All out of the clever
Sep. 18th, 2003 01:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowI got a super shiny new icon from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fbf, but I'm not gonna use it until the next chapter of Blue Eyes. I figured out how to make what happens next happen next. Now it's all up to the execution. Sigh. That's the tricky part. And I so want to skip ahead, write the next scene that's tugging at me, but I promised myself. Grrr.
More West Wing love in bloom. It's such a pretty fairy tale, although last night's ep ended with a bang and I said a multitude of rude things. I've little patience for waiting these days.
I've got nothing to say about the recall at this point that wouldn't be derogative and expletive filled, so I'm just gonna stay silent. So The West Wing is helping me stay silent. I'm much happier watching the pretty people play at politics, and I laughed so hard at Astronewts that I scared the cat. They made up a whole scenario just to use that joke:)
I did tape Spooks, but haven't watched it yet. M. gave me puppy dog eyes, and asked if I wanted to watch the final Cowboy Bebop ep. So I gave in, and it was gorgeous and bloody and sad. M.'s anime lusts - Dragonball Z and Cowboy Bebop - make him happy, so I try and be supportive.
And becausecretkid was looking for a little Mind the Baby fic, here's a wee thing:
Mind Over Matter
She’s still in her Prowler when Starburst starts, and the gravitational force of it slams her back into her seat. Her body is bruised, and the impact sets her teeth on edge, turns her stomach, and nausea cramps low in her belly. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, creates a rhythm, steadies her mind. They shudder out of Starburst and she wills herself to relax, to hit the release for the hatch, to step out onto Moya’s golden floor. But she can’t move, failure and loss have paralyzed her.
Talyn is gone, no longer a kidnapping, a willing flight. It tastes like betrayal, sharp and bitter and smoky, the same taste that snaked around her tongue when she made her bargain, saved John, saved D’Argo, from the vacuum of space.
But a soldier does what is necessary. Even if that means enduring Crais’ hot breath on her skin, fingers curling into her hip, invasion of her space. She understands that. But she’ll never understand why Talyn refused her.
She puts her hand on the release, ignores the fine tremors, but still can’t force it down. Her body slumps in the seat, tears hot and stinging burn in her eyes, shame, anger, all of these emotions. It’s too much, she wants them gone.
The Prowler shakes and she hears voices, muffled but the panic shines through. John calling her name. Frantic that she hasn’t popped the hatch, returned to him. She closes her eyes, presses down.
***
She doesn’t climb out of the ship immediately and he feels his throat start to close up. There hadn’t been time for him to adjust to her absence, only to tamp it down, hold it inside. Her willingness to leave bites at him, chewing little holes where the acid seeps in, and for a moment he thinks she’s stalling. He wants to yell at her, bit he’s stymied with the choke of fear, and anger's having a bitch of a time breaking through. D’Argo isn’t caught up in their domestic drama. He shoves the stairs against the Prowler and hauls up them, asking if she’s alright.
He hears her voice, shaky but strong. “I’m fine,” knows she’s lying but the relief makes his muscles weak, battles back the anger and the acid, and he tries to fit his frame onto the steps, only to get elbowed in the stomach. He stumbles back with a grunt, and Aeryn climbs out of the Prowler as D’Argo boogies backwards down the ladder.
They all need a bath, dirt and sweat soaking their clothing, but it stands out on her, so normally immaculate. Her hair is tangled, matted against her neck, and she’s pale and shiny. He sees bruises, sees blood, but she’s walkin’ and talkin’ and he wants to grab her, squeeze her until she can’t breathe, until he feels her ribs shift to accommodate his grip. He smiles, and she doesn’t, stumbling on the last rung. D’Argo catches her, scooping her up like a child. They both look surprised, but she doesn’t fight much and D’Argo gently puts her down on one of the crates.
***
John is too close, hovering and nervous, reaching to touch her and she winces, pulls away. He growls her name out, insists, tries to prove that his need makes him right. He says let me, and it’s a howl of anguish in her head, more emotions, more things, ugly and cloying that she doesn’t understand. More things pulling at her, invading her space.
She puts on her PK voice, her lesser species tone, tells him to leave her alone. D’Argo nods and he storms out. D’Argo sits down beside her, his thigh pressed against hers.
“Talyn chose Crais,” she says finally.
He doesn’t respond immediately, just sits by her, gives her time. Eventually, he breaks the silence. “Want to play a game?” he asks, his large hand shaping into a fist, pounding against his open palm, and amazingly, she laughs, and something inside her fills back in.
She finds John in command, arms braced against the console, tension tight in the muscles of his back. She surprises herself by standing near him, feeling his heat. She’s still shaky, but exhaustion has replaced everything else in her body. She has seen Chiana curl around his back, fitting her lithe young frame to him like a second skin, and it is tempting, so very tempting, but instead she puts her hand on his waist, and lets her forehead drop to the back of his shoulder, resting there briefly. It feels odd to reach for him, but she’s too tired to question her actions, too tired to move.
“I need to go talk to Moya,” she says softly. He turns slightly, dislodging her but a little of the tension has gone out of him, and he folds her in, crushing her arms to her sides, his large hand wrapping around her neck, cradling her skull. He smells like dirt, and sweat, and fear, and she turns her head into his throat, tasting his own scent, the muskiness of his humanity, the sweet tang that signals John to her.
“Want me to go with you?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and she nods against his skin as he releases her, unphased by this new sign of weakness. She wants him with her. She’s tired of giving, she wants to take.
***
He sits close behind her, unable to keep his hands away, winding her hair around his fingers like wire, tugging gently, keeping her attention at least marginally on him. He hears that sound in her voice that denotes failure, hears it matched by her words, and thinks she’s probably not wrong. In her world, she has failed. Talyn’s gone, but Crais is gone too and he can’t disguise the pleasure behind that defection. Sleek and smug as Aeryn followed him, Crais radiated victory, but at least now there’s no one to share it with. He aches a little for Moya, her sorrow at this loss, and aches more for Aeryn who had just found something to love.
She sinks back into him, boneless with fatigue, asks him about change. She’s warm in his arms, and frankly he doesn’t give a flying frell about Crais’ ability to change. Talyn bailed, and she wants reassurance, and so he gives it, but he can’t lie, can’t say that he has any sort of faith in the better angels of Captain Bialar Crais.
Maybe she doesn’t care that much either because she strokes his arm, fits herself more tightly to him, edging her bony shoulders into his chest, and stays, holds on and stays.
fbf, but I'm not gonna use it until the next chapter of Blue Eyes. I figured out how to make what happens next happen next. Now it's all up to the execution. Sigh. That's the tricky part. And I so want to skip ahead, write the next scene that's tugging at me, but I promised myself. Grrr.More West Wing love in bloom. It's such a pretty fairy tale, although last night's ep ended with a bang and I said a multitude of rude things. I've little patience for waiting these days.
I've got nothing to say about the recall at this point that wouldn't be derogative and expletive filled, so I'm just gonna stay silent. So The West Wing is helping me stay silent. I'm much happier watching the pretty people play at politics, and I laughed so hard at Astronewts that I scared the cat. They made up a whole scenario just to use that joke:)
I did tape Spooks, but haven't watched it yet. M. gave me puppy dog eyes, and asked if I wanted to watch the final Cowboy Bebop ep. So I gave in, and it was gorgeous and bloody and sad. M.'s anime lusts - Dragonball Z and Cowboy Bebop - make him happy, so I try and be supportive.
And because
cretkid was looking for a little Mind the Baby fic, here's a wee thing:Mind Over Matter
She’s still in her Prowler when Starburst starts, and the gravitational force of it slams her back into her seat. Her body is bruised, and the impact sets her teeth on edge, turns her stomach, and nausea cramps low in her belly. She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, creates a rhythm, steadies her mind. They shudder out of Starburst and she wills herself to relax, to hit the release for the hatch, to step out onto Moya’s golden floor. But she can’t move, failure and loss have paralyzed her.
Talyn is gone, no longer a kidnapping, a willing flight. It tastes like betrayal, sharp and bitter and smoky, the same taste that snaked around her tongue when she made her bargain, saved John, saved D’Argo, from the vacuum of space.
But a soldier does what is necessary. Even if that means enduring Crais’ hot breath on her skin, fingers curling into her hip, invasion of her space. She understands that. But she’ll never understand why Talyn refused her.
She puts her hand on the release, ignores the fine tremors, but still can’t force it down. Her body slumps in the seat, tears hot and stinging burn in her eyes, shame, anger, all of these emotions. It’s too much, she wants them gone.
The Prowler shakes and she hears voices, muffled but the panic shines through. John calling her name. Frantic that she hasn’t popped the hatch, returned to him. She closes her eyes, presses down.
***
She doesn’t climb out of the ship immediately and he feels his throat start to close up. There hadn’t been time for him to adjust to her absence, only to tamp it down, hold it inside. Her willingness to leave bites at him, chewing little holes where the acid seeps in, and for a moment he thinks she’s stalling. He wants to yell at her, bit he’s stymied with the choke of fear, and anger's having a bitch of a time breaking through. D’Argo isn’t caught up in their domestic drama. He shoves the stairs against the Prowler and hauls up them, asking if she’s alright.
He hears her voice, shaky but strong. “I’m fine,” knows she’s lying but the relief makes his muscles weak, battles back the anger and the acid, and he tries to fit his frame onto the steps, only to get elbowed in the stomach. He stumbles back with a grunt, and Aeryn climbs out of the Prowler as D’Argo boogies backwards down the ladder.
They all need a bath, dirt and sweat soaking their clothing, but it stands out on her, so normally immaculate. Her hair is tangled, matted against her neck, and she’s pale and shiny. He sees bruises, sees blood, but she’s walkin’ and talkin’ and he wants to grab her, squeeze her until she can’t breathe, until he feels her ribs shift to accommodate his grip. He smiles, and she doesn’t, stumbling on the last rung. D’Argo catches her, scooping her up like a child. They both look surprised, but she doesn’t fight much and D’Argo gently puts her down on one of the crates.
***
John is too close, hovering and nervous, reaching to touch her and she winces, pulls away. He growls her name out, insists, tries to prove that his need makes him right. He says let me, and it’s a howl of anguish in her head, more emotions, more things, ugly and cloying that she doesn’t understand. More things pulling at her, invading her space.
She puts on her PK voice, her lesser species tone, tells him to leave her alone. D’Argo nods and he storms out. D’Argo sits down beside her, his thigh pressed against hers.
“Talyn chose Crais,” she says finally.
He doesn’t respond immediately, just sits by her, gives her time. Eventually, he breaks the silence. “Want to play a game?” he asks, his large hand shaping into a fist, pounding against his open palm, and amazingly, she laughs, and something inside her fills back in.
She finds John in command, arms braced against the console, tension tight in the muscles of his back. She surprises herself by standing near him, feeling his heat. She’s still shaky, but exhaustion has replaced everything else in her body. She has seen Chiana curl around his back, fitting her lithe young frame to him like a second skin, and it is tempting, so very tempting, but instead she puts her hand on his waist, and lets her forehead drop to the back of his shoulder, resting there briefly. It feels odd to reach for him, but she’s too tired to question her actions, too tired to move.
“I need to go talk to Moya,” she says softly. He turns slightly, dislodging her but a little of the tension has gone out of him, and he folds her in, crushing her arms to her sides, his large hand wrapping around her neck, cradling her skull. He smells like dirt, and sweat, and fear, and she turns her head into his throat, tasting his own scent, the muskiness of his humanity, the sweet tang that signals John to her.
“Want me to go with you?” he asks, his voice low and rough, and she nods against his skin as he releases her, unphased by this new sign of weakness. She wants him with her. She’s tired of giving, she wants to take.
***
He sits close behind her, unable to keep his hands away, winding her hair around his fingers like wire, tugging gently, keeping her attention at least marginally on him. He hears that sound in her voice that denotes failure, hears it matched by her words, and thinks she’s probably not wrong. In her world, she has failed. Talyn’s gone, but Crais is gone too and he can’t disguise the pleasure behind that defection. Sleek and smug as Aeryn followed him, Crais radiated victory, but at least now there’s no one to share it with. He aches a little for Moya, her sorrow at this loss, and aches more for Aeryn who had just found something to love.
She sinks back into him, boneless with fatigue, asks him about change. She’s warm in his arms, and frankly he doesn’t give a flying frell about Crais’ ability to change. Talyn bailed, and she wants reassurance, and so he gives it, but he can’t lie, can’t say that he has any sort of faith in the better angels of Captain Bialar Crais.
Maybe she doesn’t care that much either because she strokes his arm, fits herself more tightly to him, edging her bony shoulders into his chest, and stays, holds on and stays.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-09-18 01:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-18 02:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-18 01:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-18 02:25 pm (UTC)*another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 02:11 pm (UTC)Oh, BTW, I'm eating mini Mr. Goodbar bites right now, yummmm.
Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 02:29 pm (UTC)Glad to provide some commercial disruption for you:) I love that tag as well.
Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 02:45 pm (UTC)You have an excellent grasp of Aeryn and John's emotions at this early stage - his clinging, her confusion and rejection of further 'pulls' at her.
Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 03:06 pm (UTC)Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 04:12 pm (UTC)That is very distracting icon.... does this mean that you've been inspired to write some smut??
(she asks hopefully)
Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 04:28 pm (UTC)Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-18 06:51 pm (UTC)Re: *another happy sigh*
Date: 2003-09-19 09:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 08:21 am (UTC)stlscape@yahoo.com
no subject
Date: 2003-09-19 09:33 am (UTC)