Fic: "A Little Less Conversation," T: SCC, Sarah/Derek, R.
A bit of meme-age, gacked from ragingpixie:
I miss my old show. When you see this, post another Buffy quote in your LJ. Let's see how long it can go on.
"Do you like my mask? Isn't it pretty? It RAISES THE DEAD!"
Now, here's a bit of fic! I think I have an unhealthy fixation with Sarah and/or Derek in showers. Thankfully, so does the show!
Title: "A Little Less Conversation"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Rating/Classification: R, Sarah/Derek, filler fic, sexual content, angst
Word count: 750
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit, etc.
Summary: A tag for episode 2.2, "Automatic For the People," If you fill a silence with unnecessary noise, you can't hear the enemy coming.
They don't really make small talk. Mostly because neither of them talks much at all in general unless something really needs to be said. Oh, she yells at John to clean his room or reminds Cameron to smile more often so she seems like something other than a robot or a sociopath, but she's not one for idle chatter. If you fill a silence with unnecessary noise, you can't hear the enemy coming. She can't afford that. She won't afford that.
Except in the shower.
In the shower, with the water running scalding hot, she tells Derek things like how she uses Karen as an alias sometimes because she had all the Carpenters records when she was nothing but a dumb kid. And Derek tells her how he wanted to play center field for the Dodgers right up until the day the machines destroyed his world forever. She tells him what John looked like as a baby and at three and at 13 --God, he had an awful haircut-- and he tells her what Kyle looked like at those ages; he had an awful haircut at 13, too.
Sarah scrubs at her skin, letting the water sluice over her as if it can somehow scrape away the feeling of being crapped up… of those hoses and those hands and trying desperately to cover herself. The bathroom door clicks open and then the curtain rustles to let her know it's Derek --which is ridiculous because neither John nor Cameron would dare interrupt her in the shower unless they were under attack, but she finds the signal oddly comforting nonetheless. It's followed by the sound of Derek's jeans unbuckling and being kicked to the corner. Not now, she thinks, not this time, please, but she can't bring herself to tell him to go away.
When he climbs in behind her, he throws his arm across her waist, pulling her to lean against his chest as he tilts his head into the spray. Derek's hand spans the width of her belly, and it shouldn't make her feel safe considering the violence she knows it's capable of, but it does. As if he's holding her together, keeping her guts where they belong, where they both need them to be. His wet mouth nuzzles her ear and she twists just enough to count the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and then kiss the corner of his jaw.
It's a tenderness she normally wouldn't allow herself, but she wants, no she *needs* to remind herself that what she and Derek do in this tiny, enclosed space is not an act of violation, of power play, like the shower she endured earlier. No, when Derek pushes her against the tile, when he slides down her body and laps at her like he's thirsty for her, it's just another misty story from their past… an anecdote, a memory; one that makes her remember her humanity. So she lets him cradle her, lets him reach for the soap and gently guide the utilitarian orange bar over her skin, working it into a sharp-smelling lather. She lets him push aside the wet weight of her hair and press his lips to the back of her neck.
He's hard against her thigh, and she's slick and ready for him, but he takes his sweet, slow time. Washes her clean. Every inch. Every last sud spiraled down the drain. Until she's restless for him, buzzing with intensity and plying him with hard, hungry kisses. When he finally rocks into her, it's with shallow strokes, teasing ones, movements that make her bite her lip and dig her nails into his shoulders and hook her leg around his hip in an effort to draw him deeper. But he doesn't relent. Instead, he feathers light kisses down from her temple to her cheek, and chuckles softly against her mouth. He's a sadist. A beautiful, devious, wonderful sadist.
Minutes, maybe hours, later when Sarah finally comes, she's surprised by the force of the orgasm, how her whole body seems to come apart at the seams and then knit back together. Her limbs feel boneless, and it's all she can do to keep standing as Derek reaches around her to twirl the taps and shut off the water.
As he wraps her in a huge, fluffy towel and begins to systematically dry her off, she realizes that, for the first time, they've taken a shower together without saying a single word.
Yet somehow, it spoke volumes.
--end--
September 17, 2008
I miss my old show. When you see this, post another Buffy quote in your LJ. Let's see how long it can go on.
"Do you like my mask? Isn't it pretty? It RAISES THE DEAD!"
Now, here's a bit of fic! I think I have an unhealthy fixation with Sarah and/or Derek in showers. Thankfully, so does the show!
Title: "A Little Less Conversation"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Rating/Classification: R, Sarah/Derek, filler fic, sexual content, angst
Word count: 750
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit, etc.
Summary: A tag for episode 2.2, "Automatic For the People," If you fill a silence with unnecessary noise, you can't hear the enemy coming.
They don't really make small talk. Mostly because neither of them talks much at all in general unless something really needs to be said. Oh, she yells at John to clean his room or reminds Cameron to smile more often so she seems like something other than a robot or a sociopath, but she's not one for idle chatter. If you fill a silence with unnecessary noise, you can't hear the enemy coming. She can't afford that. She won't afford that.
Except in the shower.
In the shower, with the water running scalding hot, she tells Derek things like how she uses Karen as an alias sometimes because she had all the Carpenters records when she was nothing but a dumb kid. And Derek tells her how he wanted to play center field for the Dodgers right up until the day the machines destroyed his world forever. She tells him what John looked like as a baby and at three and at 13 --God, he had an awful haircut-- and he tells her what Kyle looked like at those ages; he had an awful haircut at 13, too.
Sarah scrubs at her skin, letting the water sluice over her as if it can somehow scrape away the feeling of being crapped up… of those hoses and those hands and trying desperately to cover herself. The bathroom door clicks open and then the curtain rustles to let her know it's Derek --which is ridiculous because neither John nor Cameron would dare interrupt her in the shower unless they were under attack, but she finds the signal oddly comforting nonetheless. It's followed by the sound of Derek's jeans unbuckling and being kicked to the corner. Not now, she thinks, not this time, please, but she can't bring herself to tell him to go away.
When he climbs in behind her, he throws his arm across her waist, pulling her to lean against his chest as he tilts his head into the spray. Derek's hand spans the width of her belly, and it shouldn't make her feel safe considering the violence she knows it's capable of, but it does. As if he's holding her together, keeping her guts where they belong, where they both need them to be. His wet mouth nuzzles her ear and she twists just enough to count the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and then kiss the corner of his jaw.
It's a tenderness she normally wouldn't allow herself, but she wants, no she *needs* to remind herself that what she and Derek do in this tiny, enclosed space is not an act of violation, of power play, like the shower she endured earlier. No, when Derek pushes her against the tile, when he slides down her body and laps at her like he's thirsty for her, it's just another misty story from their past… an anecdote, a memory; one that makes her remember her humanity. So she lets him cradle her, lets him reach for the soap and gently guide the utilitarian orange bar over her skin, working it into a sharp-smelling lather. She lets him push aside the wet weight of her hair and press his lips to the back of her neck.
He's hard against her thigh, and she's slick and ready for him, but he takes his sweet, slow time. Washes her clean. Every inch. Every last sud spiraled down the drain. Until she's restless for him, buzzing with intensity and plying him with hard, hungry kisses. When he finally rocks into her, it's with shallow strokes, teasing ones, movements that make her bite her lip and dig her nails into his shoulders and hook her leg around his hip in an effort to draw him deeper. But he doesn't relent. Instead, he feathers light kisses down from her temple to her cheek, and chuckles softly against her mouth. He's a sadist. A beautiful, devious, wonderful sadist.
Minutes, maybe hours, later when Sarah finally comes, she's surprised by the force of the orgasm, how her whole body seems to come apart at the seams and then knit back together. Her limbs feel boneless, and it's all she can do to keep standing as Derek reaches around her to twirl the taps and shut off the water.
As he wraps her in a huge, fluffy towel and begins to systematically dry her off, she realizes that, for the first time, they've taken a shower together without saying a single word.
Yet somehow, it spoke volumes.
--end--
September 17, 2008