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fic! again! who's surprised?
(This autosave draft thing? SO HANDY FOR WHEN ACROBAT CRASHES YOUR SODDING BROWSER. AGAIN.)
For some reason I find writing fic straight into a text box much easier than stretching it out on a Word document, if it's going to be short. So when the following conversation took place...
Fahye: OMG MORE SHAKESPEARE/BUFFYQUOTE ICONS PLZ!
Lizzen: WRITE PILOTPORN!
Fahye: BUT I AM LE SUCK
Lizzen: ...WRITE PILOTPORN!
Fahye: How about non-porny Katie?
Lizzen: THAT IS NOT EVEN A REAL GENRE
Fahye: True (only it is, because I appear to be the only person alive who writes Katie and gets NO SEX, WHAT HOW TRAVESTY).
Lizzen: Porn prompt = Kara gets kidnapped! Lee rescues her!
Fahye: AND LEOBEN IS THERE!
Lizzen: YES! GO TO!
Love and cookies and Leoben fangirlism: *abound*
...I figured I'd just pour some wine, start typing, and see what happened.
Because, dude, is this not the best icon in the world? Oh, Twelfth Night. I love your zany hijinks.
After three days she stops kicking at the walls; after thirteen she stops asking him questions. Not because he won't answer, but because his answers make too much sense.
After twenty-three she starts to see patterns.
There is something mathematical and lovely in the curved metallic space that she lives in. There is a rhythm to when they bring her meals, to the far-off clanging din of Centurions pacing the halls. When she lies on the floor and tries to live in the silences, tries to hear the voices of the people she left behind, all she can hear is her own heart slowly setting itself in synch with some larger, more primal beat. She has never quite determined what proportion of the Cylon technology has to do with life. The ship cradles her and when she sleeps she does not dream.
After thirty-three Leoben sits beside her and holds her hand and tells her about the silver thread of destiny that winds throughout the cycle of time.
"Pray with me," he says.
Her hands feel awkward and empty without the idols. He presses her palms together, closing the strange gap, and says the words for both of them. She cannot find the strength to pull away.
After forty-one (which tells her more than anything that things are back to normal because despite Leoben's words the world does not run on neat cyclic patterns and eight days is just as likely as ten) there is a distruptive noise set against the normal ones. She curls her knees up to her chest and her hands into fists and tries to remember what fighting feels like.
When her door opens she forgets to fight, but she also forgets that she's meant to breathe out.
"Kara."
"Apollo," she says slowly, pleased by how strong her voice is, and she knows there's another name that she's meant to be saying but it's just floated out of reach.
"Kara?"
His face is tight and concerned and it's the last thing she sees.
More days. Maybe there's a three in there somewhere. She's not sure. The words she hears are disjointed, but she manages to process withdrawal and fighting it and she knew she'd remember how to fight, if she had to. But withdrawal?
"Don't take stims," she murmurs one day. Her lips feel foreign, but her thoughts are her own.
Cottle's cracked laughter grates at her ears, his breath stinks of nicotine, and she knows that she's home.
After fifteen days on full flight status the shaking starts, and she's grounded again. It's twice as hard because she had that brief glorious taste of flight. She spends ten minutes yelling in Cottle's expressionless face about the fact that she should be fine, that she's past the withdrawal from the drug they put in her food, that she should be flying.
Lee pulls her away, pulls her into his office and closes the door and stands there, holding her, and it feels so comforting that she swallows down the protestations. Maybe she's learning. Maybe she's grown up, a little.
The shaking becomes a tremor but it still won't leave, and it's on nothing more than instinct that she lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses him. Fast. Everything is fast, and hot, and oh lords is this familiar, down to the clumsy weaving of their feet. Lee's hand at the back of her neck. But he jerks back all of a sudden and everything comes grinding to a halt.
"Don't please please don't," she says in a long desperate rush, willing him to understand: don't stop now, don't add words to this equation, don't frak this up by overthinking. Story of their life.
"Kara," and he's just as breathless, his hand still gentle against her neck. He pulls away and the sudden chill space between them makes her want to wail like a child. Not that -
- not that she would cry. You suffer, but you do not cry. The thought constricts the air in her throat and more than ever she wants this, wants him, wants to stop thinking. But his hands are drifting to cup her face and his expression is familiar enough to break her heart.
"Slow down," he says, little more than a whisper.
She breathes in, once, deep and shaking, the oxygen reverberating and winding itself around her lungs until the frantic heady clouds begin to dissipate. "Lee -"
His face changes.
"Say that again."
And that's it, that's all there is to it, after all of their years and fights and the words that seemed to do nothing but get in the way: there is a simple way to let everything slot into place. She lifts her eyes and sees nothing but -
"Lee."
His fingers are still gentle at her jaw but he leans forward as though pushed by the backstream of a Viper and it's hard, rough, messy, perfect. There aren't words to tell him that. Anything else will just complicate the situation again. So she lets her fingers slide underneath his tanks and lets his weight guide her backwards until the edge of the desk is digging into her thighs. They're accelerating and it's fast again; just as fast as before, but somehow this time it isn't a race at all. Or it is, but it's a Starbuck and Apollo kind of race, where it doesn't matter who wins.
Lee lifts her onto the desk and paper flies everwhere.
"You're helping me sort that out, Captain," he murmurs into her mouth. And they're past the stage where words are dangerous, now, so she just giggles low in her throat and winds her arms around his neck.
"Yes, sir."
His lips make their way down her neck and into the hollow at her collarbone; when she lifts one hand to brush back his hair he twists his head suddenly and runs his tongue across the silver of her ring. When he exhales the sudden localised chill sends a shiver all the way up her arm and into her chest. Oh, he's winning this race. She's about to gather her thoughts and do something decisive about that, but then he takes her cold fingers in his own and guides their hands downwards and oh.
Definitely winning.
Kara bites her lip so hard she thinks it might bleed, because it's that or start making some really frakking embarrassing noises. Lee looks up and quirks his eyebrows and then kisses her, which snaps her concentration, and soon enough she's gasping straight into his mouth, rocking her hips against their hands, holding onto his forearm for dear life.
When she stops shaking -
She's stopped shaking. No tremors, nothing. Just this syrupy exhaustion in her limbs, and a burning across her lips, and this stupid frakking smile that will, she suspects, never leave her face again.
Lee puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her forehead. "All right?" he murmurs against the hairline. She nods, displacing his lips, reaching out to pull him closer again.
"Lee," she starts awkwardly, but then she lets it go.
She kisses his wrist; she holds his hands.
It's thanks enough.
For some reason I find writing fic straight into a text box much easier than stretching it out on a Word document, if it's going to be short. So when the following conversation took place...
Fahye: OMG MORE SHAKESPEARE/BUFFYQUOTE ICONS PLZ!
Lizzen: WRITE PILOTPORN!
Fahye: BUT I AM LE SUCK
Lizzen: ...WRITE PILOTPORN!
Fahye: How about non-porny Katie?
Lizzen: THAT IS NOT EVEN A REAL GENRE
Fahye: True (only it is, because I appear to be the only person alive who writes Katie and gets NO SEX, WHAT HOW TRAVESTY).
Lizzen: Porn prompt = Kara gets kidnapped! Lee rescues her!
Fahye: AND LEOBEN IS THERE!
Lizzen: YES! GO TO!
Love and cookies and Leoben fangirlism: *abound*
...I figured I'd just pour some wine, start typing, and see what happened.
Because, dude, is this not the best icon in the world? Oh, Twelfth Night. I love your zany hijinks.
After three days she stops kicking at the walls; after thirteen she stops asking him questions. Not because he won't answer, but because his answers make too much sense.
After twenty-three she starts to see patterns.
There is something mathematical and lovely in the curved metallic space that she lives in. There is a rhythm to when they bring her meals, to the far-off clanging din of Centurions pacing the halls. When she lies on the floor and tries to live in the silences, tries to hear the voices of the people she left behind, all she can hear is her own heart slowly setting itself in synch with some larger, more primal beat. She has never quite determined what proportion of the Cylon technology has to do with life. The ship cradles her and when she sleeps she does not dream.
After thirty-three Leoben sits beside her and holds her hand and tells her about the silver thread of destiny that winds throughout the cycle of time.
"Pray with me," he says.
Her hands feel awkward and empty without the idols. He presses her palms together, closing the strange gap, and says the words for both of them. She cannot find the strength to pull away.
After forty-one (which tells her more than anything that things are back to normal because despite Leoben's words the world does not run on neat cyclic patterns and eight days is just as likely as ten) there is a distruptive noise set against the normal ones. She curls her knees up to her chest and her hands into fists and tries to remember what fighting feels like.
When her door opens she forgets to fight, but she also forgets that she's meant to breathe out.
"Kara."
"Apollo," she says slowly, pleased by how strong her voice is, and she knows there's another name that she's meant to be saying but it's just floated out of reach.
"Kara?"
His face is tight and concerned and it's the last thing she sees.
More days. Maybe there's a three in there somewhere. She's not sure. The words she hears are disjointed, but she manages to process withdrawal and fighting it and she knew she'd remember how to fight, if she had to. But withdrawal?
"Don't take stims," she murmurs one day. Her lips feel foreign, but her thoughts are her own.
Cottle's cracked laughter grates at her ears, his breath stinks of nicotine, and she knows that she's home.
After fifteen days on full flight status the shaking starts, and she's grounded again. It's twice as hard because she had that brief glorious taste of flight. She spends ten minutes yelling in Cottle's expressionless face about the fact that she should be fine, that she's past the withdrawal from the drug they put in her food, that she should be flying.
Lee pulls her away, pulls her into his office and closes the door and stands there, holding her, and it feels so comforting that she swallows down the protestations. Maybe she's learning. Maybe she's grown up, a little.
The shaking becomes a tremor but it still won't leave, and it's on nothing more than instinct that she lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses him. Fast. Everything is fast, and hot, and oh lords is this familiar, down to the clumsy weaving of their feet. Lee's hand at the back of her neck. But he jerks back all of a sudden and everything comes grinding to a halt.
"Don't please please don't," she says in a long desperate rush, willing him to understand: don't stop now, don't add words to this equation, don't frak this up by overthinking. Story of their life.
"Kara," and he's just as breathless, his hand still gentle against her neck. He pulls away and the sudden chill space between them makes her want to wail like a child. Not that -
- not that she would cry. You suffer, but you do not cry. The thought constricts the air in her throat and more than ever she wants this, wants him, wants to stop thinking. But his hands are drifting to cup her face and his expression is familiar enough to break her heart.
"Slow down," he says, little more than a whisper.
She breathes in, once, deep and shaking, the oxygen reverberating and winding itself around her lungs until the frantic heady clouds begin to dissipate. "Lee -"
His face changes.
"Say that again."
And that's it, that's all there is to it, after all of their years and fights and the words that seemed to do nothing but get in the way: there is a simple way to let everything slot into place. She lifts her eyes and sees nothing but -
"Lee."
His fingers are still gentle at her jaw but he leans forward as though pushed by the backstream of a Viper and it's hard, rough, messy, perfect. There aren't words to tell him that. Anything else will just complicate the situation again. So she lets her fingers slide underneath his tanks and lets his weight guide her backwards until the edge of the desk is digging into her thighs. They're accelerating and it's fast again; just as fast as before, but somehow this time it isn't a race at all. Or it is, but it's a Starbuck and Apollo kind of race, where it doesn't matter who wins.
Lee lifts her onto the desk and paper flies everwhere.
"You're helping me sort that out, Captain," he murmurs into her mouth. And they're past the stage where words are dangerous, now, so she just giggles low in her throat and winds her arms around his neck.
"Yes, sir."
His lips make their way down her neck and into the hollow at her collarbone; when she lifts one hand to brush back his hair he twists his head suddenly and runs his tongue across the silver of her ring. When he exhales the sudden localised chill sends a shiver all the way up her arm and into her chest. Oh, he's winning this race. She's about to gather her thoughts and do something decisive about that, but then he takes her cold fingers in his own and guides their hands downwards and oh.
Definitely winning.
Kara bites her lip so hard she thinks it might bleed, because it's that or start making some really frakking embarrassing noises. Lee looks up and quirks his eyebrows and then kisses her, which snaps her concentration, and soon enough she's gasping straight into his mouth, rocking her hips against their hands, holding onto his forearm for dear life.
When she stops shaking -
She's stopped shaking. No tremors, nothing. Just this syrupy exhaustion in her limbs, and a burning across her lips, and this stupid frakking smile that will, she suspects, never leave her face again.
Lee puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her forehead. "All right?" he murmurs against the hairline. She nods, displacing his lips, reaching out to pull him closer again.
"Lee," she starts awkwardly, but then she lets it go.
She kisses his wrist; she holds his hands.
It's thanks enough.
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THANK YOU FOR EXUDING PORNY INFLUENCE. Mwah.
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I was flailing all over plastics about this. Claira had to hold my hand until it was done.
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How do you do it?? Make one word, his name, sexier than paragraphs and paragraphs of skin on skin?
(and I hope it's okay that I came over here to friend you, as well as on your ficblog!)
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(Is all fine! Eventually I'll post this on my ficblog, but short giftfics tend to appear here first.)
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... Gosh.
:D
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Thankya :D
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:(
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Also, ICON HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.
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IS IT NOT WONDROUS? YOU SEE WHY LIZZEN MUST MAKE MORE.
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It's always really rare to read something where Kara is broken and needy but still herself - I don't feel like she's a wibbly damsel in distress here, it's much more Starbuck-like than that.
And... um. Yes. It's HAWT!
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*ogles your icon*
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:O
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Yes. Yes you are. Amend forthwith.
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