A/N: This is dedicated to all the Tree House Scapers out there. That and my entirely too frelled up muse right now. Posting it to both Lost World and Farscape for reasons that're obvious by the end. :) Please keep in mind I'm told I have a dry humor, so outright fun like this is completely out of my nature. I just hope some of you Tree House Scapers get a giggle out of it. Those of you who watch one and not the other, I'm sorry... but maybe you'll think it's funny anyway. :)
Warning: This is NOT to be taken seriously. I just got a little confuzzled at one point and decided to go with it. LOL
Disclaimer: They're not mine, just borrowed them. Everyone who really owns them go ahead and claim them. The plot, however warped, is mine.
Crossed Wires
By: Danae Bowen
Email: logansfox@rogers.com
Her gray eyes fairly shone with pleasure, his sharp blue eyes tracing every inch of her glorious body as she moved over him with catlike grace. He followed the lines of her body, slim yet muscular, to where they joined, his heart catching in his chest as he realized he belonged no other place.
Three years they'd been searching for his home, years that seemed to grow longer, and yet, now, as he stared up at his breath-taking lover, he questioned as to whether he ever wanted to leave this place and return to the life he had before. Before here. Before her. Before this and now. Everything before no longer had any importance, where
as for everything now he'd risk his life to keep safe.
She rode him slowly, her eyes fluttering shut, her small pink tongue peeking out between her teeth as she arched her back for his touch. His hands closed around her firm breasts, his mind delighting in the whimper of pleasure that slipped past her dark lips. He arched his hips, filling her deeply, changing her whimpers into moans, as his eyes never left her face.
Her long, dark hair flowed over her bare back, her powerful shoulders hidden under the tresses that tickled his chest as she bent for a soft kiss. Their tongues dueled silently, even as their breathing increased pace; they both bit back groans of pleasure as her every movement drove them closer and closer to the precipice for which they were striving.
Her sweet voice, near musical with its almost Australian accent over powered his mind as she whispered his name. "John..." She repeated it again, louder, and louder as her movements grew faster.
His fingers dug into her slender hips, holding her to him even as his mind clouded over with his need for release. He drew her down, at last tangling his fingers into her beautiful hair, pulling her against him, glorying in the sight of her white skin against his unquestionably darker image. Her own fingers reached for his short, dark hair, pulling his head to her own, her lips flush against his, sucking his tongue into her mouth wantonly even as she drove herself towards the final moments of her release.
He pulled himself back, feeling his own completion coming upon him, wanting to see her, to look into those bright gray eyes as he spilled himself into her soft and willing body. Her name rose to his lips as he fought the urge to close his eyes, coming first as a voiceless whisper, then with more strength as he reached his peak, crashing over and yet hanging suspended in time, one moment seeming to last forever.
"Marguerite!" he cried desperately, pulling her to him as only could a man filled with such desperate love.
His passion befuddled brain barely registered his flight through the air a moment later, however, coming to the realization of danger only as he bounced off ungentle flooring.
"Baby, what?" He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind even as he looked up at the radiant beauty upon the bed before him, her cheeks flushed pink from passion and anger, her hair now strewn wildly from it's generally perfect shape.
"Who the frell is Marguerite?!"
"What? Aeryn, baby, what?" He still couldn't grasp her words, knowing only the after glow of perfect lovemaking was now destroyed by the growing pain in his pride.
"If you value your life, Crichton, you will drop this act and explain to me exactly who is Marguerite and why you were calling her name instead of mine." Aeryn's gray eyes grew cold, her emotions guarded deeply within her carefully erected walls.
"I don't know, Aeryn, you gotta believe me! I don't know any Marguerite; I don't know why I'd even know the name! I swear!"
"Bad answer."
He cried out in agony as her foot connected with his jaw, her words slipping away from the Sebacean translatable by his microbes and into something far more wild and untamed. In a single moment, he went from gloriously happy to fear for his life.
"Aeryn, please!"
"Shut up, John."
*****
He awoke slowly, glancing around in trepidation, fearful of the return of his angered beauty. Instead of Moya's familiar walls, however, John was surprised to find only a thin gray fog with no conceivable boundaries his only prison. He coughed gently, bringing a hand to his bruised ribs and the other to his aching head.
"If I didn't know better, friend, I would say you'd been trampled by a T-Rex."
He lifted his eyes, at last taking in the presence of the tall stranger next to him. Dressed in cloth pants, a dress shirt, and a leather vest, the stranger appeared no more out of place than Crichton himself. What set his new companion aside, however, was the beaten up, dirty old hat the man wore on his head, his hand raising to brush the rim with an ease only the familiarity of years could have born.
"T-Rex, no. Girlfriend, though... that's another story."
"I feel for you, old boy. I am afraid I find myself in a similar position."
At that Crichton took in the discolorment of his comrade's jaw, and the bruising forming on his companion's visible skin. "Don't tell me, called out the wrong name in bed, and when you woke up, you were here."
The other man laughed ruefully, rubbing his jaw with tender care. "You could say as much. I never thought she had it in her, my feisty heiress. Three years we've played games, three years we teased each other until we could take no more. Then the first night out of the gate, and this happens. Damned disappointing if you ask me."
Crichton chuckled in sympathy. "I hear ya, man, believe me, I hear ya. This must be the afterlife for guys killed by their way too strong lovers."
"I suppose there is no use being rude. John Roxton, at your service." The slightly accented man leaned a hand down to help Crichton to his feet.
"John Crichton." Noticing the similarities in their names, John arched an eyebrow as he climbed to his feet. "You wouldn't happen to know a Marguerite, would ya?"
Roxton stiffened, his eyes going dark with sudden suspicion. "Why do you ask?"
"Relax, man. Nothing intended. I just have this funny feeling we're stuck in some kinda bad story and the writer's taking one of Noranti's potions."
Roxton lifted an eyebrow, matching John's expression with curious intelligence. "And I suppose you would know Aeryn?"
"Of course, couldn't have it any other way. Remind me to introduce you to her when we get our asses outta this, man. She's a trip and a half, but worth every mile if you ask me."
"As is my Marguerite. A question for you, however, Crichton, how do we intend on getting out of this?"
"Man, I ain't McGuyver. You can't give me some mist, a hat and way too much leather and expect me to make an interdimensional travel port. But no worries, Rox, the equations are all up here." Crichton tapped his forehead. "As soon as the pain dulls a little from Aeryn's last blow, I'll start peeking through wormholes. One of 'em will take me home for sure. As for you," Crichton looked Roxton up and down. "Why don't you go see if you can shoot us something for dinner," he indicated the other man's vast array of weaponry. "I've got a feeling we're gonna be pretty hungry before we get our asses home, and I don't see a budong mining camp drifting up here any time soon."
Roxton scowled in wonder at the odd language of the man beside him, realizing that although he looked human, something was definitely separating John Crichton from the humans Roxton once knew. But of course, if Crichton wanted to fill the conversation with his own brand of English, Roxton was more than willing to do the same. "Not a problem, friend, bound to be a raptor or two hiding in the mist."
John frowned. Roxton frowned back. Neither man knew quite what to make of the other.
****
The point of this story? Never be obsessed with two programs and two infuriating couples at once. You begin to find too many vast similarities, and when that happens, wires get crossed, and one unfortunate wretch or the other will make like a Bobbitt when the author eventually screws up.
****
End.
Warning: This is NOT to be taken seriously. I just got a little confuzzled at one point and decided to go with it. LOL
Disclaimer: They're not mine, just borrowed them. Everyone who really owns them go ahead and claim them. The plot, however warped, is mine.
Crossed Wires
By: Danae Bowen
Email: logansfox@rogers.com
Her gray eyes fairly shone with pleasure, his sharp blue eyes tracing every inch of her glorious body as she moved over him with catlike grace. He followed the lines of her body, slim yet muscular, to where they joined, his heart catching in his chest as he realized he belonged no other place.
Three years they'd been searching for his home, years that seemed to grow longer, and yet, now, as he stared up at his breath-taking lover, he questioned as to whether he ever wanted to leave this place and return to the life he had before. Before here. Before her. Before this and now. Everything before no longer had any importance, where
as for everything now he'd risk his life to keep safe.
She rode him slowly, her eyes fluttering shut, her small pink tongue peeking out between her teeth as she arched her back for his touch. His hands closed around her firm breasts, his mind delighting in the whimper of pleasure that slipped past her dark lips. He arched his hips, filling her deeply, changing her whimpers into moans, as his eyes never left her face.
Her long, dark hair flowed over her bare back, her powerful shoulders hidden under the tresses that tickled his chest as she bent for a soft kiss. Their tongues dueled silently, even as their breathing increased pace; they both bit back groans of pleasure as her every movement drove them closer and closer to the precipice for which they were striving.
Her sweet voice, near musical with its almost Australian accent over powered his mind as she whispered his name. "John..." She repeated it again, louder, and louder as her movements grew faster.
His fingers dug into her slender hips, holding her to him even as his mind clouded over with his need for release. He drew her down, at last tangling his fingers into her beautiful hair, pulling her against him, glorying in the sight of her white skin against his unquestionably darker image. Her own fingers reached for his short, dark hair, pulling his head to her own, her lips flush against his, sucking his tongue into her mouth wantonly even as she drove herself towards the final moments of her release.
He pulled himself back, feeling his own completion coming upon him, wanting to see her, to look into those bright gray eyes as he spilled himself into her soft and willing body. Her name rose to his lips as he fought the urge to close his eyes, coming first as a voiceless whisper, then with more strength as he reached his peak, crashing over and yet hanging suspended in time, one moment seeming to last forever.
"Marguerite!" he cried desperately, pulling her to him as only could a man filled with such desperate love.
His passion befuddled brain barely registered his flight through the air a moment later, however, coming to the realization of danger only as he bounced off ungentle flooring.
"Baby, what?" He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind even as he looked up at the radiant beauty upon the bed before him, her cheeks flushed pink from passion and anger, her hair now strewn wildly from it's generally perfect shape.
"Who the frell is Marguerite?!"
"What? Aeryn, baby, what?" He still couldn't grasp her words, knowing only the after glow of perfect lovemaking was now destroyed by the growing pain in his pride.
"If you value your life, Crichton, you will drop this act and explain to me exactly who is Marguerite and why you were calling her name instead of mine." Aeryn's gray eyes grew cold, her emotions guarded deeply within her carefully erected walls.
"I don't know, Aeryn, you gotta believe me! I don't know any Marguerite; I don't know why I'd even know the name! I swear!"
"Bad answer."
He cried out in agony as her foot connected with his jaw, her words slipping away from the Sebacean translatable by his microbes and into something far more wild and untamed. In a single moment, he went from gloriously happy to fear for his life.
"Aeryn, please!"
"Shut up, John."
*****
He awoke slowly, glancing around in trepidation, fearful of the return of his angered beauty. Instead of Moya's familiar walls, however, John was surprised to find only a thin gray fog with no conceivable boundaries his only prison. He coughed gently, bringing a hand to his bruised ribs and the other to his aching head.
"If I didn't know better, friend, I would say you'd been trampled by a T-Rex."
He lifted his eyes, at last taking in the presence of the tall stranger next to him. Dressed in cloth pants, a dress shirt, and a leather vest, the stranger appeared no more out of place than Crichton himself. What set his new companion aside, however, was the beaten up, dirty old hat the man wore on his head, his hand raising to brush the rim with an ease only the familiarity of years could have born.
"T-Rex, no. Girlfriend, though... that's another story."
"I feel for you, old boy. I am afraid I find myself in a similar position."
At that Crichton took in the discolorment of his comrade's jaw, and the bruising forming on his companion's visible skin. "Don't tell me, called out the wrong name in bed, and when you woke up, you were here."
The other man laughed ruefully, rubbing his jaw with tender care. "You could say as much. I never thought she had it in her, my feisty heiress. Three years we've played games, three years we teased each other until we could take no more. Then the first night out of the gate, and this happens. Damned disappointing if you ask me."
Crichton chuckled in sympathy. "I hear ya, man, believe me, I hear ya. This must be the afterlife for guys killed by their way too strong lovers."
"I suppose there is no use being rude. John Roxton, at your service." The slightly accented man leaned a hand down to help Crichton to his feet.
"John Crichton." Noticing the similarities in their names, John arched an eyebrow as he climbed to his feet. "You wouldn't happen to know a Marguerite, would ya?"
Roxton stiffened, his eyes going dark with sudden suspicion. "Why do you ask?"
"Relax, man. Nothing intended. I just have this funny feeling we're stuck in some kinda bad story and the writer's taking one of Noranti's potions."
Roxton lifted an eyebrow, matching John's expression with curious intelligence. "And I suppose you would know Aeryn?"
"Of course, couldn't have it any other way. Remind me to introduce you to her when we get our asses outta this, man. She's a trip and a half, but worth every mile if you ask me."
"As is my Marguerite. A question for you, however, Crichton, how do we intend on getting out of this?"
"Man, I ain't McGuyver. You can't give me some mist, a hat and way too much leather and expect me to make an interdimensional travel port. But no worries, Rox, the equations are all up here." Crichton tapped his forehead. "As soon as the pain dulls a little from Aeryn's last blow, I'll start peeking through wormholes. One of 'em will take me home for sure. As for you," Crichton looked Roxton up and down. "Why don't you go see if you can shoot us something for dinner," he indicated the other man's vast array of weaponry. "I've got a feeling we're gonna be pretty hungry before we get our asses home, and I don't see a budong mining camp drifting up here any time soon."
Roxton scowled in wonder at the odd language of the man beside him, realizing that although he looked human, something was definitely separating John Crichton from the humans Roxton once knew. But of course, if Crichton wanted to fill the conversation with his own brand of English, Roxton was more than willing to do the same. "Not a problem, friend, bound to be a raptor or two hiding in the mist."
John frowned. Roxton frowned back. Neither man knew quite what to make of the other.
****
The point of this story? Never be obsessed with two programs and two infuriating couples at once. You begin to find too many vast similarities, and when that happens, wires get crossed, and one unfortunate wretch or the other will make like a Bobbitt when the author eventually screws up.
****
End.