Grrr. LJ. Grr.
Feb. 25th, 2004 05:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowJust finished writing a post about weddings and marriage, et al, and explaining this piece and it got eaten, along with all the bloody edits.
So, basically, I'm pro marriage for whoever the hell wants to make that kind of commitment. That's it, no holds barred, and just because we haven't done something in the past is not a reason to keep from doing it now.
I'm hardly coherent on the subject of the President on my best days. This is just not one of them, so I'll let![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
suelac, and searose and fbf speak for me, my lovely voices of reason, clarity and poise. I'm only gonna rant.
And weddings, pretty much don't get the concept, but if you want one, then you should have one. My parents had to get married, in that 1960's had to kind of way. My mother wore a short blue shift. I have no idea what my dad wore. There's only one picture from that day, of them so young and uncertain, serving cake on my grandmother's porch.
My mother would like me to have a wedding. She'd like to give me that. I've always only wanted a red dress. I'd take a marriage, but a wedding isn't something I really get. But again, if it's something you want, then by all means, have one.
So, this is a little post Prefect Murder tag. It was supposed to be a Notorious parallel (blamerubberneck, she's using the movie beautifully in her epic). It was supposed to mirror the beginning of the movie, when Alicia is blissful, in love, and Dev goes to get their assignment, and then uses it as a test to see if she really loves him. He's a bastard at that moment, and she breaks under his doubt, but takes the assignment, does the right thing.
This refused to do that. It wanted to be quiet. And it's PG. That's two in a row. Don't I get some sort of prize for that.
Time-Step
He has never thought of her as fragile, but as he cups her skull, presses her head to his thigh, he can feel the sharpness of her cheekbone. The thinness of skin stretched over it and the delicacy of her face paralyzes him. A hammer blow, a rock, the press of fingers around her neck and no superior biology could save her. Underneath the strength and skill, her bones are breakable, blood ready spilt.
It’s been too long between doses. His fingers twitch, move towards his pocket, but the weight of her skull stops him. John catches his breath, makes a choice.
He stills the minute strokes of his thumb over her hair, and clears his throat, taking away his hand. Aeryn tilts slightly back to the left, doesn’t look up, doesn’t hunch into herself, but hugs her knees and stares forward. The motion is weary, penitent, so he relents, offers his hand, pulls her up.
The graves are fresh, the soil newly turned, and it smells earthy and damp. The little boy runs small hands through the dirt, and keens softly to himself, a ditty more than a dirge. Aeryn has orphaned him. This is not something she will quickly put behind her. She looks down at the child, doesn’t pull her hand out of John’s grasp, doesn’t let go of him.
He’s weak, touches her cheek, traces the bone with his knuckes, says the inevitable.
“Time to go.”
She nods once, eyes still caught. She doesn’t move. It’s a dichotomy, and he frowns.
“Aeryn,” Her name comes out more harshly than he expects and when she looks at him, her eyes are very wide, very gray.
“We need to leave now.”
She withdraws her hand and he feels the loss of her warmth, of her thin fingers curled into his fist, pretends he doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss her.
They walk back to the transport, shoulders brushing casually. It’s the closest he’s been to her in weekens, and his resolve fades in the face of her skin, the swish of leather and the scent of chakkan oil. Her hair is bound back, wisps escaping but her features are stark and clear in the dimming light of the planet. Their fingers tangle as he edges towards her, avoiding a creeping kind of vine on his left and she takes hold. They lace their hands together, don’t look down, don’t look at each other, keep walking. Nonchalant, unhurried.
She flies her Prowler, and he takes the pod back flying slowly, carefully. The pod is an offshoot of Moya, and the pod suffers as well. John has to keep a steady hand on the controls, concentrate on the task.
Sikozu and Chiana sit close together in the back, a mix of grey and orange, thighs pressed together. Sikozu holds the other woman’s gloved hand. It is an unexpected tenderness from the Kalish, and it relieves John of his duty. Chiana has someone to hold onto as shapes and colors slide back into images. The two women are very young, hardly more than girls, and they remind him of his younger sister and her friends, twined together in comfort against the world. He’s sure the truce will end soon, that the insults and slights will start up again, and that pulls at him just as strongly, thoughts of Livvy at the front of his mind.
D’Argo looks ahead, intent, shifting uncomfortably in the pod’s passenger seat. He’s taking his role as Captain very seriously, and John is unexpectedly pleased for his friend. Responsibility suits D’Argo, tempers him a little. John reaches over, punches him lightly on the arm. “You did good down there, D.”
He raises a heavy brow. “I brought them a tralk, a temptress and an assassin,” he answeres, voice rich with irony. “And I got us some fresh water, and a weeken’s worth of supplies. I’m sure we’ll be remembered fondly.”
Well, John can’t argue with that. But he also thinks he was right in the first place. D’Argo was calm, he mediated the situation until it just went completely off the rails in a flurry of pulse fire, and until Aeryn turned assassin, none of them had been arrested or threatened with more than a stoning. Some people might even call that progress.
He smiles sardonically to himself. “You still did good,” he repeats softly, and D’Argo snorts, but grins a little, and then shakes his head with a sigh.
They land with some difficulty. Moya rocks from side to side, and as they exit, despite Moya’s bulk, the tilting makes John a little woozy. He stands on the stairs, clutching the edge of the doors as the others scatter and dissipate, the contents of his stomach threatening to exit. Pilot coms them all, apologizing absent-mindedly. He says the rocking comforts Moya, and no one wants to argue with that.
Aeryn is alone in the galley. stirring something on the stove. She taps the spoon on the edge and looks at the pot thoughtfully, then stirs it again. The scene is oddly domestic, and when he strolls in, and looks over her shoulder to see what she’s stirring, he can’t resist nuzzling her hair with his cheek. He tells himself to stop, to step away, but his body disobeys.
“Smells good,” he says, low in her ear, and puts a hand on her waist. She doesn’t move away, doesn’t lean into him either.
“Kirsa soup,” she murmurs. “There were packets of concentrate in the supplies they gave us.”
It looks like a heavy broth, chicken or miso, and it smells warm and spicy. Steam rises up from the plot, bringing a flush to her cheeks, curling the fine hairs around her face. A peppery scent catches in his nostrils and he closes his eyes.
Sensation is heightened right after the lakka evaporates from his blood stream, There is a rush of scent, color, texture as the fog lifts, and it stills him, overwhelms him with it’s clarity - her skin is smooth under his fingertips, the bare strip of her waist, the soft cottony feel of her shirt, the scent of the soup, slide of her hair against his cheek. It pummels at him, and she stretches up behind her, tentatively smoothing her fingertips over the nape of his neck. The touch of her fingers concentrates the wash of sensation, focusing him, focusing his mind and his need.
He breathes her name into her skin, tightens his grip.
“Stay,” she says suddenly, voice cracking a little. “Eat with me.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, just nods against her and then forces himself to move away. He finds bowls and spoons, fishes out the bottle of fellip nectar hiding in the back of the cooler and splits it into two glasses.
They sit down across from each other, eating quietly, concentrating on the soup.
She puts her spoon down halfway through the meal, and scratches at the back of her arm, grimacing.
“Still itch?” It sounds inane, but the words are safe.
She snorts. “You don’t?” She sounds surprised.
He shakes his head. “Granny gave me some goo to put on the bites. Smells like crap but it works.”
Barking out a laugh, she’s incredulous, “It’ll probably make your skin fall off.”
He smiles at her, wide and full, and it feels wondrous and strange to be grinning at her, full of joy at the sound of her laugh. He is losing perspective here, can feel his distance slipping off to do a little dance in the either. This would be a helluva good time for some lakka, but he’s left it in his other pants. Okay, so doesn’t have other pants, but he also doesn’t have any wonderdrug. What he has is Aeryn Sun, sitting across from him, smiling. He just looks at Aeryn, lets the site of her cradle him for awhile.
“I don’t care if it falls off as long as I stop itching.”
She chortles, winces, scratching the back of her neck.
“I have some in my quarters,” he offers, ignoring the screaming warnings in his head.
“All right,” she says, and they finish the meal, do the dishes with unusual thoroughness, and then walk to his quarters.
As far as he knows, she hasn’t been in here since her return, maybe not since she’d come back from Talyn. He certainly hasn’t invited her in.
She stands in the middle of the room, feet planted, thumb hooked in her belt, looking around at the normal detritus of his life - dirty socks, and his chess set, a spare holster draped over a chair, and a t-shirt on the seat. His notebooks are stacked in a pile next to his bed, the current one sprawling discarded on the coverlet. When he’s gone, 1812 guards the door. Leaving things around has been his one indulgence as of late. He’s almost embarrassed by the mess, but he’s certain she’s seen worse, and the defiance bolsters him.
He opens the drawer where he’s shoved the bug paste, and sees the little black nodules winking at him. He glances over his shoulder at Aeryn, who is transfixed by something indefineable. Her mouth is relaxed, lips slightly curved, head tilted, small, even teeth bite her lower lip, and her fingers resting on her gun. She looks soft, and sad, and incredibly lovely, if smaller than he remembered.
She used to take up all the air, all the space in the room, and now she is contained, still and pale.
“Found it,” he says, a little too loud, breaking her concentration, and his own, snagging one of the bulbs before he slams shut the drawer.
She holds her hand out for the paste, and their fingers brush as she takes it. She licks her bottom lip, a sure sign of nerves, her only sign of nerves.
“Tell me what to do,” she says.
“Just slap it on.” He’s being deliberately obtuse, but he didn’t sign on for this conversation.
She shakes her head, impatient.
“Aeryn,” he sighs, annoyed. “Tell me the truth, tell me something. Tell me why you brought that bastard on board. Tell me why you were okay with killing people for money.”
Her eyes darken, but she hasn’t fled, hasn’t moved. “Tell me why you won’t stop with the frelling English.” She narrows her eyes, and he gets that maybe he doesn’t want an answer to that question, that if he stopped being an idiot, he’d understand.
“John,” his name is soft with her exhale, but he’s immune. He may be a sucker for her smile, but he’s become and expert at withstanding her pain. Now, she’s gonna have to withstand a little of his.
“Tell me why you left.” he whispers, but she’s mute, compressing her lips into a white line.
He drops his hand and turns around towards his bed. He picks up his notebook, uses the rustle of the pages to take a quick hit of the lakka while his back is turned, and he tries not to move as the world flashes and buckles around him.
She says his name again, concerned, and steps forward. He drops the bulb to the ground, kicks it swiftly under the bed and turns as she catches his sleeve.
The before and the after leave him the most vulnerable, when the drugs fresh in his head, but not in his blood and colors are hyperrich, sound and scent almost nauseatingly bright. He’s never been this close to her so soon after taking a dose, and it’s way too much.
His face is in her hands, and he can practically feel the whorl of her fingerprints against his cheekbones. Her breath is sweet and damp, and before he can stop himself, he kisses her, and thinks his heads going to explode. Wet, rought tongues and hard teeth and her lips, soft and cool, and then he’s literally tumbling backwards, shoved away, tripping on the bed. He whacks his head on the frame.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and looks up under his lashes. Her face is stricken, pale, and there’s blood on her lip. She looks like she wants to cry, or maybe kick him in the balls and he rolls to the side, not too sure she won’t go with that option, sits up.
“Aeryn, I’m sorry. Just. Give me some time.”
“Time,” she repeats flatly. “You’re asking me for time.”
He nods, and she laughs, the sound bitter and low in the room.
“Fine,” she says, and her tone softens slightly. “ I can do that.”
She pauses, fiddles with the tube of paste. “We did what we could. To make it right?”
For a second, he still thinks she’s talking about them, and the words are so sad, so final, that he wants to take it all back.
“The child, he still has family.”
The planet, she’s talking about the planet, and he’s been left behind once again as she switches tracks.
“There wasn’t anything more we could do,” he says. On this front, he’ll give her whatever solace he can.
She nods. “Thank you,” she says, holds up the paste. “This should help.”
“Yeah. Helped me.”
“Good. That’s good.” She bows her head, and her heavy tail of hair swings down, covering her shoulders as she absently scratches a bite. He stands then, takes the paste from hands, and opens it, spreading a thin film onto his fingers.
“Turn around,” he orders softly, and she does. He smoothes the substance over her pale skin, the bite an angry red. He recaps the tube, hands it back to her over her shoulder, and kisses her temple. The lakka's given him back his veneer. All he tastes is soft Sebacean skin.
“Time,” he whispers.
"Time," she repeats hollowly, not looking at him, and leaves.
So, basically, I'm pro marriage for whoever the hell wants to make that kind of commitment. That's it, no holds barred, and just because we haven't done something in the past is not a reason to keep from doing it now.
I'm hardly coherent on the subject of the President on my best days. This is just not one of them, so I'll let
suelac, and searose and fbf speak for me, my lovely voices of reason, clarity and poise. I'm only gonna rant.And weddings, pretty much don't get the concept, but if you want one, then you should have one. My parents had to get married, in that 1960's had to kind of way. My mother wore a short blue shift. I have no idea what my dad wore. There's only one picture from that day, of them so young and uncertain, serving cake on my grandmother's porch.
My mother would like me to have a wedding. She'd like to give me that. I've always only wanted a red dress. I'd take a marriage, but a wedding isn't something I really get. But again, if it's something you want, then by all means, have one.
So, this is a little post Prefect Murder tag. It was supposed to be a Notorious parallel (blame
rubberneck, she's using the movie beautifully in her epic). It was supposed to mirror the beginning of the movie, when Alicia is blissful, in love, and Dev goes to get their assignment, and then uses it as a test to see if she really loves him. He's a bastard at that moment, and she breaks under his doubt, but takes the assignment, does the right thing.This refused to do that. It wanted to be quiet. And it's PG. That's two in a row. Don't I get some sort of prize for that.
Time-Step
He has never thought of her as fragile, but as he cups her skull, presses her head to his thigh, he can feel the sharpness of her cheekbone. The thinness of skin stretched over it and the delicacy of her face paralyzes him. A hammer blow, a rock, the press of fingers around her neck and no superior biology could save her. Underneath the strength and skill, her bones are breakable, blood ready spilt.
It’s been too long between doses. His fingers twitch, move towards his pocket, but the weight of her skull stops him. John catches his breath, makes a choice.
He stills the minute strokes of his thumb over her hair, and clears his throat, taking away his hand. Aeryn tilts slightly back to the left, doesn’t look up, doesn’t hunch into herself, but hugs her knees and stares forward. The motion is weary, penitent, so he relents, offers his hand, pulls her up.
The graves are fresh, the soil newly turned, and it smells earthy and damp. The little boy runs small hands through the dirt, and keens softly to himself, a ditty more than a dirge. Aeryn has orphaned him. This is not something she will quickly put behind her. She looks down at the child, doesn’t pull her hand out of John’s grasp, doesn’t let go of him.
He’s weak, touches her cheek, traces the bone with his knuckes, says the inevitable.
“Time to go.”
She nods once, eyes still caught. She doesn’t move. It’s a dichotomy, and he frowns.
“Aeryn,” Her name comes out more harshly than he expects and when she looks at him, her eyes are very wide, very gray.
“We need to leave now.”
She withdraws her hand and he feels the loss of her warmth, of her thin fingers curled into his fist, pretends he doesn’t miss it, doesn’t miss her.
They walk back to the transport, shoulders brushing casually. It’s the closest he’s been to her in weekens, and his resolve fades in the face of her skin, the swish of leather and the scent of chakkan oil. Her hair is bound back, wisps escaping but her features are stark and clear in the dimming light of the planet. Their fingers tangle as he edges towards her, avoiding a creeping kind of vine on his left and she takes hold. They lace their hands together, don’t look down, don’t look at each other, keep walking. Nonchalant, unhurried.
She flies her Prowler, and he takes the pod back flying slowly, carefully. The pod is an offshoot of Moya, and the pod suffers as well. John has to keep a steady hand on the controls, concentrate on the task.
Sikozu and Chiana sit close together in the back, a mix of grey and orange, thighs pressed together. Sikozu holds the other woman’s gloved hand. It is an unexpected tenderness from the Kalish, and it relieves John of his duty. Chiana has someone to hold onto as shapes and colors slide back into images. The two women are very young, hardly more than girls, and they remind him of his younger sister and her friends, twined together in comfort against the world. He’s sure the truce will end soon, that the insults and slights will start up again, and that pulls at him just as strongly, thoughts of Livvy at the front of his mind.
D’Argo looks ahead, intent, shifting uncomfortably in the pod’s passenger seat. He’s taking his role as Captain very seriously, and John is unexpectedly pleased for his friend. Responsibility suits D’Argo, tempers him a little. John reaches over, punches him lightly on the arm. “You did good down there, D.”
He raises a heavy brow. “I brought them a tralk, a temptress and an assassin,” he answeres, voice rich with irony. “And I got us some fresh water, and a weeken’s worth of supplies. I’m sure we’ll be remembered fondly.”
Well, John can’t argue with that. But he also thinks he was right in the first place. D’Argo was calm, he mediated the situation until it just went completely off the rails in a flurry of pulse fire, and until Aeryn turned assassin, none of them had been arrested or threatened with more than a stoning. Some people might even call that progress.
He smiles sardonically to himself. “You still did good,” he repeats softly, and D’Argo snorts, but grins a little, and then shakes his head with a sigh.
They land with some difficulty. Moya rocks from side to side, and as they exit, despite Moya’s bulk, the tilting makes John a little woozy. He stands on the stairs, clutching the edge of the doors as the others scatter and dissipate, the contents of his stomach threatening to exit. Pilot coms them all, apologizing absent-mindedly. He says the rocking comforts Moya, and no one wants to argue with that.
Aeryn is alone in the galley. stirring something on the stove. She taps the spoon on the edge and looks at the pot thoughtfully, then stirs it again. The scene is oddly domestic, and when he strolls in, and looks over her shoulder to see what she’s stirring, he can’t resist nuzzling her hair with his cheek. He tells himself to stop, to step away, but his body disobeys.
“Smells good,” he says, low in her ear, and puts a hand on her waist. She doesn’t move away, doesn’t lean into him either.
“Kirsa soup,” she murmurs. “There were packets of concentrate in the supplies they gave us.”
It looks like a heavy broth, chicken or miso, and it smells warm and spicy. Steam rises up from the plot, bringing a flush to her cheeks, curling the fine hairs around her face. A peppery scent catches in his nostrils and he closes his eyes.
Sensation is heightened right after the lakka evaporates from his blood stream, There is a rush of scent, color, texture as the fog lifts, and it stills him, overwhelms him with it’s clarity - her skin is smooth under his fingertips, the bare strip of her waist, the soft cottony feel of her shirt, the scent of the soup, slide of her hair against his cheek. It pummels at him, and she stretches up behind her, tentatively smoothing her fingertips over the nape of his neck. The touch of her fingers concentrates the wash of sensation, focusing him, focusing his mind and his need.
He breathes her name into her skin, tightens his grip.
“Stay,” she says suddenly, voice cracking a little. “Eat with me.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, just nods against her and then forces himself to move away. He finds bowls and spoons, fishes out the bottle of fellip nectar hiding in the back of the cooler and splits it into two glasses.
They sit down across from each other, eating quietly, concentrating on the soup.
She puts her spoon down halfway through the meal, and scratches at the back of her arm, grimacing.
“Still itch?” It sounds inane, but the words are safe.
She snorts. “You don’t?” She sounds surprised.
He shakes his head. “Granny gave me some goo to put on the bites. Smells like crap but it works.”
Barking out a laugh, she’s incredulous, “It’ll probably make your skin fall off.”
He smiles at her, wide and full, and it feels wondrous and strange to be grinning at her, full of joy at the sound of her laugh. He is losing perspective here, can feel his distance slipping off to do a little dance in the either. This would be a helluva good time for some lakka, but he’s left it in his other pants. Okay, so doesn’t have other pants, but he also doesn’t have any wonderdrug. What he has is Aeryn Sun, sitting across from him, smiling. He just looks at Aeryn, lets the site of her cradle him for awhile.
“I don’t care if it falls off as long as I stop itching.”
She chortles, winces, scratching the back of her neck.
“I have some in my quarters,” he offers, ignoring the screaming warnings in his head.
“All right,” she says, and they finish the meal, do the dishes with unusual thoroughness, and then walk to his quarters.
As far as he knows, she hasn’t been in here since her return, maybe not since she’d come back from Talyn. He certainly hasn’t invited her in.
She stands in the middle of the room, feet planted, thumb hooked in her belt, looking around at the normal detritus of his life - dirty socks, and his chess set, a spare holster draped over a chair, and a t-shirt on the seat. His notebooks are stacked in a pile next to his bed, the current one sprawling discarded on the coverlet. When he’s gone, 1812 guards the door. Leaving things around has been his one indulgence as of late. He’s almost embarrassed by the mess, but he’s certain she’s seen worse, and the defiance bolsters him.
He opens the drawer where he’s shoved the bug paste, and sees the little black nodules winking at him. He glances over his shoulder at Aeryn, who is transfixed by something indefineable. Her mouth is relaxed, lips slightly curved, head tilted, small, even teeth bite her lower lip, and her fingers resting on her gun. She looks soft, and sad, and incredibly lovely, if smaller than he remembered.
She used to take up all the air, all the space in the room, and now she is contained, still and pale.
“Found it,” he says, a little too loud, breaking her concentration, and his own, snagging one of the bulbs before he slams shut the drawer.
She holds her hand out for the paste, and their fingers brush as she takes it. She licks her bottom lip, a sure sign of nerves, her only sign of nerves.
“Tell me what to do,” she says.
“Just slap it on.” He’s being deliberately obtuse, but he didn’t sign on for this conversation.
She shakes her head, impatient.
“Aeryn,” he sighs, annoyed. “Tell me the truth, tell me something. Tell me why you brought that bastard on board. Tell me why you were okay with killing people for money.”
Her eyes darken, but she hasn’t fled, hasn’t moved. “Tell me why you won’t stop with the frelling English.” She narrows her eyes, and he gets that maybe he doesn’t want an answer to that question, that if he stopped being an idiot, he’d understand.
“John,” his name is soft with her exhale, but he’s immune. He may be a sucker for her smile, but he’s become and expert at withstanding her pain. Now, she’s gonna have to withstand a little of his.
“Tell me why you left.” he whispers, but she’s mute, compressing her lips into a white line.
He drops his hand and turns around towards his bed. He picks up his notebook, uses the rustle of the pages to take a quick hit of the lakka while his back is turned, and he tries not to move as the world flashes and buckles around him.
She says his name again, concerned, and steps forward. He drops the bulb to the ground, kicks it swiftly under the bed and turns as she catches his sleeve.
The before and the after leave him the most vulnerable, when the drugs fresh in his head, but not in his blood and colors are hyperrich, sound and scent almost nauseatingly bright. He’s never been this close to her so soon after taking a dose, and it’s way too much.
His face is in her hands, and he can practically feel the whorl of her fingerprints against his cheekbones. Her breath is sweet and damp, and before he can stop himself, he kisses her, and thinks his heads going to explode. Wet, rought tongues and hard teeth and her lips, soft and cool, and then he’s literally tumbling backwards, shoved away, tripping on the bed. He whacks his head on the frame.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and looks up under his lashes. Her face is stricken, pale, and there’s blood on her lip. She looks like she wants to cry, or maybe kick him in the balls and he rolls to the side, not too sure she won’t go with that option, sits up.
“Aeryn, I’m sorry. Just. Give me some time.”
“Time,” she repeats flatly. “You’re asking me for time.”
He nods, and she laughs, the sound bitter and low in the room.
“Fine,” she says, and her tone softens slightly. “ I can do that.”
She pauses, fiddles with the tube of paste. “We did what we could. To make it right?”
For a second, he still thinks she’s talking about them, and the words are so sad, so final, that he wants to take it all back.
“The child, he still has family.”
The planet, she’s talking about the planet, and he’s been left behind once again as she switches tracks.
“There wasn’t anything more we could do,” he says. On this front, he’ll give her whatever solace he can.
She nods. “Thank you,” she says, holds up the paste. “This should help.”
“Yeah. Helped me.”
“Good. That’s good.” She bows her head, and her heavy tail of hair swings down, covering her shoulders as she absently scratches a bite. He stands then, takes the paste from hands, and opens it, spreading a thin film onto his fingers.
“Turn around,” he orders softly, and she does. He smoothes the substance over her pale skin, the bite an angry red. He recaps the tube, hands it back to her over her shoulder, and kisses her temple. The lakka's given him back his veneer. All he tastes is soft Sebacean skin.
“Time,” he whispers.
"Time," she repeats hollowly, not looking at him, and leaves.
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 02:07 am (UTC)This is one of those times.
The John/Aeryn is wonderful. The description of John's sensations when he takes the lakka are spot on-overwhelming feelings in the exact way that he is trying to avoid. I love your descriptions of his sensation overload.
However, your little glance over to Chi and Sikozu in the transport pod holding hands might be my favourite. I'm not sure why exactly, but that struck me and the image of a mix of grey and orange, thighs pressed together is so vivid. It made me think of my 12 year old sister and her friends, or even myself and my friends, holding hands just to feel connected.
If I had a prize, I'd hand it over.
Thanks so much for sharing, Thea.
Leelee
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 06:00 pm (UTC)Yeah, that way that girls will hold onto each other, so comfortable with touch as a way to connect and to shield themselves. That's what I was aiming at, and I'm glad it worked.
And thanks so much, Lee lee.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 02:31 am (UTC)My favorite bit, the part where I chuckled aloud, was D’Argo was calm, he mediated the situation until it just went completely off the rails in a flurry of pulse fire, and until Aeryn turned assassin, none of them had been arrested or threatened with more than a stoning. Some people might even call that progress.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 05:59 pm (UTC)And I think APM is underrated:) Or maybe I'm just a big sucker.
And thanks:)
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 04:12 am (UTC)sigh.
seva
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 04:51 am (UTC)Yes, two PG ratings in a row, you do get a prize.
But not for three.
Don't worry about writing us smut. We know you're good for it, good at it, whatever.
Love this story.
seva
no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 05:16 am (UTC)That was lovely Thea.
I'm so glad that you seem to be able to write amazing , wonderful stories at what seems to me is the drop of a hat *g* I never get tired of reading your Farscape stories.
Here's hoping for more inspiration to head your way. I know I won't be disappointed in anything you write. Even if it is PG *g*
*offers virtual Mr. Goodbars*...will that do for a prize?
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Date: 2004-02-26 05:55 pm (UTC)And hee (mostly it's because I spend all day writing, and the images and sentences percolate in my brain, and after I've written an article or two, it seems like the next logical step to just keep writing:) I'm so glad you liked it:)
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Date: 2004-02-26 05:28 am (UTC)I really like the John/Aeryn conversation. And I love the way you describe the lakka's effects on John. But my favorite part, I think, is John speaking to D'Argo. How far these two have come from the beginning!
Thank you so much for posting this! You are reminding me of everything I loved about John in the beginning of Season 4. :)
*goes off to read again*
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Date: 2004-02-26 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 05:40 am (UTC)***********
He may be a sucker for her smile, but he’s become and expert at withstanding her pain.
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Wow. Thea, you write such consistently brilliant stories...ones that affect me deeply, that I think I've run out of words to describe them adequately.
This was quiet, like you said, but so sad and intense. They're so far apart and I just want them to get back into step. **Sigh**
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Date: 2004-02-26 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-26 02:31 pm (UTC)And they just hurt each other more.
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Date: 2004-02-26 05:46 pm (UTC)