Weekendy things, and porn
Dec. 8th, 2003 03:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowDanced and rehearsed and went to San Diego to see S. on Saturday night because her work sent her there on a conference. Much giggling ensued and we fell asleep to Dirty Dancing on USA, two grownups, so reliving our youth of slumber parties and appreciation of Patrick Swaze's ass. This was made even funnier by acting like giddy teenagers with cheap wine from Rite Aid in the chichi Sheraton Suites hotel in downtown San Diego, paid for by her company.
I listened to Hard Eight on the way down and back. I know lots of people who adore the Stephanie Plum books, and I'm enjoying it, but I think I'd find them funnier if I was reading and not listening. I don't think I'd hear the voices the same way in my head.
Watched Alias last night. I think this was my favorite ep so far this year. Will just brought all sorts of life and light to the screen, and he's never really made much of an impression on me before. He was just so buoyant and enthusiastic and so damned cute with the lack of hair and the Eurotrash wear. He made me like Sydney again, or at least have some empathy for her. I loved all of the scenes between them, and have to admit, I'm just a sucker for an overly enthusiastic boy needing to be rescued by a kick ass girl. And Sydney, for all of her faults, really kicks some excellent ass. And of course, there was Jack punching Lindsey and warning off Vaughn. Jack, Jack, Jack. You're so itching for trouble. Saw the double cross coming a mile away, and Sloane just gets more delightfully creepy every ep.
I don't nitpick a lot (aside from the crying) because it would just unravel the whole thing to do so, but are they the world's worst spies to discuss things in front of a doctor recommended by Sloane?
Loved the Sydney/Will, loved the way that ended, just them and smiles. So, thoroughly enjoyed it.
To everyone who responded to last week's![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
farscapefriday drabble, thank you so much. You guys bowled me over completely with your enthusiasm. I was totally overwhelmed at the response. It meant so much to me!
I'm also reposting Part 1 of Against the Grain (the Season 2 smut from before Thanksgiving) as well as Part 2, but in seperate sections so one doesn't have to re-read the first section. Part 2 is almost entirely smut, since there was some question of John getting a turn. They're both beta free, which accounts for some of the wordiness. But one of my betas is writing me smut and I don't want to interrupt the creative process:)
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 reins 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 post. 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 reddened 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.
Part 2
His hair is soft against her skin and he tilts his head, closing his eyes as he rests against her. He looks like he’s listening, even with his eyes closed, focus complete and total, and she wonders what he’s listening to. The pain in her leg is better. The minty scent of the linament is heavy in the air, her skin warmed and muscles soothed. She’s tired. She pushed too hard this evening, trying to drive herself back into top form, a punishment for the self-indulgence of that meltingly sweet kiss earlier in the day.
She had no business offering something like that to Crichton, allowing that question to be answered for either of them. She had seen his face, the softness in his mouth when he looked at that child, held it in his arms, the Princess standing near, watching over the conjoining of their genes. He had looked awed, completely and thoroughly bowled over by the small creature in his arms, and she had no business offering him anything resembling that opportunity. Peacekeepers do not breed out of love and choice, but out of duty or default, half remembered dreams of her childhood to the contrary. In that, she is no different. They do not mate. They do not join together in love, or feel this fierce possesivness for another soldier. They do not have regrets over lost opportunity or embarrassment over deluding oneself and abandoning a comrade in the name of finding better solutions.
Guilt is a brand new emotion, and one she has little time for, so she swallows it back, twists it into something palatably and oddly tasting of understanding.
She brushes her fingertips along John’s neck, running the back of her hand over his cheek, a gesture he had used with her before, softening her, gentling her with his patience. She palms his face, stroking his cheekbone, feeling a little of that same earlier observed awe.
Such a strange creature. No longer helpless, but now steady, quick, intent and absurd and lovely and so nearly gone from her. She pushes that thought down allowing it to join with the dissipating guilt, and rolls to her side, curling around him more tightly. He opens his eyes at the movement, and the brightness of his irises shocks her into stillness, that focus entirely on her, clear and intent.
“How do you feel?” It’s a legitimate question, but she knows it’s an excuse, an answer to his need to break the silence in the room.
She makes a noncommittal noise. She can felt her heartbeat speed up as the feel of his cheek against her stomach, the brush of hair against her skin, sensitizes her.
“Tired?”
Another purposeless question, and she shakes her head in forced denial. She is tired, weary even, but she can ignore that. She licks her bottom lip, anticipating and gets a slow smile in return. He reaches up, slowly brushing his hand over her hair, sliding down to trace her collarbone. Her quarters are cool, and his nipples stand at attention. She doesn’t fight the urge to touch them, skimming the sensitive flesh with her fingers. He shivers in response, smiles wider and then grimaces.
“Gettin’ too old to be on my knees for this long,” he says, shifting his position, and then leers at her. She snorts and sits up as he kneels in front of her, his torso bracketed by her long legs, her toes resting on the cool floor. He puts his hand on the tops of her bare thighs, drawing light circles with his thumbs and she swallows heavily, scoots towards him. She wants to feel him against her, to revel in his body as he seems to do in hers, so she brings her legs towards his torso, the smooth skin of his chest against the inside of her knees warming her.
He leans forward, lips against her collarbone, nuzzling, nipping, and she feels her sex begin to throb. It feels good, his care, his touch, but it’s not enough. She’s been edgy and uneasy for days, so close to losing him, and she needs confirmation of his presence, of his intention. More than anything at this moment though, she also wants him inside her, she wants the force, the physicality of frelling him, not this sweet, slow torture of looks and whisper light touches.
He slips his fingers under the strap of her shirt, tugging it down, exposing her breast and following the motion of the fabric with his mouth, wet and slick. He licks the skin, teasing her nipple with the point of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth,sudden suction, hot and sweet and she gasps, arches into the feeling, tightening her legs around him. He holds her around the waist, skin to skin, under the shirt, which is foolishly in the way at this point, trying to press as close as he can, taste as much of her as he’s able. She reaches between their bodies, the positioning awkward, but she needs to feel him, touch his cock, evidence that he wants her, and he twitches against her fingers, moans into her skin as she cups him as best she can, the hardness reassuring.
At her touch, he sucks harder, the weight of his body deliberately pushing her down towards the bed, but she pushes back, forces him to stay upright, brings her center into contact with his chest. He pulls back to look at her, raises an eyebrow. His hands are still clutching her waist, dancing over the top of her ass and her brain is very close to cutting off all reason. She wants to sink down onto him, frell him here, on the floor, on his knees, but her muscles can’t take that and she looks quickly around the room and tilts her chin at the chair sitting by the room’s small table. He eyes it dubiously, but pushes back from the bed, standing up with a wince of pain and offering her his hand.
He’s following her lead. Uncertainly, but completely. Letting her set the pace, the tone, the location. It isn’t a giving in, she doesn’t think, but a caution, a different sort of willingness. This encounter is less rushed than the others have been, more space between, more contemplation and less talking and as he runs his hands under her shirt, pulls it off of her and rubs his thumbs over the underside of her breasts, she smiles for him, because he’s here, because she can.
She sheds her underwear, stands in front of him naked, ready and he looks down at her, eyes still so frelling intent. She feels like she’s coming out of her skin, would climb up his body if she could and he’s still so oddly calm, so serious. She rests her fingertips on his chest, stroking gently, and he closes his eyes, not anticipating her shove towards the chair. He stumbles, looks at her surprised and she shoves him again, but he catches her wrists this time, yanks her towards him so that their hips, their torsos smack together with the sound of bare flesh. He’s so hard that it makes her jittery. She rolls her hips, thrusting against his cock, and he groans and laughs then, lets her wrists go, lets her push down his briefs, leaving their bodies without anything between them, sleek and solid and warm, the hair on his chest making her skin tingle.
She shoves him again, lightly this time, with care, and he anticipates it, uses the motion to sit him down on the chair and tugs her after him until she’s on his lap, straddling his body, hard cock against her wet sex. He looks at her, his fingers on her hips, shaky with the effort to stay in control. She breathes deeply for the first time since that kiss, slides forward, hand wrapped around him, and sinks down over him, slowly, thoroughly, until they both gasp with the richness of it, the fullness, the overwhelming intensity of the sensation.
Her hands are on his shoulders, his fingers digging into her hips as they rock together, the motions starting out slow, rhythmic, and growing harder and faster as her body begs for more, as he answers her. He is thick inside her, heavy and it is so much, too much, holding onto him tightly, muscles clenched, hips slamming together, bruising from hands and mouths. Their bodies are slick with sweat and her nails dig into his shoulders as the climax builds. She cants down forcefully and he lets go of her hip, threading his fingers through the bound tail of her hair, gripping, and pulls her head down sharply, biting at her exposed throat, at the join of her neck and shoulder as the rhythm gets faster, harder, sloppier, out of control. She shudders around him, crying out hoarsely at the pleasure of it, tenses with a gasp and then rides out the heady sensation of orgasm. He clutches her tightly, hips slamming up against her and comes, sending short muffled cries against her skin and holding onto her so tightly, their sexes grinding together, that she comes again, twitchy and shuddery against his cock and she jerks her head out of his grip. She sinks forward onto him as they both relax, boneless and spent, breathing together. In and out, heartbeats easing back to normal, sweat cooling, his strong hands moving up and down her back in sweeping motion, his head tucked into her shoulder, resting, breathing.
Her leg is starting to cramp up again, and she pushes away from him reluctantly, swinging her leg over the chair, the semen drying on her thighs, sweat drying on the rest of her body. She is more than tired now, spent and relieved and wants nothing more than a shower, sleep. She stands over him and he looks up at her and she wishes she had something to say, but silence just works so much better these days.
He stands up slowly and curls his hand behind her neck, moving searchingly and inevitably towards her mouth. His lips are soft, cool against hers, tongue sweet and rough sliding against her teeth, stroking over her tongue. His eyes are closed, face relaxed, whole body consumed by the act of this kiss, slow and gentle and thorough and she watches him as best she can as her mouth moves against his. He withdraws as easily as he had advanced, his eyes lidded heavily, lax body ready for sleep.
“I want to shower,” she says quietly, and he nods as she turns away.
The water is soothing, cool and clean and she strokes the soap over her skin, rinsing away the sweat and the sex, easing her muscles, easing her body, giving herself some space. She dries herself, rings out her heavy hair, pulls on clean underthings.
The lights are dim in the room, and John is sprawled on her bed, snoring softly. She contemplates kicking him out, and then sighs, not having the energy for the controlled hurt on his face, the nod of understanding. Sex is one thing, sleep another, and they’ve been commingling these things off and on over the cycle. They’ve yet to come to a conclusion, but seeing as their opportunity for resolution was very near eliminated by their ever increasing miserably bad luck, she decides to just push him over and crawl in next to him.
It's too many bodies squeezed into too little space, awkward, not terribly comfortable, but he sighs and shifts, makes room, curls around her, snug to her back and the fit is better. She closes her eyes. Drifts off.
ETA: I'm now signing our office Christmas cards. Um, what do I want for Christmas? A shorter frelling name. I think one out of the 50 got all of the letters legible.
And yeah for the return of Farscape on Sunday nights. Even if it was Coup By Clam, which I have to admit makes me giggle like a four year old, but it's pretty silly. However, that means next week is Unrealized Reality. All you newbies, hang onto your seats:)
I listened to Hard Eight on the way down and back. I know lots of people who adore the Stephanie Plum books, and I'm enjoying it, but I think I'd find them funnier if I was reading and not listening. I don't think I'd hear the voices the same way in my head.
Watched Alias last night. I think this was my favorite ep so far this year. Will just brought all sorts of life and light to the screen, and he's never really made much of an impression on me before. He was just so buoyant and enthusiastic and so damned cute with the lack of hair and the Eurotrash wear. He made me like Sydney again, or at least have some empathy for her. I loved all of the scenes between them, and have to admit, I'm just a sucker for an overly enthusiastic boy needing to be rescued by a kick ass girl. And Sydney, for all of her faults, really kicks some excellent ass. And of course, there was Jack punching Lindsey and warning off Vaughn. Jack, Jack, Jack. You're so itching for trouble. Saw the double cross coming a mile away, and Sloane just gets more delightfully creepy every ep.
I don't nitpick a lot (aside from the crying) because it would just unravel the whole thing to do so, but are they the world's worst spies to discuss things in front of a doctor recommended by Sloane?
Loved the Sydney/Will, loved the way that ended, just them and smiles. So, thoroughly enjoyed it.
To everyone who responded to last week's
farscapefriday drabble, thank you so much. You guys bowled me over completely with your enthusiasm. I was totally overwhelmed at the response. It meant so much to me!I'm also reposting Part 1 of Against the Grain (the Season 2 smut from before Thanksgiving) as well as Part 2, but in seperate sections so one doesn't have to re-read the first section. Part 2 is almost entirely smut, since there was some question of John getting a turn. They're both beta free, which accounts for some of the wordiness. But one of my betas is writing me smut and I don't want to interrupt the creative process:)
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 reins 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 post. 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 reddened 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.
Part 2
His hair is soft against her skin and he tilts his head, closing his eyes as he rests against her. He looks like he’s listening, even with his eyes closed, focus complete and total, and she wonders what he’s listening to. The pain in her leg is better. The minty scent of the linament is heavy in the air, her skin warmed and muscles soothed. She’s tired. She pushed too hard this evening, trying to drive herself back into top form, a punishment for the self-indulgence of that meltingly sweet kiss earlier in the day.
She had no business offering something like that to Crichton, allowing that question to be answered for either of them. She had seen his face, the softness in his mouth when he looked at that child, held it in his arms, the Princess standing near, watching over the conjoining of their genes. He had looked awed, completely and thoroughly bowled over by the small creature in his arms, and she had no business offering him anything resembling that opportunity. Peacekeepers do not breed out of love and choice, but out of duty or default, half remembered dreams of her childhood to the contrary. In that, she is no different. They do not mate. They do not join together in love, or feel this fierce possesivness for another soldier. They do not have regrets over lost opportunity or embarrassment over deluding oneself and abandoning a comrade in the name of finding better solutions.
Guilt is a brand new emotion, and one she has little time for, so she swallows it back, twists it into something palatably and oddly tasting of understanding.
She brushes her fingertips along John’s neck, running the back of her hand over his cheek, a gesture he had used with her before, softening her, gentling her with his patience. She palms his face, stroking his cheekbone, feeling a little of that same earlier observed awe.
Such a strange creature. No longer helpless, but now steady, quick, intent and absurd and lovely and so nearly gone from her. She pushes that thought down allowing it to join with the dissipating guilt, and rolls to her side, curling around him more tightly. He opens his eyes at the movement, and the brightness of his irises shocks her into stillness, that focus entirely on her, clear and intent.
“How do you feel?” It’s a legitimate question, but she knows it’s an excuse, an answer to his need to break the silence in the room.
She makes a noncommittal noise. She can felt her heartbeat speed up as the feel of his cheek against her stomach, the brush of hair against her skin, sensitizes her.
“Tired?”
Another purposeless question, and she shakes her head in forced denial. She is tired, weary even, but she can ignore that. She licks her bottom lip, anticipating and gets a slow smile in return. He reaches up, slowly brushing his hand over her hair, sliding down to trace her collarbone. Her quarters are cool, and his nipples stand at attention. She doesn’t fight the urge to touch them, skimming the sensitive flesh with her fingers. He shivers in response, smiles wider and then grimaces.
“Gettin’ too old to be on my knees for this long,” he says, shifting his position, and then leers at her. She snorts and sits up as he kneels in front of her, his torso bracketed by her long legs, her toes resting on the cool floor. He puts his hand on the tops of her bare thighs, drawing light circles with his thumbs and she swallows heavily, scoots towards him. She wants to feel him against her, to revel in his body as he seems to do in hers, so she brings her legs towards his torso, the smooth skin of his chest against the inside of her knees warming her.
He leans forward, lips against her collarbone, nuzzling, nipping, and she feels her sex begin to throb. It feels good, his care, his touch, but it’s not enough. She’s been edgy and uneasy for days, so close to losing him, and she needs confirmation of his presence, of his intention. More than anything at this moment though, she also wants him inside her, she wants the force, the physicality of frelling him, not this sweet, slow torture of looks and whisper light touches.
He slips his fingers under the strap of her shirt, tugging it down, exposing her breast and following the motion of the fabric with his mouth, wet and slick. He licks the skin, teasing her nipple with the point of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth,sudden suction, hot and sweet and she gasps, arches into the feeling, tightening her legs around him. He holds her around the waist, skin to skin, under the shirt, which is foolishly in the way at this point, trying to press as close as he can, taste as much of her as he’s able. She reaches between their bodies, the positioning awkward, but she needs to feel him, touch his cock, evidence that he wants her, and he twitches against her fingers, moans into her skin as she cups him as best she can, the hardness reassuring.
At her touch, he sucks harder, the weight of his body deliberately pushing her down towards the bed, but she pushes back, forces him to stay upright, brings her center into contact with his chest. He pulls back to look at her, raises an eyebrow. His hands are still clutching her waist, dancing over the top of her ass and her brain is very close to cutting off all reason. She wants to sink down onto him, frell him here, on the floor, on his knees, but her muscles can’t take that and she looks quickly around the room and tilts her chin at the chair sitting by the room’s small table. He eyes it dubiously, but pushes back from the bed, standing up with a wince of pain and offering her his hand.
He’s following her lead. Uncertainly, but completely. Letting her set the pace, the tone, the location. It isn’t a giving in, she doesn’t think, but a caution, a different sort of willingness. This encounter is less rushed than the others have been, more space between, more contemplation and less talking and as he runs his hands under her shirt, pulls it off of her and rubs his thumbs over the underside of her breasts, she smiles for him, because he’s here, because she can.
She sheds her underwear, stands in front of him naked, ready and he looks down at her, eyes still so frelling intent. She feels like she’s coming out of her skin, would climb up his body if she could and he’s still so oddly calm, so serious. She rests her fingertips on his chest, stroking gently, and he closes his eyes, not anticipating her shove towards the chair. He stumbles, looks at her surprised and she shoves him again, but he catches her wrists this time, yanks her towards him so that their hips, their torsos smack together with the sound of bare flesh. He’s so hard that it makes her jittery. She rolls her hips, thrusting against his cock, and he groans and laughs then, lets her wrists go, lets her push down his briefs, leaving their bodies without anything between them, sleek and solid and warm, the hair on his chest making her skin tingle.
She shoves him again, lightly this time, with care, and he anticipates it, uses the motion to sit him down on the chair and tugs her after him until she’s on his lap, straddling his body, hard cock against her wet sex. He looks at her, his fingers on her hips, shaky with the effort to stay in control. She breathes deeply for the first time since that kiss, slides forward, hand wrapped around him, and sinks down over him, slowly, thoroughly, until they both gasp with the richness of it, the fullness, the overwhelming intensity of the sensation.
Her hands are on his shoulders, his fingers digging into her hips as they rock together, the motions starting out slow, rhythmic, and growing harder and faster as her body begs for more, as he answers her. He is thick inside her, heavy and it is so much, too much, holding onto him tightly, muscles clenched, hips slamming together, bruising from hands and mouths. Their bodies are slick with sweat and her nails dig into his shoulders as the climax builds. She cants down forcefully and he lets go of her hip, threading his fingers through the bound tail of her hair, gripping, and pulls her head down sharply, biting at her exposed throat, at the join of her neck and shoulder as the rhythm gets faster, harder, sloppier, out of control. She shudders around him, crying out hoarsely at the pleasure of it, tenses with a gasp and then rides out the heady sensation of orgasm. He clutches her tightly, hips slamming up against her and comes, sending short muffled cries against her skin and holding onto her so tightly, their sexes grinding together, that she comes again, twitchy and shuddery against his cock and she jerks her head out of his grip. She sinks forward onto him as they both relax, boneless and spent, breathing together. In and out, heartbeats easing back to normal, sweat cooling, his strong hands moving up and down her back in sweeping motion, his head tucked into her shoulder, resting, breathing.
Her leg is starting to cramp up again, and she pushes away from him reluctantly, swinging her leg over the chair, the semen drying on her thighs, sweat drying on the rest of her body. She is more than tired now, spent and relieved and wants nothing more than a shower, sleep. She stands over him and he looks up at her and she wishes she had something to say, but silence just works so much better these days.
He stands up slowly and curls his hand behind her neck, moving searchingly and inevitably towards her mouth. His lips are soft, cool against hers, tongue sweet and rough sliding against her teeth, stroking over her tongue. His eyes are closed, face relaxed, whole body consumed by the act of this kiss, slow and gentle and thorough and she watches him as best she can as her mouth moves against his. He withdraws as easily as he had advanced, his eyes lidded heavily, lax body ready for sleep.
“I want to shower,” she says quietly, and he nods as she turns away.
The water is soothing, cool and clean and she strokes the soap over her skin, rinsing away the sweat and the sex, easing her muscles, easing her body, giving herself some space. She dries herself, rings out her heavy hair, pulls on clean underthings.
The lights are dim in the room, and John is sprawled on her bed, snoring softly. She contemplates kicking him out, and then sighs, not having the energy for the controlled hurt on his face, the nod of understanding. Sex is one thing, sleep another, and they’ve been commingling these things off and on over the cycle. They’ve yet to come to a conclusion, but seeing as their opportunity for resolution was very near eliminated by their ever increasing miserably bad luck, she decides to just push him over and crawl in next to him.
It's too many bodies squeezed into too little space, awkward, not terribly comfortable, but he sighs and shifts, makes room, curls around her, snug to her back and the fit is better. She closes her eyes. Drifts off.
ETA: I'm now signing our office Christmas cards. Um, what do I want for Christmas? A shorter frelling name. I think one out of the 50 got all of the letters legible.
And yeah for the return of Farscape on Sunday nights. Even if it was Coup By Clam, which I have to admit makes me giggle like a four year old, but it's pretty silly. However, that means next week is Unrealized Reality. All you newbies, hang onto your seats:)
