Title: "New Games"

Author: Aiobheann

Fandom: Farscape

Paring: John Crichton/Ka D'Argo

Rating: NC-17

Status: Complete story.

Archive: Please archive at WWOMB

Series: Part 4 of the "Blood Brothers" series

Disclaimers: These characters are the property of Henson and SciFi. No copyright infringement is intended by my use of them, and no money is being made from this story. I do it for love of the characters. They may not belong to me, but the story does. Copyright 1999 Aiobheann.

Summary: A simple game of chance leads to interesting and unexpected consequences.

Warnings: Explicit m/m sexual activity, consensual Dominance/submission.

NEW GAMES

By Aiobheann

"What did you say this game was called?" D’Argo asked, eyeing John over the cards in his hand. They sat at opposite sides of the table in Crichton’s quarters, an open bottle of whatever passed for booze out in the Uncharted Territories at D’Argo’s elbow, along with two glasses. As far as Crichton was concerned, the occasion really called for beer and pretzels, but there was no hope of that.

"Poker." Crichton fanned out his cards, wishing again for a good old deck of Bicycle cards. Well, you do what you’ve gotta do -- and drawing 52 playing cards on thick paper he’d found at the last market they’d bartered at sure kept him occupied for a while. Although he didn’t fancy himself an artist, the face cards looked pretty good. As a joke, he’d even given the kings Luxan features -- D’Argo had grimaced at him over that one. He knew he’d figure out D’Argo’s sense of humor someday...but probably not anytime soon.

"Poker." D’Argo repeated. "How am I supposed to be able to read what it says on the cards? Your written language looks like plana scratch."

Crichton started to ask what a plana was, then caught himself. Never mind. "Just count the number of whatever suit is on the card, OK?"

"These scribbles here?" D’Argo turned his hand around so that Crichton could see the lopsided hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds. Crichton hissed with agitation and reached out to snatch the cards from D’Argo.

"I told you, I’m not supposed to see what you have in your hand! That’s the whole point. Will you quit showing me your cards and just try to remember what I told you?" He shuffled D’Argo’s cards and his own back into the deck, then dealt them each out a fresh hand.

"Remind me again why I agreed to let you teach me this idiotic game." D’Argo grumbled, picking up the new cards and peering disgustedly at them.

"Because I am absolutely bored out of my skull right now, and you promised that you’d make it up to me after you almost twisted my arm out of the socket a while back." Crichton said, sitting back to arrange the cards in his hand. D’Argo had been in one of his ‘I’m the Alpha male’ moods and had tossed Crichton onto the bed, yanking his arm up behind his back as he pinned him down. He meant to wring every advantage he could out of that. Guilt trips, he could do just fine -- and if it meant browbeating D’Argo into doing what he wanted to do, just once, he didn’t mind needling him about it.

"I told you, that was not intentional." D’Argo said defensively.

"Yeah, well, I don’t mind playing rough sometimes, big guy, but if you break your toys, you don’t get to play with ‘em anymore." Crichton grinned at him. "You don’t want that to happen, right?"

D’Argo smirked back. He was finally realizing when Crichton was "flirting", and not really challenging his authority. It still annoyed him at times -- he wondered how humans ever managed to mate if they refused to come right out and say what they meant -- but it seemed to make John happy. He had been surprised to find, over the last few months, that making sure John was happy had become very important to him. Almost as much so as protecting him, as making sure that he did the things that he should.

At first, D’Argo had clung rigidly to the codified structure of the Luxan sword brother partnership -- him as the dominant partner, Crichton in the role of submissive, weaker brother. Him protecting and owning Crichton. But Crichton’d had other ideas. He was not Luxan, he didn’t "get this whole big-dog-little-dog deal", as he told D’Argo, and subtly maneuvered their relationship into a more equal standing. Well, almost equals. D’Argo still fell back on his old ways sometimes, and John would gently humor him out of it. He looked across the table at him, fondly noting Crichton’s attempt to appear nonchalant and disinterested, while he was obviously studying the cards in his hand and calculating his next move.

"Well?"

Crichton looked up, laying his cards face down on the table. "Now, we ante up."

"We bet on the cards."

"Right."

"With what? I have no money. And I know you do not have any, either." D’Argo said.

"I thought about that. And I decided it would be a little more...interesting...if we bet with something else." Crichton said, a gleam in his eyes.

"Such as?" D’Argo put his cards down as well and leaned forward, crossing his elbows on the table.

"Such as...the first one to win three hands gets to tell the loser what to do for an arn."

"For an arn. Anything?"

"Yep. You up for it?"

"Of course. But --"

"But what?" Crichton asked, stopping in the act of picking up his cards.

"You are not going to come up with any of your stupid ‘rules’ once I’ve won and you are mine for an arn?" D’Argo said.

"No rules. And we’ll see who belongs to who, big guy. OK, then -- let’s play."

Crichton and D’Argo sat in silence for a few microts, each studying their cards intently.

Finally Crichton reached across the table and prodded D’Argo’s arm. "It’s you first, man. I dealt the cards, so you go first."

D’Argo studied his cards for a moment longer, then laid three cards on the table, motioning toward the makeshift deck lying between them. "Three cards. Is that right?"

"Yup." Crichton passed three more across the table, watching as D’Argo picked them up and added them to the two he still held. He put two cards of his own down, taking the top two off the deck.

"What now?"

"Well, since we aren’t betting with money, I guess we just show our cards." Crichton said.

"That doesn’t sound very interesting. I thought you told me the purpose of this game was to outsmart your opponent."

"Well, usually, yeah. You have to bluff, make the other guy believe you’ve got a really good hand, and keep raising the stakes until you either convince the other guy and he folds, or you show your cards."

"I do not bluff. I do not need to pretend I am the stronger one." D’Argo said with a steely edge in his voice.

"Whoa, hold on. This isn’t war, it’s just a game. Man, do you ever relax?"

"Sometimes." D’Argo smiled at him, a slow smile that had something tightening up under the table -- the kind of smile that promised being shoved up against the wall and screwed out of his mind, if he wasn’t careful. Well, not tonight, at least. Crichton had other plans for this evening.

"So I show my cards now?" D’Argo asked.

"Show me yours and I’ll show you mine." Crichton responded.

"I thought that was for later...after I win." D’Argo laid his cards down -- a pair of kings and a three of a kind. Crichton glanced back at his own cards, then laid them down, showing two pairs, one of aces and one of deuces.

"See?" D’Argo said. "I win this hand."

"No, no, no. I don’t remember if I told you all the rules to poker. It’s a very complicated game. See, I have two pair, and you only have one three of a kind and a pair. I have more matching cards, so I win this hand." He sat back, looking as steadily at D’Argo as he dared without looking like he was lying. Which he was.

D’Argo studied Crichton, breathing as deeply as he dared without letting Crichton know he was scenting the air. He knew Crichton’s scent as well as he knew his own, and Crichton smelled like he was nervous, like he was lying. Which he was.

But he wasn’t about to contradict him. Even if Crichton thought he wouldn’t remember the rules of the game -- which he did -- the change in his scent would have tipped him off. But D’Argo suspected his sword brother had an ulterior motive, so he went along, feeling sure that this would lead somewhere... interesting.

Crichton gathered the cards back together and shuffled, a smug smile on his face while he was looking down at the cards flowing from one hand to the other. D’Argo watched him, feeling a now-familiar heat in his blood as he let his eyes linger on Crichton, who was unaware he was being studied. By the time Crichton raised his head, cards ready to be dealt, the smug smile was gone, replaced by a guileless, innocent look, and D’Argo was busy pouring more liquor into their glasses. He often took advantage of moments like that, watching Crichton when he was not aware -- and found himself doing it more and more frequently.

He had long ago decided not to try to identify what it was that he felt about Crichton. Time here could be short and brutal, and if life had taught him nothing else, it was to live completely in the moment, to not delay enjoying the time you had with those you cared about. He thought briefly of Lo’laan, but he was comforted by knowing that she would approve of this human. Though she may have been Sebacean, she had way of understanding what was in his hearts, and loving him for it. She would understand this. And this, whatever it was that he and Crichton had made together -- a vow to be a shield for the other’s back, a comfort and partner -- needed no name for him to accept it and enjoy it, moment to moment.

Crichton dealt out the cards again, and they repeated the ritual of picking up their hands and studying them. D’Argo asked for two more cards, and Crichton took two more. Crichton cheated again, as D’Argo had expected, and he was so pleased by the devious, evil little grin on Crichton’s face that he deliberately broke up what Crichton had told him was a "full house" on the next hand, eager to see exactly what Crichton had planned.

Crichton laid out his cards, watching D’Argo carefully, and announced, "Well. Looks like I win."

"Yes. It looks that way."

"You ready to pay up?" Crichton asked, a slight tremor in his voice, as if he figured D’Argo would laugh now and refuse to listen to his orders for the next arn.

"I always keep my promises, Crichton," D’Argo answered. "I will do anything you ask. For an arn. After that..."

"I know, back to business as usual. OK." He took a deep breath. "Come over here."

D’Argo rose from his seat and came around the small table, stopping next to him. Crichton turned his chair away from the table, leaning back with his legs spread, feet planted. He motioned to the floor in front of him, suddenly finding it hard to think of anything to say. He had planned this all out, imagined exactly what he wanted to do, but now that he had a whole arn to fill, he was unsure if this had been such a great idea. He was used to D’Argo taking the lead, being the one to tell him what to do. In a few short months, he had grown so used to that state of affairs, as if his whole life had been spent this way, that he found himself at a loss.

He was half-startled, half-thrilled when D’Argo obediently knelt before him. He looked down into D’Argo’s eyes, and saw the look there ...anything but obedient. He had the sudden sense that he was only kidding himself that he was the one in control here -- holding the barest mastery over some immensely more powerful force that could slip its leash and wash over him if he faltered in the slightest. The look in D’Argo’s eyes promised that he would obey...for now. But the sense of holding onto something fierce and wild that he controlled only because it wished him to began to excite him. The fear added spice. Taking another deep breath, he said, "Take my boots off."

D’Argo stared into his eyes for a moment longer, then bent his head as he began to unlace Crichton’s boots and slip them off. When he was done, he settled back onto his haunches and looked back up at Crichton, looking as if he wanted to spring and attack, but held himself back because Crichton wanted him to. Shuddering slightly at the image of D’Argo forgetting the deal because he couldn’t help it, and simply mauling him, Crichton managed another command in a husky, low voice he barely recognized as his own.

"Take your shirt off."

D’Argo unfastened his tunic and stripped it off, tossing it behind him. Crichton motioned him closer and reached out his hand, running it over D’Argo’s shoulders and chest, tracing the tattoos and stopping to tug gently at the rings that curved under the collarbones. He knew what they were there for, but they fascinated him nonetheless. D’Argo accepted his caresses, his eyes slipping closed at the feel of Crichton’s fingers playing with one hard, flat nipple. His eyes flew open again as the gentle touch tightened, pinched, and he growled softly under his breath, staring up into Crichton’s eyes. But he stayed where he was, allowed the fingers to roll the sensitive nub between them, to move to the other side and repeat it.

Crichton leaned in toward him, their faces inches apart. "Don’t move." Crichton ordered, his voice a little stronger now. He pressed his mouth against D’Argo’s, exploring the texture of lips and the softness and yielding that added a new dimension to the mouth he had kissed so many times before. D’Argo stayed motionless, opening his mouth to Crichton’s prodding tongue, not helping or hindering but giving Crichton free rein to take and plunder as he wished.

Crichton lost himself in the newness of it, the feel of a kiss that he controlled completely. D’Argo could be rough, commanding, when they kissed, setting the pace and kissing him until his lips felt bruised, devouring him even as he kissed him. Even though D’Argo was holding himself still for this kiss, he could feel the tension coiling in D’Argo’s body, the shoulders tightening under his hands as Crichton reversed the roles and became the one doing the taking. When he pulled away, he noted with satisfaction the same flushed and swollen lips he himself saw in the mirror more times than not. It spurred him on, made him forget the tentativeness he had felt at the beginning of this game.

"Stand up. Take everything else off." He settled back in the chair to watch as D’Argo rose and quickly took off his boots and breeches. When he was finished, he stood still, exactly where he was, waiting for another order. Crichton gestured curtly at the floor again, and D’Argo knelt, the long muscles of his thighs rippling under the sleek, golden skin as he did. Crichton saw with satisfaction the hard cock nestled between D’Argo’s legs, and the sight freed him to go on -- D’Argo was enjoying this as much he did. He felt his own cock straining at his clothing, and that decided the next order of business.

He pulled his T-shirt off over his head, dropping it on the floor next to his chair. He leaned forward again and said, "Give me your hands." D’Argo raised his hands up, and Crichton grabbed them by the wrists, pulling them toward his crotch and forcing D’Argo to lean forward as he did, dragging him until he was bending down, his face close to Crichton’s body. Crichton very deliberately placed one of D’Argo’s hands against the hard-on swelling under his pants, guiding the other to the button at the waistband. D’Argo looked up at him questioningly. Crichton did not trust his voice at that moment, and was only able to nod, thrusting his chin down to indicate that he wanted D’Argo to go ahead.

Moving slowly, D’Argo unbuttoned and unzipped the pants, spreading the fly apart and freeing Crichton’s hardness from his underwear. Crichton half-rose from the chair, allowing D’Argo to tug the pants down his thighs, down to his ankles and off. Pushing the discarded clothing aside, D’Argo settled back on his heels, looking back up at Crichton, waiting for the next move. He knew what Crichton wanted of him, but he was as caught up in the game as his lover, and wanted to be told.

Instead of speaking, Crichton reached out and gently stroked D’Argo’s cheek, his hand slipping around to cup the back of his head and pull him forward. D’Argo opened his mouth, letting the head of Crichton’s cock slip between his lips and deeper into his throat as Crichton pulled him closer, closer. Crichton dropped his head back, eyes closed, as he moaned at the feel of the warm, wet slide of D’Argo’s mouth on his cock. He could hear his own voice, repeating senseless words over and over, the real meaning boiling down to Yes, more. Yes.

Finally he found the control to say, "Slower. I’m not through with you yet." D’Argo slackened his pace, the mouth on Crichton’s cock gentler and more teasing. When he felt able, Crichton loosened his hold, his hand uncurving from the back of D’Argo’s neck, shifting to his shoulder to push him away. D’Argo moved away only as far as Crichton made him, not settling back on his knees this time but hovering close, his face showing a need that Crichton recognized as what D’Argo saw when he looked at him this way, with these eyes -- as the one in control, in command.

He pushed D’Argo farther away and got to his feet, looking down at D’Argo still kneeling. "Get up. On the bed." He stepped back, watching as D’Argo rose and moved to the bed, kneeling at the edge, presenting himself to Crichton. Crichton moved in behind him, running his hands teasingly over D’Argo’s ass for a moment. Inviting, he thought. But not what I’m after. Not just yet.

"No. On your back." D’Argo immediately lay down on his back, hands crossed over his chest, waiting. He stood over him, just looking for a moment, then said, "Put on a show for me." D’Argo looked at him questioningly again, and Crichton reached down and snatched one of his hands, placing it on D’Argo’s own cock. Understanding, D’Argo’s hand slipped up and down on his cock, stroking himself. Crichton watched as the sensation started to overtake him, and he laid his head back onto the bed, eyes closing in pleasure.

Crichton leaned down over him, resting his knees on the bed between D’Argo’s spread legs, his hands gripping the sides of D’Argo’s face and lifting it up, D’Argo’s eyes opening to focus on Crichton’s face, inches from his own. "Look at me. I want to see you, want you to see me." They stared into each other’s eyes, the eye contact making the act more intimate, laying D’Argo’s soul wide open for Crichton to see as he watched every shade of emotion and pleasure cross his face, expressions chasing each other like clouds across a sky before the crash of a storm. Crichton could see the trust and faith D’Argo had in him, the trust that made it possible for this proud warrior to give this to him, without reserve, and he felt humbled by it, drunk with it.

He let it go on longer than he had thought he could bear by now, knowing by the trembling of the face he still held clasped between his palms that D’Argo could wait no more. He released him.

"Stop." D’Argo stilled his hand immediately, still following Crichton’s eyes with his own, unable to look away. "Roll over." D’Argo blinked, swallowed hard, and did as he was told, hearing Crichton moving off the bed, go to the chest at the back of the room. He followed his scent and sound, smelling the musk, the desire that flowed off Crichton’s skin and filled his head with a soundless buzz. He felt Crichton move in behind him, felt his hands caressing him, wrapping around his waist and lift him, felt Crichton fit himself against his back.

Both of them nervous now, treading unfamiliar ground, Crichton made sure that he was as gentle as his desire would allow him to be, and forced himself to pause after the first thrust. When he felt D’Argo press back against him, he began to move, at first absorbed in almost cataloging this new sensation -- the tight hot passage that locked around him, so different than anything he had ever experienced before. But soon enough he lost all objectivity, moved without thought, hearing D’Argo’s groans mingling with his own and knowing he was pleasing him. That knowledge was all that remained in his mind as he drove on, the explosion of his orgasm sweeping up on him as he loosened his grip on D’Argo’s waist and slipped one hand around to fill it with D’Argo’s cock. Almost at the touch of Crichton’s hand, D’Argo came, expelling pent-up breath in a sound that might have been John.

They collapsed to the bed, Crichton rolling off to lie beside D’Argo, his face buried in his shoulder. Neither spoke for several long moments, then D’Argo rolled over on his side to face him. They kissed slowly, luxuriously, all the desperation and drive of the act drained away, leaving something that was gentle and -- Crichton closed his eyes and let the thought come without trying to censor it or push it away -- loving. He settled into the thought, realizing that this was no game. It might have started that way, but somewhere along the way, the rules had changed. He fell asleep, knowing that the words were there, but that they could wait.

THE END