Sleep," he mutters and looks hard at you. You meet his gaze, and he nods, takes up the challenge.
He stretches, drops his notebook and stylus to the ground, scoots to the edge of the mattress, takes off his boots, his socks. Tucks them under the flap. He stands, grabs his shirt behind his neck, yanks it slowly over his head, tugging until it comes free. He folds it neatly, placing it on the flooring by his boots. You resist the urge to growl at him. You have been with him before, have shared sleep, sex, moments. You've spent time in his quarters. This level of deliberate neatness does not come naturally.
By the time he's down to his briefs, you don't know whether to kill him or frell him, but the quiet sweet melancholy of your earlier reveal, of his admission is gone.
Sweat beads along his lip, over his chest, and however much effort this little performance is costing him, you fear it may cost you more. You curl your fists against your sides and think of him outside the bay door, think of his eyes wide and not at all accepting of this latest turn of events. You cling to the moment when Talyn relented, gave up, opened the door. You relax your fists. This is what you want. This is what you need.
"Please," you say, half under your breath and you aren't sure whether you want him to keep the barrier, to strip it away, whether you want him hot and hard and fierce inside you, or quiescent and quiet and calm, hands soft and gentle against your back. He pushes down on the waistband of the shorts, shoves them to his feet and finally doesn't bother to fold or stack, just kicks them to the side.
Suddenly it's too much, far far too much. John is naked in front of you. Alive in front of you. Arns ago, you thought you'd lost him, you'd been both more and less than yourself and all you could feel was John's absence, your own failure and now he is… It doesn't matter, you turn away and his hands are on your wrists.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "You said you needed sleep." Kind now, not challenging. Somewhere out there, another John Crichton is sleeping under golden sheets. Right now, facing the one with his hands on your wrists, you know you don't have room for two men with the same claim. If you haven't got room for Talyn, for Crais, you don't have room for two humans. So you choose. For now, you choose.
You blink, tilt your head, barely remember those microts before this, when you'd asked for sleep.
You raise your hand and he lets go of your wrist, strokes over your collarbone, down to your breast. His fingertips stroke your nipple, nails against the side of your breast, barely grazing and you shudder, put your hand on his chest, fingers against his throat.
"I love you," he says, plain as day, the words round and edged and terrifying. His hand leaves your breast, glides down to your hip, and you lean in, nip against his throat, unable to keep from tasting him any longer. You taste his jaw, tongue against the rough silk of his skin, and he angles, meets your mouth, kissing you as you flex your hand against his chest, as he curls his fingers against your hip.
"I love you too," you say, and feel lighter, feel dizzy and ill and drunk. You sway against him and his arms hold you up.
"Sleep," he whispers in your ear, and pulls you into a bed shadowed by the stars.
Having watched GEM two nights ago, I wanted to write something immediately post that moment. I just like the idea of that being such a pivotal moment, and of things still unsettled, of their being things left that are deliberately ignored.
Shadowing
You draw away because his almost death, his false absence is still fresh behind your eyes, and truth be told – and they are all about the truth tonight, so much truth your teeth ache, your head spins – you're still angry, can still taste frustration, fear, the rush of near loss. You don't mind coming to him like this, a little lost, a little ravaged, ready to ravage back, but he'd laid it out before you close to a monen ago in a foul smelling passageway with his cock half hard against your arse and his hands on your skin. Laid it out like a battle plan.
He wants something more.
You wanted something less.
And now, you're here.
This isn't a compromise, it's a conciliation. You've conceded in this, but you aren't ready to abandon your anger, your fear, or your need quite yet.
His fingers cling to your hair as you withdraw, but there's something in the clear blue of his eyes that says… well, you're not quite sure what it says. He can be just as confusing with his wordless gestures as with his nonsensical words.
"Hey," he whispers, soft against your skin. He touches his lips to your cheekbones and your eyes flutter shut. You still feel Talyn's anger in your veins, his glee at success, frustration at failure, his own fear and conciliatory offering. It's an echo in your blood, in your heart and mind and gut that you'll be glad to lose. Perhaps not glad, but able to lose. Amazing as it was to be linked, it's better to be your own self in your own mind. The discovery of that sense, of that self is still too new to abandon with utter willingness.
"I need to sleep," you say, not meaning it exactly, but needing distance, needing space, needing it all as much as you want… other things. He frowns at that, turns it to his advantage.
"Sleep here," he says, and it's barely a request.
You consider it. There is something appealing about sleeping tucked into this alcove, sleeping tucked against him, his hands on your skin, scent in your nostrils, presence known.
"Fine," you say, pushing off the platform, stripping down to skin. He watches, wide eyed, fully clothed. You don't intend to make things easy. For either of you. He bites his lip and your pulse pounds in your throat as his eyes track your body. You flush, caught in a feedback loop as powerful as the neural bleedback ravaging Crais. Unfair. This is terribly unfair.
"Sleep," he mutters and looks hard at you. You meet his gaze, and he nods, takes up the challenge.
He stretches, drops his notebook and stylus to the ground, scoots to the edge of the mattress, takes off his boots, his socks. Tucks them under the flap. He stands, grabs his shirt behind his neck, yanks it slowly over his head, tugging until it comes free. He folds it neatly, placing it on the flooring by his boots. You resist the urge to growl at him. You have been with him before, have shared sleep, sex, moments. You've spent time in his quarters. This level of deliberate neatness does not come naturally.
By the time he's down to his briefs, you don't know whether to kill him or frell him, but the quiet sweet melancholy of your earlier reveal, of his admission is gone.
Sweat beads along his lip, over his chest, and however much effort this little performance is costing him, you fear it may cost you more. You curl your fists against your sides and think of him outside the bay door, think of his eyes wide and not at all accepting of this latest turn of events. You cling to the moment when Talyn relented, gave up, opened the door. You relax your fists. This is what you want. This is what you need.
"Please," you say, half under your breath and you aren't sure whether you want him to keep the barrier, to strip it away, whether you want him hot and hard and fierce inside you, or quiescent and quiet and calm, hands soft and gentle against your back. He pushes down on the waistband of the shorts, shoves them to his feet and finally doesn't bother to fold or stack, just kicks them to the side.
Suddenly it's too much, far far too much. John is naked in front of you. Alive in front of you. Arns ago, you thought you'd lost him, you'd been both more and less than yourself and all you could feel was John's absence, your own failure and now he is… It doesn't matter, you turn away and his hands are on your wrists.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "You said you needed sleep." Kind now, not challenging. Somewhere out there, another John Crichton is sleeping under golden sheets. Right now, facing the one with his hands on your wrists, you know you don't have room for two men with the same claim. If you haven't got room for Talyn, for Crais, you don't have room for two humans. So you choose. For now, you choose.
You blink, tilt your head, barely remember those microts before this, when you'd asked for sleep.
You raise your hand and he lets go of your wrist, strokes over your collarbone, down to your breast. His fingertips stroke your nipple, nails against the side of your breast, barely grazing and you shudder, put your hand on his chest, fingers against his throat.
"I love you," he says, plain as day, the words round and edged and terrifying. His hand leaves your breast, glides down to your hip, and you lean in, nip against his throat, unable to keep from tasting him any longer. You taste his jaw, tongue against the rough silk of his skin, and he angles, meets your mouth, kissing you as you flex your hand against his chest, as he curls his fingers against your hip.
"I love you too," you say, and feel lighter, feel dizzy and ill and drunk. You sway against him and his arms hold you up.
"Sleep," he whispers in your ear, and pulls you into a bed shadowed by the stars.
