feldman (rubberneck) wrote in slounger,

For Shrift

For Shrift, the hardest working James Brown in fandom.

So good! *bump-bump* So good! *bump* We got you! *bump-bump-bump* *bump-BUMP*

Amok Time
by feldman

Braca looks smug with his boss on a chain. John can't blame the guy for that, even if the image makes him regret ever seeing Pulp Fiction. Smithers, how the mighty have fallen right into your lap.

Grayza strides forward and sinks down to where John sits, leaning in face to face for a heart to heart discussion about how screwed he is. She runs her fingers along his jaw and her expression is more smug than Braca's for the subtlety; she doesn't need to rub it in.

Scorpy rattles his chains, drools a puddle on the stone floor. John suspects he's biding his time, but it's still nothing he wants to watch.

Grayza turns her fingertips so her nails press into the tender spot under his ear, turning his attention to her fully. She caresses his cheek and slides her thumb across his lips.

She thinks she's turned Scorpius into a slavering gimp and now she wants to fondle the human like a pet. As if Scorpy's really been housetrained, as if the enemy of my enemy is really my friend. She slips her thumb down, pulling at his bottom lip as if to test it's resilience, oblivious to the risk that he might bite her out of spite.

It's clear she hasn't bothered to debrief Braca on the human's crazy-motherfucker factor. In the back of his head, Harvey's donned a Dolly Parton wig and is running sleazy businessmen to ground with a Remington and a lasso. Hunting's not so fun when the deer shoot back.

John rides the welcome surge of mania, man's best friend in the UTs, and catches her by the back of her head.

Her neck is surprisingly delicate under his grip, cool skin and soft points of hair sliding over his fingers.

She balances in her crouch, leaning into his hold but not resisting.

She signals her men back, and watches him with feral eyes the color of Elizabeth Taylor's. He digs his fingers in, feeling a bit like Richard Burton.

He should have realized right then that he wasn't the one in control of the situation. Instead, bluff for bluff, he pulls her off balance and kisses her.

He draws in a long lungful of her sweet smell, lips sliding, tongue slipping past the sharp edge of her teeth. Cool to the touch. You never get to feel the heat of a Sebacean woman until you kiss her deep, until you slide some of yourself into her.

She's quick on her feet, he'll give her that, her tongue soft against the swell of his bottom lip, slipping into his mouth with a gung-ho attitude. That spot behind the front teeth is a serendipitous find on her part, and he tries to hide the resulting intake of breath, tries to tamp down the weird swoon that pulls him away from the wall in pursuit when she breaks the kiss.

Disoriented, he reaches out to steady himself, the polished fabric of her leg slipping away from his touch as she stands. His head drops back, bouncing against the stone wall like the echo of her orders, like the echo of her gimp crouching down in the spot she's just left.

"Smooth move, Ex-lax."

Not her gimp, then. His gimp.

Harvey leans a hand against the wall behind John and hovers in his face, studying him with a prudish sniff. "Been in the winderness so long that even Mele-on gives you a hard-on?"

Three guards wrestle Chiana down a branch of corridor, a chill flash of grey swallowed by hard black.

John balls his fists but he can't co-ordinate enough to push up from the floor, his body lax and buzzing as the Peacekeepers haul him to his feet.

Chiana's given up shouting his name as useless, but he hears her question on a tape delay in his head. "Hey, Crichton, what are you doing? Crichton?"

"That's a good question, John." Harvey follows behind, growling impatiently in his ear. "Too bad you don't have an answer."

They deposit him on a stretch of beach, well, a shelf of rubble is more apt a description, boulders sloping down into the surf. The wind nudges his balance, makes him teeter as the sergeant directs him toward the shore and orders him to wait.

Guards are visible up on the cliffs, able to pick him off before he could scramble more than a yard up the slope. This is his improvised holding cell, between the pulse fire and the deep blue sea. Harvey sneers upwards at the sentries. John sits down on a boulder and closes his eyes.

Screwed. They're screwed. The buzzing is gone and now he feels light and hollow.

"You need to escape."

John ignores Harvey, concentrating on the warmth of the sun and the situation at hand. D'Argo's still free. Chiana...

"--is not an asset for escape. But despite being captured you are still on-planet, which offers opportunities that will disappear once you're taken aboard her Marauder."

John finally opens his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

Harvey pulls his shoulders back. "If I belabor the obvious it's because your lack of enthusiasm is beginning to piss me off."

"She's gonna plant our asses in the Chair, man, and you're worried about my attitude?" He hears boots on rock, slow steps, a woman's voice. Something besides salt in the air, something heady and tangy sweet.

"Stop thinking about sex for five microts." Harvey leans closer even as John's attention wanders. "Fight the distraction, John. Humans don't rut."

Grayza's changed clothes to complement the new scene, but the gist of the plot is the same except for one kinky detail. She sets a pulse pistol on the boulder next to him.

He forces himself not to grab for the bait, grinding his knuckles into the rock as she sidles between his knees.

"Kill her." Hissing in one ear while she nibbles the other. "You'd have a good microt or two to run to the water. You could swim around the headland there and come ashore near the woods. Reach for the gun."

Struggle and hunger, John and Harvey fighting over what to put in his palm. Her hands gentle as his body wrenches tighter, his hand splayed tight and stalled just inches from the weapon, his head pounding with whatever blood's leftover from his dick.

"Reach for the gun."

He touches her instead.

His head falls backward and the strangeness of deep blue sky clears the fog for a moment--how long's he been checked out? He can't tell because it washes over him again, driving up through his belly and flooding his brain and he's going to fuck her, right here in the open air, even as her sentinels watch.

There was a weapon, but his holster is empty and his hands are seeking skin instead. He doesn't know how the hell it came to this.

" 'Dear Penthouse Forum,' " Harvey declares over the surf as Grayza rises from her seat on John's lap, arranging her skirt to reveal an overlapped slit in the fabric and a peepshow of creamy thigh. " 'Even though I used to prefer naughty blondes, I always did have a thing for Moriticia Addams...' "

Her snipers have ducked out of sight but Grayza keeps the conspiratorial tone. "You and I shall confer about the details later." She plucks the zipper-pull of his leathers and parts his fly like a geisha serving tea. "Share information, determine what we can do for each other."

" 'I'd never been so turned on in my life! Well...aside from the psychic Spanish fly. And Aeryn Sun. Oh! and the time I boned that spy at Royal Planet summer camp.' "

"We'll have time later to define the nature of our mutual assistance." She guides him into her body, gracefully hovering above as he tries not to thrust up into her hand. He hasn't yet determined which would be better tactics; fuck her as hard as possible or make her do all the work. "Right now, I think we should simply commemorate our decision to combine forces."

" 'Yet despite my previous ranting about sex being four out of the top ten reasons for John Crichton to bother drawing breath despite his better judgment, I fought her every inch of the way.' "

She sinks down as if she's planting a flag to claim him for Spain. Unlike other Sebaceans he's been with, Grayza has shaven herself bare. The vulnerability of those petal-soft lips parted around his dick strikes him as sarcastic, even as he holds back the need to thrust.

"Get it?" Harvey climbs up to stand on the boulder next to them, codpiece eye level with the Peacekeeper. "Every inch of the way?"

John's boots grate on sand, seeking leverage, tension building in his frame as she leisurely rocks her penny's worth out if her new pony ride.

She eases him backwards, hands soothing his chest as if he should relax. Mele-on's gonna take you joyriding, just kick back, take in the scenery. You be a good boy, play nice, and you'll get treated right. But she's pushed his spine convex over the rock as if it's Natira's hamster cage, and Harvey's in his face like Scorpy for old time's sake.

Didn't Zhaan say there was no such thing as psychic Spanish fly? Or is he remembering it wrong? That particular set of memories is snowy and warped like bad videotape, nothing like the syrupy hyper-reality of this.

He curls up again, grasping her hips to control the urge to drive up into her. Even the warmth of the rock against his ass feels raunchy, ratchets him closer like the sight himself disappearing into her flesh, furious purpled red devoured by smooth hot white.

He forces himself to look at the waves instead. He feels them hit the shore with the same methodical drive as Mele-on grinding him into the rock.

"So this is your plan, then? Play hard to get until she bruises her knees fucking you?"

His control is running on fumes, but by the time he loses the thread of why he doesn't want to drive balls deep into her, she's squeezed and rocked him over the shuddering edge. She leaves him with the mess, striding up the slope refreshed while he puts himself to rights with shaking hands, spent from the fight, wrung out from being nailed to a rock by the Commandant.

The surf isn't loud enough to cover the snickering from above. Recreation, interrogation...she's going to ask him questions next time, and he won't be able to keep track of what's coming out of his own mouth, his desperate mind focused on other body parts.

The come down leaves him moist in the pants and faintly nauseous. The sun has dried the hem of his shirt to what looks like salt stains, stiff as school paste. No way to deny what happened, just as there's no way to explain why it did.

"You have inadequate experience battling your own biology--"

John brings his feet up, sweaty in their boots, and rests his elbows on his knees. "I don't want to hear it, Harv."

Harvey settles on the boulder next to John. "Humans are like Sebaceans, they have no season."

"Then what the fuck just happened?"

"Felt like rut to me." Harvey shrugs. "The old woman might be able to explain the particulars."

"Not looking to share my sexploits with the bag lady." He settles his chin in the notch between his crossed forearms. "Not looking to go back to the Chair, either."

"Currently your choices are limited. When she comes back, you will have to tell her something. I suggest the IASA lectures."

"I don't have my slides." The laugh comes out as a huff and a gasp.

Harvey situates them in a dimly lit room on cushioned seats, a drink hole through the arm rest between them. The darkness relaxes John, and he sets one boot on the sticky floor, the other leg still pulled up tight and his arm angled over his crotch. Power point slides flick on the silver screen like banner ads before the trailers; graphs of the EM pulses of coronal mass ejections, pre-visible wormholes laid out in ghostly x-ray tracery, a hand-drawn diagram of his still back on Elack.

He used to spend hours outlining lectures in his head. Anytime he figured something out, the mechanics of his pulse pistol, the fundamentals of hetch, he'd work out how to explain it to someone on Earth. Eventually wormholes were the sole subject of his imagined lectures, and picturing the alien paper of his notebook transformed into slides and 3x5 note cards was the salient point of the exercise, a grounding bit of nostalgia.

John dropped that fantasy when Talyn had come back, the remains of his crew shell-shocked by the practical applications of wormhole theory. Even if he got back, the symposium he'd imagined for years would never happen.

The slides click off and the dim lights fade to black. "It's all there. I will assist you when the time comes."

"Never thought I was working on pillow talk."

"You think she'll allow you a pillow?" Harvey slides over to rest his shoulder against John's as the musics starts, the fight theme from Star Trek blaring in THX. He bogarts the armrest and offers a twisted rope of cherry licorice. "Twizzler?"

"No, thanks."

Spock glares, twirling the weapon as if debating whether to use the curved blade or go for good old blunt force trauma. Across the dust, Kirk adjusts his grip and shifts nervously. Bells peal like salt spray and drums pound the shore while the Vulcan circles his prey, driven out of his head by lust, sex or violence, whatever it takes to slake the need. He attacks, and Kirk realizes for the first time he's up against someone who can and will beat the living fuck out of him. Thank god for Dr. McCoy. Too bad they don't have a handy hypospray on Arnessk.

"I'll monitor you as best I can, feed her the IASA lectures and nothing else." Harvey yawns and stretches, laying his arm along John's shoulder and whispering in his ear, "I need you to concentrate on one thing."

"What?" John cracks his neck, pulling away from the hot breath. Kirk lands a solid blow that doesn't slow Spock down a bit.

"Avoiding injury."

John snickers in the dark. "As long as I don't get a charlie horse I'll be fine."

Harvey pulls a lash off his Twizzlers and gnaws pensively.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.