Fic: Bluebird
Title: Bluebird
Word Count: 302
Rated: Mild R for sexual content.
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Mid to late S2.
Characters/Pairing: Chiana/D'Argo
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to The Jim Henson Company, and not to me.
AN: Written for SC52 on Terra Firma.
Bluebird
She settles on his hips, and maps his past with a curious tongue.
This?
Peacekeeper persuader. My third day on Moya.
This?
My battle unit won a great victory and we celebrated with a great deal of mead… He surges beneath her and she sighs her pleasure. I was not as careful as I should have been with my blade.
Were there women?
At the celebration?
She flits here, there. Her hair tickles his thigh. Yeah.
Yes.
Were they pretty?
His breath catches in his chest, his hands in her hair. None as pretty as you.
She purrs. This one?
Pulse pistol. This one has a youthful copper hue, not yet ripened into russet. John. She tilts her head. T’raltixx.
Her hands traverse his body, her fingers spanning cycles. This?
When they came for me…after Lo’Laan...I did not go quietly.
She crushes her soft, hot mouth against his.
Was she sweet?
His hands stroke the slow curve of her waist. Yes.
Sweeter than me?
Yes.
She smiles.
He rolls her beneath him.
Where are your scars? Her skin is immaculate. You never go quietly.
Her tongue lingers on the rings they buried in his bones. Nebari don’t scar.
Never?
Sometimes for a monen or two. Never forever.
He cants onto his elbow, his side. She curves her thigh around his, her fingers around his tenka.
This?
Knife. He coaxes a moan from her throat. Vocarian Bloodtracker.
And this?
Her finger traces the scar that splits his forehead and slants across his face. He hesitates. I was a boy. My brothers and I -
You have brothers?
He clasps her to him. Three. His hand on her thigh. I am the youngest. His hand on her shoulder, her breast. The smallest.
Frell me.
He laughs. I am trying.
She laughs too, against his mouth.
Word Count: 302
Rated: Mild R for sexual content.
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Mid to late S2.
Characters/Pairing: Chiana/D'Argo
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to The Jim Henson Company, and not to me.
AN: Written for SC52 on Terra Firma.
Bluebird
She settles on his hips, and maps his past with a curious tongue.
This?
Peacekeeper persuader. My third day on Moya.
This?
My battle unit won a great victory and we celebrated with a great deal of mead… He surges beneath her and she sighs her pleasure. I was not as careful as I should have been with my blade.
Were there women?
At the celebration?
She flits here, there. Her hair tickles his thigh. Yeah.
Yes.
Were they pretty?
His breath catches in his chest, his hands in her hair. None as pretty as you.
She purrs. This one?
Pulse pistol. This one has a youthful copper hue, not yet ripened into russet. John. She tilts her head. T’raltixx.
Her hands traverse his body, her fingers spanning cycles. This?
When they came for me…after Lo’Laan...I did not go quietly.
She crushes her soft, hot mouth against his.
Was she sweet?
His hands stroke the slow curve of her waist. Yes.
Sweeter than me?
Yes.
She smiles.
He rolls her beneath him.
Where are your scars? Her skin is immaculate. You never go quietly.
Her tongue lingers on the rings they buried in his bones. Nebari don’t scar.
Never?
Sometimes for a monen or two. Never forever.
He cants onto his elbow, his side. She curves her thigh around his, her fingers around his tenka.
This?
Knife. He coaxes a moan from her throat. Vocarian Bloodtracker.
And this?
Her finger traces the scar that splits his forehead and slants across his face. He hesitates. I was a boy. My brothers and I -
You have brothers?
He clasps her to him. Three. His hand on her thigh. I am the youngest. His hand on her shoulder, her breast. The smallest.
Frell me.
He laughs. I am trying.
She laughs too, against his mouth.