Baby, Can I Drive Your Car?
Dec. 17th, 2004 10:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowAgain, beta free, and this part ends with sort of a deus ex machina that needs to be fleshed out, but I want to see if it works initially before I finish Parts III and IV. The POV switches as well and I think it works, but again, we shall see. Takes place shortly after Part II.
Part IIIa
Flying K-12's Ain't Like Dusting Crops, Farmboy
He didn't look pleased to see her. He looked filthy and damp and weary, but not pleased.
"What do you want, Aeryn?" What did he think she wanted, a soothing game of Tadek?
"We weren't finished. Earlier."
He'd clearly been appalled at going off in her hand, embarrassed and cranky and stammering, running away like an adolescent after his first spate of recreation. She sniggered, earning a glare. Of course, he hadn't been able to run far, pants tangled around his ankles.
"I'm finished." He cocked his head, irritated and cranky, "I finished. And you left me in the dark, and once I pulled up my pants and hared off to be helpful, I had to listen to D'Argo wax poetic about the scent of human secretions for three frelling hours before the amnexus plug broke free and we got doused with enough of something else disgusting to make D'Argo stop bitching about how I smelled and start bitching about how he smelled. Keeyrist."
She couldn't help herself, the chuckle breaking free at his peevishness. He tugged at his t-shirt and it came away from his body, sheeted with dried fluid, straight and cakey, flaking on the floor as he pulled it over his head and flung it away. "Ugh. Go away, Aeryn. I am not prepared to play Madeline Albright tonight, nor am I really prepared to figure out just what else can go wrong when I get close to getting laid."
He still sounded priggish and childlike. Did he honestly think such things never happened to Peacekeepers? Superior species, yes, superior biology as well, but too long out in the field, unable to strip off the uniform let alone find any sort of tension release that didn't involve shooting things, and premature coming was certainly not unheard of. It wasn't ideal, but as far as she knew, it didn't make other body parts function less effectively.
"Crichton, you're being ridiculous."
He glared at her and undid his pants, shucking them off. They stood, comically, bent at the knee, frozen like plaster from the fluids as if the occupant had lost his calves, leaving the rest of the trousers behind.
He stood in his shorts, glaring at her then threw up his hands.
"I'm takin' a shower," he grumbled, walking towards the fresher, then yelled over his shoulder. "Go away!"
She could leave, perhaps should leave. Instead, she took her boots off and put them down by the end of his bunk, perversely intent on staying, on waiting him out. He was so frelling stubborn about certain things, pushing at her until she yielded, yelled or gave in and this was a chance at turnabout. She shrugged out of her vest, folding it and putting it by her boots. As she sat up, a glint of something caught her eye. A wink of metal shoved under a stack of flimsy. She recognized the glint and got up, pushed the flimsies aside.
Pulse pistol.
Frell. She'd given him that too him monens ago. He had grimaced and shoved it in his pants, causing ribald comments from D'Argo and a mutinous look from John. She hadn't seen the pulse pistol since. Bloody human. She picked up the weapon, popped out the cartridge. Unused, the pistol had a tendency to collect dust, the lubricant easing the passage of the cartridge into the butt getting tacky and thick. If he tried to use it, the gun would misfire. A white t-shirt lay discarded on the floor and she picked it up, tore it into strips and sat down to clean the weapon.
She heard the water turn off sometime later, but didn't move, intent on the job, didn't turn until he was standing over her.
"Damn, you're a stubborn woman." His voice was soft, almost amused.
She looked up at him, mouth flat with disgust. His hair was wet and he toweled it vigorously. He wore his white shorts, rest of his body bare and he smelled like soap, sweet and clean. She could see the outline of his penis through the thin material of his underwear and she tilted her head, lips curving into more of a smile. Muscles slid under his skin as he rubbed his head. Sebacean no, but his body was well put together, heavy and hard and beautiful. Clean lines and the hair bothered her less and less. She hadn't seen him stripped bare since he returned and the warm coloring suited him, skin golden and smooth.
"Need to keep your weapon clean," she admonished. He sneered in disgust and she grabbed his hand, slapped the pistol into it. "If it's dirty, it'll misfire. And you will die."
"Assuming I can hit anything in the first place," he answered wryly, letting the gun hand at useless angle.
She shook her head, took back the gun and slid the cartridge home. "You draw your weapon, you'd better be prepared to fire it."
"Not drawin' it, not carrying it." He said, voice low and stubborn.
"You may want it some day," she said, fighting back the irritation. "So at least keep it clean."
"Fine," he rolled his eyes, then looked at what she'd been cleaning the gun with. "Great. My last white shirt."
She shrugged. "Too bright anyway. Makes you an easy target."
"Whatever," he nudged at the pieces of material with his fingertips, and draped the towel over the empty chair.
"Why'd you stick around?"
She grinned, "You were in a foul mood," she said, not answering. "You seem better now."
"Yeah, well, I'm no longer covered in what I suspect was something crucial to Moya's more delicate parts, but I don't wanna really think about that."
He leaned in a little, leaning over her, hands braced on the table and her chair back. "Why'd I end up covered in gunk and you," he bent closer, noise near her hair, "ended up fresh as a daisy?"
He moved one thigh so that it bracketed her knee and she could feel his heat through the material of her pants. "Because I can open and close the doors, help Pilot."
He smiled at her, his humor back and she grinned back, pleased with his resiliency. "Good answer."
She touched the back of his knee lightly, fingertips resting gently, a subtle stroke and he shuddered. "Gotta one track mind, baby."
"Before…" she had no experience in navigating subtleties. "You were upset about coming so quickly. There are other things we can do."
"Yeah," he said slowly, eyes wide, and very blue, cheeks pink in embarrassment. "Guess there are."
He backed up, letting go of his holds, and backed towards the bed, taking his heat and his sheepish smile. "C'mere."
Finally. It was becoming an obsession, like Prowler attack school. So ready for the actual event, every delay an endless agony of waiting. What had started as a means to an end had become a challenge, something she was determined to succeed at. She got up from the chair, following.
When he sat down on the bunk, she reached for the bottom of her shirt, and he lifted his hand, fingers on her arm. "Not quite yet."
"What?"
Oh, goddess, he had that look on his face. The I have an idea look. Dren.
"Wanna try something."
"Crichton," she was impatient, wanting. She could push him down, work him to readiness, but that took much of the fun out of the act. And he was completely capable of refusing his participation, refusing her.
"No, no, listen," he said, hands up in protest, face sincere. "When we try for the main event, things tend to go off the rails. I thought we might start at the beginning."
"What?" She shook her head. So frelling incomprehensible. "A little necking, a little heavy petting. Start small and build."
"Crichton, I've no idea what you're talking about. Do you want to frell or don't you?"
He grabbed her fingers, tugged her down to sit by him. "Yeah. I think so. You scare me a little." She bared her teeth. "Okay, sometimes you scare me a lot." He laughed, nervous. "Every time I touch you I feel like a teenager, like I'm on the knife's edge of disaster, 'bout to get something wrong, to piss you off, to embarrass myself or get caught in a compromising position."
She sighed. Why couldn't it ever be easy. He touched her face, fingers on her cheekbone, breath warm on her skin. "At home, we kiss, make out, do a couple of trial runs to make sure everything feels good."
"It's sex," she enunciated. "The idea is that it feels good."
"Yeah," he smiled again, rueful, "And so far you've tried to rip off the hair on my chest, freeze off my balls, and left me with my butt flapping in the wind when you rushed off to save the day, not to mention the…uh, misfire. I may have some grounds to be cautious."
"Sebaceans kiss," she said slowly, and put her hand high on his thigh, pressing her mouth to his. His hand curled around her neck and he kissed her back, slow and thorough. His mouth was sweat, dentic fresh, clean. He held her face, careful with her and she deepened the kiss using her weight to shift them back towards the bed. She slid her hand up near his sex and he grabbed her wrist, broke away from her mouth.
"Nothin' below the waist," he grinned. "First and second base only."
"No genitals?"
He closed his eyes, shook his head with a wry set to his mouth. "No, no private parts."
She chuckled, "Afraid of a misfire?"
He kissed her, tongue sliding over her lip, into her mouth before retreating. "Maybe, though I'm handier with this gun, than with that one."
"Mmm, All weapons need to be handled and maintained for maximum efficiency."
"Well," he said, lips against her ear, along her neck and collarbone, "My gun's already been cleaned once today."
"Can't always be certain that everything's been," she met his mouth, took his tongue against hers, scratched at neck, reveling in his shudder, "properly emptied, well stripped. One needs to do a thorough check."
"A little build up might be good," he murmured, "Save something for later." And then he stopped talking.
"This is foolish," she said, breath rough, heart thudding hard as her blood raced.
But she kissed him again, enjoying the feeling, the sweep of his tongue, the press of his lips, his hands in her hair, on her arm, her back. She raked her nails down his side and he yelped a little, but didn't let her go. Instead he pulled her down so that she was half-sprawled over him, belly covering his sex, breasts pressed against his chest. Wet mouths, the press of lips and tongue and teeth and she could feel warmth in her body, limbs tingling, want pooling in her body. He ran his hand up her back, shifted so that they were side to side, and she pulled further, pulling him on top off her body, pressed to her center.
She kissed him again, hard, forceful, deeper and he groaned against her, hardening. She felt lost, waves of sensation rolling over her from the prolonged contact, the tease of simple kissing, this parody of sex. Impatience tugged at her, the need to have more, for penetration and flesh against flesh, but the kissing made her languorous, torn between frustrated and frelled.
He pulled away, kissing her jaw, her neck. Tiny shocky jolts of warmth ran through her at the contact. He suckled at her neck, hand covering her breast, resting his heat, the warm weight of his hand against her. She slid her hands over his arse, feeling the muscles contract, his hips thrusting forward and he jerked against her, erection against her sex, rubbing through the friction of his underwear, her pants.
She grabbed his hair, pulled his mouth back to hers and he kissed her violently, kneading her breast, squeezing with sudden urgency. She canted her hips, pulled up her knees so that he settled more firmly against her and he circled his hips, thrusting through the clothes. She angled her head, mouth against his throat, the join of his shoulder, biting against the firm flesh, tasting soap and salt and skin.
She slipped her hand underneath the elastic of his shorts, palm against the muscle of his arse, his skin hot and fine under her touch, forcing him tight against her and he groaned pulled his mouth away from hers, buried his face in her neck, straining. His cock hit her pubic bone and she shuddered, he angled his hips, thrust against, more centered this time, rubbing like a cat in heat she bucked, clutched at his sides, nails in his neck, knees against his waist.
"Let me take off my pants," she hissed.
"Uh uh," he pulled away from her body, panting. And then veered back in, hips back body twisted so that he was only touching her with his mouth, his hand up under her shirt, under her bra? How had it gotten there. Wet kisses, deep and sexy and she felt like she'd burst. She slid her hand between their bodies, touched herself.
"Cheating," he whispered.
"Fine," she growled. She pushed at him and he flopped onto his back. She straddled him, settling her cunt against his erection, rocking, his hips against her knees. He reached for her breasts, stroking through the t-shirt, and then sat up, yanking down the sleeve of her tank to fix his mouth, hot and wet, to her nipple, teeth and tongue working her body, squeezing her ass and she canted again, pressed down and came, shuddering in his grip.
"Ah, frell," she muttered, face against his bare neck, his skin taunting her as he chortled in her ear. "We're not going to have sex, are we?"
He kept his arms around her, stroking down her back and long firm motions and she tilted her neck, enjoyed the touch. "Sex is one end result," he offered, low and thoughtful. "But there's something to be said for some necking, a little teasing, see how far we can get."
She opened her eyes, narrowed her gaze at him. "You're backing out?"
"No," he squirmed under her, and she shivered, still sensitive. He made a face, a pleasured grimace and she pressed down a little harder with her pelvis. "Aeryn," her name in the back of his throat. "I just want to think about this, while I'm not either hard or so horny that thought's a galaxy or two away."
"There isn't anything to think about."
She pushed off his body. And he looked at her, erection tenting his shorts, face disgruntled. "It's not a rejection, just, every time we're about to have sex, something's happened, and I'm just not real sure I want to risk that. We don't do things like you do."
"Crichton," she couldn't keep the disgust out of her voice. "You're worse than a superstitious Luxan."
"Just, try it this way," he said, face boyish, hopeful and enthusiastic. "Play along for a day or too, enjoy the build up, make the payoff worth the risk."
He got off the bed, mouth soft, child wishful and ran his knuckles over her cheek, over her collarbone. She arched her neck, glared at him and he stepped in close enough so that his cock pressed against her belly.
"You didn't like the kissing?" He was a little breathless, hands skimming over her skin, slight feathery touches and she sighed, irritated and aroused, his mouth on her neck, on the swell of her breast through the material, on the nipple, tongue pressing flat and she arched against his mouth, holding his neck to keep him in place. She could talk him out of this madness, she was certain.
"Crichton!" The bars of the cell door rattled with D'Argo's good-natured hail. "The blockage is solidifying. We need to remove it again."
"Frell," she growled.
He thunked his head against her breastbone, and she shoved him back up, taking a step away, hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are cursed," she said. He pursued his mouth and the doors slid open.
Aeryn looked over her shoulder at D'Argo. He loomed in the doorway, mouth agape at the sight of John nearly naked, head in his hands, shaking it back and forth.
He raised his head and gave Aeryn and evil glare. "I told you. Much worse things could happen."
"Um, Crichton, perhaps you should get dressed."
"Yeah, thanks for the tip D'Argo. I thought I'd go fix the blockage like this, save on wear and tear on my clothes."
"That's fine, John, but, um, you don't appear to be… adequately,,, covered."
Crichton turned to grab the soiled trousers that lay stiffly on their side. "Sarcasm, D'Argo. It's called sarcasm."
"Whatever, just put your clothing on."
She couldn't help the laughter, Crichton's glaring irritation, his superstition which she had to admit know may be somewhat justified.
"Oh shut up," he groused, but without real venom.
"Um, Aeryn."
"What D'Argo?"
"Pilot could use your help again as well."
"Fine."
She went to get her boots, sitting back in Crichton's chair to pull them on while he dressed, D'Argo standing with his arms crossed, waiting.
"So, that thing we were uh… talking about…"
She shoved her foot into the boot, did the laces. "Yes?"
"Well?"
She did up her other boot as he fought his way into the filthy shirt. It was absurd, ridiculous, superstitious nonsense. Still…
"All right," she said finally, pushing up out the chair and walking out the door.
"That's a yes!" he bellowed, and she didn't bother to correct him.
Part IIIa
Flying K-12's Ain't Like Dusting Crops, Farmboy
He didn't look pleased to see her. He looked filthy and damp and weary, but not pleased.
"What do you want, Aeryn?" What did he think she wanted, a soothing game of Tadek?
"We weren't finished. Earlier."
He'd clearly been appalled at going off in her hand, embarrassed and cranky and stammering, running away like an adolescent after his first spate of recreation. She sniggered, earning a glare. Of course, he hadn't been able to run far, pants tangled around his ankles.
"I'm finished." He cocked his head, irritated and cranky, "I finished. And you left me in the dark, and once I pulled up my pants and hared off to be helpful, I had to listen to D'Argo wax poetic about the scent of human secretions for three frelling hours before the amnexus plug broke free and we got doused with enough of something else disgusting to make D'Argo stop bitching about how I smelled and start bitching about how he smelled. Keeyrist."
She couldn't help herself, the chuckle breaking free at his peevishness. He tugged at his t-shirt and it came away from his body, sheeted with dried fluid, straight and cakey, flaking on the floor as he pulled it over his head and flung it away. "Ugh. Go away, Aeryn. I am not prepared to play Madeline Albright tonight, nor am I really prepared to figure out just what else can go wrong when I get close to getting laid."
He still sounded priggish and childlike. Did he honestly think such things never happened to Peacekeepers? Superior species, yes, superior biology as well, but too long out in the field, unable to strip off the uniform let alone find any sort of tension release that didn't involve shooting things, and premature coming was certainly not unheard of. It wasn't ideal, but as far as she knew, it didn't make other body parts function less effectively.
"Crichton, you're being ridiculous."
He glared at her and undid his pants, shucking them off. They stood, comically, bent at the knee, frozen like plaster from the fluids as if the occupant had lost his calves, leaving the rest of the trousers behind.
He stood in his shorts, glaring at her then threw up his hands.
"I'm takin' a shower," he grumbled, walking towards the fresher, then yelled over his shoulder. "Go away!"
She could leave, perhaps should leave. Instead, she took her boots off and put them down by the end of his bunk, perversely intent on staying, on waiting him out. He was so frelling stubborn about certain things, pushing at her until she yielded, yelled or gave in and this was a chance at turnabout. She shrugged out of her vest, folding it and putting it by her boots. As she sat up, a glint of something caught her eye. A wink of metal shoved under a stack of flimsy. She recognized the glint and got up, pushed the flimsies aside.
Pulse pistol.
Frell. She'd given him that too him monens ago. He had grimaced and shoved it in his pants, causing ribald comments from D'Argo and a mutinous look from John. She hadn't seen the pulse pistol since. Bloody human. She picked up the weapon, popped out the cartridge. Unused, the pistol had a tendency to collect dust, the lubricant easing the passage of the cartridge into the butt getting tacky and thick. If he tried to use it, the gun would misfire. A white t-shirt lay discarded on the floor and she picked it up, tore it into strips and sat down to clean the weapon.
She heard the water turn off sometime later, but didn't move, intent on the job, didn't turn until he was standing over her.
"Damn, you're a stubborn woman." His voice was soft, almost amused.
She looked up at him, mouth flat with disgust. His hair was wet and he toweled it vigorously. He wore his white shorts, rest of his body bare and he smelled like soap, sweet and clean. She could see the outline of his penis through the thin material of his underwear and she tilted her head, lips curving into more of a smile. Muscles slid under his skin as he rubbed his head. Sebacean no, but his body was well put together, heavy and hard and beautiful. Clean lines and the hair bothered her less and less. She hadn't seen him stripped bare since he returned and the warm coloring suited him, skin golden and smooth.
"Need to keep your weapon clean," she admonished. He sneered in disgust and she grabbed his hand, slapped the pistol into it. "If it's dirty, it'll misfire. And you will die."
"Assuming I can hit anything in the first place," he answered wryly, letting the gun hand at useless angle.
She shook her head, took back the gun and slid the cartridge home. "You draw your weapon, you'd better be prepared to fire it."
"Not drawin' it, not carrying it." He said, voice low and stubborn.
"You may want it some day," she said, fighting back the irritation. "So at least keep it clean."
"Fine," he rolled his eyes, then looked at what she'd been cleaning the gun with. "Great. My last white shirt."
She shrugged. "Too bright anyway. Makes you an easy target."
"Whatever," he nudged at the pieces of material with his fingertips, and draped the towel over the empty chair.
"Why'd you stick around?"
She grinned, "You were in a foul mood," she said, not answering. "You seem better now."
"Yeah, well, I'm no longer covered in what I suspect was something crucial to Moya's more delicate parts, but I don't wanna really think about that."
He leaned in a little, leaning over her, hands braced on the table and her chair back. "Why'd I end up covered in gunk and you," he bent closer, noise near her hair, "ended up fresh as a daisy?"
He moved one thigh so that it bracketed her knee and she could feel his heat through the material of her pants. "Because I can open and close the doors, help Pilot."
He smiled at her, his humor back and she grinned back, pleased with his resiliency. "Good answer."
She touched the back of his knee lightly, fingertips resting gently, a subtle stroke and he shuddered. "Gotta one track mind, baby."
"Before…" she had no experience in navigating subtleties. "You were upset about coming so quickly. There are other things we can do."
"Yeah," he said slowly, eyes wide, and very blue, cheeks pink in embarrassment. "Guess there are."
He backed up, letting go of his holds, and backed towards the bed, taking his heat and his sheepish smile. "C'mere."
Finally. It was becoming an obsession, like Prowler attack school. So ready for the actual event, every delay an endless agony of waiting. What had started as a means to an end had become a challenge, something she was determined to succeed at. She got up from the chair, following.
When he sat down on the bunk, she reached for the bottom of her shirt, and he lifted his hand, fingers on her arm. "Not quite yet."
"What?"
Oh, goddess, he had that look on his face. The I have an idea look. Dren.
"Wanna try something."
"Crichton," she was impatient, wanting. She could push him down, work him to readiness, but that took much of the fun out of the act. And he was completely capable of refusing his participation, refusing her.
"No, no, listen," he said, hands up in protest, face sincere. "When we try for the main event, things tend to go off the rails. I thought we might start at the beginning."
"What?" She shook her head. So frelling incomprehensible. "A little necking, a little heavy petting. Start small and build."
"Crichton, I've no idea what you're talking about. Do you want to frell or don't you?"
He grabbed her fingers, tugged her down to sit by him. "Yeah. I think so. You scare me a little." She bared her teeth. "Okay, sometimes you scare me a lot." He laughed, nervous. "Every time I touch you I feel like a teenager, like I'm on the knife's edge of disaster, 'bout to get something wrong, to piss you off, to embarrass myself or get caught in a compromising position."
She sighed. Why couldn't it ever be easy. He touched her face, fingers on her cheekbone, breath warm on her skin. "At home, we kiss, make out, do a couple of trial runs to make sure everything feels good."
"It's sex," she enunciated. "The idea is that it feels good."
"Yeah," he smiled again, rueful, "And so far you've tried to rip off the hair on my chest, freeze off my balls, and left me with my butt flapping in the wind when you rushed off to save the day, not to mention the…uh, misfire. I may have some grounds to be cautious."
"Sebaceans kiss," she said slowly, and put her hand high on his thigh, pressing her mouth to his. His hand curled around her neck and he kissed her back, slow and thorough. His mouth was sweat, dentic fresh, clean. He held her face, careful with her and she deepened the kiss using her weight to shift them back towards the bed. She slid her hand up near his sex and he grabbed her wrist, broke away from her mouth.
"Nothin' below the waist," he grinned. "First and second base only."
"No genitals?"
He closed his eyes, shook his head with a wry set to his mouth. "No, no private parts."
She chuckled, "Afraid of a misfire?"
He kissed her, tongue sliding over her lip, into her mouth before retreating. "Maybe, though I'm handier with this gun, than with that one."
"Mmm, All weapons need to be handled and maintained for maximum efficiency."
"Well," he said, lips against her ear, along her neck and collarbone, "My gun's already been cleaned once today."
"Can't always be certain that everything's been," she met his mouth, took his tongue against hers, scratched at neck, reveling in his shudder, "properly emptied, well stripped. One needs to do a thorough check."
"A little build up might be good," he murmured, "Save something for later." And then he stopped talking.
"This is foolish," she said, breath rough, heart thudding hard as her blood raced.
But she kissed him again, enjoying the feeling, the sweep of his tongue, the press of his lips, his hands in her hair, on her arm, her back. She raked her nails down his side and he yelped a little, but didn't let her go. Instead he pulled her down so that she was half-sprawled over him, belly covering his sex, breasts pressed against his chest. Wet mouths, the press of lips and tongue and teeth and she could feel warmth in her body, limbs tingling, want pooling in her body. He ran his hand up her back, shifted so that they were side to side, and she pulled further, pulling him on top off her body, pressed to her center.
She kissed him again, hard, forceful, deeper and he groaned against her, hardening. She felt lost, waves of sensation rolling over her from the prolonged contact, the tease of simple kissing, this parody of sex. Impatience tugged at her, the need to have more, for penetration and flesh against flesh, but the kissing made her languorous, torn between frustrated and frelled.
He pulled away, kissing her jaw, her neck. Tiny shocky jolts of warmth ran through her at the contact. He suckled at her neck, hand covering her breast, resting his heat, the warm weight of his hand against her. She slid her hands over his arse, feeling the muscles contract, his hips thrusting forward and he jerked against her, erection against her sex, rubbing through the friction of his underwear, her pants.
She grabbed his hair, pulled his mouth back to hers and he kissed her violently, kneading her breast, squeezing with sudden urgency. She canted her hips, pulled up her knees so that he settled more firmly against her and he circled his hips, thrusting through the clothes. She angled her head, mouth against his throat, the join of his shoulder, biting against the firm flesh, tasting soap and salt and skin.
She slipped her hand underneath the elastic of his shorts, palm against the muscle of his arse, his skin hot and fine under her touch, forcing him tight against her and he groaned pulled his mouth away from hers, buried his face in her neck, straining. His cock hit her pubic bone and she shuddered, he angled his hips, thrust against, more centered this time, rubbing like a cat in heat she bucked, clutched at his sides, nails in his neck, knees against his waist.
"Let me take off my pants," she hissed.
"Uh uh," he pulled away from her body, panting. And then veered back in, hips back body twisted so that he was only touching her with his mouth, his hand up under her shirt, under her bra? How had it gotten there. Wet kisses, deep and sexy and she felt like she'd burst. She slid her hand between their bodies, touched herself.
"Cheating," he whispered.
"Fine," she growled. She pushed at him and he flopped onto his back. She straddled him, settling her cunt against his erection, rocking, his hips against her knees. He reached for her breasts, stroking through the t-shirt, and then sat up, yanking down the sleeve of her tank to fix his mouth, hot and wet, to her nipple, teeth and tongue working her body, squeezing her ass and she canted again, pressed down and came, shuddering in his grip.
"Ah, frell," she muttered, face against his bare neck, his skin taunting her as he chortled in her ear. "We're not going to have sex, are we?"
He kept his arms around her, stroking down her back and long firm motions and she tilted her neck, enjoyed the touch. "Sex is one end result," he offered, low and thoughtful. "But there's something to be said for some necking, a little teasing, see how far we can get."
She opened her eyes, narrowed her gaze at him. "You're backing out?"
"No," he squirmed under her, and she shivered, still sensitive. He made a face, a pleasured grimace and she pressed down a little harder with her pelvis. "Aeryn," her name in the back of his throat. "I just want to think about this, while I'm not either hard or so horny that thought's a galaxy or two away."
"There isn't anything to think about."
She pushed off his body. And he looked at her, erection tenting his shorts, face disgruntled. "It's not a rejection, just, every time we're about to have sex, something's happened, and I'm just not real sure I want to risk that. We don't do things like you do."
"Crichton," she couldn't keep the disgust out of her voice. "You're worse than a superstitious Luxan."
"Just, try it this way," he said, face boyish, hopeful and enthusiastic. "Play along for a day or too, enjoy the build up, make the payoff worth the risk."
He got off the bed, mouth soft, child wishful and ran his knuckles over her cheek, over her collarbone. She arched her neck, glared at him and he stepped in close enough so that his cock pressed against her belly.
"You didn't like the kissing?" He was a little breathless, hands skimming over her skin, slight feathery touches and she sighed, irritated and aroused, his mouth on her neck, on the swell of her breast through the material, on the nipple, tongue pressing flat and she arched against his mouth, holding his neck to keep him in place. She could talk him out of this madness, she was certain.
"Crichton!" The bars of the cell door rattled with D'Argo's good-natured hail. "The blockage is solidifying. We need to remove it again."
"Frell," she growled.
He thunked his head against her breastbone, and she shoved him back up, taking a step away, hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you are cursed," she said. He pursued his mouth and the doors slid open.
Aeryn looked over her shoulder at D'Argo. He loomed in the doorway, mouth agape at the sight of John nearly naked, head in his hands, shaking it back and forth.
He raised his head and gave Aeryn and evil glare. "I told you. Much worse things could happen."
"Um, Crichton, perhaps you should get dressed."
"Yeah, thanks for the tip D'Argo. I thought I'd go fix the blockage like this, save on wear and tear on my clothes."
"That's fine, John, but, um, you don't appear to be… adequately,,, covered."
Crichton turned to grab the soiled trousers that lay stiffly on their side. "Sarcasm, D'Argo. It's called sarcasm."
"Whatever, just put your clothing on."
She couldn't help the laughter, Crichton's glaring irritation, his superstition which she had to admit know may be somewhat justified.
"Oh shut up," he groused, but without real venom.
"Um, Aeryn."
"What D'Argo?"
"Pilot could use your help again as well."
"Fine."
She went to get her boots, sitting back in Crichton's chair to pull them on while he dressed, D'Argo standing with his arms crossed, waiting.
"So, that thing we were uh… talking about…"
She shoved her foot into the boot, did the laces. "Yes?"
"Well?"
She did up her other boot as he fought his way into the filthy shirt. It was absurd, ridiculous, superstitious nonsense. Still…
"All right," she said finally, pushing up out the chair and walking out the door.
"That's a yes!" he bellowed, and she didn't bother to correct him.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2004-12-17 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-17 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-17 07:43 pm (UTC)Where all the fun is.
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Date: 2004-12-17 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-17 07:26 pm (UTC)Lovely little piece that's builing up to something, I know. And I can't wait.
*g*
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Date: 2004-12-17 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-17 11:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 07:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 12:22 am (UTC)On to the next part!
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Date: 2004-12-18 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-18 03:42 pm (UTC)That is a great line!!
Oh, goddess, he had that look on his face. The I have an idea look. Dren.
Oh, yeah. It didn't take her long to learn to recognize that, did it? heeeeee!
"Well," he said, lips against her ear, along her neck and collarbone, "My gun's already been cleaned once today."
Love all the 'gun' references. I know it's a common euphemism, but you made 'em fun and they worked great! I love this whole thing. (((((((Thea)))))))
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Date: 2004-12-18 11:46 pm (UTC)