Happy Bring Back the Porn Day!
My submission to bbtp_challenge?
Projection. BSG, Leoben and !Kara, in what is fast becoming a continuity of Do Cylons dream of electric sheep irate pilots? This one's approaching NC-17 territory, with some hefty spoilers through Exodus.
Projection
She has him by his hair. “You’re not frakkin’ going.”
“You’re there,” he chokes out, up into her face.
Her teeth are bared, grit, and he sits calmly as he can and stares. He’s been here before. “Look,” and there’s froth on her lip, “I don’t want you there.”
“You don’t want to face your destiny.” He presses his heels into the floor, his back into the chair. “You swim circles around it, millions of circles, to prove you can get so close and never touch. You hate to touch. Especially your destiny.”
“Especially you.”
“I’m part of your destiny.”
His hands aren’t bound this time, so he raises them, up to under her chin. She’s upside down as far as his eyes go, his head still yanked back like this. Her hair hangs down toward his face, over hers, and he’d crane up and kiss her if she looked like she was ready. He keeps his face serious, trained, instead.
But she does lean in. Narrow eyes and anger, all of this, seething fat-lipped anger, twisting a knife she doesn’t hold yet. “And what are you going to do to me on that planet?”
“Help you.”
“Like you helped the Old Man?”
“He got my body.” He likes how this makes her eyes flicker wider and her fist tighten on his hair. He wonders how she’s actually holding it, if she isn’t here. Projection is one thing, autonomy’s another. “He learned many things about me.”
Each one of her fingers clenches on the word, like a second-hand, “You’re frakkin’ sick.”
His neck strains. Her lip juts out. It’s beautiful. “Kara-“
“What’s your destiny?”
He touches the crook of her chin, and smiles.
All at once, she seethes, lets go, wrenches away. Can’t touch, even if it’s to hurt. “I figured.”
He turns around in the chair to face her. “You’re gonna find Earth, Kara. For all of us. And I’m gonna help you. That’s what happens.” He loves how she looks when he’s right. “A lot of things have to happen first.”
“And let me guess,” she spits, turning back, “it’s all happened before?”
Like you in my arms. “Like other things that’ve happened before.”
She barely gets out, “Not this again.”
The chair topples, her neck fits his hand, the wall clangs under her back (and for a moment it’s the basestar, not what he’s seeing, and his fist rings bloody). Things unravel, her clothing, her expression, the tips of her boots on the floor, her breath on his neck. She sweats.
He holds her eyes, lets go of her neck, slides his hands past the waistband of her pants. Left to her backside, to hold her up; right, down the front of her underwear. He kisses her hard and slow and she clutches his shirts, pins his elbows, bites his lip. Yes. This has happened before. He’s drowned like this before, in his own blood.
It’s best slow, painful, heat-spiraling, this. He’s listening to her, testing. Measuring how this makes him feel. It does. That’s what matters. It does, and the answer is confined, driven.
And she’s wrapping her legs around him, pressing up into his hands, tossing her head and gasping and turning away and he knows the real Kara isn’t like this, at least not with him, not yet, not until he gets to that planet and makes her this way, makes her love him, makes her open and wet for him so he can love her back, physically love her back-
He buries his face in her neck, rubs her there too, against the welts that are rising there now from his hands. He needs. She’s against it or impatient, it’s really hard to tell, both maybe, and he needs. Loves.
“This part of my destiny too?” she pants in his ear.
“Yes,” he tells her pulse, “Yes. You’ll-embrace me-yield to me-”
The walls inside her swell around his fingers. “-Frak you.”
“Yes.” He traces her bruises with his tongue. He put them there. “In dreams. In the pattern. In the next. You’ll-love-” Something plummets through the heat of his spine, and he moans.
This time, it’s a slur. “Frak you!”
To stop her bucking, to keep her against him, he kisses her hard, shoves her against the wall. Kara yelps (it’s such a sound, such an uncontrolled, young sound, and for all her control when she’s torturing him she’s got less and less when he’s loving her), and she barely gets her footing astride him, the way he has her pinned. Just by his body now. His hands are free, yanking down her pants (something snaps), undoing his. There’s a streak of the wet from between her legs along his fly. He burns.
“Leoben-”
He grabs her sweat-soaked hair and bares her throat. “Love me.”
“What in the Hell are you doing?”
Behind him. Of course it would be a Cavil. Leoben should have seen this coming. Maybe he did. No. He wonders why he didn’t. Kara’s gone, of course she’s gone, and Leoben’s erect against the wall. It’s cold, basestar-threaded, red arterial lights. The projection of her apartment flickers like anger.
“Fulfilling my destiny,” he tells Cavil, over his shoulder. He sounds tired. He isn’t yet.
Cavil takes a few steps closer, but Leoben doesn’t turn around yet. “Oh yes, of course. Human slang. Funnier than what they used to call it. Still makes you go blind, though.”
“Only to what’s happening right now.” Leoben smiles.
Cavil laughs, in that way that means he doesn’t quite get it, but Leoben’s used to that. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips up-that damp streak is still there, he’s fairly sure of why-and catches his breath.
“Are you coming to find the humans or not?” Oh, so Cavil gets the joke.
So does Leoben. “Only after I find her.”
So does Kara, over the Cavil’s shoulder, dressed and kempt and slick. “Only if I let you,” she says.
---
.
Projection. BSG, Leoben and !Kara, in what is fast becoming a continuity of Do Cylons dream of electric sheep irate pilots? This one's approaching NC-17 territory, with some hefty spoilers through Exodus.
Projection
She has him by his hair. “You’re not frakkin’ going.”
“You’re there,” he chokes out, up into her face.
Her teeth are bared, grit, and he sits calmly as he can and stares. He’s been here before. “Look,” and there’s froth on her lip, “I don’t want you there.”
“You don’t want to face your destiny.” He presses his heels into the floor, his back into the chair. “You swim circles around it, millions of circles, to prove you can get so close and never touch. You hate to touch. Especially your destiny.”
“Especially you.”
“I’m part of your destiny.”
His hands aren’t bound this time, so he raises them, up to under her chin. She’s upside down as far as his eyes go, his head still yanked back like this. Her hair hangs down toward his face, over hers, and he’d crane up and kiss her if she looked like she was ready. He keeps his face serious, trained, instead.
But she does lean in. Narrow eyes and anger, all of this, seething fat-lipped anger, twisting a knife she doesn’t hold yet. “And what are you going to do to me on that planet?”
“Help you.”
“Like you helped the Old Man?”
“He got my body.” He likes how this makes her eyes flicker wider and her fist tighten on his hair. He wonders how she’s actually holding it, if she isn’t here. Projection is one thing, autonomy’s another. “He learned many things about me.”
Each one of her fingers clenches on the word, like a second-hand, “You’re frakkin’ sick.”
His neck strains. Her lip juts out. It’s beautiful. “Kara-“
“What’s your destiny?”
He touches the crook of her chin, and smiles.
All at once, she seethes, lets go, wrenches away. Can’t touch, even if it’s to hurt. “I figured.”
He turns around in the chair to face her. “You’re gonna find Earth, Kara. For all of us. And I’m gonna help you. That’s what happens.” He loves how she looks when he’s right. “A lot of things have to happen first.”
“And let me guess,” she spits, turning back, “it’s all happened before?”
Like you in my arms. “Like other things that’ve happened before.”
She barely gets out, “Not this again.”
The chair topples, her neck fits his hand, the wall clangs under her back (and for a moment it’s the basestar, not what he’s seeing, and his fist rings bloody). Things unravel, her clothing, her expression, the tips of her boots on the floor, her breath on his neck. She sweats.
He holds her eyes, lets go of her neck, slides his hands past the waistband of her pants. Left to her backside, to hold her up; right, down the front of her underwear. He kisses her hard and slow and she clutches his shirts, pins his elbows, bites his lip. Yes. This has happened before. He’s drowned like this before, in his own blood.
It’s best slow, painful, heat-spiraling, this. He’s listening to her, testing. Measuring how this makes him feel. It does. That’s what matters. It does, and the answer is confined, driven.
And she’s wrapping her legs around him, pressing up into his hands, tossing her head and gasping and turning away and he knows the real Kara isn’t like this, at least not with him, not yet, not until he gets to that planet and makes her this way, makes her love him, makes her open and wet for him so he can love her back, physically love her back-
He buries his face in her neck, rubs her there too, against the welts that are rising there now from his hands. He needs. She’s against it or impatient, it’s really hard to tell, both maybe, and he needs. Loves.
“This part of my destiny too?” she pants in his ear.
“Yes,” he tells her pulse, “Yes. You’ll-embrace me-yield to me-”
The walls inside her swell around his fingers. “-Frak you.”
“Yes.” He traces her bruises with his tongue. He put them there. “In dreams. In the pattern. In the next. You’ll-love-” Something plummets through the heat of his spine, and he moans.
This time, it’s a slur. “Frak you!”
To stop her bucking, to keep her against him, he kisses her hard, shoves her against the wall. Kara yelps (it’s such a sound, such an uncontrolled, young sound, and for all her control when she’s torturing him she’s got less and less when he’s loving her), and she barely gets her footing astride him, the way he has her pinned. Just by his body now. His hands are free, yanking down her pants (something snaps), undoing his. There’s a streak of the wet from between her legs along his fly. He burns.
“Leoben-”
He grabs her sweat-soaked hair and bares her throat. “Love me.”
“What in the Hell are you doing?”
Behind him. Of course it would be a Cavil. Leoben should have seen this coming. Maybe he did. No. He wonders why he didn’t. Kara’s gone, of course she’s gone, and Leoben’s erect against the wall. It’s cold, basestar-threaded, red arterial lights. The projection of her apartment flickers like anger.
“Fulfilling my destiny,” he tells Cavil, over his shoulder. He sounds tired. He isn’t yet.
Cavil takes a few steps closer, but Leoben doesn’t turn around yet. “Oh yes, of course. Human slang. Funnier than what they used to call it. Still makes you go blind, though.”
“Only to what’s happening right now.” Leoben smiles.
Cavil laughs, in that way that means he doesn’t quite get it, but Leoben’s used to that. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips up-that damp streak is still there, he’s fairly sure of why-and catches his breath.
“Are you coming to find the humans or not?” Oh, so Cavil gets the joke.
So does Leoben. “Only after I find her.”
So does Kara, over the Cavil’s shoulder, dressed and kempt and slick. “Only if I let you,” she says.
---
.