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FANFIC: carnal idolatry (Terminator)
Feb. 26th, 2026 11:17 amThis was a pinch-hit I fulfilled for Seasons of Drabbles!
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Kyle would think he must be dreaming —except for how he's never felt so present in his body, so keenly aware of the nerve endings in each of his fingertips. So exultant, and at once, fearful.
But what else could a man think, when the subject of legend, an idol once carried in his pocket, as close to heart as possible, was made flesh before his eyes? When he could see her, and breathe her scent? When his body could warm her, and serve her as reprieve or as shield?
How could it be real, when she kissed him? When she pressed him against her body and pulled him into her legend, made a space for him within it, within her, in defiance of logic and sense and reasoning?
Under those circumstances, a man ought to conclude that he was trapped in a rhapsodic dream; perhaps a gentle offering conjured as a means of comfort in his last moments.
Yet, real or imaginary, Kyle would take the same actions. He would respond in kind, following her lead in every caress and every sweep of the tongue. He would give himself fully, tender flesh and open, bleeding heart. He would shape himself into the form most pleasing, the one that best fit her desires, and it wouldn't be a pretense —full of candor, he'd known himself to be unformed, unmoored, until she laid eyes on him. In a world where a boy had to grow into a weapon, it ought to be a freer past, a freer woman's hands, that would assemble the working pieces of him back into a human being.
And as his own self, Kyle would dare to reach higher with his greedy, selfish hands than he'd ever thought himself capable of; as high as she allowed him.
Title: carnal idolatry.
Fandom: Terminator / The Terminator (1984)
Character/Pairing: Kyle/Sarah.
Summary: Kyle would think he must be dreaming —except for how he's never felt so present in his body, so keenly aware of the nerve endings in each of his fingertips. So exultant, and at once, fearful.
Word count: 300.
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Kyle would think he must be dreaming —except for how he's never felt so present in his body, so keenly aware of the nerve endings in each of his fingertips. So exultant, and at once, fearful.
But what else could a man think, when the subject of legend, an idol once carried in his pocket, as close to heart as possible, was made flesh before his eyes? When he could see her, and breathe her scent? When his body could warm her, and serve her as reprieve or as shield?
How could it be real, when she kissed him? When she pressed him against her body and pulled him into her legend, made a space for him within it, within her, in defiance of logic and sense and reasoning?
Under those circumstances, a man ought to conclude that he was trapped in a rhapsodic dream; perhaps a gentle offering conjured as a means of comfort in his last moments.
Yet, real or imaginary, Kyle would take the same actions. He would respond in kind, following her lead in every caress and every sweep of the tongue. He would give himself fully, tender flesh and open, bleeding heart. He would shape himself into the form most pleasing, the one that best fit her desires, and it wouldn't be a pretense —full of candor, he'd known himself to be unformed, unmoored, until she laid eyes on him. In a world where a boy had to grow into a weapon, it ought to be a freer past, a freer woman's hands, that would assemble the working pieces of him back into a human being.
And as his own self, Kyle would dare to reach higher with his greedy, selfish hands than he'd ever thought himself capable of; as high as she allowed him.
