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itsallovernowFirst, hope everyone has a safe and happy Thanksgiving. It's such a great idea for a holiday, coming together to give thanks for the good things in all of our lives. I'm thankful for a lot of things this year, for my friends, for the people that I've met through fandom and LJ (met both literally and virtually), for my niece, for the fact that my dad is here, that he made it through the year at all. So, I've a lot to be grateful for this year.
Secondly,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kernezelda wanted some new porn, so I wrote her a little. (I'm sure she would have liked getting her beta'd story back even better. It's coming along, no worries:) Season 2 (gonna call this #3 in the Trading Card Porn universe. Post-LATP. Also, gonna say that it might have a sequel.) Unbetad, and really undone. I had an idea, and wanted to see where it went.
Against the Grain
He can barely taste the fellip nectar, mouth still sticky sweet from that molasses kiss and he touches his lower lip surreptitiously, just to make sure, just to ground himself. Doesn’t want to explain why to D’Argo who’s sitting across from him, drinking something pungent and hot and looking very much like a man killing some time.
It’s been hours, arns, since Aeryn turned away from him, walked slowly out of the hanger, arns since he felt his whole body filled with the stinging heady sweetness of that kiss, and they’re heading into the night shift, leaving him reluctant to go to bed. D’s taking over for Rygel in Command soon, has about half an arn before he’s due, and John wonders why he’s not spending it wrapped up in Chiana, but doesn’t really want to ask.
“I, uh, John,” D’Argo’s fumbling for words, and John turns to him, surprised. “What’s up, big guy?”
D’Argo looks embarrassed, and John thinks that must mean they’re gonna have to talk about their feelings. Interrupt him while’s he’s gettin’ some, start off a conversation while he’s in the middle of going down on his girl, you get exasperated sighs, frantic waving. Talk about your feelings and you get big, old Luxan blushes.
John fights back the urge to hold his head in his hands, or better yet, crawl under the table, but D’Argo reigns in his embarrassment and looks straight at him. “I know, we know, that leaving your child behind was not an easy decision.” He swallows back the rest of his drink while John’s joy dissolves into a lump in his gut. “I’m sorry, John. It’s a terrible thing.”
Chi must have put him up to this. Although John doesn’t doubt the sincerity behind the words, D’s generally more of a thumping you on your back in sympathy kind of guy. Regardless, John really doesn’t want to talk about this. He knows D’Argo means well, knows that this issue is twisting the Luxan’s tentacles into knots, tied in so closely with his own loss, but John just doesn’t frelling want to think about it right now.
He had those seconds today, those microts that had stretched out into late evening when he had honey sweetness to buoy him, the scent of Aeryn’s hair and skin in his nostrils, the remembered tremble in her hands when she held up the vial- probably the hardest damned thing the woman’d ever done. He’d had those arns where nothing was trying to eat him alive, no one was trying to fuck with him, and maybe, just maybe he’d even had a decent shot at getting the girl, the one that he wanted.
And now he’s just been handed reality on a tarnished silver platter. The reality where something obscene whispers sweet nothings in his ear, where Aeryn kisses him but still turns away, where they’re running scared and futureless, and where he’s abandoned his child out of necessity, out of the complete and total frelling lack of a better option.
“Thanks, D.” he says, forcing his neutrality into his voice. “Means a lot.”
The complete empathy in D’Argo’s clear gaze hits him harder than the words and he stands up, deliberately trashing his bottle, keeping his motions calm and contained and steady. “Think I’ll hit the sack.”
“Goodnight, Crichton,” D’Argo answers, his deep, mellow voice following John out.
***
He can hear Chiana snoring lightly through the open grillwork of D’Argo’s quarters as he walks past and he resists the temptation to wake her up, rally her into lightening his mood. Girl needs her sleep, so he shakes his head and passes her by, still antsy, still needing a distraction. He considers going to Zhaan, but he doesn’t want to talk about his own feelings, and while he is mildly curious about what happened, Zhaan's closed expression had warned them all off as soon as they got back to Moya.
She’s been subdued ever since and he doesn’t have the energy to cajole her into talking. Maybe he doesn’t even have the energy to hear the truth. It’s been four days since they left the planet’s orbit, four days since he bailed on his responsibilities, and it feels so fucking unfair that he’d made a choice, played the hand he was dealt to the best of his abilities, and still came up the loser, still couldn’t fulfill his obligations to anyone.
He’ll never tell anyone how tempting the offer had been there at the last, right before the bone shattering pain of the freeze-drying. They carbonized Katralla and he thought, “Ok, when I wake up, I’m gonna have a wife, a family. There’ll be kids and responsibilities, and this is something I know, something I get.” So he sucked it up, laughed his ass off at D’Argo, and let them turn him into a pigeon perch. And that, ladies and gentleman, had been the easy part.
“It was a mistake, John,” says the voice, slithering like silk into his ear, and he whips around, pistol drawn, to find nothing more than Moya’s burnished walls. His heart races, palms sweating, and when his brain finally catches up, demands that there is nothing there even though he can still hear an echoey taunting, he holsters the pistol and slams his hand into the wall as hard as he can, the pain short-circuiting the whispers and the fear. He repeats the action, battering the wall until the whimpering sound he hears is coming from his own throat. Then he turns, leans against the warm curve of skinsteel, braces himself against his knees, head hung down and tries to regain his bearings.
“Commander?” Pilot’s voice is low and concerned. “Are you all right?”
John wants to laugh at that, but really, what is there to say? “Just havin’ myself a little freak out, Pilot.”
He stands up, straightens his back and takes a deep breath, eyes the little DRD at his feet with a raised eyebrow. It responds by gently battering his foot, and he feels himself smile. “Pilot," he asks, going for nonchalant. "Can you tell me where Aeryn is?”
***
Her motions are a little awkward, lacking her normal deadly grace and he can tell in the line of her shoulders and the aggression in her feints and kicks that it’s pissing her off. But that’s his girl. Breaks her leg, still expects to function on all cylinders. She may not cut him any slack, but she’s hardly easier on herself.
She hits the triangular dummy, rocking it back a little and then steps away, starts a series of kicks. The first one satisfies her, the feral grin testament to that, but the second -a quick roundhouse-doesn’t have enough power and she swears viciously, lashing out at the dummy.
He moves into her line of vision, at a loss for words. Her hair is back, loose tendrils sticking to her sweaty skin and he can see the outline of her breasts underneath the thin tank. He licks his lips, gets a split second taste of the sweetness, doesn’t care that it’s just from fellip nectar, and puts his hand on the practice dummy.
She backs away about a foot, looking a little nervous and brushes a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. She doesn’t have her gloves on and her knuckles are red, scuffed looking like old shoes. Her bottle of water is at the edge of the mat and he reaches down, trying not to drop his eyes, not wanting to let her out of his sight, and grabs the bottle, hands it to her.
She takes it, tilting her head back and drinking slowly, her lovely throat contracting and he steps closer, resting his arms on the top of the dummy, his chin on balanced on top and continues to stare at her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and he can see the nervousness fading, replaced with curiosity. She angles her head and raises one arched brow at him, a subtle question. He doesn’t want to talk. That’s about all he knows right now, and Aeryn is very, very good at not talking, and maybe he should have listened to her weekens ago, when they were snug in his module, battling raging hormones. He could have left her alone, could have tried to help her figure things out, but he was so damned tired of that back and forth dance where they stepped on each others toes far more frequently than they twirled and spun. Now, he wants that silence and if there’s a sense of joy, a sense of relief and something he’s sure she’s not yet ready to put a name to that comes along with the silence, well, he won’t say no to that either.
She takes another sip of the water, still watching him and he pushes away from the dummy. He feels loose now, a little like he’s been holding his breath too long, had a hit off a joint or slugged down a shot of vodka. He gets that feeling around her sometimes and decides to revel in it. He circles around her, stepping up close behind and takes the bottle of water out of her hand, clicks the cap and drops it to the ground where it rolls away from their feet. She’s smaller than he is, shorter in bare feet and he could wrap her up in his arms, hold on tightly, not let go until he’s convinced her that this is what she wants.
He’s tempted, but instead he puts his hands on her hips, nuzzles her hairline, breathing in the scent of sweat and sweetness and skin. He’s close enough that he can feel her lashes flutter against his cheek as she closes her eyes. He moves his mouth, suckling lightly on her earlobe, before brushing his lips over the side of her neck and sliding his hands around to rest on her bare waist. He can feel the tremble of want in her belly, in her throat and he pulls her back towards him, aligning their hips tightly, and scraping his teeth against the join of her neck before biting down and sucking the skin against his tongue.
She moans, a sharp, quick sound and he tightens his grip as her smaller hand covers his, lacing through his fingers. He strokes her skin with feathery touches, sliding up under her shirt and brushing over her breasts with one hand as their laced hands remain still. They’re breathing in time, hitched sighs and rhythmic gasps and she’s so incredibly soft, skin silky and fine, and he’s growing impossibly hard pressed up against her ass.
He palms her breast, thumb rubbing the nipple and she presses her head against his, pushing against the pleasure, and then she guides his other hand down her belly inside her waistband until he’s holding her sex in his hand. Her fingers are cool against his and her sex is wet, and he’s in serious danger of losing it right here, but she ratchets it up, not letting go of him, instead guiding his fingers inside of her, their combined thrusts pulling a deep groan from her throat.
He’s been with her enough times to know what she likes, the quick, hard motions of his hand, deep and forceful, widening her, verging on the edge of pain, all senses on go, and then easing back, stroking her clit, variance in rhythm and pressure and doing this while she guides him, shows him exactly how to bring her off is one of the most erotic things he’s ever done. The fact that the doors aren’t locked, the lights are on, that they’re standing in the middle of her makeshift workout room bringing her off is making him harder than ever.
They move together, his other hand releasing her breast, wrapping around her waist and digging into her flesh as he gives her leverage, and as her body tightens around their hands and her throat closes, he feels the climax shudder through her, shudder through them both, and he wonders briefly if he’s come in his pants like a horny teenager, before he feels her breath hitch again, in pain this time and her weight drops, her bad leg giving out and they drop to the ground in a tangle of limbs and dampness and sex.
He rolls off her, sitting back on his knees as she lays on her back, staring at the ceiling and gripping her thigh. “Frell,” she growls. And it makes him laugh. It shouldn’t have, he knows she’s in pain, but it’s just so typical of their luck. His cock’s still rock hard, and they’ve managed to end this in near disaster. But he reaches out towards her, even as she glares at him. “Well, yeah,” he says, feeling the laughter burbling up in his throat as he brushes her hands away from her leg, and gently rubs her thigh, trying to ease the pain a little. She drops her hands away, resting them over her head and watches him. “Got any of that linament from Zhaan,” he asks. “In my quarters,” she says, after a heartbeat.
They do make it to her quarters, after a brief fight about him wanting to carry her. She limps down the hallway, while he trails along behind her, itching to just pick her, sling her over his shoulder and smack her on the ass for being so goddamned stubborn. But then they’re in front of her quarters, and the grill doors swing back, and then down behind them. She moves the privacy curtain into place and looks at him, pain evident in the tightness of her mouth and lines of her eyes. He touches her cheek, fingers light on the bone and then gives her a little nudge towards the bed.
She sits down and watches him as he takes of his belt and gun, strips off his boots and sheds his pants, never saying a word, not asking him what he’s doing, just leans back on her elbows and watches him. It’s still a contest, he thinks, and as she sinks further back into the narrow bed, he slowly peels off his t-shirt, and drops it on the floor, catching her with her bottom lip between her teeth and a very predatory gleam in her eye.
He’s wearing his briefs and nothing else, standing in her quarters and he’s gotta just bluff his way through this before one of them freaks out. He sees the linament on the table by the bed and he grabs it and then bends down, catching her by the ankle and tilting her onto her back as he tugs off her loose exercise pants. Her legs are long and slim, pale, and the red scarring where they did the reconstruction is starting to fade.
He pours a little of the liniment into his hands, rubbing them together to heat the liquid, and then kneels down beside the bed, putting his hands on her thigh. He can smell the evidence of their earlier activities, the scent musky and warm and he grins as he touches her gently, working the concoction into the redden ed skin, careful of the delicately healed bone underneath. He doesn’t lecture her about pushing herself, just continues the ministrations.
She lays back, closes her eyes as he does this, letting him help her, letting him do this for her, and when he’s done, when he’s touching her merely for the feeling of her skin against his, when he can’t sustain the excuse any longer, he sits back on his heels, and then leans forward, brushing his lips over her belly, kissing her gently and then slipping his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, and tugging down the fabric to skim his lips over the skin above her pubic hair. His tongue darts out, tasting her, salty and sweet, and she shivers, touches his head, hand resting gently on his neck, fingers slowly stroking. Her breathing is steady, and he moves away from her sex, resting his head on her belly, grateful for her breath, for the heartbeat he can feel pulse against his cheek as her blood beats in her veins.
Secondly,
kernezelda wanted some new porn, so I wrote her a little. (I'm sure she would have liked getting her beta'd story back even better. It's coming along, no worries:) Season 2 (gonna call this #3 in the Trading Card Porn universe. Post-LATP. Also, gonna say that it might have a sequel.) Unbetad, and really undone. I had an idea, and wanted to see where it went. Against the Grain
He can barely taste the fellip nectar, mouth still sticky sweet from that molasses kiss and he touches his lower lip surreptitiously, just to make sure, just to ground himself. Doesn’t want to explain why to D’Argo who’s sitting across from him, drinking something pungent and hot and looking very much like a man killing some time.
It’s been hours, arns, since Aeryn turned away from him, walked slowly out of the hanger, arns since he felt his whole body filled with the stinging heady sweetness of that kiss, and they’re heading into the night shift, leaving him reluctant to go to bed. D’s taking over for Rygel in Command soon, has about half an arn before he’s due, and John wonders why he’s not spending it wrapped up in Chiana, but doesn’t really want to ask.
“I, uh, John,” D’Argo’s fumbling for words, and John turns to him, surprised. “What’s up, big guy?”
D’Argo looks embarrassed, and John thinks that must mean they’re gonna have to talk about their feelings. Interrupt him while’s he’s gettin’ some, start off a conversation while he’s in the middle of going down on his girl, you get exasperated sighs, frantic waving. Talk about your feelings and you get big, old Luxan blushes.
John fights back the urge to hold his head in his hands, or better yet, crawl under the table, but D’Argo reigns in his embarrassment and looks straight at him. “I know, we know, that leaving your child behind was not an easy decision.” He swallows back the rest of his drink while John’s joy dissolves into a lump in his gut. “I’m sorry, John. It’s a terrible thing.”
Chi must have put him up to this. Although John doesn’t doubt the sincerity behind the words, D’s generally more of a thumping you on your back in sympathy kind of guy. Regardless, John really doesn’t want to talk about this. He knows D’Argo means well, knows that this issue is twisting the Luxan’s tentacles into knots, tied in so closely with his own loss, but John just doesn’t frelling want to think about it right now.
He had those seconds today, those microts that had stretched out into late evening when he had honey sweetness to buoy him, the scent of Aeryn’s hair and skin in his nostrils, the remembered tremble in her hands when she held up the vial- probably the hardest damned thing the woman’d ever done. He’d had those arns where nothing was trying to eat him alive, no one was trying to fuck with him, and maybe, just maybe he’d even had a decent shot at getting the girl, the one that he wanted.
And now he’s just been handed reality on a tarnished silver platter. The reality where something obscene whispers sweet nothings in his ear, where Aeryn kisses him but still turns away, where they’re running scared and futureless, and where he’s abandoned his child out of necessity, out of the complete and total frelling lack of a better option.
“Thanks, D.” he says, forcing his neutrality into his voice. “Means a lot.”
The complete empathy in D’Argo’s clear gaze hits him harder than the words and he stands up, deliberately trashing his bottle, keeping his motions calm and contained and steady. “Think I’ll hit the sack.”
“Goodnight, Crichton,” D’Argo answers, his deep, mellow voice following John out.
***
He can hear Chiana snoring lightly through the open grillwork of D’Argo’s quarters as he walks past and he resists the temptation to wake her up, rally her into lightening his mood. Girl needs her sleep, so he shakes his head and passes her by, still antsy, still needing a distraction. He considers going to Zhaan, but he doesn’t want to talk about his own feelings, and while he is mildly curious about what happened, Zhaan's closed expression had warned them all off as soon as they got back to Moya.
She’s been subdued ever since and he doesn’t have the energy to cajole her into talking. Maybe he doesn’t even have the energy to hear the truth. It’s been four days since they left the planet’s orbit, four days since he bailed on his responsibilities, and it feels so fucking unfair that he’d made a choice, played the hand he was dealt to the best of his abilities, and still came up the loser, still couldn’t fulfill his obligations to anyone.
He’ll never tell anyone how tempting the offer had been there at the last, right before the bone shattering pain of the freeze-drying. They carbonized Katralla and he thought, “Ok, when I wake up, I’m gonna have a wife, a family. There’ll be kids and responsibilities, and this is something I know, something I get.” So he sucked it up, laughed his ass off at D’Argo, and let them turn him into a pigeon perch. And that, ladies and gentleman, had been the easy part.
“It was a mistake, John,” says the voice, slithering like silk into his ear, and he whips around, pistol drawn, to find nothing more than Moya’s burnished walls. His heart races, palms sweating, and when his brain finally catches up, demands that there is nothing there even though he can still hear an echoey taunting, he holsters the pistol and slams his hand into the wall as hard as he can, the pain short-circuiting the whispers and the fear. He repeats the action, battering the wall until the whimpering sound he hears is coming from his own throat. Then he turns, leans against the warm curve of skinsteel, braces himself against his knees, head hung down and tries to regain his bearings.
“Commander?” Pilot’s voice is low and concerned. “Are you all right?”
John wants to laugh at that, but really, what is there to say? “Just havin’ myself a little freak out, Pilot.”
He stands up, straightens his back and takes a deep breath, eyes the little DRD at his feet with a raised eyebrow. It responds by gently battering his foot, and he feels himself smile. “Pilot," he asks, going for nonchalant. "Can you tell me where Aeryn is?”
***
Her motions are a little awkward, lacking her normal deadly grace and he can tell in the line of her shoulders and the aggression in her feints and kicks that it’s pissing her off. But that’s his girl. Breaks her leg, still expects to function on all cylinders. She may not cut him any slack, but she’s hardly easier on herself.
She hits the triangular dummy, rocking it back a little and then steps away, starts a series of kicks. The first one satisfies her, the feral grin testament to that, but the second -a quick roundhouse-doesn’t have enough power and she swears viciously, lashing out at the dummy.
He moves into her line of vision, at a loss for words. Her hair is back, loose tendrils sticking to her sweaty skin and he can see the outline of her breasts underneath the thin tank. He licks his lips, gets a split second taste of the sweetness, doesn’t care that it’s just from fellip nectar, and puts his hand on the practice dummy.
She backs away about a foot, looking a little nervous and brushes a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. She doesn’t have her gloves on and her knuckles are red, scuffed looking like old shoes. Her bottle of water is at the edge of the mat and he reaches down, trying not to drop his eyes, not wanting to let her out of his sight, and grabs the bottle, hands it to her.
She takes it, tilting her head back and drinking slowly, her lovely throat contracting and he steps closer, resting his arms on the top of the dummy, his chin on balanced on top and continues to stare at her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and he can see the nervousness fading, replaced with curiosity. She angles her head and raises one arched brow at him, a subtle question. He doesn’t want to talk. That’s about all he knows right now, and Aeryn is very, very good at not talking, and maybe he should have listened to her weekens ago, when they were snug in his module, battling raging hormones. He could have left her alone, could have tried to help her figure things out, but he was so damned tired of that back and forth dance where they stepped on each others toes far more frequently than they twirled and spun. Now, he wants that silence and if there’s a sense of joy, a sense of relief and something he’s sure she’s not yet ready to put a name to that comes along with the silence, well, he won’t say no to that either.
She takes another sip of the water, still watching him and he pushes away from the dummy. He feels loose now, a little like he’s been holding his breath too long, had a hit off a joint or slugged down a shot of vodka. He gets that feeling around her sometimes and decides to revel in it. He circles around her, stepping up close behind and takes the bottle of water out of her hand, clicks the cap and drops it to the ground where it rolls away from their feet. She’s smaller than he is, shorter in bare feet and he could wrap her up in his arms, hold on tightly, not let go until he’s convinced her that this is what she wants.
He’s tempted, but instead he puts his hands on her hips, nuzzles her hairline, breathing in the scent of sweat and sweetness and skin. He’s close enough that he can feel her lashes flutter against his cheek as she closes her eyes. He moves his mouth, suckling lightly on her earlobe, before brushing his lips over the side of her neck and sliding his hands around to rest on her bare waist. He can feel the tremble of want in her belly, in her throat and he pulls her back towards him, aligning their hips tightly, and scraping his teeth against the join of her neck before biting down and sucking the skin against his tongue.
She moans, a sharp, quick sound and he tightens his grip as her smaller hand covers his, lacing through his fingers. He strokes her skin with feathery touches, sliding up under her shirt and brushing over her breasts with one hand as their laced hands remain still. They’re breathing in time, hitched sighs and rhythmic gasps and she’s so incredibly soft, skin silky and fine, and he’s growing impossibly hard pressed up against her ass.
He palms her breast, thumb rubbing the nipple and she presses her head against his, pushing against the pleasure, and then she guides his other hand down her belly inside her waistband until he’s holding her sex in his hand. Her fingers are cool against his and her sex is wet, and he’s in serious danger of losing it right here, but she ratchets it up, not letting go of him, instead guiding his fingers inside of her, their combined thrusts pulling a deep groan from her throat.
He’s been with her enough times to know what she likes, the quick, hard motions of his hand, deep and forceful, widening her, verging on the edge of pain, all senses on go, and then easing back, stroking her clit, variance in rhythm and pressure and doing this while she guides him, shows him exactly how to bring her off is one of the most erotic things he’s ever done. The fact that the doors aren’t locked, the lights are on, that they’re standing in the middle of her makeshift workout room bringing her off is making him harder than ever.
They move together, his other hand releasing her breast, wrapping around her waist and digging into her flesh as he gives her leverage, and as her body tightens around their hands and her throat closes, he feels the climax shudder through her, shudder through them both, and he wonders briefly if he’s come in his pants like a horny teenager, before he feels her breath hitch again, in pain this time and her weight drops, her bad leg giving out and they drop to the ground in a tangle of limbs and dampness and sex.
He rolls off her, sitting back on his knees as she lays on her back, staring at the ceiling and gripping her thigh. “Frell,” she growls. And it makes him laugh. It shouldn’t have, he knows she’s in pain, but it’s just so typical of their luck. His cock’s still rock hard, and they’ve managed to end this in near disaster. But he reaches out towards her, even as she glares at him. “Well, yeah,” he says, feeling the laughter burbling up in his throat as he brushes her hands away from her leg, and gently rubs her thigh, trying to ease the pain a little. She drops her hands away, resting them over her head and watches him. “Got any of that linament from Zhaan,” he asks. “In my quarters,” she says, after a heartbeat.
They do make it to her quarters, after a brief fight about him wanting to carry her. She limps down the hallway, while he trails along behind her, itching to just pick her, sling her over his shoulder and smack her on the ass for being so goddamned stubborn. But then they’re in front of her quarters, and the grill doors swing back, and then down behind them. She moves the privacy curtain into place and looks at him, pain evident in the tightness of her mouth and lines of her eyes. He touches her cheek, fingers light on the bone and then gives her a little nudge towards the bed.
She sits down and watches him as he takes of his belt and gun, strips off his boots and sheds his pants, never saying a word, not asking him what he’s doing, just leans back on her elbows and watches him. It’s still a contest, he thinks, and as she sinks further back into the narrow bed, he slowly peels off his t-shirt, and drops it on the floor, catching her with her bottom lip between her teeth and a very predatory gleam in her eye.
He’s wearing his briefs and nothing else, standing in her quarters and he’s gotta just bluff his way through this before one of them freaks out. He sees the linament on the table by the bed and he grabs it and then bends down, catching her by the ankle and tilting her onto her back as he tugs off her loose exercise pants. Her legs are long and slim, pale, and the red scarring where they did the reconstruction is starting to fade.
He pours a little of the liniment into his hands, rubbing them together to heat the liquid, and then kneels down beside the bed, putting his hands on her thigh. He can smell the evidence of their earlier activities, the scent musky and warm and he grins as he touches her gently, working the concoction into the redden ed skin, careful of the delicately healed bone underneath. He doesn’t lecture her about pushing herself, just continues the ministrations.
She lays back, closes her eyes as he does this, letting him help her, letting him do this for her, and when he’s done, when he’s touching her merely for the feeling of her skin against his, when he can’t sustain the excuse any longer, he sits back on his heels, and then leans forward, brushing his lips over her belly, kissing her gently and then slipping his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, and tugging down the fabric to skim his lips over the skin above her pubic hair. His tongue darts out, tasting her, salty and sweet, and she shivers, touches his head, hand resting gently on his neck, fingers slowly stroking. Her breathing is steady, and he moves away from her sex, resting his head on her belly, grateful for her breath, for the heartbeat he can feel pulse against his cheek as her blood beats in her veins.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-11-25 05:30 pm (UTC)The mix of mundane and erotic is so well balanced, red knuckles and sweet skin, sweet fellip and salty sweat.
Whoa!
Thank you, thank you.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-25 06:08 pm (UTC)Ooooooo! I like where your ideas go...an easy wander with lots of intensity, balancing the two steps forward, one step back of the relationship - and just so, so vivid.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-25 06:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-25 07:21 pm (UTC)D’Argo looks embarrassed, and John thinks that must mean they’re gonna have to talk about their feelings. Interrupt him while’s he’s gettin’ some, start off a conversation while he’s in the middle of going down on his girl, you get exasperated sighs, frantic waving. Talk about your feelings and you get big, old Luxan blushes.
Absolutely love this description of D'Argo.
I really like the whole tone of this. You definitely have a way of making my heart simply ache for John. And I just love it.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-25 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 05:33 am (UTC)But, you left it hanging, literally! Poor John needs some relief!
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 06:04 am (UTC)I'll have to comment more in depth later because now all I've got is this:
8 ) 8 ) 8 )
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-26 08:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-27 12:12 pm (UTC)Loved it!
Hugs!
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 10:27 am (UTC)