Title: "Blood Brothers"

Rating: NC-17

Contains: Explicit sex, D/S, first time, non-con and coercion, mild violence, harsh language

Author: Aiobheann

Archive: Certainly, but please e-mail me and let me know.

Note: This story takes place shortly after the events in "Till The Blood Runs Clear."

By Aiobheann

"Listen, D'Argo, I'm really getting tired of this hyper-rage shit!" Crichton yelled, dodging down a side corridor with the sound of the Luxan's pounding footsteps ringing in his ears. He flattened himself against the wall, panting harshly. One wrong word, and it had set D'Argo off -- he had been trying to avoid him for three days now, and D'Argo hadn't calmed down a bit. "This doesn't look good for the home team." John muttered, sidling down the hallway, searching for some kind of hiding place.

"Crichton! CRICHTON!!! I will find you!" D'Argo bellowed. It sounded like he was one corridor down. Crichton glanced around feverishly, looking for a hidey-hole, but quick. His gaze fell on an access panel fitted into the wall. Snatching at the cover, he yanked it free and crawled into the hole. He could hear D'Argo getting closer. He pulled his feet in after him just as a strong hand shot into the tunnel and closed around his ankle.

Yelping and struggling, he was unceremoniously dragged back out into the corridor. D'Argo pulled him to his feet, face suffused with rage. John freaked -- kicking and clawing, he swung in D'Argo's grasp as the Luxan cursed incoherently in his native tongue. Luxan hyper-rage, up close and waaay too personal.

"Goddammit, fucking LET ME GO!" Crichton screamed, foot lashing out and catching D'Argo in the upper thigh. The Luxan didn't even blink. He struck out again with his foot, this time kicking him a little higher up. D'Argo bellowed and dropped him. Crichton fell to the floor, scrambling away, but not fast enough.

The Luxan landed squarely on his back, yanking Crichton's left arm nearly up to his shoulder blades. Crichton howled in pain, bucking fruitlessly under D'Argo's weight.

"Submit, Crichton." D'Argo breathed into his ear.

"The fuck I will!" Crichton fought harder, sweat running down his cheeks. He could feel the heat of D'Argo's body against his back, and despite himself, found that the closeness and the physical exertion were doing some strange things to his body. No, no, no -- this was not happening. No way was this happening.

Crichton stopped fighting and lay still. "Is there a point to this, D'Argo?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady. Beneath the calm he tried to project, his thoughts were racing --why was he suddenly enjoying this? Had it been that long? That long since he'd been close to another body? He knew that he wanted Aeryn, and thought, sometimes, that maybe she wanted him too...but her walls were so high, so strong. And he was so lonely, so desperate sometimes for the touch of another hand...but this?

"Submit, Crichton. Prove to me that I am the stronger." D'Argo breathed into his ear.

"Prove...? How?" Crichton asked. D'Argo shifted against him, and he felt a pulsing hardness pressing against his ass, grinding against him. Then he knew. He knew what this was all about -- how he was to show his submission. The meaning behind the Luxan's rage and what motivated it, the need to prove and take and dominate, dawned on him.

On earth, a few tribes of ancient warriors had dominated their captives this way. The Greeks had accepted the pairings of older males with younger men as part of their training, made it a part of their life. The dynamic of male on male sexuality, equal parts rough and tender, had been sublimated since then, but Crichton had felt old echoes of it even in his time, disguised as male bonding and horseplay. But -- no, he wasn't, was not like that, he --

"NO!" Crichton bellowed, renewing his efforts to escape D'Argo's grasp. He yanked his arm free, heedless of the pain that shot through his shoulder, and sunfished, rolling out from under D'Argo and pushing up on his elbow, trying to get his feet back under him. D'Argo growled and grabbed at his hair, pulling him back down on his side and yanking John back toward him, faces inches apart.

"You will do as I say, Crichton. This chase has gone on long enough. It will never be settled between us until I have had your submission. It will never be over. It is the way of my people." D'Argo told him, some of the rage fading from his face, replaced by quiet determination, and if it was possible, gentleness. The hand holding his hair softened a little, but only a little. John was still held fast.

"I thought I was your ally. Back on the planet, when those Volkarians --" Crichton said, almost pleaded. He could hear the weakness in his own voice, and hated it.

"Yes, you are my ally. But one of us must be the stronger one. I can never trust you completely unless I know which of us that is."

"Can't we do this some other way, then? You give me a black eye and we call it even?" Even as he asked, he knew the answer.

D'Argo rose to his feet, pulling Crichton with him as easily as lifting a child. "If you submit, I will not hurt you. Otherwise..." the implied threat hung in the air between them.

"Okay. I guess I don't have any other choice, do I?"

~~*~~*~~

D'Argo shut the door of the storage compartment behind them, peering around the room for any DRDs. This would be hard enough for Crichton without Pilot being a witness to it as well.

Beneath his excitement, the song of the chase and the triumph singing in his blood, he knew that this was as foreign to Crichton as anything he had yet encountered since he had been lost. He understood that things were not the same on Crichton's homeworld, and although he knew that he could never trust Crichton fully unless the ways of his homeworld were honored, he vowed to make this as easy for him as he could.

Satisfied that no DRDs lurked in the corners of the room, he reached into his tunic, pulling out a small clay bottle and a knife, similar to the bone blade Zhaan had taken from his room when it became necessary to remove a Peacekeeper beacon from Moya's neural net. This blade was metal, however, and bore etchings in Luxan along its length.

"What's the knife for?" Crichton asked nervously.

"Do not worry. It is of no concern at this moment." He walked over to Crichton, and stood looking down at him for a moment. The shorter man stared back, obviously afraid, but refusing to give ground. Any doubts he had about making Crichton his ally washed away as he realized how brave Crichton was being -- had been, since he had come on board. Lost in a world he did not understand, he had always tried to do his best to help the others. D'Argo rested his hands on Crichton's shoulders, pressing down, not forcing, but urging John to his knees.

John complied, feeling almost against his will the return of the excitement he had felt earlier. This wasn't Aeryn, but it was someone, some warmth in this confusing world he had found himself in. He sensed that what D'Argo said was true, that he wouldn't be harmed, and tried to still his mind, waiting for whatever came next.

D'Argo unfastened his tunic and swept it back, reaching for the lacings of his breeches. He untied them, drawing the opening in his breeches apart to reveal a hard cock that sprang free and bobbed in the air, inches from John's face. John swayed on his knees a little, uncertain for a moment, and looked up at D'Argo.

D'Argo looked down at him, and John saw no malice in his expression, but concern and kindness, warring with a fierce excitement and triumph. "Nobody else has to know about this?" Crichton asked.

"You will be my true ally, John. I will keep any secret until my dying day."

Closing his eyes, Crichton leaned forward, tasting the tip of D'Argo's cock, experimentally running his tongue around the head. What the hell, he thought, and took it into his mouth, feeling the silky smoothness that contrasted with the hard steel beneath it. Above him, he could feel and hear D'Argo draw in a sharp breath.

Time stopped. All his doubts about what he was doing vanished, and there was only the feel of the cock in his mouth, and his own rising pleasure in this act, matched and spurred on by the pleasure he was giving D'Argo. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced -- there was a sense of familiarity, of knowing exactly where the most sensitive spots were, juxtaposed with a feeling of experiencing D'Argo's maleness, his alienness, as something exotic and new. He knew that by taking him in his mouth this way, he was showing his submission, something he had feared and thought of with distaste -- but he felt no weakness or shame.

He would have gone on, but D'Argo stopped him, pulled him to his feet. John looked at him expectantly, half-disappointed that it was over. D'Argo pushed him, but with no anger or violence, toward the storage containers that were stacked against the back wall. He went, wondering what was going to happen now.

~~*~~*~~

Still gentle, D'Argo turned him to face the waist-high stack of containers and pushed his shoulders down. Startled, Crichton rebelled for a moment, pushing back against the hand that guided him down.

"It's almost over, John." D'Argo said quietly.

Crichton relaxed, trusting D'Argo to do whatever this act required. He felt D'Argo's hands pulling at his pants, and startled himself by unzipping them and lowering them himself without being asked. He felt almost as if his thoughts were floating, moving slowly just out of his reach, and it was simpler, easier, to do what he was expected to do. In a strange way, it felt very safe to surrender like this, and rather than fight it, he went along. This act of submitting to the will of another did have a purpose, he realized. He was literally putting his body under D'Argo's control, and forming a powerful bond of trust with him. Okay, I'm submitting, he thought. Whatever happens, happens.

He felt D'Argo move in close behind him, then lean to the side, reaching for the small clay bottle he had brought with him. "What is that?" he asked.

"A cream. It will make things easier for you, and the herbs in it will enhance the sensation. I am aware that this is new to you, and I do not wish to cause you pain." Crichton felt a silky coolness at the center of himself as D'Argo smoothed the cream, whatever it was, between the cheeks of his ass. The coolness turned to warmth and tingling. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the container, and waited.

After a moment, he felt the head of D'Argo's cock press against him, then slowly push its way inside. There was no pain, only a momentary sense of being too full, of being invaded, and then only pleasure. He was aware of D'Argo leaning over him, of his breath against his back, and of the movement of the shaft deep inside him, piercing him and withdrawing, over and over. His own cock hardened, almost painfully, and he arched his back up toward D'Argo's chest. D'Argo set the pace, faster now, and Crichton found himself moving with it, matching it, his cock throbbing in time to the stroke of D'Argo's cock inside him.

He heard D'Argo's moan at the same moment he felt the cock buried deep inside him pumping, felt the warmth of D'Argo's release, and it was enough to push him over the edge into his own release. The warrior sank down against him for a moment, then pulled away. It was over, and John felt the fog he had been floating in, the sensation of submission, lift, clearing his mind. He stood, hearing the rustle of cloth behind him as D'Argo refastened his clothing. He pulled up his own pants, rezipping them, delaying the moment when he would have to turn around.

Oddly enough, however, he didn't feel half as embarrased as he thought he would. Steeling himself, he turned around and saw D'Argo smiling at him. D'Argo stepped toward him, holding his hand out. John looked at it, then back and D'Argo, and smiled back, remembering telling D'Argo that warriors on earth did this to prove they held no weapon. He accepted D'Argo's handshake.

"So we're allies now, right?" he asked.

"There is one more thing." D'Argo replied, reaching for the small blade he had taken from his tunic earlier.

"What's that?" John asked. Before, he would have run from the sight of D'Argo approaching him with a knife, even a small one -- but now, he trusted him, and stood fast.

"As allies, the same blood flows through our veins. This is a ceremonial knife. By mingling our blood, we seal the alliance for all time." D'Argo said, drawing the blade across his palm and bringing dark red, almost black blood.

"Wait a minute, isn't that dangerous for you? To bleed like that?" John asked, concerned.

"It shows that I trust you, implicitly. That I would bleed for you, no matter the cost." D'Argo reversed the blade and handed it to him, hilt first. After a moment, John took it and sliced the edge across his palm, blood welling from the edges of the cut.

"Okay, big guy. I guess we're blood brothers now." He held out his hand, and D'Argo took it, the cuts on their palms pressed together. John squeezed D'Argo's hand with all his strength, and D'Argo smiled approvingly. When they released their grasp, the blood seeping from D'Argo's palm was clear, tainted slightly pink by the blood from Crichton's hand.

~~*~~*~~

EPILOGUE -- takes place during the events in "A Human Reaction."

D'Argo stood before the viewscreen in Command, watching as Crichton's tiny, fragile ship slipped closer to the gaping maw of the wormhole. But Crichton was not taking his ship over the brink -- he was hesitating, and though it tore at D'Argo's hearts to see his friend and ally leave, he knew what he had to say.

"Crichton."

"Yeah, D'Argo."

"I understand the fear. If you don't do this now, you will regret it forever. You must go now. Do it, John." he said, knowing that he would probably never see Crichton again.

"Thanks, big guy." Crichton answered, and D'Argo watched as the ship slipped into the wormhole. He glanced over at Aeryn -- stoic as always, he could tell that Crichton's departure was equally hard for her. She and the others would never fully understand why he had been so insistent that they continue their search for Crichton during the quarter-cycle after he had been left behind. He ached to ask her now to say the word, to tell him that they should go after Crichton.

She looked up and met his eyes. Unspoken, and barely understood on her part, they made the decision to go after him.

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