“Sex and Violence, Not Necessarily In That Order”
A Babylon 5 Story
Erotica: Garibaldi/Lochley
Copyright (C) 1998 by A. Manley Haight
A Blast Furnace Production
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or AOL Time Warner. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons over 21, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
Disclaimer: Lise Edgars and Garibaldi are not an item.
One of the B5 lists I used to sub to had an endless discussion about the sexual tension between Lochley and Garibaldi. I wrote this to shut them up.
“Mr. Garibaldi.”
“Captain,” was the terse, flat-eyed reply. He just sat there, looking at her for a long moment. She was looking at him first of course, and to be truthful, he wasn’t just sitting there. He was leaning forward slightly, slowly curling in one hand what her eyes told her was a fifty pound weight.
“Is it my imagination or are you in the officer’s gym?” Lochley hadn’t liked this man very much from day one, for loads of reasons beyond his insolence. Garibaldi looked up at her, his gray T-shirt conforming tightly to his upper body. His biceps bulged impressively with each curl — he had not stopped his exercise. God damn, he had the most intense blue eyes she had ever seen. They were like knives.
“I didn’t think Earthforce captains were prone to flights of imagination,” Garibaldi replied. “Delusions of grandeur maybe. And you get a special class at officer training school on How To Crawl Up Somebody’s Ass. Or so I’m told.”
“This gym is for Earthforce officer staff only,” Lochley said, “and frankly I’m getting a little tired of reminding you that you don’t work for Earthforce anymore.” The blue eyes razored into her, the man’s expression oddly neutral in spite of giving the impression of leashed violence.
“The President thought it was only fair that New Alliance personnel of rank should be allowed the use of the officer’s gym,” Garibaldi replied, “seeing as how we haven’t been able to get a building permit for the New Alliance officer’s gym and Gray Sector is just a little too close to the fusion reactor for anyone’s taste. Unless something opens up in Blue Ten I’d say we’re stuck with each other. Paperwork’s on your desk but if you insist you’ll have to throw my butt outta here yourself. Captain.”
It was his tone that was maddening. Arrogant because he knew he didn’t have to suck up to her or even follow her orders if he didn’t feel like it. Arrogant and smug. Oh, how he looked like he relished that smugness, like it was his favorite food and a warm fuck all rolled into one.
“You know something, Mr. Garibaldi,” Lochley said finally, standing there with her arms folded over her regulation workout gi. “I think I’m finally sick and tired of your mouth. We’re in a gym.” She gestured broadly. “And we’re even dressed for it. Why don’t we just have it out right here and get it over with?”
Garibaldi put the free weight down on the rack next to him with a hard clank, then looked at her speculatively.
“‘Scuse me?” he said.
“You heard me. You’ve been wanting to take a piece out of my hide from the first moment we met, and I’ve been dying to sock you in the mouth a second time. You’re not under my command. So come on, let’s duke it out instead of dancing around the issue. You got a problem with that, Garibaldi?”
Garibaldi stood up slowly, making his height fully apparent for the first time in their conversation. He cracked his knuckles one at a time.
“Nope. Hope you don’t think I’m going to go easy on you.”
“The last man who said that to me couldn’t sit down for three days,” Lochley said archly. That brought a grin from Garibaldi — a vicious, taunting expression. He walked away from her, onto the open floor, stretching carefully but keeping his eyes on her the entire time. He underwent a transformation right before her eyes, his smug restraint vanishing in the burning flame of a hunger to lash out at her in exactly the way she ached to teach him a lesson about why Thou Shalt Not Piss Off the Captain.
She was wary as she moved onto the mat with him. She was sharing the room suddenly with a fiery panther, the heated temper he kept bottled up most of the time showing through.
“You want a piece of me, Lochley?” he hissed, gesturing invitingly. “Huh? Come get some.”
He had reach on her, but she had speed. She had learned to take the fullest advantage of her stature by learning to kickbox, and intended to make him aware of that aspect of her training very shortly. This was probably immature in the extreme. At least, Sheridan would have thought so, and likely Ivanova, too.
But it had been a very long time since anybody had had the balls to fight Lochley in a grudge match, especially someone who looked like he could wipe the floor with her. It was a time-honored tradition in the Marines, she well knew, and she intended to prove to him that it was a time-honored tradition in her culture, as well, even though the Fleet services had long frowned on it. Marines never did know when to quit.
She had thought she would have the advantage of first strike while he tried to figure out how to approach her. She was wrong. His punch was like a hammer, but she had taken worse and from stronger men than Garibaldi. Surprised, she ducked to avoid his follow-up sweep and slammed a fist into his gut to knock the breath out of him. Then they went sprawling and she slipped out of his grasp to roll to her feet in time to take his hard rush to her midsection. They went down again with a yell of fury.
Ah, yes, a good old-fashioned brawl. She was enjoying herself now, wrestling him into holds that made even men like him growl in pain. He grew increasingly annoyed by her success at this, and finally managed to flip her hard onto her back in a fit of pique. She hit with a loud grunt to the sound of his snarl. She kicked him — he left himself wide open for it — and was rewarded by his round, savage cursing echoing off the gym walls.
There were, of course, other people in the gym. All activity but the fight between Captain Lochley and Sheridan’s Chief of Covert Operations had ceased, and a rapt audience was watching the display of raw, animal frenzy taking place in the center of the room. They were like wild lions fighting over some imagined slight, bloody and bruised after only a few minutes. Lochley was breathing hard to keep up with him — he seemed virtually inexhaustible. Sweat stained the collar and chest of his shirt darkly, his lip bloodied a couple of times already from her swift right hook. Damn, she punched like a pile driver. She could have given any of the gropos he knew a dental rearrangement in just a couple of minutes. And here she was, beating the tar out of him.
He laughed as they circled each other for a few heartbeats, and he had to rest his hands on his thighs for a moment. She was in little better shape. She was going to be sporting one hell of a shiner tomorrow, and he wouldn’t be too terribly surprised to see her walking funny, either. She’d taken the kick awfully well, he admitted with a certain amount of respect. Her hair was getting away from the tightly bound ponytail she’d arrived with, sweat matting it to her forehead. Her sharp, penetrating eyes looked like they wanted to rip his throat right out of his neck, and right now she was a far cry from the taut, hard-edged Captain who took every chance to give him a tongue-lashing. She was showing him her heart, the passion behind her command, the nameless force that drove her in every part of her life.
She was laughing, too, by the time they had taken so much out of each other that they could barely stand. She was bleeding onto the mat, a nasty cut over her eye dripping down the side of her face from one of his more brutal backhanded swings. She wiped the blood away every few seconds onto the sleeve of her gi, panting open-mouthed now.
“Had enough yet, Garibaldi?” she gasped. “Or do you want to wait until one of us is unconscious?”
“I don’t do that on the first date,” Garibaldi replied, breathing just as hard as she was. Sweat dripped from both of them, staining their clothes along with their smeared blood.
“Funny, I never thought you were the prudish type,” she shot back between heaving breaths.
“Well, if I’d known you were into the kinky stuff I would’ve brought my grandma’s old handcuffs,” Garibaldi teased with a growl. She took another swing at him as he finished the sentence, hoping to get him off-guard. It half-worked — he was extremely tired, and couldn’t completely avoid her fist. He tasted more blood as he straightened from the blow, licking his mouth.
“Just like a Marine to need some help in keeping it up,” she cackled tiredly. “What do you do, hook the other end on your dogtags?”
“At least mine reaches that far,” Garibaldi said. “You Fleeters have to wrap your ass around a ship to compensate for your lack of dick.”
Gender equality didn’t seem to matter much in the co-ed Earthforce military. The whole thing was still about who had balls and whose dick was the longest.
“And who rescues your sorry butt when you get your cajones blown off, eh?” she wondered grinning.
“Better to have had a dick and lost it than to never have had one at all. Oh, I’m sorry, you let them cut yours off when you submitted your papers to join the Fleet. My mistake.”
“Is that a pocketknife in your trousers or are you just happy to see me?” Lochley inquired sweetly.
“Awright, somebody’s gonna have to get unconscious before I kill ya,” Garibaldi promised in a growl.
“Only if I get to spank you with that piece of lumber you’ve got on your shoulder, there, Mikey,” Lochley laughed and lunged at him.
“Hey!” he roared after they went sprawling across the floor again and he had acquired a new bruise on his ribs. “Nobody calls me Mikey and gets away with it, dammit!”
They were panting too hard to talk by the time they discovered they couldn’t stand up anymore, and breathing too hard to do a proper job of anything even remotely resembling a fight. They were leaning on each other, Garibaldi’s hands on her shoulders, holding her up. Or was he holding himself up? He couldn’t tell. Lochley had both hands draped over his arms.
“You…are…so…fucked up,” Garibaldi gasped finally, licking blood from his mouth again.
“So…are you…Garibaldi,” Lochley said. “But I’m not…unconscious. S’gotta…count…for something.”
“You wanna…call it a…draw?” he wondered.
“Only if…you let me…leave here…without saying I took…advantage of you…in a…delicate state.”
“Deal.”
They helped each other up and limped out of the gym toward the showers.
Sheridan’s eyes widened the next time he saw Garibaldi.”What in the seven gates of Hell happened to you?” he asked, leaning to one side a little to get a better look at the savage bruise on Garibaldi’s face. It was not the only such mark he could see on the man’s face and neck. His Chief of Covert Operations was limping, too, he noted.
“Captain Lochley and I got into an argument yesterday about whose shampoo is better,” Garibaldi said deadpan. “Personally I think jojoba is way overrated.” Sheridan gave him his best ‘don’t start with me’ look and Garibaldi lifted his chin. “None of your business, sir. It was a personal matter and we settled it on our own time.”
Sheridan looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.
“As you wish.” Sheridan paused. “Does she look as bad as you do?” Garibaldi fought down a smile, his eyes twinkling.
“I really wouldn’t know, sir. Most of the places I kicked her were covered.”
“I see.”
They conducted their business and Garibaldi left to conduct his duties to the New Alliance.
The command staff in C&C had nothing to say on the subject of Lochley’s appearance, although she could feel their eyes on her all day. Dr. Franklin had been somewhat more forward in his comments, acerbically remarking that she should be a little more careful who she picked fights with, staying preferably within people who weren’t six foot four ex-Marines who weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. She had then asked him if Garibaldi had come in yet to be treated. Franklin had said no, and Lochley had wryly suggested that he see the other victim before making that assertion.She wished to God she had been able to see the look on Franklin’s face when Garibaldi had shown up.
Five days went by. The bruises healed except for pale shadows and other aches and pain began to fade. Lochley was finally able to wash her face without encountering stitches and a dermal patch over her eye. Garibaldi was able to sit down without flinching. When they ran into each other, they spoke civilly and professionally, as if nothing had happened, and much of the tension between them was gone.It had been replaced, however, with some other kind of guarded tautness. Garibaldi could feel himself wind tight like a steel cable whenever she came to see him unannounced. Lochley discovered she was always shaking after such meetings, as if a powerful adrenaline rush had flooded her body. It had sometimes been a struggle to control the break in her voice at such moments. He never said anything about it, but she could see the flicker in his eyes. He noticed. He noticed everything…and his summer blue stare never wavered from her face when she talked.
On the fifth day, Garibaldi stretched out on his couch to watch a vid. He had to settle himself carefully since his hip still ached a bit, but it was a great relief to be mostly pain-free for the first time in almost a week. He was nursing a big glass of grapefruit juice, which survived reconstitution better than most, and had just shoved a pillow behind his head when the door signaled.He sighed, and rolled half onto his side to put the juice on the table behind his head. Flopping back onto the couch, he closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that whoever came in wouldn’t talk too loud. He was tired.
“Come.”
It was Captain Lochley, in uniform, with her hands folded behind her back stiffly. She entered slowly, her piercing eyes taking him and the room in quickly as the door closed. Garibaldi grinned in spite of himself, but didn’t move from his lounging position.
“Hey, Captain. I heard theta squadron is taking bets on whether you got nailed in the crotch — like they could ever prove it, and I’ll never tell.”
“I’m better now, thank you for asking,” she said dryly. Her amusement faltered awkwardly. “Hey, um, I just wanted to, uh, apologize for being a jackass. We got off on the wrong foot and obviously we’re both a little too paranoid for our own good. So I figure we can call it even and start over, if that’s okay by you.”
“Sure,” Garibaldi said casually.
“I’m sorry I kicked you in the — ”
“Yeah,” Garibaldi said, waving his hand. “S’okay. Look, I’m sorry I tried to pull out your — ”
“Uh huh, no problem. Oh, um, I’m also sorry about the — ”
“Franklin says he can graft me a couple more,” Garibaldi reassured her.
“Oh. Good.”
“So is that all you came for?” he wondered. “To apologize for being Fleet?” He grinned at her glare.
“Ha ha,” she said.
“If it makes you feel any better, Franklin’s jaw hit the floor when I went to medlab that night. Apparently you’d been there already. You know, you left teeth marks on my wrist. I don’t think Franklin would’ve even believed what had happened except that I had a fractured rib.” Lochley rolled her eyes.
“Great. Now he thinks I’m into S&M, too. That’s all I need.”
“He can think I’m a cross-dressing gorilla for all I care,” Garibaldi said with a gesture that was like swatting a nonexistent fly. She’d never seen him like this before — sprawled out on his back, relaxed, the timbre of his voice low and drawling. He had a sleepy, watchful expression, like a half-dozing lion on the savanna.
“You know, Garibaldi,” Lochley said after a moment, “I couldn’t help noticing during our little tiff that you had a raging boner in your trousers.”
“Yeah,” Garibaldi said in a low voice, his fierce, cerulean eyes never leaving hers, “well I couldn’t help noticing that you were starin’ at it.” She recognized his expression suddenly — it was exactly what she was feeling in her own gut. She wondered for an instant if her own face were as naked to him. She did know one thing. She had no more self-control left, and when she started to move toward him, she saw that he didn’t, either.
He was already sitting up, reaching out for her, when she dropped one knee onto the couch between his legs and grabbed his face to kiss him hard and deep. He tried to get up, to take her with him to their feet so he could hold her like he really wanted to, but she shoved him back into the couch and climbed into his lap. She didn’t merely straddle his legs, but sat down on his quickly hardening cock and rubbed her warm sex against it through their clothes. Garibaldi groaned hungrily, his arms around her, as she bruised his mouth with her starving kisses.
Oh, God, she tasted so good. Garibaldi rubbed his hands across her back, down over her rump and her legs, lost in the heat of her mouth. He had a savage hard on in just a few more breaths, her crotch grinding against it deliciously. He wanted to laugh with the sheer playful abandon of this. She was going to screw him like a tiger and that was exactly what he wanted right now.
She loved his growl, an animal sound from deep in his throat. There was nothing tender about this, nothing gentle or sensitive. She had been right about the kind of man he was. He was honest and compassionate and decent, but not now, not here like this when they both understood what was going on. He was fully capable of surrendering to the brutality of rutting. She loved men like that, loved it in herself, and she couldn’t turn away from the sight of it in his sky blue eyes.
He was a powerful man. She could feel his strength in the way his big hands roamed over her body, clawing over the back of the belt on her uniform trousers and sending a hot ripple up her spine as his nails gouged over her buttocks. His cock was an iron rod under her sex where she pushed against it, trying to get as close to his body as she could with clothes between them.
Lochley broke the kiss to look at him, to see what he would tell her with his eyes. They were both breathing hard and his mouth was open slightly, teeth bared in a soft prelude to a snarl. He licked his lips, holding her gaze. She shivered at what she saw in his face — a man’s intelligence mingled with animal desire. It was the thinking beast that most provoked her.
“Your bruises are starting to fade,” she growled. “How about I give you a couple more?” She bent down, teeth rasping down his neck, and bit him hard.
He gave a cry, only partly of pain. The rest was lust, pure and bright, the sound flashing into her belly with fire. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, and the next time he drew a breath, he started to tremble. She let go of his throat and drew her open mouth up across his jaw and over his mouth again, licking at his lips until he parted them to touch his tongue to her own, tasting her.
She couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t stand the lure of him, and she struggled swiftly out of her uniform jacket, still kissing him slowly. She shrugged out of it, tossing it toward the chair behind her. His hands joined hers, shoving off her snow white shirt as the snaps popped quietly. He worked on her bra as she spread his own shirt open, forcing him to lean forward to get it off.
Garibaldi tried to follow her again when she got up to strip her trousers and panties off, and she put a forbidding hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. They were still for a heartbeat, and then Garibaldi leaned back slightly to let her finish, watching with ravenous eyes. Naked, she knelt over his knees to unbuckle his trousers quickly. He raised his hips to let her drag them off, his boxers too, baring his muscular thighs and hard, thick cock. She’d seen the outline of it in his pants in the gym, every inch of it making her shudder.
She growled softly, dangerously, as she climbed back in his lap, her hands on his shoulders. He slid his hands over her hips, holding her, marveling at her clean, fierce musculature and her round, smooth breasts so close to his mouth. She didn’t give him a chance to think, getting close to him, her belly to his chest, and then she was taking his cock inside her. Hot, wet tightness engulfed him and he gave a strangled gasp, hands clawing into her flanks.
It was slow, and warm, and she held his eyes, her jaw clenched, loving every breath and heartbeat of this raw pleasure. He didn’t look away, his own breaths coming in hard, deep pants through his teeth. He was halfway in when he couldn’t bear to be silent anymore and he threw his head back with a snarl and a curse. He gasped affirmations of pleasure and need, his entire body pulled taut as she tormented them both with the slow impalement.
Lochley gritted her teeth and drove the rest of the way down onto him, taking him to the root in a flare of pain and sweetness. He was very big, stretching her deliciously, but his shout of ecstasy was worth it. She chuckled breathlessly, and started to ride him, slow and easy.
When she began to slide up and down on his cock, Garibaldi felt like his blood had caught fire. He started to swear and beg in gasping, incoherent moans, holding her, astonished and desperate. He needed to thrust, his body screaming to lay her down on the floor and screw her hard. But she held him there on the couch with the sheer intensity of what she was doing, savoring his steel-hard cock, caressing his face and neck with short nails that left red marks on his skin. Her eyes held the madness of deprivation and appetite, the steel of experience. Her voice held a terrible, magnificent control and restraint. This could have been over a long time ago, quick and simple on the floor. She wouldn’t let him have such an easy resolution, and he loved her for it.
On the next downstroke he felt like he’d lost his mind, reaching up to bury his fingers in her hair and pull her down to him blindly so he could suck on her neck and kiss her throat passionately. She was so warm, her flesh branding him everywhere they touched, the sound of her voice like a sweet blade in his gut.
“Jesus, fuck me,” he breathed against her breast, suckling her skin hungrily and tasting her salty sweat. “Fuck me good, come on, Captain, lemme see you lose it for me.”
“You might…just get your wish, Garibaldi,” she gasped, her voice strained. Her thighs were trembling with the struggle to keep her pace even and not buck up and down on him as her body begged her to. When she looked down into his eyes, he saw her climax rising, spilling over, and she gave a soft, hard cry. She kept riding him slowly, her sex clipping and pulsing around his cock, her nails drawing blood on his shoulders. He growled and held her close, devouring the sight and scent and feel of her release.
With a rough sigh, she shook herself all over, gulping to breathe. Still moving on him gently, she pulled almost all the way off of him so she could relish the broad head of his cock.
“Better tell me if you get too close,” she purred, nipping his nose. “We don’t want to wear you out too fast, do we?”
“Oh, I get really cranky if I don’t have at least two,” Garibaldi hissed. “And trust me, you don’t want me to get cranky.” He seized her hips bruisingly and pulled her down onto him at the same time he shoved upwards. He sheathed himself all the way in a single stroke, grunting hard with the effort. Lochley whimpered against his mouth as she kissed him again. She had to break away when he started to fuck her. He insisted on setting his own pace this time. “Don’t stop me,” he groaned, half a plea, half a threat. “I have to. Just let me. God damn you’re incredible, oh God I feel like I’m never gonna stop once I start coming.”
“You don’t tease yourself nearly enough, Garibaldi,” Lochley said through a hard grin as she tore out of his embrace, getting to her feet. “Come on, take it, Marine, work for it.” Garibaldi snarled and lunged at her.
He grabbed her before she could enter the bedroom, pushing her up against the wall as if to frisk her. She stayed there, hands on the bulkhead, panting, for the brief moment it took for him to slide his hands around her hips and plunge into her from behind, bending his knees a little bit to do it. It took strength, and he grunted softly, fucking her as deep as he could go, desperate for the release.
“Christ,” Lochley gasped, her fingers clawing into the wall, pushing back against his thrusts with animal need.
“Oh yeah, got you now, Captain. Gonna come, gonna do it oh yeah!” He bucked hard, sharply, and gave a raucous yell of relief and playful joy. He exploded into her, long, hard pulses of sweet release, his hips pushing while he laughed. He had barely finished before slipping out of her again and straightening to press up against her back. She could feel his damp cock slick against her buttocks, still throbbing softly.
“Come on,” he whispered, breathless. “Again please ” They went down on the bed in a tangle, him on top. He was rough — he couldn’t help it — moving her thigh with his hand and loving how she virtually wrapped herself around him as he sheathed his cock in her again. He went deep this time, so sweetly deep, and gave a growling sigh of satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he purred, “oh man, I love this.” He bucked, her cry of delight sending a shiver up his back.
They coupled savagely this time, rolling around on the bed, laughing, panting, tasting sweat and fire and trust and madness. She was on her belly the second time he made her hold still for a wild, determined fucking, wanting the second release he knew he could have, hoping for a third. She wailed and howled only seconds into it, writhing beneath him. The sight of it burned him and he let go into her with a violence that made him feel a twinge of fear deep in his belly. He heard his own voice thunder in the room, a scream of mastery, and he heard her laugh.
The third time she was in his lap again, on the bed, her sweat-dampened brow pressed against his as they moved slowly, erotically, savoring a sweet tickle that had made itself known in their throats and guts. His hands were slick on her hips, sweat dripping from his chin, pooling in the hollow of her throat, and the fire came for them together. He kissed under her jaw when he came, grunting quietly. She answered with a hard shudder and his name whispered close to his ear.
He lay down on his back, with her on top of him, and gave a long, low, rumbling sigh. Lochley put her head down at the base of his throat, his sweat warm and damp against her cheek. They fell asleep, still coupled, so weak they couldn’t even move to pull the blankets over themselves.
The next morning, Sheridan stopped short when he entered the mess hall and saw Lochley and Garibaldi sitting at a table together. They were giggling and muttering to each other, obviously trying not to be overheard by the entire room. Sheridan noted that several other people were in approximately his own state of shock that these two would be friendly to each other, much less
this friendly. He steeled himself after another moment and walked toward them with his breakfast tray.”Mind if I join you two?” he asked, trying to sound casual. It was a reasonable request — the mess was pretty full. Garibaldi gestured widely.
“Hey, sure, go ahead, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Captain Lochley said. Her face and tone were perfectly even, but Sheridan had the distinct impression she was trying desperately not to burst out laughing.
“You two certainly look happy this morning. Mind if I ask who kicked whose butt yesterday?” Sheridan said wryly, sipping his coffee.
Garibaldi broke out in a big, stupid grin, startling Sheridan. Lochley rolled her eyes and went back to her breakfast.
“I’m going to kick his butt if he doesn’t stop talking about Tex Avery,” she muttered.
“Oh yeah,” Garibaldi snorted. “You and which Minbari warcruiser?”
“I don’t need no stinking warcruiser to kick your ass,” Lochley said deadpan, chewing. Sheridan stared at her.
“You’re just saying that because you know you’ll never get a chance to prove it,” Garibaldi shot back, leaning back in his chair with feigned disinterest.
“Only because you don’t have the balls to sucker punch me when you had the chance. Pardon my language, Mr. President.”
Sheridan watched in silence, as if at a tennis match, eating mindlessly and trying to figure out whether or not what was going on was a Good Thing or a Bad Thing. He finished his breakfast before he arrived at any conclusion, and left the mess hall thoroughly confused. Their rising voices followed him out, and he caught the beginnings of their hysterical, boisterous laughter before getting out of earshot. Sheridan shook his head and muttered to himself all the way to his office.
The End
“The Bearing of an Officer”
A Babylon 5 Story
A Blast Furnace Production
Copyright (C) 1997 by A. Manley Haight
Rating: NC-17
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or AOL Time Warner. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons of legal age for viewing sexually explicit material in areas where such viewing is legal, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
Ivanova knew when she woke up that she was dangerous today. It wasn’t the kind of danger that would get anybody killed, not the kind that would make her succumb to the nightmares and death she had endured in her lifetime. It was the kind that made her feel like she could take on the seventh fleet with her bare hands. She was very awake, with a clarity that seemed very animal, excruciatingly aware of the scent of her quarters and of a desire for something to own, to consume.
She knew what it was the instant she saw Commander Sinclair that day. It was in the officer’s gym late that morning. She had seen him there on other occasions, had sometimes even worked out with him and they had talked casually. They were good friends by now, but she usually left him alone in the gym to try to keep a more professional distance.What drew her over to him today was that animal quality in her chest, that seemed to make her breaths labored even though she had never been more fantastically conscious of breathing. He was doing sit-ups on an inclined bench, and she leaned against the machine, arms folded, looking down the plane of his body with unashamed openness. He noticed her presence but didn’t pause in his routine, acknowledging her with a curious flicker in his eyes as he pushed himself.
His gray gym shirt was damp with sweat, the edge of the fabric riding up on his stomach to bare his navel and an inch or two of darkly-haired, muscled flesh. There was a sheen of sweat on him there, too, darkening the waistband of his loose, drawstring pants. She had a sudden, vivid sensory image of the musky scent of his cock and balls trapped inside sweat-dampened briefs. His shirt was the short-sleeved kind, fabric spread by the hard bulge of his biceps where he had both hands laced behind his head. She had never noticed the beauty of the lines of his arms and hands before, veined muscles standing out, masculine strength obvious in every movement. She watched him without embarrassment, praising him just by the fact of her stark attention.
He was having more difficulty completing the sit-ups as time went on, growling to himself in an effort to squeeze one more out of his aching, tired body. His final sit-up seemed to be some titanic struggle for the fate of the galaxy, and when he finished it, he let himself fall back on the inclined bench with a grunt.
“Two hundred and forty-seven,” he panted. “Pathetic. I used to be able to do three hundred without hardly breaking a sweat.”
“Was that before or after you won the IronMan Universe championship?” Ivanova asked wryly. Sinclair chuckled and accepted her offer of her hand to help him up from the bench. His hand closed around her bare forearm, grip strong. His own arm was slick with perspiration where she held him, dark hair coarse against her fingers. He let his legs drop to the floor, straddling the bench for just a moment, and she caught the sight of his genitals in sharp relief against the crotch of his sweats before he got up.
“Did you just finish?” he asked, taking in her own gym clothes. She nodded, watching him wipe his face with his towel.
“Figured I would come over and make fun of you,” she said mischievously. “Watch you grunt and sweat for a while and take pride in being able to kick the ass of a man who weighs sixty-five pounds more than I do.”
“Since when can you kick my ass?” he said with a grin. She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Want me to try in about ten minutes?”
“I’d say you were on, if I weren’t so tired,” he said, jerking his head slightly to get her to follow him as he walked across the gym toward the locker room.
“That’s the best time,” she said, and he laughed. They reached the entrance to the locker room and he paused.
“I’m going to shower and get out of here,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Care to join me for both?” The locker room showers were technically mixed gender, as most facilities in Earthforce were, since it had been demonstrated for over a hundred years that military personnel were capable of the professionalism necessary. It was frankly more convenient and less expensive for the soldiers to mingle in all aspects of their lives. Most of the personnel on the station had voluntarily segregated, however, since the environment was less rigidly military than most Earthforce installations, and it was peacetime. Ivanova looked at him for a moment, her arched eyebrow expressing a decidedly indeterminate attitude. Then she lifted a finger indicating for him to wait, and disappeared into the back room where her stuff was.
He was still there, waiting with his arms folded, when she came back. There was a smile in his amber eyes that didn’t reach his mouth, and she fully understood the seriousness of this. He turned and she followed her commanding officer into the other side of the empty locker room with her bag slung over her shoulder. He stopped silently at one of the lockers along the low, hardwood benches. His thumbprint was enough to open it and he removed what they would need to bathe. His gaze, when he looked at her, was open and unguarded, one of the first such expressions she had ever seen on his face. It did not surprise her — not now. She put her bag down on the wood bench and kicked her shoes off.
If they had been serving together in wartime, this would be a familiar act between them, as well as their fellow troops. The bond formed among mixed-gender soldiers could be especially powerful, when there was so much trust in the fighting and so much intimacy in the living situation. It required that the people be intelligent and mature, which they were, and which all Earthforce soldiers had to be. She had never served with him before, and had never been forced to live within a few feet of him aboard a front lines cruiser, or a deep space combat destroyer. They had been deprived of the kind of relationship that was properly theirs.
This was a ritual, one that civilians would never understand and had mocked and derided for almost as long as it had been part of the life of a soldier in Earthforce. She watched Sinclair peel his gray shirt off, baring his sweat-slicked chest and shoulders. She was curious to see him, the curiosity of someone who works closely with a fellow warrior and wonders how the body reflects the mind. This was a barter, and Ivanova reached back to pull her own shirt off, offering herself to him to see in the hope that she would reflect the commitment and strength that she had come to know under his command.
Sinclair paused to watch her, his eyes dark and warm. It was not the lewd gawking of a man who wanted to get laid. It was a profound appreciation for her body as an instrument of war, one that might save his life with its effort, one that honored him with its existence in his command. It was kept honed by a will and intelligence that he respected deeply, behind pale gray eyes that were appraising him in a similar fashion.
He had the body of an officer, nearly the archetype of one. She drank in the sight of his masculine power, a soldier’s bearing in his stance, a man’s identity starkly represented in the half-swelled cock between his thighs, the powerful lines of his muscular legs down to feet that she wanted to touch and rub.
“Ready?” he asked when they were both naked. His voice was like warm water, polished granite and honey, suggesting nothing with respect to the future, but revealing completely the truth of what they were doing. She nodded, all the answer required of her, and she followed him back into the Earthforce gray and blue tiled shower room. His back was a magnificence, muscled like bronze Roman sculpture. She couldn’t take her eyes off his buttocks and calves. They were the elite, the warriors who died for home and family and nation, who knew the upper limits of the human mind and spirit and body. Was it the secret of the human soul? To know oneself so well just in the sight of another? To taste truth in the sacredness of what she and Sinclair were doing?
Sinclair got to the showers first, and walked down the row a little ways to find one in the middle where they could have a reasonable amount of privacy if other people came in to use the showers. He leaned into the tiled stall to turn the water on, and put soap and shampoo within reach. Ivanova had carried towels, and she put them down on the bench outside the wall.
“Me first,” she said, holding his eyes as she stepped into the tiled enclosure. She happened to pass through the stream from the showerhead, and Sinclair watched her possessively as the water splashed over her shoulder and neck, accepting the cold Russian stare she gave him. She moved in a half-circle around him, as if stalking him in the small space. He took the soap in both hands and brought it to his nose for a moment, savoring the familiar scent which he usually used — and with which he was about to cover her. He was her commanding officer, her superior in a relationship which defined them as people, allowed them to survive, imposed order and meaning on their lives. They valued it, respected the structure that gave them a way to explore themselves and their world.
Sinclair lathered his hands slowly, covering every part of his palms and fingers with it, as Ivanova held her hair back with one hand and stood under the shower spray. She came forward after a moment but hadn’t soaped her own hands. Her eyes were fixed on some part of him, on his face. No, his throat. He reached out for her but she grabbed his wrist, delaying the contact so she could finish what had so fiercely moved her. He would allow any scrutiny she made of him now, and he held still as she moved close to taste the sweat on his chin, under his jaw, licking voraciously for just a heartbeat. Then she pulled away and let go of his hand. There was no shame in her face, no fear or specific curiosity or lust, just the intense, powerful desire to know him.
It was essentially incidental that her breast was near where he touched her. It was the touch itself upon which he was concentrating, wanting to know her body, to know her soul through it, to earn her trust through his respect. He ran his palm over her shoulder, leaving the white froth of the soap behind. He touched her neck, held her jaw between both hands for a moment, washing her, lifting her head up to him slightly. She had a soldier’s hard body, lithe musculature taut and well-defined. It was part of his service to her, his washing of her body, cleansing it as he would have washed the enemy’s blood from her skin, washed the stench of war and fear from her memory. She would do no less for him. Her hands were on his flanks right now, still. He knew she felt uncomfortable because she was not washing him with them yet. A strange urge that was, born deep into them as if they had always been soldiers, from the dawn of time.
He spread soap over her breasts, running his fingers over her nipples just long enough to rub lather there. He was meditative about it, attentive, his entire consciousness here doing this. She felt nothing vulgar in his hands, felt nothing as shallow as animal stimulation when his thumb slid over one of her nipples. She felt a Commander’s respect, an officer’s pride, a man’s whole mind and heart and spirit offered up for her consideration. It was the gleam of intelligence in his amber eyes that made her shudder, the authority in the set of his mouth that bound her to him.
Sinclair let his hands close around her arms, learning the shape of her hard muscles and massaging slowly as he washed her arms, her hands, and then touched her hips.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice sonorous and hot. She obeyed, and sighed pleasurably when his palms began to rub her back and shoulders. She felt him cover her with soap, attentive and careful, and then he started a slow, deep massage with his fingertips that almost made her knees buckle. She let out a heartfelt groan of appreciation and gratitude, and heard his soft, answering hum. He seemed to find every point of tension, every aching, knotted muscle in her back, gently rubbing it out with a gifted touch. He had sensitive hands, and through them she felt every nuance of his passion, his mastery, his pleasure in granting her this. She felt his warm compassion, his fierce love, quiet respect; emotions that had grown between them over the past few months. His firm caress unwound so much of the anxiety that had held her since she had come aboard Babylon 5, the nervousness of being under his command. God, he was a hero of the Line, recipient of the Silver Star for Valor and the Presidential Medal of Honor. And he was beautiful, beautiful in the soul she saw in his eyes, the strength and justice and fidelity. The touch of his hands on her back changed in the next moment, and she heard his voice unexpectedly soft, shushing her quietly. She realized she was leaning on the tile wall on both hands, crying with relief and joy and the unspent pain of years of agony in her personal and familial life.
She felt no shame in her Commander’s presence, no desire to hide her feelings from him. So she wept, and let it come openly until there was no more and she felt blissfully empty inside, free of the burden of it. He never embraced her, only kept up that slow massage on her back, his fingers hesitating over terrible knots in her shoulders, and then easing them with a careful, profoundly patient rubbing.
“I belong to you,” she said quietly, after the wracking sobs had gone and she stood there feeling his dominating presence behind her. His hands stopped moving for a pause of utter stillness in his body that lasted the space of a heartbeat. Then she heard and felt him move close to her, almost touching his body to hers.
“Yes,” he said next to her ear. “Will you claim me, also?” It was a plea, low and pure like a man’s honor. She turned around to look at him, and saw he held the soap ready for her in his hand.
“I’ll take as much as you’ll let me,” she said, inwardly astonished by the deep hunger in his jasper eyes, the faintly haunted desperation. She took the soap from him. “Turn around.” Sinclair put his hands on the wall like a man expecting to be frisked, his head bowed between his arms. Ivanova slathered his back with what she now realized was part of his own scent, part of that smell she so distinctly associated with him. His broad shoulders bulged with bunched muscles, his spine a smooth furrow down his back. She was not so interested in giving him a massage, but instead wanted to touch this fantastic body, the body of the man who commanded her. The result was, nevertheless, a very thorough exploration of the powerful line of his deltoids, the lean, reposed energy of his biceps and trapezius. His soap-slicked flesh was like satin, revealing every sinew and bone and muscle to her hands.
She had been treating the expanse of his back and shoulders as if it were the only part of him she could touch, and she violated the boundary of it suddenly by sliding her hands around the front of his lower torso just enough to soap the sides of his stomach and flanks, delighting in encompassing the shape of his body there. Sinclair exhaled a long, shaking breath, and then gasped when she pressed the back of her hand against the inside of one of his thighs. “Spread your legs,” she commanded, her voice rough. She saw the faint quiver in his thigh and buttock when he lifted his foot to comply.
Ivanova soaped her hands again carefully, making him wait. He was trembling, trying not to, muscles along his arms tensing. She could hardly believe he was letting her get this close to him, that he wanted her to know him so deeply. He flinched when she began to soap his rump firmly, aggressively, and she knew that he didn’t let people touch him there often, not even lovers. She intended to push him, and slid one hand between his muscular buttocks, deep between his legs. He tensed, gasping softly, and held her hand trapped for a moment before deliberately relaxing to allow her to wash him there.
Her hand slid forward to displace his testicles gently, soaping them, rubbing back over his perineum which was firm and swollen. Sinclair made a sound deep in his chest, not quite a groan, and his breath caught sharply as she found his anus with two fingers and slicked it with lather in passing. “Go wash your hair,” she said, feeling very affectionate toward him suddenly. He glanced at her as he turned to obey, and she saw laughter dancing in his eyes.
Sinclair went back over to the spray of the showerhead and stood facing her as he rinsed soap from his back and shoulders. His cock was fully, proudly erect. She smiled faintly, pleased by this eminently natural and relaxed expression of his enjoyment and trust. He looked straight at her as she approached him, and paused in rinsing the soap from his body. He went still, just letting the water stream over him, as she soaped her hands again. “Your hair,” she prodded, nodding at the shampoo with her chin.
Sinclair sighed heavily with pleasure as she soaped his chest, sliding palms and fingers over his nipples and he leaned his head back into the spray of water. She saw him smile for the first time, an involuntary, warm grin of delight and trust. She smiled in reply, covering his torso with soap lather in long, smooth caresses of her hands. She washed his stomach, dipping one finger into his navel, and continued down to bathe the shaft of his cock with lather. Sinclair bit his lip, his eyes closing briefly as his erection jerked in her hands, throbbing hard once. She covered his balls in white foam to finish what she had started by reaching between his legs a few minutes ago. Sinclair let out a hard, deep breath through his nose, lowering his head slightly to look at her fiercely, a half-grin on his mouth.
“Give me that,” he growled, taking the soap out of her hands. She watched him, fascinated by the grace of his movements as he lathered his hands again and then grasped her wrists firmly to take them away from his groin and put them on his shoulders. That delicious, velvet smile was still on his lips, his eyes bright with the gold of something fantastic and radiant building inside him. She saw in the smile that he enjoyed this discipline, this intense, slow ritual. When he reached down between her legs, she learned firsthand what it felt like to be known by a man who was born to leadership.
He cupped her sex at first, fingers spreading soap through the curly hair. The next time he slid his hand against her, his fingers slipped into the inner folds of her vulva. It was not an intentional attempt to pleasure her so much as a conscious exploration of her most private self, his mind perceiving the smooth, warm flesh against his hand, the way her clitoris fluttered when he stroked a fingertip over it gently. She was suddenly very hot, swollen in his palm, and he could feel wetness there that wasn’t from the shower.
He penetrated her slightly with the tip of his finger as he drew his hand back over the inner folds of her sex, and she hissed softly, allowing him the intimacy and acknowledging that he had earned the right to touch her so. He did not smile, his eyes intent on hers, enjoying the unspoken wolf’s growl he could see there.
Sinclair knelt on the tile floor, encircling her thigh with his hands as he spread more soap lather. She had muscles like steel, magnificently defined, and he had a savage mental image of what it would feel like to fight her, to feel the force of a kick from such powerful legs. He grinned.
Ivanova loved the sight of his pleasure, almost able to see what he was thinking in that moment. He stood up again, drawing his palms up her thighs smoothly. She had reached for the shampoo while he was occupied, and started to wash her hair, but his hands replaced hers eagerly, gently.
“Let me do that,” he murmured. He was looking at her with a kind of heat she had never seen before. It was the heat of the earth, of oil fire, smoldering coal, the kind of power that holds with strength and not with flame or suffocation. She had searched all her life for it in fellow soldiers, and then later in anyone, even a civilian. Now she saw it in the bronze eyes of her commanding officer as he reached behind her for the shampoo and slowly continued the task she had begun.
She took the soap again, realizing she had neglected parts of him. She couldn’t kneel to wash his legs and feet yet because he was working on her long hair, but she reached up to her shoulder level to lather his forearms. Sinclair smiled gently, and his eyes closed for a moment as she washed under his arms and down his ribs. He was still very hard, his erection prominent between them. She stroked it again, soaping his shaft and balls, and then his thighs once more. His skin was like silk on his penis, and she explored the length of it, learning every vein, probing where it joined his body, finding the ridge around the head. She cupped his balls again, discovering that they were heavy and full, pulled tight in a remarkably pleasant sensation against her palm. The slit at the tip was very wet, slicked with his own juices, and she dipped a finger into it curiously.
In the next slow breath, his penis was throbbing, pulsing in her hands, spurting thick, pearly come onto her belly, spilling it over her knuckles. Her Commander was gasping softly, almost whispering something that she couldn’t quite understand. It was a gentle, easy release, relieving him of tension that she knew had imprisoned him for many months. She rubbed his balls firmly, encouraging his relief, and he sighed low in his throat. He had held onto her hair during his climax, his arms resting on her shoulders, and now slid his fingers slowly through the long, shampoo-lathered strands.
“Good boy,” Ivanova said with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile of surprise. Sinclair used his hands to slowly wash his semen from her body. There was a look in his eyes that made her hold her breath, the same possessive need that she had felt in herself that morning. She put her hand on his face, and his eyes held hers silently. Oh God. She already was his. The moment of ownership was long past in their relationship, having passed them by so gently she had never noticed. Today they were merely acknowledging it, acting out the roles with conscious awareness.
She had not washed his feet and legs, and knelt to do so with pleasure and comprehension fluttering in her belly. He lifted his feet one at a time for her, looking down with a slightly furrowed brow. He didn’t completely understand why she undertook this particular act with such solemnity, but he felt the worship in her touch, her strong hands massaging him. He accepted it as he had everything else, with quiet delight and passion burning hidden in his heart. He knew his orgasm had surprised her. It had surprised him almost as much, the pleasure of her caress suddenly peaking and spilling over.
He helped her rinse off, with the same care and attention with which he had washed her, cupping his hands to spread water over her back. She made sure he was also rinsed off, taking advantage of the chance to run her hands over him again. He purred, and smiled at her for a moment before shutting the water off.
She wrapped a towel around him with a playful smirk, and he held her by the arms for a moment, fighting back the urge to just embrace her and kiss her hard. Then he grinned, the desire suppressed, and let her dry him off before helping her with her own towel.
She started to turn away to precede him out of the shower area, but his large hand clamped down around her arm, calmly but with utmost passion. She stopped and looked at him, and he bowed his head to her seriously.
“There’s more here than what we’ve done,” he said.
“I know,” she replied, and then she smiled very slightly, showing him the glimmering of the wolf he so ravenously sought in her. “Can I buy you lunch?”
“I’d love that.”
They went back to his locker and dressed in fresh clothes, he in a pair of tailored gray trousers and a white shirt that emphasized his virility in some stark, handsome way. He went still, his hands pausing on the buttons of his shirt, as he watched her get dressed. She noticed his intense gaze after a moment and smiled at him faintly.
“What?” she said. She had put on a bright red shirt over charcoal trousers with a casual black vest, and was holding her hair back to tie it in a ponytail. He almost answered her, but then smiled mischievously and finished buttoning his shirt.
“Where are we going for lunch?” he asked. She snorted a laugh.
“The Black Mountain Inn,” she said. “They make a terrific turkey sandwich and I’d kill for a good turkey sandwich right now.” She stamped into her boots determinedly, and Sinclair laughed. She ended up putting her own bag in his locker, and then they walked out of the gym together. There was no obvious intimacy about their manner except that they walked close together, letting their bodies touch as they moved.
Sinclair liked the smell of the Black Mountain Inn. They had devoted a good deal of their weight allotment on the station to hardwood timbers and wood paneling to cover the metal bulkheads and ceiling. The restaurant smelled like pine, and hot food and rich ale and beer. The host seated them at a private booth against one wall, where the wood scent was strong and a tawny beeswax candle burned in a glass holder on the hardwood table. A waiter quickly appeared to inquire if they wanted anything to drink. Sinclair ordered a dark beer, catching Ivanova’s raised eyebrow, and then she ordered one, too. Sinclair chuckled as the waiter left. “What?” she said. “You don’t think a woman can have a beer now and then?”
“No, not that,” he said. “I just don’t think stout goes that well with turkey.”
“Shows what you know,” she retorted with a laugh. “They make wood smoked turkey that’s to die for and it goes just fine with stout, thank you very much.”
“It’s your stomach.”
“God, is today my day or what?” she muttered, looking at the menu. “First I find a gorgeous, naked Earthforce Commander in my shower and now I find out the daily special is my favorite sandwich.” Sinclair chuckled. The waiter returned with their stout, addressing them both briefly as “sirs” in that manner peculiar to military inflection, and Sinclair nodded slightly in acceptance of being recognized.
“I had meant to ask you sooner,” he admitted to Ivanova in a low voice after the waiter had left. His tone was serious, bronze eyes flickering. “You’re the finest officer I have ever served with, and I am very honored to have you under my command.” He touched his glass to hers in a simple salute.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling, but deliberately, quietly emphasizing his title for her own pleasure. She enjoyed the formality of rank between them, and loved the heat in his eyes in response to her attitude. He kept looking at her, with a smile hovering on his lips, the attention fierce and personal. She looked back at him, not actually speaking but inquiring him with her expression.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured wonderingly, letting her hear the words of what was in his face. “Just the way you move and the way you smile. The color of your eyes. A Siberian wolf.” He hadn’t really meant to speak the last aloud, but once it left his throat, he realized she was deeply flattered by it. She put her pint of beer down on the table.
“You are absolutely the most delicious looking man I have ever seen,” she said. “And I love listening to you talk. Even if you were a civilian, I’d look twice. But you’re my CO, and you’re a good, noble, strong-willed man. I have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure I’m not dreaming it all up.”
“Noble?” he said thoughtfully.
“I don’t pick words at random,” she said. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment.
“You’re an aggressive woman,” he said, “even for Earthforce. Am I worthy of it?”
“Depends on how aggressive you can be,” she said, sipping her beer again.
“As aggressive as you like, Lieutenant Commander,” he said with a flash of those amber eyes. She felt her heart skip a beat. “Do you mind if I admit that I’m nervous?”
“I always make men nervous,” she said. “But you have the balls to admit it.” He grinned.
“In that case, I’m nervous, excited, and hungry,” he said in a rough voice. “And not just for my lunch, either.”
“Did I mention this place makes great desserts?” she teased and he laughed.
The waiter came to take their order, and Ivanova asked for the daily special, with a side of horseradish. Sinclair ordered a corned beef sandwich and Ivanova muttered something about how well it went with stout. The waiter smirked faintly but didn’t comment, and when he left, Sinclair gave Ivanova an exasperated look.
“I’m stealing some of your horseradish for that,” he promised.
Sinclair watched her eat, discovering that even his excitement was tempered and honed by what they had done in the showers in the gym. He had become aware of her immediately upon her arrival on the station as his new second in command — aware of her in some primal and simultaneously highly sublime way. She accepted his command without question, did not test him the way most of his subordinates did. He discovered she liked a firm hand in spite of that, and he worked very closely with her. Her respect was real and very deep. He loved it, relished it from her and strove to give her what she needed and expected of him. She responded with ever deepening trust and loyalty. He sensed it in the way she spoke to him, her unflinching, unhesitating obedience even in response to unusual orders. She had committed her soul to his service.The cementing of that bond today was soothing to him, formally defining the kind of relationship they had, allowing both of them to touch and worship the other the way that relationship had begun to demand. He’d felt it in the past weeks; the strain of something uncompleted, unanswered between them. He hadn’t known if she did, but her behavior today in approaching him in the gym only proved it. Lunch was intended to explore beyond that, into a realm that he wasn’t sure she would go with him. But she did, coaxing him, grinning, teasing him until he was half-mad. Aggressive? Oh yes, she was, enough to make him quiver when she informed him they were going back to his place as they left the restaurant. He asked her if she knew what she was doing. She laughed and told him he’d better stop playing nice or she was going to spank him. He knew in that moment exactly what she wanted.
Sinclair let her precede him into his quarters, and Ivanova walked over to the kitchen counter and leaned back against it, watching Sinclair with her hands back on the counter as he let the door close and set the privacy lock on it with a graceful hand. She had always liked watching him, and now she could see the signs of sexual hunger that had been visible from time to time, but she had never realized what she was seeing.
She was still leaning against the edge of the countertop when Sinclair approached her. He imposed himself in her space, pressing right up against her body and putting his hands down on the counter to each side. His mouth was very close to hers, a heartbeat away from the kiss she had been wanting from him since the moment she saw him in the gym that day. She felt her heart speed up in response to his intensity — not with fear, but lust.
“May I be brutally honest with you, Lieutenant Commander?” Sinclair asked. His voice had taken on a whispering quality that, blended with that sonorous rumble, made something violent and savage try to claw its way up out of her gut. She had to lift her head a little to meet his eyes, but she did so unflinchingly, trying to still the way her breaths quivered as her chest rose and fell against his where he was pressed up against her. She could feel the length of his body touching her, strong thighs, groin against her hips, hot and trembling. God, he was shaking.
“I insist,” she replied in a low voice, holding his stare evenly.
“I want you so badly I could tear the bulkheads out,” he rasped, his voice like hot iron, eyes bright with need. “I want to fuck you. Right now. On the floor. I want to make you scream my name and swear at me in Russian. I want you to wrap your legs around me so I can give you the bone-jarring, teeth-rattling, good old fashioned screw you deserve.”
“Are you seriously asking me if I would mind?” she replied in a sultry purr.
“No,” Sinclair hissed. His eyes were like coal burning deep in the earth, his mouth so close… “I’m asking you if you want me.” She looked at him for a few breaths, just the sight of his need in his eyes making her sex throb gently. She slid her hands around his waist, the warm muscles in his back hard and taut.
“Let me have a little taste of that sexy mouth of yours,” she whispered against his lips, “while I think about it.” He opened his mouth in welcome eagerness as she kissed him, loving his silky lips and tongue, pulling his hips to hers tightly. Sinclair fell into the kiss wholeheartedly, breathing in her scent through his nose, licking her tongue playfully. He laughed deep in his chest, able to feel her own buried lust in the way she devoured him, and she growled at him with her hands clenched into his shirt on his back.
“Time to make a decision,” Sinclair said roughly when he broke the kiss to gulp for breath. His hands were on her back now, and he nuzzled her mouth softly with his own, loving the sensual closeness.
“Well, you know what they say, Commander,” she murmured, smiling as he licked her lower lip with quiet relish. “It’s not how often, but how well. And why do I have a feeling that you do it very well?”
“Because I do,” he said without modesty. He was grinning.
“So make me scream, Commander,” she said, biting his lip. He grunted sharply. “It’s been an awfully long time since I screamed for anybody.”
“I’ll take that as a challenge,” Sinclair purred. The next thing she felt were his hands at her belt, aggressively getting her trousers open. He slid his hands inside, over her bare buttocks, pulling her to him. She groaned at his delicious, warm palms on her skin. He didn’t kiss her again, only looked into her eyes as he pushed her trousers and panties down over her rump, down her legs. He left them around her calves while he stripped the vest from her shoulders, draping it on the counter behind her.
Ivanova pulled his shirttails out. Her hands were shaking with the hunger to rub his muscular belly and chest. She sought out his nipples, remembering his delighted purring in the shower when she had touched him there. Sinclair gasped and writhed against her, his face revealing a naked instant of glorious pleasure.
“Oooh, yes,” Sinclair whispered. She pinched him suddenly and he bit his lip before letting out a sharp cry of bright need. “God, it feels so good when you touch me,” he groaned. “I wanted to scream in the shower when you were rubbing me all over with your hands.” He was doing something crazy, something mind-blowing — turning her around, putting her down on the floor so hard it drove her breath out of her for a moment and she became aware of his powerful hands tearing her boots off and then getting at her trousers and panties.
It was one thing to shower together, to cement a bond that was natural to them as part of the trust and loyalty in Earthforce, when they depended on each for their lives. There was a level of carnal pleasure and intimacy in it. But this, in Sinclair’s quarters now, on the floor, was another level that the shower rituals didn’t require…didn’t expect. How close could a commander and his second get, beyond the fealty of the mind and the body? Could they trust each other with a secret truth that sometimes lived within the souls of those in the military? Even in the souls of those who weren’t?
She waited for him to claim her naked body with kisses and licks on her flesh. She glanced up to see him up on his knees, waiting for her attention, before he unbuttoned his white shirt all the way, shrugging out of it in a baring of his physique that was somehow not like the way he had disrobed in the shower. She saw more in the man’s broad muscles, in the smoldering stare, than just an officer’s pride and respect. There was a need there, a private, violent need to own her, to consume. He wanted to know if she wanted that possession.
Ivanova sat up slowly, taking him in as his strong hands worked slowly at his belt, inviting her appraisal. What they had done in the shower — Sinclair might have shown that to lots of people, past and present. She didn’t know for sure, and didn’t care particularly one way or the other. But this, this beautiful, passionate man unzipping his trousers to show her something she had seen before and admired, this was only for her. In this place, now, his body was only for her witness, his stiff erection responding only to her magnificence and her eager stare. He licked his lips, and she knew it was because he wanted to taste her.
Sinclair pushed his trousers down, his boxers going with them in a single sweep. He held them for a moment, then cupped one hand under his furred balls, displaying himself to her. She wanted to tell him how much she ached to take it all into her mouth and suck him until he screamed. Words at that moment would have been intrusive, destructive to the gentle, hungry pride in his face. She raised her eyes from his groin and met his own stare, letting him see how much she wanted to touch him. That was enough of a tribute, and Sinclair smiled faintly before turning back to shed his boots, and then his pants and shorts.
Ivanova touched his face and held it in both hands when he turned back and surged forward to climb on top of her. She didn’t know exactly what to expect of him in that instant — penetration or just closeness? But she welcomed it, welcomed him in every respect. His eyes held hers as he moved, burning, never flinching from her gaze for even a breath. What he did made her draw a hard, sharp breath. He spread her legs with his knees and nestled the shaft of his cock against her sex. She felt herself throb hard at the sudden, teasing presence of his erection, and he rubbed the length of it to get it slick in her juices. The slight ridge on the underside caught on her clitoris and she dug her fingernails into his back with a groan.
“You told me a while ago that you belonged to me,” Sinclair said, his voice like smoke. “How much are you mine? Are you ready to give yourself over to me more than you’ve ever given to anyone in your entire life? Ready for what it means to take me as much as I take you?”
“I’ve been ready,” she panted, staring into his attentive, fierce jasper eyes. “Been ready for you since the day we met, Commander.” She wrapped her legs around his back, rocking her hips for him to give him a better angle of entry. He knew what she was doing and why, and he made a soft, strained noise as her feet rubbed his rump and thighs.
“I should have done this a long time ago,” he whispered close to her mouth, sharing her breaths, “never mind that we were strangers. I feel like I’ve known you for a dozen lifetimes.” He rubbed his lips over her mouth, down the side of her jaw tauntingly. “How long has it been since you’ve been taken by a man, Susan?”
“Too fucking long,” she replied in a sudden gasp, not knowing in that instant where the brutal honesty had come from. “Oh yeah, Jeff, do it now!”
His mouth was open in a silent half-snarl as he slid his hand back up under her and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back to hold her for him. She gasped hard, and felt his other hand hold her wrist to the carpet as he shifted his weight, pulling his hips back.
“Want this, Lieutenant Commander?” he asked her roughly, sliding the tip of his cock against her hot opening, tormenting her. She groaned hoarsely, adrenaline fire raging in her blood at the power of him, his hands on her, the threat and seduction in his voice.
“Yes,” she panted. It was more than a word, more than a mere acceptance of him. “Yes…”
“Yes, sir,” he prompted.
“Oh God,” she whispered, feeling him tense, and she had a brief, shining moment of comprehension of what he was about to do. He plunged into her, sheathing himself deep in a long, hard stroke, impaling her on white heat that tore all sense from her. “Yes, sir,” she cried, meaning it in every way it could be meant, wanting the authority implicit in the title, granting him a sacred right by so naming him. Her free hand clawed at his shoulder, scoring him deeply and he hissed in pain and ecstasy.
Sinclair pushed deep, making sure he was sheathed as far as he could go without hurting her, and held still like that. His body shivered with the effort, with the pain of holding back the brutal instinct to start thrusting. Susan looked at him, really looked into his eyes, and saw that he was showing himself to her, letting her see the part of him that made him want her so.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. He spoke of her courage, her discipline and intelligence and fierceness. He loved those things in her, and she heard that in his voice. He kissed her suddenly, bruisingly, taking her breath from her. He pushed a little more into her as he did it, loving her throaty groan, her hands clawing into his rump. His hot mouth roamed down her neck, licking and kissing wetly.
“Go on, Jeff,” she panted. “Bite me. Give me something to show off.” He obeyed with a soft snarl, taking her throat in his teeth to leave a hard, suckled bruise on her. As he let go to lick softly, he pulled his hips back. His big cock slid out of her a ways, making itself hugely known, and she cried out. “Oh my God, oh God, please — ” Sinclair pushed back inside her, spreading her open anew, the motion slow and firm to give her time to consider it. She was trembling hard when he was fully buried again. Sinclair’s thumb rubbed wetness from her temple and she realized she was sweating.
“You look fantastic when you’re hot for me like this,” he said, looking into her pale, brilliant eyes. He touched her quivering lip and shifted his weight a little. She could feel him trembling, too, his buttocks clenching occasionally with the urge to move in and out of her.
“Is that what you’re waiting for?” she managed to ask through the panting need that held her prisoner, the need for that glory she could see in his eyes. “To see how crazy I get before you fuck me?”
“I’m already fucking you,” he said in a low, hot voice that made her gut clench. “But I intend to do much more than that before the night’s done.” The kiss he gave her this time was a searching down into her soul, an attempt at making love to her just through that passionate taste of her mouth. She whimpered softly. “God, Susan,” he breathed when he broke away. “You make me insane, just the smell of you. Oh, your legs feel so good around me…”
“So take me, Commander,” she purred, straining to rise up enough to kiss his warm lips and then lick them softly. “You wanted to in the shower but you didn’t dare. That strength means something. Do it hard and fast. Don’t stop for anything. Just screw me good like you promised. Christ, can’t you feel how bad I want you?”
He could, actually. She was throbbing, clenching his shaft tight with powerful vaginal muscles. The seduction was too much for him, the sound of her voice an irresistible power that took hold of his groin and hips and legs and in the next moment he was rocking into her, just obeying the burning instinct to plow his cock in and out of her sex. He heard his own voice cry out with the sweetness of it, a raw sound that he didn’t think about before letting it loose. “Yeah, that’s it, baby,” Ivanova breathed, holding his rump and encouraging him as he moved. “Oh my God you feel good.” The friction of his firm thrusts just made her sex ache worse, scratching the barest edge of her lust and tempting her with the taste of what she could have from him. “God damn, Jeff, oh, I had no idea you could feel like this, God, yeah that’s so much better.”
Sinclair was grunting low in his chest, wallowing in the pure sensation of having his cock inside her, sliding in and out of her hot tightness, her strong legs around him.
“Oh God, Susan,” he panted.
“What is it, Jeff?” she said, seeing something rip through him in the way he shuddered suddenly and rocked his hips forward for a different angle of penetration.
“Have to,” he gasped. “Have to…oh mother of God.” He grunted again, loudly, and leaned forward to start bucking into her hard and quick. “Oh please,” he gulped. “Please oh please, God…”
“Yeah, Jeff! That’s it!” Ivanova shouted. “Come on, just let go. Let go and do it. Yeah, Commander, come on!” He was pounding into her, the sound of it hard and wet, his voice grunting and swearing. He took another breath and laughed, a resonant roar of triumph and pleasure and joy. His strength was incredible, his back and buttocks and legs all working to drive that huge cock into her with a delight that made her light-headed.
“OH YES, JESUS CHRIST!” Sinclair howled, reaching an impossible plateau of sensation. It tore through him like blinding flame, riding high to sear him from within with ecstasy. He listened to her cry out and whimper and groan beneath him. He loved it when she used his rank like that. “Oh my God, Susan! God, I’m gonna fuck you good!”
“Oh Christ, Jeff, I don’t believe it — ” Ivanova moaned, clutching at his shoulders.
“Oooh, you gonna do something for me, huh?” Sinclair whispered intently, leaning down to lick her lips gently as she panted, her body arching back against his hard fucking. “Come on, let me see. Let me see it.”
“Yes…sir…” she gulped, and gave a strangled whimper as he felt her sex tighten around his cock. It gripped him suddenly, clipping him hard, throbbing, and Ivanova let out a savage, keening wail of release. Her hands clenched around his biceps, bruising him deeply, and he kept fucking her hard against the resistance of her muscular contractions. It seemed to make her even wilder.
“Oh yeah, you’re sweet,” he whispered. “That’s it, Susan, am I making you come, hm?” He chuckled in joy at the proof of it in her taut body and her hard voice ripping into the room.
“God, don’t stop!” she shouted.
“Oh, I have absolutely no intention of stopping, Lieutenant Commander,” Sinclair rasped, grinning. She tried to wrap her whole body around him, to show him how much she embraced this act and the meaning he had asked her to find in it. Her orgasm only made her more sensitive to his big cock and its ridged crown, and every move he made tore a yell of wild desire from her. “Yeah, like that?” Sinclair whispered. He kissed her chin and neck as she arched her head back with a wail, and he laughed hoarsely.
She felt him shift his weight again, and he started really bucking into her, abandoning any attempt at speech. He just growled and panted, those lovely, resonant sounds she knew he could make. His body was slick with sweat where she grabbed him, his buttocks clenching tight with each thrust. He started to make a sound that she’d never heard from a man before — it sent a ripple of flame up her back. He was whimpering softly, not quite a groan or a gasp, tense and raw. It was the sound he made when he was alone with himself making himself come — she knew it somehow, heard the honesty of it in the rich tone. Heat was pouring off his body, and he drew a deep, long breath before looking up into her eyes. She had been watching him, loving his clenched jaw and the way he licked his lips every now and then.
In his brilliant, amber stare, she saw the totality of how he owned her, how she let him, and how complete that mastery was going to be when he came inside her, sharing his seed. There was nothing animal in it. Only a man could dominate so consciously and with such relish. She also saw how close he was, and she almost wept. He felt so good, she didn’t want him to end it, didn’t want him to withdraw from her.
Oh God, he didn’t want her to…to watch him…did he? Was he going to let her see the climax overtake him, ripping every facade away until he was pure and naked to her? He was pressing hard with his thrusts now, trembling all over, groaning. Yeah, he was close. She held him eagerly, not looking away. A drop of sweat fell from his chin onto her neck, and he made a quiet whimper deep in his throat. His thrusts slowed a little, became sensuous. She felt it start, his cock swelling a bit more and then ejaculating a long, hard surge into her, pulsing. His expression held for another moment, and then just opened in some amazing, impossible way. She saw right into his soul, and he sheathed himself deep and went still, quivering, so she could feel his cock spilling into her in powerful, gripping throbs. He didn’t cry out, just looked at her, his body trembling, his hand on the side of her face to force her to look. She needed no coercion, entranced by the contrast between his stillness and the cock she could feel letting go wildly inside her.
Then Sinclair gave a hard gasp, relaxing as the climax released him from its fist. He bared his teeth, half-grinning, savoring what he had done.
“Mine,” he growled, and engulfed her mouth in a kiss of mastery and excited satisfaction. Ivanova slid one hand into his sweat-dampened hair, holding his mouth to hers, kissing him back as hard as he would let her.
“Yes,” she agreed when he broke away to look at her.
“I’m looking forward to you turning the tables on me,” he murmured, smiling secretively.
“Good,” she said. “I’m sneaky.”
“Siberian wolves usually are,” he said. Her hands were stroking up his sweat-slicked back, feeling his ribs rise and fall with his deep breaths. “Shower?”
“Only if you help me up,” she said. “I think walking is going to be a challenge for a while.” Sinclair laughed and withdrew from her carefully, enjoying her soft moan of loss.
“That means I did it right.”
“God, my abdominal muscles hurt.”"Mmmm,” Ivanova said noncommittally, sounding amused. She was leaning against him on the couch, her face in the crook of his neck. He had one arm around her, resting on her hip, and was clothed only in a pair of loose sweat pants. “That’s what you get for doing sit-ups and making the beast with two backs in one afternoon.”
“Do you like to do it doggy style?” he asked suddenly, sounding intrigued. She poked him and he laughed, then flinched. “Ow. Cruel and unusual punishment.”
“I hope your legs are as strong as they look,” she said. “I like to be on top.” Sinclair growled playfully, embracing her with both arms and holding her close to his warm chest. She was wearing one of his shirts — the white one he had worn to lunch. It smelled like him, earthy and male.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmured, kissing her cheek sensuously.
When they found each other on duty the next morning, they saw that new layer of knowing in the other’s eyes, soft and sable like a luxurious pelt that embraced them both. He greeted her, the same way he had done every day since they had met. And she replied in their custom, innocuous, respectful, filled with a true warmth and curiosity that had always been there. He smiled at her, his back straight and his shoulders settled comfortably. He turned away to look back out of the forward window and she watched his profile for a moment, seeing the pride and strength and nobility that had first drawn her, and the sincerity and power that had kept her at his side — the bearing of an officer.The End
“Balance of Power”
A Babylon 5 Story
by Jennifer Lyon: jennyann@ix.netcom.com
A. Manley Haight: anne@blastfurnace.org
and Sue Phillips: vampry@mindspring.com
Copyright (C) 1996
Babylon 5 and its characters are the property of J. Michael Straczynski and Babylonian Productions Inc., and AOL Time Warner, with all rights reserved thereto. No infringement of their copyrights is intended. Please do not replicate or distribute this story without permission from the authors. This story is not for sale, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
I co-wrote this story with two other people; Jennifer Lyons and Sue Phillips. This story also had the dubious distinction of being mentioned by name (along with the names of the three authors), as well as actually quoted, in a sidebar article about slash fic in the April/May 1999 issue of Cinescape magazine. I personally hold that publication in low regard. The editor attempted to contact us but we declined to speak with her, mainly to continue the unspoken vow that slash writers take to keep slash fic as discreet as possible, and out of the mainstream media.
Peace and quiet at last! Londo Mollari sighed aloud with relief as he wandered into the hedge maze. His situation only seemed to get worse; everything was madness. People he had considered friends now barely spoke to him, while others — who would have only ignored him before — now wanted to be his ‘best friend.’ That he could handle, if only someone treated him with real respect. Sheridan was the worst offender; the Captain made it obvious that he barely tolerated Londo’s presence on Babylon 5. It was infuriating! Thrice damned Narn sympathizer! The Centauri Ambassador took in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Sooner or later he’d find a way to pay Sheridan back for the insults, and in the meantime, he’d finally found some time to relax. Turning around one corner, and then another, he let his feet wander where they would.
Delenn smiled when Jeffrey Sinclair offered her his elbow. Curving her arm under his, she rested her fingers on his forearm, and leaned against him as they walked. For a moment she could almost believe that they were back where they had started, when Babylon 5 had first come to life. She’d missed their walks in these gardens more than she would have thought possible. He was a kindred soul — literally — so much a part of her that she felt his absence in the night when he was gone, like an emptiness in her heart.He smiled back at her, warmly, the corners of his dark brown eyes wrinkling with gentle humor. Yet, there was a gravity to his demeanor that was not reminiscent of those earlier times, and his face had aged. Not all the lines etched around his mouth and temples were signs of laughter. Many were sorrows suffered or burdens borne. Still, there was time, however brief, to remember simpler moments. To put off the difficult path ahead for just a little while longer.
But his mind was focused, already looking past the present to what lay beyond. His hand was large on hers, and his voice was solemn when he spoke.
“The change, Delenn, what is it like?”
Her stomach clenched in her gut, her breath catching. There was no answer to that question. Even if she could find the words, how could she know whether his transformation would match her own? Her voice was barely above a whisper when she replied, stopping in place and turning to step in front of him.
“I do now know how to describe it. And even if I did…”
He shook his head at her, moving his hands to catch hers between them.
“I know.” He sighed softly, gazing down tenderly into her eyes. “I accept this. I do. I guess I just wanted some idea of what I’m getting into.” He grinned suddenly, a flash of brilliance that stole years from his age.
She reached up with her free hand to trace the scar on his cheek with a tender caress.
“I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could be with you. It is not painful so much as it is…difficult. Even the senses of vision and balance are different; it is like learning to walk all over again. I should be with you…” Her voice fell heavy with guilt and sorrow, and his reaction was instinctive, protective. Closing his hand upon hers, pressing it into the hollow beneath the high arc of his cheekbone, he leaned down to reassure her. His breath warmed her forehead as he spoke.
“Nai, Delenn, you must stay here. You are as needed here as I am…elsewhere. Si’swai’am, I will miss you, but this must be. And don’t grieve for me. My whole life has been leading to this. I know the reason for my existence; I will not shirk the responsibility it brings.” He smiled wryly, though his eyes gleamed with serenity and calm acceptance.
“Then I am glad,” she replied softly, weaving her fingers through his as their hands dropped down between them. “I will stand with you as long as I can, and a part of my soul will go with you when you are gone.”
“And mine with you.” He squeezed her hands between his, then released her and stepped to the side. Turning, he drew her with him along the path, deeper into the maze.
Londo’s teeth bared in a predatory smile as he hovered in the shadows, watching the tall man and his delicate companion fade around a corner.
“Well, well, well…” he murmured thoughtfully. “Sinclair is back on Babylon 5, and as close as ever with Delenn. It makes one wonders what the estimable Captain Sheridan thinks of all this.” Eyes narrowed, he turned and walked back the way he had come, alone and unnoticed.
“Captain Sheridan!”John Sheridan was reaching for his cup of coffee when the booming voice interrupted him. It took all of his control not to knock the damned thing over onto the papers on his desk. He didn’t have an appointment with Mollari today…did he? No. He didn’t. But Londo Mollari apparently did not need an appointment. Sheridan sighed and waited for the owner of the voice to catch up with it.
“Captain Sheridan, Centauri ships are still being charged double what they were for docking fees. This is inexcusable. Our treaty with Earth clearly states…”
“Ambassador Mollari, I have discussed this with you before. The promises received came from Earthforce and the Earth Alliance. Since Babylon 5 is no longer a part of the Earth Alliance, I’m afraid we can’t honor those. The fees we charge have been negotiated with the rest of the races who use Babylon 5. They are perfectly fair.” /Why me? Why now?/
“Please, Captain,” Mollari said with the diplomatic patience of a man well used to the subtleties of his career. “Do you think me a fool?” Sheridan kept silent. “The Centauri are the power in this part of the galaxy at the moment. You need our good will. Surely it would be in your best interests, and the best interests of the other races, to honor our request.”
“Ambassador, Babylon 5 is its own sovereign nation at the moment. Given that, I am the arbiter of what is good for the people under my care. All the people. And I’m afraid that I cannot make an exception for anyone, the Centauri or any of the other races.” Although Sheridan’s voice had risen as he spoke, he made a visible effort to get himself under control. Mollari had, of late, been able to anger him much too easily.
Londo’s face closed up.
“Not even for the Minbari?” Sheridan looked at him sharply. He’d labored under the impression that this meeting would be over now. Usually, it didn’t take that long to convince Mollari that you weren’t on his side. The man might be unpredictable but he usually knew when to stop.
“No, Londo, not even for the Minbari.” Mollari’s eyes narrowed and the gleam in them showed he was up to something, something Sheridan wasn’t really positive he wanted to know about.
“Not even for Delenn, Captain? I would think that you would wish to please her.” Unspoken words hung in the air like knives. He shook his head. “And, since she is well known to be enamored of men in power, it is understandable from her point of view. First Sinclair, then you.”
Mollari strolled around Sheridan’s office as though he owned it. Sheridan clenched his fists below the level of the desk. What was the man getting at?
“Sinclair…yes, Sinclair,” Londo mused, darting a glance sideways at Sheridan to catch his response. “They were always inseparable. It was very sad, yes, that the two of them did not get to say goodbye? That he was delivered to Minbar before she could share the pain she’d gone through for him, the change. Very, very sad indeed.” The look on the man’s face was insufferable. “I was surprised to see her and Sinclair in the gardens earlier today. They were having a — how do you call it? A tete a tete, I believe. Verrry close to each other they were. Planning something secretive, perhaps, something that would be of advantage to the Minbari perhaps. Without having anything at all to do with the other people under your care.”
The man was tenacious. Unfortunately, as Captain of Babylon 5, Sheridan had to suffer him. But — Delenn and Sinclair? Close, in the garden?
“I’m sure they were merely catching up on old times,” Sheridan replied through gritted teeth. “They were very close friends, you know.” /Right, John, keep telling yourself that. You can handle this. You’re a grown man./
But Delenn and Sinclair?
“Oh yes. Very good friends, I would imagine.” Londo’s smile was particularly galling. “I must say that it is extremely comforting to see them together again, as though all was right with the universe.” Mollari’s eyes met Sheridan’s. The Captain tried to keep himself from showing any of the consternation…yes, and jealousy…that he felt. “And, what is Commander…pardon me…Ambassador Sinclair doing back on the station, eh? This is something that was not covered in the official announcements.”
Sheridan took a deep breath.
“Ambassador Mollari, I’m sure that whatever Delenn and Ambassador Sinclair spoke about is private and none of our business. Now, I really must ask you to leave as I have another appointment in ten minutes.” In the garden. With Delenn. Make that five minutes.
Mollari gave that enigmatic smile of his as he allowed Sheridan to usher him into the corridor. His job here was done. Perhaps the minor amusement of whatever happened next was not enough to offset the higher docking fees…but one must take one’s pleasure where one could, yes?
He was humming a bit of Centauri opera as he left, the opening aria from “The Three Bladed Sword of Emperor Idaro” and chuckled to himself at the thought that this situation might well end for Sheridan as it had for Idaro. Wouldn’t that be a pretty thing to watch? The elevator swallowed him.
After Mollari left, Sheridan remained at his desk. That meeting with the Centauri had left him ablaze with unaccustomed emotions; jealousy and resentment. He hadn’t ever really hit it off with Sinclair — not on Mars and not here. He should have trusted that first instinct. But while he could accept deviousness from Sinclair, the idea that Delenn too would mislead him so was shocking.He leaned back in the chair heavily. Shock was just the beginning. He felt…betrayed. It had not been his imagination that Delenn was returning the affection that had grown in him since they had met. Something more than affection, something deep and intense that hovered just outside of their conversations whenever they were together. She had felt it, too; he could see it in her eyes. Damn, if it hadn’t been for Ivanova that one time, they would have kissed, and from Delenn’s expression, she would have let him do just about anything else afterward, too.
The sensation of betrayal became rage, and he stood up, feeling it with every breath like ice in his lungs, a cold grasp around his heart. Damn him if he was going to just stand around and do nothing while Sinclair returned to his old territory to reclaim something that was not his anymore. Sheridan’s relationship with Delenn up until this moment had been circumspect, delicate, the kind of dance that was proper between people attracted to each other the way they were. But this was not allowed. Sheridan knew that to get back what had been taken from him, he was going to have to fight for it. Well, so be it. He fought as hard as anyone, and would make damn certain that Sinclair knew it by the time everything was done.
Sinclair and Delenn had spent the entire day together, their conversations alternating between serious and reflective to light and gentle. It was the only way to talk about what was ahead of them and remain sane. So much to do, so much going on. Even they did not know everything and the sensation of wandering forward in the dark was terrifying. They had to be right, had to do everything correctly or the entire galaxy could come undone. They sensed that, lying deep in wait in the future of their plans.
Now they were in Delenn’s quarters, deliberately avoiding talk of the future, and discussing the past instead. There had been such sweet moments in it, moments of innocence, neither of them understanding the destiny that the universe held reserved for them. Even so, those had been some of Sinclair’s darkest hours — the terrible nightmares, the survivor guilt, the wondering about what had happened to him at the Battle of the Line. He had been another of the walking wounded, shocked out of his own soul by the war and trying to fill the hole. And for a time, Delenn had been there to fill that void, so gentle, friendly with him. He felt, even then, that he had always been with her.
Sinclair was laughing, and Delenn had gotten up to get them something else to drink, when the door chimed. Pausing in her path toward the kitchenette, she faced the door expectantly.
“Come,” she said. The door swung open. “John,” she said warmly, smiling at him. “Please come in. Jeffrey and I were just catching up on all the things we have missed while he was away.”
Her smile faded as Sheridan came more fully into the room, and the door closed in the chilly silence. Sheridan froze when he saw Sinclair and the temperature dropped even more in the room, Sheridan’s eyes like shards of ice. She drew a breath, and realized that Sinclair had stood; he felt it, too.
“Captain?” Sinclair said, his voice full of smooth concern. Sheridan met his eyes with the deadliest glare Sinclair had ever seen.
“Ambassador Sinclair,” Sheridan said, his gravelly voice as flat as the floor, “I can come back later if I am interrupting.” He seemed to spit the word out. “But I would like to speak with Ambassador Delenn.” The politeness was Earthforce diplomacy; the more formal it got, the more hate there was flying back and forth. Sinclair knew it well, and glanced at Delenn in confusion. “Privately,” Sheridan grated, and Sinclair looked at him in surprise.
“Of course,” Sinclair said, almost reflexively. He didn’t know the cause of Sheridan’s anger but it obviously had something to do with him, and he had no reason and no desire to be an instrument of discord. Delenn looked just as baffled, but said nothing. Clearly she wasn’t about to try to resolve Sheridan’s fury in his presence, despite her bewilderment. Sinclair nodded to her and left.
“Is there something wrong, Captain?” Delenn said when Sinclair had gone. She tried to match his formality; suddenly it seemed dangerous to attempt familiarity with him. His chin lifted slightly.
“You might say that,” he replied. His jaw worked. “Actually, I should be asking that question. I should’ve asked it a long time ago, I suppose. Pretty stupid of me, really. It was so obvious. I’m just a substitute. Any port in a storm, is that it? Or is it political? Get on the good side of the human representative for your own agenda?”
Formality was not going to get them anywhere, Delenn decided. Sheridan was being oblique enough without the added circuitousness of formality when they were much closer friends than that.
“John,” she said, “I do not understand. I can see that you are angry.” She could feel it, too, like a hurricane behind a door, something ready to explode into the room with the slightest provocation. “But I truly do not know why, even though you seem to expect me to.”
Her innocence, real or imagined, was just unbearable. He felt his rage break free inside him with a howl and Delenn’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t want you around him!” Sheridan snarled. “I don’t want you touching him or kissing him or fucking him!” He was distantly aware — shocked — that he had spoken so coarsely. But enough was enough. This courtship between them had become dirty long before he could add to its obscenity by being vulgar. “Do you think I’m stupid?” he shouted. He was pacing the floor now, restless, enraged, not sure what to do with the energy. “Hell, maybe I am! Fucking stupid to not have seen it before, in the way you talked about him. He left suddenly, didn’t he? And then I appeared out of nowhere. Men of power,” he grated. “Are you just attracted to men of power? Maybe you’re glad that I’m jealous. Maybe that’s the point; to manipulate me, or both of us.”
Delenn blinked. Her mouth was open in a soundless denial, astonishment and pain not quite forming into words on her tongue. His rage seemed to prevent it. His outburst had startled her, even more his vulgarity, but she knew it was only his desperation and confusion. She realized how her relationship with Sinclair must look to an outsider — to John. Two loves, two so very different kinds of love and need. And John had seen something that was not there.
That angered her oddly; that John would leap to such a conclusion. She understood the human attitude toward that kind of betrayal. John felt betrayed in his love for her, felt used and deceived. Yet in all the trust they had shown each other, he could not find any now. Instead of coming to her and asking for an explanation, giving her the benefit of doubt and expecting that it was merely a misunderstanding, he had come in here in a fury, leveling an accusation that should have been unthinkable. She reminded herself that John was human, and did not understand the degree of insult he made by doing this, but she was furious all the same.
“How dare you say such things! You insult my friend, you insult me,” she said in a voice like cold forged iron, preventing him from speaking. His mouth was open, ready to deliver another stream of invective. “How dare you accuse me of something for which you have no proof, something that would shame me and my name for centuries if it were true. I would never lie to you; how dare you accuse me of this! After everything we have been through, after all the times I have asked you to trust me and you have given that trust, and I have trusted you in return!
“Jeffrey Sinclair is my friend. He has pledged his life, his soul, his future, everything that might have been, for the sake of us and our future. You do not know what is ahead, but we do. I cannot explain yet, but he is making a sacrifice greater than anything you can imagine. I am not his lover, but if it were required of me — if he needed that of me — I would give it without hesitation! I would give him everything I am, body and soul, if he asked it of me. Instead he is giving us everything that he is. I can do nothing but stand in awe of him and his purpose.” She moved closer to Sheridan determinedly. His mouth had closed and his eyes had lost that icy edge. He looked deeply surprised, and thoughtful.
“John,” she said, in a way that made his heart leap. “That you would be jealous of me is strangely comforting. It means I have not made a mistake in trusting you, in opening up to you. But never doubt me. Never doubt my word to you. I would not lie to you about my relationship with Jeffrey. What you have seen is the truth, and there is nothing more sinister beneath the surface.”
Her eyes were wide open, her entire body expressing honest outrage. Sheridan felt stunned. Suddenly he knew that he had been used, but not by Delenn or Sinclair. By Mollari. He shut his eyes tight, ashamed, furious at himself for having put any faith or stock in the words of the Centauri Ambassador. He knew Mollari’s nature, knew the Centauri’s devious ways, just as he knew Delenn. Deception was not her way; she was the most genuine person he’d ever met. And yet, he had listened to Londo, and let himself believe such a vicious lie.
“Oh God, Delenn,” he murmured, putting his hand to his forehead tiredly. “I can’t believe I would think that of you, that I’d ignore everything else we’ve had together and mistrust you so completely.”
Reaching out for him, Delenn tenderly drew him to the couch. He went willingly, his weariness evident. When they were both seated side by side, she took both of his hands in hers.
“Why would you think such a thing?” she asked him. “Now? After all we’ve been through together?” She spoke as gently as she could, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. He could sense it, though, and it was like a knife twisting in his gut. He tightened his grip on her hand, his eyes squeezed shut again. How could he, indeed? He never wanted to hurt her, not for anything, ever. And he had.
“Delenn,” he groaned. There was distant, raw anguish in it. “I’m sorry. Dammit, I should have known better than to listen to anything Londo says.”
“Londo?” she said, tilting her head sideways at him. A characteristic confusion stirred in her expression, the one always present when she was confronted with behavior that didn’t make sense to her Minbari outlook. Her total puzzlement and accepting tone made him look at her. He found himself smiling tenderly in response to the openness in her expression.
“Londo came to see me earlier, and when I wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he made some insinuations.” He paused, thunderous rage building again within him, darkening his eyes. “He said that you’d been intimate with Sinclair in the gardens and that you were using me as a substitute for him. And that you’d made your change for him.”
A flash of emotion, shock, sorrow, something stronger, flew across her mobile features, making his heart skip a beat. Was there a reality to Londo’s accusations after all? Delenn was shaking her head, her mouth pursed as though tasting something sour.
“I am sorry you had to hear such things, John,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers. Her eyes were clear and direct as she met his gaze. “But you have never been a substitute for anyone with me. You are you, and I am me, and what we have between us is special and unique. I could never feel for anyone what I feel for you. That does not mean that I do not care for Jeffrey, because I do, very much. But it is different.”
“How different?” he demanded, trying to hold back the desperation in those words, desiring and fearing the response at once. She smiled warmly.
“He is a part of my soul, you are a part of my heart.” From the look on her face, she obviously felt that explained everything. From his point of view, it explained nothing. He sighed. Things were never simple, were they? Dealing with a human woman was hard enough, trying to communicate with one who had only been human for less than two years — well, no one said life was going to be easy. What was it Spinoza had said? All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.
He looked down at her hands for another long moment where he enclosed them gently. He realized he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.
“Well,” he said finally, quietly. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt and asked you honestly, rather than just accusing you without cause.” He raised his head to stare deeply into the emerald sea of her eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
“Of course,” she replied, smiling at him with total approval. Well, in some things women were always the same, regardless of what race they were — they loved hearing a man apologize. In fact, she looked downright delighted with him. Definitely an improvement, but before he could lean toward her to take some advantage of her approval, she was speaking again.
“You should apologize to Jeffrey. I am afraid you quite upset him.” She frowned delicately. “This is not good. The time ahead is difficult enough without us fighting among ourselves. Such discord can only work to the Shadows’ advantage. You and Jeffrey must make amends, and as soon as possible.” Her expression was resolute, her jaw jutted forward. He wanted to kiss it, but from the look in her eyes, that was not a present option. “John?” she asked. Suddenly her face softened in concern. “Are you all right?” He nodded quickly, and smiled reassuringly at her.
“I’m fine, Delenn. Just thinking…” Just thinking about how much he wanted to taste those lovely red lips of hers… /Down boy. Not now./ He drew in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what she had just said. “I suppose you’re right,” he allowed, grudgingly. Apologizing to Sinclair was hardly at the top of his list of things he wanted to do. She was adamant, however, and he did accept that she was right about the need to work together. All right then, if he’d found the strength to let that bastard Morden go, he could also manage a simple, and honestly-owed, apology. Even if it made him want to eat nails in the process.
She was pleased with him again, however, and even stroked his cheek before pulling him to his feet. That felt good. Maybe, he smiled to himself as she led him to the door, just maybe he could pick up on that later. A reward system was always a good thing when you had a disagreeable task to perform.
“Yes, Rathenn, that sounds fine.” Sinclair sighed as he looked up at the almost perpetually worried Minbari religious leader on the vid screen. “Proceed with it as we had discussed earlier.” Rathenn bowed solemnly.”As you say, Entil’Zha.” He paused, hesitating, as though trying to find the right words. Sinclair didn’t need to hear them, he’d heard it often enough.
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. If Rathenn and the others had had their way, he’d have spent his visit with Delenn surrounded by a half dozen Minbari warriors, all glowering at anyone who dared to get within ten feet of him. But Sinclair had been very firm about this. He was giving up enough of his life to the cause; he would not spend the remainder of his allotted time locked up in a gilded cage. Not that he meant to get into trouble; he knew better than anyone how valuable his own life had become — perhaps always had been — and he’d promised both Rathenn and Delenn that he would not put himself at risk. It was just such a…literal pain in the neck, he thought ruefully, rubbing at the spot in question.
“Yes, I am glad to see that you are well,” Rathenn was saying, peering deeply into the vid screen. “And you will continue to exercise appropriate caution…”
“Yes!” Sinclair closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then offered his over-anxious friend a gleaming smile. “I promised I wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks and I won’t. Besides, Delenn has Babylon 5 crawling with Rangers. She must have depleted at least four of the neighboring sectors. I’m probably just as safe here as I am on Minbar.”
That did not appease Rathenn, who had had to pick up the pieces after a few of Entil’Zha’s escapades, not to mention the assassination attempt that had left his face permanently scarred. The Ambassador had shoved his own guard out of the way, saving the young Minbari’s life, and sending those responsible for Entil’Zha’s safety into the Minbari equivalent of hysterics. Rathenn’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and Sinclair sighed again, his face settling into grave authority. “Let me know when you get the report from McCabe on Earth.” That tone signified the conversation was at an end, and Rathenn bowed to it instinctively.
“As you command, Entil’Zha.” The screen blinked and went dark. Sinclair smiled at it, more softly this time, then turned and headed back for the kitchen. Garibaldi had managed to smuggle in a fine bottle of Russian vodka, and given that his time to enjoy such things was limited, he intended to take full advantage. Taking down a glass from the cabinet, he poured himself a healthy glassful, spiking it with ice and cold water, then strode back toward the couch. He had barely taken three steps when the doorchime sounded.
“Come,” he commanded, moving casually toward the door, which slid open to reveal Captain Sheridan, standing pensively, hands clenched at his sides. Their eyes met, and Sinclair felt a sharp twinge of relief that the bitter hostility he’d seen earlier in those storm-swept gray eyes was absent. Sheridan’s gaze was a much quieter dark sapphire now, though his stance was still tense, poised like a black panther ready to leap.
Sinclair stepped back and silently waved for him to enter the room. Sheridan did so, sweeping the room with instinctive curiosity. Standard VIP quarters, with little added to show the personality of the occupant. Spotless, in fact, everything neat and in its place. Which, perhaps, was an even more striking reflection of Sinclair than a pile of dirty clothes would have been. A military-reared perfectionist, indeed.
“Please have a seat,” Sinclair finally spoke, so close in Sheridan’s ear that the Captain twitched in surprise. He hadn’t heard the Ambassador move up behind him. Sinclair’s mouth twisted in a half-smile, then he gestured with a glass-filled hand. “Oh, would you like a drink, Captain?”
/A drink,/ Sheridan thought. /Yes, I could definitely use a drink./ Sheridan moved back with a slight nod, cocking his head sideways as he sat down. Sinclair smiled and turned away toward the kitchen.
“It’s vodka,” Sinclair said. “The real McCoy. Garibaldi got me a bottle somehow, and I’m not asking how.” Sheridan grinned wryly.
“I think that’s wisest,” he replied. Garibaldi had a touch for getting things done in ways that, well, sometimes it was better for his superior officers not to know the details. That comment won a real smile from Sinclair, and the men shared the first moment of ease between them since Sinclair had returned to Babylon 5.
Sinclair quietly poured another glass, then came back to sit beside Sheridan on the couch. Handing the other man his drink, he leaned back into the cushions.
“What did you want to see me about, Captain?”
Sheridan paused long enough to take a quick sip of his drink. Apologizing was not something he enjoyed doing, but this one was owed. Delenn had made that very clear. And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to get along with Sinclair, it was just that the man seemed to rub him the wrong way. He was so…authoritative. Not loudly or arrogantly, but with a serene, quiet assurance that was somehow far more challenging than any ringing demands could have been. Sinclair didn’t ask for command, he took it, so easily that most people hardly even noticed he was doing so. But Sheridan noticed it, felt it like a jagged blade in his stomach in the man’s presence. It evoked a strong and unexpected reaction; a desire to strike Sinclair across the face in some kind of challenge. He suppressed it again, inhaling deeply around the heat of the vodka in his belly.
Still, they had to work together. He desperately needed every ally he could get in the war against the Shadows. Delenn had been right about that too. So it was time to swallow his male pride and do the right thing. Besides, he didn’t like the way Londo had used him against himself. That stung, badly, far more than this could ever do.
“I owe you an apology for my behavior earlier,” Sheridan replied simply. Sinclair lifted a heavy brown eyebrow, but remained silent. Sheridan clenched his jaw. “I’m afraid I…well, I misunderstood something. With a little help,” he added darkly, his spine straightening, nostrils flaring. Just the thought of how Londo had manipulated his emotions….
“Misunderstood what?” Sinclair asked, quiet concentration in his demeanor. That more than anything finally convinced Sheridan that Delenn had been telling the truth. Sinclair really didn’t have a clue. Still, this was going to be hard to explain without sounding a total fool.
Sheridan took a hefty slug of his drink, then grimaced.
“Londo came to see me this morning and he made some…insinuations…that, well, I guess I overreacted.” His eyes flashed angrily and he looked away, searching for something in the room to receive the fury. Sinclair looked confused, then abruptly the light went on in his dark brown eyes.
“You mean about Delenn and myself?” he said. Sheridan nodded, tight-lipped, still not meeting his eyes.
He couldn’t help it, Sinclair leaned his head back and laughed, his deep voice richer than honey as he howled his amusement. Sheridan stiffened, glaring at him. Sinclair stopped, choking off his laughter, rubbing at his eyes.
“I’m sorry Captain, it’s just…” He chuckled again. “Delenn and I…we…” He frowned as suddenly as he had started laughing. “I suppose there’s always been an element, and I wouldn’t…” He shook his head. Sheridan’s muscles cramped again, that buried sense of violated rage rising sharply in his gut. An element of what, exactly? Delenn hadn’t admitted to anything, but here was Sinclair…Sheridan’s eyes narrowed. If the man thought he’d…
But Sinclair was still speaking, gesturing widely. “We just haven’t been like that. Delenn and I are close, but not in the way you think, Captain.” He looked up, amber eyes open, unshielded. “We’re si’swai’aman,” he said, gaining an answering frown from Sheridan at the unfamiliar Adronado word. Sinclair’s expression softened. “The closest translation you would understand is ’soulmate’ or literally ’soul mirror’. It’s meant to describe a special kind of spiritual relationship.”
Sinclair paused, reaching for words to describe something that could really only be felt. He shrugged helplessly, then flashed a boyish grin, leaning toward Sheridan to emphasize his point. “I know you and Delenn have become very close. And I’m glad for both of you.” His expression saddened swiftly, dark clouds looming in his granite features. “Goodness knows happiness is a rare commodity these days. So you should take it where you can find it. Captain,” he said, focusing on Sheridan with startling awareness, “I’m not a threat to you. I miss my command here, yes, but it’s not my place anymore. I’m needed…elsewhere…” His eyes became suddenly hooded, and he was staring beyond Sheridan now. “We each have our roles to play in the coming conflict. I would no more seek to take yours than I would ask you to take mine.”
Then his gaze was back on Sheridan, trapping him like a wolf on a spear in the snow. But his voice was gentle with compassion. “I probably owe you an apology. If I’ve said or done anything to make you feel threatened…”
Damn, the man was perceptive. Sheridan stared at him fiercely, and for a moment Sinclair saw the aggression that had been in Sheridan’s eyes earlier in Delenn’s quarters. Then Sheridan drew a deep breath.
“Not at all, Ambassador,” he replied formally, but the hostility in his own voice sounded harsh in his ears, and he forced himself to go silent. What was he doing? This was a much needed ally, not an enemy. Time to show he was capable of being just as gracious as Sinclair; time to accept the proffered olive branch. His voice gentled, even if it was a forced softness. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. We’ve all been under a lot of stress lately, and I let my emotions get the better of me. I should have known better than to take anything Londo says seriously.” Sinclair inclined his head in acceptance of the implied apology, then tilted sideways, curiously.
“Londo?” Sinclair mused. “What exactly did Londo say?” Sheridan’s face darkened with rage, his boyish features hardening into stone.
“He implied that Delenn had a taste for powerful men and that she’s been using me as a substitute for you,” Sheridan grated. It galled him to have to explain this to anyone, especially this man. Sinclair winced, even as anger flared in eyes, darkening them from a warm amber to a forbidding obsidian.
“That bastard,” he swore. His mouth tightened. “I never would have expected any of this from Londo. He always had an ego, but he meant well.”
Sheridan nodded, then found himself sighing, staring at the drink in his hand.
“Garibaldi thinks he just got overtaken by events. Like the rest of us.” He took another drink, swallowing hard. The alcohol created a welcome rush of heat in his belly, counterpoint to his own buried rage. “And we were arguing — again. Still, it’s no excuse for insulting Delenn like that. And God, I should have known better than to listen to him.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sinclair responded with understanding. “We’re all under a lot of pressure right now. You’re tired. Judgement starts to fray a bit under these kinds of conditions.” He stared gravely at his own drink, but didn’t bother taking another sip. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to get any better.”
Sheridan had to agree with that. He nodded, and a somber silence surrounded them both. Sheridan took another swallow of his drink, studying the other man casually. Sinclair seemed lost in thought. Just as Sheridan was about to reach for his attention, Sinclair looked back up at Sheridan and grinned brightly.
“Too bad we can’t get Londo back for the trouble he caused. I’d sure like to see him get a taste of his own medicine.”
Sheridan found himself grinning in reply.
“That’s for sure. And who says we can’t? We’d have to be careful not to make a diplomatic incident out of it, but I’m sure we could think of something.”
Sinclair raised his glass, and Sheridan stretched out his own. A temporary truce was sealed to the clink of crystal striking crystal.
Including Garibaldi made obvious sense, but it still meant that Sheridan had to explain — again. Garibaldi took it with good natured humor, echoing Sinclair’s laughter, which stung Sheridan deeply. He already felt foolish enough; he didn’t need it rubbed in. The ease of the long-term friendship between the security chief and his former commander was glaring — understanding flashing between them in an undercurrent that Sheridan could only barely perceive. That, too, hurt, as did the memory of Garibaldi’s first words to him, “I don’t know you.” He thought he’d won the man’s trust, but it would never touch the depth of this friendship. Jealousy flared again, bright and searing. Why did he always seem to end up trailing in Sinclair’s wake?Swallowing the cold emotion, he focused on the conversation. Londo may have only been a catalyst, bringing buried feelings to the surface, but the annoying Centauri Ambassador also made a welcome target for Sheridan’s desire to take back some control. He’d been manipulated one time too many; he wanted, needed, to feel that he was in charge of his surroundings. Revenge wasn’t always an icy prospect, this time it smoldered white-hot within his gut.
Garibaldi was sipping at a glass of root beer, offered without comment by Sinclair, who hadn’t even bothered asking what he preferred. He was still chuckling, and he looked up, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe even Londo would pull something like that,” Garibaldi said. He sighed, smoothing his hand over his balding hairline, then he grinned as broadly as a cheshire cat. “So…what d’ya wanna do about it? Screw with the computer voice in his quarters? Refill all of his booze bottles with colored spacedock gear lube? I could have the temperature gauge on his shower adjusted…” Garibaldi paused, then looked around at them, confused. “Do Centauri shower?”
“Good question,” Sinclair replied, the corners of his mouth uplifted in amusement. “I know the Minbari don’t.”
Sheridan looked stunned at that, and Sinclair’s smile broadened. “Strangely enough it was one of the more difficult problems I had to deal with my first couple weeks on Minbar. They don’t shower with water, they use an astringent chemical that removes dead cells and dirt from the skin layer. I had to have the quarters in the Earth Embassy redone, plumbing and all.” He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t tell us much about the Centauri, though. I suppose we could look it up, but I’m not sure I want to know.” All three grinned, then Sheridan pounced on the bottom line.
“Is there anything Londo, or the Centauri in general, really hate?” He bared his teeth like a lion contemplating his prey. “Anything Londo is really scared of?”
“You mean besides a na’ka’leen feeder?” Garibaldi replied. Sheridan questioned with his eyes, and it was Sinclair who answered.
“It’s a rather nasty predator found within Centauri space. It literally sucks the brain dry. One of B5’s more unpleasant denizens got hold of one a couple years back and was using it as muscle for an extortion racket. When Londo found out it was on board he was completely insufferable for nearly two weeks afterward.” Sinclair paused, considering, then shook his head. “They are illegal to possess and transport, in addition to being extremely dangerous, so I doubt Londo would fall for that. Too bad, though.” His eyes sparkled with amusement.
Garibaldi grinned, then leaned back in his chair, twiddling his thumbs idly.
“Well, there is one thing…” He shook his head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it had manifested. But Sheridan wasn’t about to let it go.
“What?” he demanded. Garibaldi hunched his shoulders, then responded wryly.
“The Centauri do have a strong cultural taboo against same-sex relationships.” At the curious glances from both men, he put a hand up in involuntary defense. “Don’t ask,” he warned. “But it is one of the few things they absolutely won’t tolerate. Less so between women, I think, but male-male intimacy is a major no-no. They’re totally horrified of it.”
Sheridan and Sinclair stared at him with mirrored expressions of dawning interest. Then Sheridan looked at Sinclair.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he said. Sinclair turned a small, wry smile on him.
“Yes,” Sinclair said plainly. Garibaldi waved a strong negative at them.
“Uh uh,” he said firmly. “No. No way. Don’t even think about it. I’m not getting involved in something like that. What turns other people on is their own business, but if you think I’ll let another guy touch me, you’re nuts.” Sinclair chuckled, while Sheridan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“No one was suggesting that you be involved,” he replied. He turned to fix Sinclair with gleaming blue eyes. “After all, this is about us, and Delenn.” He smiled predatorially, gesturing at Sinclair. “I can see some symmetry in letting Londo think I was jealous not over Delenn, but over you…” His voice trailed off, as Sinclair’s eyes lit up like sunlight through amber.
“Now that idea I like,” Garibaldi said, smirking.
“Might work,” Sinclair responded thoughtfully. “But we’ll have to be careful or it won’t be convincing.” Garibaldi threw him a suspicious glance, recognizing that tone of voice and not liking the sound of it at all. He’d heard it many times before, every time Sinclair had gone off to almost get himself killed playing hero. The man hated sitting around telling other people what to do, much preferring being in the thick of things, on the front line whenever possible.
/Oh great,/ Garibaldi thought. /This could be serious trouble./
Sheridan, however, only heard the ring of conspiratorial amusement, and echoed it with his own.
“Yes, we’ll need to set-up him up carefully. A little subtlety to start with, then…” He paused, studying Sinclair, who was watching him attentively. “Come to think of it, when did subtlety ever get through to Londo? How do you feel about full bore in-his-face?”
“I feel fine about it,” Sinclair replied with a broad grin. He leaned back, baring his teeth in a calculating expression of joy. “And I know just exactly who should lead him down the garden path…”
She did not understand this concept of a ‘practical joke.’ Both John and Jeffrey had tried to explain it to her, but it simply made no sense. Deliberately misleading someone only to tell them the truth later, and expecting them to find it amusing…Delenn was very confused. This was one of the strangest human customs she had ever experienced. However, both men were delighted with their plan and she was deeply relieved to see them both happy. That was reason enough for her to do as they asked.But she had reason of her own. Londo had insulted her and Jeffrey’s honor by accusing them of lying to John. Such behavior was inconceivable to her, and it was a deep injury to her pride that anyone, even Londo, could believe her capable of it. The question was not her feelings for either Jeffrey or John, or even that she might desire to express those two different loves physically, for the Minbari accepted sexual expression of friendship as natural and unremarkable. It was the accusation of deception that truly angered her.
Delenn paused in front of the door to Londo’s quarters, and carefully straightened her robes and her hair. The annoying stuff was always getting in her face, but it made her look too severe when it was bound up. This was a strange concept, too, vanity, but the way John stared at her when she took care with her appearance made it well worth the trouble. She loved the way his blue eyes flared, darkening almost to a deep gray, when she looked her best. And he liked her hair down — so down it was.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the door signal and waited for Londo to answer. It came, loud and imperative, almost angry. That was not a good sign. Londo was difficult enough to deal with when he was in a good mood, if he was upset, this would only be worse. But he had insulted her honor, that could not be ignored.
The door swished open, and she glided inside. Londo was standing against his kitchen counter, and something indeterminable flashed in his eyes before his face shuttered. It was a bland mask that she faced, all emotion closed off from public view.
“Ahh, the lovely Minbari Ambassador. What can I do for you, Delenn?”
Standing to her full, diminutive height, she glared straight at him.
“You will stop meddling in my private life.” He barely responded, his large face bland, his expression bored. Her anger and outrage swelled. She’d assumed that Londo had spoken in the heat of his argument with Sheridan, that he had spoken without forethought. But now she knew differently — knew that Londo had done this deliberately.
He opened his mouth to speak, and she shut him off with an imperative wave of her hand. Her voice cut through the air like a dagger of pure ice. “How dare you accuse me of improper behavior! I am Minbari of the religious caste. I have taken vows; I do not break such lightly. And with Jeffrey Sinclair? Entil’Zha? He is a holy man; a blessed True Seeker who has pledged his soul to heal the wounds between our two races. I would never dare to profane him in such a manner as you accuse me of! We are friends, joined in common cause. You insult us both greatly! I am Minbari, I do not lay down with those who are not of us. And Jeffrey is born of Earth, he belongs to another of his own. You will not make such accusations again!”
Londo’s mouth dropped open, and he shrank back against the counter for a moment. Delenn was half his size, but she dominated the room regardless. Her eyes blazed green fire at him. He drew in a deep breath, then fell back on years of experience at empty sayings.
Bowing his head, he said sadly, “I apologize for anything I have said that may have offended you. I merely observed to Captain Sheridan that it was good to see you and Sinclair together.” He interlaced his hands and closed them, as if symbolizing that companionship. “You have always been close — I do not believe I am mistaken about that.” She didn’t move a muscle, and he forged on ahead. “But I am deeply horrified, my dear Delenn, if I have done anything to upset you or Captain Sheridan. I know how much you mean to each other — ”
“Captain Sheridan and I are friends,” she said coldly, interrupting his insolent rhetoric. “But no more. You are mistaken to say otherwise. I am not concerned for my relationship with him, but for his with Entil’Zha. You created great trouble between them, using me as a tool. I do not like being used in such a fashion. Jeffrey and John are my friends, they are well suited for each other, and I will not tolerate anyone coming between them. You will cease and desist from any such behavior in the future. Do I make myself clear?” She inclined her head in the barest of a formal bow, turned smoothly on her heels, and glided gracefully from the room, leaving a stunned Londo staring at the door as it closed behind her.
Was this a good idea? Probably not, Jeffrey Sinclair allowed, but his entire body was tensed with gleeful anticipation, laughter bubbling in his chest, threatening to explode from him at any moment. This was too much fun, and he’d had far too little reason for joy in the past few years. His remaining time here was short, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy it to the fullest. Even so, his hands felt clammy; his pulse was racing.Sheridan, on the other hand, was leaning against the wall beside him, head back, long lean lines relaxed, at ease. The grey-lined black uniform draped him smoothly, the cool sapphire eyes were hooded, betraying nothing. Sinclair admired his poise, wondered where his own had fled.
Sinclair took a deep breath, then let his eyes wander down the hall, but found himself drawn back again and again to the other man. He studied him unobtrusively, curiously, trying to penetrate the bland, handsome exterior. It had been difficult to see his beloved station in another man’s hands, and his first inclination had been to keep his distance from the Agamemnon’s former Captain. Sheridan hadn’t allowed that, though, bursting into his life with startling energy. To his surprise, Sinclair found himself liking the man; seeing a reflection of himself, perhaps, as he once had been.
But the Ambassador had learned to cultivate his reserve, some of it a survival necessity, some of it a desperate attempt to slow the coming pain of separation. His future was his past, his life a circle, ending nearly a thousand years before he had been born. A solitary journey for a man who had learned to keep his own counsel, bear his own burdens, standing alone even within a crowd. Sheridan was already too close, winding, threading talons into him of a kind Sinclair had never known from anyone.
John Sheridan leaned back against the wall, letting the cold steel support him, wondering how he had managed to find himself in this situation, and wondering what he was going to do now that he was in it. Well, he knew what he was going to do — play a very well-deserved joke on the Centauri Ambassador. He smiled softly, grasping tightly to the humor of the situation and sinking fingers deeply into it. He needed to exercise his cunning again; had felt the lack in the past months in spite of all the delicate maneuvering. The political situation on Earth and in the galaxy abroad had left him defanged and declawed; helpless to really act once he had made a decision because they were still in the waiting/hiding stage. This felt so good — to act out his anger instead of bottling it up again. And this was a damn good joke.
He looked up at Sinclair with half-shuttered eyes, discreet like a tiger sizing up a competitor, watching as the other man’s intense brown eyes scanned the hallway, coolly appraising their surroundings. The Ambassador held himself with ramrod posture, military demeanor still evident even within the elegant Ranger cloak. His brooch flickered with the gentlest movement, a vivid reminder of who he was. Ranger One, Entil’Zha, the first and only Earth Ambassador to Minbar.
Sheridan suffered again the jolt of jealousy he often felt in this man’s presence. The Minbari treated Sinclair with such open respect, acceptance; yet never failing to turn deepseated hostility on Sheridan himself. Dammit, Sinclair had fought them, too, but they still honored him. Then again, Sinclair had been one man in a Starfury, and he had been the commander of the only Earth ship to ever destroy a Minbari war cruiser. But still…the Minbari attitude hurt. And even the human Rangers responded to Sinclair with both awe and unconditional allegiance. Yet, he had to admit that he, too, liked Sinclair. Well, at least when the man wasn’t pulling his cryptic saint bit. When he stopped sounding like Kosh, the ambassador was fun to be around. He had a sharp intellect, a dry, easy sense of humor, an earthy practicality that seemed as though it should be at odds with his bent toward spirituality, yet never truly was. Instead, those ostensibly opposing characteristics merged effortlessly into a personality that was charismatic and quietly commanding. Sheridan wondered if the man ever even raised his voice, but doubted it. The softest sound of that voice could flow like molten silver or pierce like a sword of the most unrelenting steel.
Sheridan shivered as he felt those amber eyes fix on him, and he shifted in place, preparing to move, when his link sounded two warning beeps.
Another display of Garibaldi magic, Sinclair thought with amused affection. No one knew this station better than its security chief; no one could track the movements of close to a quarter of a million people and aliens with tighter precision. If it breathed on Babylon 5, Garibaldi knew about it, sooner or later. Sinclair smiled, nodding at Sheridan who had finally peeled himself off the wall and was standing upright, poised and waiting.
The link beeped again, this time in three quick pulses, and Sheridan’s eyes melded with Sinclair’s. Cool sapphire, predatory and prepared, converged with dark honey, intense and aware. Sheridan stalked forward a step, Sinclair held his ground. They turned in unison, sliding sideways until they were facing each other, the closed lift doors beside them, a bare foot of space separating their bodies. Sheridan paused, his eyes still locked with Sinclair’s, his hands resting at his sides.
Sinclair mirrored his pose. They stood like a pair of gladiators waiting for the signal to begin to fight, muscles tensed to begin combat, balanced on the balls of their feet. The chime of the lift sounded like an alarm bell in the heavy silence, and it sent them into swift and simultaneous motion.
They collided hard, eliciting a soft “oomph” sound from Sheridan’s throat. That brought a quick chuckle from Sinclair, as he grasped at Sheridan’s shoulders to steady himself. They found balance against each other, Sheridan’s arms closing around Sinclair’s waist, hesitant, palms flat against the small of his back.
Sinclair had a bare inch or two of height in his favor, forcing Sheridan to tilt his face upwards to meet the ambassador’s eyes. They shifted against each other, chest pressed to chest, sharing the breath in their lungs, mouths held a heartbeat from touching. Sheridan’s eyes had narrowed slightly and Sinclair wondered if the height difference annoyed the other man.
The soft whooshing sound of an opening door broke that last frozen spell, and they fell together as though pulled by an invisible string. Flesh contacted flesh for the first time, lips sliding across lips. The first sensation was cool and dry, the second hot and wet. Sheridan gasped for air against Sinclair’s mouth and his body shifted, arms tightening, the soft enclosure of his arms forged into a cage of steel.
Sinclair clutched at Sheridan’s shoulders, feeling the muscles flex beneath his fingertips, sleek and slender. He traced the bulge of the biceps, then slid back upwards to twine his long arms around Sheridan’s neck. One hand splayed across the captain’s back, the other cradled the back of his head, supporting it as he deepened the kiss downward, looming up over the other man.
A low moan sounded in Sheridan’s throat, a soft growl that rubbed across Sinclair’s nerves, sending a tingle of electricity down his spine. The demand of his mouth increased, pressing harder, grinding, until Sheridan suddenly, abruptly, surged forward. Sheridan took hold of Sinclair’s cloak and yanked on it, throwing the other man off balance, and taking advantage of the surprise, shoved him around and backwards into the lift.
They stumbled together, mouths still clinging tightly, spinning nearly a full circle as they each struggled for primacy. Sinclair pushed Sheridan’s back up against the far wall of the lift, only to be thrown forward, sideward, ending up enclosed in the corner. The kiss itself shifted with each motion, another intimate battle, suckling on another’s lip, each gesture mimicked, intensified in return.
Londo flinched violently as the two men hit the wall next to him in the lift. He had been shocked enough to see two males kissing in front of him when the elevator doors opened, but Sheridan and Sinclair? It was too much to believe. Nausea rose in the back of his throat at the sight and sound — he shuddered — of them in the elevator with him, merely inches from his body, engaged in an intimate act that was just wrong for two of the same gender. He had been stunned to learn that such relations were accepted among humans, but he had so far managed to avoid seeing anything more revolting than holding hands in public. Now it was here next to him, the station’s feral Captain and powerful former Commander actually involved in a mating ritual in his presence. He gagged harshly; almost becoming sick right then and there. By the Gods, he had to get away from this.
Sheridan ran his hands down Sinclair’s back, learning the hard curve of muscles, then tangled his fingers in the thick, slightly coarse strands of the other man’s hair, pulling him closer. Sinclair sighed deep in his throat, the sound swallowed up into Sheridan’s hungry mouth. They had tasted each other tentatively at first, licking at each other’s lips, then suddenly, hesitantly, fervently, dove into deeper contact. Tongue struck across tongue in rough contact, sandpaper on satin, then moving, swiftly, sliding, slick across polished enamel.
Sheridan began to hum, his throat vibrating with a gentle rhythm. Sinclair’s growl was deeper, building to a crescendo then dropping to periods of utter sated silence. They pulled apart and gasped for air, filling burning lungs, then crushing against each other yet again. Time ceased to have any meaning, their senses focused totally on each other. Neither noticed the figure that darted past them into the hall, the closing of the doors, the slightly swaying motion of the lift as it began to move.
Neither noticed anything except the taste of each other, the pulse of blood in their veins, the desire stirring in their groins, until…
“AMBASSADOR SINCLAIR!…CAPTAIN SHERIDAN?!” A loud, astonished, and patently authoritative female voice shattered the storm, threw them both dizzily back to awareness of their surroundings.
“Whhhhaaaat?” Sheridan moaned, as contact was broken and he fell backwards, still clutching at Sinclair’s arms for support. Sinclair jerked his head up, wild-eyed, his normally serene composure broken, hands grasping at Sheridan’s forearms. They ended up with arms crossed in a parody of the Centauri ‘Hands of Friendship’, both angling their heads to find Commander Ivanova framed in the doorway staring at them with wide grey eyes.
Her mouth was closed tightly as she resisted the urge to fold her own arms in some kind of odd mockery. Both men stared at her in surprise, glanced at each other, then released. Sinclair spun a full circle while Sheridan ducked his head past a startled Ivanova to check the corridor.
“He’s gone,” he announced, turning back to Sinclair. They faced each other again, gazes locking, while an aggrieved Ivanova demanded:
“Who’s gone? John, what on earth…”
Before she could finish her demand, both men began to chuckle. Her mouth opened wide, then clamped shut on silence, as they both began to tremble. Mirth bubbled up out of both of them like water from a fountain. Sheridan let out a raucous bellow of laughter, which only made Sinclair roar louder. He put one hand on Sheridan’s shoulder, drawing the other’s man gaze again, and the instant their eyes met, they lost any hope for control. Together they slid down to the floor, laughter boiling out of them, clutching helplessly at their sides.
“Did you see…” Sinclair managed to get out between gasps for breath.
Sheridan couldn’t find words, his vision obscured by the tears pooling in his eyes. He shook his head, doubling over to tuck his head between his knees.
“Me neither…” Sinclair rasped, tossing his head back against the wall of the lift.
That set off another round of screaming laughter, until they both fell silent out of the sheer need to breathe. The sound of their lungs working filled the air for a long moment, then was superseded by a long-suffering demand.
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Garibaldi couldn’t help feeling a small stirring of sympathy for Londo. Not that the Centauri Ambassador didn’t deserve the practical joke he was being subjected to, for he surely did, but Garibaldi hadn’t quite realized just how entrenched the Centauri taboo on male-male intimacy was. Londo’s skin had turned a vivid, purple flush by the time he had fled down the corridor (and he did look stunning in purple) and his hair crest was visibly drooping. He had run straight from the staged scene to the closest suitable men’s room, and proceeded to alternate between bouts of convulsive nausea, vigorous handwashing, and gargling. Garibaldi had followed, peeking around a corner, a few slivers of guilt mixed with his amusement. But by the time the security chief had found Sinclair and Sheridan, mutually failing to explain themselves to Ivanova, her face a precious stone mask of incredulity, he had been lost to his amusement. It had been far too long since they’d all had something to laugh about. In a strange sort of way, Londo had done them a favor.Garibaldi had been worried about Sinclair and Sheridan. From the start of the former commander’s visit, they had remained stiff and uncomfortable in each other’s presence, avoiding contact except when necessary. Nothing overt, for neither was the kind of man who would let personal tension interfere with the cause they were mutually committed to, but Garibaldi had felt the rift deeply, torn between his dearest friend and his commanding officer. He’d tried to ease the way between them the best he could, meeting a silent wall of resistance. Londo had shattered that silence, broken the glass wall — his meddling had given the two proud men a more personal common cause.
Sheridan strode down the corridor toward the elevator shaft. He didn’t know what he was going to say when he got to Ambassador Sinclair’s quarters, didn’t know how he was going to explain what he was doing there, but anything was better than sitting in his own quarters alone, aching.He couldn’t get that kiss out of his mind. Couldn’t get the smell of Sinclair’s body out of his thoughts, the taste of his mouth, the look in his eyes when they had parted in the hallway after Ivanova had interrupted them so vocally. Sheridan had gone back to his quarters that night, his belly quivering when he was still. He had sat in the dark for a while, thinking about it.
The taste of Sinclair’s mouth wouldn’t leave him.
He wasn’t aware of how he looked when he touched the door signal to Sinclair’s quarters. Otherwise he might have schooled his expression a little differently, but when the door opened, Sinclair was standing there, and saw everything in Sheridan’s eyes. Silence. Then, his own eyes calm and…distant was the word that came into Sheridan’s head…Sinclair stepped back softly and gestured for Sheridan to enter.
When the door closed behind him, Sheridan realized that Sinclair’s quarters were almost as dark as the ones he had left. Both of them meditative tonight? Something took hold of Sheridan’s gut, clenching tensely in the oppressive, male silence of the room. Sinclair was perfectly still, watching him with an oddly human interest as Sheridan paced a little, then paused, feeling conspicuous. It was in that moment of motionlessness that his eyes caught Sinclair’s clenched hand. It was trembling. He glanced up, and Sinclair met his stare with eyes like darkened amber.
He hadn’t planned on moving, not ever — Sinclair was going to start this, by God — but he was moving anyway, taking Sinclair’s cloak with both fists and pulling the taller man to him forcefully. Sinclair grunted and startled him by reaching for his mouth greedily before they were really close enough for it, closing the space between their mouths to land a kiss that started with his tongue parting Sheridan’s lips and then pressing hard to take him with a desperation that was a surprise — and quite revealing. Sinclair’s hands came up to take his shoulders, and he was flooded by that scent again — such maleness.
“You have quite a reputation on this station,” Sheridan growled, breaking the kiss and making Sinclair moan softly. Sinclair watched him, breathing hard, eyes reflecting an instant of yearning. “Half the people here think you’re God and the other half think you’re God’s assistant.” He was pushing Sinclair now, back toward the wall. Sinclair let him, pinned by the cool, blue eyes. “Messiah or not, I remember you from the Mars riots, Lieutenant Commander and you’re just a man.” Sinclair hit the wall with a hard thud, Sheridan’s hands holding him there painfully. “And men have needs.” He let go and his hands moved like serpents, down between Sinclair’s legs to draw up between them firmly, pressing into Sinclair’s groin hard, sensuous. Sinclair’s eyes closed and his knees buckled in a moaning sigh of startlement and pleasure. Sheridan wouldn’t let him fall, holding him up against the bulkhead, grinning fiercely. “Yeah, like that?” he asked in a hiss, rubbing back down again, down the shaft of a growing hardness in Sinclair’s trousers. There was an instant of exquisite bliss on Sinclair’s face and another sensual, caressing sigh from him.
“Uuurrrrmmmm,” Sinclair groaned. The voice was like velvet over gold, and Sheridan felt his own cock quiver and thicken. Then amber eyes opened again and raised to look at him. Sheridan saw that man in them now; the easy, gentle composure he had been looking at since Sinclair arrived was tearing at the edges. There was a hammer and anvil in this, amber like golden fire, white hot. Sinclair reached for his uniform jacket and had it open in just a breath. The shirt he spread open, the snaps giving way quickly. Sheridan realized suddenly how big a man Sinclair was when Sinclair came away from the wall, jaw clenched around a growl, and slipped strong hands under the shirt to hold him for another kiss. This one burned. Sinclair’s lips seemed to generate their own heat. Sheridan found his domination taken from him, just that quick, and just that deliciously. After what seemed an eternity, they broke apart.
“I’m no messiah, Captain.” Sinclair’s voice seemed far away. “And certainly no god. And neither are you.” His hand slid down Sheridan’s body to find the hard bulge between his legs. The touch fueled the fires that had already begun to burn out of control. Sinclair, smiling tightly, just looked at him, holding his gaze as he began to play with the toy he’d discovered.
Sheridan held onto him, hands clenched into his shirt and cloak, as the hand at his groin fondled him. Sinclair’s strong fingers found the outline of the shaft and head, teasing him, moving slowly down to his testicles to stroke them through his trousers. He refused to look away from Sinclair’s eyes, not giving the man the satisfaction of surrendering to the sensation. But it burned in him like hellfire, Sinclair’s touch like a searing brand even through his clothes, exquisite and overwhelming. The tight smile on Sinclair’s mouth trembled and faded, his lips parting with something like eagerness, a fierce light in his brown eyes. The hand around Sheridan’s cock gripped firmly for a moment, making him grunt, and he saw the satisfaction in Sinclair’s face. “Like that?” Sinclair asked roughly, mocking his earlier words.
“So this is a contest, huh?” Sheridan said, his breath unsteady. “Which one of us wants it more? Hm? Well.” Sheridan snaked his hand down between them again and found Sinclair’s belt buckle, undoing it roughly. Sinclair only looked at him, with that smug expression, and Sheridan suddenly found it difficult to concentrate as Sinclair’s hand found a delicate spot.
“Mmmm,” Sheridan hummed, almost involuntarily. Sinclair’s fingers were so exquisite, applying pressure to just the right place on the shaft of his cock. “Ah…you’re good,” Sheridan admitted with a wry smile of his own. “But let’s see here…” Sheridan got Sinclair’s pants open and pushed his hand into the slate colored briefs. Sinclair’s breath caught sharply, and Sheridan grinned. “Gotcha,” Sheridan murmured. Sinclair closed his eyes for just an instant, opening them again to hold Sheridan’s gaze.
Sinclair moved to match Sheridan’s gambit, tugging open the black pants and digging his hand deep within. He found his target, a faint smile escaping as his finger stroked a lazy circle around the head of Sheridan’s cock, then dipped a fingerpad softly into the hole at the tip, which was wet. Sinclair made a thoughtful noise and drew his hand out of Sheridan’s trousers. He started to bring his hand to his mouth to taste it, but Sheridan grabbed his wrist tightly.
“Hey,” Sheridan murmured playfully. “That’s mine, you know.” And he pulled Sinclair’s hand to his own mouth and took the man’s finger between his lips. At the same time, he gripped Sinclair’s cock and began kneading it sensuously. His tongue lavished Sinclair’s finger wetly and the combination of sensations broke something in Sinclair’s reserve.
Brown topaz eyes widened slightly and a perfectly obscene groan came out of his throat. Sheridan let his finger go and Sinclair drew his fingers down Sheridan’s jaw and neck, caressing him in pure, wanton desire. Sheridan moved his hand a little, adjusted his thumb to rub in a certain place, a certain way, and Sinclair made a sharp, surprised sound somewhere between a snarl and a moan. Sinclair’s hands came up to clench tightly into Sheridan’s uniform jacket, as much to keep on his feet as for any other reason. Sheridan laughed softly.
“Been a while?” he teased in a low voice like granite. “You were on Minbar for, what, almost two years, weren’t you? Two years since another human hand has touched you like this. Someone who knows how to touch you, who knows exactly what it feels like. Someone who can do it just right. Hm? Did you miss that?”
No reply except for the anthracite eyes that stared at him hungrily, hard, soft breaths, trembling body and hands gripped white-knuckled into his clothes at the shoulders. Oh, yeah. Sinclair wanted it bad.
“Let’s go back over here, hm?” Sheridan purred, pushing gently on Sinclair’s shoulder to get the man back up against the wall. “We wouldn’t want you on your knees just yet.” Sinclair didn’t resist, and once the cool metal was behind him, he sagged a little, resting his weight on it and on Sheridan’s hand. Sheridan didn’t hold him there with strength; it was the sweet grip of his hand on a desperate, quivering cock that kept Sinclair captive.
“Oh, mother of God,” Sinclair groaned, tossing his head back against the wall with a hard thud. He closed his eyes, a total surrender, and moaned achingly. It was fascinating; this utter submission that Sheridan had created by pushing the right buttons. He felt a moment of empathy for Sinclair. It had been much too long since he had had another human’s sensual touch.
It wouldn’t take long, either, from the sound of Sinclair’s soft purrs and whimpers. Sheridan fondled him luxuriously, stroking, stroking, finding a spot under the crown that made Sinclair suck in his breath when it was touched just so. But he never relented for even an instant, and wondered if Sinclair would let him do it to its ultimate conclusion, in spite of the mess.
Oh, yes, indeed. He would. Sheridan grinned as Sinclair made another of those amazing noises; this one like a rumbling, trembling growl that was almost a laugh. There was deeply repressed joy in it. Suddenly Sinclair’s breaths came hotter, faster, nearly bursting with the intensity Sheridan could see in the tawny golden eyes that met him again.
“Yes,” Sinclair growled, half to himself, half to Sheridan in permission of what was rising inside him to meet the demand of so many months of yearning. The cock in Sheridan’s hand was hard and soft the way only a cock can be, straining, close. “Yes…” It was a hiss, and Sinclair’s eyes held him like lion’s fangs. Sheridan saw the climax rushing forward to consume him, an astonishing bestiality visible in those eyes like the fiery heartbeat that pounded in his chest. “Yes yes yes yes –” It gave way to a strangled shout that filled the room with brilliant sound and weight.
Sheridan savored every breath, watching him, drinking in the pleasure and submission to the urge, coaxing him softly with his own voice to let go. He felt hot wetness cover his hand in Sinclair’s trousers, and Sheridan felt like howling himself in sheer delight.
Sinclair slumped against Sheridan in the throes of his release, his head thrown back against the wall, his powerful hands digging painfully into Sheridan’s biceps. Sheridan held him there, letting the last tremors fade and slow, drawing out the last drops, the last tingle of ecstasy with the now gentle pressure of his hand.
When it was done, Sheridan saw him swallow hard. Then, with a contented, heavy sigh, Sinclair rolled his head forward, dark eyes reaching for Sheridan’s storm-blue ones and taking hold. And Sinclair smiled — a sensual, lazy magnificence that spoke of vast satisfaction and relish. It bared his teeth to show a bright steel edge to his accomplishment, eyes glittering like sunlight against obsidian.
Sheridan knew what he was seeing in that brilliant grin. A secret knowing, private, delicious triumph. The heat of rage flooded Sheridan’s belly until he thought he would scream. He remembered a truth about war then: Only in total surrender will one find true victory.
“You son of a –” Sheridan murmured. Sinclair came away from the wall again, taking Sheridan with him like the sea taking a ship, and just as unstoppable.
“Turnabout’s fair play,” came the sensuous rasp from Sinclair’s throat, and he took Sheridan’s shoulders as if to push the man back toward the couch. A flare of something dangerous in Sheridan’s eyes, and suddenly Sinclair was being resisted. Sheridan distantly savored the brief moment of surprise in the other man’s dark gaze. They stood like that for an heartbeat, Sheridan holding him, lips pressed together and that warning in his blue stare.
The sea moved again, and became a lion come to life in Sinclair’s body. That grin on Sinclair’s mouth again, this time not entirely amused, and Sheridan felt the floor coming up hard to meet him. He hit with a harsh grunt, one of Sinclair’s hands on his shoulder, the other holding his chin tightly, large palm against the underside of his throat, fingers pressing into his jaw to keep his head on the floor firmly. Sinclair bent over him, almost snarling.
“I see the man who destroyed the Black Star is made of sterner stuff than I had expected,” Sinclair said, that voice like warm fire ash rubbing up against Sheridan’s soul. “Good.”
And the inferno of his mouth descended to consume Sheridan’s with confidence and mastery, as though he were trying to cool himself by transferring some of the heat to Sheridan. He plunged his tongue into Sheridan’s mouth and Sheridan’s hands came up to grip his shoulders tightly.
Sinclair’s hand let go of Sheridan’s face and jaw to land flat on the floor down beside his chest. The kiss was enough to hold him, but he growled dangerously. Sinclair knew the risk he was taking, knew that Sheridan’s compliance was a very thinly walked tightrope. He knew also that the only way to keep control of this situation was with sheer power. He broke the kiss and looked down, looming over the other man. His smile was not amused now, but feral, calculating.
Sheridan snarled and grabbed for Sinclair’s arms, pressing his elbows against the floor in search of leverage. But Sinclair had the advantage here, and used it mercilessly. Releasing Sheridan, he pushed himself down, seized Sheridan’s open trousers, and yanked hard to draw them down to Sheridan’s ankles in a single breath.
Sheridan moaned viciously, knowing instinctually what was coming, contrary impulses warring within him. Something deep inside him was screaming for a fight, one alpha male recognizing another, rising to demand dominion in a shriek of rage. But there was another part of him that screamed for equal recognition; desire, his blood singing, cock hard in his groin with raw wanting. The want was everything, and he hissed softly — perfectly still — as Sinclair, growling low in his throat, lowered himself to engulf Sheridan’s straining cock with the furnace of his mouth.
Strong fingers dug into Sheridan’s ass, anchoring him, wet suction drawing seemingly every ounce of blood in his body to pool in his aching cock. For a shocked instant Sheridan felt like he was going to come right then, and his back arched, hips grinding upward to bury himself deeper into the source of that incredible sensation. He opened his mouth, his throat, to scream wantonly, but just barely held it back. A shred of a desire to maintain control forced the sound down to a strangled gasp, but it rose again, sharper, when Sinclair applied his teeth, raking them across the shaft, grazing the tip.
Sinclair’s mouth was the most magnificent thing Sheridan had known in so long. He opened his mouth again, struggling to not cry out — he wouldn’t give that up without a better reason.
Sinclair sensed the holding back and rubbed strong, sensuous hands over Sheridan’s buttocks, literally holding the man’s hips up to his mouth. He sucked fiercely, ravenous, obviously wanting Sheridan’s pleasure.
Better reason or not, the urge to yell was becoming completely unbearable and Sheridan started to moan longingly. Arching his back, he gave a hiss through clenched teeth, and Sinclair pulled away from him for just a moment.
“Go on, John.” God, that voice was like sex itself. “Scream. Scream until your throat is raw. Scream until the whole damned station can hear you.” Sheridan groaned, and that voice touched him again. “John.” It was a pure caress, making his name into a sexual word. He felt a soft, wet kiss on the shaft of his penis.
“Sinclaaiirrrr,” Sheridan growled, like a curse, a frustrated damnation, a demand that Sinclair continue the sweet sucking of his cock. Sinclair chuckled quietly and Sheridan felt the warm breath on his groin. Then — suddenly — Sinclair’s tongue was a flurry of wet, heated licks and kisses, Sheridan’s testicles engulfed for an instant and the shaft of his cock was nipped and then the head was in Sinclair’s mouth again. Sheridan felt teeth on it. He arched back wildly, mouth open wide.
“RrrrraaaaaAAAAAHHHHHH!” No conscious control could have stopped that yell from John’s throat, and no hands but Sinclair’s could have held him as he thrust into that delicious mouth. He swore — a bright, vulgar word spat into the room, and Sinclair laughed deep in his throat. Sheridan screamed again, a howl of need, of fury, male savagery. It was a breathtakingly erotic, intensely human noise filled with blazing, tempestuous joy. Sinclair felt a reply from within his own belly, a need to answer that cry, and all he could do was lick and pleasure John as fiercely as he was able.
Sheridan’s hands clawed into the carpeted floor, his body wound taut like a steel coil, bucking gently into Sinclair’s gorgeous, fiery mouth and loving the hot tongue that seared him. This was going to be huge. It moved, came for him, a roaring beast up out of the hellish depths of his animal soul.
“HhhhuuuurrrrraaaAAAHHHH Sinclaaiirr, oh God dammit –!” Coherency abandoned him and everything was washed in flame as the climax consumed him.
He became aware first of sensuous, velvet laughter. Sinclair. Sheridan was panting, staring up at the VIP quarters’ gray metal ceiling.
Sinclair rolled over to the side, sprawling himself on the floor beside Sheridan with an air of satisfaction. Sheridan lay still for a moment, gulping for breath. He closed his eyes, savoring the wash of post-orgasmic warmth that rippled up his back.
“You…” Sheridan panted, “are very good at this.” Sinclair laughed quietly, a deeply satiated sound, smug and pleased. Sheridan propped himself up on his elbows and angled his head to look down at Sinclair. The Ambassador met his gaze, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.
“You know,” Sinclair said conversationally, “I have a perfectly good bed in the other room.”
Sheridan stared at him for a moment, then giggled. Pushing himself over, he leaned down to kiss the other man, still passionate but this time more exploratory, curious. Sinclair responded with a quiet eagerness, letting Sheridan trace the contours of his mouth, resting a guiding hand on Sheridan’s shoulder. Lifting back up, finally, Sheridan grinned wolfishly. He saw something in Sinclair’s eyes then, had tasted it in his mouth. Sinclair understood that this was not a pretentious game. It was not a pointless, ego-driven male posturing. No, Sinclair knew it for what it was, and Sheridan could see its promise smoldering in the dark embers of Sinclair’s eyes.
“You said something about a bed?” Sheridan murmured. He lifted up his hips with a grunt and pulled his trousers back up. As he sat up he realized he had pulled a calf muscle and eased himself to his feet carefully. He helped Sinclair up, extending a hand which the Ambassador accepted. There was still an alpha male ferocity struggling for freedom inside the bellies of both men. Sheridan felt it in the strength of Sinclair’s grasp, in the unconscious attempt to see just how much stress he could handle.
“About that bed,” Sinclair said, amused, “I should warn you it might not be up to what I have in mind.” Sheridan snorted.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, moving to walk past Sinclair toward the bedroom. Sinclair’s hand on his chest stopped him with a grunt, and he paused, looking at Sinclair questioningly.
But Sinclair was not looking at his face. The hand on Sheridan’s chest took hold of the open edges of his black jacket and snowy white shirt, holding them open to just look at him. Eyes dark like plowed earth, Sinclair stood back slightly and took in the sight of him, clothes rumpled, smooth chest rising and falling with calm breaths, belt and trousers open. Sapphire eyes clear like a summer sky.
/What an absolutely beautiful man,/ Sinclair thought softly.
Sheridan saw the calm admiration in the other man’s face, Sinclair’s lips parted in unconscious relish. Sinclair brought his other hand up and slowly pushed the black jacket and white shirt away from Sheridan’s shoulders, palms brushing skin as he bared smoothly muscled shoulders and arms down past Sheridan’s biceps. Sheridan let the clothing fall away from him, taking the jacket and shirt off to drop them on the floor beside him, allowing Sinclair’s silent examination. It was a gentle, erotic scrutiny, Sinclair’s eyes on him like a brand.
Sheridan’s breath caught as one of his nipples was brushed lightly. Sinclair didn’t smile, that intense, quiet curiosity in his eyes, studying Sheridan. The touch rested on Sheridan’s pectoral for a moment, then teased his nipple again. Even sexually sated for the moment, Sheridan was overwhelmed by Sinclair’s pure sensuality, feeling a response rising within him like a gentle wave of warmth and joy. A smile found its way to Sheridan’s lips unconsciously, wondrous and soft.
“How…” He swallowed. “How do you do that?” Sheridan asked, his voice hushed. Obsidian eyes raised to meet his gaze, glinting like polished wood. Sheridan’s breath caught. A man could drown in eyes like that.
When Sinclair’s hand closed on his open trousers, Sheridan felt fear for an instant like he wanted to bolt from the room. Sinclair heard the soft gasp and smiled.
“I want to take a shower,” he said. “Then I want you to do something for me. To me, actually.” Sinclair tugged, coaxing him although it was plain to Sheridan that Sinclair wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Sinclair dragged him into the bedroom, backing up to continue watching Sheridan. The Captain’s eyes darkened with every step, a strange level of seriousness in them. It was not the sobriety of something earth-shattering, but the gravity of something Sheridan personally held important in his own soul. Of the two sorts, the latter was probably the more violence-inducing, and Sinclair fought down a shiver at the thought of it.
Sheridan forced himself not to swallow when Sinclair stopped close to the bed, hand still on his open trousers. Sinclair was heartstoppingly provocative in that instant, a shadowy smile on his mouth, a hint of weariness in his eyes. There was secretive amusement hovering in the back somewhere, broad and warm.
“I want you to make love to me,” Sinclair said, that smile fleeting. “Or fuck me, as you prefer.” He saw Sheridan’s eyes narrow, and knew he had struck a truth in Sheridan’s private needs. He actually welcomed it, wanting to feel Sheridan’s honest, naked masculinity and sexual appetite. Sheridan had shown a strong openness before, a brazen, uncensored willingness to take the initiative. Sinclair liked it, but it had faded in the past minutes to something cautious and wary. He needed what Sheridan could give him — desperately needed it. And he felt that longing urge him now.
Sheridan felt a twinge of apprehension as something glinted in Sinclair’s eyes and the man was moving toward him suddenly, ferocity writ large in his expression and body. Sinclair took his face in both hands, not gently, standing close to speak bare centimeters from his mouth.
“What’s the matter, John?” Sinclair hissed. “Is this your body lying to me?” He touched Sheridan’s thickly swollen cock, fondling him roughly through his underwear. “Damn you, you want this. You want to fuck me so bad I can almost smell it on you. You afraid? Hm? Come on, John. You want to do it. We both know it. And I want you to fuck me. I want to hear you scream for it, hear every word of you wanting this.” Sheridan’s cock was rock hard now, his body quivering with each breath, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Sinclair smiled faintly; he was going to get what he wanted. That was certain now, from the sharp edge in Sheridan’s eyes. “Why don’t I go take that shower and let you think about it, hm?”
He heard the soft growl that followed him into the lavatory, and smiled to himself.
Sinclair left him alone in the bedroom. Sheridan stood there for a moment, trembling, then drew a deep breath and pulled his belt out of his trousers, dropping it on the floor. So Sinclair wanted a fuck. Hard to turn down an invitation like that. He didn’t know what the next hours held, but right now, playing a joke on Londo Mollari was the best thing he had ever done.
He went forward to kneel on the bed, taking his shoes off and then tucking his feet under him. His cock was hard again, just from the sound of Sinclair’s voice making that blunt and unashamed request. After a moment, he pushed his trousers and underwear off, and bent down on both hands to draw a deep breath of the bed. It smelled like Sinclair, warm and male. The scent of it made heat spread out from his groin and chest. The chance to own Sinclair sexually, to take him, would be a sweet thing. It was the only kind of satisfying act Sheridan could undertake after Sinclair had come to his station and taken the affection of his woman.
Oh, people could explain it all they liked. Sheridan himself could try to rationalize to himself that Sinclair wasn’t trying to take command back, and wasn’t romantically interested in Delenn. His animal self was having none of that. Sheridan felt the violation, saw the way the others in the command staff treated Sinclair, the way the Minbari treated him. Saw the way Delenn looked at him, like a priestess to her God…
Sheridan got up.
Sinclair leaned his head back and purred quietly, reveling in the hot water streaming over his body. Lost in the pleasure, he heard Sheridan come into the lavatory, but was startled when the shower door suddenly opened. He had time to take in Sheridan’s nudity, and the blue flame in Sheridan’s eyes — and then Sheridan invaded his space, climbing into the shower with him and shoving him hard against the wall with one hand on his shoulder and the other gripped tight around his jaw. Sheridan moved his head forcefully, baring his throat, and in the space of a single breath, Sheridan closed in and bit him hard on the neck. Sinclair grunted, surprised as much by the flame that rose in his own belly as by Sheridan’s actions. Possession blazed in every line of Sheridan’s body, in the low snarl that came from his throat as the bite went deep for just a heartbeat, bruising Sinclair’s flesh.
Then Sheridan pulled back just as suddenly, teeth bared as he panted, surveying the mark he had made. Sinclair stood still, leaning back against the wall where Sheridan had pressed him, watching water beat across Sheridan’s shoulders and back. The bite on his throat burned, aching, resonating down into his groin in a primal understanding of what it meant. He wondered what kind of reaction Sheridan expected — found himself moving toward Sheridan with something resolute and granite-solid in his mind. He saw Sheridan’s eyes widen slightly before he grabbed the man roughly and kissed him hard, painfully. Sheridan made a sound, halfway between a snarl and a moan, tasting his own blood mingled with the metallic shower water, salty sweat, smelling Sinclair’s powerful masculine scent close to him.
Sinclair didn’t pay much attention to Sheridan letting go of his shoulders, but when soap-lathered hands found his groin, he let out a luxurious, quivering groan. His cock was stiff from the promise of intense lovemaking and the pure sexuality of Sheridan’s desire. There was a certain amount of provoking in Sheridan’s teasing fondling of his cock, and Sinclair realized he was fiercely returning Sheridan’s bite, this one on Sheridan’s shoulder. Sheridan growled dangerously and, rinsing him off, pulled him out of the shower bodily, manhandling him. Sinclair caught the towel that was thrown at him, and cast a stone hard look at Sheridan, who watched him towel off with flaming eyes. Sinclair, in a burst of bright understanding, realized then what Sheridan was doing.
/It’s his way of asking permission,/ Sinclair thought. /He provokes me into responding in kind, and in doing that I am giving my consent to what follows. Strange…but perhaps the only moral way to be as rough as he is and still know I want it./
“You got something I can use for lubricant?” Sheridan asked. Sinclair was drying himself between his legs, softly rubbing his hard cock, and Sheridan’s voice was hoarse, that delicately restrained violence clenched in his jaw. Sinclair nodded, faintly amused and more than a little pleased by Sheridan’s rapture. Sinclair went to one of the bathroom cabinets and took something out. Sheridan accepted it from him and looked at it. “How do you explain this to the Minbari?” he wondered with an amused growl — it was a lubricant made particularly for sexual uses. Sinclair smiled.
“I don’t,” he said. “And they don’t ask. The Minbari attitude toward sex is…different.”
“Probably shock the hell out of ‘em,” Sheridan mused in a low voice. “Entil’Zha getting his ass royally fucked by John Sheridan Starkiller.” Sinclair snorted.
“Perhaps,” Sinclair said. “But I think you like the sound of it.”
“Damn straight,” Sheridan said, eyes like burning coal. “And so do you.” Sinclair just looked at him for a moment, then threw the towel back at Sheridan, who caught it to avoid being engulfed by the thing.
“You want to fuck me or not?” Sinclair asked wryly. Sheridan let the towel drop to the floor, already forgetting it and the moment of rage he had experienced when Sinclair had tossed it at him. This was a different sort of fury, and he nodded his chin sharply at Sinclair, ordering him back into the bedroom.
Sinclair obeyed the silent demand that rested in Sheridan’s eyes. He slid onto the bed, grabbing a pillow to put under his hips as he spread out on his belly. He writhed a little, settling his stiff cock into the soft pillow — unaware of Sheridan’s reaction to the sight of his muscular rump wriggling slightly.
There was the sound of a low hiss from behind him, and Sheridan was upon him suddenly, a naked, muscular weight coming onto the bed and sitting down on his thighs. Sinclair groaned — that hedonistic, sensual rumble that Sheridan knew he could make — rubbing his face into the bedcovers and stretching his arms out to clench large hands into the sheets.
The gesture made Sinclair’s muscles bunch, broad shoulders and back rippling with power. Sheridan held his breath for a moment, appreciating it, and he knew that another pointed teasing would soon be forthcoming from Sinclair’s throat. Sheridan forestalled him, putting a hand down to stroke Sinclair’s ass sensually, making the man groan again softly.
Sheridan’s hand spread his buttocks apart and Sinclair gasped as the cold lubricant was dribbled between them. He pushed back against Sheridan’s thighs, welcoming it, feeling the need to be penetrated rise hotly in his chest. Then Sheridan bent over him, one shaking hand in the middle of his back, and Sinclair let out a slow breath, trying to relax for what would come next.
Sheridan swallowed hard, savoring the magnificence that was spread out beneath him in Sinclair’s awesome body. Sinclair was waiting, head turned to the side, eyes half-closed, hands gripped into the covers. The marvelous ass under him was relaxing, the pillow holding Sinclair up for a good angle of penetration. Sheridan dripped a little of the lubricant on his cock, twitching at the cool sensation, and abandoned the container off the side of the bed. He put both hands on Sinclair’s rump, spreading the man gently for him, moving forward to nudge the head of his cock against the opening to Sinclair’s body. Sinclair drew a sharp breath, anticipating, anxious.
Sheridan was not a cruel man, so he was patient and steady in spite of a powerful urge to buck forward, to devour the man who wanted him so badly. Even so, as he pushed and Sinclair’s body began to yield to him, Sinclair’s hands clutched into the bed and a cry escaped him. It was the sound of a man startled and inflamed and wounded all at once — a delicious wounding, the sweetest pain he’d ever known — and Sheridan let out a cry of his own, sharp and possessive.
“Do it,” Sinclair hissed low. “All the way. You want to, come on, as deep as you can. God damn you, John –” He broke off in a bass howl as Sheridan suddenly answered him, lunging forward to ram himself until his hips struck Sinclair’s buttocks, pressed tight.
“I was trying to be considerate,” Sheridan growled, bent down close to his ear.
“I don’t want you to be considerate,” Sinclair said in a strangled groan. “I want you to yell for me. I want to hear what you are, John, every breath, every fiery howl. You’re so open, my God…so straightforward and spontaneous in your pleasure. Don’t hold back. Let me see it. Let me feel that, John. Please.” His breath caught as Sheridan moved slightly. “My God, please…”
Begging. Sinclair was begging. Sheridan felt something electric flash up his spine at the realization. With a hoarse snarl he withdrew halfway and rammed forward again, forcing a grunt out of Sinclair’s chest. Something terrifyingly bright and sweet flamed in Sheridan’s belly, engulfing his heart and breath in suffocating, delicious heat. It started sharp, but slow –a thrusting, rough invasion of Sinclair’s body.
“Please what?” Sheridan whispered fiercely, punctuating the question with a sharp, quick buck, making Sinclair grunt again. Large hands clenched tightly, reflexively, into the pale covers. Sheridan was playing with him, refusing to give in to his own want, to Sinclair’s own plea. Sinclair felt something beyond desperation begin to claw its way up through the layers of his soul.
“John, damn you…let go.” He pushed back against Sheridan with sudden force. “You like it rough, don’t you? Tell me, John.” He needed to feel and hear Sheridan out of control, needed the violent blaze of force to break open his own stony reserve to free the wildness that lived in him. For Sinclair needed to be out of control, too, and Sheridan could do it. He was certain. Sheridan was strong enough, in every way that mattered. All right…he would beg. And truthfully he would have anyway, out of sheer need. Some levels of pride and dignity vanished when needs were too great. “John…” He swallowed hard as Sheridan pressed forward again, teasing his prostate and making hot ripples spread out to fill him. “John…please…please…fuck me hard…do it the way you want it. God, scream, damn it, damn you. You sound like you’re going to rip out your own throat holding it back.”
It was true. Sheridan groaned wrenchingly, jaw clenched in a haze of pleasure. He was growling and moaning…and the noise incited answering flame in Sinclair’s groin. The delicious feel of his penis against the pillow made Sinclair shiver and he knew that his own orgasm would be intense beyond his expectation.
Somewhere deep inside Sheridan, the decision was made to answer the resonant purr that reached him from Sinclair’s throat. His mouth opened and a sound of pure awe and lust broke into the room, making Sinclair’s gut clench.
“Oh, God yes, John, do it, yell for me –” Sinclair’s words were drowned by the shout that tore out of Sheridan.
“SinclaaaiiiirrrrraaaAAUUUGGGHHH!” And his hand raked down Sinclair’s back in a gesture of possession and pleasure and sensual appreciation, expressed with an animal purity that made Sinclair’s breath choke in his throat. The hand came to rest on his buttock, Sheridan’s other hand up higher on his back, and the fucking began again with real urgency, a vicious, wildly physical indulgence that assumed everything about Sinclair’s wants and desires — and Sinclair howled, a sound to raise the hackles on Sheridan’s neck.
“Oh, GOD JOHN, YES!”
Sheridan bent down, bucking into him savagely, biting and nipping at Sinclair’s shoulders and the back of his neck. Sheridan tried to caress and hold and savor everything, every inch of Sinclair’s fantastic, powerful body, muscles bulging and that voice rising in the room like a fiery sun burning the earth in a flame of redemption. “Oh, holy God, oh, John…John yes oh please oh my God –”
“Like that idea, do you?” Sheridan grunted hard, pounding into him. “John…Sheridan…Starkiller? Huh? Has kind of a…nice ring to it…don’t you think?” Sheridan bucked particularly deep on the last word, and Sinclair sucked in a ragged breath.
“John,” he gasped. “John, I can’t…it’s so…oh God don’t stop…” Sheridan chuckled wickedly and did just that — slowing down and finally pausing. It was so hard to hold still; his cock ached and pleaded for release. He pulled free of Sinclair’s body and took the man’s shoulder as Sinclair started to rise up questioningly, horribly missing the delicious fuck Sheridan had been giving.
“Turn over,” Sheridan rasped, eyes bright. “I want to watch you come, Jeff. I want to see it in your eyes.” Sheridan took Sinclair by the shoulders, wrenched him onto his back. There was no resistance…but the look in the Ambassador’s eyes was harsh. The look changed to open-mouthed astonishment as Sheridan’s cock found Sinclair’s ass again and he shoved roughly, ensheathing himself deep again. Sheridan stared down into those amber-sheened eyes as they filled with rapture and lust, and Sinclair’s large hands came up to close on his arms. Oh, God, it was so sweet…
“Yes,” Sinclair whispered. Sheridan snarled and swiftly returned to the rageful, blissful mastery he had begun, this time able to see every push, every shift, reflected in Sinclair’s face. Sinclair’s lips would part, sometimes open as if wanting a kiss or something to suck on, other times his jaw would clench tight around a groan. Then there were open-mouthed groans, full and magnificent like a lion’s. And those dark, ebony eyes never left Sheridan’s blue, devouring stare. Their bodies moved in an old, well-known rhythm, answering another pulse of hungry blood and hearts and souls.
Sheridan’s noises were just as wrenching to Sinclair. Soft mutterings, nonsensical and guttural, whispered and snarled past Sheridan’s lips. Occasional bursts of louder joy and fury ripped out of him, sometimes with Sinclair’s name riding on them.
And then a terror –Sheridan’s hand darting out to grip around Sinclair’s throat, under his chin. Sinclair gasped hard, seeing rage in the bright blue eyes.
“This station is mine,” Sheridan spat, enforcing it with a hard buck that made Sinclair’s breath strangle. It sent a strange flare of heat with it, and Sinclair’s eyes widened. “Delenn is mine.” Another thrust. “And you are mine. Mine now. Mine forever. Mine.” He went silent, and the plunging thrusts continued, increasing in urgency, but Sinclair could hear the word with each buck — mine mine mine mine mine…
“Oh God, John, oh my God –” Sinclair felt an orgasm rise up like a demon out of hell, as if torn out of him by Sheridan’s brutal words. Was there truth in the last ones? A truth that Sinclair needed terribly in this moment? He longed to shove it all away, to lose himself in this. If he could just release everything, all the weight, the burden, the responsibility, give it all up for Sheridan, just for this precious, exquisite, extraordinary moment –God in Heaven above, if just for this bare instant of time he could simply be a man, if he could only be human just a sweet while longer…
“Yeah, do it, Sinclair,” Sheridan hissed, holding his face, bucking hard into him. Sinclair whimpered as something enormous filled his eyes. He craned his head back, arching his body, and Sheridan laughed. “Oh, yeah, Sinclair! Surrender to me, come on, just let go…” It was a crooning whisper, softly drinking in Sinclair’s expression as a force much too large took hold of Sinclair and the man began to writhe wildly beneath him.
“OH JOHN, OH CHRIST OH SWEET JESUS YES!” A roar ripped jaggedly out of his throat and he bucked hard in counter rhythm to Sheridan. He began to spend — violent, long surges of wet pleasure between their bellies, arcing over Sinclair’s chest to splash on his neck and chin. “OH YEAH FUCK ME JOHN! HA! YES!”
Sheridan couldn’t possibly hold back in the face of this wild abandonment, the delicious, savage satisfaction of Sinclair yelling his name. His own climax drove home in a slam of intensity and Sheridan screamed triumphantly, a laugh, a howl of Sinclair’s name, a bellow of pure, uninhibited mastery.
It held them prisoner for a long rush of racing heartbeats, flaming blood. And finally their bodies gave out in a wash of electric adrenaline heat, Sinclair going weakly limp with a gasp, and Sheridan bent over him, head bowed, holding himself up with quivering arms. They couldn’t have spoken if they had tried; all breath was taken in gulping pants and soft groans.
Sheridan used the last of his strength to push himself off of Sinclair and crash down on his back on the bed, panting hard. He was covered in sweat, hair matted to his forehead. Sinclair groaned deeply, a sound of tremendous satisfaction, and Sheridan laughed weakly. Still no breath for words, and even after they finally quieted, no words seemed necessary. They fell asleep like that, bedcovers in a tangle, the other man’s body close by and strong.
She was concerned. After the confrontation with Londo, Delenn had returned to her quarters and waited for word from either John or Jeffrey. But there had been nothing. She had found herself unable to concentrate on anything, wandering her quarters like a restless ghost. Even her attempt at sleep had not helped, she had tossed and turned, unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling and walls. The same questions dogged her, circling each other in her worried mind. Had things gone wrong with Londo? Or worse yet, had they begun fighting again? And why would they not come tell her what was happening? Finally, out of pure frustration, despite the very late hour, she had gone to find them.There was no answer at John’s quarters. She had rung the chime several times, just to be certain. And she knew he was not in his office, for she’d checked there also. There had not been any sign of a new crisis on the station, though it could be something of which she had not yet been informed. Still…
Well, if she couldn’t find John, perhaps Jeffrey would be able to help. She’d almost unconsciously kept her distance from him after John’s explosion the day before, but that was foolish. Lifting her chin, she marched purposely down the hallway. Someone was going to talk to her. Jeffrey would do quite well, and she was not going to let anything lessen her enjoyment of the time she had left with him.
Sheridan was sleeping peacefully, his lithe body sprawled across the rumpled sheets. Sinclair did not find peace so easily. There was too much on his mind. This was just what he had not wanted to let happen; exactly what he had been afraid of even as he had demanded it. He had desired it so badly, and yet even as he surrendered to Sheridan’s fierce passion, a small part of his mind had never stopped knowing, never stopped understanding how transitory this had to be. He didn’t yet know how much time was left to him, but he knew it was limited.
Which made this a terrible mistake. But oh, such a glorious one! Sheridan was a truly magnificent animal. Sinclair grinned as he wrapped his robe around him and wandered into the living room. Absentmindedly, he retrieved the scattered remnants of their clothes as he went, finally piling the garments into a single heap on the chair. His body ached, but it was a pleasant sensation. A physical relief, satiation, his flesh glowing with warmth like the embers of a fire. Dammit, he refused to feel sorry about this. It had been too good. He deserved it — and if pain would come of this, then he’d accept the price.
Wandering into the small kitchen, Sinclair went though the motions of making tea by rote, using the familiar Minbari ritual to soothe his emotions. By the time he was finished, he was nearly in a meditative trance, humming the Adronado chant softly. His breathing was steady and rhythmic, his pulse rate had calmed. He was at peace…
Until the doorchime rang. Tea slopped in his cup, almost spilling out onto his hand as he jerked out of his meditative state. His eyes coming fully open, he carefully put the cup down and walked back around the counter to face the door. He almost gave permission for the door to open, and then glanced at the pile of his and Sheridan’s clothes in the chair.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Delenn,” was the oddly relieved reply. He sighed, smiling. “Come,” he instructed. The door slid open to admit her. She looked sleepless and disquieted.
“I have been looking for you everywhere,” she said, taking in his bathrobed form with something close to disapproval. “I cannot find John, and I was concerned that I did not receive any word from either of you about how our practical joke has turned out.”
“And you worried,” Sinclair finished, smiling. “I’m sorry we didn’t inform you; it went well. Just as we had planned.” He looked rueful. “Actually it went better than either of us had expected. Would you like some tea?”
She blinked at the sudden shift in subject, but nodded, and Sinclair went back to the counter to get another cup for her, and retrieve his own that he had left there. Delenn was quiet, waiting, feeling no need to speak into the gentle silence of his presence and the low light of his quarters. Such quiet between them was old and comforting. Her eyes fell on the heap of clothes in one of the chairs across the room, but she thought little of it except that it was atypically unkempt for Jeffrey.
There was a flicker of movement from the doorway leading back into the bedroom, and Sheridan appeared, wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray drawstring trousers that were a little too big for him; Sinclair’s clothes. He was rubbing his eyes tiredly and hadn’t seen her yet. Sinclair turned upon hearing him, but did not seem apprehensive or embarrassed. His mouth quirked in a calm, contented smile and he glanced at Delenn with a glint of mischief in his eyes before returning his attention to the tea.
“God almighty,” Sheridan muttered. “I haven’t felt like that in years.” His hand fell away and he realized that Sinclair was not the only person in the room. His eyes widened. “Delenn,” he blurted. “I –”
“It’s all right, John,” Sinclair interrupted smoothly, turning that warm attention back on him. It was oddly protective, permissive in some way too, as if to say there was no need for any kind of apology to anyone, for anything.
Delenn, just as surprised, glanced again at the pile of clothes in the chair. She realized now what had seemed peculiar about it before; black uniform trousers trimmed in gray were among the pieces of clothing. Sheridan’s trousers.
“As I said,” Sinclair murmured, addressing Delenn, “it turned out much better than we had expected.” He was looking at her from over the rim of his own cup, and handed hers across the counter. She took it as an afterthought, studying him for a moment and then looking at Sheridan again. Sheridan had a hand over his mouth like a man caught doing something extremely crass and uncouth. No doubt he was thinking of his earlier barging into her quarters to level a rude accusation about the nature of her relationship with Sinclair. Considering his culture, he must have found the present situation to be a great deal more embarrassing than it actually was. Minbari were not particularly inhibited with respect to sexual relations among friends, certainly not to the degree that humans were. That John and Jeffrey would make love was not at all bothersome to her. Which explained Sinclair’s look of surprise when she finally spoke.
“I see,” she replied flatly, sounding quite displeased. “You neglected to inform me of the results of our practical joke because you were both…distracted after having accomplished it. And in the midst of your amusement you did not think that I might be concerned or anxious that I could not find either of you, that no one contacted me, after everything I did to assist you.” She put down her cup of tea on the counter untouched, glaring from one man to the other as she moved.
“Delenn, I can explain –”
/Really,/ Sinclair thought wryly, but Delenn was already talking over Sheridan.
“I think that the time for an explanation is long past,” she said, her hands on her hips. “You both find some unexpected pleasure in each other, and come here to indulge in lovemaking, and it does not ever occur to either of you that I would be interested? Did it never enter into your minds that I would want to be involved?”
Sinclair looked positively shocked, and so did Sheridan, who had removed his hand from his mouth to gape openly at her. Sinclair’s surprise shifted curiously to a subtle, sensuous interest, and he put his cup of tea down on the counter again, afraid he was going to drop it.
“Delenn –” Sinclair began. Delenn leveled him with a sharp stare, emerald eyes flashing.
“John I can excuse because he is human and does not know Minbari ways. But you! You who have lived among us, who have a Minbari soul! Knowing how close John and I are already, how close you and I have been, and you never once thought to include me. I am not a completely sexless creature. I enjoy physical pleasures, just as you do. I am quite hurt that you did not come to me and invite me to participate.”
Sinclair looked chastened, and ducked his head to stare down into his tea for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said with perfect seriousness. “I didn’t think. When I was…with John, he made me feel so intensely — so very human — I didn’t stop to think, even about you. I’m sorry, Delenn. It was never my intent to make you feel unloved or unwanted.” He looked over at Sheridan, and gave a laugh before realizing it; Sheridan looked so confused and contrite and bizarrely hungry all at the same time. “John,” he said gently, “it’s the Minbari way to make love to one’s friends as an expression of affection. It’s not considered odd at all, and Delenn is not angry that you and I were intimate. She’s angry that we didn’t include her because it implies she is not our friend.”
“Not our friend!” Sheridan blurted. “My God, Delenn…” He finally came fully into the room, approaching Delenn with penitence and need in his eyes. “Delenn, you are so much more than just my friend.” He took her hands and held them together in his own. “Delenn…” He couldn’t think of anything else, so he just looked at her, drinking in her beauty and warmth and gentle smile.
“You both keep saying my name like that,” she teased quietly. “I will begin to think you do not know any other words.”
Sheridan closed his mouth, hope and desire hardening in his chest — in his groin, gods — forbidding speech. She merely gazed at him, a dawning promise glittering in her intensely green eyes.
Sinclair heard the low growl that came out of Sheridan’s throat. It sparked something in his own belly and he moved before fully understanding what he intended to do. He came around the counter, leopard grace in his motions in spite of his height, and slid behind Delenn. Before she knew it, she was lifted off her feet by large hands on her waist.
Delenn squealed. Sheridan’s jaw dropped at the sound, but she was laughing, closing her hands over Sinclair’s and leaning her head back joyfully against his shoulder. He leaned over her, brushing his lips over the smooth skin of her cheek, then carrying her forward toward Sheridan.
Sheridan barely had time to close his mouth and lift his arms before he was assaulted with a sweet-scented, wriggling burden. Delenn’s arms twined around his neck and her feet dangled against his knees.
“Wha –” he muttered, the question strangling in his throat when she pressed her body against his, nuzzling her face into the hollow of his neck. The moist heat of her breath on his sensitive skin was the break-point, and his entire body surged in response.
He tightened his arms around her, one hand on her lower back as he rotated his hips against hers. The loose trousers he wore hid nothing, and he sought and captured her mouth with his own. She gasped as his lips claimed hers with bruising strength, her body stilling against his. He stole the breath from her lungs, then gave a fierce moan of his own when she suddenly came alive in his grasp. Her mouth clamped onto his, suckling at him with a mixture of inexperience and unfettered appetite that left him stunned. Stunned, but so hungry he wanted to lean his head back and howl with the force of it.
She wouldn’t let him go, however, and he drank of her, drawing in the exotic heat, coaxing her mouth open with his tongue so he could taste her. Her hands dug almost painfully into his hair, and he bent down, lowering her until her feet found purchase on the floor, but she pulled harder, threatening to drag them both down to the floor. He nearly let her, the very idea making the ache in his groin unbearable, but something stopped him. A crawling, certain sensation of being watched.
Sheridan drew his mouth away from Delenn’s reluctantly, feeling more than sensing her cry of dismay, and looked over the bone-crested top of her head to find the source of that sensation. Sinclair had stepped back from them both, leaning against the kitchen counter. He was smiling tenderly, his arms folded across his chest. Those honey-colored eyes were aware, but distant again, gazing at the entwined couple as though from far away, gleaming with approval. His expression was somber, sad yet accepting…pleased, but separate. Sheridan met Sinclair’s gaze, his own blue eyes darkening to a stormy, steely gray, passion and frustration, anger and determination burning in their depths.
He reached down and swept Delenn up into his arms, then moved forward purposefully. He matched each step it took the few steps to close the distance to Sinclair with a word. “Drop the martyr crap, Sinclair.” Pressing his armful of woman against the other man’s chest, he continued roughly. “You’re not getting out of this so easily.”
Sinclair’s expression never lost its composure, but he did release his arms, reaching down beneath Delenn to help support her as he looked down into her face. She took her right arm down from Sheridan’s neck and shifted to place it around Sinclair’s. Digging her fingers into the back of his neck, she pulled his mouth to hers.
They kissed long and deep, Sheridan watching, unable to feel anything but satisfaction and hard desire. Sinclair’s drawstring pants were drooping around John’s waist, the loose rub of the material inflaming against his hardened cock. He had thought he’d spent himself for the night; he’d been wrong. The desire was raging within him again, screaming for release.
Delenn released Sinclair with a bell-like laugh.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” she confided happily, rubbing her forehead against Sinclair’s cheek. He responded with a smile and a soft kiss. Sheridan was stunned to find the gesture arousing, suddenly wondering where his jealousy had fled to. Amusement bubbled in his chest, threatening to explode, as he remembered that he could hardly be annoyed at Delenn for being physical with Sinclair, considering that Sheridan himself had just had mind-blowing sex with the man a couple of hours ago.
Sheridan grinned brilliantly into Delenn’s hair, breathing in the clean, flowery scent of her. He was still a bit shocked by the situation he found himself in, but he was nothing if not adaptable. If this was the Minbari way, well, hell, ‘When in Rome…’ Delenn turned to offer him her mouth again, and any remnants of rational thought faded beneath a rising swell of passion.
They traded kisses, Delenn twisting back and forth between them to taste them equally. Sheridan loved watching her and Sinclair kiss; there was something very wet and sensuous and calm about it that wasn’t crude, but managed to be the most erotic thing Sheridan had ever seen. He could taste Sinclair when Delenn returned to his own mouth. He was rougher, and she seemed to enjoy it, moaning softly when he sucked on her lip and tongue sharply.
Sinclair’s eyes met his as Delenn pulled away, and Sheridan saw the desire that had been in Sinclair that first time in the elevator when they had begun it for Londo’s benefit. He heard Delenn chuckle softly as Sinclair reached across with his mouth and found Sheridan’s hungrily. Her breath was hot on their cheeks as they tasted each other again, this time enjoying the familiarity of it, colored by her groan of frustration. She bit at their chins, and they broke apart, breathless, laughing.
“I do not know if this is a human custom,” Delenn finally said, “but surely there are more comfortable positions in which to do this.” She wriggled suggestively in their grasp. The men’s eyes met — amber and sapphire — clung, then separated in common purpose. Moving as one, still cradling her between them, they carried her into the bedroom and climbed onto the bed. No sooner had they released her onto the mattress than she was moving, launching herself into Sheridan and tumbling him down onto his back.
“Delenn!” he exclaimed, before she silenced him with another long kiss. When she withdrew from it, she sighed with delight.
“This kissing that humans do is quite — different. I had not been sure I would like it when I saw it in human vids, but I was wrong. I like it very much.”
Sheridan stared at her in surprise. He hadn’t known Minbari didn’t kiss. She laughed low, leaning back down to give him a light kiss. “Minbari lovemaking is not quite the same as human, though there are some physical similarities.”
Sheridan swallowed harshly, the sultriness in her voice sending waves of heat through his body.
“Ummmm, what exactly do Minbari do?” he asked, but before she could answer, Sinclair moved above her, and she abruptly cried out.
“Delenn?” Sheridan called her name, steadying her, and she sank down into his embrace, gasping. When she found words, it was a simple, fierce demand.
“Do…that…again!”
Her body tensed against him, followed by the low chime of her pleasure, this time moaned against the bare skin of his chest. “Ahhh, Jeffrey,” she nearly sobbed.
Sheridan stared up over her head at the other man, who was smiling intently, half-propped on his side next to them. His hand was gently weaving through Delenn’s hair, every so often rubbing over her bone-crest. Sinclair met Sheridan’s gaze, and his smile deepened, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
He ran a forefinger over Delenn’s crest again. She shuddered in response, her hands digging into Sheridan’s shoulders.
“The bone-crest isn’t just bone. There are some very sensitive nerve endings here,” Sinclair explained casually. “In fact,” he continued, the corners of his mouth twitching, “it’s quite an erogenous zone. One of the most erotic parts of the Minbari physiology.” He stroked Delenn’s again, and she sighed, long and deep. He winked at Sheridan, then leaned over to touch his mouth to her crest, and she convulsed, moaning. Sinclair lifted back up and gazed with serene amusement at the other man. Sheridan shot him a suspicious glare.
“And just how did you learn that?”
Sinclair laughed, a deep rumble in his throat, meeting Sheridan’s glare with mischief in his amber eyes.
“As you like to keep reminding me, John, I’m not a saint.”
Sheridan’s eyebrows raised.
“Believe me, I never doubted it.” The two men’s eyes met and they both began to laugh. It was a wonderful, warm release of tension, but did nothing to alleviate the burning, searing want inside Sheridan’s belly.
It did, however, make Delenn look up suddenly, catching the interplay between her two lovers. She twisted her way between them suddenly until she was facing Sinclair and had twined her hands around his neck, pulling him down until he was at her level.
“You know Minbari customs too well, it seems.” And she kissed him. Hard, deep and long. She was really beginning to take to this human custom.
Sinclair moaned softly, inflamed by the warmth of her against him. This was something he had also wanted to do for a long time but time and circumstances had kept them apart. He wrapped his arms about her…she was wearing too many clothes…and his hands brushed Sheridan’s chest as he did so. Two people…it would be difficult leaving this. But for now, he refused to think about this. Minbari/Human…Delenn was truly becoming a bridge between the two now.
He smiled into her mouth and she pulled back just a little, just as Sheridan, who knelt behind her, ran his hand down her back and over her muscular buttocks. It was becoming a bit warmer in here, yet she knew none of them had adjusted the temperature controls. She was definitely wearing too much. She gasped again as soft, gentle hands touched her bonecrest — Sheridan playing with her. Oh, Jeffrey. Paying silent thanks to him that he’d told Sheridan about that, she tried to move her body closer to both men at once. It was an intriguing movement. Sheridan moved back and looked over Delenn’s shoulder at Sinclair again.
“You know, we’re almost naked, and here she is…” He waved nonchalantly at her body. “It occurs to me that it isn’t exactly fair.” Sinclair dazzled him yet again with that true smile and they began moving in concert, delicately releasing the catches on her robes. She was trapped between them, warm male scents from each of them, strong deft hands on her clothes. She trembled, trying to hold still as she was laid bare by these two astonishing men. Fasteners were finally all undone, and hands slipped her robes and shift off her body.
Sheridan turned her gently to look at her nakedness, his eyes hungry but she felt nothing lewd nor indecent from him. Her breasts were small but full. Sheridan bent to kiss them one at a time, enticed by her clean, marvelous smell and the taste of her skin. He spent a bit too long at one so that he didn’t notice when Sinclair had joined him at the other one. Sheridan ran a hand down her body, heard her shiver and sigh, felt her hand in his hair. She didn’t want him to go anywhere? He smiled. He didn’t plan to.
Sinclair moved away, slowly pulling Delenn’s body close to him, cradling her in his arms against his chest, wrapping his arms about her shoulders. John sat up and let him draw her away, curious to see what Sinclair wanted. Sinclair caught Sheridan’s eyes and glanced discreetly down between Delenn’s thighs. Sheridan smiled ferally. Oh, yes, that was a good idea. The two men exchanged a raised eyebrow, and Sheridan bent to his task.
He moved down Delenn’s body slowly, nibbling and tasting and licking, almost purring in the delight he was finding here. He spread Delenn’s legs slowly, gently, shifting on the bed to put himself between them. He let his tongue stroke an almost unbroken trail down her lower abdomen, down to the warm, soft lips between her legs. She was hairless there and it was fascinating, erotic in a way he would never have thought, allowing him access to every part of her, letting him watch what he was doing. Delenn moaned softly, amazed that he was actually going to –
His tongue connected with something electrifying, and Delenn convulsed beneath him, held tightly by Sinclair’s magnificent embrace. The eager response of her body only urged Sheridan to more mind-rending things and his tongue probed her curiously, shockingly supple.
Fluid trickled then pooled against Sheridan’s lips and tongue, and he lapped at her, relishing every sigh and moan as a welcome reward and working hard for each one. God, she was hot and fragrant and sweet and tangy. Sheridan didn’t think he could get enough of this. Her knees widened, her hips rocking upwards to meet him, a silent plea for more attention. The entreaty made his cock quiver. She wanted him. He growled softly; he could do this forever.
But there were more delights awaiting and others at play. Sheridan didn’t catch what was going on above him until Delenn suddenly squirmed out of his grasp. Startled, he lifted his head, still restraining her with a firm grasp on her thighs, only to find her twisted up, halfway sitting, tugging with total concentration on the belt to Sinclair’s robe. Sinclair was up on his knees, looming above Delenn, but when she finished undoing the tie, he suddenly slid away.
She cried out her frustration, pulling herself further upwards as Sinclair got off the bed and stood up beside it. His obsidian gaze was intent on her as he shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the floor. His cock was tensely swollen before him, and he stood still as Delenn came away from the bed, deliciously naked, to approach him curiously.
“I used to wonder, sometimes, how you would look unclothed,” she said, drawing her fingers lightly up his darkly haired abdomen. It made him shiver.
“I must confess I wondered about you, too,” he murmured, “especially after seeing how you’ve changed. My God, Delenn, you’re beautiful.” He laid warm hands on her shoulders, rubbing them down her back slowly.
“I’m glad you find me so,” she said, looking briefly shy. He understood; whatever confidence she had had about her appearance as a full Minbari had been forever changed by her transformation in the Chrysalis machine. She did, to some extent, have to take John’s and Jeffrey’s word that she was beautiful since the standards by which she judged such beauty were so different now. Sinclair caressed her cheek, with an affection that was not entirely platonic. She turned her face into his palm, kissing softly, and he hummed quietly.
Sinclair caught Sheridan’s rise from the bed, and the other man came up behind Delenn slowly. There was something burning in the sapphire eyes, something that had shown itself only distantly at first. But it was hot in Sheridan’s expression now, and Sinclair felt himself respond to it in empathy. Sheridan paused less than a meter away, thoughtful, then he quickly shed his loose trousers, kicking them away on the floor with a soft rustle.
Delenn saw Sinclair’s mouth open, his gaze fixed on something behind her, and she turned her head slightly to catch John in her sight. Sheridan closed the gap between them quickly, touching her shoulders. He didn’t want her to see him fully naked just yet, wanting to tease her. It had the desired effect and Delenn made a low noise in her throat.
“John…” she said quietly. Sheridan looked up into Sinclair’s eyes — and saw wickedness.
“Allow me,” Sinclair said, his voice a smooth rumble as he turned Delenn around and lifted her off the floor again. Delenn yelped but didn’t resist, as surprised as Sheridan was by Sinclair’s actions. Sinclair growled with the effort of raising her up, holding her against him as Sheridan understood suddenly what Sinclair was doing for him.
Sheridan took Delenn’s thighs firmly, lifting her legs up as if she were to straddle him midair. He moved very close, pressing between her legs, helping Sinclair to support her weight. He saw comprehension hit her like a sword through her belly, and she reached for his face.
“John,” she whispered. His cock found her sex carefully, positioning himself for a just a moment before Sinclair lowered her onto John’s cock, impaling her on him. She cried out, leaning back against Sinclair, who held her with a fierce smile. “Yes,” she cried, “oh Valen!”
Sinclair laughed, a roar of delight and amusement at her exclamation. She realized what she had said, realized fully who it was who held her for John’s magnificent penetration, and groaned, her mouth close to Sinclair’s neck.
“Not yet,” Sinclair whispered to her in Adronado, amused. “I’m Jeffrey Sinclair now. Take advantage of it. Of me.”
“Yesssss, Jeffff…Johhnnn…” she whimpered, mixing their names in one long, cherished moan. Sheridan pressed deep, standing close to Sinclair with Delenn’s delicious warmth between them, around his cock. Her sex quivered, gripping him softly.
“You have to tell him what you like, Delenn,” Sinclair murmured to her. “He knows nothing of Minbari or of your personal kind of longing.”
“God, yes,” Sheridan whispered. She was so tight, incredible where her arms went around his neck to hold him, her breaths coming fast to make smooth breasts rise and fall. “Tell me, Delenn. Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she moaned in response, rocking her hips against him, using Sinclair as leverage. “All I’ve wanted is you…Please, John, I want all of you…Aaaah…” She was conscious of Jeffrey holding her, his warm strength, his passionate desire to be part of this for her. “In Valen’s name,” she yelled, meaning it in a way she never had before, no longer an exclamation of astonishment, but reverence and benediction, an honor given to the man she had come to know in Sinclair. Sinclair heard it, heard the gift, and his embrace tightened as he nuzzled her.
Ever so slowly, Sheridan pulled away from her, then slid back into her fluidly, while his arms reached around her, his hands closing on Sinclair’s shoulders, trapping her between them. Sinclair hummed quietly, loving this, loving her pleasure and Sheridan’s desperate fierceness.
Jeffrey was solid support behind her. She wound one arm back behind his neck, tossed her head back against his shoulder, luxuriated in the satin-sheathed steel of his body. He was a furnace of heat, burning her where their flesh touched, her back rubbing against his lightly furred chest, her buttocks creating friction against the hard protrusion of his erection. His arms enclosed her, his hands spanning her sides. She squirmed and wriggled in his grasp, wildly, wantonly, moving into rhythm with John, grinding her pelvis forward to meet him, only to be driven back against Jeffrey by the force of John’s thrusts.
Jeffrey moaned, a low growl in her ear, his purr running bass counterpoint to the rising swell of John’s voice. John cried her name over and over, turning it into the sweetest music she had ever heard. They made a symphony of sound and smell and touch, overwhelming her senses. She dug the fingers of one hand into Jeffrey’s shoulder, threaded the other into John’s hair, yanking him toward her in fierce demand. His voice strangled off as their mouths met, then he was kissing her brutally, reaching deeper into her throat with his tongue than she would have thought possible. But she gave it back to him with fire, mirroring his motions, until he tore his mouth from hers to gasp for air.
Her own chest heaved, her lungs burned with a blaze that was a pale echo of the one burning in her belly. John’s hard presence within her was like being filled with fire itself, raging hot in her so sharp and broad it was like pain, an agony of bliss. But she wanted it all, she wanted more, and she screamed out her desire, returning his name in response to his cry of hers. She drew her legs up to wrap them around John’s back, fighting to trap him even deeper inside. Jeffrey’s presence, steel arms supporting her, was subsumed into the moment, and she writhed against him, enraptured and unashamed. Her mind, lost to itself in an ocean of sensation, didn’t need to know he was there to rely upon him. She trusted him without question or consideration. He was her strength, her faith, her truth. And he gave her, yet again, all that she could ever have asked of him.
John was quickening his motion now, reaching…reaching for the edge of the hurricane, sweeping her along with him. Each movement of their bodies, now slick and glistening with sweat and her secretions, magnified the ball of fire centered in her belly, filled near to bursting with his big cock. Her voice entered the fray, clear, brilliant, above John’s quicksilver moans and Jeffrey’s low rumble, until it rose and shrieked, then tumbled with her as the dam broke and she was tossed on shockwaves of burning pleasure. Every muscle in her body clenched into a tight knot, then released, falling limp.
Sinclair held her as Sheridan followed her, muscles standing out sharply, marvelously. He howled like a demon, something huge and powerful in it, fingers digging into Sinclair’s shoulders like a vise, bruising the skin. Then Sheridan too went slack in the aftermath, falling forward across Delenn, both of their weights given to Sinclair to support. He held them both for a moment, letting them recover, then he pushed Sheridan back gently and the three of them moved toward the bed.
They collapsed together, then rolled slightly apart, breathing hard, to lay on their backs side-by-side. Delenn watched Sheridan’s chest rise and fall for a while, then turned to look at Sinclair. He was sprawled out, eyes shuttered, one arm flung up over his head, which was tilted back to point his chin toward the ceiling. The gesture made his biceps stand out pleasurably. His knees were bent over the edge of the mattress to trail his feet on the floor, and his legs were slightly spread, his still-erect cock resting lightly on his belly. It was the last that stole her attention and she eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled sweetly, green eyes glinting.
Silently and gracefully, she slid off the bed and moved around to kneel between his legs. With total focus, she reached out with a delicate, but steady forefinger and touched him, grazed him, brushing the shaft of his cock with the softest edge of her fingertip.
He came alive instantly, body jerking, eyes bolting open to look down at her. She was biting at her lower lip, a look of total concentration on her face.
“Delenn..?” he called out, questioningly, but before he could finish she smiled, eyes sparkling with a lightning bolt of understanding. If it had felt that good when John did it to her, then…
Pressing both hands down onto Sinclair’s thighs to hold him still with surprising strength, she leaned down until her hair fell in an ebony waterfall around his groin. His breath froze in his lungs as he felt first her intent, and then an excruciating split second later, the rough, hesitant stroke of her tongue. He roared, a powerful bass rumble building within his chest and reverberating outward. He trembled, and she laughed with delight at the intensity of his response to her. Delicately, she tongued him again, in slow discovery, testing the taste of him a flicker at a time. He rose up on his elbows, leaning over to look down at her, his eyes glazed with need.
“Delenn,” he moaned again, leaning his head back to close his eyes in pure bliss. This time it was a summons, the softest of demands, hunger baring itself in the race of his pulse and the sweat beginning to bead upon his flushed skin.
Every sign of his desire was a pleasure to her, and she increased the pressure with a flurry of darting licks, up and down the length of his cock. He tasted very much himself to her, a pungent, sweaty maleness that tantalized her senses. She could feel every electric shiver that coursed through his nerves, and she took fierce delight in knowing she was the cause. Humming with satisfaction, she drew back to savor the moment, then dove downward to engulf him.
He was too big for her to take him completely within her mouth, and she couldn’t help releasing a sigh of frustration, before beginning to suck up and down on him. He screamed out her name, this time in a long drawn out battlecry that echoed in the stillness of the room, colored only by the wet sound of her mouth suckling on his flesh. His voice strangled into silence, then rose again, and he began to shudder, his head thrashing from side to side.
Beside Sinclair, Sheridan had been watching with a peculiar delight, a tenseness in his groin that was echoed in the clench of his jaw. His eyes were raw, filled with a passion that seemed boundless, a need that ached soul-deep. Delenn was a delight far beyond any possible imagining, her inexperience in human ways only accentuating a natural sensuality that had been hers long since. She was shameless and sweet, naive and sophisticated all at once. Her bright eyes had nearly shimmered with clever satisfaction before she bent herself to pleasuring Sinclair, a familiar expression of dawning understanding colored by amusement. She was more beautiful every time he saw her, but never more so than now.
And Sinclair? The man was a frustrating contradiction, a physical delight, a challenge that only made Sheridan’s hunger grow moment by moment. He was lovely in a fully masculine way; a big man, wonderfully proportioned with powerful shoulders tapering to a tight waist, corded muscles rippling down the length of his arms. Sinclair was moaning now, his hips rocking helplessly under Delenn’s enthusiastic attentions, and Sheridan’s gut clenched at the sight. With a low growl, he rose up and moved fully onto the bed, shifting around until he was poised behind Sinclair’s head, facing Delenn.
Sinclair sensed the presence looming over him, and opened his eyes to stare upward into Sheridan’s face. Sheridan was bent over him, upside down, smiling evilly.
“Hi,” Sheridan said. Sinclair swallowed hard, surprised, a little nervous, Delenn’s mouth on him making everything, even thinking, an effort. “We can’t have you flailing around, can we?” Sheridan mused, putting his hands on Sinclair’s shoulders and pushing down with his weight to pin the man to the bed. Sinclair grunted, panting. The force would have been enough, Sheridan’s magnificent strength and fierceness, but Sheridan bent down to kiss him hard, and Sinclair wrapped one hand around the back of Sheridan’s neck, holding him desperately.
“John,” he gasped as Sheridan pulled away. “John, you should’ve…seen her face…” Sinclair laughed softly, wonderingly. His eyes were bright as if with unshed tears of joy. “Her face…when you put your tongue in her, playing with her…my God…oh, holy God…” He closed his eyes and groaned tormentedly as Delenn sucked on him sweetly.
Delenn had found many things about being human difficult to understand. This was not one of them. The taste of Jeffrey in her and the smell of him and John on her and around her was delightful. Her body already ached from the pleasure they had given her, and knowing that there was more to come made her groin clench like a fist, the sensation aggravated by every sound Sinclair emitted. She’d dreamed for years of touching him, being touched by him, and now –knowing that their time together was coming swiftly to an end — this was all the more desperately exquisite. And the delight of having John here with them, sharing it with her, made her want to laugh and cry at once with the sheer ecstasy of it all.
She pulled back slowly, then pushed forward again to take him in to the base of his penis, testing the limits of Jeffrey’s control. His body twisted in John’s grip, moaning bass and low into John’s mouth. She had heard what he had told John and she basked in the idea that she gave him as much pleasure as John had given her.
Her small hands clutched at Sinclair’s thighs…and the slight pain her nails gave him only added spice to the mix. Sinclair reached a hand up again, found Sheridan’s head and twined strong fingers in his hair. His lips suckled at Sheridan’s, while the noise inside him threatened to overwhelm them all. Muscles tensed throughout his body, veins pulsing within his skin, pounding in his temples. The skin drew taut over the hard lines of his face, creating a fierce expression, angry, hungry, while his eyes smoldered hotly beneath half-closed eyelids.
Sheridan watched him with equal fierceness, a passionate joy glowing within those sapphire eyes, making them gleam with a powerful, unmet need. His hands were like iron, pinioning Sinclair to the bed, while he drowned in the other man’s mouth, plunging his tongue deep, then drawing back to nibble at the exposed lines of Sinclair’s neck and chest. He found a sensitive spot along the edge of the jaw and he dug into it with his teeth, forcing out a surprised yelp, a sound that quickly swung low into a growl that reverberated in Sinclair’s throat as Sheridan tugged even harder at his skin, nibbling, then biting down violently.
Delenn suckled on him lavishly, concentrating utterly on the task before her, memorizing the taste and feel and smell of him. Drawing her tongue across the tip of his cock, she lapped up the moisture spilling free, then moved downward, engulfing him as deeply as she could, then back up again, until his voice strangled off into a breathless silence, as if he could barely reach for air itself to feed his starving muscles. She laughed, humming across his sensitive skin, aggravating his senses.
That sound tore at Sheridan, bringing his head up to stare at her, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Surging forward, he used the weight of his body to hold Sinclair down, reaching out to seize Delenn’s shoulders. She resisted at first, unwilling to give up the throbbing prize in her mouth, but finally she did look up, only to gasp as she found herself facing Sheridan, his handsome face exposed, open, caught in the grip of a need so intense it sheared away all pretenses of society and refinement.
“John,” she moaned, unable to resist as he pulled her towards him, taking her in a kiss so savage it ripped down her spine and erupted in licks of fire within her belly. He drew back from her just long enough to gulp air into his lungs, then his voice seared her senses.
“Do you want him like this, or do you want him inside you, Delenn? Do you want to feel him fill you? I want to see you ride him, hear you scream as he comes within you. Deellleeennnnn…” Her name issued rawly from his throat, hoarse and ragged, yet rising in a demand that could not be denied. He saw the understanding, the acceptance flicker in her brilliant green eyes, and he claimed her mouth once again, sealing them together in single purpose.
He reared back away from her, making her moan at the loss of his heat so close to her, sliding back onto his knees. Slipping his hands down under Sinclair’s arms, Sheridan pulled him further onto the bed, muscles bulging in his arms and shoulders as he dragged the other man’s heavy body towards him, nearly falling backwards onto the bed himself. Sinclair moaned and struggled against the sudden assault, but Sheridan had already gotten him where he wanted him. There were precious moments in Sheridan’s life when he knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly what he wanted. He moved with that certainty now, laying Sinclair down, and then he leapt up to take Delenn’s hands, steadying her as she climbed up to join them.
Delenn surged into Sheridan’s embrace, a sound of clear, chiming joy coming from her lips, not laughter, not words, but a pure expression of utter enraptured delight. Sheridan luxuriated in it, in the feel of her small, slender, yet lusciously curved body, pressed wantonly against his own, then — unable to bear it a second longer — he dove in for another kiss. And then another and another, doing what he’d spent night after night dreaming of, covering her entire face and neck with his mouth, kissing, nibbling, licking, tasting her. She was excruciatingly sweet, perfumed like a tropical flower, sweaty and female, exotic and softer than anything he’d ever touched in his life.
Her mouth sought after his, keening in frustration when he avoided her, thrusting his tongue at her ear, her bone crest — making her entire body writhe — her neck, anything he could reach.
“Joohhhhnnnn,” she wailed, her hands clutching at his hair, tightening on handsful of the dark strands. He growled into her neck, his moist breath searing her skin.
“Delenn,” he answered, naming her, claiming her.
Lost in their embrace, they almost forgot Sinclair, who suddenly reared up and wrapped powerful arms around them both, drawing them against his chest in one massive bear hug. No sooner had he done so, than they turned on him. With a grunt, Sheridan toppled all of his and Delenn’s weight against Sinclair, and even then, only barely managed to push the other man backwards so that he was sitting on his heels. But that would do, at least as far as Delenn was concerned. She’d had one thing in mind from the moment she’d climbed onto the bed, and a short dalliance in Sheridan’s arms wasn’t going to stop her. Wrapping both arms snuggly around Sinclair’s neck she clambered up into his lap.
Realizing what she had in mind, Sheridan’s mouth twisted in a feral, satisfied smile and he moved to take her firm ass in his hands. Her voice chimed, clear as a bell, as he lifted her, a sound that trickled downward into ragged laughter as he lifted her up, his jaw grinding as he took her weight, holding her as she extended her legs around Sinclair’s back.
Sinclair groaned, his head tossed back, baring the elegant lines of his neck and collarbones, while she clamped her arms and legs around him. Sheridan released her, but she held herself, her sex pressed in on Sinclair’s belly, her hips rocking as she sought closer contact. Sinclair’s hands reached for her flanks, holding her to him. She looked up into Sinclair’s face, found he was lowering his mouth towards her, and all rational thought fled again. His kiss was even hotter than Sheridan’s, his entire body radiated waves of male heat, his tongue a living thing in her mouth. She seized it with her teeth, and shared the shock of pleasure that jolted through him at her bite. Suckling on him, she slid down him, feeling for him, wriggling as she adjusted herself against him, until…
Another strong pair of hands closed on her waist, supporting her, guiding her, and she leaned her head back, knowing he would be there. Sheridan nuzzled her hair, her bone crest, making her body shake, tingles spreading down the length of every nerve, then coursing back downward to aggravate the throbbing need in her groin.
“Please…please…please…” The one syllable was all she could stammer out, but it was enough. By Valen, it was more than enough. Sheridan drew smoothly on her hips, Sinclair shifted, pushing forward, upward, and together, moving in easy concert, they impaled her upon Sinclair’s hardened cock. She just barely took the tip, but it was enough to make her scream.
Raking Sinclair’s shoulders, she shoved downward, keening her desire as she felt him begin to penetrate her. Too slow, she wanted to shout, but even that would have taken too much thought. Everything was centered on her burning sex, the emptiness that craved him, seeking his presence within, the achingly slow movement that brought him deeper. Sheridan was letting her down a bare inch at a time, and she struggled, trying to ground herself, to bury Sinclair’s fantastic cock deeper in her. He was so big, it felt as though he would drive into her lungs, spear her heart, and she craved it. Demanded it. She wanted more…
“Ohhh, sweet Mary, Mother of God!” Sinclair cried out, startling Delenn. Who was this Mary? But before she could get the question out, Sinclair growled, suddenly surging forward, upward, his big hands clamping around Sheridan’s hands, unable to control his own need to be buried within the delicious heat of her body. They cried out as one, voices mingling, fire rushing through their veins, their shouts trailing off into a shared sigh of satisfaction. Delenn wriggled slightly, adjusting herself, her lungs burning for air as her body learned the feel of him. So gorgeously huge, so strong and male, so hard and hot. This was enough, she could stay like this. The thought of him moving was more than she believed she could tolerate. But both men had other plans.
Sheridan took hold of them both and toppled them to the bed, down onto Sinclair’s back. They both gasped, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on Sinclair’s skin as Delenn moved to adjust her position, finally arching her back and settling into a seated position to straddle him, still impaled firmly upon him. Sheridan laughed triumphantly as Sinclair’s hips thrust upward of their own accord, and Delenn forced him back down, grinding him into the rumpled sheets.
Sinclair’s large hands closed on Delenn’s waist, easily spanning it, guiding her as she began to seek a rhythm. Sheridan moved around them, sprawling himself luxuriously to watch, mischievous, intensely curious, feeling the quiver of need that never left him even in satiation. Smiling savagely, he played out one hand, cupping Delenn’s breast, then sliding down across her belly to meet Sinclair’s, briefly touching Sinclair’s moist cock where they joined. Sheridan teased at the other man’s tensely erect nipples, then back up again to roll Delenn’s between his fingers. He watched, drawing in every sensation of her joy, memorizing every line of her face and torso, as it arched and bent and swayed like a storm-tossed sapling in the wind. Her hair was like an ebony splash of water that curled around her face and shoulders and fell downward to tease at her breasts. He caught a handful of it, and rising up, used it to draw her to him.
Kneeling beside them, Sheridan kissed her passionately, clashing teeth, raking his tongue against the roof of her mouth. She was lost, accepting it as one more sensation in a sea of them, everything washing back down into her groin, centering in the rub of her sex against the hard thrust of Sinclair’s cock. She rose and fell on him, a raw, instinctual movement that needed no thought. Sheridan rocked with her, his long-fingered hands cupping her face, its beauty only heightened by her pleasure, the elegant bones standing in sharp relief, her blazing emerald eyes dusky and hooded. She moaned low in her throat, a soft purr that swelled with her movements, sending a flash of fire coursing through Sheridan’s body.
A matching growl sounded from Sinclair’s throat, his own eyes fully closed, long dark eyelashes pressed hard into his cheeks. His jaw worked hard, tendons straining, his chest heaving. Sheridan slid down towards him, inexorably drawn to touch and taste, to feel those powerful muscles clench beneath his touch. Sinclair’s body was like a Roman god’s, supple and solid, massive strength beneath that deceivingly soft exterior, a physical representation of his personality writ in sinew and flesh. Sheridan was nearly hissing now, knowing they were close, exultant to find that he too, somehow, was burning with arousal, feeling his own climax beginning to tease at the edges of his senses.
With an iron control that stunned Sheridan to silence, Sinclair’s eyes opened and focused on him. One massive arm released Delenn and swung downward to seek and find Sheridan’s body. A smile that was barely more than a snarl emerged on Sinclair’s lips. Those brown eyes, like sultry, melted honey, sunlight through amber, glittered dangerously.
“John,” he moaned through gritted teeth. The grimace tightened as his hand closed on throbbing flesh, squeezing, forcing loose a strained, animalistic cry from Sheridan. Sheridan leaned forward, sprawling across Sinclair’s chest, taking him in a nearly brutal kiss. Then, raising up enough to meet the other man’s gaze, he spoke harshly, his voice like tearing steel.
“You’re ready to come aren’t you, Jeffrey? Huh? Come on, damn you, I want to hear you scream. Let it go for me, Jeff, come on…do it…do it now…” Sheridan’s voice rose and Sinclair’s followed. Writhing in Sheridan’s hold, his hips thrashing, grinding up to meet Delenn as she shoved her entire weight down on him. Her cries met theirs in a fiery crescendo then closed off into a silence that was far more potent than the sound had ever been.
Sheridan angled his head to watch her, feeling her, surging upwards to catch her when it hit. She tensed, every muscle freezing, her mouth open. She met Sheridan’s elated, joyful and hungry eyes where he pressed close to her, and somewhere in that blinding, astonishing orgasm, she opened to John completely and he saw her soul naked for a moment. In all the years after that, he never doubted her, never doubted her love for him.
And then she shuddered and went limp. Sheridan caught her, cradling her as Sinclair roared beneath her, sending one final shockwave through her body and into Sheridan’s as he let loose. Sheridan lowered Delenn onto Sinclair’s chest, savoring the slow tremors that rocked them both.
Then he knelt down beside them, cupping his cock as he watched them begin to relax. Drinking in the erotic sight of them, bodies tangled, he worked himself towards his own release, feeling his own climax swell within him. Sinclair responded to it, hardly even opening his eyes, but still reaching out again to close his big hand over Sheridan’s. Sheridan moaned, letting Sinclair guide him to final completion, drawing him out in a warm flood over his hand, spilling across his thighs, Delenn’s back, Sinclair’s abdomen. A soft cry escaping between clenched teeth, he finally let himself go limp, sprawling out beside them on the bed.
Delenn turned at the feel of Sheridan settling beside her, and she reached out to gently touch his face. “Ni san g’reelacht su’shakroon na’John-la,” she murmured, tracing his lips. He kissed her fingertips, not needing a translation to know what she was saying. And he didn’t need to say it back, the evidence clear in his blue eyes before they shuddered in surrender to the sleep that soon claimed them all.
Lt. Commander Ivanova was getting twitchy. As if things weren’t completely nuts on Babylon 5, her commanding officer had decided to waste his time playing a ridiculous practical joke on the Centauri Ambassador, despite the fact that they all had to attend an important diplomatic function tonight. It was the fourth anniversary of the station’s opening, and they had turned it into a huge celebration, trying to lift morale of everyone on board after the dreadful year they’d all just suffered through.But how was she supposed to cope with the arrangements, and manage C&C and everything else, while her commanding officer was off playing games? All right — okay — it
was funny when you had time to stop and think about it. And it hardly surprised her that Jeffrey Sinclair was up to his ears in this. For all of his military precision, Sinclair had a shockingly wild sense of humor. She’d been on the receiving end of it once or twice herself, and she didn’t envy Londo the experience. She grimaced, then chuckled despite herself, remembering one occasion where he’d literally put her to sleep at the breakfast table. Monks and meditation indeed.
Even so, Sheridan appeared to have completely disappeared, and Delenn appeared to have followed him. That could be a good sign, but it could also mean big trouble. Garibaldi was utterly preoccupied with arrangements for tonight’s big bash, and Marcus was off on some mysterious mission for Jeff, which left her with only one other person she could go to for help.
Straightening her uniform instinctually, she pressed the door chime to Sinclair’s quarters. If anyone could help find the missing captain, it would be the former commander.
The door swung open, admitting her into a darkened room.
“Jeff?” she called out, but the figure that approached her, draped in a long black robe, was barely half his size. Ivanova started, half lifting her hands in self-defense — only to breath a deep sigh of relief as she recognized the woman facing her.
“Good morning, Commander Ivanova,” Delenn said warmly. Coming forward into the soft corridor light of the doorway, Delenn looked like a young child wearing her father’s clothes. The large sleeves of the robe were piled upon her arms, threatening to slide down and engulf her small hands. The bottom trailed on the floor, the shoulders drooping over her delicate form. It was Sinclair’s robe, and though she had tied it shut modestly, Ivanova strongly suspected she wore nothing else beneath it. Ivanova clenched her jaw to keep it from falling open.
“Ambassador Delenn,” she replied formally, falling back on politeness to cover for her shock. This was not what she had expected to find. This could be very serious trouble. If Sheridan found out that Delenn was here… “Ambassador,” she began uneasily, “does…ah…anyone else know you’re here?”
“You are thinking of Captain Sheridan,” Delenn responded in a voice that was at once understanding and mischievous. Her eyes sparkled. “Do not worry, Susan, please. He knows I am here. He and Jeffrey have, as you humans put it, buried the sword. If you wish, I can show you that there is no cause for concern.”
Ivanova let Delenn guide her deeper into the room, her heart pounding. She wasn’t sure what Delenn meant by this. /No, no that was a convenient little lie, Susan. You know exactly what she’s talking about and you’re not sure you have the balls to get a good, long look at it…/
They turned the corner into the bedroom, baring the scene she had expected ever since seeing that glint of amusement in Delenn’s eyes. Her stomach clenched, heat rushing through her body. Her collar was suddenly too tight, and she fumbled at it, her gray eyes wide. Even after catching them in the lift earlier, still kissing, she wasn’t ready for this.
“Good God,” she whispered.
Sinclair was sprawled out nude on his back, his head curled sideways into an outflung arm, his legs slightly bent and spread wide. His chest was rising and falling gently, a thin mat of dark hair covering the long flow of muscles, taut and strong with the promise of power etched into flesh. But her eyes couldn’t escape being pulled, inexorably, to his groin and below, to the quiescent bulge of his cock, nestled in dark curls, large and potent even in full relaxation. He stirred, shifting slightly to his side, and her eyes were then drawn to the other man on the rumpled bed.
Sheridan. Long, slender arms and legs, smooth and supple, curled up on his side against Sinclair’s bulk. He was laying partially on his stomach, one arm tossed possessively over Sinclair’s chest. Sheridan’s ass was pointing up toward her, and Ivanova had to clench her fingers to keep from reaching for that firm, taut expanse of male flesh. One of his knees was pulled up slightly, allowing a glimpse of full testicles and a soft, marvelous cock dangling from the shadows between his legs. Everything flowed perfectly from the muscular calves and thighs over the rounded buttocks up through the muscled expanse of his back and shoulders. His hair was tousled, glowing like darkened copper in the soft light.
Together, they were a steely panther curled up against a tawny lion, feline and feral even in their sleep, power held in abeyance, strength conserved, energy pulsing beneath velvet skin. Every instinct she had, female, primal, was screaming within her. Hunger, need, insatiable and undeniable, surged, and she let out a slow, controlled breath to vent the pressure of it.
“Yes, they are very beautiful,” Delenn replied, shocking Ivanova with the realization that barely a few seconds had passed since they’d walked into the bedroom. Delenn spoke with undisguised pride, a hint of protectiveness coloring her voice. Pure possession was what it felt like to Ivanova, and she had to bite down hard on the abrupt swell of jealousy that welled up in her belly.
She drew in a deep gulp of air, praying it didn’t sound as ragged as it felt, then she dragged her eyes away, feeling something tear within her as she left that glorious sight behind. Turning on her heels, she walked back into the sitting room. Delenn following quietly.
“I could wake them if it is important,” Delenn said when they stopped close to the kitchen counter, pursing her generous lips. She shook her bone-crested head. “But I would prefer not to. They both need the sleep.” Ivanova nodded, trying to gather her thoughts together. Trying to find the strength to speak with some semblance of composure.
“No reason to wake them, I just wanted to remind Jeff…all of you, about the reception tonight.” She was shocked by the calm in her own voice.
“Of course, we will certainly be there. It is an auspicious occasion,” Delenn replied softly. She angled her head to look up at the human woman. “Have you heard anything from Marcus?” Ivanova nodded again, licking fiercely at her lips, trying desperately not to think about what she really wanted to be licking.
“Uh, yes. He should be arriving here this afternoon, and should be able to meet up with Jeff at the party.”
“Ahh, that is good news,” Delenn smiled brightly. “Then we will see him there. And you as well, Commander?”
Ivanova looked over Delenn’s shoulder towards the bedroom, and decided quickly that she was going to be anywhere but at the reception that night. Nope, she was running back to her quarters for a long, cold shower, and then she was going to take an even longer shift in C&C. Facing her commanding officer now, when all she could think about was his gorgeous bare ass and how much she wanted to get her hands on it…uh uh, no way. Not if her life depended on it.
“I’m afraid someone’s got to be on duty tonight, Ambassador,” she replied, horrified by the way her voice squeaked on the first word. Swallowing hard, she edged towards the door. “But I hope it goes well tonight. I’ll see you…later.” Inclining her head at Delenn, she waited anxiously for the door to slide open — why was it so bloody slow? — and then walked from the room with carefully measured precision. The door shut beside her and she collapsed against the wall with a deep sigh.
A cold shower? Make that an ice bath!
“They did what?”Garibaldi couldn’t contain his grin; the Ranger looked like a beached fish. His eyes were dilated, irises and pupils melded into huge dark marbles while his mouth gaped open. Marcus finally snapped his jaw shut and glared at the security chief suspiciously. “You’re kidding, right?”
Garibaldi shook his head, giving a very good impression of total sincerity. His eyes surveyed the crowded Council Chamber automatically assessing his surroundings, then he leaned in close.
“Nope. And Londo bought it, lock, stock and barrel. Took one look at them and hightailed it out of there, ran straight to the closest bathroom and lost his lunch.” Garibaldi’s smile stretched from ear to ear as he turned to glance over at the Centauri Ambassador. Standing at the edge of the crowd, Londo looked particularly uncomfortable. Vir was hovering anxiously at his side, both scanning the crowd of aliens with darting eyes.
Marcus sighed dramatically.
“How come I have to miss all the fun!” A bright twinkle lightened his gaze as he focused back on Garibaldi. “So…what was it like? Did you see them?” Garibaldi chuckled.
“Oh yeah…me, Londo and even Ivanova got an eyefull.” His voice turned almost awe-struck. “It’s not my kind of thing, but…whew…it was like watching a pair of wolves circle each other. I wasn’t quite sure if they were fighting or kissing.”
Marcus’ expression quivered, as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or frown.
“That I’d like to have seen,” he said wistfully. “And I know what you mean about those two. Being in the same room with them has been like waiting for a storm to hit.” Garibaldi had to agree with that.
“Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve been worried sick. There’s no reason for them to fight, and I know Jeff doesn’t want to argue with Sheridan. But you know Sheridan, he’s very…”
“Territorial?” Marcus interposed bluntly. Garibaldi looked relieved. He nodded.
“Yeah, and Jeff…well, he simply goes and does what he does, and people just follow him. God knows I’ve done that myself.” Marcus’ gaze turned inward, his expression turning somber.
“That makes two of us. If it hadn’t been for Entil’Zha…” He shook himself like a wet dog, banishing those thoughts forcibly. Garibaldi eyed him with total understanding. /Been there, done that./ Garibaldi sighed, digging his hands into his pants pockets.
“Anyway, I think it rubs Sheridan the wrong way. The Minbari don’t help matters, they treat him like shit and turn to Jeff like he’s some kind of Messiah.”
“He is,” Marcus replied. Garibaldi stared at him, and the young Ranger qualified himself quickly. “To the Minbari, Entil’Zha is a holy man, a blessed soul come to lead them against the darkness as Valen did a thousand years ago.” He shrugged. “I’m not saying I believe it all, but they do.”
“God, don’t tell Sheridan that,” Garibaldi replied, not terribly surprised. “He’s got a bad enough case of male pride-induced jealousy as is. Londo’s meddling has finally made him mad enough at someone else to cooperate with Jeff — I don’t want to mess this up. The last thing he needs to hear is that Delenn thinks Jeff is some kind of saint.” Marcus swiftly mimed zipping his lips.
“Won’t hear it from me, and the Minbari aren’t exactly spreading the info around.” He grinned broadly. “But I hear things…you know?” Garibaldi waved a hand in understanding. Marcus chuckled, then focused back on the present.
“Actually, I’m a bit more interested in seeing things right now. I don’t suppose you got that little scene on the securcams did you?” Garibaldi leaned back, pretending to be stunned.
“The securcam tapes are confidential,” Garibaldi said. “Even assuming I did have it,” and the sparkle in his gray eyes easily communicated that he did indeed have it, “I could never show it to unauthorized personnel.” Marcus was unfazed. Leaning in close to speak into the other’s man’s ear.
“How much?”
Garibaldi grinned, turning to whisper back.
“It’s not a question of how much, it’s a question of what.”
“Heads up!” Marcus interrupted, nudging Garibaldi. “There’s Delenn.”
They both turned to watch the delicately regal woman glide into the room. She was, surprisingly, alone, Sheridan and Sinclair both conspicuous by their absence. Her dark hair was coiled over her shoulder in a single ringlet, and her small bone crest looked more like a crown than a vestigial organ. She turned, her green eyes sparking with recognition when she saw them. Inclining her head in their direction, she began to ease her way through the crowd towards them.
“We’d better talk about this later,” Marcus warned, though with a resolute look. He had to see that tape. Garibaldi nodded, grinning slyly. He’d make the Ranger pay through the nose, but he was sure they could reach an accommodation.
They both smiled as Delenn came abreast of them. She bowed formally to each of them in turn, then focused on Marcus.
“I am glad to see that you have returned safely, Marcus. Your mission was a success?”
He returned her bow gracefully. “Yes, thank you Delenn. I was expecting to see Entil’Zha here. I have information for him that shouldn’t wait.” Delenn pursed her lips, the slightest edge of a frown darkening her elegant features.
“He and Captain Sheridan will be a few minutes late, I am afraid.” She glanced up at Garibaldi. “Did you tell Marcus of our ‘practical joke’?” The unfamiliar words were formed on her tongue with obvious discomfort, her expression not quite displeased, but definitely unsettled. Garibaldi smiled reassuringly.
“Yes, I did.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Marcus said, his expression like that of a child kept from entering a candy store. Delenn sighed.
“I still do not understand this custom,” she said, “but it does appear to have given John and Jeffrey a great deal of pleasure.” Her eyes sparked, something sweet and joyous lighting her entire face. “For that reason alone, I am glad of it. I had been concerned, but now they have finally become friends. Discord between them could only have worked to the Shadow’s advantage.”
“I am glad to hear that, Delenn,” Marcus replied sincerely. Garibaldi nodded easy agreement, then turned to stare anxiously at the empty doorway.
“Did they say how long they’d be?” the security man asked. He cocked his head towards the visibly disturbed Centauri Ambassador. “I doubt Londo’s going to survive the waiting much longer. He looks like he’s about to be ill.”
Delenn shook her head, biting at her lower lip.
“I am not certain. They simply said they would be here soon, but that they wanted to be sure to make an entrance.” She gazed confusedly up at both men. “I do not understand why they need to make another entrance when there is already a perfectly good door to the room.”
Garibaldi sputtered, stifling his laughter in a harsh fit of coughing behind his hand. Marcus grinned with easy amusement. He couldn’t prove it, but the Ranger was nearly certain that Delenn wasn’t really quite as confused by human idioms as she like to pretend. She covered well, but there was a distinct twinkle in her green eyes as she waited for their response. Even so, he played willingly to her.
“Ahhh, I believe that what they meant is that they want to be noticed when the enter the room,” he explained solemnly. Delenn’s expressive eyes widened with understanding. She nodded thoughtfully, then shrugged her small shoulders.
“I would think that they could not help but be noticed. They are really quite impressive, and rather large.” Again there was a flash of something peculiar and private in her expression, an unabashed glow of joy underlying her bland words. Marcus narrowed his eyes at her, but before he could think of a way to delicately probe further, Garibaldi interrupted in a loud whisper.
“There they are!”
Delenn and Marcus were not the only ones who turned to stare at the two men pausing negligently in the doorway. Londo’s eyes were fixated like an animal caught in a trap while a wave of soft whispers rose and crashed across the crowd.
Sheridan loped forward, agile, lean, his black and grey-draped form poised, energy surging just below the calm exterior. He moved fluidly, the long lines in perfect symmetry, azure eyes sweeping the room before him, claiming dominance without a word being spoken. Sinclair followed barely a step behind him, cloaked in subtle assurance. He was power held in perfect check, each step measured, posture held with utter precision. His dark eyes were intent, yet gentle, his expression focused, but serene. They were opposing forces, one radiating power, the other absorbing it, moving like two poles of magnet, separate, yet bound inextricably together.
Sheridan’s expression was filled with an indefinable hunger as his eyes covered the crowd, a barely constrained need bursting against the limits of his control. Sinclair nudged him.
“There he is,” Sinclair murmured. “He looks like he swallowed a puffer fish. Or like he’s about to bring one back up.” Sheridan followed Sinclair’s gaze, and his chin lifted when he sighted Londo, eyes piercing the Centauri Ambassador like a sapphire laser bore before turning away to settle upon Delenn and her two companions.
Vir prodded him, but Londo was already paying attention. Sinclair and Sheridan had just come in. They walked shoulder to shoulder, bodies touching. Sinclair was utterly serene, the dark, hooded Minbari cloak swirling around his long legs, his large hands clasped together. Beside him, Sheridan was in full black dress uniform, looking something like a Minbari himself — of the warrior caste, with that hard stare and pantherous stride. As they crossed the floor, Sinclair looked in Londo’s direction and caught his gaze. Londo froze, and Sinclair said something to Sheridan — he couldn’t quite make out what — and Sheridan’s head swiveled to fix him with a dark, predatory glare. Londo swallowed hard to fight nausea.
The Captain strode forward, the Ambassador following in his wake, looming large and leonine behind the smaller man. The crowd parted before them, sliding almost unconsciously out of their path. Sheridan smiled, baring his teeth, as he came up close to Delenn. She returned the gesture, reaching out towards his chest as he stopped beside her.
“Hello Delenn,” Sheridan let his eyes take in the other two, nodding to each in turn. “Marcus, Garibaldi.”
“Captain,” Garibaldi murmured while the Ranger simply bowed silently, then turned to give a deeper bow to the taller man standing at Sheridan’s right shoulder.
Sinclair responded with a gentle incline of his head, then looked over at Garibaldi and grinned boyishly. “Hello Marcus, Mike…Delenn.” He lifted his hand, palm facing outward, and she matched the gesture, crossing forearms, then mirroring his bow. She smiled sweetly at him.
“Hello Jeffrey. I hope your entrance was satisfactory.”
“I’d say so,” Garibaldi chuckled. “I think we probably ought to put poor Londo out of his misery soon — before he croaks on us.” The humans all laughed, while Delenn frowned unhappily. Sinclair touched her shoulder tenderly, then explained briefly in Adronado. She listened gravely, then nodded.
“Yes, I would agree. He does not look at all well. I do hope we have not made things worse with Londo. His behavior was intolerable, but I am not certain that this was the best way to make him understand. We must continue to work with him, and I fear this will make things even more difficult.”
Sheridan frowned, dark clouds looming in his eyes.
“I doubt things could get much more difficult. He needed to be taught a lesson, this was as good way as any other.” His expression lightened abruptly, an almost feral smile on his lips. “Besides, it was fun. Well worth any further trouble we might have with Londo.” He turned his head to look at Sinclair, his gaze possessive in its heat.
Sinclair acknowledged it with quiet calm, his composure never wavering, his answering glance almost tender in its understanding. His smile was sincere, dimples grooving his cheeks below eyes that gleamed like sunglazed honey.
“It was fun, and I think he actually did us some good. Things have been too tense lately, we needed to release some stress.” His eyes flickered to Marcus, waiting patiently beyond Delenn, and he sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, the relief cannot last long. You have a report for me, Marcus?”
The dark-haired Ranger nodded.
“Yes, Entil’Zha, and I wish the news was better.” His expression was somber, and Sinclair’s mouth tightened in response. Glancing towards the others, his mouth twisted wryly. “Then there’s no use putting it off any longer. If you would excuse us…” His eyes fastened on Delenn and held. “Perhaps you should join us, Delenn.” She inclined her head in acceptance.
“Of course.” Sinclair gestured for her and Marcus to proceed him, and together they relocated to a corner of the room. Sheridan and Garibaldi watched them for a moment, then the Captain turned to take another slow sweep of the room. His eyes found Londo again, and something flamed. He grinned ferociously, then his face calmed into bland diplomatic poise. Tilting his head imperatively at Garibaldi, silently indicating the security chief should follow, he strode briskly across the room, arrowing in on his quarry.
Londo looked up sharply as he realized that Sheridan was approaching him. He fought down the urge to flee — that would have been most undignified. The Captain paused, a little too close for his comfort, and smiled politely, his voice smooth as oil as he greeted the Centauri.
“Hello Londo, enjoying the reception?”
Londo reared back away from Sheridan, holding his ground but feeling distaste well in him like a bad filet of broiled cha’kara.
“Ahhh, yes,” he swallowed to find his composure. “A nice party…” His voice sheared off, as he tried to cover for his unwillingness to allow Sheridan close. Londo stared at the tall human as though he was a plague-carrier, spewing infectious germs. Sheridan smiled blandly, only the azure glitter of his eyes betraying his amusement. Garibaldi shifted uncomfortably on his feet behind him, then pushed over to stand almost between them.
“Hello Londo. Feeling better?” He turned to Sheridan, pretending to explain. “The Ambassador has been ill lately.” Sheridan assumed a properly serious expression, and Londo felt his revulsion mingle suddenly with puzzlement.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you seen a doctor?” He stepped forward, and that broke Londo’s self-discipline. He stepped backwards hastily, nearly knocking into the Drazi and Abbain ambassadors behind him. They both glared daggers at his back, but Londo was too preoccupied in keeping his distance from Sheridan to notice, much less care. Sheridan, however, drank the entire scene in avidly, amusement flickering behind suitably lazy eyes.
“No, I…unh, that is not necessary, Captain,” Londo said hurriedly. He gestured widely, as was his habit, only to stop the handwave in mid-air and squeeze it in to his chest. “I am feeling fine. Just needed a little extra rest.” Sheridan nodded thoughtfully.
“I understand. I’m feeling a bit short on sleep myself lately.” As he spoke, he let his eyes drift across the room to where Sinclair was bending his dark leonine head down towards Delenn as she spoke urgently to him. Sheridan’s teeth bared in an appreciative smile as he turned back to Londo, letting the Centauri get the full force of that pleased self-satisfaction. The Centauri’s eyes flew in the same direction and then back again, and his skin flushed brightly.
“I think we’ve all been a bit on edge lately,” Garibaldi broke in, trying to fill in the sudden tense hush in the conversation. “With the trouble back at home, and the recent wars breaking out, and all — it’s no wonder we’re all having trouble sleeping. That’s why parties like this are a good idea. Give everyone time to relax and have some fun. It’s not healthy to work all the time. Isn’t that so, Ambassador?” Garibaldi peered at Londo, who had obviously not heard a word he’d said. When Londo realized that Garibaldi was waiting for him to answer, he coughed, then nodded sagely, pretending to agree.
Sheridan couldn’t help grinning again, leaning forward to speak again. But just as he began to formulate the words, a strong hand closed down on his shoulder.
“Hello,” a throaty male voice interrupted. Sheridan tensed, instinctively pulling his shoulder away and spinning with clenched fists. He looked around, only to find Sinclair smiling at him, the amber eyes rich with silent mirth. Sheridan drew in a deep breath, forcing his muscles to relax. Damn, the man moved like a ghost; no one else had ever managed to sneak up on Sheridan like that, but Sinclair had managed it twice now. For such a large man, he walked with a nearly preternatural grace.
Sinclair nodded to him, only the honeyed sheen to his eyes communicating his amusement. Sheridan frowned at him, his eyes speaking volumes. /Don’t do that./ Sinclair ignored it. Glancing quickly at Garibaldi, Sinclair turned to Londo and greeted him with casual friendliness.
“Good to see you again, Londo. It’s been a long time.”
Londo was turning richly purple now, his skin-tone just about matching his coat.
“Yes, it has indeed.” He swallowed hard, then forced out the insincere words. “Good to see you again, my dear friend, Sinclair.” Sinclair’s smile never wavered. Tightening his grip on Sheridan’s shoulder, he pressed in closer to the other man, stopping when their bodies were nearly touching hip-to-hip.
“You don’t look too well, Ambassador,” he purred. “Are you all right?”
Sheridan’s groin clenched at that sound; it rolled down his spine like warm molasses. Memories of the previous night swirled through his mind, and he unconsciously stirred, preened, angled his head to look at Sinclair with undisguised possessiveness. Sinclair was apparently unaware, his dark eyes hooded lazily as he waited patiently for Londo’s reply. The Centauri had to swallow hard twice, licking nervously at his lips before he croaked out a reply.
“Well, I am feeling…not quite at my best.” He paused, suddenly noticing that all three men were grinning widely. Sheridan was practically biting at his lip, trying to contain his laughter, and even the ever-composed Sinclair’s eyes were gleaming brightly with barely concealed amusement.
Garibaldi choked off a chuckle, then finally took pity on the unhappy Centauri. Startling Londo, he leaned over to pat him sadly on the back. Londo jerked and Garibaldi shook his head at him.
“You know, Londo, you should really be more careful about spreading rumors.”
“What?” Londo asked, confusion filling his broad face. Garibaldi tilted his head at Sheridan and Sinclair, both watching, one like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, the other like a hawk circling his prey. Suspicion dawned in Londo’s eyes as he stared from one to the other, then back to the security Chief. Garibaldi shook his head slowly, then spoke with exaggerated patience.
“Never mess with a man’s love life, Londo, unless you want to get burned. And in this case…” He grinned widely, then leaned in to stage whisper in Londo’s ear. “Gotcha!”
The End
“The Arrow That Springs From the Bow”
A Babylon 5 Story
Erotica: Valen/Delenn
A Blast Furnace Production
Copyright (C) 1998 by A. Manley Haight
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc, or AOL Time Warner Productions. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons of legal age for viewing sexually explicit material in areas where such viewing is legal, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
“I am like the arrow that springs from the bow; no hesitation, no doubts.”
Sinclair, “War Without End”
“Some Cupid kills with arrows; some with traps.”
Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing” III,c. 1599
Delenn couldn’t bring herself to cry over John’s grave. The tears had all been shed. She thought sometimes that they had mostly been cried while he was still alive. In some ways his passing had been a release, because he had not continued to suffer the torment of his people and the terrible burden of what he had been forced to do to keep the peace, not only on his homeworld, but among the stars, too.He was a year gone. It had been too soon, much sooner than it should have been. The strain of his life had only given them five years together. And then she had had to move on. Her beloved John had, at last, passed beyond the veil, into the land where no shadows fall.The morning was new, fresh and bright where she stood on the hill. The grass was long and supple, moving in the light breeze as the sun rose over the mountain range in the east. Back the other way was the valley of Tuzan’la, where Tuzanor spread to fill the bowl like a thousand crystal pearls tossed from the heavens.
She could see, far across the valley, the flash of sun reflected from the vast windows of Valen’s house. It was like a second small star over Tuzanor, a blaze of truth and immediacy that made her gut clench. So much could happen in twenty years, since that first moment on the Valen’tha just before the war with Earth had ended. John had been part of her, body and soul, but he had not always been the only one who could complete that union with her. Valen’s house flamed in the dawn, blinding her, but it wasn’t until she heard the voice behind her that she closed her eyes.
“Delenn.”
“My lord,” she said quietly.
“Does it not please you to be home?” The voice was gentle, deep and masculine, a voice she knew from her dreams, her prayers, her most profound yearnings. She could not turn around to face him. She couldn’t bear his magnificence, even though it had been unavoidable when she had arrived three days ago.
“More than you can know,” she said, feeling her tears quiver in her voice. It was not for John that the tears came now, and they were not tears of sadness.
“I did not summon you to Minbar to remind you of old pain,” Valen said. He had an Old World accent, rich and sensuous, and spoke the modern tongues with a preternatural ease.
“I know. Please, my lord, do not apologize for being what you are. I could not bear that.” She heard Valen come up behind her, walking quietly in the grass. He came close, but didn’t touch, his body blocking some of the breeze. She shivered in spite of it, his warmth gentling the sudden breath of madness that rose in her chest.
“I’m sorry about John,” he said. She shook her head slightly to let him know that the deep sorrow in his voice did not need to be there.
“It fades, my lord,” she whispered. He seemed to understand in the next moment, and his tone changed completely.
“I don’t feel close to you as I once did,” he said, his own agony suddenly, wrenchingly obvious in his voice. “Since my return, you have looked at me only as your master and prophet. Am I nothing else to you? Can you no longer think of me as a man?”
“I think of nothing else,” was her soft, aching reply. “My lord, I cannot, I…” She tried to move, to get away from him before she could no longer bear it. Both of his hands grabbed her shoulders, holding her. The grip was strong, insistent but gentle.
“I am reflection,” he said, his voice low and hot, burning her. “I am the mirror you will not face. Are you so terrified of what you will see of yourself in my eyes? Are you so terrified of what you will see of me there, too?” He made her turn around to face him, and she kept her eyes down. “Look at me,” he commanded. “Look at me, Delenn’se!”
She could do nothing but obey. His eyes picked up the sun, fiery gold in the morning light. She tried not to see what was there, tried not to let that astonishing brightness into her. It was searing, honest, stripped naked of all pretense and illusion. She saw her own raw yearning for him, her shame in it, her terror of this truth. It was made all the more unbearable by the fact that she saw his own longing, answering her.
“My lord, we cannot,” she whispered.
“Delenn,” he said warningly. She tore out of his grip, turning away from him again.
“I will not shame you this way!” she said savagely, trying to hold back the scream that wanted out of her throat. “I will not make you shi’noku with this.”
“Do not say that word in my presence,” Valen snarled. “Do not speak to me of that filthy taboo. When I was human I just thought you didn’t feel the way I did. I had to become Minbari before I understood, and then you were not in my life anymore. You were allowed to marry John. This is no different.”
“It is different. He was not you.” Her voice shook. “I will not profane you with this. I will not.”
“You dare to tell me that the way you feel about me is profane?” Valen said, his voice rough with disgust. “Do I profane myself by feeling what I feel for you? Is it sacrilege for me to have the thoughts I do? Blasphemy for me to tell you of them?”
She heard his footsteps in the grass again, and tensed, not daring to move either to flee or face him. His body touched hers this time, warm up against her back, and his hands rested on her shoulders. She shuddered, knowing she couldn’t stop the reaction, and closed her eyes as Valen lowered his mouth to nuzzle her gently. She could feel his warm breath through her hair, on her neck and ear. “Oh, no ritual, Delenn. I’ve spent my whole life living by ritual, creating ritual where necessary. You and I have used it as an excuse, hiding in the maze of endless propriety. When I was human I hid from you, behind my rank, behind my species. Most of all behind my terror. I will hear no more excuses from you. I destroy them, now, in both of us. Make love to me, Delenn’se. Let me make love to you.”
Her knees almost gave way.
“My lord?” she said, the words coming out more like a gasp. He laughed quietly against her neck, a sensuous, resonant sound that she could feel through her body where they touched.
“You used to call me Jeffrey,” he said, his voice like fire and smoke, close and private for her alone. “Say yes, Delenn’se.” She could hear his smile in his voice, and turned in his embrace, resting against his chest to look up into his face. His mouth was so close to hers, his smile gentle. His lips parted slightly but he didn’t move to kiss her. It was obvious in his eyes that he would have welcomed it if she had.
She realized she was holding him, her arms around his back, and he was embracing her gently. She wondered if she should have been shocked that she was touching Valen like that, but he was warm and sensual and felt so good that she didn’t want to let go.
“Yes,” she whispered. She should have released him then. Oh, gods, it was Valen she held in her arms. Yet, she could not escape the other truth of him; that they had known each other before, in a life that now seemed so very far away. The feelings remained…buried and ignored for so long because their lives together had been interrupted. She had gone on to marry John, and to love him with all her being. Valen had also married, and had children — something she and John had never been able to do. Somewhere in that deep past, she knew him as Jeffrey. Perhaps there was enough between them that she could have called him Jeff, though she had never dared.
She couldn’t let him go, from her embrace or from her life. She was ashamed, because she was no longer full Minbari and for her to be with him in this way was forbidden. But she couldn’t let him go, and pressed herself against him, burying her face against his throat, taking in the warm smell of his skin and his clothes. She could have kissed him…just pulled his head down to hers desperately and taken the sweetness she dreamed of late in the night. But she knew if she allowed herself to taste his mouth, here, like this, she wouldn’t be able to stop at just that. Such public displays, even here on the grass in the hills where they were not likely to be discovered, were unthinkable.
He pulled away from her, and looked down into her eyes with his own flaming like the sun. She knew that he was right about the maze between them, the walls that they had made. She should have pulled away from his strong embrace, tried to refuse the soft brush of his lips on her mouth, because she was so afraid of shaming him. She didn’t move. On the hill, then. For all to see, if they dared.
“You are so magnificent,” he whispered. He did not kiss her yet, did not have to for the power of what he was to take hold of her. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to reconcile it all, the hot, male scent of him, the low resonance of his voice, his hands holding her with love and awe. She was trembling by the time he reached her neck, and he brushed her hair away gently to kiss and nip at her soft skin. It was almost unbearable, and she held back a cry of delight and hunger, giving herself to his strength because her own had deserted her.
Her cry would have been unseemly, but she heard him laugh against her throat. All at once she realized what he was doing — to both of them.
“You’re…taunting me,” she breathed. “Oh, I can’t…”
“Can’t what?” His voice was impossibly vulgar just in the sound of it, making her gut clench deliciously. “Can’t conceive of biting me? Can’t imagine clawing my back as I sheathe myself in you, both of us down on the grass? Is that what lurks in the back of your mind and you dare not show it to me?”
It was the sound of that voice, low and teasing and sultry, that made her lose all control of her senses and judgement. She pulled back just so she could take his mouth with hers, demanding his reply, starving for the pleasure of his tongue against hers. He grunted, a laugh and a snarl together, and opened his mouth for her, tasting her, devouring her.
She had long since stopped trying to figure out exactly who she was in love with. A human ambassador? The greatest leader of their people? A voice in the prophecies? It was said Valen had many faces, many hearts. He was Compassion, Respect, Delight…he was Terror as well and they often forgot that part of it, even though its lesson was the hardest and most important. She had wondered what it would be like to know the man at the core of it. The possession of his mouth, his incredible strength against her, told her much about that man.
He did not kiss the way a human did, the way John had. John had taught her something of the human custom in this, and she had taught him the Minbari way. They had found some kind of unconscious middle ground, as only married couples could. She knew Valen in this moment, not for anything so concrete as his kiss, but for the cry of his passion that only her soul could hear. That was familiar. Even half-human, she had been stronger than John, and she had gotten used to withholding that strength during their lovemaking. Valen was the one now withholding strength from her. She could feel it in the way his body shuddered and his hands moved slowly on her back.
Even his kiss, almost bruising, was gentled. Not that she minded the roughness. John had sometimes been rough with her. The first time, he had apologized, and she had used her greater strength to flip him onto his back and show him how little she minded, much to his surprise. She still remembered his hungry cries and his laughter.
The Valen spoken of in the histories seemed gentle and compassionate, but she had never forgotten that the histories also called him Terror. She had studied this all her life, seen it reflected in Sinclair’s personality when she had known him as Commander of Babylon 5. There had been much more…she could still hear his whisperings to her in his delirium on the Valen’tha, just before the war had ended. Sometimes she still woke in the night, gasping, with the power of it, even though the Shadow War was long gone, and Sinclair’s destiny had been found.
But had it been completed?
Oh gods, he was biting her neck, carefully, slowly, his breath hot against her skin. He let go and licked the spot briefly.
“Delenn,” he breathed, almost a moan. She knew what he was going to say, to ask, and she knew she couldn’t bear to let him speak it aloud. Their people had always been conscious of power differences, between individuals as well as between civilizations. His place was to own her, to dominate her. Such possession was often rough, but he would not claim that without knowing for certain she wanted him to.
“I am Minbari, my lord,” she whispered, lifting her head to kiss the side of his jaw softly. That was enough, and Valen caught her mouth again in a deep kiss.
“Am I your lord?” he wondered when he drew back. “Even now?”
“Yes,” she said. He smiled as she pushed his cloak from his shoulders, and he caught it to let it down to the ground lightly. “And that is as I wish it.”
“You’ve wanted to know for a long time,” he said, seeing her delight at the prospect of getting the clothes off of him. “Let me show you then. Let me make it a gift to you.”
He bared a man’s muscular beauty to her, the fullness of maturity and the hardness of a warrior’s life. She held her breath, watching him, arrested by the pure cream color of his skin and the cerulean khe’re markings on his belly and groin. It was a strong blue for a man in middle age. She would have expected it on much younger men than him. It was exquisite. He was scarred lightly in a few places, the marks of his soldier’s life even as a Minbari.
She had to move closer, to touch the handsome, warm cock between his legs that was emerging slowly from its sheath. She had been surprised by how much John’s penis had been similar to a Minbari’s, with its sheath and general shape. The differences, though, made her heart quicken as much now as then, because after so long she was once more with a Minbari male, who had his own sweet distinctions.
He shivered at her touch, holding still for her, his cock responding to the caress to stiffen more in her hand. She let go just as it began to tremble, but the sensation of her hand drawing lightly up his stomach sent more fire to it, and in a few moments he was fully erect, aching, without her even touching him there. She was acutely aware of her robes between them, and even as she had the thought, Valen’s hands were already on her, removing them.
She felt starvation in his urgency, and he had to stop twice to hold her against him for a long, searching kiss. He was reaching for her soul with it, his arms strong and warm around her. He tasted sweet, like fruit he must have eaten that morning, and she gasped when his hands slid down her flanks to push the rest of her clothes away. He savored her long shudder as his hands found the curve of her bare hips and buttocks. She was almost feverishly warm, a welcome sensation in the cool morning air.
His ache to be inside her was a hard pulse in his blood and thoughts. He had spent a century away from her, feeling her so close to him even over that distance of time and space. She was pressed up against him, her face resting in the hollow of his neck, her hands hesitantly stroking the muscles across his back and shoulders. For a few moments he just held her, taking in the reality of his own presence here in this time, and the solidity of her faith and devotion to him. Then he released her briefly to retrieve his outer cloak, spreading it out on the ground for them to kneel on. She joined him eagerly, resuming her fascinated caress of his body. The chrysalis machine had changed her, but her humanity was less apparent than some humans believed. Her breasts were a little fuller, but her nipples were pale blue, her skin much fairer than most humans’ would have been.
She didn’t know what Valen expected, but to his eyes the differences would be obvious. She shivered, wondering if she pleased him, but when his gentle hands settled on her shoulders, his thumb stroking softly, she saw his cock tremble, hardening further, and that was all the proof she required. Her musculature was not exactly like a human’s, but to Valen it was a glory, her body supple and powerful. He wondered if he were as pleasing to her, but she seemed distracted by the swirling, azure markings that painted down into his hairless groin, her fingers tickling softly at the bulge of his retracted testicles, coaxing them down into her palm gently. He rumbled softly, deep in his throat, and he saw her smile although she did not look up.
“Would you believe me if I told you that you are beautiful beyond measure?” she asked, and he knew she had been thinking the same things he had. His testicles were in her hand, full and sensitive. He purred quietly before answering.
“The things I feel in your touch tell me everything,” he said, and she did look up at him then, hearing how completely he understood her just from her caress of his body. “I feel not just your love, but your regret, too. Guilt. Shame. Passion.” He shuddered. “The weight of it fills me and suddenly I’m you…” She put her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers for another hard kiss, this one full of desperation. There was violence promised in it somewhere, violence begged. She bit his lip as she drew back, and saw his eyes flame. “I can be that, Delenn,” he said. “If you claim it.”
I am Terror!
“Yes.” She had been surprised that she dared to bite him like that, but her need for him had been a demon howling at the gate for so long she could not remember any respite. The sound of his voice had shattered her, offering himself to her this way, warning her. He lunged forward to bite her, his arms going around her to pull her to him, his mouth engulfing her throat. It hurt, sweetly and with a brightness she could not have explained. She cried out, owned by him in that moment in the same way he had owned her with his power all her life. He bit again, into the soft flesh under her jaw, his harsh snarl resonating into her bones.
She could only whimper, her hands around his back, nails digging into his muscled shoulders. John had been too egalitarian to understand this, too gentle of a man in his private life, in spite of his ability to command the Army of Light. But Valen had been its creator, and by the point of his hand it had been the hammer and sword of the Minbari people for a hundred years. That aggression had never needed to be summoned, but it had often needed to be leashed. He did not draw blood, but he was licking the sensitive places he had bitten, still rumbling quietly.
She was arching her body against him, feeling his cock brush her stomach, wet with his own desire. The feel of it made her clutch at the backs of his shoulders. And then he pushed his hips into her, deliberately, slowly rubbing himself against her belly, making that low sound in his chest. She gave a soft whimper, and suddenly felt herself being lowered to the ground on her back, his hands behind her, holding her easily. He would not harm her, or let any harm come to her, but when he took her wrists and put them down by her head, she shuddered hard.
It was not strange to her that Valen would be dominant, or that she would so fiercely want him to be. He understood why she needed it, and he was long accustomed to filling the roles his people asked of him. He found joy and rough pleasure in this one, settling himself between her thighs as her legs wrapped around him. He rubbed her sex lightly with the tip of his cock, feeling her squirm beneath him, gasping, trying to lure him inside to complete the union her body screamed for. His heart was racing, his own body shuddering closer to completion just from watching her respond to him.
“Be still,” he rasped, desperate for the control to finish this the way it needed to be done. He had no hope if she kept wriggling like that — it made him mad with lust. She tried to obey, trembling as he began to push into her, but that first moment of him spreading her open made her cry out and she couldn’t stop her hips from rising to meet him. He moved with her, preventing himself from sinking deeper, and growled. “Be still,” he commanded hoarsely. Her hips sank back to the ground but she couldn’t relax, the muscles in her legs and back taut like steel.
“I…can’t — oh!” she panted as he moved again, slowly sheathing himself.
“You will,” he said, certain of it. He could feel her pulse through his cock, her muscles clenching him hard, rippling. Her mouth opened in a soundless howl as she took more of him, and when he was halfway in, he paused. “Look at me, Delenn.”
She was amazed by the tension and hunger in his face, every cell of his being concentrated on holding back the release that pressed at him with a blinding force. Was she so provocative? Just the sight of it made her sex tremble around him, and he groaned. She tried to rise from the ground again, needing more of him, his impalement of her a delicious point of heat that consumed her awareness. He did not let go of her wrists, but his voice pinned her just as surely. “Be still,” he whispered again. “Be still.”
The words dissolved into a growl of determination, and he moved his hips in some way that sent a wave of fire through her and she had to clamp her legs around him to stop herself from bucking against him again. He was pushing into her again, making the size of his cock felt with exquisite slowness. His breaths were quivering, and he shifted his weight on his knees slightly to change the angle of his penetration. She felt something rise in her belly, an emotion so intense she suddenly feared it, and she tried to free her hands to hold him. He wouldn’t let her go, and she met his eyes with her own wide ones.
“I can’t, I can’t!” she gasped. “Please — ”
“Shh,” he shushed her, pushing ever deeper, filling her. “Stay with me, Delenn. I’m here.” He could not continue to invade her forever. In another moment he would be sheathed completely and there would be nowhere else for this feeling to go. “I’m here,” he said again, and she realized all at once it was a warning, his voice revealing the strain of his taut body. “No more waiting for us. No more hiding. This is what you have demanded.”
“Oh Valen!” she howled, arching up against him, trying to shove against his body but he was as unyielding as stone. It was an oath as much as a cry to him.
“Yes,” he snarled. “I am Valen.” He was buried in her, their bodies joined in a point of flame, and his eyes were open to her in the moment his climax hit him. She saw the man he had always been, a core of justice, strength, passion, fierceness.
His breath caught and a shudder ripped through him as he leaned down to take her mouth again in a sensuous, gentle kiss. His hips trembled as he let go into her, and he groaned into her mouth, quiet and low. She would never know why it wasn’t until that moment that she realized that Valen was in love with her. That her very presence made him hard. That he could barely control himself just entering her, without ever even thrusting. It scared her more than anything she had ever faced, that she had this power over him, that he would surrender to it more easily than she would.
She joined him then, breaking away from his kiss to cry out with her full voice as her own climax gripped her. He whispered something in one of the ancient languages, a language no one spoke anymore. It had the sound of encouragement, of affection, and he let go of her wrists so she could embrace him. He was purring when she regained some sense of where she was, and he finally let his instinct take over to slide his cock in and out of her a few times in pure relish. She growled, surprising him, and stroked his face and throat.
“Oh, in Valen’s name,” she gasped. He laughed at that, a full, hard chuckle of awareness of the scale of that joke.
“Swear by Broahm, if you wish,” he panted, withdrawing from her gently to flop down on his back next to her. “He died a thousand years before my time.” He let out a tremendous, rumbling sigh of pleasure and contentment. She chuckled and rolled onto her side to put one arm across his chest, saying nothing for several long, delicious minutes. The stiff breeze still ruffled grass on the hilltop, and the sun beat down on their bodies warmly.
“Do you really believe you are making me shi’noku with this?” he asked softly as she traced the outline of one of his pectorals. Her hand stopped and she put her palm flat on his chest.
“I do not know,” she whispered. “A part of me says yes. Another part knows only that I have loved you all my life. If I loved you while you were human, did that not also make me shi’noku?”
“It is a foolish custom,” Valen said, and she raised her head to him, attentive to his opinion, to his wisdom. “We cannot interbreed with other races. Genetics won’t allow it. Even you and I could not. The purity of our people is something I have always advocated, but fanatics and scholars over the centuries have distorted my intent. They think I am talking about genetic and racial purity. I speak of purity of mind, of thought and action. I speak of the truth speaking through us. The truth speaks through us, Delenn, you and me. I was in love with you when I was human, when I did not know what I was to become, when I did not remember that we had met before on the Valen’tha.”
“I have tried not to think about that,” she said, her voice wrenching him, “but I am afraid to forget such a mistake, afraid of the ignorance of forgetting.” She had whipped him, had tortured him, thinking he was nothing more than a stinking, sweating animal from a race of animals who had murdered Dukhat, her master. Valen turned to her, kissing her jaw and neck.
“Did you not know you had my forgiveness for that, Delenn’se?” he whispered against her throat. “Always, Delenn. Always, I forgive you anything.” She lost herself in his forgiveness, in the sweet warmth of his body and his mouth on hers. She stopped thinking about the past, trying to comprehend this incredible now that had come to her.
“There’s a stream at the bottom of the hill,” she murmured idly, “where we could wash.”
“I know,” he said, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I’ve played in that stream hundreds, thousands of times. That was a long time ago, of course.” She laughed, the sound thrilling him.
“Played?” she said archly.
“Oh yes.” His voice was full of mock seriousness. “Alone and…not.” She tried to imagine him standing in the stream, alone, pleasuring himself in the dappled sun through the trees. He would lean back, the climax overwhelming him, his shout of ecstasy filling the woods as he spent himself in the coursing water.
“Let us go, then,” she said, getting to her feet, still naked and showing no embarrassment in it. Valen stood with her, leaving his cloak and the rest of their clothes on the grass. “I want to watch you…play.” He chuckled deep in his chest as they walked down the hill together, into the late morning sun.
The End
“The Sharper”
A Round Robin Assignment
A Sequel to “Nothing to Vir but Vir Himself”
Copyright (C) 1996 by A. Manley Haight
A Blast Furnace Production
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or Time Warner Productions. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons over 21, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
sharper – n. 1. one who bests another (syn. “bester” [Slang, Eng.]), 2. a rogue.
“There are inherent problems with the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing, especially in government conspiracies (and most especially when those conspiracies involve multiple governments). One of the most pernicious of these is the problem of powerful people who are not fully leashed when the can of worms gets opened. This is a problem of timing, and timing usually goes wrong at some point in even the best laid plans. It is at that moment that the most dangerous dogs of war are loosed — men with power who are driven by justice…or revenge.”
Bartholomew Hubble’s Complete and Unabridged History of the Second Shadow War, Volume VI, by Bartholomew Hubble, Esq., pp. 1212, Big Guns Publishing, 2369.
“Senator Beardwood.”
“Yes…ah, please have a seat.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’d say that you must be wondering why I’ve asked you here, but you probably already know.”
“Actually no. But I can speculate.”
“You’ve heard about Musante, I assume.”
“Not from you, but yes, I have.”
“Obviously she wasn’t up to her task, and we find that very disturbing. She was top notch. One of the most Earth-loyal people I’ve ever had.”
“And you want me to pick up the scent she dropped?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I think you know what you have to do.”
“Indeed I do, Senator. And you’re right — I’m an obvious choice if someone like Musante fails. The subtlety tactic isn’t going to work.”
“You always struck me as a very subtle man, in your own way. Even if you completely lack moral scruples.”
“That’s just it, Senator. I don’t lack moral scruples at all. It’s just that people like you are afraid of winding up on the wrong end of my scruples.”
“Get out of here, you bastard.”
Laughter.
“For now, Senator. For now.”
Her unconscious mind heard the door open — station dragon’s breath into her soul. Something came inside, a spectre, a monster, clean and black and edged. Musante rolled over, her sleep disturbed, and the bed groaned beneath the weight of the dragon’s master at her side. She awoke with a gasp, a scream at the edge of her awareness, and a black gloved hand clamped down hard over her mouth. She tried to breathe, the presence in bed with her like a suffocating nightmare, close and deadly.
Her eyes focused after an instant of blind panic — and she recognized the man who shared her bedroom, who leaned close over her, his thigh against her ribs, the smell of leather hot and musky in her nose. Even without the uniform, without the gold and silver badge, she knew who he was. Her panic became a need to shriek, and she whimpered softly.
“You are going to tell me,” he whispered, “everything you know.”
She waited for the qualification…everything she knew about x, y or z. Everything she knew about Vir, everything she knew about… And the truth registered finally.
Everything you know.
She tried to scream but nothing came out.
There was something about the way the station smelled that Bester liked. He had noticed the first time he came here more than two years ago. It was the smell of something waiting to burst forth from a prison, the scent of aggression, of power, the violence of a creature that knows it does not need to prove itself. Something waiting.
He shifted his elbow a little to nudge the PPG that lay beneath his cloak, inside his coat. It had been waiting for him when he came aboard the station. He knew where to go, whom to speak to, and the weapon had been handed over to him without comment — professionally and efficiently. He suppressed a smile on thinking of Garibaldi’s peculiar confidence that such a network did not exist on Babylon 5. The Corps had spent many months setting it in place, to be sure. But telepaths were difficult prey, especially if normals were doing the hunting. And where Bester was the dragon’s master, not even the other predators hesitated to obey.
He paused at the edge of a shop in the Zocalo, drawing back into the shadows to watch silently as Captain Sheridan went by, completely oblivious to his presence. He was not here for Sheridan. But the time for that might come, as well.
The real quarry was a little more elusive, in point of fact. Bester had put everything in place. Another gentle inquiry into the Psi Corps network on the station had yielded a P9 who was an expert on the station’s electronic security system, including all the securcams. But it was not the cameras that interested him. He had eventually bought the man’s talents, and in the process bought himself a carefully arranged accident that was scheduled to occur about twelve minutes from now.
Bester saw his quarry walk by, right on schedule, taking a shortcut through the shopping zone on the way to a negotiation. He pulled the hood a little farther across his face, and followed casually.
Mollari grunted as someone bumped him in the process of squeezing out of the elevator. The man apologized in passing and Mollari waved him off. The door closed and the elevator hummed along again, still filled to bursting with passengers. The station seemed so crowded these days. He could hardly go anywhere without being poked or elbowed or backed into.
More people came and went, bustling, preoccupied, and Mollari himself was privately going over what he was going to say in his negotiations with the Uursa. Finally the elevator was empty, and he stood in the middle of the car, facing forward, sighing to himself and bouncing on his toes. The station was crowded. Crowded and sluggish.
The elevator went dark suddenly, jolting to a halt, and after a moment the emergency lights flickered on.
“Ahhhh,” Mollari groaned peevishly. “Now what — ”
A blast of heat distortion and light flashed past him on his right side, and he flinched violently. The securcam and the communications panel were both neatly destroyed in two quick bursts, and Mollari spun around wildly.
He wasn’t as alone as he had thought.
A gloved hand calmly put a weapon — a PPG — back under a black cloak. Mollari suddenly had an impression of a human legend; Death given form, walking the world to approach those whose time has come. The black gloved hand withdrew from the fold of the cloak, and Mollari could only watch, frozen, as the hand pushed back the cloak’s hood. A human man stood before him, slightly built, with dark eyes that were as hard as smoked diamonds. There was a deadly resolution in the gaze, and Mollari knew he was looking into the face of Hur’aidon — god of the Primal Urge, ruler of the Lake of Fire.
The man raised his hand, fingers spread, and the Lake consumed him. He screamed.
He was naked, kneeling in the grass, shivering in a slight breeze. He rubbed his shoulders forlornly.
“So this is your world,” said a voice. Mollari looked up. The human was standing before him, looking up into the sky. They were on Centauri Prime, on the main lawn of the Centaurum Hall. It was a clear day, the sky deep autumn blue, just a hint of cooler winter on the edge of the wind that ruffled the grass around them. He wanted to cry, feeling his eyes sting at the living beauty of his planet, homesick, a desolate worry behind his eyes. The Republic had a great past, a glory that had faded even within his lifetime. He grasped at it through time, trying not to look at the future that waited at the edges, a creeping desert that would kill the souls of his people and leave their bodies to rot in the sun.
He knew the human’s name suddenly — Bester. Alfred Bester. “You have a great love for your world, for your people,” Bester said, looking down at him. There were different clothes on the human now; a black uniform, gold and silver badge that almost blinded him in the open sun.
“Go away and leave me alone,” Mollari muttered, looking down at the grass.
“You live with a burning shame that darkens this loving memory. Terrible.” Bester’s voice was unemotional. “But I will not leave until I have what I need.”
“You’re a telepath,” Mollari rasped. “One of those they call psi cops. I have heard of this.” He shivered again. “What do you want of me?”
From nowhere, from behind his back, Bester drew a long knife, blade shining. It made a smooth, metal whisper as he unsheathed it, and the psi cop came toward Londo.
“Everything. The easiest thing to do is to make a…hmmm…rent, for lack of a better word. A place for the information to come out, presumably more or less in order of secrecy and importance to you, since I intend to violate the part of you that is deliberately hiding from me right now. This may look messy and crude because of the way your mind is rendering it, but I assure you I know what I’m doing.” Mollari stared up at him, horrified.
“You…what are you — ”
“I’m going to make you bleed, Londo Mollari. I’m going to rape your mind for what I need to understand.” Bester knelt in front of him, eyes cold. Mollari flinched. “Don’t move. You’ll only make it worse if you move.”
Bester held the knife up horizontally, blade flat, being very careful about the place he put the tip of it on Londo’s flesh. Londo held his breath, fear quivering in his chest, his hearts pounding so hard he thought he would pass out. He tried to move, but couldn’t — wanted desperately to back away, to get up and flee, to attack the man who was tormenting him. But his muscles wouldn’t obey, the psi cop’s eyes like talons.
“Great Maker, please,” he whispered. Bester chose a spot that seemed totally arbitrary to Londo; about two centimeters to the left of the middle of his chest. He settled the sharp tip, a tiny drop of blood welling at the contact point. Londo couldn’t imagine what Bester hoped to gain at that particular spot. It wasn’t a very vulnerable place on a Centauri. Bester smiled faintly, briefly flexing his grip on the knife handle to make certain he held it steady.
“Stop thinking of this in such material terms.”
A savage, forceful and precise thrust, and the knife plunged deep. Mollari shrieked; it was like having his soul torn in half, ripping, terrible pain along the blade, the point of the weapon driving deep into his private self to cleave delicate, sensitive memories and gently held dreams.
Bester held the blade inside him for a few moments, pressed up against Mollari’s body, his arm across the Centauri’s chest. There was something intensely satisfying about this act, skillfully, deftly applying his talent in such a violent and controlled way. He lived with such force in his awareness, conscious of the broad and astonishing power that he was never allowed to use completely. A trained P12 was an utter terror, and only other P12’s really knew it. But in this moment, and other moments like it, Bester could let that power go for just a breath, and ravage a soul, plunder it for whatever he wished, take that which was inviolate, destroy that which was sacred, defile that which was perfect.
Just as smoothly as he had entered, Bester pulled out, making no other disturbance in the surrounding tissue. Just that anguished, terrible breach that began to bleed in a river as the metal blade was removed. Londo felt tears on his face, weeping for the loss of the aloneness in his own mind that he had never realized he valued until now.
The knife vanished, and Bester pressed his gloved hand to Londo’s chest, against the bright red blood that covered the pale skin. He drew his hand back carefully, studying the blood in his palm for a long moment intently, as if searching for something specific.
And then, a slight tensing of the muscles in Bester’s face, eyes darkening, and the psi cop got to his feet suddenly.
“I want to know,” he said, “what these are.”
He gestured broadly, waving his hand back and up toward the vast sky, and Londo looked up to follow the motion. Big black ships filled the heavens suddenly, spiderlike, chilling him to his bones. Shadow ships, covered in blood. His blood. The blood in Bester’s hand. The blood of millions. Londo closed his eyes.
“The evidence of my corruption,” Londo said. He didn’t realize until he said it what a primary truth it was. “The tool of my ambition. The unleashed lust for power made manifest to walk among the stars.”
“Shadow ships,” Bester muttered, looking up at them with the kind of distant appraisal one gives to a video recording. “Shadows.” And then Bester was looking at him again, at the blood on his chest.
The hedge garden on Babylon 5.
“But you killed ten thousand Narns!”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“Why don’t you destroy the entire Narn homeworld while you’re at it?”
“One thing at a time, Ambassador. One thing at a time.”
The Centauri heavy destroyer Valerius.
The mass drivers are at work, a 3 million-ton ball of asteroid rock accelerated to a certain percentage of the speed of light. It goes hurtling toward the planet in a blinding marble of hellfire. It almost looks harmless, except that this marble is the size of a mountain, and the waves it makes when it hits break the planet’s crust. The mantle groans and volcanoes rise up, flooding the impact sites with searing magma. Millions die in seconds.
“And here I was afraid I might have a legacy to live on after me,” said a wry voice behind Londo, and he turned around with a gasp. Bester met his eyes coolly. The psi cop glanced out the window briefly, watching the mass driver bore fling another mountain at the Narn homeworld. “With competition like you, I’ll be lucky if the history books even mention my name.” Londo felt nauseous.
“Go away, damn you,” Londo muttered.
“But you have so much to show me. I can feel it pressing to get out. You need a confessor. Well. Here I am.”
“I am not proud of this,” Londo whispered.
“Nor should you be, since you didn’t really have anything to do with it. You merely condoned its occurrence, and took credit for it. They would have found someone else had you not been cooperative.” Bester smirked. “I know all about good intentions paving the road to hell. Except in my case I was aware of where I was going from the first step. Frankly I think it would have been more honorable if you had taken credit for something you actually did. At least that would have been honest. I may not be the most noble man in the galaxy, Londo, but like you I am interested in the survival and prosperity of my people, and I have taken some very drastic steps in that pursuit.”
“Then I suppose we should join our arms together as brothers damned,” Londo said.
“Only if I decide I am going to sit idly by and watch,” Bester said with a warning gleam in his eyes.
Centauri Prime, on the lawn of the Centaurum Hall.
“Julie Musante is a traitor through and through,” Bester mused, pacing on the grass slowly. Londo sat and watched, shivering, humiliated. He was utterly powerless to make the human leave his mind, even though it was his mind. He was exposed, completely open to be read like a book or a video log. There was a puddle of red between his knees, being absorbed into the earth beneath. His tir’ai’su were tightly retracted into his body, flaps trembling. Bester lifted his head to the sky, which was clear again. “I know why she did it, but knowledge of the Shadows did not participate in that decision.”
“She’s in love with Vir,” Londo muttered. “The poor girl. She wanted to stay on the station with him so she left your government.” Bester laughed quietly.
“That girl,” he said, “was once one of Earthgov’s most ruthless and determined counteragents.” Londo stared at him. “She betrayed Earth for Vir. I think you can grasp the absurdity of that. What you don’t grasp is the real absurdity about Musante — her blind prejudice, and the fact that it was the woman’s damnable horniness that allowed that facade to be destroyed. I always knew that would be a weakness and not a strength.”
“I’m still bleeding,” Londo whispered.
“Yes,” Bester said. “And not in the right place anymore, either, I’m afraid.” His mouth flattened into a line. “I chose a good starting place to wound you, I see. But there is another aspect more closely related to what concerns me.”
“Gods, please, no,” Londo breathed softly, knowing that protestations would make no difference to this man, and that mercy was not involved in any of this.
Bester came toward him with the gleaming blade again. The psi cop paused, standing easily, arrogantly, and used the flat tip to lift Londo’s chin up to look at him. Bester set his jaw and pushed firmly, cleanly sinking the steel into Londo’s neck, soaking it in the blood of the damned.
Londo’s mind would not accept this cruelty in any kind of conscious way — the Lake of Fire waited for him. He was falling at a terrible speed in which everything seemed to stand still, his entire life, past and future, held together in a fist that made his present a suffocating prison. He didn’t scream. He discovered he didn’t want to. It was grief that overwhelmed him, mourning for things annihilated. The Lake took him, his tears splashing the fire to steam.
The Babylon station, almost two years in the past.
Lord Kiro paused in the open doorway, looking back to Londo with desolation and defeat in his eyes.
“Where did it go wrong, Mollari? Where did we lose it all?”
“I don’t know,” Londo said, trying to force a lightness he didn’t feel. The question was so horribly important — and so pointless. “I don’t know.”
The corridor.
“Ambassador, I was authorized to speak to you — “
“Yes, yes,” Mollari said irritably. “Look, what do you want?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you!” Morden said, delighted.
“You,” Mollari said pointedly, “are a lunatic. Go away.” He stepped into the elevator when the doors opened. Morden followed him eagerly. “Bay 12.” Mollari looked at his new companion, who stood very close to him. “You are a very persistent young man.”
“I have to be. I’m not allowed to leave here until you’ve answered my question.” His voice became more intent, emphasizing the words gently, seriously. “What do you want?”
“This is a silly conversation.”
“Yes it is,” Morden agreed, deadpan. “What do you want?”
“To be left alone.” The elevator doors opened, and Mollari exited quickly. Morden stopped in the doorway, watching Mollari go down the hall.
“Is that it?” Morden demanded, his voice strangely vehement. Not angry…just forceful. “Is that really all, Ambassador?”
Mollari stopped in the hall. He really should be going. He was late to meet Lord Kiro. But the question pulled at him, bringing to the surface every bitterness and rage he had felt over the past decades. Was it all, indeed? He turned around to face the human.
“All right,” he said, exasperated. “Fine. You really want to know what I want? You really want to know the truth? I want my people to reclaim their rightful place in the galaxy. I want to see the Centauri stretch forth their hand again, and command the stars. I want a rebirth of glory, a renaissance of power. I want to stop running through my life like a man late for an appointment — afraid to look back, or to look forward. I want us to be what we used to be! I want…I want it all back, the way that it was. Does that answer your question?”
He left before the human could answer him.
Lady Ladira, the seeress of Lord Kiro’s house, knows more than he realizes.
“The Shadows have come for Lord Kiro,” she said, grasping Londo’s coat. “The Shadows have come for us all!”
The Centaurum Hall lawn.
“Just kill me, damn you, and go away.”
“I’m not trying to kill you,” Bester said plainly. “There are plenty of people lower down on the food chain who would make a perfectly adequate assassin for the Centauri Ambassador. Killing is the common brute’s solution. Ours…mine…is not so wasteful nor so wanton.”
Londo spat on the ground at Bester’s feet.
“You think I can’t feel it?” he demanded scornfully. “You think I can’t feel how much you enjoy this, human? You’re as wanton as a whore, trading in brutality instead of sex. Or is it sex to you, too?”
Bester only smiled coldly, not responding with the outburst or denial that Londo had expected. He shivered at the expression on the psi cop’s face. It was the look of Hur’aidon again — this time the Primal Urge.
Londo’s quarters.
Kiro is dead. The Eye is gone. He feels the loss in his heart, a terrible weight. The door again. It’s that annoying man, Mr. Morden. He tries to shoo the man away, and Morden is about to oblige.
“Oh, before I go…” He holds out the rectangular, cloth-draped box he is holding. “A gift, from friends you don’t know you have.”
Mollari takes the thing and puts it on the table. Opens it.
“The Eye! How?” He turns, but Morden is already gone. Londo rushes to the doorway, looking out in the hall, but the corridor is empty. “Where did you go, eh? Let me buy you a drink! Let me buy you an entire fleet of drinks! How can I ever find you to thank you?”
And Morden’s voice comes back to him from down the hall.
“We will find you, Ambassador. We will find you.”
Bester looked up to watch another Shadow cruiser in the sky. It flew low over the lawn, blotting out the Centauri sun and most of the blue heavens. The ship cast another sort of shadow on the ground, and Bester watched, even though he could have made it vanish.
It was not fear that Bester felt. Not exactly. It was more a sense of clarity. Everything had leapt into place, Londo’s memories eerily parallel to some of his own.
They had found a strange looking alien ship buried under the surface of Mars. They had studied it, and gone inside and explored the thing, but what the hell it was and where it had come from was a total mystery. Then one day another ship just like it had shown up and activated the buried ship. They had both left together and that was the end of it. A dead end.
And then that transmission from a starfury pilot in hyperspace — the one that had been plastered all over ISN before they had been able to get it pulled. What the fucking hell was going on? And Morden..?
Morden was a contact point. Bester had seen him before, though had never directly met him. Now that Bester thought about it, it seemed curious that Morden had always seemed to manage to avoid such meetings — seemingly through coincidence but now Bester wasn’t so sure. Was the man wary of a strong telepath precisely because of what he was?
And that was…what, exactly? A contact point. A voice into the ears of some in Earthgov. He was the eyes and ears of this alien race, a whispering spokesman whose own betrayals went far deeper than mere treason. Londo had shown Bester what Morden and his associates had done — were doing — to the Centauri Republic. And Earth could only be next.
The Shadow cruiser drifted over the distant mountaintops, leaving the sky clear again, white clouds lazily sliding in the other direction on the high jetstream winds.
“Thank you,” Bester said to Londo seriously. Londo would never have been able to explain to anyone what the tone of voice was like…he could feel anticipation, a sense of readiness, poised strength, conviction — even love — in the psi cop’s thoughts.
“You love your people, too, don’t you?” Londo said quietly. Bester drew a deep breath. This was what he had been born to do. Not the tiny spying and weaseling and minutiae that Earthgov used him for. Bester had been born with a much greater power, a power he was never allowed to use. Now was his moment. A larger war. A life that would test his soul and his blood. A chance to fight for something meaningful.
“As much as you love yours,” Bester murmured. “And I will not hesitate where you have faltered. My own redemption may be at hand, but it is not my desire.” He looked down at his gloved hand, dark and wet with Londo’s blood. In a moment the stain vanished, soaked into the ground at his feet invisibly. Bester walked over to Londo slowly. He took off his glove and laid his hand against Londo’s throat.
Londo gasped, his blood aflame again, this time with healing, gentleness. The human’s touch trailed down to his chest, brushing fingers and the wound there closed, blood disappearing as if it had never been. “Time for me to leave,” Bester said.
There was a terrible grinding noise. It had a mechanical sound to it, and in another breath, Londo was back in the elevator, clothed in his fine Ambassadorial coat and neckerchief and shirt, his pressed pants and boots. Bester stood before him, cloaked, the Psi Corps badge that Londo remembered so vividly — absent. Londo reflexively touched his throat, seeking the gashing wound that the human had symbolically inflicted. He felt nothing but unbroken skin, dry and warm. The human lowered his gloved hand and held Londo’s eyes.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then the elevator lurched again and began to move slowly.
“They’re going to pry us out of here soon,” Bester said in a low voice. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, managing to look supremely bored. It was a polished act, Londo knew. “How do you want to play this to security?”
Londo closed his mouth after realizing it was open. How long had they been in here? But the question Bester had asked him… The station was independent from the Earth Alliance now. There was only Sheridan’s rule, and not the rule of Earth Alliance law. Londo could press charges if he wanted to, claim the rape Bester had just performed on him, claim a violation of his privacy…
But he remembered the scent of Bester’s mind upon watching the mass drivers, the taste of being on a precipice. Becoming aware of the pit into which he was about to fall. And Bester was poised to become an avatar for his people, as Londo had failed to be for his own. Yes, Londo could press charges. But to what end? What would it accomplish? What would it gain? Nothing, for no one. It would not undo what had been done, would grant no peace, would involve no real justice of any sort. And then Bester would not have the chance he needed.
And Londo remembered a moment of kindness, the human’s hand on his throat, easing the wound he had so cruelly inflicted, undoing the pain…and there had been an apology hovering at the edges of it. This human was not so unlike him, and that was chilling for so many reasons.
“We had…a little chat,” Londo said finally, reclaiming a gentle dignity and standing straight. “Nothing more. Nothing to concern them.” He turned to look at the destroyed comm panel and camera. “That will be hard to explain.” Bester shook his head.
“Don’t worry about that.”
The elevator stopped suddenly and the doors were manually pried open by two burly security guards. Two more guards beyond the opening pointed rifles into the car, and Bester sighed. Londo immediately flapped his arms frustratedly.
“What took you so long, eh?” he demanded peevishly. “I am already late for my meeting!”
“Sorry, Ambassador,” came Garibaldi’s voice from beyond the shoulders of the armed guards. He touched them and they lowered their weapons. “But we had to assume the worst when we detected the car stopped and then we — ” He caught sight of who was leaning against the far elevator wall, cloaked and indifferent. “You,” Garibaldi said in an accusing voice, low and lethal.
“What the hell’s going on?” It was Sheridan’s voice, getting closer with each word.
“Captain, it’s — ” Garibaldi began.
“That man,” Londo said to Sheridan, pointing to Bester, “is a maniac. I don’t know how you humans managed to ever invent the wheel, much less colonize space. If you will excuse me, I’m late for a meeting — ” Sheridan’s hand stopped him, but the Captain had eyes for Bester.
“How did you get on the station?” he demanded. “And what did you do to Ambassador Mollari?”
“Oh, we had a silly little chat,” Londo said, waving his hand.
“A little chat,” Sheridan repeated, looking at Bester, who said nothing. He looked at the comm panel and the securcam, which were a blackened ruin. “Search him,” Sheridan ordered, jerking his chin.
Garibaldi obeyed all too eagerly, grabbing Bester roughly and turning him around to frisk him under the cloak. The Security Chief was a little more invasive than he really needed to be, a little more aggressive than necessary with his hands, and Bester glared at him. He finally produced the PPG Bester was carrying, and handed it over to Sheridan.
“If you test it you’ll find it’s been fired in the last hour,” Bester said calmly, turning around to lean his back against the wall again. Sheridan stared at him.
“You’re admitting you did this?” he said, indicating the damaged elevator. Bester snorted.
“If I could think of a lie you would believe, I’d use it,” he said flatly. Garibaldi grunted.
“Ambassador,” Sheridan said, turning back to Londo, “I assure you we will resolve this matter to your satisfaction. We can hold him and press charges at your discretion.” God only knew what Bester had done to Londo while they were trapped in there, especially with that look in the psi cop’s eyes. Sheridan fought down a shiver.
“What matter?” Londo replied. “We had a silly little chat. Nothing more. I don’t have any charges to press, Captain. Now if you will please excuse me, I am late for my meeting.” Londo squeezed past him and hurried on down the corridor, looking quite indeed like a man late for something.
Sheridan and Garibaldi turned back to Bester.
“Well?” Sheridan demanded.
“Well what?” Bester replied. “Ambassador Mollari is difficult to get a hold of and I wanted his undivided attention.”
“And?”
“And we talked,” Bester said, mildly annoyed. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“I still want to know how you got on the station,” Garibaldi said. “And how you got a PPG.”
“I don’t think that’s really material,” Bester said.
“Did you scan Londo?” Sheridan asked him point-blank. Bester looked at him balefully.
“Why would I do that? The Centauri Republic is the last government I want to annoy right now.”
“I think you’d do anything if you thought you had a good reason.”
“You’re right,” Bester said. He stepped away from the wall and Sheridan tensed. The security guards raised their weapons cautiously. “Captain Sheridan, the Earth government is corrupt. You know it, and I know it. It doesn’t end with Earth, either. How would you like to have a psi cop working for you?”
“Senator Beardwood, I’ll be brief. I’m not coming back to Earth. In fact, as of this moment I am no longer in the employ of Psi Corps, Earthgov, or the Earth Alliance in any official or unofficial capacity. I am rescinding my own citizenship on the Earth and am now an expatriate. I recommend that you look closely to your own affairs, Senator. Something wicked this way comes.”
Keith Beardwood leaned back in his chair, his office silent except for the distant
tick tick tick of an antique wall clock across the room.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
“There is an ancient Indian saying: that something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it. My people have come to trust memory over history. Memory, like fire, is radiant and immutable. Those who would douse the flame of memory in order to put out the dangerous fire of truth — beware these men, for they are dangerous themselves, and unwise. Their false history is written in the blood of those who might remember, and of those who seek the truth.”
- Albert Hosteen – “The Blessing Way” (The X-Files)
The End
ASSIGNMENT: Bester and Londo have a violent, non-consensual encounter in a transport tube.
“Nothing to Vir but Vir Himself”
A Round Robin Assignment
(read: this is Kymberlee’s fault, so blame her)
Copyright (C) 1996 by A. Manley Haight
A Blast Furnace Production
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or AOL Time Warner. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons over 21, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
“It is appropriate to note at this juncture that the participants in the scandals of Clark’s presidency were not without outside influence. The reader will well note that although the Shadow connections within Earthgov were widespread and far-reaching, there were those who were kept out of the knowledge loop. This did occasionally have serious consequences that were not realized until many years later.”
Bartholomew Hubble’s Complete and Unabridged History of the Second Shadow War, Volume VI, by Bartholomew Hubble, Esq., pp. 1374, Big Guns Publishing, 2369.
“We picked you because you know what you’re doing. And because you’ll do whatever it takes to get what you want…what
we want. Frankly I admire your loyalty.”"Don’t admire it yet. Nobody ever asked me to go after a xenomorph before.”"Think of it as broadening your horizons.”
“I’ll broaden your horizons…”
“I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“Of course not, Keith.”
“Get out of here before I spank you.”
“Hold that thought until I get back.”
“Just find me that connection. The alien infiltration traces back to Ambassador Mollari. We get to him, he’ll lead us to the source.”
The soft, low
tok tok tok of her high heels was the only sound in the War Room. That…and the constant low purr of the station itself. Part reactor, part air cycling, part systems power — the station breathed and pumped blood and sighed around her. Strange compared to being planetside…almost like being Jonah inside the great fish.Not for the first time in her celebrity-laden career, she found herself trying to work up the enthusiasm necessary to putting this particular one over on the designated target. She had chosen the War Room for their liaison for a variety of reasons — she suspected one reason was the distant hope that they might be interrupted and she wouldn’t have to go through with this bizarre charade.She trailed her fingernails alone the wide, metal and polymer briefing table as she walked slowly around it. She paused, gazing down at the flat surface. She liked tables. She liked them a lot. They were…versatile…and hard. Hard like Captain Sheridan’s ass. She sighed wistfully. It was a terrible shame they hadn’t wanted her to go after
him again. What she really, really needed these days was a good, solid, flat on her back, grunting fuck by big Earthforce cock…and Sheridan had looked the type.
Yes, that was what she needed. She needed to get screamingly, howlingly screwed. And who did they tell her to go after? A xenomorph. She shuddered, half in revulsion, half in randiness. One good thing — she was so horny that this encounter couldn’t possibly turn out to be completely disgusting. It had been three weeks since she had gotten any sex and she was the hungry sort. It made her good at her job — she didn’t always have to fake it. She smoothed her black, slinky dress at her thigh unconsciously. At least Centauri were relatively human-looking. She didn’t think she could have done this with a Narn.
She turned around as the transport tube on the upper level chirped to announce the arrival of a car, and the door opened. She raised an eyebrow in pure surprise. The Centauri who emerged was quite a different man from the file images she had been briefed with. His file information revealed an overweight pudge of an attache with the look of a soft life and naive mind. Just the kind of person she had looked forward to being able to manipulate.
But the fellow who came down the steps, while still bearing an air of considerable deference, was not fat. in fact, it looked like he had dropped a good deal of weight, especially around his face. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, too, something not quite so soft and naive as she had expected. She felt her heartrate increase, and drew a deep breath. Actually…frankly…he was rather handsome. In a Centauri sort of way. And the hair was still pretty silly. Well, perhaps that was all right. At least he was attractive, so this wouldn’t be a complete hell. Besides, she liked a bit of a challenge.
The fellow glanced around nervously, seeming to peer briefly into the shadows of the War Room as if expecting the entire command staff and the League reps to jump out and yell “Happy Birthing Day.” He came toward her, half-bowing, with his hands together solicitously.
“Ms. Musante?” he said. “I’m Vir Cotto. You asked to see me? Are you sure you want to meet here? I’m not sure we should — ”
“Pleased to meet you, Vir,” she said, shaking his hand firmly with the blade of professional Ministry brevity in her manner, her training taking over. “May I call you Vir? I know this isn’t the most conventional place to have a meeting, but I wanted to use a non-traditional setting. Sort of a habit of mine. Hope you don’t mind.” She watched her nonstop chatter go through one of his ears and out the other, his brow furrowing slightly.
“Not at all,” he said reflexively. His hands spread in sincere, inoffensive puzzlement. “I must confess I’m a little confused about why you wanted to see me. If you’d like to speak to the Ambassador, I’m sure I could — ”
“No,” she said quickly, smiling, reassuring. “I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” he said, caught between further confusion and a dim sensation of discomfort, like a mouse riveted by a cobra’s stare. “Of course I’ll try to be as much assistance as possible to your government,” he said, “although I must warn you that my authority is limited.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about your government or my government,” Musante said slyly, getting closer to him. “I wanted this to be a…personal…meeting.” She saw him swallow. Good.
“Uh…”
“I saw you yesterday, you know,” she said idly, drawing her hand down the front of his fine coat. It was true. She had seen him in the Zocalo. She never lied about things that could be checked. “Have you ever made love to a human woman?” she wondered, rubbing slowly at his chest and ribs.
“Uh, no I…don’t think so,” he said. “At least, I hope I would have remembered.” He swallowed again and pulled at the collar of his coat. Great Maker, she was rubbing him through his coat, tickling the tips of his k’san and viran tentacles with the fabric of his inside shirt and making them quiver. He felt one unsheathe involuntarily and he fought to keep it still, blushing hard at his lack of self-control. But it had been a long, long time. He didn’t think humans knew that much about Centauri. Either Ms. Musante was the luckiest guesser in the galaxy or she was a Gann De’es Master. Either way he was the happiest Centauri on the station at the moment. “Ms. Musante — ”
“Call me Julie,” she purred. My, he was a responsive one, wasn’t he? That was good. Maybe she could get this over with, and while he was pliant, she could find out how much he knew about Mollari’s…’associates.’ Vir was his attache, after all. He must know nearly as much as the Ambassador, must have had to deal with them from time to time. And Vir was much more likely to be swayed by her charms. Okay. Time to be honest so she didn’t have to fumble her way through this. “You know, Vir, I have to admit, I don’t know that much about Centauri…attributes.” She smiled wickedly. “I’m afraid you may have to teach me.”
“Well…ah…” Oh, terrific. She was the lucky guesser variety, and he was not the most aggressive person in the Republic, either. And he had to teach her? “Well, Centauri…we have six, uh…we have six.” Flashback to Commander Ivanova. What had she said? Enthusiasm, sincerity, compassion and humor would go a long way toward making up for any lack of experience. All right.
Musante’s mouth opened in spite of herself. Six? Wow. That was…interesting. She swallowed this time, not as composed as before. Some part of her mind, the part that had been trained by the Ministry of Peace, the xenophobic part, said “Oh God, that’s the most disgusting thing…” But there was another part of her, not altogether timid, that said “SIX? WHOA MOMMA!”
“Six?” she said (again), this time out loud. “Goodness, Vir. Human men only have one.”
“I know,” he said, a little smug. Then he looked anxious. “Not that I would know firsthand, you understand. I’m just very interested in your people. I’ve studied human physiology.” He looked a little disappointed. “I’m not sure if we can take advantage of my six. You only have one…um…orifice.” Musante smiled again. Six. Well. This was certainly…kinky.
“If you want to be really technical,” Musante said, “I have three that are…suitable. I think we can manage…depending on how big you are.” She was still stroking his chest and abdomen through his coat, obviously not aware of what she was doing. His thren and vali tentacles were quivering now, their prehensile tips questing blindly for relief.
“Um…I should tell you,” he said unsteadily, “the way you’re touching me is, um, really really nice.” Her hand paused and she looked surprised. He was glad (and a little surprised himself) that she didn’t look repelled. Just oddly curious.
“Oh?” she said, honestly intrigued. “What am I doing? Uh — ” Now she looked uncertain. “Exactly where are your…six?”
“Well, they’re on my, uh…” He flushed again, embarrassed. Musante grinned openly. He was inexperienced, was he?
“Can I see?” she asked, gently unbuttoning his coat. “Maybe that would be the easiest thing.”
“What?! Uh…Ju — Julie…” She was pulling his coat open, her hands working deftly at his vest and then the shirt underneath. “Julie, maybe we should go somewhere else — ”
“Oh, come on,” she teased. “We won’t get caught. And we’ve got this lovely table. I think it’ll do very well, don’t you?” She got his shirt open and jerked her hand back suddenly as the tapered, flat head of a tentacle peeked out, searching for the warmth of her hand. “Whoa — ”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, awkwardly trying to cover it with the edge of his shirt.
“Was that…one of the six?” she said, fascinated despite her faint twinge of uncertainty.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was, um, my viran.”
“What?”
“Centauri sexual organs all have names. You know, the way you have names for the penis and scrotum and — well, you get the idea. And there’s a particular order you’re supposed to use them. Each one represents a different level of intimacy and pleasure. You’re not supposed to use two first.” Her eyebrows rose. “That’s the one you just saw. It’s bad manners.”
“Why is it bad manners?”
“Well, it…” She was trying to pull his shirt open. He tried to politely prevent her, embarrassed. “It just is. I mean…”
“Can I touch?” she asked, sneaking her hand up under the edge he wasn’t holding. He jumped.
“Ah…um…” It was difficult to say no. He was supposed to say no. Any decent Centauri man would have said no, and been embarrassed, and made excuses. At least kiss her first. But she was — and he felt — and she was about to –
Musante made contact with something velvet soft and smooth and flat; the end of the tentacle, she supposed. She fought down the brief flicker of aversion, her curiosity stronger. Vir shivered suddenly, making a soft noise, almost a purr.
“Like that?” she teased, stroking the tapered tip gently. The organ quivered readily and Vir purred again, a little louder. “I’m doing something naughty, aren’t I? Touching this one first?” He nodded, a little scandalized, but feeling too good to stop her. “What should I do if I want to keep being naughty?” He blushed scarlet.
“I — I couldn’t really…”
“Oh, come on, Vir. What do you want me to do? Hm? I’m adventurous.” Vir swallowed hard, shaking from head to toe. He gestured very slightly to the other side of his body, up near his chest.
“This one,” he whispered. “I…I like…that one, but it’s…really indecent…” Musante drew her fingers down the other side of his body, through his thin shirt. She chuckled softly.
“The equivalent of grabbing a man in the crotch,” she muttered, amused. Vir seemed to react about the same way, too, looking first shocked and then hungry as his body responded blindly to her gentle, sensuous touch. Granted he was no expert, but what she was doing was incredible and he wasn’t sure he could control himself for much longer.
“Should I be doing something to you?” he asked suddenly, pensive. “I’ve never been with a human woman. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“Well, allowing for your unique differences,” she smiled, “you could explore with these, mmm, what do you call them?”
“Tir’ai’su,” he said. She laughed softly.
“Sounds like dessert,” she mused, and he giggled. “Use your tir’ai’su. They look prehensile.”
“They are,” he said. “Very.”
“Well then,” she grinned. “If they’re strong enough I think you could do some interesting things…” He blushed a little.
“Well, I’m not as strong as some men,” he admitted bashfully, “but I’ve been practicing.” He seemed very proud of this, and Musante had a brief mental image of him lifting weights with his tir’ai’su, and smiled broadly. She thought laughing was probably the wrong thing to do.
“Playing with yourself?” she said with a grin. Vir shrugged slightly, looking helplessly at the ceiling.
“Pathetic, I know,” he said, “but what can you do.”
“Actually I think it’s sexy,” she said. “Men who play with themselves.”
“Really?” he blurted.
“Oh yes,” she said seriously, with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I couldn’t speak for all human women, but I love to watch. And I love being touched. It seems unfair at the moment, me being all clothed.” She reached back for the zipper to her dress and watched Vir’s eyes go wide. She paused in mild apprehension, a thought occurring to her. “Are humans unattractive to Centauri?” she asked. “I certainly wouldn’t want to — ”
“No no no,” he said quickly. “Actually, on the surface, you look very similar to Centauri women, except for the sexual organs. You even have breasts.”
“Do Centauri women have six, er…”
“Uh, holes, yes,” he finished awkwardly. “On the back, along both sides of the spine. But just two breasts, like you,” he reassured. She snorted wryly.
“I’ll try not to feel inadequate,” she said, letting her dress slip to the floor. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, not even panties, and Vir stared openly, startled and fascinated.
“Wow, you’re…beautiful,” he said. But no dorsal netsil? Nowhere for him to put his tir’ai’su? Vir felt a brief wash of pity for her. To be so crippled… But he reminded himself she was human, and from the look of her was quite whole and healthy for a human woman. Well, she did say she had three…
Musante stepped up to him, very close, putting her arms around his neck.
“You can hold me,” she said. “It’s all right.” His hands reluctantly, carefully, found her hips. He started to stroke up her back where the netsil should have been, to tease them (he had read somewhere that he was supposed to do that; women liked it), but his fingers found smooth, unbroken flesh. His animal brain at first refused to process this discovery, and she saw his mild confusion. “That’s where they’d be, huh?” she said. He nodded faintly, still fighting back sympathy for her that she couldn’t feel like a Centauri woman. “It still feels good,” she said, writhing a little in his embrace. “You have soft hands.”
“Thanks,” he murmured modestly. He stroked a little more boldly, exploring the smooth skin of her back. Her flesh was like milk and cream together, satiny and warm. Really not that much different from a Centauri when it came right down to it.
“You’re so repressed,” she teased quietly, pulling away from him a little to finally get his coat off of him. He objected half-heartedly, but she pressed her fingers lightly in the spot where she knew his viran tentacle was, and he moaned. She pulled his shirt open, and he didn’t stop her this time, just quivering as she bared his six tir’ai’su to her gaze. The one she had been teasing was poking a little way out of his body; he had six little, delicate flaps of skin arranged more or less symmetrically on his torso. The viran tentacle emerged hesitantly, needing, responding to her fingertips. It looked like a small serpent peeking out of his body, a thin sheath part of its design, rather like a foreskin on a human man. The tir’ai’su were obviously contained inside his body when flaccid, retracted for protection, and extended when aroused. “How long do they get?” she asked wonderingly, tickling the flap above the viran under his ribs. The tir’ai’su there poked out curiously, its prehensile tip waving like a tiny tongue.
“It varies,” Vir said, “like with human men. I’m, um, a little longer than average.” He looked smug again, and she grinned back.
“You said they all have names,” she mused.
“Oh, ah, yes.” He started with the one she was touching. “This is the first one. That’s k’san. Then viran.” He indicated the one below it. “Vali…” This one was on the other side of his body, at the top. “Loros.” Below Vali. “Then dem and thren.” These last two were the two on the bottom, lowest on his abdomen.
“Why are they ordered like that instead of top to bottom, or side to side?” she asked. Vir shrugged.
“That’s just the way it is. But the order has something to do with sensitivity. I don’t know if that’s totally physical or if we just get all worked up because it’s a cultural thing and it’s more intimate. Um…thren’s the most sensitive on just about all Centauri men. It’s the last one counted.”
“And this one — loros? — that’s the naughty one you said you liked?”
“Yes, but — ” A flash of pleasure shot through him as her fingers brushed gently over the flap of his loros and he groaned involuntarily. Great Maker, she was so vulgar…and it felt so good! The tir’ai’su emerged immediately, responding to the raw deliciousness of her caress.
“What happens when you orgasm?” She glanced up at him mischievously. “Or do you do that?”
“Ah…mmmm…of course we do,” he said defensively. “In very much the same way as humans, except it, uh, comes out of all six. And uh, not necessarily all at once. We can have orgasms with one, or two or any combination. Not in equal amounts, of course. The first two don’t, uh, expend, as much as the last two…ohhh…rrrrrr…”
“You sound just like my cat Zeffed,” she teased. “Hmmm, multiple orgasms. God, I would’ve killed for a human man that could do that.” Vir’s loros tir’ai’su was much longer now, sliding gracefully from its sheath in his belly until it was half-wound around her arm. “Am I tormenting you, dear boy?” she chuckled. The tentacle, exploring aimlessly, brushed over one of her nipples and she gasped.
“Oh!” Vir exclaimed. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Musante panted lightly, recovering from her surprise.
“No,” she breathed. “No…um…that was…would you do that again?” The tentacle returned carefully. It was indeed very prehensile, and wrapped its tip around her hardened nipple delicately, rubbing. It sent electricity straight to her groin, and she shuddered, gulping. “Oh my God, oh…”
Vir couldn’t believe he was using his loros to stroke a woman’s breast. Why, it would make half the aristocrats on Centauri Prime faint dead away with shock. But she certainly seemed to like it, and so did he, for that matter. He would never have thought to do it. It was just too obscene. Finally, he let his k’san and viran come out to take over with her breasts, stroking lightly. He didn’t blush quite so hard at that; it was more proper. Maybe he could…hmmm…he did know something about human anatomy. Perhaps…
He let his loros trail lightly down her flat, well-toned belly (wow, she was beautiful) until it reached the soft bit of hair between her legs. Her mons veneris, he remembered, proud of himself for remembering the term so easily. She flinched, gasping, but didn’t pull away, her eyes closed in bliss. He explored gently through the outer lips of her sex — labia majora — and recoiled when she choked on a cry. He had touched a tiny button. Oh yes! Her clitoris! He had definitely paid attention to that part of his studies. Human women loved having that stimulated, very very gently, and he began to tickle it softly with his loros.
“Oh my God,” Musante groaned, astonished at how much she wanted him, how good it felt to be teased and tickled and played with. Most men she was with never took the time. Admittedly she had been using most of them, manipulating them for something else she wanted, but she still had needs. She wanted to be teased, loved it, and Vir was doing a spectacular job. Two of his tir’ai’su were on her breasts, and now one between her thighs on her button. It was pure ecstasy, hot and urgent, the flickering touch on her clitoris maddening her. She wanted…she needed… “Inside,” she groaned. “Please, put it inside me.” For once she wasn’t faking the desire. Fortunately she didn’t have to explain more than that, since Vir understood what she was asking for, and he slipped the loros farther back into the wetness of her sex, probing for the opening he knew had to be there — her vagina. Boy, if he only had a memory like that when Londo was asking him something…
Musante shuddered and groaned and he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. He was about to ask her when he found the opening, wet and warm, and he carefully pushed his tir’ai’su inside. They both let out a long groan, Musante’s legs giving out under her. He caught her reflexively in his arms, his hands on her buttocks because it was the most obvious place to grab and support her. “Oooohhhhh, yeessssss,” she hissed, her hands digging into his shoulders, eyes shut tight. He was strong and held her weight easily, his tir’ai’su pushing deeper. It was stopped suddenly by an obstacle, and he frowned slightly until he remembered — human woman didn’t have openings as deep as Centauri women. He had reached her, oh now what was it? Her cervix. Yes. He didn’t try to push farther, instead withdrawing a little to thrust in and out. That, at least, was a familiar act.
She had said three openings were suitable. Let’s see. Vagina…mouth must be another one (Centauri did that too, but only in porno vids as far as he could tell; no one ever admitted that they did it). What was left? Nose? No. Too small. Ears? Still too small. Navel? No, that wasn’t really an opening…
She couldn’t mean her…she couldn’t possibly think…
But it was the only other hole he could think of that humans had. Oh, that was really naughty! Oh my!
“More,” she gasped, drawing her hands down his chest, over his vali and dem. He groaned, shocked, but her teasing fingers drew them out eagerly, winding around her hand and fingers. She guided one down and the other followed instinctively, down to her sex. She was grasping him tightly but it didn’t hurt; the tir’ai’su were very strong and limber. She put one together with the loros, and he gasped when he realized what she wanted him to do. Two in the same hole?! OH MY! That was really perverted! But…but… She coaxed him inside and he gave a yelp of delight. Oh, this was GOOD!
He grunted breathlessly, pushing his loros and dem into her. He remembered her clitoris and wondered if she would like having that touched at the same time as the tir’ai’su inside her. He probed gently with his vali; it felt a little different down there now, much warmer and wetter and swollen. She gave a yell, startling him, and writhed against him like a Purasian serpent, her sex tightening around his two tir’ai’su sharply, firmly, and he felt his dem shiver and gush a little bit of silvery semen in pure, delicious instinct.
“Do you…do you want me to do something with the last one?” he asked eagerly. There were two holes left. Which one did she want him to use?? Oh Great Maker! She gave a yowling, hungry purr.
“The naughtiest one, mmmm?” she growled, sending a ripple of excitement up his back. “Oh, I’ve got just the place for it…hrrrmmmmm.” She tickled it out of him, shuddering and quivering. It was a little longer than the others, its blunt, tapered head oddly sinister. “Got to get it wet first,” she said, grabbing it in her hand and lowering her mouth around it.
“Oooooohhhhohohohohohoh,” Vir whimpered. The tip of her tongue found the slit in it where his semen would shoot out, stroking lightly, exquisitely. She let go when it was nice and wet, making him moan sadly in empty longing. “Are you really going to…oohhhh, Julieeeeee..!” She really was! She guided his thren around one buttock.
“In there, my lovely,” she breathed. “Go on. Just push. It’s all right.” His thren seemed to know what was going on better than he did — immediately the blunt head struggled free of her fingers and pushed blindly into her ass, wriggling and nudging.
“Oh yes!” he cried. “Oh, so tight! Aaahhhh…”
“Oh my God, yes,” Musante yelled. “God yes God yes! Rrrrrrraaahhhahahahahaha!”
“Oh, I don’t think I can — oh, Great Maker, ooooohhhh!”
“God, fuck me, Vir!”
“Ju — Julieeee…”
“God dammit! Nobody ever did it this good! OH YES!”
“Julie, my thren, I’m going to…to spend, oh please, I want to!”
“Yes, Vir, do it! Do it!” His viran and k’san were still on her breasts, nipping them now with surprising strength, sending flicks of fire to her groin. Vir trembled and his voice rose in a howling tenor and she felt the thren in her ass explode in wet heat. The orgasm only seemed to make him wilder, his loros and dem pushing in an off-rhythm, against the inside of her sex and against each other (oh, that was lewd!), the vali on her clitoris tickling fiercely. “Come on, let me feel them all!” she cried, bucking against his body, rubbing herself on his muscular tir’ai’su.
Their voices rose in the metal silence of the War Room, shouting, screaming pleasure in point-counterpoint delight and desperation. Musante had never wanted anything so badly in her life. She had never been this wild with a man, never let go like this, not even when she was horny. And Vir was so sweet; he kept asking her if she wanted him to do something, was so careful and kind and earnest. And when he was turned on he was a beast. Oh, no human man had ever been like this…
“Yeah, Vir!” she yelled hoarsely. “Oh, I’m going to! God dammit! I’m gonna, oh yes! Ahahahhhrrrrr..!”
At the same time that her orgasm started, filling her with a raging flood of fire and ecstasy, she heard him wail, and felt two tir’ai’su inside her quivering and pulsing. The vali on her clitoris burst forth in pearly froth against her sex, and her breasts were lightly dampened with a gentle squirt from his k’san and viran.
Their voices went silent for a moment in a groan, then panting and gulping filled the room. And when she looked up into his face, she saw his eagerness again. He had obviously enjoyed himself, but he was also concerned about whether he had pleased her. She had never seen that in a lover’s face before. Not even in the faces of the men whom she believed had actually loved her and not just said they did.
“Was that…” He swallowed, anxious. “Did I…was that all right?”
She grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him.
“Senator Beardwood, by the time this message reaches you I will have requested political asylum on Babylon 5. I am officially tendering my resignation from the Ministry of Peace, and declaring myself an expatriate, effective retroactively ten days. Don’t try to reel me back in, Keith. You’ve got a Nightwatch turncoat on your hands and you know how good I am at what I do.”
Musante choked back a yell and sat bolt upright in bed. She looked wildly around the room. It was familiar…everything in order, everything in place. Her bedroom. She sighed and leaned her head back. God damn it…that dream again. That violent, intense, agitating dream… She closed her eyes again, taking deep breaths against the ferocious arousal that flamed in her.”Urrrmmm?”She looked down at the man in bed with her, who had awakened, disturbed by her fierce dreams. She leaned down to kiss his cheek over his shoulder.
“Nothing. Just dreams again.” She slipped her hand around his chest to tickle him lightly, teasing. “Can we…one more time?”
“Oh, jeez, not again, Julie. I’m still tired from last week.”
“Please? Rrrowwwrr?” She nuzzled his hair. He finally rolled over, smiling at her.
“Oh, I suppose I can manage something. I’ve got six after all.”
“I love you, Vir,” she purred.
“I do not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.”
As You Like It, IV,iii,36, William ShakespeareThe EndASSIGNMENT: Vir and Musante have a romantic interlude in the War Room.
"Out of the Way"
Part 1/1
Story V in the "Way" Series
Copyright (C) 1996 by A. Manley Huff
<ahaight@earthlink.net>This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J.
Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or Time Warner
Productions. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of
the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page
without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed
for the individual personal entertainment of persons over 21, and is not
subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Garibaldi woke up because he realized he couldn't move his legs.
Then he realized that Susan was wrapped around them, sound asleep.
He grinned up at the ceiling in the darkness of his bedroom. John
was close to him, curled on his side, snoring gently. The impression of a
panther from the night before was still strong, and even as Garibaldi
reached out to rub his back, Sheridan shifted slightly and rumbled in a
remarkably pantherous way.
Really wanting to stretch his legs out, he gently moved them,
extricating them one at a time. Susan stirred and complained in a soft,
unconscious moan, holding him tighter for a moment.
"Hey," he murmured. "Gimme my legs back. They're cramping."
Susan growled in some semblance of comprehension and allowed him to
stretch out on the bed. "Ahhh, that's a lot better," he sighed.
"Can't help it," Susan mumbled from under the covers. "They're
comfortable."
"Sorry I woke you up," Garibaldi replied quietly. "But I hadda
stretch." Susan shifted, a shrug, and rolled over. He wished he could
see her; she was naked, as they all were, and his memories of her nudity
made him feel very warm inside.
"S'okay," she sighed. She hummed, amused. "Hope you liked last
night."
"Like?" he said. "Why is it that we can't come up with words good
enough for things?" He sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was
gentle. "My God, Susan. I didn't know I could feel like that. I didn't
know I could feel like I do now."
"How do you feel now?" she wondered quietly. There was a soft
pause in the darkness.
"Safe," he said. She heard him laugh. "Isn't that something? I feel
safe. And wanted. Loved. I'm not used to feeling like that."
"I'm glad you feel that way," she said. "It means John and I got our
message across."
He was going to ask her what she meant by that, but was
interrupted by Sheridan rolling over and rumbling deep in his chest. His
question faded into the back of his mind as another, somewhat more
immediate, curiosity took hold of him.
"You think he would mind if we woke him up?" Garibaldi asked.
Ivanova chuckled.
"Depends how you plan on waking him up," she said.
"Oh, I was definitely thinking of something very naughty," he
murmured. He reached out under the covers, searching for Sheridan's
body. He found it, closing his hand around an unexpectedly stiff, warm
erection. Sheridan rumbled again, his hips thrusting gently, reflexively.
"Whoa," he said.
"What?" Susan wondered.
"Middle of the night boner," Garibaldi said, sounding extremely
pleased. "We should take advantage of this, you know."
"Well," Susan said, "he did tell me once he liked being treated like
a sex object."
"Yeah? Well, let's go for it."
"What did you have in mind?" she asked.
"I was thinking the classic double mouth attack," he said. "I'll go
for his cock and you can have the rest." She laughed.
"Deal."
"Oh yeah," she heard him mutter and they switched places in the
bed, Garibaldi moving down to spread Sheridan's legs and Ivanova
putting herself up by Sheridan's chest. Garibaldi hummed pleasurably
and she heard a wet sound that she knew very well. Sheridan's hips
pushed up, a low growl coming out of his throat.
"Don't be gentle, Michael," she said as she leaned down to lick at
Sheridan's nipples. "He likes it rough and intense. Suck for all you're
worth." He laughed, his mouth full, and suddenly Sheridan convulsed,
his voice breaking into the room sharply. It startled her even as she felt
adrenaline flame out from her middle.
Everything came undone when she bit down on his nipple. A
sound like nothing she'd ever known came roaring out of John's throat,
his hand raising up to claw across Susan's back, nails digging deep. She
grunted, surprised by the pain and the suddenness of it, but didn't
relent. She knew she didn't dare stop, and hoped Michael had the sense
to keep going, too.
What she didn't know was that Michael had made his teeth felt at
almost the same instant she did, nipping sharply at the tender skin
under the head of Sheridan's cock and drawing his teeth back down the
shaft. He took Susan at her word that Sheridan liked it rough. Neither
of them -- possibly not John himself, either -- really understood how true
that was.
Sheridan's voice was clear and hard, like polished steel in the air,
as he yelled and swore, writhing on the bed. They had to hold him down
to keep him still enough, and he still fucked Michael's mouth with a
savage relish. He made enough noise to wake the dead, all in that
bright, shining voice that spoke of unbearable fire, a sexual fury that
went beyond his body and would remain unsatisfied even once this was
done. He did not speak their names, did not say anything intelligible
beyond the most rudimentary exclamations of affirmation and desire, but
his voice alone made their guts wrench, made their hearts tremble and
their groins flame. A man who would never get enough -- of this, or
anything.
Susan discovered, purely by obeying an impulse that she usually
suppressed, that he loved to be bitten. Hard. She left deep marks on his
ribs and belly, bruises that would show darkly later. He howled with
each one, laughing, swearing, begging for her to do it again. She bit his
throat and he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her mouth to his brutally.
She tasted blood, not sure whose it was and not caring.
Michael was not even sucking on him when he finally started to
writhe the way he did when his orgasm was approaching. Michael had
the head of John's cock in his mouth and was applying gentle pressure
with his teeth on the flesh, alternating with quick strokes of his tongue
around the crown and into the hole. Obviously it was bliss, and he kept
it up at a steady, uneven pace as John began to howl.
"Oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah _oh yeah_ _oh yeah_ _yeah_ _yeah_
_yeah_ _yeah_ YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAHHHHHH AAAAAAAHHHHHH!" He
arched his back, drawn taut as a steel cable, Susan's mouth sucking
hard on one nipple and Michael taking his come eagerly. When the peak
of it let go suddenly, he swore violently again. "FUCK, _oh_ dammit..." A
growl left him, low and shuddering. "Ah, shit, that hurt." He started to
laugh, full-throated and exalted.
Then there was a violent rustle in the bedcovers as Sheridan tore
through the bed toward Garibaldi. Strong hands closed on Garibaldi's
shoulders and he was pushed down on his back. He could sense
Sheridan looming over him in the darkness, pausing for a considering
instant, breath ragged. Then a hot mouth on his, tasting him, tasting
what he had taken out of John's cock. Sheridan growled at him, the kiss
almost cruel. Garibaldi knew the truth, though -- blind hunger, a
simple, oppressive need to devour. He rubbed his hands up Sheridan's
back, welcoming it even though it was painful. Sheridan seemed to get
his fill, and broke the kiss with a groan. "Oh God yes," Sheridan moaned
breathlessly. "God, you two are so fucking amazing." He sat up,
reaching for Susan. He found her shoulder, moved closer to her as she
turned to face him. He put his palm on her back, searching for the deep
scoring he had given her. "I think you're bleeding," he murmured,
drawing away wet fingertips.
"I'll live," she said, sounding distinctly amused.
"Christ, John," Garibaldi said from his pose on his back. "Did you
grow fangs and horns when I wasn't looking?" Sheridan laughed roughly
in the dark.
"I guess I was a lot less inhibited...sleeping like that and then
having you wake me up. Oh, I love it, damn..."
"You like waking up like that?" Susan asked.
"Ooh, yeah," Sheridan purred. He laughed again, sounding briefly
shy. "Urm...what time is it?"
"A little after four hundred," Garibaldi said, and Sheridan groaned
tiredly.
"No wonder I'm exhausted." There was the sound of him flopping
back down onto the bed. He heard Ivanova chuckle.
***
The next morning, Sheridan spent an unusually long time in his
office taking an interstellar communication. When he came out, he
looked much more upbeat than when he had gone it. She watched him
come around the upper deck in C&C, privately appreciating his
muscular, easy gait.
"Good news," he muttered to her. "The Lumati want another
meeting. The Ambassador said it was to 'finalize our relationship'. From
talking with him it looks like they want to deepen our alliance, maybe
provide us with a lot more firepower and resources than we're currently
getting. He wants me to come to their flagship for negotiations."
"That _is_ good news," she said. "Uh...do I have to go?" He
grinned.
"No," Sheridan said, and she heaved a sigh. "They said they only
required me. It's traditional, apparently."
"Thank God," she said. "I don't think I could...do _that_ again."
Sheridan stifled a laugh.
"You looked pretty good from where _I_ was watching," he
murmured for her ears only.
"So when do you go?" she asked.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I'll take a Starfury out. Their flagship's in
Ganges sector -- close enough that I'm not worried. I'll probably be gone
about four days." Ivanova nodded, then she looked apprehensive.
"You know, the Lumati's method for sealing deals is pretty well
established. Do you think they're going to make you..."
"I don't know," Sheridan shrugged. He looked a little apprehensive
in the depths of his blue eyes. "Guess I'll find out, won't I? It can't be
much worse than what we've already done, and that wasn't so bad."
"I guess not."
***
"This sucks."
Ivanova sighed as she sat down in front of Garibaldi. It had been
he who had spoken, and she nodded, drumming her fingers on the table.
They were in Earhart's, the high babble and warm laughter of good
morale keeping the place hopping.
"I miss him, too," she said, downing a swallow of her drink.
"Thought I was gonna go crazy this morning when I woke up wishing I
could fuck him and he wasn't there. It's frustrating."
"I hadn't realized how much a part of my sexual habits you two
have become," Garibaldi said in a low voice. "I can still jerk off but it
isn't as much fun as when you guys watch. So, I don't even bother.
Jeez, I haven't come since he left two days ago."
"That's bad for you," Ivanova teased him. "Tell you what, I'll take
you to dinner. Gotta do something to stop from going nuts, right?" He
grinned.
"Sounds good. How's nineteen hundred sound?"
"Perfect."
***
He had a sexy walk, a casual swagger that transferred to her body
softly as they went deeper into the maze. She had one arm around his
lower back, able to feel his muscles shift as he moved, definition sharp
beneath his silk shirt. His hand shifted a little where he had an arm
across her shoulders, holding her close against his body as his thumb
rubbed her trapezius restlessly, slowly. They had been walking like that
since they left the restaurant, each of them comfortable with the
closeness, needing the sensuality of it but hesitant to take another step
that would bring them to the level of intimacy they always knew in
John's presence.
The oddness of that struck Ivanova suddenly. Sheridan was the
exhibitionist, Garibaldi the voyeur, and _she_ felt inhibited when John
_wasn't_ around? Oh, that was one for the books, all right.
//What happened to the brass nerve, Susan?// she asked herself
wryly. //Can't go for Garibaldi's ass when Sheridan's not looking? Oh,
that's sad woman. Very sad. And his ass is so cute...// It was the soft
scent of his cologne again, flooding her groin with warmth, that finally
got her nerve back. She moved her hand down over his belt, down to rub
her palm over one of his buttocks firmly. She felt his hand tighten on
her shoulder but he said nothing.
"What's the matter, Chief?" she teased in a low voice. "Don't you
like being fondled by a superior officer?"
"Oh, I like it a lot," he sighed ruefully, glancing at her. She saw the
heat in his eyes. "Just...nervous, I guess." And he did shiver suddenly.
"Of me, or where we are?" she wondered. He swallowed.
"Both," he said. She stopped him and they paused on the path.
"I'm the one who's supposed to be a prude about this, remember?"
she said, rubbing her hands up his chest. She found his nipples
through his shirt and he gave a sharp sigh, his eyes closing briefly.
"Dammit," he whispered, "no fair taking shortcuts." And he bent
his head to meet her as she reached for his mouth with her own.
"Mmmm...uuurrrryeah," he sighed, putting his arms around her tightly.
"You are so fucking sexy." She chuckled as he kissed his way down her
neck to the collar of her white shirt, nuzzling the hollow of her throat.
She was surprised when he pulled away, still swallowing hard.
"What is it, Michael?" she said. He shook himself a little, taking
his hands off of her hips.
"We shouldn't be doing this," he murmured, looking away uneasily.
"What the hell are you talking about?" she said, keeping her voice
down but very confused. "If you're nervous about being out here we can
sure as hell go somewhere else."
"It's not that," he said. "Well, not entirely." He rubbed at his face,
still not meeting her eyes.
"Look at me for Chrissakes," she hissed and he obeyed reluctantly.
"Is it something I did? God, Michael, at least tell me." Michael put his
hands in his pockets and shrugged frustratedly. He couldn't think of
any way to explain so he just said it as basically as he could.
"You're John's," he muttered.
"I'm _what_?" she said. "Are you out of your mind? John doesn't
_own_ me like some kind of...of _cat_." Garibaldi's mouth twitched -- a
leopard was exactly what she looked like that moment. A sleek, sexy...
"Susan, moving in on you while John's not around is the worst
thing a man can do to his friend," Michael sighed.
"Don't look now," Susan growled, "but you and John did it without
telling _me_." Michael looked shocked for a moment.
"But...he said you wouldn't mind..." Oh, that sounded good. "That
you'd talked about it before and you _wanted_ him to if he wanted it."
"That's right," Susan said quietly. "And we had the same
conversation about you and me. Jesus Murphy, Michael, how thick is
your skull anyway? John's not the voyeur. Do you think he would have
let you and me do what we've already done if he were jealous? If he
comes back from this diplomatic mission and finds out we _haven't_
done anything while he was gone, he'll think there's something wrong
with us. He's been worried from the beginning that you and I won't ever
warm up to each other, and...and I for one am glad we did." She realized
her throat was trying to close up. "Michael, didn't you hear me the other
night?" She took his face in her hands. "Ya lublu tyebya." She
whispered it for him, softly exotic. "Ya lublu tyebya. I love you.
Dammit."
He kissed her again, filled with heat from her closeness, comforted
by her words -- given the permission that some part of him needed. He
wasn't betraying John by doing this...wasn't trying to take something
that Susan didn't already want to give him. Sweet, ferocious
lust...Garibaldi hummed low in his throat. He wanted her bad, wanted
to hold and kiss her and pleasure her. She responded so deliciously to
him, writhing in his arms now as he kissed her throat, nuzzling hard into
her neck and collarbone.
She pulled at him, dragging him by his tunic down a side path in
the maze to a low stone bench. She needed to feel him, to press close.
She made him sit down and she climbed into his lap to straddle him.
His surprise was obvious in his face but he didn't resist, and she pushed
her sex against his cock through their clothes. He was rock hard
beneath her. She held his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks sensually.
"Jesus, Michael, you've got such a big cock," she whispered. "I
want it, you know. I love big cocks." He felt a surge of primal pride and
shifted slightly to let her feel more of it, spreading his knees a little more
and pushing it between her legs.
"That sounds really good from my perspective," Garibaldi
murmured, his arms around her waist. She moved again, grinding her
pelvis into his, trying to ease the throbbing ache in her sex. He shoved
gently and her breath caught. He grinned. "Found something, huh?" he
asked. "Like that?" She took his lower lip between her teeth and nipped
him, making him grunt.
"Hell, Michael," she groaned. "I love that. I love you, I love your big
cock, I love your hands around me. One of these days I was gonna just
fuck you in front of John, see what he thought of it. He'd love to watch,
I'm sure. But he's not here and I'll just have to take my ease without
him, won't I?" She grinned at him and was rewarded by a look of utter
desire and naked wanting on his face. He moved again, the hard ridge of
his cock pressing against her clitoris through layers of their trousers and
underwear. She gasped a curse and Michael licked his lips.
"Thought so," he murmured. "Let's see if we can't do something
about _that_, hm?" His hand was on her belt buckle, pulling it loose. He
unfastened her trousers as she watched, silent, breathless, unzipping
them down to the seam quietly. He pulled the tails of her blouse out and
put his hand up under it to lie flat on her lower abdomen. She exhaled
shakily, resisting the urge to move, to get his hand closer to her sex.
But he had that in mind already, his thumb exploring down under
the edge of her underwear, pushing through soft, curly hair. The outer
lips of her sex were swollen and warm, and when he probed gently his
thumb was covered in wetness. He grinned up at her as she gasped.
"Michael," she whispered, amazed, hungry. "Oh yeah. Yeah, do
it."
"Hell, you're ready, aren't you?" he growled. "Susan, oh man, it
makes me crazy to feel you wet like this for me. You want me to touch
you? Huh?" His thumbpad touched her clitoris firmly and she choked
on a groan, holding his eyes in desperate thirst, not daring to move from
his lap, not daring to do anything but beg him with her eyes and her
voice.
"Yeah, Michael, come on," she hissed. His hand was hidden under
the trailing edge of her blouse, buried in her trousers, his thumb
stroking wetly back and forth between the lips of her sex, stroking her
clitoris lightly. She shuddered with every sliding touch, her entire body
quivering. Her hands were gripped into his shoulders tightly and his
cock flared in his pants. "Yeah Michael," she whispered brokenly as
electric flame rushed up her back from her groin. "Yeah Michael."
He licked his mouth, watching her, feeling her with one arm
around her back and the other bent to pleasure her. Her weight on his
lap shifted when she twitched. He could feel her shivering, saw the raw
sensation in her gray eyes, the sheer intensity of her desire. He pushed
his thumb back farther to her vaginal opening, which was also hot and
pulsing. He flicked his thumbtip into it and she gave a strangled gasp.
He repeated it swiftly, rapid flickering strokes in and out of the sensitive
flesh. She shuddered violently, whimpering, beyond speech to express
her appreciation.
"That makes you want my cock, huh?" Garibaldi whispered
fiercely, their mouths close. "Want something bigger than my thumb?"
He dragged his thumbtip back across her clitoris, pausing to tickle it.
Her hands clenched into his arms viciously, her eyes finally closing for a
few panting breaths.
"I thought," she gasped softly, "thought you didn't like doing things
like this in public." Garibaldi smiled wickedly.
"This path's a dead end," he said, "and my back's to the open end.
Who can tell, huh? Unless you start yelling." He chuckled as she swore
at him. He was rubbing her clitoris now, a steady, urgent pleasuring
meant to drive her over the edge with a scream. He wondered if he would
have to kiss her to keep her quiet, but she was holding her screams
down to quiet groans -- just barely. "Yeah, there you go, Susan," she
whispered. "Am I gonna make you come? I've been wanting to, you
know. Do it just for me." He stroked through her wetness again, making
her snarl, then returned to rubbing her clitoris in a sharp, even rhythm.
"Dammit, Michael, you're gonna make me..."
"Come on, Susan, do it for me -- "
"Can't hold it, oh Jesus -- "
"Gonna come, huh, Susan? You want my cock in there? God,
you're so hot -- "
"Yeah, I want you, Michael, oh I'm coming -- "
"Let go, come on -- "
"Yeah, I'm gonna -- "
"That's it -- "
"Oh, Christ -- "
"There you go," Michael crooned, "yeah there it is, Susan." She
was grunting, whimpering, eyes shut tight and writhing against him.
"Mmm, yeah. God, I want to fuck you." Her sex was throbbing hard,
wetness flooding his thumb and part of his palm. "Do it for me, yeah,
Jesus it looks so good." She gulped hard, trying to stifle her moans. His
thumb slowed carefully when she flinched, sensitive in the hot wake of a
fiery orgasm.
"You wanna fuck me, Michael?" she gasped, holding his face to
force him to look at her. He was flushed, trembling with arousal. "Let's
do it then. Come on; we'll go back to my quarters. Right now. While
you're still hot for it. Dammit I still want your cock."
"Oh yeah, God," Michael groaned. She climbed off of his lap,
hastily stuffing her blouse into her trousers and zipping them back.
Garibaldi got to his feet eagerly, shifting his cock in his pants. It would
show while they went through the corridors back to her quarters, but
there wasn't much he could do about it but bluff his way. //At least I'm
big,// he thought. //Maybe that'll keep their mouths shut.//
"Come on," Susan muttered, pulling him with her out of the
labyrinth.
He grabbed her as soon as they got inside the front room of her
quarters, not even waiting for the door to shut. She was on him just as
quickly, pressing her mouth to his passionately, licking and tasting him.
She unbuttoned his shirt swiftly, getting her hands inside.
"You want my cock, huh?" he murmured between kisses. His own
hands were working on her belt and trousers, pulling her shirttails out.
Her hands were everywhere; on his nipples, stroking down his chest,
sliding into his pants. When had those gotten unzipped?
"Yes," was all she said, too breathless to come up with anything
more profound or witty than that. "Now. Please, Michael." Her trousers
and underwear were around her knees, one of his hands between her
legs.
"Jesus," he murmured. She was _really_ ready, wet and warm
under his fingers. He teased her softly and she groaned, almost a sound
of pain. She kicked the trousers off irritably, absently, pushing
Garibaldi's boxers down to bare that big cock that haunted her dreams.
"Come on," she muttered, drawing him back toward the wall.
"Please, Michael." As she turned around he understood what she
wanted, and she put both hands on the bulkhead as he took her hips
firmly. He shifted carefully, pushing the white shirttails from her
buttocks and taking the excuse to caress her, getting his cock between
her thighs. He felt a drop of warm wetness land on the tip right before
he pushed it against the lips of her sex. So wet -- Christ, he thought it
almost throbbed around the tip of his cock. "Michaelllll," she groaned.
Even as she begged him with his own name, he pushed, sinking
deep into her with a sigh of such relief, oh, it was so good...
"Oooooohhhhh yeeaaahhhh," Michael purred as her sex clenched
around him like a vise. She was so tight and hot; he laughed softly,
amazed, delighted.
"Do it," Susan hissed. "God..." He withdrew slowly, as Susan drew
her breath in through clenched teeth. When he rammed back into her
suddenly, she cried out, her fingers going stiff on the wall like talons.
Not in the mood for teasing games, Michael immediately started
thrusting, a steady, urgent fucking that drove Susan wild. She clawed at
the wall, groaning loudly. "Oh yeah, you're so fucking big, oh my God,
Michael..." He held her hips tightly, ramming into her hungrily, letting
himself groan and purr and laugh. She pounded the wall hard with her
fist, once, and swore viciously, pushing back against him. She couldn't
get enough of him, couldn't have enough of that delicious cock, his
hands strong on her hips. "Can't take you all the way like this," she
moaned suddenly. "Gotta move."
Michael slowed his thrusting for a few moments. Her legs
quivered; he could feel the trembling in her flanks under his hands.
"Aw, do I hafta pull out?" he teased in a whisper. She growled at
him and he withdrew. He shoved his pants and boxers the rest of the
way off, kicking them away along with his shoes. "I got an idea, though,"
he said, pulling her away from the wall, getting her close to him to hold
and kiss her as he moved her back across the room.
"Mmm?" she moaned, lost in his mouth. His hands were undoing
her shirt buttons to bare her breasts and belly. Damn, she was
gorgeous. She gasped when he picked her up and sat her down on the
table. "I don't think the table's sturdy enough for this..." she managed as
Michael bent over her.
"Guess we'll find out, won't we?" he said wickedly and pushed her
down on her back with a hard thump. In the next instant he had both of
her legs in his hands and was shoving his cock into her. It went in -- all
the way in -- and Susan let out a roar of surprise and relish. Her hands
gripped the table's edge, holding on for leverage and also out of sheer
violence.
"Ha! Gotcha all the way now, don't I?" Michael snarled, bucking
hard to take her breath away. She just laughed wildly as the table jolted
with each thrust, lifting partway off the floor. There was the hard, wet
sound of his hips slamming against hers, the thudding bounce of the
table, and both of them yelling and grunting noisily.
They gradually pushed the table across the floor until it hit the
wall, and Michael found himself with exquisite leverage, pounding into
Susan with a spontaneous, fiery abandon the likes of which he hadn't
known in any kind of recent memory. He knew it was going to be over
soon, and when Susan started showing signs of reaching a breaking
point, he slowed, leaning down. "Suzotchka," he murmured, "let's move
this to the bed, huh? You'll be more comfortable." She groaned pitifully.
"Oh, God, Michael, I'm so close," she moaned. Michael got his
hands around her waist, pulling her up off the table. She put her hands
around his neck, legs around him, and he picked her up.
"Come on," he crooned. Standing up, he held her tightly, hands
gripped around her sweat-slicked buttocks. He was still ensheathed in
her, deep enough that he could feel her sex throbbing dully. It was
difficult to hold the position, and he walked carefully into the bedroom.
Susan, her arms around his neck, murmured something in Russian, and
then whispered to him.
"Oh, Michael," she purred. "God, I'm so close. You're so big,
damn, I think I could almost come just like this." He said nothing, just
lowered her down onto the bed, and she reached back to brace herself as
he came down on top of her. "Hard and fast, Michael, hard and fast,"
she hissed. He obeyed immediately, starting to buck savagely and able
to see in her eyes the orgasm that threatened her. "Oh yeah, Michael, oh
yeah, come on...God you're gonna make me come, gonna make me -- "
She broke off and yelled in Russian, bright and clear like glass, arching
back and clutching at his shoulders.
His own climax wasn't far behind, and when Susan regained some
coherency, she saw it in his tension, his hard fucking, the quivering
groans that escaped him.
"Gonna do it," he groaned hoarsely, "yeah, coming,
aaaaahhhHHH!" It flooded over him in a rush of heat and piercing
pleasure, surging out of his cock deliciously. He was surprised by her
voice in the midst of it.
"Pull out, Michael," she breathed. "Let me watch you come." He
withdrew his cock, sitting back even as the orgasm peaked and he
groaned softly. She loved seeing it, his big cock spilling its heat on her,
splashing over her thighs and her sex. He was holding himself gently,
fingers and thumb delicately stroking key sensitive spots on the shaft
and crown. He leaned his head back and he moaned quietly, clearly
finding a more ethereal pleasure in it than in the fucking, and wetness
dripped over his knuckles.
He finally went dry, still trembling gently, his back arched in
sensuous pleasure. He looked down at her from up on his knees, then
reached up, back behind his head to stretch, flexing biceps luxuriously
and purring.
"Now _that_," he said, "was a good, old-fashioned _screw_." Susan
chuckled, writhing sensually on the bed on her back.
"Well I feel most thoroughly screwed," she agreed. Michael shook
himself out with a satisfied sigh.
"Ohhhh, man," he breathed. "That was _good_. I haven't had a
fuck like that in...well, shit, ever, I think." He laughed, and so did she.
Michael carefully unbent his legs from under him and lay down on the
bed. "Ahhhhhh. Much better. I think a lot of my muscles are gonna
hurt tomorrow."
"I always kind of liked that part," she murmured, amused. "Like
my body reminding me of what I did." He hummed contentedly, and she
grinned. "You want to stay here tonight? You can, you know."
"Rrrrrrmmmm," he said, sprawling out on the bed. "Thanks. I
don't know if I could face the rest of the station right now after running
through the halls with a raging boner in my trousers." She giggled.
***
He had just gotten out of the shower the next morning when she
barged into the lavatory.
"Jeez, you're forward," he grumbled teasingly as he toweled off.
She was naked, deliciously, achingly naked. He felt warmth pool in his
groin and when she took the towel away from him mischievously, he was
laid bare, his cock rising between his legs in slow, pulsing steps.
Something devious flickered in her eyes and she wrapped her hand
around his erection.
"Come here," Susan murmured wickedly. "I want to teach you
something." Garibaldi followed interestedly as she led him back to the
bed by his cock.
"Yeah?" he said. "What?"
"Kneel down on the bed," she said, gesturing in front of her as she
climbed into the middle of the covers. "You ever tease yourself by
bringing yourself right to the edge and then backing off, to see how long
you can keep yourself close but not actually coming?" Garibaldi shot her
a hooded, thoughtful look as he climbed onto the bed. Then he smiled
curiously, like a man with a secret.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm pretty good at it, if that's what you're getting
at. Why, you going to go for another record?" She laughed and moved
close to him, touching his thighs to rub them sensuously.
"No," she said. "Not exactly." She got her own thighs around his,
almost sitting astride him. "I want you to touch yourself, play with
yourself, but don't come. I'll do the same. We keep doing it until we
can't stand it anymore, and then I take your cock inside me. The idea is
for the penetration to be the trigger that sets us off, without any
thrusting."
"You mean we get so crazy that just my cock going in makes us
come?" he said, licking his lips. She was _very_ close, and he was
already responding, his cock starting to twitch. She noticed it and
grinned.
"Yep," she said, sliding her hand down between her legs. "You're a
voyeur," she mused. "You get off from watching me play with myself,
don't you?" Michael swallowed hard.
"Oh yeah," he murmured. "Like you wouldn't believe."
"So go on," she urged. "Do yourself too. But don't come. Not until
we're both crazy for it." He put his hand around his own cock, just
holding tight for a moment, watching her as she put two fingers down
into the soft hair of her sex and started to move her hand slowly. He saw
the instant of delight on her face, sweet and hungry. His cock hardened
the rest of the way and he stroked gently with two fingers of his own on
the underside of the shaft, applying pressure.
"Damn, it sounds like fun if we can do it right," he sighed, loving
her passionate gray eyes. "Jesus, you make me hard just looking at me."
She chuckled.
"Good," she whispered. It sounded a little strained. "So do you.
The eagerness on your face, so raw..." She started to groan softly,
holding his eyes, her hand moving between her legs. He ached to help,
to touch her, his cock throbbing with the thought, but he knew that self-
discipline was crucial to this. Keeping his hand on himself, watching
her, waiting for the right moment...
"You tried this with John yet?" he wondered. Susan grinned at
him. It was savage.
"He can't do it," she said in a gasp. "He doesn't have the self-
control. But I think you do. Don't prove me wrong."
"I can do it," Michael growled, grinning to match hers. Her thighs
were tight around his, her body writhing gently, so close her caressing
hand almost touched his where he stroked his cock. "Hell if I can't.
Fuck, you make me horny, Susan. The way you look at me, at my cock.
How bad you want it. God, when I had you on the table last night you
were begging for it, yelling for it you wanted it so bad. I never had
anybody that hot for me. Oh, man..."
"It isn't just your cock," she said, deliciously inflamed by his
words, by the determination with which he returned her heated stare.
"It's what you can do with it. Any man can have a big cock. I've been
with men before who were big like you. But you really know how to use
it right. Like you said, a good old-fashioned screw. Damn, Michael, I'll
yell for it every time if you keep fucking me like that."
Michael licked his mouth again. His cock was so hard it almost
hurt, his hand on it the perfect stimulation he had taught himself over
his lifetime.
"Ahhhrrrr," he growled, slowing his hand suddenly and closing his
eyes for an instant. "God, that's so good."
"Close, huh?" she murmured, grinning. He nodded, his jaw
clenched, smiling. "Good; you're doing good so far." He saw her hand
move suddenly, heard the wet sound of her plunging two fingers into her
sex, penetrating herself. She shuddered and Michael fought to keep his
hand still until the pleasure receded enough for him to continue without
coming instantly. Jesus, she was hot...
"Fuck, you're gonna drive me nuts, Susan," he groaned, laughing.
"That's the idea," she hissed, leaning forward briefly to lick at his
mouth. He gasped and reached back with his own tongue. She pulled
away after a few moments and he bared his teeth hungrily.
"Fuck, Susan," he whispered. "Oh..." This time it was she who
almost came, groaning painfully with the frustration of stilling her hand
and holding his gaze fiercely. The sight of it made his own climax swell
suddenly and his hand stopped, gripping tight to the shaft. His cock
shivered but the orgasm didn't arrive.
"Yeah, Michael," she groaned. "You want it?"
"God you don't know how much," he hissed, looking up at her
where she nearly straddled him. "But not until we're both crazy, yeah?"
She laughed softly.
For almost forty minutes, they sat close and drove themselves and
each other to the brink of insanity. Sweat rolled down Michael's back,
heat in his thighs, his belly, groin, chest. Everything was burning on the
edge of breaking him with the need that flamed in his body. He had
fought it back seven times and now hovered on a plateau of something
unimaginable, like that sweet, painful instant just before orgasm, but
drawn out over the space of minutes. He felt sweat drip off of his chin
again onto his quivering hand where it was tight around his ruddy,
swollen cock. The hole at the tip was so wet, leaking gently onto his
knuckles and mingling with his sweat. He'd never been so incredibly
ready.
Susan was no better. They both sweated where they touched,
dampness between her skin and his, hot like being in an oven. Her sex
was swollen and tender, direct touch on her clitoris so unbearable she
had resorted to teasing around it. Even that now was enough to bring a
warm threat of climax and she backed off, trembling. She swallowed
hard for the hundredth time, loving the sight of Michael's astonishing
self-control, the absolute, raw need in his face in spite of it. They still
held the other's stare, loving the glimpses of feral thirst in the other's
eyes, lips pressed together, throats closing around low grunts and
moans.
"Susan," he said in a strangled whisper. "Susan, I can't take it any
more. I gotta have it. I gotta have you around me, oh, God, let me,
_please_..."
"Not yet," she grated. "I'm not...quite...ready..." Her hand moved
again, slow, teasing, around the edge of the lips of her sex, then pushing
inside suddenly for an instant and pulling out again as she gave a
heaving gasp of sexual shock. "Oh..."
"Susannnnn," he groaned, stroking a finger around the crown of
his cock. The ridge was too sensitive now; just a single lick there and he
would be done for. He leaned toward her, reaching as if to bite her, and
then his mouth closed with a snap of teeth, his lips peeled back from
them in a snarl. "Susan, dammit, I _need_ it. Fuck, I'm gonna go
insane..." She put her free hand on his shoulder and squeezed tightly.
"Think it's now," she gasped. "I think..." She rose from her
kneeling position to climb onto him, taking her hand away from her sex
finally. Holding his shoulders with both hands, she lowered herself
carefully, hovering just over his cock. "Yeah, Michael? Gonna do it?"
"Shit, yeah," he hissed. "Just wanting it I think I can come now,
oh, Susan..." He put his hands on her hips as she came down on him,
slowly, exquisitely, letting herself down onto his cock and he began to
impale her. Her sex started to quiver and throb, right on the edge, and
something enormous rushed forward inside her, a tide of impossible
pleasure about to hit.
"Michael," she choked, "Michael, oh, Michaelllll -- " He saw the
dawning shock in her eyes, felt her sex trembling around his rock hard
cock. Then something touched him, deep inside, like a finger across the
very essence of his sexual soul. He sucked in a deep, shocked breath,
filling his lungs with astonishment and fire as something awesome began
to flame in his groin.
"Oh, _Susan_," he breathed in pure amazement. "Oh, fucking
_Christ_ -- " He reached up and took her face in his hands, holding her
eyes, wanting to see every moment of this, to show her what he was
feeling. "Oh, I'm doin' it, hell yeah,
oh..._fucking_..._Christ_...Ah...Ah...Ah...Ah..."
"Coming with you, Michael," Susan whispered feverishly, holding
his wrists. "Yeah, feel it? Oh, yeah, I can feel you coming. Oh, _God_..."
But she didn't look away from him, her sex throbbing hard, gripping
him, waves of ecstasy flaring out to fill her with shudders and groans.
It seemed to take forever to let go, receding like a slow tide, warmth
washing through them both until they became aware of their own
panting, hard breaths and the sweat that covered them. Michael looked
stunned, his eyes so open to her in that moment, and she gazed back at
him, wondering if he saw as deeply into her.
Then she started to laugh, a full-throated sound of joy and delight.
Michael grinned and let out a whoop.
"Eeeeeeyyyyyaaaahoooo!" he howled, grabbing her around the
waist with both arms and grinning up at her. "That was _incredible_!
Oh, god dammit! Where the _fuck_ did you learn how to do that?"
"Trade secret," she panted. "I gotta keep something to myself, don't
I?" She kissed him long and obscenely, and he purred, his arms around
her. "You're good at it, too, Michael. You're _really_ good."
"Think we should try to let John in on it?" he wondered as she
disengaged from him. "We could try teaching him." He looked and
sounded like he savored the idea of engaging Sheridan that way. She
laughed, sprawling out on the bed on her belly.
"We could drive him crazy doing it in front of him," she said
thoughtfully. "He'd end up fucking one or both of us in an explosion of
lust. As I said, he doesn't have the self-control to do it with me, but it
was kind of fun watching him lose it."
"Huh, I'll _bet_," Garibaldi said wryly.
"Not a bad idea, though," Ivanova said finally. "Part of the problem
is that when John and I try it, we're both aroused and when he loses
control I don't want to stop him, and we end up fucking. But if there was
someone else there, kind of a referee, it might work better."
"Definitely something to keep in mind," Garibaldi said.
***
They met Sheridan when he came back the next day in his
Starfury, escorted by two Lumati heavy fighters. He came out of the
pilot's locker room looking tired and besieged.
"Welcome back, Captain," Ivanova said warmly. He smiled at
them, glad for their friendship suddenly as if he had realized while he
was gone how precious it was. "How did it go?"
"Well," Sheridan said with a sigh, "we got a more complete
commitment from the Lumati. They've been having raids on their outer
colonies -- Shadow ships and their allies. They want an alliance with us;
they're scared I think, and I don't blame them. I hammered out a treaty
of mutual support. They're ready to throw everything they've got at the
Shadows, and we really need that assistance."
Ivanova nodded, and Garibaldi moved closer.
"We missed you," Garibaldi said in a low voice. "We missed you a
lot. Feel like coming back to my place for some...ah...recreation?"
Ivanova grinned at the tone. Garibaldi was almost as randy as Sheridan
most of the time, so she was surprised when Sheridan looked reluctant.
"Uh...no, I'm...really tired, Michael." He sounded apologetic and
worried, as if uncertain how the refusal would be taken.
"Hey," Garibaldi said gently, "no problem. You look beat. Go on
and get some sleep." Sheridan relaxed, looking grateful, and the two of
them watched him amble on down the hall. As they watched him go,
Ivanova blinked. Amble? Sheridan was walking oddly, possibly the way
someone who was bruised would walk. As if...
She looked at Garibaldi, who met her eyes; he was thinking the
same thing. They spoke at the same time, shaking their heads.
"Naaaahhh."
End Story V
“Last Time, Back Way”
Story IV in the “Way” Series
Copyright (C) 1996 by A. Manley Huff
This story is not in any way intended to infringe on copyrights held by J. Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions Inc., or Time Warner Productions. This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author. This story is distributed for the individual personal entertainment of persons over 21, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.
—————————————————————–
The sound of the shower ceased, and Ivanova rolled over indolently in Sheridan’s bed, waiting for him to come back and do something sensuous to her body, which she knew he would. They spent much of their off-duty days together, sleeping in the same bed luxuriously and having conversations late into the night. She always liked to shower first, to have the time to herself to listen to him in there and bask in the afterglow of whatever kind of sex they had had.
Tonight it had been oddly violent and raw, John raking his short nails across her flanks as he had fucked her hard, grunting viciously close to her ear. And yet there had been something sweetly honest in it, his basest, most intimate needs bared to her by his sexual urgency. She knew him deeply in those moments, heard his soul in his voice, saw his heart in his eyes. If there was any such thing as violent compassion, it was in him.
Tonight…tonight he had kissed her at the instant of his climax, and she had tasted love in his mouth. He had not said anything when the orgasm passed, had not spoken the feeling that she saw in his gentle, hesitant smile. But then he had embraced her tightly with a soft moan, and she knew that any words would not have been equal to his experience.
She heard him come back into the bedroom, his bare feet quiet on the carpet. The mattress dipped as he came into bed with her on his knees, and then his warm nakedness was on top of her, his soft penis pressed into her buttocks, strong legs next to hers, and he bent down to kiss lightly up her spine. He paused at her shoulder, then bit gently. She hummed softly, appreciatively, to let him know his attention was enjoyed. He hummed in reply, with an odd note to it, and she listened intently when he spoke.
“You really are beautiful, you know that?” he whispered. “Not just on the outside. You let me be who I am and you don’t resist or mock me for it. God…God…” He rested his forehead on her shoulder with a sigh. “I’ve done things with you I never did with anyone else…shown you things I kept inside myself the whole time I was married. There are…edges in me that are so much a part of me…they make me ache. And it’s all right for me to show them to you. God, you even like it. The…the entire relationship we have with Michael…showing off for him, letting him watch…Anna would never have done that for me. She would never have allowed it. And it was something I wanted desperately to have if I could just find the right person…and now…Susan…Susan, I love you.”
Ivanova rolled over to touch his face in the darkness. It had been almost five months since the first time they had let Garibaldi watch them make love. A little over five months since she and John had become lovers. In those short months with Michael, a bond had been forged. Michael was so sweet, so painfully shy sometimes and blatantly, deliciously honest other times. But he had never touched them, at least not sexually. He stayed in the chair, in the shadows, watching, hungry, loving every moment and heartbreakingly grateful for the honor and the trust conferred on him. There was something much more private, much more loving, in that distance than there would have been if their relationship had begun more physically. They all knew it, sensed it. It was a treasure, a fragile, delicate thread that was slowly and surely becoming a bond of something much stronger and more lasting.
“I know you can’t say that back to me,” Sheridan said after a brief moment, putting his fingers on her lips. “I don’t expect you to. Maybe you will eventually, maybe not. But I want you to know that I feel this way.”
“I’m…honored,” she replied quietly. “I could never do anything else but give you what you need. I like doing that. It’s no sacrifice.” She was silent for a moment. “There’s something else you’ve been wanting to ask me lately but you haven’t. I wish you wouldn’t hide it.” Sheridan sighed heavily and rolled onto his back. She waited patiently, knowing that whatever it was, he feared that she would react badly to it.
“I’ve been thinking about Michael,” Sheridan said. “I’d like to let him get a little closer to us, both literally and figuratively. You don’t look at him much when he’s watching us make love, but I’ve seen him fighting down the urge to make himself come while he’s with us. He definitely gets hot enough to want to, and he touches himself through his pants, but I don’t think he’s ever climaxed. Sometimes when I hint at it, he becomes evasive. But I think he wants to do it.”
“He’s probably paranoid of imposing himself too much on our relationship,” she said. “I keep getting the impression that he doesn’t think of himself as part of it, even though we’ve involved him intimately from our perspective. He’s still acting like an outsider.”
“Yeah,” he said, “you might be right.” A pause. “Would you…be open to letting him in a little more?”
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“We could get him really turned on…he likes it most when you go down on me. Then get him to come onto the bed with us to watch. I think…if I do it right, I can get him to open up to us more.”
“And open his pants and do himself,” Ivanova chuckled, and Sheridan laughed roughly.
“Yeah, I…I hope so.” She heard him swallow. “At least, I’d like to see him more involved with us. I want to see him come for us. For me.”
“I detect notes of voyeurism in there,” she teased.
“I think sometimes that exhibitionists are, in some weird way, closet voyeurs, too,” he said. “As if…seeking reciprocity.”
“John,” she said, amused by his reluctance. “If you want to do something to Michael, by all means, do. There are few things that I like better than the idea of you and him together. If you’re attracted to him, I won’t stop you. In fact, I would love to have a front row seat.” There was another pause, and then Sheridan was hugging her.
“Thank you, oh, God, this could be so sweet.” He pulled away when she started laughing. “What is it?”
“I just had a thought,” she said. “Do you think _this_ is Michael’s number one favorite thing in the entire universe?”
They howled with laughter.
****
Ivanova strode down the corridor toward Garibaldi’s quarters. She could still see Sheridan’s startled expression from that morning when she had volunteered to invite Garibaldi to their next “spectator session,” as they had started to call it. Garibaldi didn’t watch every time they made love; they did keep some of it for themselves. Especially, perhaps, that morning. Sheridan confessing that he loved her…it was still amazing to her, in a quiet, reassuring way. And that morning his lovemaking had been very gentle and slow.
The truth of the matter was that she had started to really enjoy the sessions they spent with Michael. It was such a clinical word…sessions. Wasn’t it, in a way, just another kind of lovemaking? After all, any two strangers could have sex, and that wasn’t the same as what the three of them were doing. It was a real bond, of trust and friendship and oddly open lust. It was true she didn’t look at Michael much when she was actually making love to John, but she had seen what John was talking about; the distance, the buried need. Michael obviously took tremendous pleasure in being with them, watching. But there was something else that went unsatisfied. She didn’t like that idea any more than John did. If there was something else Michael needed that he wasn’t getting, she wanted to make it happen for him.
She smiled wryly. John had seemed a little startled that she admitted to finding the idea of him and Michael together to be…interesting. Hell, the idea of two men making love was a natural turn-on for her, and the idea of John and Michael made her belly quiver with curiosity and eagerness. She was not jealous, not at all. She was even a little surprised by that. But somehow it just wasn’t threatening. Not John and Michael. Not threatening, no, but she intended to do what she could to facilitate it, and then get the hell out of the way. She grinned as she arrived at Garibaldi’s quarters, and pressed the door signal.
The door opened after a moment, and she went in. Garibaldi was just coming out of the bedroom, dressed casually.
“Hi. What’s up?” he asked amiably. She went a little closer to him than usual before stopping and answering him.
“John and I were wondering if you’d like to watch tonight,” she said, and savored his reaction to both her tone of voice, and the invitation. “We wanted to do something special for you.”
“Really?” he said. “I’d love to. Are you…” He swallowed. “Are you going to tell me what or do I have to wait to find out?”
“No advance teasing,” she said, grinning. “But could we do it here, in your quarters?” Garibaldi’s eyes widened. They had never done that before. Neither she nor Sheridan had ever asked, and he hadn’t suggested it because it seemed too forward given the nature of their relationship.
“Sure!” he said. “I’d like that. As long as you don’t mind a big duck poster staring down at you the whole time.” Ivanova’s mind coughed up the framed Daffy Duck picture he had hanging on the wall over his bed, and she chuckled.
“I got no problem with the little black duck,” she said, and Garibaldi grinned. “What time’s good for you?” Garibaldi raised both eyebrows.
“Since ‘immediately’ is probably out of the question, how about nineteen hundred?”
“Nineteen hundred, then,” she said, smiling at him. “John’s really looking forward to it.” Garibaldi swallowed, and she smirked inwardly. /Got him by the balls now./
“I’ll be waiting,” he murmured.
****
“Will you stop that?” Ivanova said plaintively. Sheridan paused in the middle of the floor.
“What?”
“Pacing like that. You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” he said, turning around to pace back toward the wall agitatedly. Finally she got up and went toward him.
“John,” she said, touching his shoulder gently. She couldn’t keep her amusement out of her voice. It was fascinating watching him become suddenly uptight like this when he had spent the past few months as the most open and unabashed of the three of them. “It’s okay. You want this.” Sheridan turned on her like a panther, buried passion rising in him like hellfire.
“Yes,” he hissed. “I want this. I want you. I want him. I feel like I want everything, like I could…” He gestured as if lifting something. “…take it all in my hands and into me…” He closed his eyes and swallowed a hard sigh. “God, you don’t know…it’s so hard to try to put into words. I’ve thought about things like this. Dreamed them in dreams that until now have stayed in my head. But to have it waiting for me in Michael’s quarters — now — God, it feels like every moment of arousal, every moment of power and need and delight all wrapped up in a tight little ball — ” He clenched a hand into his shirt on his stomach.
“I think he wants it as much as you do,” she said, answering his intensity with sober steadiness. That was what he needed now, that surety. “I’ll do most of the work. You just do what you want…what you need. Jesus, John, I don’t know what’s more terrifyingly wonderful about you sometimes; your repression or your openness.” He was looking at her with that naked rawness in his eyes again. Not sexual exactly…but needing.
“We’d better go,” he murmured. “We’ll be late.”
****
He moved through the corridors with a stone-faced expression that was dark and forbidding like a black sky before lightning split the heavens. Ivanova was aware of it, aware of his tension, of the sensation he must harbor in his belly to be moving like he was, hands clenched at his sides. He said nothing, and when they reached their destination, Garibaldi greeted them with that endearing shyness. He tried so hard to be nonchalant, and managed only to look achingly hesitant.
The door closed behind Ivanova, but she didn’t hear it. Sheridan’s soft breathing next to her was like a jungle cat growling in the distance.
“Hi,” Garibaldi said, moving toward them. He had changed clothes…she had always liked that shirt on him, something bronze with a subtle pattern. “This is really different…doing it here. I’m glad you suggested it.” Ivanova shrugged enigmatically, smiling.
“We thought it was about time. That maybe you’d be more comfortable.”
“Yeah, I — ” He broke off as Sheridan moved close to him, watching him intently, just breathing softly. “You okay, John?” Sheridan reached up to close his hand tightly on Garibaldi’s opposite shoulder and push the man back into the bedroom behind him. The intense stare was not to be argued with, and Garibaldi let himself be guided backwards toward the chair by the wall from where he would watch them tonight. Sheridan pushed differently this time, making him sit, holding him down with those savage eyes. Garibaldi swallowed as Sheridan’s hand slid from his shoulder, fingers spread. “John?” Sheridan touched his mouth to silence him, and Garibaldi saw the hard look fracture for an instant, baring a glimpse of desperate appetite, like white flame. Hungry, so hungry…
Ivanova came up behind Sheridan and embraced him with pure sexuality, one hand drawing across his chest, the other moving down to press into his groin. Sheridan leaned his head back and let out an exhale of relish. His own hand covered hers between his legs, and in another breath she was working at his belt.
Garibaldi felt astonishment fight with ecstasy inside his chest somewhere. He started to tremble. They were close to him, so close…usually they were on the bed already when they began this, but he could reach out that very moment and touch Sheridan’s leg if he wanted to. Oh, God, this was already unbearable. He sat absolutely still and Ivanova dragged Sheridan over to the bed.
She coaxed him out of his clothes, didn’t really need to encourage him but his need was so plain on his face and in his demeanor that it seemed to almost get in the way of things. Clothes shed, he returned to the bed on his knees and Garibaldi realized what they were doing. Jesus, yes, she was going to go down on him. Garibaldi licked his mouth, shifting restlessly in the chair.
The noise that rose from Sheridan’s throat when she engulfed his cock was utterly feral, demanding and savoring in the same breath. He began grunting sensuously, writhing a little to fuck Ivanova’s mouth, and Garibaldi echoed the cries softly, holding tightly to his cock already painfully hard in his trousers.
And then Sheridan looked over at him, the gaze like a hand reaching straight into his gut and closing a fist around his heart. Sheridan extended his hand in a spread-palm gesture, pointing to the empty edge of the bed.
“Come over here, Michael,” he growled. Susan was between his spread knees, holding him, pleasuring him with her tongue and teeth, licking and sucking him to the point of nearly being unable to think at all, much less engage in this demand, this domination. But he had to. The pain and lust and longing in Garibaldi’s eyes pulled at him so. Even if he had not come here intending to do this, he would still be making this plea, this offer. “Come on.”
Garibaldi couldn’t believe this. He got up, legs trembling, leaving the cushioned chair behind to approach the bed where Sheridan panted and swallowed groans, and Ivanova was going down on him like nothing else existed. The wet sound of it made Garibaldi’s gut clench deliciously. Sheridan’s eyes were like shards of steel. “On the bed. Do it.” Garibaldi climbed onto the bed on his knees uncertainly, wondering what in God’s name Sheridan meant for him by doing this.
“What am I — ”
“You want to come?” Sheridan grunted, holding Garibaldi’s eyes in spite of sweet distractions of pleasure from Susan sucking on him. “Huh?” He groaned softly and glanced away before continuing. “You want to fondle yourself, play with yourself and come while watching this? Fucking hell, Michael, do it.” Garibaldi stared, eyes wide, adrenaline flaming in him. His cock was rock hard, his hands quivering to obey, to tear his clothes open and just obey…
“John, Christ, I don’t know if — ” Sheridan was upon him like a wolf, leaning down across the bed savagely to reach for his trousers and pull the belt free until it hung open. The bulge in his groin was quite pronounced, and Sheridan, panting, drew back, gesturing fiercely.
“Fuck you, do it!” Sheridan hissed. “You want it so bad. I want to see you let go from watching me.” Susan’s tongue sent a flicker of heat up his spine and he leaned his head back with a snarl. Garibaldi had one hand on his cock now, holding tight. “Michael,” Sheridan growled, holding his hand out entreatingly. “Michaellllluurrrrr…” He arched back in bliss at the delight Susan was bringing him, and Garibaldi had both hands down his pants before Sheridan could draw another breath.
“God damn it,” Garibaldi whispered in a rush. “God damn it, John, you make me so fucking hot…”
“Do I?” Sheridan hissed with a smile, loving the sight of Garibaldi with both hands disappearing down into his pants and moving slowly, urgently. “Show me.”
“God damn it,” Garibaldi moaned, holding his balls up hard to his body and kneading his cock tensely. It felt so good, so luscious and electric. He used one hand quickly to unbutton his shirt to get it out of the way of his groin.
“Yeah, come on,” Sheridan whispered to him. “Ahhhhuuurrrr, God, Susan…” Garibaldi realized that Sheridan was looking at him penetratingly, keeping his gaze instead of looking away like he had done much of the time in the past few months. He realized again that he couldn’t stand having his cock confined. Sheridan wanted this out of him, forced it just by the naked thirst in his eyes. Garibaldi struggled with his trousers and boxer shorts, pushing them both down out of the way so he could fondle himself properly. Sheridan bared teeth at him in a vicious grin of appreciation. “Yeah, Michael,” he said, voice straining, “come on. Do yourself.”
“Damn you, John,” Garibaldi hissed. His hands moved on his cock and balls voluptuously, holding tight to his testicles with one hand and sensuously kneading his cock with the other. “Fuck, this is so fantastic, oh, man…” Sheridan reached out again, palm up, coaxing him, urging him.
“Come on, Michael,” he whispered provocatively. He licked his mouth, sweat gleaming on his face and throat. Susan was making him twitch and buck reflexively. “Do it on my hand. Come on my hand.”
“Jesus Christ, John, don’t turn me on like that, oh fuck,” Garibaldi moaned, closing his eyes, his cock tight in a grip of intense, swift masturbation. “I don’t know if I can shoot that far but damn it, you make me want to…”
“You can,” Sheridan grunted. “I want to feel it. I want to see you.” His feverish stare alone would have been enough to get Garibaldi hot, and the sight of him getting close to his own climax, groaning through clenched teeth, panting softly, made Garibaldi forget about anything but the raw need that pounded in his blood, in his groin. “Do it, Michael. Come on me.”
It was too much, the sound of Sheridan’s hungry, rasping voice, the erotic blaze of dominance, of such open, base desire. Garibaldi felt the promise of his climax swell urgently, deliciously. Never been so close, never had the chance of masturbating in front of them like this…oh, it was so sweet. He savored the distant rising heat that came toward him like a wall of flame. Sheridan saw it in his eyes and opened his mouth expectantly. “Yeah, Michael…” Garibaldi kept his eyes open, holding John’s rapturous stare, as the orgasm consumed him, thick streams arcing across the bed to splash over John’s open hand and arm. “Yeah, that’s it, Michael. Come for me. That’s it.” Sheridan’s own ache to receive it was so obvious, white wetness dripping between his trembling fingers onto the bed as Garibaldi’s rich ejaculation covered the bed between them in long, powerful surges.
John started to laugh, a joyous, silvery cry as he leaned back to close his eyes. Garibaldi realized he was coming, his hand clenching possessively into a fist around the wetness Michael had given him. John’s laughter became a yell of ecstasy, a note of sweet pain in it, of pleasure beyond toleration.
“Oh yeah, John,” Garibaldi whispered, smiling, delighted to see such bliss.
The end of it was John panting hard, elation still painted on his features. He flopped down onto the bed on his back, fist still tight around the milky semen in his hand, groaning. He laughed again, convulsing.
“Oh my God,” he moaned, grinning. “You are so fucking amazing, both of you. Damn it, I don’t have a vocabulary big enough to say that right.” He laughed joyfully.
“Shit, what a mess,” Garibaldi gasped, laughing himself. Susan had sprawled herself across Sheridan’s legs, humming to herself contentedly.
“I love this kind of mess,” she murmured. “A man coming is never a disagreeable mess.” Garibaldi leaned down on folded arms on the bed to gaze across at her face from about eight inches away.
“You are a perverted and lecherous woman,” he said, smiling. “I ever tell you I like that about you?” She chuckled, licking her lips slightly. “What does he taste like?” Garibaldi murmured.
“You want to find out?” she asked mischievously.
“Yeah,” he said, and closed the few inches between them to kiss her exploringly. He drew back, running his tongue across his upper lip. “He tastes kinda like me, actually.” Ivanova reached down to take Garibaldi’s right hand.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, licking away some of the semen that had spilled onto his knuckles during his ejaculation. He watched with pure wonder and pleasure. “Tastes like you to me,” she said in a low voice. Garibaldi hummed, pleased, putting his head back down on folded arms.
“You two look cute like that,” came Sheridan’s amused voice. He was propped up on his elbow, watching them.
“You should talk, Mr. Boy Scout,” Ivanova replied teasingly. Garibaldi laughed.
“Yeah, and you just blew _that_ image all to hell,” he said. “If the past five months hadn’t been enough. Damn, John…” Sheridan leaned toward him, holding his eyes.
“You ever watch yourself in the mirror when you come?” Sheridan asked. “Or listen to yourself? You’re really something, Michael.” Garibaldi sobered quietly.
“I just had to be honest with you, you know?” he said softly. “You wanted it so much. Damn _I_ wanted it so much. Hahrrrrr…” He heaved a sigh and let his head drop back down onto his arms. He looked at Sheridan sidelong. “And I bet you want to wash that off.” Sheridan opened his hand to look at the drying stickiness on his palm and forearm. “Go on,” Garibaldi said, waving toward the lavatory as if shooing a reluctant pet dog. Sheridan snorted, amused, and disengaged himself from Susan to climb off the bed and go clean himself.
Ivanova hummed quietly, laying on her side, eyes half-closed.
“You know,” she said after the bathroom door closed. “You look really silly like that.” She meant his posture and state of undress; his trousers and boxer shorts around his knees, shirt open, laying on his stomach with his bare bottom exposed. He laughed.
“Guess what?” he said. “I don’t care.” He was smiling devilishly. “I feel really good and that doesn’t happen to me as much as I’d like. I’m not gonna mess it up.”
“Good idea. Cute boxers by the way.”
“Thanks.” The shorts in question were black with small, vibrantly colored aquarium fish on them.
Finally, Garibaldi gave a sigh, sat up, and pulled his shorts and trousers back on. He slid the belt out and tossed it over the side of the bed, but left his pants unzipped. “My butt’s getting cold,” he explained, propping himself up against the headboard. Ivanova was laughing. “Hey, no mocking the audience,” he teased. “C’mere.” He reached for her arm to pull her up to him. “Come on, lemme hold you.”
She acquiesced with a tolerant snort of wry amusement, snuggling back against his bare chest so he could embrace her. She was quite naked, but his hug was more affectionate than sexual, his chin nuzzling her neck. “John loves you, you know,” he murmured. “I can see it in his eyes.”
“I know,” she said contentedly. He understood why she said nothing more, and kissed her shoulder warmly.
The bathroom door opened, and Sheridan came out, presumably cleaner than when he had gone in. He took in their pose on the bed, and held out his hand, palm toward them.
“Hold her like that,” he said in a rough voice, and stalked over to the bed. Garibaldi raised his head, intrigued by Sheridan’s demeanor as the man came onto the bed with them. Garibaldi and Ivanova both watched him push his way between their legs, holding Susan’s thighs to begin kissing and nipping at her belly and breathing warmly on her loins.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ivanova asked him with a wry smile. Without a word, Sheridan plunged his tongue into her, engulfing her sex with his hot, wet mouth. She gasped in surprise and ecstatic shock, arching back against Garibaldi, who held her delightedly.
“Three guesses,” Garibaldi growled into her ear, and laughed when she cried out. He came to understand very quickly why John had commanded him to hold her; she writhed like a chained fury, head craned back on his shoulder, voice tearing from her in howls of pleasure. He loved it, loved her strength, loved feeling her tremble and twist in his arms, pressing back against him. She had both hands curled around his thighs tightly, and even John’s careful torment did not last more than a minute or so before she wailed in hungry release with his tongue playing with her.
She was breathing hard when her voice finally went silent, collapsed completely against Garibaldi, eyes closed. She swallowed as if to speak, but just panted, gulping for breath. Garibaldi laughed softly, just holding her. Sheridan sat up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He looked very smug and satisfied.
“I love doing that to her,” he confided to Garibaldi, who grinned.
“I think she did, too,” Garibaldi said. “Do you guys have some sort of a record for that?” Sheridan nodded.
“Thirty-eight seconds,” he said.
“Thirty-seven,” Ivanova corrected breathlessly. “And I was already aroused when you started.”
“What about this time?” Garibaldi asked, only half-seriously. Sheridan opened his mouth to reply.
“Oh, who the hell cares?” Ivanova panted. “It was great. It was mind-blowing. Michael, you’re fantastic.” He hugged her sensuously and she purred.
“I have got to go to bed,” Sheridan moaned, looking around for his clothes and putting them on one piece at a time. “I need to sleep alone for a change.” Ivanova grinned. He paused and looked at them. “And before I wake up out of this wondrous dream I’m having,” he said quietly. Garibaldi smiled faintly.
“Thanks, John,” he said. Susan moved to wiggle gently out of his embrace.
“I gotta go, too,” she said. “Besides you look like you need to be alone to recuperate.”
“Get my sanity back, you mean,” Garibaldi sighed. She grinned as she got dressed. Sheridan stood quietly back, waiting for her. “You guys are the best.”
That look on Sheridan’s face again, calm, evaluating, predatory. A sated lion contemplating future prey from a lazy vantage point.
“Michael,” he said. “I really appreciated this. I’m glad to find out we can do this. Maybe…we could get closer as time goes on.” Garibaldi shivered. He swallowed but was all seriousness when he replied.
“I’d like that,” he