?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry

Blasphemy Made Real

Title: Blasphemy Made Real
Author: Angelicalangie (Angel)
Pairing: Kara/Leoben
Characters: Kara Thrace, Leoben Conoy, Assorted OC's
Rating: M - MA over the course of the fic
Warnings: Sex, 
Author's Note 1: This story is set in New Caprica and in the dollhouse. 
Summary: In a heartbeat destiny is changed.

She's on her back once more, she thinks.




Nothing and everything and the something between it all has changed and she's as damned as Persephone to work out what exactly that means, so what is one more insurrection against her soul she concludes. Her head lolls to one side lazily, and he takes it as an invitation, as more than what it really was, lack of energy to keep it focused on him whilst he works away at her, in her. She feels separate as though she is really watching all of this, not feeling his hands run down her sides, cup her ass, play with that bundle of nerves that makes her body fall apart, yet leaves her soul untouched.

She knows she should feel more, that there should be a connection between what she is doing, and what she is feeling, but each moment is one more towards an inevitable end, whose she can't quite work out either. She looks out the window, its just as inviting as anything in this room she thinks, and feels him nip the lobe of her ear and she thinks to herself how strange it feels when the last thing you are is feeling anything emotionally. She just can't work up that emotion, though she supposes that it rattles around here somewhere and dig as she might, she really can't find it tonight.

She picks up random thoughts fluttering through her mind, like how it is too quiet outside the window, how he sounds when he is close to coming, how her back feels raw from the floor she is currently on. She looks from the window and up at the sky and thinks of how easy things were up there on that battlestar, even though they weren't. How she could return to him, even though she can't, thinking life can change back, even though it won't, how all her bridges weren't burnt in a moment of fear, but they are.

She finally looks at him, she gave him permission to use her body, the one she barely knows how to inhabit any more – not beaten, just vacant possession, ready to be occupied when she deserves it once more. When she can connect to anyone once more. He looks up at the moment of completion, physical surprise overwhelming him, as though he was unfamiliar of the effects of frakking, and in that moment their eyes connect. She rushes into her body once more, sees herself from his point of view and then she gets his fascination with her, understands and beholds a revelation too shocking to acknowledge.

He rolls off of her, winded and vulnerable, naked and unashamed. Her eyes rove over his form, of his softening dick, the muscles that move under his skin taxed with breathing. The hardened nipples and the smattering of hair on his chest. She lies there naked, a prisoner of circumstance and his wanting her, even when the one she wants has turned from her. Or was it that she turned from him and opened this existence. It's something else to ponder and mull over whilst he pumps himself into her. There is a man, a made man, and puppet boy laying next to her, made to specifications of her own mind it seems. He wants her. It leaves her with tears in her eyes.

She feels shattered into fragments of the unfeeling whole and she wonders what is left in the end when the unfeeling leaves her. She looks up at him, new and reborn, innocence regained in a mortal sin, not less than what she was – more a goddess made flesh, a blasphemy made real. He smiles, shifts and snakes an arm under her, she curls into his body and she thinks on how this never was before, how it always should have been and in a heartbeat she turns from all that was, or has been, could be or would have been. She does something that was not seen by either his one true God, or her Lords and Goddesses. She chooses her own destiny and the moment she does, he can feel the shift in the water. He smiles to himself, staring at the ceiling, through it to the sky and the hidden realms. Victory is his against theirs. She will be his and not theirs, her metamorphosis made mortal, not ephemeral like the water and the streams dictated. She will not die.



Comments