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Scientist, Astronaut, and Nymphomaniac: The nine lives of John Crichton

by feldman

[Story Headers]

THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED ONE
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY THUMB

Call it cockeyed optimism, scouting the lay of the land for future conquest. Call it morbid curiosity, emphasis on the morbid if she catches him taking advantage of the situation at hand. Call it what you will. Titties were fun, but there's no way he isn't going for the gold.

There's no mistaking the difference of having a smaller hand, but it's eclipsed by the familiarity of damn near Human landmarks--hell, he'd give his soul for five minutes and a hand mirror--

Oh God.

There's no mistaking it from this side of the fence. He slides the pad of her finger across it and feels the pleasure throb everywhere. This is too good to be legal.

He pulls his hand--her hand--out of her pants reverently. A good guest doesn't molest, right?

He checks over his shoulder as he sucks the taste from his fingers. It wasn't getting away with murder, maybe just getting away without being murdered. He licks his lips but the gleeful smile remains, and the hand that grabs the wrench is sweaty in the palm.

The throbbing can go away any second now. Really. There are important things that need to be done. Besides Aeryn Sun's hot body.


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED TWO
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY SHOE

The blast had restored Pilot, Chiana and D'Argo, but it was weaker than the previous ones had been, and didn't penetrate far enough into Moya to reach the other half of the crew.

Aeryn's intonation is somber and her earbrows sink down in a frowning curve. "I'm still here."

"Hmmm." The expression on Rygel's Human face is blatant, arrogance failing to hide dejection. "Tell her to fire again."

John lets out a determined sigh, trying not to be distracted by the way his breasts push up against his vest.

It's a power drain, pure and simple. The Halosian ship is damaged, it's automatically channeling much of the energy capacity to self-repair systems. Zhaan volunteered to monkey with it, see if she could redirect the power sooner, but she only had Rygel's vote, and only until he realized that if the ship was broken he could permanently kiss his body goodbye.

Until the ship recovers enough to spare the power to the weapon system, they're stuck. John tries to make the best of it.

It starts innocently enough. Over the course of the long, freaky, stressful day Aeryn's body had become sweaty and dirty.

The smell's not bad, per se, a tad oniony if anything. But there's grime in the inside creases of her elbows, and when he licks her lips he tastes salt. If he's borrowing the car, he should at least keep it in good shape, if not better shape than when she loaned it to him. How hard could it be to figure out?

"Right. No leering. Just good hygiene." He cranks the shower on and pulls the cord from her ponytail. Businesslike, he squares her shoulders and steps into the cubicle.

"Shit! Shitshitshitshi--" He huddles against the wall, frantically shoving the lever toward cold. "Okay...ow...human hot is too hot...a cold shower was a better idea anyway."

He lays his hands where the water singed, soothing, and he has an insane urge to apologize to her body. There's no damage or burn on the skin, but the leftover steam from the earlier hot water is dizzying. He can feel how a lot of it would be debilitating. How can something as fundamental as heat feel so strange?

He thinks on it as he washes, trying to ignore the female textures and shapes, the tantalizing differences he finds everywhere the soap runs. The hair takes longer to wash and he has to go back for more shampoo, but he stubbornly keeps to the same routine he uses on his own everyday frame. Well, except for that...last bit.

He slides the soapy hand down, then gamely plunges into the bush, as it were. Focus. Remain focused. The task at hand is cleanliness. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Godliness means not whacking off in the shower with someone else's body.

And if he's scrupulous about rinsing, it's because he doesn't dare leave any soap behind.

He towels her hair dry, watching himself in the mirror. Boobies are fair game. Boobies are fun, they're free, they're right there all the time. They're like the front porch, a semi-public space.

He wonders what Rygel's doing with his body, and his vigorous toweling stops mid-jiggle. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.

He tosses the towel on a bench and throws on an old t-shirt and a ratty pair of shorts. It's the pair he was wearing when he boarded his module in the cargo bay of the space shuttle, back in that cozy upper atmosphere orbit he used to think of as space.

There's too much fabric, and it bunches in the crotch in a most peculiar way. He punches his pillow into a wedge and shoves it under her head, fanning her hair back out of the way. Her legs stretch out toward the foot of the bed, gracile and delicate compared to what he'd normally see from this angle. Such tiny kneecaps, though they don't feel so little under her equally sized palm. Her skin is nearly hairless, satiny.

He keeps the touch reverent and sober. There's just enough disconnect between her body and his mind that there's a ghostly tickling sensation as he strokes up to his hip and tucks his fingers into the stretched out fly of the underwear.

Peacekeepers do it all the time to release tension, it's not like it hasn't been driven down that road a few times before he got behind the wheel. It's not like he'll hurt anything. On the contrary, he'd have every motivation and means to make it a pleasurable experience for the body.

Face it, buddy, you just want to get your jollies while the getting's good. Satisfy your curiosity about a lot of things, general to women and specific to Aeryn Sun. See how the other half lives.

Test drive the Volvo.

He makes sure the privacy curtain is in place, locks the door, and sits down on his bed. He's almost as nervous as he was pinned under Karen Shaw that fateful afternoon, when he was initiated into the mysteries for the very first time.

This time it'll be slow.

He strips off the shirt and lies back, trying to relax. Her body is expressing his nerves, her heart picking up and her vision noticeably more acute.

His quarters aren't as clean as they looked when he got up this morning.

For a long moment he lies on his bed and feels her body breathe until he's relaxed enough that he can feel the level beat of her heart, his heart for the time being. It's slower than his own, like her breath, like her warmth compared to his accustomed heat. Humans burn brighter than Sebaceans, but the life inside of her doesn't feel any less in comparison. He watches the slow rise and fall of the soft breasts, and begins to discern that the beat of the heart jiggles them ever so slightly.

He holds his breath and watches the heart pump the oxygen depleted blood ever harder, the motion translating to her flat pale nipples, the flesh shaking ever so slightly. Like Jurassic Park, when the T. Rex makes waves in the coffee cup.

He's not sure where to begin. This body has had lovers and one-night stands, this body has even had him, in his accustomed flesh. She'd seemed satisfied with his performance then, though she'd been a lot more self-sufficient than he was used to in a first encounter. He's still not sure if she wouldn't have preferred a dildo instead--dildos don't ask awkward questions afterward.

Cultural chasms aside, he hadn't encountered any physical surprises (a shock, a disappointment and a relief all rolled into one). He figures that her body knows what it's doing, and if he just keeps out of the way, it will all work out.

He's been remarkably celibate since he left Earth, and he's developed a broad repertoire of moods and self-satisfaction techniques to keep from humping the doorways out of sheer desperation (or loneliness). Hell, he's done all but wine and dine himself, but then again, food is sometimes as hard to come by as touch.

It's been awhile since he's felt a woman's body under his hands. So what if the hands belong to her as well? He's not sure when he made the decision, but since he's going to do it, he's going to do it right. He's going to go all out, touch everywhere, not just the main attractions.

He sits up and begins to rub the feet.


Aeryn sighs and ponders the empty bowl before her. Finally.

It's taken six helpings and a half-dlugan of water, but at last all three stomachs are full at the same time. The feeling of accomplishment is extremely gratifying, and she's in such a good mood that she doesn't even mind the sloshing sound she makes as she hovers back to her quarters.


"Ohh!"

John stops.

He's pretty sure that he didn't make that sound, but since he's the only one here, it had to be Aeryn's body.

He closes the mouth, sets the thumb into the heel of the left foot, digs in firmly and slides up toward the base of the big toe.

"Mmmm..."

Yep. That's him, alright. Her. Whatever. Whomever.

Conclusion: first chance that presents itself, rub this woman's feet.


Rygel's hands feel funny. Over the last few arns they've wrinkled horribly, and now the discomfort is enough to drive him from the bath.

It's bad enough that this gangly body can barely fit into his soaking tub, bad enough that the spare clothes Crichton loaned him are just as utilitarian and ugly as everything else he wears, bad enough that he was uncomfortably full before he'd even gotten to his favorite parts of the evening meal--what kind of civilized being wears pants, anyway? How can it be healthy to cut oneself across at the waist like that, not to mention designing them with hunks of metal to dig into the belly when it's most happy?

Now he can't even have a relaxing bath. He bellows and smacks the water in frustration, though the gesture is somewhat lacking since the only space of water available to smack is the pathetic pool between his pale hairy knees, and his voice is too loud, with none of the musical authority that comes from his own full throat. "I frelling hate this!"


"...yeah..." He's taken a long time to build to it, testing the waters everywhere, rubbing and grasping and suckling whatever he can reach to his mouth. Cataloging erogenous zones at first, then pursuing the feeling wherever it took him.

"Oh..." Now he leans back against the headboard, buried in the sensation he's figured out how to produce. He sucks in a breath and hums through pressed lips, looking down past the tit he's fondling to his other busy hand.

"Huhh...oh..." There's a certain stirring motion that he's seen, that he likes to see, that he thinks is kind of hot because he's usually also watching himself stroke into the same luscious cunt that's being whipped into a froth. Even when he was only watching, it always struck him as one of the sexiest things a woman could do. To the point where just watching Caroline stir her cappuccino with a knowing look would make him hard.

That look, that motion, that remembered feeling of a woman coming around him in waves sets him off, and he barely hears the gasping moan because the orgasm hits hard enough that he thinks for a second that he's going to come back to his senses in his own body.

He pants, "Holy frell..." and sees stars at the corners of his vision. He's seen that before in his own skin, but for some reason he thought it would feel different as a woman.

His hand is still leisurely stroking, pressing on occasion and sending another grasping wave of pleasure through. The sensitivity is heightened, but it's not too much, it's still compelling.

It still feels really good, so he keeps on doing it, taking advantage of the abundant wetness and the lazy post-orgasm haze.

He slips a finger inside, then two, but the hand keeps returning to the clit on its own. Until this very moment he's never grasped the implications of having a dick's worth of sensation jammed into such a small parcel of real estate. That's really all they need, isn't it?

It's so illicit. All the time he thought it was frosting when really it was the cake. The cake, and the champagne and the dancing, and how do they know when to stop if keeps feeling this good? It's like he's just started.

Maybe he has just started. After all, it's not a single-shot, it's an automatic. He can feel one of Aeryn's wicked smiles bloom on his face.

He starts stroking again in earnest.


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED THREE
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY KNEE

Thank God for door locks, he thinks, too tired yet to move from the position he collapsed into a few moments before, knees, chest and cheek pressed to the bed, ass in the air. His forearm is sore, lying on the bed between his knees like a casualty.

With every huff of breath his nipples graze the slick gold thermal blanket, but he's too spent to care.

This body goes to eleven. At least he thinks so, there was a miraculous point where he may have lost count. And he's just an amateur at this, like the first time he flew her Prowler and got caught in a complicated 3-axis spin that even made Aeryn a little green in the gills. To think what he could do with a little practice...and he intends to practice at every opportunity.

He has no choice. He's like a cocaine rat. All he can think of is that little red button, this body calling to him like a fast motorcycle and an empty stretch of road, like a crotch-rocket zipping through traffic as if all the cars were standing still, this body aching to be driven and opening the throttle wide open for him, welcoming his soul deeper inside than his dick could ever go.

He falls asleep in that position.


Aeryn pulls the comb casually through her earbrows as Rygel stares at her.

John wonders if that's really how he looks when he's surprised, if his mouth hangs open slack like that. It's so...cattle-like.

The cow-face turns into a snarl as Rygel lunges for Aeryn. "Give me that!"

She deftly pilots the thronesled out of Rygel's clumsy reach, one hand on the steering stick and the other still easing the comb through her brows. "What's the matter, Rygel?"

"That's not proper!"

"You do it all the time, and I've also watched you do it at the table. Even Peacekeepers don't groom themselves in the mess."

Chiana laughs as Aeryn bobs out of Rygel's grasp.

"Stop that at once! It's--it's iniquitous!"

John puts down his fork. "Unsanitary maybe, but brushing your hair isn't a sin." Hope not, he smirks to himself, he spent half an hour doing it this morning, and that was just trying to get the ponytail straight.

Aeryn narrows her eyes and waggles her well-groomed brows at Rygel while she speaks to John and Chi. "But he isn't just brushing his hair when he does this, you know, he's playing with himself."

Another anatomy fact: Aeryn can spew milk out of her nose, if she ever gets to Earth and isn't lactose intolerant.

Chiana slams her hand on John's back as he coughs. "Yeah, that is pretty frelled, isn't it?"

Rygel's sputtering with outrage, some crap about the upkeep of his royal personage and latitudes that are afforded. What it boils down to is that old habits die hard, and he's been taking advantage of the fact that no one who could see him had any idea what he was doing, and he's basically a dirty old man.

Aeryn hovers just below ceiling level, but if Rygel figures out how to jump, she's dead meat.

"Rygel, leave her alone, she's just trying to make the best of the situation."

"She has the best of it! She has my body! She's noble and handsome and well-proportioned and I'm huge and bloated and pale like a rotted thing!"

John leans over to Chiana. "Does it sound like that when I rant?"

She shakes her head and starts eating her breakfast from his plate. "No, you're louder. And you aren't rotty pale, you're kind of dirt colored. Like sandy dirt, the kind you can't grow anything in."

"Thanks, Chi."

"Don't mention it. Hey, you want help with your hair? I could show you how to braid it, keep it off your neck."

John's about to make a salacious comment about slumber parties when he catches Aeryn's vaguely forlorn look in the corner of his eye--her eye, her wicked sharp eye. "No, thanks, Chi. I'm just biding time until the Skeksis' weapon comes online. If you really want to braid it, ask Aeryn when she's back."

Chiana shrugs, and continues to sit too close.


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED FOUR
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY DOOR

Penises.

Through the dry stink of the Halosian ship, through the bickering over the comms all day, through Rygel's long rant about the shortcomings of the human male body at evening meal--luckily Rygel doesn't share John's spirit of exploration, so it was the same list as at breakfast, just more embittered--all day long John's thought about cock.

In a philosophical way, of course. Determining whether fantasizing about a good boner in this instance would be considered gay, weirdly straight, or just nostalgic makes his head hurt, so he's left that topic for another day. Today's subject of inquiry is disturbing enough.

Adidas: All Day I Dream About Sex. The conclusion he's come to is that he doesn't get it yet. There's got to be something deeper that he's missing, and it has to do with dicks. Masturbation alone is a poor diet, but why do so many women sleep with men? It can't really be attraction, can it? Women are sensually superior to men; they smell better, look nicer, are softer and smoother to touch--why bother with a man at all unless there's something he can provide that another woman can't?

Dorks. Huh. Good God, y'all. What are they good for? Absolutely nothin'. (Say it again).

'Cept penetration.

It doesn't make sense unless they get something from the act, but the thought still makes him fluttery in the pit of his stomach. Taking something in. He's digging down into the mysteries with that one, maybe too fast, but there's a perverse fascination.

He's never been able to imagine penetration from the woman's perspective without a feeling of discomfort, if not pain. It's obviously not painful, provided you do it right. Truth be told, there's been times when the only way to describe it would be downright savage, but the playground equipment wasn't only sturdy enough to handle it, the proprietors were usually markedly pleased afterwards.

Is he man enough to be fucked?

No, not really. Not until he figures out what the point of it is, and certainly not until girls grow dicks. Though he has seen ways around that, and if he ever gets to that point, he's pretty sure Chi will be his go-to girl for that action.

"Crichton!" It's the smack on the table in front of him that finally breaks the reverie.

Rygel dumps his lumbering self onto the other bench with a grunt.

"What's the problem, Sparky?"

"Your face is itchy and infuriating. Why did your body pick this time to grow another beard?"

He does look on the homeless side, and it's clear he's been scratching hard along the jaw line. "It grows all the time, you just need to shave it."

"All the time? You mean if we locked you in a box for a monen you'd come out with fur? That's bizarre. If it's a part of you, why don't you just let it grow out like D'Argo does with his fur?"

"Most of the time, I prefer to have a face."

"Well." Rygel furrows his brow and flares his nostrils as he thinks. John has a hard time keeping a straight face because it's exactly like the Crais impersonation he's been working on. "Perhaps I'd rather not have your face. How do I get it to stop itching?"

"Let it grow out another few days."

Rygel drops his hands onto the tabletop in front of him, curled and ignored as if they were vestigial. "Unacceptable, I'll go mad first."

John sighs. "Then shave it."

"I would, but..." Rygel flicks his thumbs, "I can't do anything delicate with these bloated paws of yours."

John takes a deep breath. "If you don't stop calling my body bloated, I'm not going to help you with it."

"Mmmm. But I'm so clumsy, I could easily hurt myself. Disfigure myself in a way tha--"

"Listen here, Sparky." He grabs Rygel's t-shirt and pulls him across the table. "If you vandalize anything while you're in there I'll take it out on your royal green hide, you got that, buddy?"

There's a little thrill in seeing those blue eyes fly open and feeling those big paws clutch at his hand. Now he knows why Aeryn likes to manhandle him so much. The look on his face is just too funny to resist.

"Fine, fine! I was only bluffing anyway. Just shave me, Crichton!"


It's a lot more awkward than he'd planned. It's his face all right, but the angles are all wrong and Rygel had to be taught the shaving faces.

"No, like this, see?" He stretches his lip and nose to one side and tries not to snicker as Rygel's facial contortions eventually produce a flattened plane that he can properly shave.

Rygel smells good, and it's distracting John.

Well, Rygel smells faintly like Hynerian cream soap, but under that there's a spicy animal smell, like a clean dog. It's weirdly familiar, because a guy knows what he smells like just like he knows what he looks like.

He just doesn't know what he smells like to other people, is all. Perhaps the physical difference between the sexes isn't as qualitative as he'd thought, and men do have sensual perks that he wasn't aware of until he could experience them from inside a body that was attracted to that sort of heady musky rough and solid sort of thing.

He likes that he theoretically smells good to Aeryn, but he doesn't want Rygel to smell good to him.

John leans awkwardly over Rygel as the PK issue depilator makes a smooth buzzing sound that reminds him of a frelling vibrator and why did he never recognize that sound before? He tilts Rygel's chin up and runs the depilator over the Adam's apple, pausing to admire how his new delicate thumb looks against the heavy jaw. Even though he's on the other side, the intriguing asymmetry remains.

John presses against the side of Rygel's neck, pulling the hot skin tight enough for a decent shave. Rygel swallows and quietly harrumphs. John feels the low sound against his hand and he pulls away from the itch that it leaves on his palm.

He most definitely does not want to crawl onto his own lap, for pete's sake. No matter how much he likes the squeaky sound of leather. He's had enough of touching his old body for tonight--there's no way he's letting this evening devolve into dry-humping the Hynerian.

"There. Done." He throws the towel on Rygel's head and sets the depilator back on its spot on his shelf. "Now go play."

Rygel scratches up by his ear. "There are still rough spots under here."

John shoves him off the bench and toward the door. "Good enough for government work." A well-placed boot to Rygel's ass propels him into the corridor. "Hey, why don't you check out the old royal estate? Tell Aeryn I said hi."

John waits, thumbs hooked in his low-slung gunbelt, until he can't hear Rygel's bitching anymore. He lets his head fall back and tries to remember the sweet scent of Aeryn's hair, before he started washing it in his own unscented cleanser.

There's a little Hynerian aboard who probably smells like that right now.


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED FIVE
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY HIVE

It takes a while to choose, since the produce bin isn't as full as he'd like. The moonili comes closest to the specs he's drawn up in his head; smooth, somewhat tapered, and he knows it isn't toxic because he's seen her eat raw slices of it.

It's a bit on the large side, but the only thing smaller is the poogli they got at the same market, and that's bumpier than a ginger root and way beyond his league.

He washes and dries the moonili with sober determination, then snags a decanter of lutra oil. On second thought he turns back and reaches into the cooler for a jug of water. Masturbation is thirsty work.

"Crichton."

He straightens, the moonili and bottle of lutra oil clutched against his chest with one arm. "Hey, Aeryn."

She comes around to face him and her little head tilts as she looks at his haul. "What are you doing with those?"

His ponytail bobs as his eyes dart from the root rising up between his tits to Aeryn's narrowed cat-slitted eyes. "Making a salad."

"I'd enjoy a good salad." One of her earbrows rises. "Can I help you?"

He scratches the back of his neck and looks off to the side, unable to meet her incisive toady gaze. "Well, I'm, uh, really starving, so I was going to take it to my room and gnaw on it while I, uh, looked over some of the Halosian, uh--"

"And the oil?"

He'd always considered a blush from her as a victory, but this time the heat on his cheeks signals defeat even as he keeps trying to bail himself out. "Moonili can get kind of woody, and uh...dry...sometimes...you know, since we don't have any Hidden Valley Ranch aboard, I thought, you know, lutra would make a good...salad oil."

She blinks those big green eyes and hovers close enough that the root poking up between them is risque. "You're depraved."

He falls back on all he has left. "I'm a scientist. I'm insatiably curious."

"Well here's something you don't know." She leans forward and John can smell that she's done something miraculous with Rygel's breath. She slides her little hand up John's arm and over to his cleavage, not even touching, just stirring the nearly invisible hairs in a way that tickles and sends goose pimples up his back. "If you thought I hurt Chiana when she took my Prowler, that's nothing compared to what I'll do to you if you damage anything on, in or near my body. Do you understand me?"

He swallows. "Yes, ma'am."

"As for this," she yanks the moonili away and flings it over her shoulder, "if you really want to satisfy your curiosity, we'll have Zhaan shoot Rygel and me first--"

John locks his knees and hopes to God she can't read his face as well as he can Rygel's. She probably can, because she senses enough weakness to hook her fingers in the leather vest and yank him forward.

"--and I'll frell you so hard you can't see straight."

"Aeryn." He clears his throat, fluttery all over in a way that's so confused with sex and fear that for a few seconds he actually considers the possibility. "You already mentioned how depraved I am, do you really think that's a threat?"

She runs the silky hairs of her earbrows up his neck, waits for him to stop shuddering, and whispers into his ear, "I never said it was."

She motors off, and he nearly drops the bottle of lutra oil.


Chiana leans against his door frame and offers him a carved wooden box with a hinged lid. It looks like one of Zhaan's knickknacks, something you'd keep expensive cigars in. It's also hogtied with twine, a hasty but thorough job that looks like it's meant to keep a Tasmanian devil caged.

"What's this?"

"Aeryn wanted me to give it to you. She said it wasn't fair that she had a hairbrush and all you had was salad." Chiana shakes the box and something moves inside.

"Thanks, Chi." John presses his lips together and snags it from her. "She say what was in it?"

"Nope." Chiana shows no sign of leaving. "You gonna open it?"

"Maybe later."

"She said you'd like it."

"Yeah, uh...she probably just wants to make sure I'm taking care of her body. It's probably her hairbrush. Like she said, it wasn't fair that she had Rygel's if I don't have hers."

Chi hums through a faint smile. "Mmm-hmm."

He can't tell if she knows what's in the package or not, but he's not going to open it in public all the same. "Night, Chi."

She steps closer and leans her face into his. Standing up straight, she's almost as tall as Aeryn, and her face looks odd from that perspective.

Nobody invades Aeryn's personal space this way when she's home, which helps John pull his head back and harden his gaze.

"Sleep well." Chiana turns on her heel and giggles, "if you get around to it."


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED SIX
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY STICKS

Secured in his quarters, he tries to untie the twine, but she's knotted it tight with those tiny fingers of hers. He ends up having to cut it instead.

He opens the lid and pulls out a scrap of cloth. "Oh, sweet Jesus..."

What's in the box is for the box, and John's suddenly concerned that she meant what she'd said earlier in the kitchen, and he's just entered training for the real thing.

It's got to be PK issue, with its clean black lines and the grip set off the end like a little billy-club. Sleek and ergonomic. Standard recreation equipment, totally smooth for easy upkeep but with enough bumps to keep the rank and file interested.

Nestled in the cloth underneath are a few flat capsules of liquid, made of clear polymer with break lines indicated in red. He'd seen them before, and the way she had reacted to his curiosity he'd thought they were some kind of weapon cleaning solvent that he was too inept to use properly.

Well, yeah.

He wonders if there's ratings for this stuff, training manuals, "Our Bodies, Ourselves" for Peacekeepers. Something. Anything. He's not going to have the frog talk him through it even if she does smell good and has a cute way of blinking.

He reaches into the box. Whatever it's made of is soft but unyielding, and retains warmth like skin. "To boldly go..."


He works up to it slowly, coming to the very edge of release of few times before he can bring himself to take the toy in hand. It's a wet affair, even more so after he breaks open a couple of the capsules and applies the contents liberally to both slot A and tab B.

He can feel himself twitch, still real close despite the intermission. He sets the base of the toy against his mons and tilts it up like a rocket ready for launch, watches it glisten with PK standard issue lube. He wonders what the Marines would think of this whole situation. The Marines wouldn't use lube, and that would prove to Aeryn that the PKs were, though flawed, not nearly as frelled as the Marines.

Here goes nothing. He turns it and nudges it to the right spot, and ever so slowly pushes it in.

His eyes flutter closed and his head rocks back, and he's enraptured by the way her body, his body, seems to suckle at it, drawing it in, squeezing it out, and he had been teetering on the very edge of orgasm on purpose, but he's still surprised when the faint coolness of the toy sliding home pushes him over in a big wave.

His sex seizes against it, grips it, pushes it back against his hand, and it's the difference between hugging yourself and hugging someone else, between coming in your pants and shooting your wad balls deep. There's more gravity to it--it isn't hollow, it's full.

He gathers his wits and starts thrusting shallow and slow, tentative, half-convinced that he'll meet resistance or pain, looking for the limit that he won't be able to cross.

Despite the edgy buzz of his nerves and his timid approach, the toy slides effortlessly to the hilt, and to his surprise he takes it all in stride. After a pause he begins to fuck himself ever so gently with it.

He can definitely feel it in here, inside, and that's strange but it's also good. He cants his hips up to watch, and realizes that if he changes the angle just a bit, the grip at the end bumps the clit just right on the in-stroke.

Arousal ramps up again, and with it his confidence, and soon he's on the heels of another orgasm.

He pauses to find a better position, as undignified as can be but it gives him leverage and room to employ both hands in an awkward dance of dildo and clit because this is the thing, the thing he loves to see and he wants to know what it feels like. What it feels like is the top of his head coming off.

Breath and pleasure erupt from him in a spasm and it's the closest thing to ejaculation he's felt since before all of this began. Everything is switched on and roaring, and even when it leaves him for dead, thrown against his shiny bed sheet like a Raggedy Ann doll from Hustler, his heart still pounds and his skin is covered in sweat to match the slick wetness on his hands, the toy, and that absolutely amazing cunt.

He'd thought he was master of the domain, when really he'd barely made it into the foyer. Now he's seen the rest of the house. And it is good.


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED SEVEN
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK UP IN HEAVEN

Aeryn motors up the hallway at high speed, an eager expression raising her fluffy earbrows.

"Hey, uhm, about that, uh..." He turns as she flies past, the hover throne at something close to top speed and making a faint Jetson car sound. He follows, and is about to call her name again when someone else calls his instead.

"Crichton."

His feet stop of their own volition as the lower part of his brain figures out the situation and then breaks it gently to the higher part of his brain. The voice is his old voice but the intonation is too crisp. There's only one person who savors the syllables like that.

He turns and sees her walking up the corridor.

Her soul has the same grace no matter where it resides, effortlessly adapting to ship or body. But it's clear from her easy confidence that she enjoys Human over Hynerian.

She's swaggering.

He rides out a jolt of adrenaline, feet planted as she closes the distance and casually invades his personal space.

The difference in height had always seemed more subtle than this, when it was him peering down into her face and off-handedly looming. It occurs to him that women have to be immune to such cheap alpha male tactics just to get anywhere in the world. He's not immune, and he's having a hard time controlling his own urge to puff his chest up and bump back.

This is a different kind of dance.

She's backed him against the corridor wall and still hasn't said a word. Damn, is his face really that big? How did he ever get used to having such a huge head? No wonder his neck is so thick, carrying that melon around the Universe day after day.

She's leaned in close enough for John to smell his own clean dog scent, and this time there isn't a Dominar in the way, it's just the two of them and their divergent anatomy and complementary chemistry. She props one hand against the wall beside his head. The other catches him at the waist as she presses him between her huge body and the wall. She's decidedly warm.

And there isn't just the animal scent, there's also a sweet smell by her mouth. John's aware that women have different scents around their bodies, but now he's touring the male garden and he's not sure how he feels about that. By the tense flutter in his belly it's clear that Aeryn's body is enjoying it, and Aeryn's mind seems to like his discomfiture, if the smile around her eyes is to be believed.

"So." She purrs her voice in a deep register and slides her stubbly cheek on his, first with the grain and then shockingly against. "Are you ready, test monkey?"

"Aeryn, I--"

She kisses him.

It's an out-of-body experience. She embraces the side and back of his head with a large warm hand and thoroughly, expertly, caresses his mouth with hers. John's kissing himself, and being kissed by her, and for a few moments it blurs and it's his own fingertips threading through her long hair, and her thumb stroking the satiny flesh behind his ear and down his thick simian neck.

When she breaks off and licks her lips, the dark-rimmed blue of her eyes startles him. The body that he thought defined him is disturbing from this point of view. He's a Husky, for chrissakes, a big dumb Husky dog, and he wants to crawl inside of John's new girly body and John might just let him.

Aeryn asks him in a dark molasses voice, her warm hand slipping under the leather to play against the small of his back. "So, you were saying?"

Aeryn is pressing a very familiar erection against his lower belly, and if she wasn't also pinning him with her weight he might just slide to the floor like a jellyfish. It's blastoff, and it's like he's back on the shuttle that first time, strapped to an office tower full of rocket fuel with nowhere to go but up. "I'm so fucked."

Humour crinkles around her eyes as she rolls her hips in a way that he'd been pretty sure his white boy body wasn't capable of. "Yes, you will be."

It's been a long time since he's had the fun kind of fear, and the mental shift is palpable. This isn't dangerous, this is exciting, this is being aware of your life beating inside your chest, this is gonna blow your mind. John closes his eyes and goes passive for a few moments, letting her herd him down the corridor to his own quarters.

She's fondling his ass in a proprietary manner. Aeryn never struck him as an ass-man before, and John wonders how much of that fascination is coming from the body she's inhabiting. With that thought, he turns around before opening his grill door. "Ground rules."

She raises an eyebrow.

"We stop whenever I say so--and I know how much self-control you've got between my body and your mind, so I know you can stop at any point short of ignition."

She sighs. "Is this some kind of Human rule or do you just want an escape hatch?"

"Doesn't matter, that's Rule One."

"How do I know you're serious?"

"What?"

"If, for instance," her eyebrows lift as she pulls her chin down and his own earnest puppy expression looks back at him, "you begin praying--does that mean I should stop?"

"Cut it out, Aeryn, I'm being serious."

She steps closer to corner him against the grill door and moans, "Oh God, Aeryn..." Her voice drops into a efficient clip but she nuzzles his ear as she whispers. "Would that be a signal to stop, or to thrust harder?"

John tries to reign in the physiological reaction enough to think straight. She's good at this, it's her body she's working after all, and that hardens his resolve to remain in control of the situation. He's become intimate with real fear in the last few years and that's not the kind of excitement he's looking for. "We'll do a safe word. If I say 'Houston' you know to stop. Okay?"

"Hyoostin." She nods and slides her arm around his waist, murmuring, "Fine, if I hear you say hyoostin I'll disengage."

"Second Rule."

She pulls her head back and shoots him a weary look. "How many rules do you need?"

"Just these two. I pick the position."

"No."

He wriggles out of her grip. "Why not?"

She huffs, "Because you'll pick something stupid." With a shake of her head, she shifts her erection and murmurs, "I should have frelled you in the corridor before you started talking."

John breathes with the sudden tightening of his sex, not even trying to parse why that little cock shift of hers was so distractingly hot. He's not going to give up that easily. "Look, we can negotiate. I'm up for anything, except a face full of pillow."

"There's plenty of rearguard approaches. We're of a similar height where we don't need the bed at all."

He presses his ass against the door grate. "Okay, now when you say 'rearguard'," he squints, "are you talking anal or just, you know, from behind? Because no matter where you dock I'm just not ready for the Pulp Fiction aspect of being bent over and thoroughly fucked, okay?

"I wasn't intending to frell you up the arse, Crichton." She rolls her eyes and adds, "Promise."

As he unlocks the door she looms behind him once more, soft lips weirdly hot against his skin as she murmurs. "Unless you want me to."

"It's not that." He shrugs away, not ready to concede this point, not ready to let the unknown come at him in a way he can't see. Things aren't so daunting when you can see them happening. "I just--you can do whatever you want, but I need to be able to watch."

She follows him closely with her hand on his hip as he walks into his room and palms the lights on at a reduced setting. "I can't agree to your arbitrary tactical limitation."

"No doggy-style, Fido, that's the ground rule."

"Why would I agree to that rule?" She grabs him by the hips and grinds against his ass, sliding one thick hand between his upper thighs and finding the sweet spot with the knuckles of her thumb.

"Because I'm a delicate flower and I know exactly where to kick." The reach-around is taking the wind out of his sails, but he perseveres. "Come on, Aeryn, cut me some slack. Tell you what, you concede this and I'll suck your cock."

"But I like it back here, I can reach everything quite easily. I'm fairly certain I'll like the view, as well."

It doesn't hurt that she gets off on control the same way he does. Damned horn-dog body giving away all his particulars. She probably knows about the oral fetish, too, though perhaps he can use that to his advantage. Assuming he can get used to that immense cranium lodged between his thighs.

She cups her hand over his sex, pressing the mons and lips and trapping the clit between it all. "You don't seem to mind too much, you're hot right through the leather."

His laugh is hollow and nervous. When did he become such a tittering virgin? Oh yeah, about the same time Aeryn Sun got a dick and started sniffing for his cherry.

She unzips his vest and palms his tits, steering him slowly toward the wall by his bed.

"Don't Peacekeepers train for this? You know, simulation exercises, start 'em off slowly, or do they just drop you out of planes onto your first boner and it's sink or swim?"

She breathes the words across the back of his neck between hard kisses. "Keep babbling, just don't say hyoostin."

"Aeryn, I think maybe a little time out to make sure we're both on the same page would do us a world of good, make this a real learning experience." She knocks his legs apart and throws him off-balance. He braces his arms against the wall like he's being strip-searched instead of just stripped.

"Let's frell first, right here." She unzips his pants and reaches in.

The amount of wet would be embarrassing if the quick fluttery strokes of her fingers hadn't just blown half the fuses in his brain. She makes an awed sound in his ear and slips one of her other fingers into his mouth.

Without thought, he sucks on the finger and hears her gasp, feels her grind involuntarily against him as the hand in his pants pauses. He moans again and sucks harder, and the tables turn.

He pulls her hand from his pants, shucks his open vest and turns away from the wall. Her too bright eyes are dilated and her lips part as she watches him, and when he grabs her big head and pulls it down to a nipple she eagerly suckles.

John gasps, because it's another one of those perfect combinations. As flexible as her body is, he could never get the tits and mouth to meet, but even if it never worked he knows the effort hadn't been wasted. Beyond a doubt, nipples are meant to be sucked.

Once he frees her erection, it's remarkably easy to guide her to the bed. It feels awkward for a moment in his hand, but he knows how to work his own cock and it's better than a handle. Boots thump and clothes fly, and when he pushes her huge frame back onto the bed, she looks up at him soft and dazed.

He shakes a little as he sits astride her, nothing like the smooth motion she'd used to straddle his neck when they first met. His old body is hot to the touch under his ass, between his thighs, even hotter where her hard cock nestles against his lips. She regards him with an ostentatiously patient blink and it's definitely Aeryn in there, hot and furry and about to ridden like a penny pony ride.

By him. He grasps her cock in a tight fist and when her eyes flutter closed, he guides her home and sinks cautiously down.

The bliss on her face seems proper to the rarity of the situation, and the gravity of what he's feeling.

The is another person's body, inside of his. This is Aeryn. And the pleasure she's tripping out on is something she's found in his body. He sits there for a long moment watching her parse her first taste of pussy, her eyes closed and lost in the tight wet heat and her brow furrowed upwards.

He reaches behind himself and feels her balls jammed up against his ass. That's just freaky. He's amazed at how right it feels. He rocks his pelvis, tasting the sensation of real flesh moving inside of him. His cock feels robust and solid, a reassurance that he didn't think he needed but is nonetheless welcome.

He smiles down at Aeryn and she pulls him down to her chest to kisses him fiercely. "You feel amazing."

He can't argue with that statement, it's a memory that's helped him wile away more than few lonely nights. "Yeah, you do."

She rolls her pelvis under him, sliding her hands up his thighs. "Are you ready for this?"

He takes a deep breath, feels himself squeeze around her. To his surprise she smiles and jerks inside of him in response. This is good (better than good, this is weird and amazing and humbling) but he trusts Aeryn to show him outer reaches. "Let's do it."


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED EIGHT
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY GATE

She rolls them over and pins him to the thin mattress with her thick body between his spread thighs, a look of concentration on her face as she launches into a respectable rhythm. She watches his reaction as she thrusts deeper, as he takes it and clutches at her body with his arms and his legs, holding on.

She creates a white noise of pleasure as she works him relentlessly, stepping up the force and speed with little breather pauses where she grinds up against his clit for good measure.

He remembers which girl is fucking him, and he cheerfully works a hand down. He feels her stroking into him, thick and slick between his fingers, and she kneels back, shifts his pelvis up so they can both watch as well.

The candy-like button beckons, and he doesn't resist. Aeryn steps back to a methodical pace and clenches her jaw, watches him build the wave and buries herself deep inside as it crashes over him.

He comes down from the high slowly, the slow deep rolling of her sex in his stoking the pleasure like feeding a fire.

He's not sure he likes the mischievous look on her face.

The ease with which she slides his hips onto her lap is just as disconcerting. And look, those are his ankles she's so casually setting behind her neck.

Yeah, they were just warming up.

She leans down and kisses him, and everything is so soft and warm and wet every place they touch, everywhere they meet and fit. He's dazed with afterglow and not a little admiration for how flexible Aeryn Sun's body is, and how effortlessly she's using his own in the pursuit of their pleasure.

Next time he wants to be on top, put his own body through its paces and watch her the way she's watching him.

She sets up an insistent thrust, and the new angle is obviously deeper, her kisses on his neck more demanding. She's going to come home to hickies and oh, bite marks and how does that work, exactly, that he feels her tongue and teeth reverberate through his whole body?

She must be fucking his lungs for chrissakes--who knew lungs could feel this good?

The tension in her neck shows her struggle to hold back, but still it feels as if she's trying to crawl inside of him. He has no control except to try pulling her deeper in. He's coming in waves now, and she graciously accommodates each swell and crash with a variance of rhythm as if they're dancing a tango, trading speed for intensity and back again.

He wonders if Velorek taught her that or if it's something she's always wanted to try out. When you're fucked senseless by a Peacekeeper, you're being fucked senseless by every Peacekeeper she's ever recreated with. He breathlessly laughs as another one goes through him, imagining old C. Everett Koop with his Amish beard trying to work this scenario into his safe sex handbook.

Their first time in the Ancients' lab was just a little light xenophilia, nothing to even mention compared to this. This is mindblowing beyond all the "arbitrary limitations" he'd tried to keep hold of, her dick pounding into him like a force of nature, tearing through his prejudices like a tornado through a trailer park, the pure joy of being well-plowed making matchsticks of the careful fences he'd built around his heterosexuality.

Turns out those fences were protecting him from something good. And damn, can this girl fuck.

She stills and smiles down at him, a softer smile this time with her eyes unnaturally bright and her body glazed in sweat. He'll be amazed if she lasts much longer. Before he knows it she's reared back and rolled him over. The position is awkwardly negotiated, and he ends up flat on his belly with his legs together. He works to rise onto his knees but she pushes him down, angles his hips up at a seemingly impossible angle and presses the head of her cock against his swollen lips.

She's straddling him now as she resolutely buries herself inside of him. It's a strange convergence of bodies, a collapsed doggy-style that must feel deep and tight for her, because from his point of view he's trapped between a cock and a hard place. She thrusts just hard enough to rock him on the mattress and the pressure sharpens.

"Aeryn," he pants, grabbing at the forearm planted by his shoulder, "I'm sorry but, we gotta take a break..."

She slows, but it only ratchets up the intensity, murmuring as she chafes his neck and ear, "Why would we do that?"

He lets the urgency into his voice and squirms underneath her bulk. "Because I have to pee."

"Are you sure about that?" She laughs, and her deep rocking slowly regains speed.

Now that she mentions it, he isn't too sure. His previous research had confirmed a similar plumbing quirk of being unable to urinate for a good while afterward. And the more he explores the sensation, sharp and deep and transparent as diamond, the more it crosswires his brain to the point where he doesn't remember what the hell his problem was, all he knows is that something big is going to break, that it might be him, and that he wants to see the pieces fly.

She's losing her finesse, but each straightforward stroke brings it closer, and soon he's gripping her arm and the edge of the mattress and wondering if he'll split open at the belly or if the top of his head will fly off first.

His knees are flexed back, toes curled into impossible shapes and digging into the driving muscle of her behind as she covers him and plows into him, the last shreds of her control audible in the hissing of breath through clenched teeth and right into his ear. His back is arched, every muscle and nerve drawing tighter to the center where she's drilling so deep and strong she's going to hit lava.

The sounds he's making in response defy description, he's been driven out of rational thought and exists solely as something bursting open in ecstasy.

Right now.

She loses it, finally, before he goes mad completely, her headlong rush into him collapsing into a few desperate strokes as she makes noises like a steam train coming into the station.

She falls limp, still inside him but her body off to one side, and for a long time everything is still but for their gasping lungs.

His ears aren't the only thing ringing like a bell. He may never move again. He looks through the mess of black hair to catch her weirdly blue eyes. "You know...sometime...you're going to have to pull out."

She lowers an awkward arm to clear the hair from his view. "And?"

"Hypersensitive." He chuckles and clenches around her, riding out his own personal quiver of pleasure to see her jerk with over-stimulation.

He can't help but do it again until she drags herself out with a shudder. "You're a bastard."

"And you're next."

She grins and lazily scratches her chest, the scritchy sound softer than he's used to hearing because as close as they are, it's still farther away.

He pushes himself up, muscles shaking. His thighs are slick and the wet spot on the mattress is humbling. Aeryn's sprawled out on her back, unmoving as he cleans himself up and tames an astounding case of sex-hair. He puts it back into a ponytail, out of the way.

He's catching a second wind, physically and erotically, and decides that intrepid exploration is the theme for the day. She doesn't move when he reaches under the bed and pulls out a carved wooden box. In a strange double-vision he can feel the buzzed lassitude that's pinning her out, and he can't help wanting to break through that calm the same way she's broken him.

The words come out on an exhalation, her eyes still closed. "What are you doing?"


THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED NINE
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ON MY SPINE

"I knew a girl once," he picks out the rest of the flat capsules, exhausting the meagre supply she'd sent along with her toy the night before, "who studied anatomy." He crawls onto the bed between her thighs, dragging his ponytail along her skin and eliciting the ghost of a twitch. "And not just in class."

He draws the tips of his breasts up her body and settles down the kiss her slow and sweet on the mouth, the neck. He finds that he can almost feel the firing of her nerves, and he chases it like sheet lightning and makes her shiver and wakes her up.

He cups her balls in his right hand, rolling and massaging, fondling the smooth creases of thigh, pressing against the seam behind. Delving into the deepest shade, heading to where the sun don't shine. The lubes are buried in his left, giving up their chill. He's never done this to himself, only let it be done twice (by a trained pre-med hornball, before she broke his heart), but he's pretty confident he can conduct this ride even if she doesn't keep her head and arms in the car at all times.

He knows she's relaxed and aroused at the same time, her embrace firm but undemanding. He scoots lower for better leverage, kissing the bare spots of her hairy belly, barely nudging the dry velvet skin of her cock.

Yeah, it's her turn alright.

His fingers are slim and his hands strong--hell Aeryn's always been at least as strong as he is, but he's looking to coax, not pillage. The beds of his nails are long and curved, but they don't extend into white more than a millimeter.

This body is more ambidextrous than he's used to but he's figured out how to work with it. He doesn't over-think, just lets his left hand stash the capsules in a tangle of bed sheet, pop one open and press the glistening gel out onto the fingers of his right.

She hums with enthusiasm and grabs a pillow, settling her head back on it as she spreads her thighs wide. She's perceptive of his intent, and clearly receptive. It flusters him.

He dips his head and runs his tongue up the underside of her wakening cock, off-balance but wanting to cover it.

Considering how a good fucking can brighten a girl's day, he can't blame her for being eager, can he? She tastes and smells like him, girly sharp and sweet, and he leisurely licks at the soft pliant flesh of her firming cock.

Cocksucker. He's a cocksucker now, isn't he? But does it really apply if the dick he's licking tastes like a girl and belongs to one as well? He's just fucked his own cock, why get squeamish over a kiss?

Why get squeamish over anything at this point? She's waiting for you to blow her mind like she just blew yours. Pony up, cowboy.

She lightly brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and the gesture affects him. He lays his cheek on the smooth skin of her inner thigh and slips those slim fingers between the cheeks of her ass. The dimple flexes against his approach.

She breathes and relaxes, and the penetration is remarkably easy, accomplished with a happy sigh on her part. There's a strong deja-vu as the tight slick heat around his finger transforms his own sense of awkwardness into excitement.

He's inside her now, and if she's grooving on this, wait until he finds the on button. He works another finger in, the stronger longer middle one, and he begins looking in earnest, stroking lightly, absently caressing her balls in his other hand. He's listening somehow, but he's not finding it.

He draws the fingers out, thinking that maybe more lube will do the trick, but halfway through extraction her body jerks and her eyes fly open. "Uh!"

"Ohhh." And her cock goes rock hard within microts. "Huhh."

Ladies and gentleman, mesdames et messieurs, Damen und Herr, the on button. He flutters the pads of his fingers and stakes out the territory while she squirms and practices her Sebacean vowels.

With another flair of dexterity, he one-handedly snags another capsule and breaks it into his palm, then wraps that hand around her erection and settles into a focused rhythm.

He steers her to the outer reaches as if taking her on a Sunday drive, with only his two slim hands and his expertise. He knows exactly what every gasping whimper, every heave and twitch feel like. The power of it, the absolute certainty that he's giving her a tour de force ride, is exhilarating. She's drenched in sweat.

Judging by her cock (and how cool is it to have such a concrete barometer to work with for a change?) she's close to ignition.

He leans up toward her face, her eyes shut and her expression alternating between tight ecstasy and slack bliss. He slows down just a bit and murmurs, "Aeryn?"

Her arms are spread farther than her legs, her hands hooked under the mattress edge and gripping the bronze frame of the bed. Her answer is exhaled between huffs, "John?"

He keeps his pace deliberate, watches her sweat on the glorious edge for another moment more. She whimpers and bucks to urge him faster, thigh muscles trembling.

"Even as a big hairy guy, you're beautiful."

She tenses even more, calves rock hard in a way that he knows will lead to a charlie horse in the left one if he doesn't send her over the edge soon.

"Hold tight, sweetheart." He modifies the cock stroke first, tapping the ring of his fingers under the head in a light and unrelenting blur, balls jostling in their own merry ridiculous way. The solid lump of her prostate bears up against the deeper pressure of his fingers.

Her eyes pop open and she grabs his shoulder tight enough to bruise, her other arm straining against the bed frame for dear life.

She topples over the edge of orgasm so slowly, it's like watching a train speed off of a broken trestle bridge, car after car pitching into freefall. She bears down against his fingers, and he can feel the ejaculation working up from the very roots of her body, unfurling and spurting as she howls and roars.

He pins her down with his super Sebacean babe strength, hands slick, come in his hair and a gleeful smile plastered on his face.

Please wait until the ride has come to a complete stop before exiting the car. Thank you for riding the Happy Button and have a great d--

He shouts with the impact, wrenched from the place he'd just gotten used to and shoved back into one that would be more familiar if the aftershocks of orgasm weren't delineating the hand up his ass.

He lifts his head to find her draped between his thighs, dazed and messy like Lucy right after an adventure gone awry. His heart is pounding its way out of his chest, but it pauses to thump a little just for her.

"Zhaan..." Considering how well-used and gloriously shattered he feels, he's impressed she can remember anyone's name. "Zhaan must have gotten tired of waiting."

"Aeryn?"

She tracks his voice unsteadily and meets his eyes.

"Could you, ahh...?"

"Oh! Right." She disengages and sits back on her knees, giving him room to find a more graceful position. "I'm not sure the transfer worked right, I'm having trouble thinking."

"That's normal." He pulls her down next to him, but isn't surprised when she doesn't cuddle. "Your fuses will reset in a little while. Probably by the time I limp off to the shower."

She yawns and stretches out on her back, clearly enjoying her own skin. There are things he'll miss about that body, but he's glad to have his own big dog self back again.

Her voice is drowsy, unguarded, and he lets himself hope that she'll allow herself fall asleep right here. "I remember you asking me once if I were the female of my species..."

"Yeah, well," he laughs, "I think that's been proven beyond a doubt." And seriously, when a girl can fuck like that, who cares?

She rolls onto her side and studies his face. "But it wouldn't really matter, would it? I could do that to you even better if I were male."

"I'm too tired to have this conversation. Ever."

She looks down at the sheet, but she hasn't really let go of the topic. "So...how do you do this to yourself, then?"

"I don't."

"Oh." It takes him a moment to realize the diffidence in her voice is sympathy. "I could look through the old guard quarters again--as a prison transport Moya was assigned a skeleton crew, but I'm sure that there's another phallus lying around somewhere--"

"No!" He blinks up at the ceiling and softens his tone. "Thank you, but no."

"Are you sure? Because I'm not even in there anymore and I still want to do that again--"

"I'm hungry. Are you hungry? I'm starving." And he thought he'd asked her awkward questions after the slap and tickle in not-quite-Sydney. "Why don't we get cleaned up and have a late snack?"

"Or we could frell again." The gleam in her eye would be warning enough, even if he didn't feel her hand creeping back past his balls.

He never did get to experiment with the fit of his head between her thighs. "Yeah, let's do that instead." It's good to be back in his own body, but he misses hers more than a little and he's not ready to see her go walking out the door just yet.

THIS OLD MAN, HE PLAYED TEN
HE PLAYED KNICK-KNACK ONCE AGAIN

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Fandom:  Farscape
Title:  Scientist, Astronaut, and Nymphomaniac: The nine lives of John Crichton
Author:  feldman   [email]   [website]
Details:  Standalone  |  NC-17  |  het  |  59k  |  07/01/04
Characters:  John, Aeryn
Pairings:  John/Aeryn
Summary:  Out of Their Minds AU. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
Disclaimer/Other:  Many thanks to Thea and Kernezelda for the beta and to FBF for loaning me the tourbook.
DISCLAIMER HAIKU:
Though I love them so
and they are fun to to play with
I do not own them
WARNING LIMERICK:
This story is written by feldman
(who curses like a longshoreman):
may have angst, slash or drugs
gallows humor or thugs
and/or sex scenes that mess up the linen

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