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Entry tags:
hrm...
So, bits of this are simply PG-13. And cover a multitude of sins (although I'm still poking Bob/Dot and Han/Leia)... And there are one or two that my brain is just broken on.
Sam/Other
darkporn
mini!Stryfe (notporn)
Stark (damn you, Astro)
Lzzie/Shep
Lando/Talyn (hah! I got out of writing slash! Go, me! Wait...)
Jolinar remembers his skin being softer. Maybe he's just been on a dessret planet longer, or maybe Sam's tactile senses work differently to the symbiote's. Not that Jolinar is really there, but sense memory is always the strongest, and when she's running her hands down Martouf's body, she remembers rembering.
They didn't start out, this way, naked and curled around each other, the dying embers of the fire illuminating the walls.
But it was too late for her the moment she looked and saw the scared boy inside the man, who desperately still needed the woman he had loved. And she was gone, but Sam was here.
Sam always wonders if he knows who she is when he's kissing and licking and suckling, but she tries not to think about that.
There's an added edge to the way she comes when he forgets and calls her Jolinar.
Or maybe she's simply forgetting who she is.
In the end, it doesn't matter. She stares into the fire, and considers. The others would come looking for them soon. They should get dressed.
But Jolinar wants to hold him just a little longer. And so she does.
=-=-
There is something beautiful in the way he bleeds when her nails slice into his skin. Something that makes her eyes follow the blood droplets as the bead like sweat. It didn't used to be sexual, but she has moved past simple enjoyment into understanding that she needs this, tastes the coppery tang of blood in the air and feels her pulse race.
Some psychologist would tell her it's about recognizing life. But she's concentrating on death as she draws him closer and closer to the brink, feels him twitch inside of her as she slices extra deep, once, twice. And he's screaming as he breaks beneath her, body slamming upwards, chest heaving. Breath coming in great gulping sobs because she might have actually made it hurt too much.
She is goddess, here. In this moment, she has the power of life and death over him.
Fingers poised with the blade between them, sketches of blood and light sprinkled across his chest.
And she comes, arching upwards at the thought, feeling the absolute power in the simple gesture of obeisance he gives her as he slips towards death.
The knife is wet with blood.
She wonders if any of it is hers.
-=-=-
"They're so very earnest," the boy says as he watches. "They feel such hope and vindication as the results come in. Or utter failure as they fall the other way." The blue eyes are scornful, and the nose wrinkles as the head tilts. "Are all of them like this, father?"
His father smiles, not exactly indulgently -- because it's hard to imagine the Apocalypse smiling *indulgently*. And says, "Their hope is their doom, my son."
Young Stryfe looks up, and tries not to feel hope of his own. The hope that this, his Father, will finally acknowledge him. That there will be pride in Apocalypse as he tests his son. "And we use that hope against them?"
"Always. For where there is hope, there is strength to destroy."
A shiver goes up the child's spine and he claps his hands. "When do we begin, father, when?"
"When you have lost hope."
The words take too long to register, and he's already turning to flee when they take him up and bear him away. The cell is familiar, the walls achingly cold.
And he wonders, as he stares at them, if hope ever fades and dies.
Or if he will spend an eternity here.
=-=-=-=-
"Voting? I don't understand voting."
"It's like this, see." The voice morphs and changes, and Scorpius isn't really there. Of course he's never really there.
Stark turns from the image, turns from the mirror into infinite realities and looks down at his hands. There was something he was meant to do, here. Some task he'd been sent to complete.
All he can feel is the cold from the cryo-tubes, the way they move and sway to the breeze. Like waltzes in 6/7 time, but he knows he got that one from Crichton.
"Heeere's Johnny!"
No. That's wrong. It's all wrong, and it's all lost because it's Sikozu who looks at him, Sikozu who smiles.
And he knows that smile, understands the predator within.
They will never believe him.
"Voting is democratic, D."
That voice. Harsh and soft and full of something pretending to be life.
In charge. Stark is in charge of himself.
He wakes to the ceiling in Moya, and turns to see Crichton and D'Argo walk past his quarters, arguing cheerfully about who stacked the polls against John in the Captaincy vote.
"It was Aeryn." Stark murmurs.
-=-=-==
It takes Elizabeth Weir three weeks to recognize and catalogue every sound John Sheppard makes when he makes love. There are the animalistic grunts that preclude a fast fuck against the wall, his nose buried in her hair and her hipbones aching for hours. There are growls and (she really laughs if she thinks about it) chirps he makes when he goes down on her for what feels like hours. The way he half-groans when she sinks down onto him, her legs straddling him, his back pressed into her bed. The moans and desperate pleas when her lips are around his cock and she's being just that slight bit *evil* and making him beg.
Not that she does that often. Although there is a wonderful sense of power in making him beg.
Which is why she doesn't do it unless he's pissed her off.
It takes her another three weeks to realize he pisses her off on purpose.
When she does, she pauses and looks up at him, pulling back. "John?"
A muted groan answers her.
"You do this on purpose." And suddenly it scares her that he knows her this well, that he can push her buttons in the correct combination and come out with his dick in her mouth.
"Liz." His eyes meet hers, and he doesn't try to lie.
Her own eyes close, and she drops her head to his waist, her forehead touching bare skin that flexes underneath it in reaction. "I don't--"
"I didn't used to be this easy," he says, conversationally.
"Oh, right. And all half the women have to do is wink at you." She shifts so she can look at him again. "Tell me, do you wait until you get back to their quarters, or do you just fuck 'em in a nearby closet."
"No." He moves and touches her shoulder, as if suddenly afraid she'll disappear. "I.. stopped."
"Stopped?"
The grip tightens on her shoulder, and he looks suddenly frustrated. "It's not the same. None of them are you."
Oh. He isn't Simon, she thinks. He isn't faithful and true, the night Gawain (and here she knows her mental sarcasm needs a vacation). But he is here. And he is, scarily, hers.
"John?"
"Hrm?"
She half-smiles. "Kiss me."
-=-=-=-=-
He hadn't been sure what to expect, the Correllian who'd sold him the ship claimed to have won it in a card game (which just brought back bad memories, but Lando wasn't going to think about that). The design was strange, fluid and graceful, yet devestatingly military. Almost as if someone had melded Correllian gunships with Calamari pleasure cruisers.
The bridge was lit in a half-light, red and black panels glistening.
There was no seating. Lando had expected seating, but there wasn't any.
With something that felt reverent and (strangely) sexual at once, he brushed a hand over the nearest console. It lit, and beeped at him, the sound resonated gently.
"Hi."
Another soft beep, and more lights came up.
His hand caressed down another fluid and suddenly light-filled control panel. "I'm Lando."
A series of staccato beeps, and then his danger-sense told him to turn.
He didn't turn fast enough, and pain exploded at the base of his skull. Pain that was followed by something that felt like apology.
And something else.
A name.
Talyn.
The ship, he thought, staring through too many perspectives at once. The ship was Talyn. His friend, his nemesis, his newfound love.
Lando had never realized he could have a religious experience over something so mundane as a ship.
But his body was shaking and his knees were weak.
He wondered if this was what Solo had felt the first time he laid eyes on the Falcon.
=-=-=-
Sam/Other
darkporn
mini!Stryfe (notporn)
Stark (damn you, Astro)
Lzzie/Shep
Lando/Talyn (hah! I got out of writing slash! Go, me! Wait...)
Jolinar remembers his skin being softer. Maybe he's just been on a dessret planet longer, or maybe Sam's tactile senses work differently to the symbiote's. Not that Jolinar is really there, but sense memory is always the strongest, and when she's running her hands down Martouf's body, she remembers rembering.
They didn't start out, this way, naked and curled around each other, the dying embers of the fire illuminating the walls.
But it was too late for her the moment she looked and saw the scared boy inside the man, who desperately still needed the woman he had loved. And she was gone, but Sam was here.
Sam always wonders if he knows who she is when he's kissing and licking and suckling, but she tries not to think about that.
There's an added edge to the way she comes when he forgets and calls her Jolinar.
Or maybe she's simply forgetting who she is.
In the end, it doesn't matter. She stares into the fire, and considers. The others would come looking for them soon. They should get dressed.
But Jolinar wants to hold him just a little longer. And so she does.
=-=-
There is something beautiful in the way he bleeds when her nails slice into his skin. Something that makes her eyes follow the blood droplets as the bead like sweat. It didn't used to be sexual, but she has moved past simple enjoyment into understanding that she needs this, tastes the coppery tang of blood in the air and feels her pulse race.
Some psychologist would tell her it's about recognizing life. But she's concentrating on death as she draws him closer and closer to the brink, feels him twitch inside of her as she slices extra deep, once, twice. And he's screaming as he breaks beneath her, body slamming upwards, chest heaving. Breath coming in great gulping sobs because she might have actually made it hurt too much.
She is goddess, here. In this moment, she has the power of life and death over him.
Fingers poised with the blade between them, sketches of blood and light sprinkled across his chest.
And she comes, arching upwards at the thought, feeling the absolute power in the simple gesture of obeisance he gives her as he slips towards death.
The knife is wet with blood.
She wonders if any of it is hers.
-=-=-
"They're so very earnest," the boy says as he watches. "They feel such hope and vindication as the results come in. Or utter failure as they fall the other way." The blue eyes are scornful, and the nose wrinkles as the head tilts. "Are all of them like this, father?"
His father smiles, not exactly indulgently -- because it's hard to imagine the Apocalypse smiling *indulgently*. And says, "Their hope is their doom, my son."
Young Stryfe looks up, and tries not to feel hope of his own. The hope that this, his Father, will finally acknowledge him. That there will be pride in Apocalypse as he tests his son. "And we use that hope against them?"
"Always. For where there is hope, there is strength to destroy."
A shiver goes up the child's spine and he claps his hands. "When do we begin, father, when?"
"When you have lost hope."
The words take too long to register, and he's already turning to flee when they take him up and bear him away. The cell is familiar, the walls achingly cold.
And he wonders, as he stares at them, if hope ever fades and dies.
Or if he will spend an eternity here.
=-=-=-=-
"Voting? I don't understand voting."
"It's like this, see." The voice morphs and changes, and Scorpius isn't really there. Of course he's never really there.
Stark turns from the image, turns from the mirror into infinite realities and looks down at his hands. There was something he was meant to do, here. Some task he'd been sent to complete.
All he can feel is the cold from the cryo-tubes, the way they move and sway to the breeze. Like waltzes in 6/7 time, but he knows he got that one from Crichton.
"Heeere's Johnny!"
No. That's wrong. It's all wrong, and it's all lost because it's Sikozu who looks at him, Sikozu who smiles.
And he knows that smile, understands the predator within.
They will never believe him.
"Voting is democratic, D."
That voice. Harsh and soft and full of something pretending to be life.
In charge. Stark is in charge of himself.
He wakes to the ceiling in Moya, and turns to see Crichton and D'Argo walk past his quarters, arguing cheerfully about who stacked the polls against John in the Captaincy vote.
"It was Aeryn." Stark murmurs.
-=-=-==
It takes Elizabeth Weir three weeks to recognize and catalogue every sound John Sheppard makes when he makes love. There are the animalistic grunts that preclude a fast fuck against the wall, his nose buried in her hair and her hipbones aching for hours. There are growls and (she really laughs if she thinks about it) chirps he makes when he goes down on her for what feels like hours. The way he half-groans when she sinks down onto him, her legs straddling him, his back pressed into her bed. The moans and desperate pleas when her lips are around his cock and she's being just that slight bit *evil* and making him beg.
Not that she does that often. Although there is a wonderful sense of power in making him beg.
Which is why she doesn't do it unless he's pissed her off.
It takes her another three weeks to realize he pisses her off on purpose.
When she does, she pauses and looks up at him, pulling back. "John?"
A muted groan answers her.
"You do this on purpose." And suddenly it scares her that he knows her this well, that he can push her buttons in the correct combination and come out with his dick in her mouth.
"Liz." His eyes meet hers, and he doesn't try to lie.
Her own eyes close, and she drops her head to his waist, her forehead touching bare skin that flexes underneath it in reaction. "I don't--"
"I didn't used to be this easy," he says, conversationally.
"Oh, right. And all half the women have to do is wink at you." She shifts so she can look at him again. "Tell me, do you wait until you get back to their quarters, or do you just fuck 'em in a nearby closet."
"No." He moves and touches her shoulder, as if suddenly afraid she'll disappear. "I.. stopped."
"Stopped?"
The grip tightens on her shoulder, and he looks suddenly frustrated. "It's not the same. None of them are you."
Oh. He isn't Simon, she thinks. He isn't faithful and true, the night Gawain (and here she knows her mental sarcasm needs a vacation). But he is here. And he is, scarily, hers.
"John?"
"Hrm?"
She half-smiles. "Kiss me."
-=-=-=-=-
He hadn't been sure what to expect, the Correllian who'd sold him the ship claimed to have won it in a card game (which just brought back bad memories, but Lando wasn't going to think about that). The design was strange, fluid and graceful, yet devestatingly military. Almost as if someone had melded Correllian gunships with Calamari pleasure cruisers.
The bridge was lit in a half-light, red and black panels glistening.
There was no seating. Lando had expected seating, but there wasn't any.
With something that felt reverent and (strangely) sexual at once, he brushed a hand over the nearest console. It lit, and beeped at him, the sound resonated gently.
"Hi."
Another soft beep, and more lights came up.
His hand caressed down another fluid and suddenly light-filled control panel. "I'm Lando."
A series of staccato beeps, and then his danger-sense told him to turn.
He didn't turn fast enough, and pain exploded at the base of his skull. Pain that was followed by something that felt like apology.
And something else.
A name.
Talyn.
The ship, he thought, staring through too many perspectives at once. The ship was Talyn. His friend, his nemesis, his newfound love.
Lando had never realized he could have a religious experience over something so mundane as a ship.
But his body was shaking and his knees were weak.
He wondered if this was what Solo had felt the first time he laid eyes on the Falcon.
=-=-=-
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You know, that would be how I can see Sam/Martouf. *bats muse who wants to write a fic like that now*
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You could write it, you know... :)
*smirk*
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Btw, your brain is broken on Vader/Fett, right? ;o)
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Ooooo look NC17 chapter in my SW fic!
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darkporn - Ooooh...and no pairing specified. :eats it:
mini!Stryfe (notporn) - ...
Stark (damn you, Astro)- I like! And isn't Stark, omfg, Agent Jones?!
Lzzie/Shep - Sooooo yum.
Lando/Talyn - :is confused: i was thinking of Talon Karrde, then...eep.
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*loves you forever for Shep/Weir mostadorablepornever*
OMG! YAY!
*goes reads again*
theyaresocute.
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Reading this scene, I am having difficulty not picturing Peter Griffin in his Lando Griffin guise.
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*hasn't a clue right now*
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Hee! I always wanted to see more about the way the Captain's vote went down and this was perfect.
Liz/Shep
Awesome.
*hearts you*
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Lando/Talyn
So can see that happening. Should have happened, damnit.
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Thank you. :)
(and the Talyn thingie. Dude. He should so have simply opened a hole into another universe. ;)
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;)