StarsGoBlue
02-04-2004, 08:07 PM
Rating: R for adult situations, angst, violence
Setting/Spoilers: Season 3, DWTB
Beta: hugs to the lovely and generous Kixxa ;D
Disclaimer: Just took them out to play---for fun, not profit---and then put them right back in Henson's toybox.
Author's Notes: This was written for the SACoC (Society Against Clothing on Crichton) challenge. My mission was to remove Crichton's wedding tuxedo. :D
Wedding Day
by StarsGoBlue
Any moment now, her long, elegant fingers, fumbling slightly in their eagerness, will begin working the unfamiliar studs and buttons of your Earthwear. Compliant, you will stand mesmerized by the way she bites her lip in concentration before switching tactics and launching a new plan of attack.
A shudder will ripple through you when the tip of her nose brushes gently against your neck, nuzzling as she tugs at your bow tie---with her teeth!---and you will say a brief prayer of thanksgiving for one redeeming feature of an otherwise ridiculous monkey suit.
Losing patience, she will push the jacket from your shoulders, trapping your arms in the bunched black fabric just when you need them most, as she slides hers around your waist for the cummerbund (which, to her vexation, she has found impossible to pronounce).
The perfume of your crushed carnation will vie with the scent of her hair, a heady combination that punches through the mellow champagne-buzz. You will recognize the gleam in her eye just before she yanks open your dress shirt with both hands and a satisfied smirk. Only you will notice one tiny button that secretes itself in the white silk of her bodice, and your answering grin will be in anticipation of a good old-fashioned game of hide-and-seek when it’s your turn at last.
You will close your eyes to savor each microt when her hands come to rest lightly on your belt. You’ve helped her along by kicking off your shoes---she won’t notice, and you won’t consider it cheating---and you’ll curl your toes into the carpet, suck in a breath as she unbuckles and slowly unwinds the leather from around your hips. Then your eyes will meet gravely, wormholes lurking in the deep blue depths of yours, shadows of what-might-have-been lingering behind hers.
You will both smile, and the rest will be happily-ever-after, despite everything…
You can’t look. It is all too perfect, she is perfect (the radiant Aeryn Sun)---a long, cool vision in a white dress with its matching orchid in vivid contrast to her dark hair. Your fingertips remember sliding the garter down her thigh, a froth of lace against silky-smooth skin. Such pale, creamy skin.
It should be perfect, but she is lying so still beneath you---she’d gurgled and choked as you’d tried to staunch the flow of crimson that stained her gown, leaching her life and leaving her pallid. Leaving you behind one final time.
The gloved hand descends upon your shoulder, and you rise. You will not carry your alien bride over the threshold. You will exchange your spattered finery for leather and manacles, bow tie for a control collar, maybe. And in the endless nightmare that is to follow, as your brain is battered and bludgeoned into submission, you will carry a snapshot of this day in the darkest recesses of your mind, where even Harvey fears to tread.
Your wedding day.
Setting/Spoilers: Season 3, DWTB
Beta: hugs to the lovely and generous Kixxa ;D
Disclaimer: Just took them out to play---for fun, not profit---and then put them right back in Henson's toybox.
Author's Notes: This was written for the SACoC (Society Against Clothing on Crichton) challenge. My mission was to remove Crichton's wedding tuxedo. :D
Wedding Day
by StarsGoBlue
Any moment now, her long, elegant fingers, fumbling slightly in their eagerness, will begin working the unfamiliar studs and buttons of your Earthwear. Compliant, you will stand mesmerized by the way she bites her lip in concentration before switching tactics and launching a new plan of attack.
A shudder will ripple through you when the tip of her nose brushes gently against your neck, nuzzling as she tugs at your bow tie---with her teeth!---and you will say a brief prayer of thanksgiving for one redeeming feature of an otherwise ridiculous monkey suit.
Losing patience, she will push the jacket from your shoulders, trapping your arms in the bunched black fabric just when you need them most, as she slides hers around your waist for the cummerbund (which, to her vexation, she has found impossible to pronounce).
The perfume of your crushed carnation will vie with the scent of her hair, a heady combination that punches through the mellow champagne-buzz. You will recognize the gleam in her eye just before she yanks open your dress shirt with both hands and a satisfied smirk. Only you will notice one tiny button that secretes itself in the white silk of her bodice, and your answering grin will be in anticipation of a good old-fashioned game of hide-and-seek when it’s your turn at last.
You will close your eyes to savor each microt when her hands come to rest lightly on your belt. You’ve helped her along by kicking off your shoes---she won’t notice, and you won’t consider it cheating---and you’ll curl your toes into the carpet, suck in a breath as she unbuckles and slowly unwinds the leather from around your hips. Then your eyes will meet gravely, wormholes lurking in the deep blue depths of yours, shadows of what-might-have-been lingering behind hers.
You will both smile, and the rest will be happily-ever-after, despite everything…
You can’t look. It is all too perfect, she is perfect (the radiant Aeryn Sun)---a long, cool vision in a white dress with its matching orchid in vivid contrast to her dark hair. Your fingertips remember sliding the garter down her thigh, a froth of lace against silky-smooth skin. Such pale, creamy skin.
It should be perfect, but she is lying so still beneath you---she’d gurgled and choked as you’d tried to staunch the flow of crimson that stained her gown, leaching her life and leaving her pallid. Leaving you behind one final time.
The gloved hand descends upon your shoulder, and you rise. You will not carry your alien bride over the threshold. You will exchange your spattered finery for leather and manacles, bow tie for a control collar, maybe. And in the endless nightmare that is to follow, as your brain is battered and bludgeoned into submission, you will carry a snapshot of this day in the darkest recesses of your mind, where even Harvey fears to tread.
Your wedding day.