Blue Eyes - Chapter 18B
Aug. 25th, 2003 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowI lied, there's not much redeeming in this half either. NC-17. They were supposed to talk, really. But they're not very good with words.
Chapter 18B
She stroked the damp hair at the back of his neck, relishing his warmth and weight and the giddy buzz of good sex. He was heavy, softening inside her, breathing slowly, his face buried in her neck. The clarity that typically accompanied the aftermath of sexual release was absent, replaced by the overwhelming sensory experience of being surrounded by John Crichton. It was flooding her, making rational thought as difficult as it had been earlier when lust had taken over her brain at the sight of him torn and vulnerable.
He shifted slightly, trying to move some of his mass off of her, but she held on, the marble floor cool against her back, matching his heat. He pressed a kiss to her jawline and curled his hand around the bone of her hip. She should push him away, get up, go, but the languor was too much. She felt full, oversensitive, her skin a lightboard of nerves, and the scritch of his skin and hair against her sex made her moan. She closed her eyes, spread her thighs slightly, and held on to him. Their enemies wouldn’t wait, but at that moment, there was nothing more she could do. She had been weak, was weak, and she blocked out the rest, drifted into sleep.
***
She came awake with a start, pulse pounding, trying to shake away the visions of Be’Ann’s eyes as the light faded from them, the echo of the pulse pistol, and then the roaring whir of the Aurora chair that had haunted her dreams. She glanced around, found herself in an unknown room and an unknown bed, looking into familiar eyes that watched her with concern. His hand was on her hip, and she realized that he had probably been trying to wake her.
She needed to leave, to get out of his bed, and wondered briefly how she’d gotten into his bed. They’d been on the ground before, and she'd just closed her eyes for a microt, and.. she brushed back that distraction, focusing on the now. She rolled away from him, and sat on the edge of the mattress, her feet braced against the coolness of the floor. It centered her and she steadied her breathing.
“Aeryn,” it wasn’t a question, or a plea, just her name, so soft in his mouth that she wanted to lash out at him. She hunched her shoulders, tried to pull herself in, tried to find who she was now and not be lost in a sea of memories triggered by those eyes and that touch. She was an idiot for giving in, for allowing herself this.
His fingertips brushed against her back and she bit off the desire to ask him about Katralla. That would wound, and she’d seen him bleed enough in the past few days. Scorpius. She needed to tell him about Scorpius. She felt the bed shift behind her as he reached for her, his lips on her back at the base of her spine, and it drew a low moan from her. His hand on her waist, lips on her skin and she had to stop it somehow. She clung to the thread of clarity.
“Are you still seeing Scorpius,” she asked, interrogating, distant.
The warmth of his mouth withdrew and the bed shifted again as he rolled away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked flatly.
“Nothing.” She replied. “But I need to know.”
He snorted. “Thought we’d had this conversation, but yeah. Seeing him live and in Technicolor. He’s been a chatty son of a bitch today.”
She registered that. Scorpius’ neural tech was well known, and well feared. It was possible, likely even, that he’d done something to John cycles ago that was causing these visions. Crichton could be a beacon lighting the Peacekeepers’ way to their team. But that didn’t make sense. Scorpius knew where Crichton was. He didn’t need a map, all he needed was Be’Ann’s intel that John had woken up. It was a threat no matter what, but she had no way of assessing the weight of that threat. Would John still be a draw? She just didn’t know, although her gut said yes. All she had was Be’Ann’s dead stare, the defenselessness of this planet, and the vulnerability of John Crichton. She bowed her head, pushed her thumbs into the sinus cavity, tried to still the throbbing in her head.
She’d been silent for too long, and John tried again, “What’s wrong Aeryn? Why are you asking me about that now?”
She didn’t answer, but he continued to press.
“You were dreaming,” he stated, curious and slightly accusatory.
“Yes,” she said, and looked over her shoulder at him.
His hands were behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, jaw in a tight, unhappy line that she knew had everything to do with her at this moment. She remembered that, his anger mixing with concern, and it softened her a little. She wanted to offer him something, and her body was such an easy thing to give him.
She lay back down and rolled onto her side, pressing herself against his length. He turned to her, eyes dark and frantic, and reached over to tangle his hand in her hair, pulling her to him for a frantic kiss. His mouth was warmth and light and heat, the rush of being near him clouding her senses, and she instantly realized her mistake. Sex with John had always been complicated. He pulled her inside himself, surrounded her with the ferocity of his need and emotions until she had to work so frelling hard to escape that it exhausted her and pain was the only way to make him let go. Nothing had done this to her before, not Crais with his obsessive love, nor the myriad of quick Peacekeeper frells, or hezmana, not even Teyvn with his strength and grace and companionship, no one had ever exhibited even a fraction of this kind of pull over her. Anix, and Talyn, maybe, in a different way, but, here, now John was pure risk, and she shoved the heel of her palm against his breastbone and pushed him away.
“Be’Ann was a spy for the Peackeepers,” she breathed fiercely, attempting to get the situation back under control, but feeling her sex pulse as his cock twitched against her thigh.
“So what?” he asked, trying to draw her forward, and that snapped her back because this needed an answer.
She rolled again, breaking his loose hold, and stood up, knowing that standing naked in front of him wasn’t going to offer her much of a defense. He looked at her, his mouth gaping and then snapped it shut, and flopped onto his back again, biting out, “ Did you torture her?” throwing the need to wound back at her in punishment for her withdrawl, “Did you make her scream like Teyvn did with the Scarran?”
It felt deserved, but the bitterness from him still burned.
“Yes,” she replied. “And then I killed her.”
His chest hitched at that, but he didn’t look at her, just puffed out a breath harsh with false amusement.
“That’s great Aeryn. I guess you weren’t lying when you said you were a killer.”
“Frell you,” she snapped back, surprised at the pain. She knew he was scared, trying to protect himself, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. She was a killer, would do it again if necessary, and maybe it was better that he realized that. So many things were wrong with her standing naked in his bedroom. He had a wife, they both knew that. Enemies knocked at the gates. She couldn’t stay on this planet much longer, and the universe was tearing itself apart, and yet she still wanted to kneel on the bed, lay her head on his chest, feel his heartbeat.
“This is weakness,” she told herself, “Lust and memories and weakness. That’s all.” She didn’t say anything to him, didn’t smile or offer a reprieve for either of them, just turned and headed to the shower.
The water poured over her, cool and steady, as she washed his scent and feel from her body. The anger rose up in her, anger at fate, at circumstances, at John for careening into Tauvo Crais’ prowler so many years ago and ruining her life. Flight and the stars and death in battle. That should have been her life, her path. So many decisions, so many lives resting in her hands, her troops, innocent civilians, her child, her friends.
And so many dead or left behind, and once again, the eyes of a young Sebacean whom she had trusted and supported flashed before her and she slammed her fist against the wall of the shower, pounding until the bones in her hand ached. Her youthful desires had been simple: space and sex and occasional laughter and promotion, possibly a commendation, an honorable death, and maybe, just maybe, a glance to confirm that her mother and the risks she took had been real, but that was all. Now she had a universe full of desires, stymied by the endless fear that she would never be good enough to keep the people she loved alive.
She hadn’t heard him open the door, but she heard the glass partition close as he entered the shower, and didn’t push away as he wrapped his body around her, molding himself to her back, holding her as the water streamed over them both. His hands splayed over her belly, and slid out to rest on her hips. The hair on his legs tickled the back of her thighs. She tilted her face up, let the water cool her quickly pinking cheeks as he drew patterns on her hips.
“Scorpius,” she said, low and choked. “She contacted Scorpius.” What else could she say when that’s all she knew?
“Okay,” he answered, his voice low and controlled. “That’s what all this was about?”
He didn’t sound upset or angry, just resigned. He moved his hands again, gently cupping her breasts and running his thumbs around the aereolae. Her breath caught as desire hit her low and tight in her belly and sex.
“He could be on his way,” she challenged, and he tightened his hold on her breasts, twisting the nipples slightly. She arched her back, her buttocks contacting with his thickening penis, and he thrust forward, teasing her again. “Fuck,” she said, rolling the word in her mouth and he laughed into her wet hair.
“Yeah,” he said, “Looks like it.”
She hit back with her shoulder, earning a grunt and turned to face him. She narrowed her eyes, liking the sight of him naked and wet, and hardening. But there was nothing light in his eyes. Fear, longing and desire, yes, but nothing light, nothing joyful. Scorpius was very real to him. “Frell you,” she said softly, kindly and his mouth smiled at her.
“I hope so,” he said nodding, “I really do.”
She shoved him again, pulling her strength, but still hitting him hard enough so that he made contact with the wall of the shower. The water beat against the walls and the floor, a steady accompaniment to the heaviness of their breathing and she placed her hands on his chest and looked at him. Bruises bloomed on his ribs, and his arms and she stroked them delicately. He looked back at her, trying to hide his reactions from her, and she raked her nails lightly down his torso and pressed her thumbs into the join of hip and thigh, massaging the muscle deeply, causing him to moan. She took his penis in her hand, encircling lightly, stroking, squeezing, watching him struggle for breath, fight against showing her how it felt, and then ran her palm over the tip.
He winced and shuddered a little, still fighting his response, so she knelt down, took him in her mouth, using her tongue and teeth and slow, sweet strokes of her fingers until he gasped, swallowing her name in supplication, begging for something. She dug her fingernails into the side of his thigh, let him push against that pain as he melted into the pleasure of her ministrations and she sucked harder.
Then his hands were in her hair, no gentleness left, pulling her up, yanking back her throat, biting at her lips, her shoulders and neck before spinning her around to face the wall and slamming himself into her, full and hard, and she groaned, sighed, couldn’t catch her breath, the tile chilly against her hardened nipples, his fingers digging into her hips, bruising as he thrust, repeating her name like a mantra, trying to crawl all the way inside her. She thrust back forcefully, the sliding, slapping noises of their flesh counterpoint to the beat of the water, and he finally reached around, met her own hand working the cluster of nerves in her sex and covered her, rotating and pressing as her body lit up, wound up, tensed and exploded, contracting around him as he bit down on her shoulder, driving her into the wall and tearing her skin with his teeth as he came.
Her breath returned, sensation flooding back in, bruises, cuts, stiffness and quivering muscles and she realized that he must be on a drenload of painkillers to be able to do what he just did to her after yesterday’s encounter with the Scarran. “Frell,” she whispered, and he chuckled against her skin, then groaned in genuine pain and she realized not all of the tremors were from her body. He pushed away from her, sinking down onto his knees in the shower. She turned around, shut off the water, and knelt beside him. “How do you feel?” He just raised an eyebrow, unable to do much more. “I think you killed me, Captain,” he said.
She should leave him, get dressed, go sleep this off in her quarters. She knew that, her rational mind kept repeating it as she toweled off, hauled him up and harassed him into the bed. She found the painkillers for him, found something to dry her hair with, and ignored the way he watched her move around the room. And in the end, he didn’t even ask her to stay, just caught her hand as she reached for her clothes, turned the palm up, and brushed his lips over her fingertips.
Weak. She was so frelling weak.
Chapter 18B
She stroked the damp hair at the back of his neck, relishing his warmth and weight and the giddy buzz of good sex. He was heavy, softening inside her, breathing slowly, his face buried in her neck. The clarity that typically accompanied the aftermath of sexual release was absent, replaced by the overwhelming sensory experience of being surrounded by John Crichton. It was flooding her, making rational thought as difficult as it had been earlier when lust had taken over her brain at the sight of him torn and vulnerable.
He shifted slightly, trying to move some of his mass off of her, but she held on, the marble floor cool against her back, matching his heat. He pressed a kiss to her jawline and curled his hand around the bone of her hip. She should push him away, get up, go, but the languor was too much. She felt full, oversensitive, her skin a lightboard of nerves, and the scritch of his skin and hair against her sex made her moan. She closed her eyes, spread her thighs slightly, and held on to him. Their enemies wouldn’t wait, but at that moment, there was nothing more she could do. She had been weak, was weak, and she blocked out the rest, drifted into sleep.
***
She came awake with a start, pulse pounding, trying to shake away the visions of Be’Ann’s eyes as the light faded from them, the echo of the pulse pistol, and then the roaring whir of the Aurora chair that had haunted her dreams. She glanced around, found herself in an unknown room and an unknown bed, looking into familiar eyes that watched her with concern. His hand was on her hip, and she realized that he had probably been trying to wake her.
She needed to leave, to get out of his bed, and wondered briefly how she’d gotten into his bed. They’d been on the ground before, and she'd just closed her eyes for a microt, and.. she brushed back that distraction, focusing on the now. She rolled away from him, and sat on the edge of the mattress, her feet braced against the coolness of the floor. It centered her and she steadied her breathing.
“Aeryn,” it wasn’t a question, or a plea, just her name, so soft in his mouth that she wanted to lash out at him. She hunched her shoulders, tried to pull herself in, tried to find who she was now and not be lost in a sea of memories triggered by those eyes and that touch. She was an idiot for giving in, for allowing herself this.
His fingertips brushed against her back and she bit off the desire to ask him about Katralla. That would wound, and she’d seen him bleed enough in the past few days. Scorpius. She needed to tell him about Scorpius. She felt the bed shift behind her as he reached for her, his lips on her back at the base of her spine, and it drew a low moan from her. His hand on her waist, lips on her skin and she had to stop it somehow. She clung to the thread of clarity.
“Are you still seeing Scorpius,” she asked, interrogating, distant.
The warmth of his mouth withdrew and the bed shifted again as he rolled away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked flatly.
“Nothing.” She replied. “But I need to know.”
He snorted. “Thought we’d had this conversation, but yeah. Seeing him live and in Technicolor. He’s been a chatty son of a bitch today.”
She registered that. Scorpius’ neural tech was well known, and well feared. It was possible, likely even, that he’d done something to John cycles ago that was causing these visions. Crichton could be a beacon lighting the Peacekeepers’ way to their team. But that didn’t make sense. Scorpius knew where Crichton was. He didn’t need a map, all he needed was Be’Ann’s intel that John had woken up. It was a threat no matter what, but she had no way of assessing the weight of that threat. Would John still be a draw? She just didn’t know, although her gut said yes. All she had was Be’Ann’s dead stare, the defenselessness of this planet, and the vulnerability of John Crichton. She bowed her head, pushed her thumbs into the sinus cavity, tried to still the throbbing in her head.
She’d been silent for too long, and John tried again, “What’s wrong Aeryn? Why are you asking me about that now?”
She didn’t answer, but he continued to press.
“You were dreaming,” he stated, curious and slightly accusatory.
“Yes,” she said, and looked over her shoulder at him.
His hands were behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, jaw in a tight, unhappy line that she knew had everything to do with her at this moment. She remembered that, his anger mixing with concern, and it softened her a little. She wanted to offer him something, and her body was such an easy thing to give him.
She lay back down and rolled onto her side, pressing herself against his length. He turned to her, eyes dark and frantic, and reached over to tangle his hand in her hair, pulling her to him for a frantic kiss. His mouth was warmth and light and heat, the rush of being near him clouding her senses, and she instantly realized her mistake. Sex with John had always been complicated. He pulled her inside himself, surrounded her with the ferocity of his need and emotions until she had to work so frelling hard to escape that it exhausted her and pain was the only way to make him let go. Nothing had done this to her before, not Crais with his obsessive love, nor the myriad of quick Peacekeeper frells, or hezmana, not even Teyvn with his strength and grace and companionship, no one had ever exhibited even a fraction of this kind of pull over her. Anix, and Talyn, maybe, in a different way, but, here, now John was pure risk, and she shoved the heel of her palm against his breastbone and pushed him away.
“Be’Ann was a spy for the Peackeepers,” she breathed fiercely, attempting to get the situation back under control, but feeling her sex pulse as his cock twitched against her thigh.
“So what?” he asked, trying to draw her forward, and that snapped her back because this needed an answer.
She rolled again, breaking his loose hold, and stood up, knowing that standing naked in front of him wasn’t going to offer her much of a defense. He looked at her, his mouth gaping and then snapped it shut, and flopped onto his back again, biting out, “ Did you torture her?” throwing the need to wound back at her in punishment for her withdrawl, “Did you make her scream like Teyvn did with the Scarran?”
It felt deserved, but the bitterness from him still burned.
“Yes,” she replied. “And then I killed her.”
His chest hitched at that, but he didn’t look at her, just puffed out a breath harsh with false amusement.
“That’s great Aeryn. I guess you weren’t lying when you said you were a killer.”
“Frell you,” she snapped back, surprised at the pain. She knew he was scared, trying to protect himself, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. She was a killer, would do it again if necessary, and maybe it was better that he realized that. So many things were wrong with her standing naked in his bedroom. He had a wife, they both knew that. Enemies knocked at the gates. She couldn’t stay on this planet much longer, and the universe was tearing itself apart, and yet she still wanted to kneel on the bed, lay her head on his chest, feel his heartbeat.
“This is weakness,” she told herself, “Lust and memories and weakness. That’s all.” She didn’t say anything to him, didn’t smile or offer a reprieve for either of them, just turned and headed to the shower.
The water poured over her, cool and steady, as she washed his scent and feel from her body. The anger rose up in her, anger at fate, at circumstances, at John for careening into Tauvo Crais’ prowler so many years ago and ruining her life. Flight and the stars and death in battle. That should have been her life, her path. So many decisions, so many lives resting in her hands, her troops, innocent civilians, her child, her friends.
And so many dead or left behind, and once again, the eyes of a young Sebacean whom she had trusted and supported flashed before her and she slammed her fist against the wall of the shower, pounding until the bones in her hand ached. Her youthful desires had been simple: space and sex and occasional laughter and promotion, possibly a commendation, an honorable death, and maybe, just maybe, a glance to confirm that her mother and the risks she took had been real, but that was all. Now she had a universe full of desires, stymied by the endless fear that she would never be good enough to keep the people she loved alive.
She hadn’t heard him open the door, but she heard the glass partition close as he entered the shower, and didn’t push away as he wrapped his body around her, molding himself to her back, holding her as the water streamed over them both. His hands splayed over her belly, and slid out to rest on her hips. The hair on his legs tickled the back of her thighs. She tilted her face up, let the water cool her quickly pinking cheeks as he drew patterns on her hips.
“Scorpius,” she said, low and choked. “She contacted Scorpius.” What else could she say when that’s all she knew?
“Okay,” he answered, his voice low and controlled. “That’s what all this was about?”
He didn’t sound upset or angry, just resigned. He moved his hands again, gently cupping her breasts and running his thumbs around the aereolae. Her breath caught as desire hit her low and tight in her belly and sex.
“He could be on his way,” she challenged, and he tightened his hold on her breasts, twisting the nipples slightly. She arched her back, her buttocks contacting with his thickening penis, and he thrust forward, teasing her again. “Fuck,” she said, rolling the word in her mouth and he laughed into her wet hair.
“Yeah,” he said, “Looks like it.”
She hit back with her shoulder, earning a grunt and turned to face him. She narrowed her eyes, liking the sight of him naked and wet, and hardening. But there was nothing light in his eyes. Fear, longing and desire, yes, but nothing light, nothing joyful. Scorpius was very real to him. “Frell you,” she said softly, kindly and his mouth smiled at her.
“I hope so,” he said nodding, “I really do.”
She shoved him again, pulling her strength, but still hitting him hard enough so that he made contact with the wall of the shower. The water beat against the walls and the floor, a steady accompaniment to the heaviness of their breathing and she placed her hands on his chest and looked at him. Bruises bloomed on his ribs, and his arms and she stroked them delicately. He looked back at her, trying to hide his reactions from her, and she raked her nails lightly down his torso and pressed her thumbs into the join of hip and thigh, massaging the muscle deeply, causing him to moan. She took his penis in her hand, encircling lightly, stroking, squeezing, watching him struggle for breath, fight against showing her how it felt, and then ran her palm over the tip.
He winced and shuddered a little, still fighting his response, so she knelt down, took him in her mouth, using her tongue and teeth and slow, sweet strokes of her fingers until he gasped, swallowing her name in supplication, begging for something. She dug her fingernails into the side of his thigh, let him push against that pain as he melted into the pleasure of her ministrations and she sucked harder.
Then his hands were in her hair, no gentleness left, pulling her up, yanking back her throat, biting at her lips, her shoulders and neck before spinning her around to face the wall and slamming himself into her, full and hard, and she groaned, sighed, couldn’t catch her breath, the tile chilly against her hardened nipples, his fingers digging into her hips, bruising as he thrust, repeating her name like a mantra, trying to crawl all the way inside her. She thrust back forcefully, the sliding, slapping noises of their flesh counterpoint to the beat of the water, and he finally reached around, met her own hand working the cluster of nerves in her sex and covered her, rotating and pressing as her body lit up, wound up, tensed and exploded, contracting around him as he bit down on her shoulder, driving her into the wall and tearing her skin with his teeth as he came.
Her breath returned, sensation flooding back in, bruises, cuts, stiffness and quivering muscles and she realized that he must be on a drenload of painkillers to be able to do what he just did to her after yesterday’s encounter with the Scarran. “Frell,” she whispered, and he chuckled against her skin, then groaned in genuine pain and she realized not all of the tremors were from her body. He pushed away from her, sinking down onto his knees in the shower. She turned around, shut off the water, and knelt beside him. “How do you feel?” He just raised an eyebrow, unable to do much more. “I think you killed me, Captain,” he said.
She should leave him, get dressed, go sleep this off in her quarters. She knew that, her rational mind kept repeating it as she toweled off, hauled him up and harassed him into the bed. She found the painkillers for him, found something to dry her hair with, and ignored the way he watched her move around the room. And in the end, he didn’t even ask her to stay, just caught her hand as she reached for her clothes, turned the palm up, and brushed his lips over her fingertips.
Weak. She was so frelling weak.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:24 pm (UTC)You can do "redeeming" next chapter. (Or the one after that, or ... ) ;)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:34 pm (UTC)And gentle sex, maybe later:) Too much going on right now, if they were that nice to each other, it would negate all the other stuff going on - like the wife, and the war, etc:)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:42 pm (UTC)Hmm, gentle sex later. Which reminds me, I have to go reply to something you wrote last week (I think it was ... )
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:35 pm (UTC)(I am!)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 07:05 pm (UTC)...and they're always supposed to talk, but don't. They're much better with nonverbal communication *g*
no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:09 am (UTC)You say potato...
Date: 2003-08-25 09:50 pm (UTC)What you are doing is setting the stage for stuff, and their having sex is a part of it. As you and well all have said, they have a really hard time talking to eachother. And this would get better over 16 cycles of separation? Think not. This sets up the background for the hard decisions that soon will come. They are not free to want and love, but for right now at this moment it is all that matters. Their need for each other is as strong and valid as it was 16 cycles earlier, but now with age and wisdom they are both going to have to make some really hard choices regarding that need.
it's wonderful thea, rough draft or not. I'm looking forward to John's perceptions, understanding, and decisions about what has happened. What you did was add some more spice to the stew and I am glad.
BTW you write sex very well. *bg*
Re: You say potato...
Date: 2003-08-26 11:06 am (UTC)I do think it has a point as well (as much as I enjoy writing the gratuitous sex, I wouldn't include it in this story if it didn't have a point - well, I guess that's a lie, I probably could have faded to black, but I think they do let a lot of other things speak for them and I've been awfully mean to these characters in the past few chapters, they deserved a little reward:) I also wanted to show their investment in each other and that draw they have towards each other.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 03:12 am (UTC)You just write their anger, their intensity so well.
Plus, this is hot. So much between them that they try to solve with sex.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:03 am (UTC)