Ever since he'd washed up on the totally alien shore that was his life now, a tiny little portion of John had suspected that the whole thing was being scripted by the group of monkeys that hadn't managed to get out Shakespeare. Which was okay; he'd learned to adapt (or at least not to drink as heavily anymore). But after today? He figured either the monkeys had taken to drinking themselves, or else they really needed to get laid.
At the very least, they needed to stop doing it vicariously through him.
If it wasn't the monkeys, John really didn't want to know. His life was frelled enough without thinking that maybe fate really was out to get him, and seemed bent on using every bad fiction cliché out there to do it. 'Cause 'aliens made them do it'? Was just not working for him.
At least not when the bastards wanted him to... and fuck, when you couldn't even think the word, you definitely should not be on your knees, in front of one of the most irritating beings ever to live anywhere (and John included Geraldo Rivera and Scorpius on that list). And the fact that Rygel kept adjusting the throne chair to make sure that John had easy access to the royal jewels, as it were, wasn't helping. The only thing saving him from immediately panicking was he kept getting distracted by wondering how even Rygel's voluminous robes could possibly have been hiding that, and being very, very grateful that neither the monkeys nor the aliens wanted to see that anywhere besides his mouth.
Taking a deep breath and wanting a drink like nobody's business, John started to go down when a thought struck him. Grabbing the throne sled, he pushed Rygel back (maybe using a little more force than absolutely necessary), and asked suspiciously, "You always fart helium, and you sometimes piss fire... what exactly do you ejaculate?"
John blamed television (not that he admitted to watching that kind of thing). He blamed society's unrealistic expectations, and thousands of years of pack instinct, that layered what should have been a simple, natural thing with connotations it wasn't meant to carry. He also blamed the fucking wormhole aliens for false advertising.
Like that first time in the back seat of his dad's car (when Sara Moran, the girl he'd sworn was The One, had spent more time uncomfortable and angry than she had aroused and happy) hadn't taught him how awkward and painful first times could be.
And, okay, it wasn't like either one of them were blushing virgins this time, and it wasn't like they didn't have more room to move here in his quarters instead of a cramped backseat. It wasn't even like the sex itself had been bad.
It hadn't been. It really, amazingly (fucking sadly) hadn't been.
But, still, he blamed the way she'd moved his hands, the moment's hesitation as if she thought he should already know what she liked. Blamed the curious way she traced over the scar on his arm, still a little red at the edges, as if even though she'd been there when it happened, it didn't match her memory of what should be. Blamed the John that had and hadn't been him, whose name she whispered when she came.
But most of all he blamed himself for lying here long hours after her side of the bed had grown cold, post-coital glow long since condensed to a weight across his chest, knowing that he'd let her pretend as long as she wanted.
He couldn't move, couldn't do anything but lie there. It hurt every time Harvey moved him, even before he pushed in, the knife Scorpius had left in him digging in further with every jolt, with every thrust. But John didn't tell him to stop. Didn't complain, even as the avatar of his greatest nightmare banged away on top of him.
John didn't know how long it went on. Did it even matter when it was all in his head? He just rode it out (or was that he was rode out? John laughed, ignoring the crazy tinge to it, just like he had every other time since the Chair had rewritten his sense of humor). It was painful and horrible and sick, and John didn't say a word, thanking Harvey inside his head (inside his head that was inside his head, John thought, and laughed again as bony hips ground against his ass, the Morton Salt girl taking Harvey's place for a while, John frelled in both heads, in every way).
Thanked Harvey, and the Morton Salt Girl, and his own madness. Because no matter what Harvey did to him here, it was better than what Scorpius was doing to him there.
Crichton had let himself be fooled by Lo'Lann and Chiana (and, really, Zhaan and Aeryn, too, though they at least had been more appreciation than any real intent). Neither Lo'Lann (from the picture he'd seen of her, anyway) or Chiana had truly been John's type (though Chiana's obvious flexibility and even more blatantly obvious breasts made that hard to remember sometimes), but he'd seen the attraction in each of them, and he'd figured that regardless of the differences between he and D'Argo (of which the chin tentacles were only the start), that D'Argo at least had some taste.
He should have remembered that even the best of players struck out sometimes.
'Cause, okay, the redhead thing was sort of cool, even if it was more like Crayola than L'Oreal. The forehead was a little distracting, but the figure was good. And, yeah, the personality could use a little fixing, and the voice as well, but it wasn't like Crichton was looking to get married or anything, and, by all the Hynerian gods, it wasn't like he didn't have to put up with all of that even without the sex. Plus D'Argo had actually encouraged John, and Aeryn hadn't been there to care (and likely spending time with Crais or John (and Crichton didn't know which would bother him more)). And, fuck it, even though he hated to admit it, without the constant presence in his head and the very real fear of being driven even crazier than he already was, he was kind of running on autopilot.
So he'd been fooled (or D'Argo had), and D'Argo had struck out (maybe in more ways than one), 'cause while the incessant talking and then the really weird whining/crying thing had been bad, the scream when Jool came? It didn't just melt metal.
She was warm and wet, and, God, so perfect. Her nails scraped down his arms and back, sometimes drawing blood, but it didn't matter. Nothing could ruin the moment. Tight around him, tongue tracing his ear, sliding over his lips as she managed to surge up and take that last tiny bit of him in.
John found himself rolled to the bottom, her beautiful face hanging over his, slack with need, body slick with it. She trapped his hands over his head, surprisingly strong considering her slim frame, but he didn't want loose. Wanted her there, wanted her as he'd never wanted anyone else, her scent so strong and near, driving him mad.
"Say my name, John, say my name. Tell me you love me."
It was her command voice, and it turned John on just like everything else about her. He drove in as deep as he could from his position, coming hard, feeling her pulse around him as he obeyed her order. "Love you, Mele-on. Love you."