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kixxa, who wanted John/Braca, and got it because she made me a fabulous cover, which rubberneck made into this equally fabulous icon.
The day has been a clusterfuck. Miserable, and expanding. And there's Braca, standing uptight and prissy, reading over a stack of flimsies on the table. He's a traitor, hell maybe even their savior, John doesn't know yet. But the sight of him, overly groomed and smug as hell ignites a flair of rage, of irritation and itchiness.
John can't help himself. The need to fuck with Braca, just a little, is too much to resist. And it's not like he's trying resistance all that hard.
" 'S up, Smithers?"
He gives Braca an evil leer as the man stands straighter, cheeks of his ass clenched tight enough to make diamonds.
"What do you want, Crichton?"
Man's got nerve, after all of this, to sneer. Fuck it. John's had enough. Emporers with ultimatums, harridans with Love Potion #9 and desperation fetid on her skin, the freak with his death's head grin and his George Smiley loyalties. If Scorpy's the spy who wants to come in from the cold, John's not going out of his way to round up a parka. He's sick and tired of all of 'em, of this whole wretched mess.
Braca's an easy mark, and John's feeling mean. Feral and rabid, he lashes out.
"Don't you get tired of being Scorpy's bitch?"
Braca raises an eyebrow, twitches slightly, but otherwise remains placid and smug. "I thought that honor was reserved for you, Crichton."
Oooh. John licks his finger, draws a mark in the air.
"Score one for the boy in the fluffy dress."
Braca narrows his eyes. "Is there something you want, Crichton, or have you just ran out of people willing to put up with you?"
John rubs his chin, still edgy, still feeling mean and raw.
"Where'd Aeryn go, when you two left me alone with... her?"
He won't say Grayza's name. Won't dignify her like that.
"That is Officer Sun's business."
Braca's just being snotty. He couldn't care less who knows Aeryn's business, but it's too easy. John's not going to let him score those points.
"Fine," he shrugs. "Whatever."
He walks around the table, glances down at what Braca was working on when he interrupted.
"Marching orders?"
Braca doesn't respond.
"She's gonna get you all killed," John hisses, his anger twisting, turning, finally pointing at a more worthy source. "You're playin' both sides of the fence, man, but that doesn't mean she can't hurt you. Hurt all of us."
He runs fingers over the flimsies, but can't read the symbols. "She's losin' it, Braca."
The man turns, steps forward and pushes his face into John's.
"That's none of your business, Crichton." he hisses, "You are not a Peacekeeper." Braca looks disgusted, features twisting. "We will do what is necessary."
John snorts, gives into childish petulance and pushes the flimsies onto the floor, earning a growl of disgust from the other man.
"I don't think your idea of necessary and mine occupy the same universe, son," he says, weary now, the anger burning off. "If I had any sense, I'd tell that bitch that you were still snuggling up to Scorpy. Watch her rip you to shreds."
There's a flare of anxiety in his eye, but Braca laughs, low and cruel. "And why would she believe anything you told her, Crichton? She knows you'll do anything to get out of here, even foster dissension in her ranks."
"You that good, boy, that she'll keep you around for your fine leather clad ass? Not care that your sneaking off to make nice with Scorpy in the wee small hours?" John slaps his hand against the warm leather and Braca jumps at the crack of palm against buttcheek.
"Ah, man, thought you'd be used to that."
Looking back, John could have called the moment when he lost control of the situation. But as Braca grabbed his collar, flipped him onto the table, thigh pressing up between John's legs, pushing on his balls, cold hand tight on his throat, all John could think was fuck. And then, thank god.
He'll be embarrassed to die this way, but it's a damned site better than giving into Scorpy, or Grayza or the woman with the hat.
He closes his eyes. Thinks, "Just do it. Break my neck. Aeryn'll kill you, and then they'll get the hell out of here, and I can let go."
But the grip loosens, and a warm hand presses against his breastbone. His heart beats against Braca's palm, and his cock twitches, confused by too many years of mixing sex and violence.
"Go away, Crichton," Braca orders softly. "Go back to your rages and your schemes and leave the things you don't understand alone."
Braca's hand strokes down the line of breastbone, over John's stomach to brush against his cock. He can feel the muscles in his stomach jump, feel his dick take an interest and he slams his head against the table, closes his eyes.
Braca chuckles, low and knowing, and leaves.
John stays there, letting his frelled senses readjust, only opening his eyes again, when he hears the low silk of Aeryn's voice.
"Get up," she says, sounding tired, worn. He sits up.
"What the frell happened in here?" she asks, but she looks him up and down, touches his throat and assess, accurately, the lack of damage.
He takes her hand, gets off the table.
"Foreplay," he says softly, and she snorts, follows him down the hall.
kixxa, who wanted John/Braca, and got it because she made me a fabulous cover, which rubberneck made into this equally fabulous icon.The day has been a clusterfuck. Miserable, and expanding. And there's Braca, standing uptight and prissy, reading over a stack of flimsies on the table. He's a traitor, hell maybe even their savior, John doesn't know yet. But the sight of him, overly groomed and smug as hell ignites a flair of rage, of irritation and itchiness.
John can't help himself. The need to fuck with Braca, just a little, is too much to resist. And it's not like he's trying resistance all that hard.
" 'S up, Smithers?"
He gives Braca an evil leer as the man stands straighter, cheeks of his ass clenched tight enough to make diamonds.
"What do you want, Crichton?"
Man's got nerve, after all of this, to sneer. Fuck it. John's had enough. Emporers with ultimatums, harridans with Love Potion #9 and desperation fetid on her skin, the freak with his death's head grin and his George Smiley loyalties. If Scorpy's the spy who wants to come in from the cold, John's not going out of his way to round up a parka. He's sick and tired of all of 'em, of this whole wretched mess.
Braca's an easy mark, and John's feeling mean. Feral and rabid, he lashes out.
"Don't you get tired of being Scorpy's bitch?"
Braca raises an eyebrow, twitches slightly, but otherwise remains placid and smug. "I thought that honor was reserved for you, Crichton."
Oooh. John licks his finger, draws a mark in the air.
"Score one for the boy in the fluffy dress."
Braca narrows his eyes. "Is there something you want, Crichton, or have you just ran out of people willing to put up with you?"
John rubs his chin, still edgy, still feeling mean and raw.
"Where'd Aeryn go, when you two left me alone with... her?"
He won't say Grayza's name. Won't dignify her like that.
"That is Officer Sun's business."
Braca's just being snotty. He couldn't care less who knows Aeryn's business, but it's too easy. John's not going to let him score those points.
"Fine," he shrugs. "Whatever."
He walks around the table, glances down at what Braca was working on when he interrupted.
"Marching orders?"
Braca doesn't respond.
"She's gonna get you all killed," John hisses, his anger twisting, turning, finally pointing at a more worthy source. "You're playin' both sides of the fence, man, but that doesn't mean she can't hurt you. Hurt all of us."
He runs fingers over the flimsies, but can't read the symbols. "She's losin' it, Braca."
The man turns, steps forward and pushes his face into John's.
"That's none of your business, Crichton." he hisses, "You are not a Peacekeeper." Braca looks disgusted, features twisting. "We will do what is necessary."
John snorts, gives into childish petulance and pushes the flimsies onto the floor, earning a growl of disgust from the other man.
"I don't think your idea of necessary and mine occupy the same universe, son," he says, weary now, the anger burning off. "If I had any sense, I'd tell that bitch that you were still snuggling up to Scorpy. Watch her rip you to shreds."
There's a flare of anxiety in his eye, but Braca laughs, low and cruel. "And why would she believe anything you told her, Crichton? She knows you'll do anything to get out of here, even foster dissension in her ranks."
"You that good, boy, that she'll keep you around for your fine leather clad ass? Not care that your sneaking off to make nice with Scorpy in the wee small hours?" John slaps his hand against the warm leather and Braca jumps at the crack of palm against buttcheek.
"Ah, man, thought you'd be used to that."
Looking back, John could have called the moment when he lost control of the situation. But as Braca grabbed his collar, flipped him onto the table, thigh pressing up between John's legs, pushing on his balls, cold hand tight on his throat, all John could think was fuck. And then, thank god.
He'll be embarrassed to die this way, but it's a damned site better than giving into Scorpy, or Grayza or the woman with the hat.
He closes his eyes. Thinks, "Just do it. Break my neck. Aeryn'll kill you, and then they'll get the hell out of here, and I can let go."
But the grip loosens, and a warm hand presses against his breastbone. His heart beats against Braca's palm, and his cock twitches, confused by too many years of mixing sex and violence.
"Go away, Crichton," Braca orders softly. "Go back to your rages and your schemes and leave the things you don't understand alone."
Braca's hand strokes down the line of breastbone, over John's stomach to brush against his cock. He can feel the muscles in his stomach jump, feel his dick take an interest and he slams his head against the table, closes his eyes.
Braca chuckles, low and knowing, and leaves.
John stays there, letting his frelled senses readjust, only opening his eyes again, when he hears the low silk of Aeryn's voice.
"Get up," she says, sounding tired, worn. He sits up.
"What the frell happened in here?" she asks, but she looks him up and down, touches his throat and assess, accurately, the lack of damage.
He takes her hand, gets off the table.
"Foreplay," he says softly, and she snorts, follows him down the hall.
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 11:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 12:30 am (UTC)*twirls and dips in pre-slash love*
Thanks so much. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:03 am (UTC)So many layers, Thea... menace and confusion and pain of all kinds. :)
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:13 pm (UTC)Kixxa can have whatever she wants:) But, hee, I wouldn't exactly say her request was a surprise:)
So glad that it worked though!
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:00 am (UTC)Anna and I, once upon a time, were going to write a big John/Braca epic.
And yeah. That so didn't happen. I mean. EPIC. What were we thinking?
But I love the flavor nonetheless. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:15 pm (UTC)Now, see, that's quite an undertaking. But between the two of you, that's a lot of potential fabulousness:)
Glad you liked the drabble though. These two had a surprising rapport. I guess not so surprising, but a lot more fun than I'd suspected.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:06 am (UTC)hugs!
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:09 am (UTC)And your icon is truly amazing.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 05:30 am (UTC)"Go away, Crichton," Braca orders softly. "Go back to your rages and your schemes and leave the things you don't understand alone."
And this is soooooo dead on Braca.
Excellent Thea, just excellent.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:45 pm (UTC)