Amok by Brenda Antrim. Rated NC17 for explicitness and S for Sillysmut. Dedicated to MG, who put the Action in action figures. No copyright infringement intended with any of the characters parodied within, with affection. Special thanks to Hasbro for giving Kenobi such wonderful flexibility. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Hail pounded the roof, rattling the windows under the force of near-gale winds, seeming to fall horizontally. Felines prowled, howled, and finally cowered, growling. High above the common rooms, a small cylindrical form squatted, humming quietly to itself. Just waiting for its moment. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Young Princess Amidala, grateful to be shut of that bloody stifling gown with the big yellow eyeballs weighting down the hem, stared at the girl in the black velvet mini-dress with the silver sparkling fireworks bursting out all over it and wondered who'd invited the Babysitter's Club to the party. She glanced down at her own tightly-fitted white chiffon mini-dress, dotted with delicate black, and the bright red pumps on her feet. She hated hosting a party where she was, one, too damned young to enjoy it and two, stuck playing DJ instead of partying down with the Big Boys. No. She was tucked away, brushing elbows and hips with this cinnamon skinned, big eyed, long raven-haired ... her mind flashed to Anakin, and she silently thanked whoever directed her fate for sparing her from that. Given a choice, she'd take the chick. Even if she wasn't quite sure what to do with her. She sighed again, plunked her earphones over her head, and sullenly spun vinyl. Maybe, if she was really good, she could ... accidentally ... trip and land down in the basement. There were so many interesting sounds seeping up through the cracks in the floor! The music swelled, then cranked, then wailed, and she grinned into the beat. Oh, well. Maybe in a couple years. When she was old enough to date. A slender hand, strong from hours with an artist's brush, glanced over her wrist, lingering before retreating to the base of the microphone. A shiver chased its way down Amidala's spine. Or maybe ... sooner. If she got lucky. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! A floor above the giddy teens exploring their sexuality at the sound board, an elegantly dressed woman, brunette hair in an elegant twist held back with a sparkling tiara, glanced worriedly at her companion. Holly was used to being on her own -- the others were so, so ... unrefined. But this newcomer ... she had an elegance of her own, one with which Holly couldn't compete. She felt an unabashed homesickness sweep through her delicate frame, and her wrap slipped from one shoulder, nearly knocking her little black bag from her hand. A wide, feminine hand reached out and caught it before the end of the wrap could land in the Tiffany's popcorn bag at their feet. A tall crown of black ostrich feathers swept around, and the line of rubies on the circlet around the strangely white face glinted. Holly swallowed. In her sweeping black lace gown with its French Imperials embroidered about the hem, the gold thread highlighting cuffs, bodice and skirt, the figure was queenly in a distant, alien way outside anything in Holly's experience. She licked lips gone dry. An eon of staring into calm brown eyes later, she took a deep breath, straightened her already ruler-straight spine, and blurted out the question trembling on her lips. "Who IS your dressmaker??" The white mouth with the tiny red square in the center of the bottom lip curved. "In a place, very long ago and far away ..." ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Jedi Master Qui Gon Jinn stood and stared, caught in a strange paralyzing web of Force. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't possible. Yet, there it was. Obi Wan Kenobi, once his Padawan, his pride and joy, his charge and his future, strained in the grip of a handsome, polished blond man wearing the dark, flowing robes of a Sith Lord. His lightsaber lay on the floor on front of where the Sith had Obi Wan on his knees. His over-robe was pushed from his shoulders, tangled around his arms, binding them to his sides. His head was back, his eyes wide, and Jinn could feel the conflict through the Force as the Knight fought for his soul without making a move or a sound. Anakin! A boy no longer, nor an apprentice, but something evil, twisted, behind the sandy blond hair, the gleaming blue eyes, the perfect white smile. One hand was at the back of Obi Wan's neck, the other exploring down the front of his tunic. Obi Wan was writhing, squirming, turning ... but Qui Gon couldn't tell if he was turning away, or toward, the tormenting touch. Anakin's head dipped as he nuzzled at the side of Obi Wan's throat, and Qui Gon was startled to realize that the boy he'd known was now taller than Obi Wan. When had it happened? WHAT had happened? Moments ago he'd been in the fight of his life against a Zabrak Sith with a double-headed red lightsaber, his Padawan had a braid, and Anakin was a ten year old. Now, the blink of a universe later, Obi Wan had hair halfway to his ass, Anakin was the Sith, the Zabrak was nowhere to be seen, and at least ten years had passed. And it looked like the Jedi and the Sith had found a most unusual way to bring balance to the Force. But that was a story for another day ... another year ... another universe. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Apart from the majority of the action, on the fringes but still preternaturally aware that something weird was going on, the Slayer and the Witch moved closer to the strange sounds. Slurping and licking, grunting and groaning, screaming and crying ... it sounded like a whole pack of vampires and demons were throwing their own version of a rave. The way it usually worked, the E would be Human and the blood would be flowing. Big blue eyes narrowed and a deceptively slender hand tightened around the sharpened wooden stake. Buffy was happy to have Mr. Pointy with her; something about the familiar weight in her fist calmed and focused her. Sneaking up on her prey, she swung into action, Willow glued to her side. She stopped so fast Willow crashed right into her, bringing them both down. For once, she had a sneaking suspicion this wasn't something Giles would be able to explain with his books. And if he could explain it without his books, it was too much information. For her, at least. Luckily, the 'prey' was too preoccupied doing things to one another that Buffy hadn't even heard of, much less tried, to notice one klutzy Slayer and her sidekick. Buffy could only be thankful. Thankful, too, that the Project soldier boys weren't out with their heat-seeking -- or coolth-seeking -- rifle sights. She was glowing brightly enough to light up half of Sunnydale. Willow was blushing bright enough to light up the other half. Buffy stood there, Mr. Pointy swinging uselessly at her side, as she tried to find somewhere, anywhere to look that was within her age range of acceptability. Finally, Willow took pity on both of them and took charge. "Not our place, Buff," she determined. Buffy nodded gratefully and turned to go, doing her best to make all-out retreat look like confident leadership. Behind her, Willow threw a longing look over her shoulder, then turned to give her best friend a calculating look. Possibilities. Definite possibilities. One way or another. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Princess Leia adjusted her floating white draperies and smiled up into the dark eyes smiling down into hers. She'd spent so long being a rebel and a fighter she'd forgotten what it was like to dally with a lovely stranger. She didn't exactly remember how she'd gotten where she was, but it didn't really matter. The stranger was lovely, the air was still, with no sound of explosions or the cries of dying soldiers. The war was outside the walls somewhere far away, and Darth Vader was nowhere in sight. Life was good. She lifted a hand and ran a fingertip down the sculpted cheekbone of the regal woman holding her. Fine black hair drifted artfully around the woman's head, heavy circles of gold highlighted her ears. She was dressed in a silky gown of red, highlighting the rich brown tones of her skin. Leia dipped her head and opened her mouth over the warmth at the inner bend of the woman's elbow. She was rewarded with a glowing smile. "I'm Leia," she offered, trailing kisses along the line of biceps, over a collarbone, up the side of a soft throat that hummed approvingly under her mouth. She blew lightly in one ornamented ear, then butterfly-kissed along a high cheekbone, over satin skin until she reached a full, sweet mouth. "Make me forget." "Forget what?" a resonant contralto voice thrummed along her veins, then her lips were captured and a strong tongue played her mouth like an instrument. Long-fingered hands joined the orchestra, and her body was singing silent harmonies as she melted into the kiss. When they finally broke for breath, both were light-headed. "I don't remember," Leia grinned impishly. The other woman laughed wickedly. "Good," she purred, and Leia wriggled involuntarily. "There's only one thing you need to remember." Another indecently decadent kiss, and Leia stared dizzily up at her prize. "Wha-?" she tried to ask, but she was preoccupied with the knee working its way between her own, and lost her train of thought. "My name's Uhura," the goddess whispered, then turned them both until she was lying over Leia's body before wiping every other thought from Leia's mind. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Chains? Since when did Jedi discipline include chains? And since when did he mete it out? To humans? Who weren't Jedi? Who appeared to be enjoying it? Mace Windu stared down the not-inconsiderable length of his body to the man sitting contentedly at his feet. Sherry brown eyes glanced up at him, warmth and humor in their depths. Not precisely what one would expect when the person with that glance was dressed in naught but a pair of light leggings and a fine gold chain running from wrist to wrist and up to one's belt loop. This posed several questions, many philosophical, a few practical, one incredulous. Since when did Jedi Masters dress in nothing more than a black leather vest and trousers? With a thick leather belt and multiple belt loops, from one of which trailed the chain binding his ... slave? Mace felt dizzy. Summoning years of training in meditation, serenity, and composure, he drew in a breath and prepared to release the unusual emotions he was inundated with out into the Force. He exhaled with a little more force than intended, as the slave leaned over, nuzzled into his crotch, and licked the length of an erection he hadn't even realized he had from root to tip through the leather. "Got a bit of a problem there, sonny," the man pronounced with an unusual rolling burr. It sounded like a less refined version of young Padawan Kenobi's drawl. In the next instant he lost any interest in linguistic mysteries as that square jaw moved and strong teeth worried at the end of his erection. With a quick nip that left Mace wanting much more, the man rubbed his face against the spot of moisture spreading across the leather, and grinned. "I can help you with that!" Then those teeth started working again, the chains came into play, and Master Mace went down for the count. Several enjoyable hours later, the man leaned over the supine, nearly-unconscious figure of the Jedi Master and thoughtfully dragged the fine links of chains through the mess of sweat and other body fluids gluing them together. "I dinna think he can give us any more, Captain," he laughed to himself. Mace hadn't nearly enough brain cells left functioning to even attempt to translate. So he contented himself with pulling the man into his arms, wrapping the chains securely in his fist, and curling up to take a much needed nap. Later, much later, he'd figure it out. Maybe. Or maybe he'd just stop thinking and enjoy himself for once in his life. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Data stared down at the figures at his feet and wondered in what parallel universe he had suddenly appeared, when it had happened that he hadn't noticed, and why none of his internal sensors had raised an alarm or even noticed any shifts in the space/time/reality continuum. He automatically froze, eyes glazing over slightly. A slight whir sounded as his cranial machinery went into overdrive. Checks of all primary, secondary and even tertiary systems were initiated, running at faster than the speed of human thought. Everything seemed to be in place. He was not in immediate danger, although he didn't see his Captain, which put him on alert. Internal diagnostics completed, he gradually opened his awareness to his surroundings. He blinked. Twice. A third time. Well, at least he still had his uniform on. Of course, that didn't explain the fine gold chains running from his clenched right fist down to two men who appeared to be his captives. The chains flowed from his hand to terminate at two ornately worked gold cuffs, nearly twenty centimeters wide. The cuffs circled his prisoners' wrists, one cuff, one wrist, on each man. Both men were pale skinned, not nearly as pale as himself, of course, but fair-skinned humans. Both were brunet. Both were finely muscled. One had a pink undertone to his skin, with rich chestnut brown hair. The other had a golden undertone, with blue-black hair. Data's left hand was against the golden one's cheek, brushing the skin lightly with the backs of his knuckles. One fine brow arched almost imperceptibly. Experimentally, he tugged at the chain. Both heads turned up to meet his inquiring gaze, and he froze all over again. Accessing his memory banks and comparing their facial characteristics their contents, at lightning speed, he was able to pinpoint the time he'd landed in, if not the reality. No reality he knew ever contained Commander Pavel Chekov and Captain Hikaru Sulu, wearing nothing but identical blue denim trousers, crouched at his feet, chained to his command. The universe tilted further to port, as the two dark heads leaned toward one another and two sets of finely sculpted lips opened over one another. Unchained hands met, clung, steadied the two men, as they kissed one another with great attention to detail. Data was impressed, both by their technique and their thoroughness. The other brow slowly arched to join the first. Chains rattled as the two cuffed wrists slowly moved around behind him, binding his knees with the links of chain between the cuffs and immobilizing him. Not sensing malicious intent in the two Starfleet officers, Data allowed his innate curiosity to dictate his actions. He stood there and waited to see what they'd do next. They didn't disappoint, although were he capable of it, he would have been shocked. Still without a word being exchanged, in the manner of extremely well trained pleasure workers, Captain Sulu and Commander Chekov broke their kiss, turned their heads toward his body, and moved forward in much the same way a two-headed snake might strike. Captain Sulu nipped the closures of his trousers open. Commander Chekov snagged the waistband of Data's briefs in his teeth and pulled them efficiently down Data's thighs. Captain Sulu then captured the head of Data's phallus in his mouth and sucked it strongly, while Commander Chekov pushed his head lower, washing both of Data's testicles quite thoroughly with his tongue. Data would have pronounced himself satisfied with the status of all his parts, were he able to speak at all without making a garbling noise, but his vocal circuits seemed to have shorted out, along with all his higher reasoning functions. As the chain, the mens' hands, and their busy mouths toppled him over into a controlled fall, catching and crawling along him, never ceasing their truly talented assault on his person, one final thought managed to form itself in his cerebral cortex before it melted to slag in a burst of sheer sensation. Thank the MAKER he was fully functional. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Commander William Riker stared up at the challenging blue eyes in the grinning face above his and wondered what the hell he'd landed in this time and what had happened to the rest of the crew. It didn't look like Risa, but it sure felt like it. And the young man straddling his thighs didn't look anything like Deanna, or Etana, for that matter. No, if he'd known this man before, he'd certainly have remembered him. The bizarre hairstyle would ensure that, if nothing else. There was a stubby tail of hair sticking out at the back of his head, and a long skinny braid hanging over one shoulder. Riker would have found it absolutely ridiculous, except he got distracted. The young man bent over him. Wrapped the braid around his penis. Flicked it up and around like his dick was a drop spindle and the braid was its thread. Riker's hand was on the ponytail and he was using it for a handle in a heartbeat as he bucked up into the man's mouth. The man never even paused. He just moaned, deep in his throat around Riker's dick, the vibrations nearly sending Riker into orbit without benefit of a starship. Then he took that braid -- that braid! -- and began rimming Riker with the brushy end of it as he did his damnedest to suck Riker's dick right off his body. Empathy had nothing on talent like this. Involuntarily, his ass was trying to catch that braid while his dick was trying to burrow all the way down that throat, and he had to remind himself not to yank the poor kid bald with that oh-so-handy handle at the back of his skull. Whoever'd designed that weird hairdo had a lot of foresight and, whoever he was, knew one hell of a lot about fellatio. The thought struck him that he'd never look at braids quite the same way again, when the kid did something inCREDible with the tip of his tongue and the tip of his braid at the same time, and Riker exploded into several billions tiny fragments. Billions and billions and billions. When he finally came to himself again, he was starfished all over the couch he'd previously been sprawled over. The binding on the tail at the back of the man's head had come undone, and it fanned out behind him. Looked good. The braid was caught up ... in the man's mouth ... by the tip. His cheeks were moving. Somehow, knowing where that braid had been, the dreamy look on the kid's face as he sucked the tip of it became the single most erotic thing Riker had ever seen in his life. If his dick hadn't been drained dry to the bottom of the well he'd've been hard again. As it was, it tried to twitch. The abortive attempt at a hard-on caught the man's attention, and the dreamy gaze sharpened. A nearly insane grin spread over his face, highlighting the dimple in his chin and the beauty mark high on his cheek. Then Riker forgot the pretty face as the man unfastened his shorts and pulled out a hard piece of meat that made Riker's dick blush. Kid? The kid was a rhinoceros. Not only that ... there was a gold ring extending from the slit and disappearing into the soft skin at the base of the head. Riker was caught between wincing and salivating. The man solved his dilemma by reaching out, tugging at his beard until he opened his mouth, then feeding him what felt like a meter of dick. The ring pressed, warm and hard, against his tongue. His hands rose all on their own and cupped an ass that felt like polished rock. As he lay back on the couch and let the man fuck his mouth, he closed his eyes in bliss and forgot about Risa. Wherever the hell he was, it was pleasure planet enough for him! ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Omnipotence had its price, but it also had its perks. Being in more than one plane of existence at the same time could fall under either category. This particular time, Q rather thought it would have to qualify as a perk. Moving at the rate of pure energy, invisible to those around him, he wove in and through scene after scene of intimacy ranging from blatant debauchery to tender romance. It was exhilarating, not that he'd ever let the silly beings engaged in the activity know he found it so. He smirked at a group scene, made a mental note to come back to it. Q approved the quality of the duplicates involved in it and approved even more of their total disregard for the fact that there were unexpected twins (and sextuplets) popping up throughout the various orgies. Who cared for standardization across the varied planes of existence when there was hot sex to be had? Speaking of which, a lone figure leaning against the wall in the far corner caught his attention. Q floated away from the demigod being erotically mauled by the mutant beast king and centered on the slender caramel colored body arrayed in lonely splendor for no one's appreciation but his own. Another nice thing about being Q was the ability to see through clothing. He materialized directly in front of young Bashir and nearly gave the boy a coronary. Before the doctor was forced to heal himself, Q swooped him up into his arms. Bashir reacted as expected. He started to talk. Agitatedly. Without pausing for breath. As was his wont, Q tuned out the torrent of words and concentrated on body language. Bashir's was telling. Seemed like the Cardassian wasn't doing his duties. The boy was starved for touch. Long legs wrapped around Q's waist, long arms wrapped around his neck, and long everything strained up against him. Q grinned into the warmth of the long neck he was currently marking. Length had its advantages. Wishing them both away somewhere private, and their clothing somewhere else, Q explored all the different ways length, omnipotence, and pure energy could translate into total exhaustion. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! This was an absolutely ridiculous situation for the God of War to find himself in. Ares was not amused. He tipped his head back, then when that didn't budge the stupid oversized leather cap he'd had plopped on his head, he pushed at the polished bill with the bottle of blue liquid clamped into his left hand. Well, at least if Zeus was going to punish him, the King of the Gods wasn't letting his son die of thirst. At least, not that kind. An involuntary moan broke from his throat as he saw Xena bend once more to her task. What a task. And how she was enjoying it. The lustrous dark hair fell from a deep purple band, flowing over her shoulder to mingle with the fine fall of spun gold that was Gabrielle's hair. Strands twined around one another in a microcosmic mirroring of their owners' movements, as Xena's hand slid along Gabrielle's slender thigh. Blunt fingers stroked the edge of the Bard's matching purple skirt, slipping over the threads worked into the hem before sliding under it. Sliding home. Judging by the sibilance of Gabrielle's moans, home it was. Ares licked his lips and cursed his lack of Powers. One leap and he'd be there, right in the middle, hands going one way, head going the other, body in sheer unadulterated ecstasy. As it was ... all he could do was watch. Gabrielle's head fell back, her eyes closing and her mouth falling open as Xena worked with precision and care. Fingers moved under the shimmering cloth, and Gabrielle's hips followed their movements, rocking harder and faster as Xena whispered encouragement. Xena's head dipped and her own mouth opened over Gabrielle's throat, biting and licking at it. Xena's right leg moved as she shifted position, and Gabrielle shifted in response, obligingly giving Xena something to ride as both women strained toward climax. It hit hard, and Gabrielle cried out, her voice rippling like a bird's cry. Xena's orgasm was silent, any sound she might have made buried in Gabrielle's throat. Ares watched hungrily as Xena slowly drew her shaking hand out from under Gabrielle's skirt, and bit off a deep groan as she brought the shining fingers to her lips, licking them clean. Gabrielle's bright blue eyes were fixed as surely on that hand as Ares' dark gaze was, and suddenly the blue liquor wasn't anywhere near satisfying his thirst. He made a move toward the women, unaware of the low growl coming from his throat. He got one step before an inhumanly strong paw wrapped around his forearm and yanked him back into place. The stupid hat tipped back over his eyes, and he splashed alcohol on himself shoving it back out of the way. He whirled, as best he could in the tight grip, and glared at his captor. Up. A long way up. Loose golden brown curls framed a face that wasn't human, wasn't feline, was a little of both. A ridiculous tiny red bow sat at the top of the curls on the lion-man's head. It should have been silly. The lion-man should have been a joke. Then he smiled. Ares gulped. There was nothing funny about those fangs. Or the feral light shining from the strange brown eyes. Or the three inch long claws extending from the toe pads of those paws, one still curled around his arm, the other lightly kneading against the leather of his armor. Shredding it. Not leaving a mark on his skin. "Who ..." Ares' voice didn't work. Surely that wimpy little whine hadn't come from him. "They used to call me the Cowardly Lion," the creature rumbled at him, a dark and primal sound. "Now ... they just call me Sire." As the claws hooked into his clothes and pulled them the rest of the way from his body, Ares cast one panicked look over his shoulder. Xena and Gabrielle were in a universe of their own, completely unaware of his distress and imminent need for rescue, not that he'd ever admit that. A rough tongue rasped over his chest hair and nearly sanded the nipple off his chest, and he gulped. "Help?" Not even a whimper. Just a little thread of sound. "Anybody?" Right now, he'd even take Hercules. Somewhere very far off he heard someone laugh, and knew the Pantheon back at Mount Olympus was getting one hell of a show. He didn't think he was in Greece anymore. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! There's no place like home. This wasn't it. It wasn't Jabba the Hutt's so-called palace, but it wasn't home. She wasn't quite sure where it was, actually. There was a strange ghosting feeling skittering through her, almost as if she was somehow in two places at one time, but that made no sense. Leia pulled forward and stopped abruptly as the collar around her neck snapped her back in place. Right. Her chain. For a moment she'd almost managed to forget her leash, but the moment never lasted for long. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, fighting for her composure, waiting for the Hutt's slimy attention to fall on her again. It always hurt. The softness of the mattress under her butt caught her attention first. Then there was the fact that for the first time since she'd landed on Tatooine and tried to rescue Han and ended up in the scraps of leather and velvet that constituted 'clothing' for a dancing girl (as if she could dance! HA!) she wasn't sweating or freezing. In fact, she felt ... almost comfortable. Cautiously, she pried one eye open and peered suspiciously around her. What she saw made her jaw drop. Then she started to sweat again. This time, it wasn't the desert heat. She didn't recognize any of the men sprawled on and around the huge wood and worked iron bed to which she was chained. All were humanoid, four recognizable as standard issue humans, the fifth with lightly green tinged skin that looked natural, not nauseated, flyaway brows and, yes, pointed ears. Her mind supplied a long-forgotten term from her childhood. 'Elf,' but that didn't seem to fit. To the best of her recollection of folk tales, elves were fey, thin, delicate creatures. This one was thin, but he looked like he could take on a Wookie and win. Without cheating. The green man was seated at the edge of the bed, with two brunet humans at his feet. He was obviously their master, judging by their attitudes. He wore a richly worked, heavily brocaded robe in greens and blues that complimented his skin tones. The two human men wore less-richly decorated but still sumptuous robes, open to show off pale skin and reddened nipples. One man, with darker hair and deep blue eyes, had his erection in his right hand and the other human's erection in his left hand, and was lazily working them up and down. Judging by the sweat and semen splattering them both, the session of sex had been going on awhile. The second man, with curlier hair and twinkling hazel eyes, ran his hands over the green man's thigh and the other human's knee, never pausing, roaming constantly. Leia wasn't exactly naive. She'd been around. She was currently a slave girl, for Sith's sake. That didn't stop her from staring with slack-jawed astonishment at the equipment bulging from the front opening of the green man's brocade robe. True, given the skin tone on the man, she'd expect it to be green. But emerald green? Conical? Thirty centimeters long? Barbed? With three shafts? He stroked one gently. Each of the humans at his feet had an end in their mouths, and they were suckling like babes at a mother's breast. Slowly. Lazily. Perfectly contentedly. Utterly lewdly. Vaguely aware that she was becoming light-headed from lack of oxygen, having forgotten to breathe, she dragged in a gulp of air. The trio didn't hear her gasping like a stranded fish, too caught up in the green man's orgasm. He hissed something that sounded like "Jimbones," no doubt some arcane blessing or curse from some far alien planet. Whatever it meant, it was obviously complimentary, because both men smiled at him, as well as they could with their mouths distended by the sheer bulk they were swallowing. Tiny trails of mint green fluid leaked from the corners of their mouths, and with an effort she pulled her gaze away. The wet sounds of licking followed her, and she curled up on the bed, determinedly turning her back to the floor show. Which only left her face to groin with the bed show. A patrician man with a haughty expression leaned on one elbow, an impressive erection pushing aside a garment that looked suspiciously like a Jedi Knight's robe. One long-fingered hand rested lightly against the side of an angry red erection. He was ignoring his obvious need and, oddly enough, lecturing the man sprawled next to him. "Seriously, Benjamin, this Emissary business is ridiculous. The beings in the wormhole are second rate hams with delusions of grandeur, and the Continuum washed our hands of them millennia ago. You'd be much better off sticking with me." A bald man with gleaming dark brown skin stared down at the conceited man. The second one in this pair was dressed in a Jedi Master's robe. Something told Leia neither one was Jedi, but it made as much sense as anything else since she'd exchanged the Hutt's palace for what was apparently a sex den. For everyone but her. At that point, her attention was caught by a flash of gold between the dark man's thighs, nearly buried in the black curls around his testicles. In appalled fascination, she peered closely. Oh, Sith. What a place to have a golden ring piercing one. As she shuddered in mute sympathy, the Knight -- or Knight Wannabe -- flipped over into a prone position, his face centimeters from the Master's thighs. One hand slipped down to cover and pull at his erection. The other dipped with unerring precision directly to that ring. Two fingers curled into it and tugged. Leia groaned. The Master arched back. Instead of slugging the Knight, which Leia expected, he spread his knees and threw his head back. "God! Prophets! Yes!!" The Knight laughed, a lushly evil sound. "Neither, but why not? If it works, go with it." Then he ran his tongue from the Master's Adam's apple, down his chest on a straight path over his stomach, swiped at his penis, then landed at the ring. The fingers were replaced by a long, practically prehensile tongue, and Leia didn't know whether to scream or swoon. She didn't have much practice with either. Right about then, she felt the lack of training keenly. As the Master began to convulse, pulsing creamy fluid over the Knight's face, babbling incoherently, Leia shut her eyes. Threw her arms over her head. Wondered why the only time she ever got any was with an overfed slug in a desert stronghold made of spare parts. She really missed Han. And swore, one day, it would all be hers. Except the Hutt, of course. She'd get Luke to kill him. Soon. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Admiral Quigon Jinn rocked on his feet as the transport completed. Shaking his long hair back into place over his shoulders, he pinned on his best 'diplomat' face and prepared to meet the Suvin IV trade delegation with proper Federation dignity. First contact could be difficult, but it was his specialty, and he felt up to the challenge. His jaw dropped open. His knees froze. His tongue dried in his mouth. So much for dignity. There was a draft beside him, but he was so taken aback by the unabashed carnality rollicking on every side of him he didn't notice the arrival of another until an amused voice spoke in his ear. "Admiral Jinn? From the starship Farseer?" Quigon finally tore his eyes away from the orgies in progress and looked beside him. Then he adjusted his gaze six inches down. Ah, there he was. The jaw he'd finally managed to close dropped right back open. He wasn't very big, but he was absolutely adorable. The Suvin ambassador was sturdy but graceful with it, short but well proportioned, with a warrior's stance, an artist's hands and an infectious smile. His ceremonial raiment was dark, almost coal-black. The closely fitted coat accentuated his broad shoulders, then dropped low to skim his knees in back, giving him the illusion of height that was echoed by the narrow black trousers covering his muscular legs. The severity of the garment was broken by a snow white shirt, accented by a band of silver and black at his waist and throat. The unusual look complimented his body beautifully, and was matched by the traditional formal styling of his hair, with one long thin plait pulled forward over his shoulder, the beads decorating it the only ornamentation he wore. The style suited him, showcasing his handsome face, lively blue eyes, strong hands and stocky body. For the first time in his long career as a diplomat, Admiral Jinn completely ignored the Prime Directive, his mission, his direct orders, and everything else that had suddenly become irrelevant. Taking a deep breath of the musk swimming in the air from all the varied pairings and multiples having sex all around him, he smiled down at the Suvin. "Ambassador," he invited gravely, "would you care to take this discussion someplace more private?" He was gifted with that incredible grin again, and the Suvin gestured toward the door. "After you, dear sir. By the way, my name is Obiwan." The admiral's grin grew a little fierce with anticipation. "Please. Call me Quigon. I have the feeling we're going to get to know one another very well." From behind him, quietly, he heard the puzzled answer, "I think, somehow, somewhere, we already do." ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Captain Christopher Pike shook his head, and wondered what was going on now. True, he'd asked to be put back on Talos IV when he was crippled and needed the comfort of the illusion of wholeness the Talosians could provide. Radiation burns over 96% of his body and the inability to do more than blink, slowly, wasn't his idea of a good time. But a pirate's jacket? Complete with frilly white linen shirt and lace at his collar and cuffs? He shook his head again, and looked around somewhat frantically. Okay, he could handle the pirate fantasy, it was probably the blonde getting frisky again. One'd think the broad never got enough. But still, he'd've like a say in it. At least in the costuming. Not that the shirt was so bad, actually. And the blue and gold was kind of gaudy, but no doubt highlighted his eyes. He grinned a little cockily. Yeah, okay, he could deal with playing the Pirate Prince. A hand caught in his cuff and he spun around, smiling jauntily, chest pushed out, relishing the pose, the tightness of the black leggings, the rasp of fine cloth against his nipples. He looked good and he knew it. He was ready for -- he choked. Uh, this wasn't his blonde. This was a brunet. Guy. Pike swallowed a couple times, willing his throat to work up some spit so he could do more than just click when he tried to talk. The man was staring back at him, looking as stunned as Pike felt. The guy looked pretty much like a pirate himself, in black trousers, a black shirt of fine mesh with a brown satin sash around his waist and bare feet. A guy who actually looked pretty damned good, now that he was able to blink again. Who knew he'd miss blinking? Or swallowing? Or breathing, for that matter? Then the guy grinned at him, a dangerous rogue's grin that highlighted the sparkling green-brown eyes, the white teeth, the little scar on his chin. Now, this guy was a pirate. At that point, Pike forgot how to think. He didn't forget how to move. Blessing the Talosians and all those late night katas with Spock, he stepped forward in perfect harmony with the pirate's movements, a complex, instinctive dance that left both of them precisely where they wanted to be. Big hands tangled in his hair, nearly breaking his concentration, since it'd been awhile since anyone had dared muss his hair. Then a tongue invaded his mouth, a hard prick nudged at his groin with enough force to nearly knock him over, strong legs moved between his, and the world narrowed to his body and the body that was attached to it. Wherever they'd gotten this fantasy, he was all for it. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! She didn't believe it. It was bad enough that Mulder was flat on his back with his arms spread, hands digging into the blanket he was sprawled upon. It was worse that his legs were up over the stranger's shoulders, his heels digging into what looked appallingly like billowing gold lame with glittery trim. It was incredibly bad that he should be howling like a cat in heat and perfectly unconcerned with any possible spectators. After all, she knew his taste was occasionally awful. Who could trust Krycek? As for their boss, she was NOT going to go there.   No, the worst, truly unbelievable part of Fox Mulder on his back taking it like a slut and loving it was the fact that the man with his mouth working on Mulder's erection had white hair. Blue skin. And antennae. Even more bizarre, from a physiological standpoint, he appeared to be double jointed. Not only was he sucking Mulder, he was fucking him. At the same time. And to make matters as bad as they could be ... the man had a bifurcated penis. That vibrated like a tuning fork. And he knew how to use it. He'd push his hips all the way in, then jump a little, and pull back so just the very end of Mulder's penis was in his mouth, and Mulder would howl. Then he'd pull almost all the way out, so the tips of his penis slash tuning fork were just stretching the opening to Mulder's body, then he'd slide his head all the way down so his chin was resting against Mulder's testicles. Then he'd jump again, and the two trunks of his penis would quiver. Mulder would shake. And howl. All the noise was giving Scully a headache. Not to mention a serious case of penis envy. This wasn't what she'd expected when she'd come over to Mulder's place that afternoon, and he'd suggested a little side trip on the way to the airport. Just needed to pick something up from a friend, he'd said. Just take a second, he'd said. Wouldn't even make them late for check-in, he'd said. He'd lied. They'd stopped the car, he'd sauntered up the sidewalk, and disappeared. She'd waited. He'd howled, the sound muffled, from deep inside the building somewhere. Her gun was in her hand and she was on her way to rescue him without a thought. She'd kicked the door open, yelled warning, identifying herself, screaming his name, the standard routine. Then she'd rounded a corner, the world had tilted, and the standard became suddenly and abruptly the bizarre. The blue-skinned antennaed very flexible man with the tuning fork where his penis should be who couldn't possible exist pulled his mouth all the way off Mulder's penis, shoved his own strange equipment so far up her partner she was certain Mulder could feel it in the back of his throat, and did some howling himself. Mulder tried to howl in counterpoint, but his voice was gone by then. "Thank you, God," Scully muttered. Then Mulder was twitching and coming and whimpering with his mouth wide open, and suddenly Scully could understand completely why Krycek would keep coming back. Not to mention their boss, because she just couldn't. The blue man seemed to agree with her instincts, because his antennae rotated, quivered, and sagged, along with the body they were attached to, collapsing to lay over Mulder in a cloud of blue-skinned muscles and shimmering gold robes. Dazed hazel eyes peered blearily at her over one rounded (blue) shoulder. A drunken grin stretched Mulder's swollen lips, and Scully sighed, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. Knowing, for once in her life, she was going to say yes. "Hey, Scully. Wanna play?" ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Tom blinked and paused mid-reach, hand not making it to his communicator pin because it had run into an obstacle before it could touch his chest. Instead, his fingertips landed in soft hair over a hard skull. Then a breeze tickled the back of his knees, and his shoulder blades scraped against what felt like unfinished concrete, and he froze. B'Elanna? A warm mouth closed over his nipple and began to suck, then teeth scored lightly at the tender flesh. He shuddered, suddenly thankful both that he hadn't said the name aloud and that it wasn't his girlfriend. The last time Torres had forgotten herself and nibbled his nipple he'd had to have the Doc regenerate the damned thing. Klingon teeth were not constructed for gentle nipping. On the other hand, or mouth, these teeth knew precisely what they were doing. Tom moaned breathily before he could stop it, then looked down, half hoping, half fearful that the mouth would stop. Shining black eyes crinkled up at him, although the mouth didn't stop, and was too full to actually smile. The broad forehead did wrinkle, though, making an interesting pattern in the tattoo. At that point, Tom was glad that his back was against the wall and that arms were wrapped around his waist and hands were digging into his ass, because without all the support he'd've fallen over onto his ass. He wasn't quite sure just when Chakotay had decided to make a feast of him, or when he'd said yes, or if he'd had one too many and let loose a few deeply buried fantasies when he was last reconfiguring Tuvok's holodeck program. Although if that was the case, he hoped like hell neither Tuvok nor Harry would walk in on them. As for B'Elanna ... he just wasn't going there. Not with Chakotay making a meal of his chest. Not with the little growling noises he couldn't seem to stop cascading out of him. Not while fingers were working at him and his knees were going on him and the world was spinning around him. Wherever he was, he hoped it didn't end for a very long time. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! In the center of the world where universes collide, one small cyclone of activity emerged, the nucleus for this particular brand of insanity. At the center were two identical men, with short brushy ginger hair, long thin plaits hanging over their right shoulders, and truncated tails at the backs of their heads. Identical light blue eyes, strong bodies, and cleft chins completed the similarities. That's precisely where the similarities ended. They weren't clones, nor were they twins, but a manifestation of need and lust, perhaps birthed by the Force itself. They linked disparate parts of their universe together, between them touching and embracing any and all possible permutations of intimacy in their conceptions of the world. They were linked by more than resemblance, more than blood. Heavy worked gold chain stretched between them, binding the left wrist of one to the right wrist of the other with the aid of thick, knotted and etched gold cuffs that stretched halfway up their forearms. Only through the conduit of the metal did they touch one another. Touch was saved for the others. One was dressed in red to warm his skin, one in blue to match his eyes. The one in blue wore a vest of teal and crimson, gold and deepest sapphire, framing his chest, leaving his stomach and back bare. Along his legs stretched wide legged trousers of the finest royal blue fabric, the perfect picture of a pleasure slave. This slave reveled in his captivity, pulling away from his brother and leaning against his master, lying at his master's feet. His head rested against shimmering gold material, showcasing skin black as night, the only color the red markings patterning his master's face, ball sac, and the head of his cock. Ivory horns curved in a crown about his skull, the pattern repeated along the front edge of his glans. A single gold ring, with a bead matching the gold links of the chain, pierced the patterned skin of his cockhead directly below the tiny horns. A black leather collar circled his neck, silver studs calling attention to his strength and grace as he challenged the world through yellow eyes. He was a thing of terrible beauty, and the slave worshipped him. They were satisfied for the moment to lean against one another and rest together. The slave wrapped his unchained arm securely around the whipcord strength of his master's calf, and nuzzled the edge of the golden bead. The warrior sighed and moved into the caress. The chain between the brothers rustled as the one in red moved impatiently. Not content to be a slave, he was a free spirit. Lace edged the cuffs of his full-sleeved shirt, and ran from his waist along the sides of his chest to stand at the back of his neck, framing his face. His vest was longer, setting off the lace shirt, complimenting the crimson shorts he wore, which were open to allow his erect cock freedom to breathe. In every way, he was the antithesis of his brother, two faces of the same coin. His cock stood proudly against his belly, head purple and straining, balls tight and full. A ring much like his brother's master's adorned his cock, but this one was halfway down his shaft, piercing either side of the thick vein that ran the length of the front of it. A bead decorated it, as well, and the ring stood out horizontally from the slick skin, pulled taut from the thrust of muscle engorged with blood. His legs were splayed open to allow room for the fullness of his erection, but he kept his hands away from himself. One was chained to his brother. The other was clasped in the hand of a man who stood behind their couch. The man was taller than the others, standing proudly, dressed in nothing but a pair of soft trousers that hugged his thighs, opened to allow a massive erection to spring from his groin. It stood straight up, foreskin drawn back, head swollen and weeping. It was easily twice the size of an average man's, larger even than the black and red monstrosity the slave was currently kissing. In a blatant announcement of masculine strength, as well as an incredibly high pain tolerance level, his right testicle sported a gold ring to match his mate's. A heavy bead pulled at it, but was held high by the sheer size and strength of his sac. His nipples stood out in sharp relief against his tanned chest, and he stared down at the horned head of the one who would be his rival were it not for the multiplicity of brothers. The fifth and final in the nexus of lust was the only blond in the building other than the dark Sith from earlier. Fitting, since in one conception of the universe, he was the Sith's son. He sat between and behind the brothers, and they leaned against his legs, brushing his skin with their hair. The tall man held one shoulder; a black-gloved hand rested on the other. Framed by his destiny, pinned by his hopes, the blond man wore less than any of them. A pair of tan shorts, framing a slender erection, the head of which he massaged with his palm. Not for completion, but for comfort. Wide blue eyes with more innocence than could be imagined stared out at the world. Choices had yet to be made; prices were yet to be paid. For now, there was only raw, unadulterated lust, surrounded by it, riding the crest of it, giving himself over to it. It was enough. For now. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! High above and to the side, in a place of power, a small squat mechanical being whistled merrily to itself. Sweeping it's chrome dome-like head from side to side, it extended a sensor probe and with a whir to zoom and focus, lenses captured perfect holographic representations of absolutely everything going on in the surrounding area. Complete with sight, sound and recognizable, er, faces. R2 D2 whistled away as it aimed, shot, stored, moved, and repeated the process all over again. A droid's life was a long one, and it needed all the ammunition it could get. Who knew? One day it might come in handy, say if it was captured by Jawas on a far away Rim planet and sold for junk parts. It had to have something in reserve to barter with. One always had to think of the future, after all. Even if one was a droid. Perhaps especially if one was a droid. ~ click ~ whir ~ beep! Let the games ... ... run amok. ~e~n~d~