inkscribe

A-Z Fic Index

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 03:27:34 GMT

Welcome to the
Complete A-Z Fic Index
for stories by
inkscribe
and other co-authors

NOTE: Some links at this time will lead to LiveJournal posts. This backup is a work-in-progress.

Beckett/Dex

Title: Coherence
Category: PWP
Summary: Ronon and Carson engage in a profound and private ritual.

Beckett/Lorne

Title: Pict Nae Scot
Category: PWP
Summary: Lorne is a painter.

Title: Word Gets Around
Category: Darkfic
Summary: Rescued from the Wraith, Lorne returns broken.

Beckett/McKay

Title: The Admonishment of Rodney McKay-Beckett
Co-author: nickespix
Category: PWP
Summary: Carson helps Rodney remember to keep his priorities straight.

Title: Your Reward is Neither Here Nor There
Co-author: pushkin666
Category: Darkfic
Summary: This is AU. Rodney is addicted to stimulants. He strikes a bargain with Carson. This has dominant creepy Carson and takes place after The Siege.

Lorne/Zelenka

Title: Puzzling Evidence
Category: Angstfic
Note: WIP, not yet complete
Summary: What we see is not always what it seems.

McKay/Sheppard

Title: Fifth
Category: Slavefic, darkfic
Summary: Based on The Watcher AU by pushkin666, wherein Rodney has taken over Atlantis, effectively operating as a warlord. May be read as a stand-alone story.

Sheppard/Zelenka

Title: Wanting Him
Summary: John wants Radek.

Title: … To Eat From His Hand
Summary: Radek wants John.

Miscellaneous

Title: The Perfect Sky is Torn
Category: Angstfic, G-Rated
Summary: At the end of his days, gate technician Chuck reflects on love, life, and loss.

Title: Doctors Do Dyson
Category: Humour, Ensemble, G-Rated
Summary: In which John misunderstands by accident but the others do so by design.

Title: Longing For Something Yet
Category: Angstfic, snippet
Summary: Carson faces dark thoughts, alone. Part of the Puzzling Evidence storyline.

Title: The Thing About Sunday
Summary: The best-parts version of a bad episode.

Fic: The Perfect Sky is Torn, G, Chuck/Kavanagh/OFC by inkscribe

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 03:14:49 GMT

Title: The Perfect Sky is Torn
Author: inkscribe
Pairings: Chuck/Kavanagh/OFC
Warnings: refers to implied character death. Tissues strongly recommended! Completely work and child-safe … just sad.
Rating: G
Words: ~2,000
Spoilers: none
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: At the end of his days, gate technician Chuck reflects on love, life, and loss.

Author's Notes: Thank you to ankhmutes for the loan of her OFCs, the Athosian Traan and his lovely daughter, Kia. Thank you to both ankhmutes and garneteve for the story’s premise, and for allowing me to give them this bittersweet moment.

The title comes from the song Torn by Natalie Imbruglia.

Beta by mice1900. Read by a few others, all of whom made note of needing tissues by the end (see Warnings, above). Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Thank you also to ankhmutes, garneteve, nickespix, and pushkin666 for holding my hand the last few days. You’re right: writing can make someone feel better. And as the Blues guy on The Simpsons implied, it can also make other people feel worse. My apologies for the latter; I remain grateful for the former.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning.

Chuck felt Kia’s arms around him, her skin searing his with its vital warmth even as he finally stopped shivering.

“Come back to the tent, Father,” she said quietly. “It does no good to stand here.”

He blinked, finally tearing his eyes away from the vast blue blankness of the crisp autumn sky. He knew he was foolish to stand there like that, staring as though he could possibly bring any of them back, bring him back. The blank sky drew him back, though, over and over again, every day that he could manage to crawl from the tent, stumbling and shaking with each step, he would make his way to the cold embers of the fire and stand, looking into the infinite until someone retrieved him.

He felt Kia’s hand on his upper arm, felt her tug gently at him. “Come, Father,” she repeated. “You mustn’t get so chilled. I have your wrap, just inside.”

She took a small step, then relaxed visibly as Chuck allowed himself to be led by her soft touch. He smiled, a quiet, small smile, remembering her as a child, how she’d led him even then, her strength and assurance charming yet utterly sincere.

Sitting with his lover at an informal dinner with the Athosians, Chuck had been taken with the vitality of the young girl. Since his arrival in Atlantis, he had missed his own nephew more than he could imagine, and the girl’s playful manner captivated him, reminding him of those he loved and missed at home. To his surprise, at the end of the meal, she scooted away from her father’s arms and straight into Chuck’s, snuggling into his lap with a contented sigh.

He looked down into her wide eyes, almost like ancient amber in their soft colouring. She stared at him for several moments, then asked loudly:

“So are you sharing tents with my father tonight?”

He had stared at her then in shock, taken aback for a moment. Different people, different culture, he had reminded himself quickly. If he’d ever asked his own parents about their sex habits he probably would’ve been spanked, and spanked hard. Not that he ever would have. Then, as now, the thought of his parents in bed together made him shudder, just because.

Chuck felt rather than saw Kia come to a standstill next to him. “Father?” she asked quietly.

He reached a wizened hand to hers, patting it under his calloused palm. “I’m fine,” he reassured her. “Just lost in an old man’s thoughts.”

She gave him a gentle smile, one that reminded him even now of Teyla, though the two women were related by only distant family ties. “Oh?” she asked.

Now, just as then, he decided the best course of action was to be truthful. “The time when we first met,” he explained.

“Ah yes,” Kia replied, smiling fondly. She stepped in front of him, enveloping his now-frail body with her tall, strong one. “When I gained two new fathers.”

Again, Chuck was struck by the burning warmth of her skin, how she emanated life through every pore. Just like her father, he thought. Traan had seemed almost shockingly young to Chuck when they first met, hardly more than a teenager. He was maybe twenty by Earth-reckoning, yet already had Kia, four years old and full of more energy than two fully-charged ZedPMs. And by Earth standards, he was also already widowed.

Earth standards, Chuck thought, clinging to the warmth of Kia’s body. In truth, they weren’t standards on Earth, just those that Kav and him had grown up with in Canada and the States – marriage was something for two people, not three, five, or seven. Or even four. The Athosians were so … flexible … in their definition of family, an inheritance of the constant reality of cullings.

Chuck forced himself not to look back to the sky again. He felt Kia’s arms tighten around him, a subtle increase in pressure around his body that reminded him of Kav, Kav who always held him when he needed it. He closed his eyes, nestling into the safety of his daughter’s embrace.

”So are you sharing tents with my father tonight?”

He decided that the best course of action was to be truthful, and there was the problem. What to tell her? Chuck still didn’t entirely know how he felt about things, but much to his surprise, he was less and less bothered by the idea than when Kav had first broached the subject.

He swallowed, and he knew a blush came up on his face. “Ah, well …” he said to the girl relaxed in his arms. “I’m not sure.”

She kept blinking up at him with those clear amber eyes. “Not sure?” she asked, clearly not satisfied with the answer. “How can you be not sure?”

This time Chuck was sure he was blushing to the very ends of his toes. “In my culture, we don’t share tents the same way you do in yours,” he explained gently. “I – I’m honoured that your father invited Kav and me to share with him, bit it is a little bit … scary … for me.”

She continued to look at him, now openly surprised. “Scary? Why scary?”

Chuck sighed, and then smiled. “Well, it’s like you. Maybe sometimes you go to a new place, or try a new thing? Sometimes, new things are scary.”

Kia pouted a little. “My father isn’t scary. He is strong and handsome.”

Chuck laughed. “Yes, you’re right, Kia. He is strong and handsome.”

A breeze rattled the leaves of the nearby copse, and Kia shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Chuck’s balding head. “You are strong and handsome,” she said softly, “but the winter winds come soon, and you need to stay warm. Come.”

Chuck smiled again, secretly pleased at her compliment, ridiculous though it was given his body, now shrunken and shaking as his organs slid into failure, one by one. In truth, he was unsurprised that she would say it again just as he remembered her father. Kia was always so sensitive to those around her; doubtless she could practically read his thoughts by now.

Chuck sat, looking into the little girl’s eyes, almost mesmerised by their clarity. Kav’s fingers were entwined with his, and he squeezed back tightly, trying to ground himself in the strength of his lover. He realised that more time probably wasn’t going to make a difference. More time wasn’t going to answer a single one of the unformed questions he had flowing through his mind ever since Kav told him the young Athosian man had approached, asking to be with them, to become part of their pack. Chuck smiled at Kia again, then glanced up at Kav, and then Traan, holding each man’s eyes for a moment before returning to hers.

“I … I think I’d like to share your father’s tent, Kia,” he said softly. “But … like I said, it is a little scary for me.”

Kia’s look was a mixture of pride at her father’s description and something akin to worry about Chuck being scared, so Chuck smiled broadly and added, “Though I’m certain such a strong and handsome man will help keep me from getting too scared, right?”

The little girl giggled, grinning happily at him.

Oh my God, Chuck thought. I just promised to share Traan’s tent. Later? Tonight? Sometime next week. He realised that this had been a long time coming, ever since Kav had mentioned Traan’s interest, but he didn’t expect to have this discussion during a communal meal, and with his newest – partner’s? lover’s? – little daughter.

He gripped Kav’s hand even more tightly, all the while smiling back at the little girl.

Step by careful step, Chuck walked with Kia back to the tent. The healer was right: he didn’t have long to go now. He could feel it inside, the change from the occasional twinge of pain to a constant thrum of ache, slow twisting death creeping through his body. Not for the first time he missed Doctor Beckett and the almost magical machines of Atlantis, and he blinked back tears as he thought of all that they’d lost in those terrible years. He stopped, his breath now harsh and gasping.

“Father?” Kia looked at him, her eyes full of love and gentle worry.

Chuck couldn’t do it – he couldn’t force himself to smile this time. “I miss them,” he whispered between gasps. “All of them.”

“I know,” she said, wrapping her arms around him again, and again burning Chuck with her intense warmth. “We all do.”

Chuck buried his head against her chest, unable to breathe deeply enough for the sob within him to escape. He could taste the sharpness of the coming autumn on the back of his tongue, yet he was unable to draw deep of the clean, sustaining air.

“We had a good life, Father,” he heard her murmur. He felt her stroking his back, comforting him, soothing his fears and sadness. So much like Kav, he thought. He sucked a sudden, deep breath and the sob within him burst forth into the cold morning air. They stood together then, long uncounted moments, Chuck crying softly against his daughter’s chest as she continued to stroke his back.

We did have a good life, he admitted to himself. They loved and laughed and made a family, out here in a galaxy that wasn’t even their own. They fought for their home, and when the city fell, they fought for their lives. Through it all, Kav and Traan and Kia and Chuck managed to stay together, stay alive – even regroup and join the little ragtag band of displaced Lanteans and friends, their tiny family establishing themselves among other survivors.

“I don’t regret it,” Chuck croaked.

He felt Kia shift slightly, then heard her voice, warm and full. “I know you don’t. When I first met you, I knew you would love my father.”

“Yes, I think you did,” he agreed. “You were wise beyond your years.” And Traan was wise beyond his, too, Chuck added silently. So wise, so strong. Laughing. Loving.

Kia was silent for a few moments, then spoke again. “He is almost gone now,” she confessed. “Please, come inside.”

Chuck was surprised by the catch in his throat. “Already?” He felt conflicted, knowing his lover was there, dying centimetre by centimetre, but not yet, not yet. Chuck wasn’t ready to say goodbye; he wasn’t ready to go inside. He turned his face again to the sky, blinking back the tears that welled there anew. He should be here, with us, Chuck thought. He could only hope that he was dead, consumed quickly and without a second thought, not drifting through restless dreams in a Wraith larder. The vastness there threatened to swallow Chuck whole, and he cried out softly, feeling his own pain inside open again, raw and wide as the sky above.

They had a daughter who was strong and proud and full of life. They had lived long and full lives: watched grandchildren come into the worlds, saw season chase season around the planets they traversed. Despite everything, they were only torn apart in their final, dying days. Chuck’s hands shook: it should have been enough. He shouldn’t still want more.

“Please?” Kia pleaded, her voice soft but the need strong.

Chuck looked at her, smiling through his tears. “Yes, let’s go inside. He needs me.” He could do it. Chuck could hold his lover tightly, telling the body that remained that it was loved, even if the mind therein was long gone. Then he could take his own final breaths, knowing his family to be well and whole, though he would not be there to see them again.

Kia lifted the flap, following Chuck into the welcoming warmth within.

Fic: The Admonishment of Rodney McKay-Beckett by inkscribe and nickespix

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 05:10:19 GMT

Title: The Admonishment of Rodney McKay-Beckett
Authors: inkscribe and nicke

Special note: This is a backup copy of fic posted at my original LiveJournal.

Kinks: shaving, marking, orgasm denial, bondage
Challenge: the ongoing, open Shaving Challenge (#1) at the LiveJournal community carsonsmut
Pairings: Beckett/McKay
Warning: We’re reasonably certain this is told in a third-person limited omniscient POV. In simple terms, that means readers will see the perspective of both our intrepid, erm, guys. Oh, and PWP, all the way.
Spoilers: None.

Rating: NC-17
Words: ~5,300 words

Feedback: yes, please!

Disclaimer: Not hers, mine, or ours, no matter how we wish they were.

Authors’ Notes: We did it, we did it! We wrote PWP with no larger redeemable purpose! *g* Enjoy! A huge thank you to LiveJournal user mice1900 for beta.

Rodney lay face-up on the bed, his arms secured together, his legs left free. He couldn’t see what Carson was up to, not really. Not that he was blindfolded or anything, but as Carson had only just recently turned up the heating in the room and Rodney was naked and cold, Carson had acquiesced to Rodney’s grumbling and decided to cover him with a blanket. A blanket that currently covered not only Rodney’s body, but also his head, only his bound arms poking out as they rested above Rodney’s head. He listened as Carson moved about the room, trying desperately to piece together the sounds his lover made with what his lover might be up to.

To say that Carson had a wicked grin on his face this evening would be an understatement, but wheedle and beg as he might, Rodney had been unsuccessful in getting the stubborn Scot to divulge his plans. All Rodney knew was they involved being naked, tied up, and warm. And the blanket was doing an admirable job of getting him warm, but was damnably annoying for its ability to cut off any chance of Rodney seeing just what Carson was up to.

He heard the sound of running water. He heard clanking. He heard other sounds he couldn’t even begin to identify.

“Carson!” Rodney demanded, his patience breaking. “What on Earth are you doing?”

With a grin Rodney couldn’t see, Carson shouted from the bathroom: “Take a guess, luv.”

Rodney gritted his teeth. Honestly, the man would be the death of him. If Rodney had been able to guess, he would have done so already, and done so successfully. “My best guess is that you’re preparing for the Inquisition,” Rodney shouted back. “And I better be wrong about that, Carson! You know I don’t like pain!”

Laughing, Carson carried a bowl with water over to the bed, carefully making sure not to spill too much. He placed it on the floor beside the bed and went back to get a washcloth, a safety razor, and shaving cream.

Rodney had been wired the whole last week, unable to relax and slow down for just a bit. They had found another Ancient outpost with tons and tons of pieces of ancient technology and Rodney spent every waking minute with his new toys. Carson had tried the gentle approach to get him to take more time to relax. He’d tried the sensible way. It hadn’t worked. So he decided to take drastic measures.

When Rodney had showed up in their quarters to grab a quick shower, he’d pounced on his mate. Rodney made the same mistake as always - he underestimated Carson. Soon, he found himself bound on the bed.

Carson placed the items beside the bowl and knelt down on the bed, between Rodney’s spread legs, slowly pushing up the cover.

“Hey!” Rodney protested. “What part of I’m cold here did you misunderstand? I mean, I appreciate the blanket, but it needs to stay on me to be effective, you know.”

Carson leaned over Rodney, not removing the blanket from his head, and whispered to him. “I’m sure you’ll get warm pretty soon, luv.”

“Promises, promises,” Rodney muttered. “You know, if I freeze to death in our bed, Doctor Biro isn’t going to go easy on you at the inquest just because you’re my husband!”

“Given the many times you insulted her, I’m sure she’d be quite willing to cover for me,” Carson deadpanned.

“I knew it!” Rodney exclaimed. “This is all some sort of diabolical plan among your creepy voodoo cult members! Just remember, Carson, Zelenka’s doctorate has plenty of practical applications beyond his day-job, and if you make his workload any higher because you’ve managed to kill me, you’ll be hearing from him. Mark my words!”

Carson laughed throatily against the cover. “You know, if I wanted you dead, I could have arranged it quite a few times before. I wouldn’t have had to marry you first to accomplish that. But then,” he thrust his hips down. “Maybe I’m just a con artist, marrying you just to get my hands on your legacy of genius.”

“Yet I notice you’re still trying to freeze me to death,” Rodney said. “I thought you said you were going to turn up the heat.”

“Trust me, when I’m done with you, you’ll be quite warm,” Carson promised, slowly rocking against Rodney.

Rodney sighed with the most hard-done-by sound he could manage. He really did enjoy theatre a little more than was probably healthy for a scientist. He felt Carson moving against him, and felt his loins become tangibly warmer as blood rushed to his penis in response to the sensation.

Carson felt Rodney’s body starting to respond and grinned. Yes, Rodney loved to be persuaded. He was good at playing hard to get, though his body always seemed to know very well what it wanted. And Carson never had a lover as responsive as Rodney. “You know,” Carson said, pressing down against Rodney. “You’ve not exactly been the ideal husband the last week.”

“W-w-what?” Rodney sputtered, indignant. “How can you say that?”

“You’ve spent more time fondling your newly-found toys than you did with your husband,” Carson whispered.

Rodney groaned at Carson’s words, thrusting up at his body. “Fondling?” he said, his voice cracking. “If there’s any fondling to do, trust me, I’d rather be doing it with you.”

“You’ve spent far more time in your lab than you spent with me,” Carson accused. He knew very well that for Rodney the profession was more like a calling than a job. He’d been quite aware of that when they’d married, but just like Rodney teased Carson that medicine was only voodoo, Carson liked to return the tease, calling Rodney’s work ‘the fondling of ancient gizmos’.

“But Carson,” Rodney whined. “You don’t understand! It was an amazing find. I couldn’t leave it to be mishandled by any of my underlings. You know that!”

“Aye,” he heard Carson say. “I know that, but to make sure you won’t forget about your husband and his needs I have to take drastic measures.”

Rodney was certain the sound of his nervous swallow was probably audible even in the corridor, beyond their firmly-locked door. “D-d-drastic m-m-measures?” he repeated in a whisper.

“Oh,” Carson breathed against the blanket. “Are you shivering with antici -- pation?”

Rodney nearly choked before groaning. “You know, I think you’re the only man on Earth, certainly the only man in the Pegasus galaxy, who would use such a terrible joke in the middle of a very bizarre yet more than a little hot sexual encounter.”

Carson pulled down the cover so he was able to look at Rodney. “You know, talking like that isn’t really going to improve your situation.”

Rodney blinked. He was struck, as always, by the bottomless clarity of his husband’s eyes, all the more captivating when they held such a mischievous twinkle. “Erm,” Rodney said. “Sorry?”

Carson couldn’t help it: he just loved Rodney’s sheepish, almost boyish grin. The one he offered when he knew there was no way out. Shifting, Carson put his hands on either side of Rodney’s head, pressing his hips down again and rubbing his arousal against his husband’s. “Oh yes, you’ll be sorry soon enough, luv.”

Rodney pushed his hips up slightly, levering them to increase the friction against Carson. He still couldn’t figure out what his husband was up to, but the teasing hints were driving him wild. The fiendish man was far too inventive for Rodney’s good sometimes, though, and Rodney couldn’t help complaining. “Ca-r-son,” he whined. “You’re killing me here, you know that?”

“Aye, we’ve been talking about that, Rodney,” Carson nodded, giving Rodney a wide, beaming smile. He spread his knees slightly, pushing Rodney’s legs further apart. He loved letting the tension build slowly, feeling his penis fill as it pressed against Rodney’s warmth. Loved the way Rodney’s body responded to him, to what he did and said; the trust that was thick and almost tangible between them. Loved that it was so much more than lust and need between them, and how they were so much on the same page at times that it almost hurt.

He leaned down, scraping his teeth carefully over Rodney’s chin. “Are you -- scared?”

Rodney snorted derisively and shook his head, then looked chagrined, his eyes wide and soulful, with just a touch of worry that he’d hurt Carson’s feelings. “Erm, well ... unless you’d like me to be?”

“Well,” Carson whispered against Rodney’s ear. “You’re naked. Aroused,” he paused and nibbled Rodney’s neck. “And you’re tied.” Carson slid his tongue along the outline of Rodney’s earlobe. “You’re completely at my mercy.”

Rodney shivered, then moaned softly. “Mercy,” he snarked lightly in a whispered voice. “Your staff has absolutely no idea how little mercy you show me. Practically none, I think.”

Carson laughed against Rodney’s neck. “Maybe they guess you don’t do so well with being shown mercy. Maybe they don’t expect me to be all soft with you.”

Rodney laughed along with his husband, then arched his neck a little. “Please?” he asked. “I’ll beg if you want.”

Carson moved; shifting his weight on his right arm. With his left hand he gently caressed Rodney’s face, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. “Oh, aye, you beg so nice, Rodney,” he whispered. “I’ll make you beg.” Before Rodney was able to reply, he brought their lips together, kissing Rodney sensuously.

Rodney melted back into the bed, his body relaxing and yielding to Carson. How did I get so lucky? he thought for the millionth time. To have a lover, a husband, like Carson was like having a precious diamond, or better still, the ability to make ZedPMs from scratch. He opened himself to Carson’s kiss, sensuous yet gentle, the contact long and warm and lingering.

Carson felt Rodney relax under him, and smiled against his lips. Of course, Rodney had no idea yet what lay in wait for him. That thought, and to know that Rodney trusted him, aroused him further and he shoved down against Rodney, hard. He heard Rodney make a low sound, a deep whimper. “Yes,” Rodney said, his voice thick with pleasure.

Reluctantly Carson pulled away from Rodney, nuzzling his chin. He sat up on his knees between Rodney’s spread legs, pulling the blanket from his frame.

Rodney bit back another protest, realising the room had finally warmed up enough to be comfortable. He looked down his body at Carson kneeling there, and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Carson smiled down and shifted, slowly moving back towards the edge of the mattress. When his feet dangled free over the edge, he got up and slid his hands under Rodney’s knees, pulling his body back along with him.

Rodney gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything. Carson let go of his thighs, letting Rodney put his feet down to the floor. He leaned over his husband’s frame, brushing his palm from hip to knee. “Hmm, what a lovely view.”

Rodney gave him another puzzled look. “This is getting weird, Carson. What is your devious Scottish mind plotting now?”

“Oh, you’ll see. Or better yet, you will feel it,” Carson promised with a grin. He slid between Rodney’s legs down to the floor. He nudged Rodney’s knees. “Spread them a little further.”

“Listen, I’m really not into gynaecology, Carson,” Rodney protested. “Why don’t you come back up here and we can continue with the kissing, hmmm?”

“If I were into female genitalia, my dear, I wouldn’t have married you,” Carson said good-naturedly, nuzzling the inside of Rodney’s thigh. “Now be a good boy, lay back and relax and try not to make sudden moves, will you?”

“Sudden moves ... wha--?” Rodney yelped. “Carson, what on Earth are you planning to do?”

Instead of replying, Carson grabbed the can with the shaving foam and shook it. He could see how Rodney frowned at him, trying to identify the sound. “Does that ring any bells?”

Rodney tried to lift himself enough to peer down at Carson. “You’re going to cover me in graffiti?”

Carson made a show of pondering on his reply. “I may cover you later, but I wouldn’t call that graffiti.” He gave Rodney a leer. “Actually I’m going to remove something.”

Rodney looked into his husband’s eyes, suddenly realising what the man was planning. “You wouldn’t!” he gasped, trying to close his knees.

Carson rolled his eyes at Rodney. “I won’t remove any parts I’m fond of or with which I intend to play some more later.” He grinned and uncapped the can, spraying some of the foam on his palm. “Now, spread your legs and keep still. Or I may actually remove something I didn’t intend to.”

Rodney opened his knees again, quivering lightly with tension.

Leaning his head against Rodney’s left thigh, Carson slid his fingers with the shaving foam over Rodney’s balls, around the base of Rodney’s now fully-erect cock and over his pubic hair.

Rodney shivered. “God, Carson,” he gasped, pleasure evident in his voice. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Do you like that?” Carson asked, slowly rubbing in more foam.

“Oh yeah,” Rodney growled, moving his pelvis slightly against Carson’s hand.

Carson felt his own arousal spiral higher as Rodney ground against him. For a moment he was tempted to abandon his plan, grab the lube, slick himself and thrust into Rodney’s willing body. He saw himself hovering over Rodney’s frame, between his spread thighs, pounding into his hot, tight channel.

With a groan Carson shifted, abandoning the idea. He reached for the can to continue covering Rodney’s balls and the patch of pubic hair around his shaft in white, unobtrusively scented foam. Feeling Rodney shiver under his ministrations he couldn’t resist drawing out the procedure, teasing his bound mate a little longer than necessary.

Rodney shivered again as Carson worked his hand over his cock and balls. “Carson,” he moaned.

Shaving foam certainly wouldn’t make a good lubricant, but it was perfect for teasing Rodney, Carson decided. He loved the sounds Rodney made in response to his touches; they only added to Carson’s arousal. He rose from his knees and crawled up on the bed, his hand still caressing Rodney’s crotch. “God, you look so hot like that, Rodney,” he murmured against Rodney’s chest, stretching out next to him. “Tied, aroused, and about to be shaved.”

“Why shaved?” Rodney asked in a strangled voice. He had again pulled his head up enough to be able to see his genitalia, and his cheeks were aflame with red heat. He nibbled at his lip, clearly aroused but also clearly curious.

“Because your husband decided that you need a reminder, Rodney,” Carson whispered into Rodney’s ear. “You can’t wear a wedding ring during working hours. I knew that and I won’t complain. But you’ve been a bad boy all week, so you need to be reminded of your marital duties.”

Rodney blinked at Carson, struck completely silent for a few moments. With another movement against Carson’s hand, he moaned, then ground out, “Marital duties?”

Carson nodded. “You’ve been neglecting me, luv. And if I wasn’t so madly in love with you and convinced that no one would be able to hold a candle to you, I might be tempted ...” He gave Rodney a smile, then leaned down and kissed him passionately. Demanding, he slid his tongue into Rodney’s mouth, all the while gently palming his husband’s balls.

Rodney couldn’t speak, but he moaned and groaned and whimpered against Carson’s mouth, wriggling his hips slightly in response to Carson’s hand. The long, slow tease had left his body taut with anticipation, lust thrumming through his body, quivering like a guitar-string just struck.

Gentling the kiss, Carson pulled away. “I’m going to get the razor now,” he whispered against Rodney’s lips. “I know that you’re very aroused, luv. You’re so hard and ready to come for me if only I’d let you. But I want you to focus, Rodney. I don’t want you to come yet. Not while I’m shaving your most precious parts – your most precious parts besides your brain, that is. If you do well, and I’m pleased with your behaviour, I may consider giving you an orgasm later.”

Rodney trembled against him and Carson kissed him gently. “Hush, luv,” he whispered soothingly. “You can do this for me. Just keep still so you won’t get hurt.”

Giving Rodney a smile he moved to the end of the bed and knelt down on the floor between Rodney’s spread legs. He reached for the razor. “See, I’m taking one of my safety razors.” He dipped it into the water and set it against Rodney’s abdomen. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Rodney whispered. “I trust you, and –” Rodney took a deep breath. “I love you, Carson.” He relaxed tangibly under Carson’s hand.

Carson slid the razor over Rodney’s lower abdomen, shaving off the short, coarse hair. He dipped the head into the bowl, swirled it around to wash off the hair, and repeated the process. With great care he shaved around the base of Rodney’s cock, tempted now to lean down and lick along the shaft, tasting the precome that was already leaking from the tip.

Rodney tried to repress a shiver. “That --” he gasped. “That feels amazing, Carson.” He fought visibly to stay relaxed, not because he was afraid or nervous, but because he was so aroused.

“Aye, it does,” Carson nodded as he cleaned the razor in the bowl. “Imagine how it will feel when you’re able to touch yourself later. How it will feel to touch that smooth skin with your own hand.”

“I can imagine, all right,” Rodney groaned. “I can imagine touching everywhere. Stroking myself, my fist pushing down at the root of my cock, without any tickle from the hair.”

Carson grinned at Rodney’s groan. “Oh yes, that will be lovely.”

Rodney shivered a little bit as Carson started shaving his balls. Carson petted the inside of his thigh soothingly. “Shush, we’re almost done,” he murmured, his own penis twitching in interest as Rodney moaned softly.

Rodney bit his lip. “You’re killing me. You really are,” he groaned.

“You’ve got no one to blame except yourself, Rodney,” Carson explained, trying to keep his voice firm and his expression stern. “Do you know just how many times I fell asleep last week, waiting for you to come to bed?”

Carefully, he lifted Rodney’s balls and with a few more precise movements, finished his task.

“I know how you get absorbed in your work, and I certainly don’t want to whine about that. But there’s dedication to your work on the one hand and there’s your husband and your marital duties on the other. So I have to make sure you will remember me and my needs for the next few days.”

Carson took the washcloth, wetted it, and wiped Rodney’s crotch, washing off the remaining shaving foam. He rose to his feet when he was done, looking down on Rodney’s bound and naked form. “What a lovely view,” he smirked and headed to the bathroom to empty the bowl and return the shaving utensils.

“Hey,” Rodney called. “Tied-up husband here. Aren’t you going to let me go?”

“Have to consider it,” Carson shouted from the bathroom. When he came back, Carson rested his hands on his sides, taking in Rodney with an appraising look. “Well, you’re quite built and I guess if I had to make money I could sell you off to a slave market sometime. Maybe now that you’re shaved you’d bring more money?” He raised his brow and stepped closer.

Rodney shot him a baleful look. “You know, in this galaxy that’s hardly funny.”

“Though being lippy like that they’d most likely cut off your tongue,” Carson added, getting on the bed and lying down next to Rodney. “Which would be a crying shame because I really like the way you give head.”

Rodney looked indignant for another moment, then beamed as Carson’s words sank in. “Really? You like how I do that?”

Leaning closer, Carson slid his palm possessively over Rodney’s chest. “Yes, Rodney,” he murmured against his neck. “You’re quite good at that. I like the way you can’t seem to get enough of sucking me down your throat, so greedy and totally unabashed about letting me fuck your mouth.” Carson thought about previous lovers; most of them had been good, but not as passionate as Rodney about oral sex. They did it only because they wanted Carson to suck them in return. Now Rodney, he did it as if he was practising a religion.

Rodney let out a strangled gasp. “Oh yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I want to suck you Carson. I want you to fuck my mouth. Please,” he begged.

Unable to keep himself in check, Carson’s hips canted forward against Rodney’s thigh. Having sex with Rodney for two years now, he thought, and I still want him as much as the first time. Maybe even more. It was an effort not to give into the temptation. He had other plans, he reminded himself. “No sucking right now, Rodney,” he panted. “This isn’t about what you want to do, though I have to admit that I’d love to stop your mouth for a bit. But sucking is not on the agenda right now. You might suck me for a bit later.”

Rodney groaned in frustration. “Okay, Carson – look, I get it. I was bad. I didn’t spend enough time with you. I put my work before you. But – you’re killing me! Please, let me do something!”

“Hush,” Carson whispered softly. “I want you to do just one thing Rodney.” He licked along Rodney’s neck and chin. “I want you to focus on not coming before I tell you to.”

Rodney’s entire body shuddered at Carson’s words. Sweat broke out on his brow. “I - I’l try, Carson,” Rodney said. “I’ll really try.”

“And you’re doing very, very well so far, Rodney,” Carson praised. He kissed Rodney’s lips. “I’m quite pleased with how obedient you can be.” He shifted and raised his upper body, supporting himself on one arm. Looking down on his bound mate he gently caressed Rodney’s belly, then slid his hand to Rodney’s thigh where their bodies connected. Carson let his hand wander over to his own thigh, sliding further up towards his own belly, passing by his weeping cock. “You’re so beautiful like this, luv. I can’t believe that you’re all mine.” He groaned and wrapped his hand around his aching cock. “I want to come over your dick, Rodney,” Carson moaned. “Mark your body. But I don’t want you to come yet.”

Rodney bit his lip, nodding silent assent.

“Good,” Carson whispered, starting to stroke himself. His breath was coming in harsh pants, as he brought himself closer to the edge. He watched Rodney watching his hand on his cock. “Do you like watching me touching myself?”

Rodney’s eyes were large and round, clear blue with wonder, love, and lust. He nodded, slowly, then spoke. “Yes,” he said, a single word that spoke of the same, of love and lust, and more than a touch of wonder.

Rodney’s simple, yet earnest reply undid Carson. Unable to hold back any longer he sped up the motions of his hand. He tried to hold Rodney’s gaze as long as possible, but he failed. Emotions – love, desire, lust, want, need – welled up in him as his arousal hit his peak. Crying Rodney’s name, he threw his head back. His hips stuttered forward and he came in hot jets over Rodney’s lower belly, spilling over shaved skin, Rodney’s leaking cock, and his own hand.

He kept moving his hand delicately on his softening penis until he was fully spent. “Ohh, Rodney,” he murmured softly, as he blinked open his eyes, looking down on his husband. With deft motions he spread his rapidly cooling semen over hot skin, firmly rubbing it in and avoiding any touch to Rodney’s cock. “Don’t come yet, love,” he panted harshly as he palmed the shaved balls. “Not yet, but soon. I promise.”

Rodney moaned and writhed under him, his body warming even further under Carson’s touch.

“Not yet,” Carson repeated, softly, resting back against the bedding. “I’m going to untie you now, then get you into the bathroom.”

“Please, Carson,” Rodney whimpered as Carson slid a palm, still slick and sticky with come, over his heated skin. Turning his head he burrowed his head against Carson’s chest. “Need to come, now.”

Carson wrapped his hand around Rodney’s aching erection, pressing two fingers firmly against the base, then began to massage his balls.”Relax, Rodney,” he soothed. “The sooner we get you into the shower and back into bed, the sooner I’ll let you come.”

Rodney felt the effect of Carson’s ministrations almost instantly. His balls had felt as though they were tightening and starting to crawl back into his body, but at Carson’s touch, they unclenched and the need abated. He moaned again. He couldn’t believe how cruel Carson could be to tease him like that.

“Breathe, love,” Carson instructed. Only at Carson’s voice did Rodney notice he’d been holding his breath. He did as Carson told him, drawing air deep into his body, his chest expanding wide. He tried to relax and focus on something – anything – other than how aroused he was. How strong and warm Carson’s body felt against his, how much he wanted to feel Carson not only move against his body, but within him.

Still panting, Carson shifted to untie his hands. “If I could,” Carson murmured against Rodney’s hair, “I’d take you like that to the shower. Tied, aroused, shaved, and covered in my come is a look that suits you just fine.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if it was actually such a good idea to ask you to marry me,” Rodney groaned. “You seem to enjoy teasing me way too much.”

Carson chuckled as he undid the ties, rubbing Rodney’s wrists. “Oh, don’t tempt me, Rodney.” He pulled back again and smiled down at Rodney. “Now, up with you and under the shower.”

Rodney felt his husband’s hand smack his bottom as he left the bed, the sting doing nothing to help abate Rodney’s almost desperate need to come. He stood for a moment, holding himself tightly as Carson had done earlier, willing himself down, or at least, willing himself away from coming any moment now. He practically trotted to the shower, desperate to get done and back to bed, back to the promised orgasm.

Standing under the warm spray, Rodney groaned as he realised Carson had other ideas. He felt his husband step close behind him, a hand slide around his body and grasp his cock again by the base. Then Carson began to nibble and bite at Rodney’s shoulder, and he almost came despite the combined power of his husband’s hand and Rodney’s desire to obey.

“Oh god,” Rodney whimpered.

“Something wrong, luv?” Carson husked into Rodney’s ear. Rodney shuddered.

“Nothing wrong, just ... please, Carson. I need to come. Please!” Rodney begged.

“Not yet, luv,” he heard Carson chuckle. “Not yet.”

Fingers trailed along Rodney’s crack, the warm water teasing at his hole as much as Carson’s fingertips. Rodney shuddered again. “Carson, please,” he moaned.

“You beg so nicely, luv,” Carson said softly, his lips brushing against Rodney’s ear. Rodney shuddered a third time, his orgasm threatening to rip out of him no matter what Carson said or did. He couldn’t hold it, couldn’t manage to stave off his release any longer. “Carson,” he gasped.

He felt the fingers leave his crack, then felt the slick slide of soap along his body as Carson washed him, one hand on the bar of soap, the other still firmly held around his dick. Rodney felt his husband press up against his back, nestling their bodies tightly together, while he continued to wash away Carson’s come. Carson’s hand moved against him, washing with long, firm strokes, gentle and sensuous. Rodney willed himself to relax into the loving touch, as always wanting moments like this never to end.

“Aye,” Carson murmured finally against Rodney’s neck. “Let’s get out of the shower and back to bed.”

Rodney nodded vigorously and Carson had to steady him as he left the shower stall. He quickly wrapped the huge terrycloth towel around him and a smaller one around his own hips, then maneuvered Rodney back to the bed. He pushed Rodney back down onto the mattress, straddling him, only the thin layer of terrycloth towel between them.

“I’m so pleased with how long you were able to hold back, luv,” Carson whispered. “You’ve done so very well. You really earned your orgasm.” He kissed Rodney gently on the lips. “How do you want to come, luv? Do you want me to bring you to completion with my hand or my mouth? Or would you like to fuck me?”

Rodney moaned, obviously fighting yet another surge to come at that very moment. He regained control and managed to gasp. “Mouth, please.”

“Good choice,” Carson promised, kissing Rodney again. He shifted and pulled the towel from Rodney as he crawled down along his body. For a short moment he considered teasing his nipples, but decided against it. There was teasing and there was torture. And he could practically feel the desperation pouring from Rodney’s body. Without further ado he knelt between Rodney’s spread legs. With one hand he guided Rodney’s weeping cock into his mouth and sucked, hard.

Rodney writhed, bucking up into Carson’s mouth. “God,” he gasped. “C-coming!” Nothing could hold him back any longer, and he came and came into Carson’s hot, wet mouth. Carson kept swallowing until Rodney was spent, the penis softening in his mouth. He licked him clean, whispering soft, encouraging words of love to him, then crawled back to pull him in his arms.

“Mmm,” Rodney hummed sleepily, his eyes closed, his body utterly spent. “Thank you.” He pried open his eyes to peer at Carson. “And I am sorry for neglecting you, Carson.”

Carson chuckled softly, caressing Rodney’s chest and arms. “Oh, trust me, you’ll be more sorry yet. Once the hair starts to grow back, you’ll feel it itch.”

“I believe you,” Rodney groaned. “Though it does feel quite ... airy ... now.”

“Hush,” Carson soothed, then kissed his husband. “There are creams you can use to stop the itching.” He slid his hand down to Rodney’s softened member, gently brushing his hand over the smooth skin. “And we can always keep shaving you.”

Rodney shivered a little under his touch, and looked at Carson, his eyes wide with surprise. “Really?” he asked. “You’d do that for me again sometime?”

Carson smiled at Rodney. He leaned down and claimed his lips in a tender, lingering kiss while he kept fondling his shaved genitals. When he pulled away from the kiss he nodded. “Not only for you, luv,” he explained. “I love the feel of it, and I love how much you trusted me to let me do this.”

Rodney smiled a slow, exhausted smile, then let his eyes flutter shut, snuggling his head into the sheltering curve of Carson’s chest. “Okay,” Rodney said, his voice heavy with sleep. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Rodney,” Carson whispered back and pulled the cover over both of them. Wrapping his arms tightly around his husband, he thought about the plug he hadn’t used as he’d originally planned. With a sparkle in his eyes, Carson watched his sleeping mate and decided that tomorrow was soon enough to bring it into play.

Fic: Fifth, NC-17 McKay/Sheppard by inkscribe

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 04:58:54 GMT

Title: Fifth
Author: inkscribe

Special note: This is a backup copy of fic posted at my original LiveJournal.

AU: The Watcher by pushkin666
Kinks: bondage, marking/claiming, piercing, rape, non-con, sadomasochism, slave
Pairings: McKay/Sheppard
Warning: This is a darkfic. In fact, it is a no-holds barred, out-and-out slavefic/rapefic. Nothing consensual. Nothing happy. If you are squicky, give this one a miss. If you are looking for a nice read before bedtime, give this one a miss. If you are looking for something with a whole lot of hurting and no comfort on the horizon, then enjoy!

Series summary: This is an AU wherein Rodney has taken over Atlantis, effectively operating as a warlord.

Spoilers: Absolutely none. Could take place anytime in or after Season Two.

Rating: NC-17
Words: ~4,700 words

Feedback: yes, please!

Disclaimer: Not hers, mine, or ours, no matter how we wish they were.

Author’s Notes: This story takes place in pushkin666’s The Watcher dark AU, where Rodney takes over Atlantis and retains control through credible means [means not yet revealed in Pushkin’s chapters, so I’ll leave it at that for now]. Rodney is quite evil and obsessive over his pet, John.

I admit that I don’t normally “do” McShep, but as this one is completely non-con, I can deal. ;-) (Yes, yes, yes, I’ve read and loved plenty well-written McShep fics but it just isn’t a pairing that typically attracts me to write. The McShep fans out there need not collect any kindling to burn me at the stake; this might be a very painful story but John deports himself well, IMHO. Rodney, OTOH ... meep!)

Thank very much you to pushkin666 for letting me play in her AU. :-) Thank you also to LiveJournal user milackurz for the beta.

John knelt on the floor, his hands behind his waist, his head bowed, waiting. The room was warm, and he was grateful that this night he would not be shivering from cold, even as he might still shiver in fear. That he could still experience fear left John surprised – after all that had happened to him, he would have expected himself to have become utterly numb. Yet somehow, sometimes … the fear broke through.

He no longer wore fetters or cuffs chained together, no longer remained chained every waking moment. He remained cuffed, remained fettered, yes, but the chains between were now there only at certain times, or at night. He slept chained, always, but he had hours of ‘freedom’ – freedom to obey his Master’s every whim, every perverse order. John was afraid, yes, but he could no longer shed tears, not even from the pain.

Tonight there would be pain, Rodney would make certain of it. He was celebrating, and celebrating meant piercing. Another one.

John already had several piercings, none of which adorned his body before he came on the mission. All of which happened after … after Rodney changed.

John frowned to himself. Rodney hadn’t changed, not really. He’d always been this way, only no one really noticed until he’d done the deed and taken control of the city, henchmen firmly in hand and an iron grip on anyone he chose to leave alive.

Chose, John thought to himself, and wondered again why Rodney chose him for the dubious honour of being at the man’s beck and call for every perverted whim imaginable. Surely there were younger, more handsome men on the expedition. Surely there were men with more stamina, men who might even enjoy Rodney’s attentions. Attentions that hurt no matter how often John experienced them, no matter how much effort Rodney put into forcing John’s body to respond.

It always responded. Despite the shame, John understood. At one time he could have explained it, how stimulus-response is a cycle that happens outside of conscious intent. That the sympathetic nervous system has its own rules, ones that follow in a regular, ordered manner. But as he came undone, as he was pulled apart in his mind and soul by Rodney’s actions, John was less and less able to reflect so clearly on the matter. He now responded not only to the obvious, to the prostate stimulation, the slow or fast masturbating of his cock by Rodney’s hand, but also to the pain. Rodney had brought John to where he would respond to a number of different stimuli, all abhorrent to John. All irresistible in the face of constant conditioning by his … owner.

The term still made him shiver. Owner, Master. Rodney was both those things, and to Rodney, John was only his pet. A toy – fucktoy, one Rodney played with daily, sometimes seemingly incessantly. Sometimes even in front of the rest of the staff, in front of visiting dignitaries, in front of Carson. Carson who helped arrange this coup by his willing use of incapacitating drugs on those Rodney decreed as requiring more than simple strongarm tactics. John, of course, had been counted among that number.

John shivered at the thought: Carson frightened John more than even Rodney, despite the man mostly remaining an observer. A cold, terrifying observer. One that made John’s blood run icy with undefined terror. John was thankful Rodney never left him alone in the doctor’s care.

Tonight, though – a celebration. A celebration meant piercing and piercing meant privacy. Rodney allowed no one to witness his very private ritual of permanently marking his fucktoy. His oh-so-obedient fucktoy, the former Colonel John Sheppard. Privacy – a small mercy that John felt ashamed to admit, if only to himself, that he was grateful for.

He was broken from his reverie by the sudden realisation of a pair of bare feet in front of him. BDU-clad legs, bare feet. Rodney. John tried to keep his breathing measured despite the surge in his heart that was equal parts fear and equal parts conditioned arousal. The shame was always more than he could bear to think about. Rodney raped, abused, and humiliated him in ways beyond anything John had ever thought of in his previous life as military commander, yet the bastard managed to get John’s body to respond, again and again, like the perfectly trained pet he was.

He felt a hand cup his chin, pull his head up. Clear blue eyes stared unblinking into his before Rodney broke into a crooked grin. “So, pet,” he said. “Time for our little ceremony.”

John tried, and failed, to suppress a shiver. His body, as always now, betrayed him by blood rushing to engorge his cock, filling and firming it no matter how desperately John tried to wish it away. He tore his eyes from Rodney’s.

“So eager, John,” Rodney chuckled. “Always eager now, aren’t you?” John felt his chin released and heard Rodney pad away to retrieve his equipment, the slap of his bare feet oddly reassuring to John – John who had become easily terrified by anyone who approached him stealthily, anyone who moved like Carson, creeping around as he silently watched Rodney assault John. Not tonight, though. Tonight Rodney was going to pierce John again, and for that, Rodney demanded absolute privacy.

John’s thoughts were again broken as he heard the barked order, “Suck.” And there, at his face, was Rodney’s cock, hard and ready. Rodney always seemed ready. John opened his mouth, took in his owner’s flesh. As always, Rodney was clean – even obsessively so. His skin tasted clean, the slight musk of his body being the only proof through taste that John sucked on something real and alive rather than a dildo. Which John had done, more than once, for the amusement of guests.

John closed his eyes as he sucked Rodney down, caressing the silky flesh with his tongue, sucking at the engorged head. Until Rodney had taken him as his pet, John had never given more than a passing glance to another man’s package, yet now he was an expert in the taste, smell, and touch of Rodney’s cock in his mouth.

He knew the ritual: suck Rodney hard, get fucked hard by Rodney. Then get prepared and pierced. That was always the beginning of the ceremony, and Rodney was very big on using consistent methodology in his pursuits, whether public or private.

Rodney groaned as John sucked a little harder at his cock, then pulled back. “Down,” he growled, and John complied, instantaneously dropping to the floor. How Rodney managed it, John never knew – John’s own knees ached almost constantly from the regular strain of kneeling on the floor, yet Rodney would take him there, John’s head to the floor, his ass in the air. Rodney’s hands gripping tightly into John’s hips, fingers leaving bruises. Bruises that never had time to go away, blossoms of dark touches brought on by one crazed scientist’s dark desires.

John whimpered as Rodney slid a lubed finger inside his hole. Again, he felt ashamed – grateful that tonight wasn’t a punishment, wasn’t going to result in a dry-fuck that would leave him needing days to heal. Rodney prepared him quickly and thoroughly, then thrust in with his cock.

The size and force always made John gasp. Rodney fucked John hard, rarely tender, never loving. John closed his eyes, numb horror suffusing his mind. Love? It would never be love. Even if Rodney were so delusional as to think John wanted this, John never would. No matter how many twisted acts Rodney could get John to respond to, deep down, John loathed the man with every fibre of his being. That John remained alive and not dead by his own hand had far less to do with Rodney’s conditioning than Rodney’s clever use of hostages. Teyla, John thought bitterly. Kate. Radek. True, Rodney had given Radek to Carson, but John knew the scientist was alive and in most respects, well. He’d seen enough of Carson’s treatment of Radek to be convinced that the doctor did care for the man; the doctor seemed to limit his enjoyment of torture and violence to observing Rodney’s handiwork on John.

John shuddered and tried to push away this line of thinking. Thoughts of the way times used to be invariably led him to wild hopes and dreams of escape, of overthrowing Rodney and his brutal henchmen, of taking back the city for Earth and the SGC. And always at that thought came the bitter memory of being forced to suck Rodney’s cock in front of the SGC command during a video conference, his humiliation and debasement no longer private. Command had demanded evidence that Rodney had kept his prisoners alive, and Rodney complied. He paraded them before the monitors, explaining the regime of diet and exercise each was given to maintain his or her health. At the noted absence of Colonel Sheppard, Rodney gave them a cold smile, quirked an eyebrow, and said, “Colonel Sheppard? Oh, you mean my pet.”

And at that John had been led to the space within the monitor’s viewing area. Even through the monitor he heard the collective gasp of the command staff as he was brought before Rodney, wearing fetters on his ankles and with his arms chained behind him. Naked.

Rodney had pressed him to the floor, a firm hand on his shoulder, and ordered him to suck. Just one word to John was all it took – he already knew the consequences for disobedience. And John had sucked, and Rodney had ignored him as the scientist continued to speak with the SGC on the way things were going to be done from now on. And the SGC agreed. And then Rodney came hard down John’s throat, choking him with lack of air and spurting spunk. He ruffled John’s hair, praising him for being so good, as always, before slapping him away and sending him back to quarters under guard.

The coldness and horror of that moment still threatened to strangle John, even now.

Rodney thrust harder still, then stiffened as he came, buried deep in John’s bowels. John whimpered, his own cock stiff and weeping, unable to find relief until Rodney chose to give it to him. Relief he knew Rodney would not give until the conclusion of the ritual, when John was screaming and begging from pain and arousal.

He felt Rodney pull from him, then the slide of a large plug taking his place. Rodney liked him like that, full of spunk for hours on end. John expected it was yet more of his possessing of his toy, like the tattoo on his neck, like the bites and bruises he left behind for anyone to see. Encouraged people to see. John was his to ravage, and Rodney made that clear at every possible opportunity.

John felt the slide of leather against his skin as Rodney began to fasten a harness around him. This was the preparation, where Rodney got John ready for his piercing. He repressed a shiver, disgusted with himself at eagerly anticipating the pain that would come. He wondered if he really were someone who preferred pain over pleasure, or was simply the result of Rodney’s oh-so-thorough training. Or maybe the pain reminded John that despite everything, despite all the things he did to numb his mind and his body, he really was alive, not stuck in some limbo of the undead. The reminder of being alive was both terrifying and a relief: John wouldn’t wish this life on anyone, not even the Genii.

Not that the Genii were a problem anymore. In fact, that was the occasion of the first ceremonial piercing. Rodney had pierced John’s nipples early in John’s slavery, but he didn’t begin to mark John’s cock until the Genii, the erstwhile enemies of Atlantis. Enemies who were now effectively gone thanks to Rodney’s plans, ones that included genocide on a level that would make Earth-based warlords weep with joy. John? He merely swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat at the thought – he could have done nothing even had he been free, Rodney was too thorough, too established in his powerbase to allow anyone to get in the way of his plans.

John’s second piercing on his cock was to commemorate the time he successfully deep-throated Rodney without choking. Rodney was so pleased with him that he fucked him twice that night, both times with lube.

The third was to remind John of the night he submitted fully to Rodney, allowed himself to feel what was happening to him without the numbness he normally lost himself within. John cried real tears, John screamed real screams. And as the pain rose within him of all that he’d lost and all that was happening, he begged for more. Rodney gave it to him.

The fourth was in celebration of Rodney brokering a new trade deal for fresh food and supplies from a nearby solar system. His network of alliances were strong and kept him from being overly reliant on any one supply line, on any one group of people. Short of coordinated revolt or a lucky assassination, Rodney had entrenched himself as the warlord of warlords in the Pegasus galaxy.

Rodney slipped the harness around John’s waist, threading his cock and balls through the opening and firmly seating the back pad against the plug in his arse. He cinched the harness shut at each hipbone, then kneaded John’s buttocks cruelly for a moment. “Up,” he ordered. John rose, his knees protesting painfully at the shift in position.

Rodney knelt before John, and for one wild moment, John imagined overpowering the man with a deftly-placed kick, putting the evil bastard on the wrong side of John’s anger. But as soon as it arose, it melted away again, replaced only by the mind-numbing terror of the consequences should John fail. John watched, transfixed, as Rodney began to restrain John’s cock, a ladder of small leather strips and tiny buckles. He watched the scientist smile to himself, obviously pleased with his slave’s appearance. Between each strip peeked the flesh of John’s cock, still rigid from earlier. And on each piece of flesh was the rung of another ladder, a ladder of piercings through the skin, decorating the underside of John’s cock with tiny, jewelled barbells. Tonight a fifth rung would be added.

Tonight, Rodney wanted to commemorate the granting of the Daedalus to be under his own authority rather than the SGC’s. The ship would arrive in a few more days time, and Rodney was already gloating at the prospect of facing Colonel Caldwell for the official transfer of his command to Rodney’s.

Rodney stood, then grabbed John’s face and kissed him, hard. The kisses were what always surprised John, every single time. The kisses made no sense – they were hard and brutal, like everything about Rodney, but they were kisses nonetheless. Kisses that sometimes left John panting for more, confused and uncomprehending. He often wondered whether Carson was feeding him things other than sedatives, things that might make him more open to accepting or even welcoming Rodney’s actions.

Like so many kisses before, Rodney bit into John’s lip, hard enough for blood to well to the surface, hot and metallic in John’s mouth. This pain was hard and dull, so different than the pain to come, which would be sharp and bright, so clear that John would feel as though he could see into new dimensions, see something beyond the regular length, breadth, and depth of the universe he inhabited. He felt Rodney lick into his mouth, sucking at the blood there, heard him hum and sigh with pleasure. John shuddered, his knees buckling slightly at the sensation that washed over him. He wanted the pain, wanted the feeling of being in-the-world-yet-not-in-the-world that it brought to him, the re-enlivening of his emotional core, the place within him that seemed so dead and lifeless in between.

That he hoped also for Rodney to let him release his orgasm was spectacularly fucked up, John knew. Nothing, though, in this world made sense to him anymore. Not even after all these months. Rodney would pierce him, would perhaps order John to come, and then he would, shuddering and shaking in the intensity of his orgasm, his cock still bound in its harness, untouched but for the action of the piercing.

“Bed,” Rodney ordered, and John walked there without hesitation, arranging himself supine, his arms over his head his legs straight together. Rodney straddled him, sitting just below John’s pelvis, his cock again hard and eager as he performed the final steps of his ritual before the piercing. John closed his eyes briefly as Rodney leaned forward, again kissing him with almost brutal intensity. He felt each arm secured to a corner of the bed. No longer in danger of thrashing, John didn’t know whether the continued chaining at this stage was for ritual’s sake or to reinforce Rodney’s demand for John to submit, for him to know utterly that he was owned and powerless as Rodney worked on his body.

Not that John could possibly imagine otherwise. Nowhere in his worst nightmares had he ever seen a vision of himself like this, a man now carrying the scars of whippings, bite marks, bruises, and piercings. That Rodney had been the one to break him, not some warlord or insurgence group in Afghanistan, that was still something that preyed on John’s mind, if he let it. That someone could live where they had everything, yet still want more so badly that they would do what Rodney had done, what Rodney does, just for power. Just for control.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, John thought for the millionth time. And the power Rodney had taken for himself was absolute, and Rodney was corrupt, right down to the blackened pit of whatever he had that passed for a soul.

Rodney broke the kiss. “Look at me,” he ordered, and John’s eyes flew open. He stared again into clear blue eyes, eyes that he once might have described as guileless, but now would describe as … on fire. The fire of insanity that burned bright and hot, a blue-tipped flame that showed always in Rodney’s eyes, and often in his brutal and twisted perversions on his people.

In so many ways, John didn’t have the worst of it. In so many ways, John wished he did. But his life, that was the unspoken bargain now. His life, his submission – that’s what kept the hostages alive. Kept them safe, after a fashion. Kept them fed. John resisting to the point of whippings or starvation or the constant need to be chained? That was too far for Rodney, unacceptable to his power-crazed need for control over the former colonel. What was rape, really, between friends? Friends he hoped might survive, intact, to somehow take back the city from the madman.

“Hey,” Rodney said, and John realised his attention had wandered. He looked again into those blue-hot eyes. Rodney smirked. “It’s time.”

John bit his still-bleeding lip and nodded. He had no choice about the piercing – about anything. Rodney would do what he wanted, how he wanted. And John needed the pain, craved it with an intensity that frightened him.

Rodney wriggled back slightly, then leaned in for a moment to suck the tip of John’s cock. He bucked at the sensation – unexpected. Not part of the ritual. His cock hurt now more than he thought possible, turgid and straining in the confines of the tiny belts that held it. Rodney’s tongue lapped at the tip, sliding rough yet smooth across his flesh. John shuddered in ecstasy, unable to orgasm but close, oh so close.

Rodney arose again, returning to his original position and smirking at John. “You look delicious,” he said by way of explanation. John’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the unrelieved strain in his body creating pain quite different than the pain he anticipated any moment.

John opened his eyes in time to watch Rodney open sterile wipes, remaining absolutely still as the cold from the evaporating alcohol flashed across the skin of his cock. He felt the tiny press of the marker Rodney used to determine the placement of the piercing, two tiny dots on his flesh, dots that would become linked by a small wound in his flesh tunnelling between, joined forevermore by the metal Rodney inserted there.

Rodney held the needle aloft, eyeing it critically for a moment, then changing his expression to one of almost loving tenderness. Without another word, he pulled the flesh of John’s cock just enough to insert the needle. A sharp tang on the back of John’s tongue, a sharp feeling, hard and bright in John’s mind, and in moments, the piercing was complete, the newest barbell inserted in its rightful place. John nearly sighed from relief, not from the absence of pain but its presence. His cock never sagged, not for a moment, even encased so tightly that he wasn’t certain he could have become flaccid. Instead, he remained impossibly hard, aroused from pain and his long-delayed need to orgasm.

“Please,” he whispered, and he watched Rodney’s smile turn to a feral grin.

“Please, what?” Rodney prompted.

John bit at his lip again in humiliation. He hated that Rodney could force this, any of this, and that John would jump when ordered, just as he was trained. The bitter irony that he wasn’t as good at following orders in the military as he was of following the orders of his Master wasn’t lost on him. He felt hot shame flush his cheeks.

“Please, Master,” he choked out, saying the words Rodney wanted to hear.

“Please Master what?” Rodney prompted again, not yet satisfied, yet clearly pleased at John’s attempts to resist.

“Please, Master,” John whispered. “I need to come. Please.”

“Of course you do, pet,” he replied with a smug grin. “You’re so eager for it.” His hands reached forward and he began to release John’s cock from its bonds, his hands deft and delicate on the buckles. “I made you, John,” Rodney said softly. “I made you want this, made you need this.”

John couldn’t respond. He felt the side buckles release, felt Rodney slide the harness from under his buttocks and gently pull it over John’s still-hard, still-aching cock. He watched Rodney’s face intently, still bothered by the strange tenderness Rodney would show him at this moment, a softness that contradicted everything John thought he knew about his Master.

Rodney raised himself slightly, pulling John’s legs apart and settling between them. “Up,” he ordered, spanking lightly at John’s buttock. John bridged his pelvis as ordered, preparing mentally for the inevitable burn of Rodney removing the plug from his hole. In moments the plug was gone, and John was pressed again to the bed, Rodney’s hands firm on his hips. He felt Rodney’s groin tight against his arse, felt the throbbing of Rodney’s erection snugged between his buttocks. John pushed against Rodney, wanting him inside again, wanting the brutal thrusting and Rodney’s voice, ordering him to release, an order that inevitably came at this point.

“What do you need?” Rodney asked, pushing his erection hard between John’s buttocks. “Tell me.”

“I need,” John gasped, his body thrumming with the song of pain from his newly-pierced cock, still hard and desperate for release. “I need you. Need you to fuck me.”

Rodney grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you do.” In one forceful movement, Rodney thrust into John, burying himself to the hilt. John whimpered. “Say it,” Rodney hissed, drawing back and slamming into him again, long and slow.

John tried to resist, he had to. What was left of his long-ago broken inner self begged him to resist, begged him to end this, to refuse to capitulate to Rodney’s demands. But the demands of his body were powerful, and Rodney had trained him too well to obey with the body even if the mind shied away. He held out for another minute, Rodney’s thrusts remaining long, slow, and deep, before he could not hold back a moment longer.

“Fuck,” he cried. “Fuck me!”

Rodney responded by fucking John, fast and brutal. John felt the fingers dig into his hip, felt his body flop and shake as Rodney used him without any pause or change of pace. Inside, John felt the tension, held so high for so long already, increase that little bit more. He hurt, hurt so badly from the need to come. And then Rodney spoke, “Come, now.”

Without any touch to his cock since the piercing, John came, hard, semen striping his belly, his chest, even the underside of his chin. He shook hard, the pain and pleasure coursing through his body like the raging torrent of a river overflowing its banks. He felt everything explode from him with his release: the pain, the shame, the fear. All of it burst from him, leaving him whole and complete for one breathless moment.

Unfocused and shaking slightly, he lay quiet on the bed, his arms still fastened firmly to the bed and his body open and vulnerable; yet strangely, he felt safe, relaxed. Almost comfortable. He felt the bed shift as Rodney reclined next to him. He felt Rodney trace idle patterns along his chest, cooling semen brushed along his skin.

“You’re so good, John,” Rodney said into his ear. John gulped. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t need to hear this. Didn’t understand why Rodney felt he needed to say it. Didn’t the man have enough? He took everything, he took everyone’s life and changed it into something hardly worth living. He felt himself flush at his Master’s words, more proof of his body’s automatic obedience to the man.

He felt Rodney’s fingers brush through his hair, now sweat-soaked and doubtless as wild as it once was when he was allowed to make decisions for himself, allowed to be his own man. “Yes,” Rodney said. “So good. So beautiful, like this. Soft, open.”

John felt Rodney press a kiss to his forehead. He shivered slightly at the touch, swallowing reflexively as his stomach clenched with the renewed stirrings of fear.

“You’re so beautiful,” Rodney repeated. He kissed John then, gently on the lips, and John felt the ghost of Rodney’s breath brush warm across his face. “So beautiful. No one ever gets to see you like this.”

John thought he might choke. Everyone had seen him literally fucked by Rodney at least a dozen times and in a dozen different ways. Rodney sometimes went out of his way to ensure his people saw the status John had been reduced to. He drew a shuddering breath as anger began to bloom inside. “No one sees me like this? Everyone sees me like this,” he hissed. “You show off your pet whenever possible.”

He heard Rodney chuckle, felt his fingers resume their tracing on John’s stomach and chest. “Ah, yes,” Rodney said agreeably. “They’ve seen you fucked, my pet. But no, I can assure you – they have not seen you like this. This? This is mine.”

He felt Rodney claim his mouth in a soft kiss, a kiss that, if John had wanted any part of it, he might call sweet, lingering. He felt the slow burn of hatred flare for a moment before it continued to eat away at his insides, smouldering deep and dark within him. “You’re so beautiful like this, John” Rodney whispered into John’s mouth. “And you’re mine.”

Fic: Word Gets Around, NC-17 Beckett/Lorne by inkscribe

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 04:42:12 GMT

Title: Word Gets Around
Author: inkscribe

Special note: This is a backup copy of fic posted at my original LiveJournal.

Pairings: Beckett/Lorne
Warnings: dark, includes situations of non-consent and severe abuse (but yes, in fact, it does have a hopeful ending!)
Angst-o-meter: peta-angst (very, very strong)
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: Spring Challenge at LiveJournal’s community slashing_lorne
Words: ~3300
Spoilers: none
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: Rescued from the Wraith, Lorne returns broken.

Art: Click here to download the wallpaper, Word Gets Around.

Author's Notes: For the LiveJournal community slashing_lorne’s challenge, “Spring,” where spring is incorporated either literally or figuratively as new beginnings. This story manages to incorporate both.

Word Gets Around assumes a pre-existing, established relationship between Evan Lorne and Carson Beckett, one that was intense and strong. If you wish, dear readers, you could consider it an 11-degrees-from-centre sequel to Pict Nae Scot, which is a blessedly happier tale than this one.

Outside of real-world practises that inform the backstory of this fic a great deal, I strongly encourage readers to read and enjoy In the City of Seven Walls by auburnnothenna; Human Condition, Hybrid, and The New Evolution by kyrdwyn; and Bound By Will by sheafrotherdon – stories that are not directly related to my own humble story but also connect to themes explored in Word Gets Around. Yes, some day I plan to write a meta on what I mean by that, but given the allergy headache I’m fighting at the moment, it’ll have to wait. *apologies*

A huge thank-you to my beta mice1900. Thank you also to mice1900, nicke, and pushkin666 for listening to this as it poured out in all its ragged pain.

This is also my first attempt at making fanart/coverart, and I am very very very pleased with the result. *g*

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning.

Whew! Still here? Grab some tissues and let’s get on with the fic ...

He was healthy and strong and lithe and, well – fine – when Team Sheppard and Team Stackhouse brought him back in a puddlejumper. A subcutaneous transponder under the skin, receivers scattered by dozens of gates, and a rescue mission that went, for once, perfectly. If his eyes were wild and possibly too open and maybe showing more than a bit of the shock of being rescued, no one was all that surprised. How many, after all, could survive an entire month in a Hive Ship without at least a some trauma, no matter how minor?

Medical cleared him as hale and healthy, as healthy as someone could be who had been drained and refreshed and drained again. Traces of enzyme still burned through his system, traces that would, they hoped, dissipate out in due time, leaving him clean and clear and simply human again. He looked no older than before, nor younger either. Intricately-patterned tattoos wrapped his arm from wrist to shoulder blade, tattoos that weren’t there earlier, before he was taken. His eyes remained wild, open and sometimes unfocused, giving him a strange air that meant few looked too long, or too directly.

And if later, when he was released, there were rumours of someone down on level three, close but not too close to the Botany labs, no one gave it much thought. That the someone lurked in darkened corridors, closets, and alcoves was likewise not so unusual in a place where stress and fear was the norm, a place where the undercurrent of imminent death flowed steady in currents both charted and unknown. That the someone would stay, huddled on his knees, miserable and asking – no, begging – for someone, anyone, to grab his face and fuck it hard, deep, and tight until he choked on everything but still whimpered and wanted it harder and deeper, that was the surprise.

Word gets around.

He could be found there, the smell from the city composter pervasive, rank yet sweet, the smell of fermenting food scraps and real earth, cloying and heavy. Even when the breezes from the ocean failed to make it into the city, the smell seeped through the corridors, closets, and alcoves where he was.

Dark, it was always dark. Day or night, he could be found in corridors, closets, or alcoves with light that revealed little beyond the quivering, shivering mass of his body. His body waiting, miserable – asking, begging, pleading.

That later there was no need to ask, no need to tell, that there was for all intents and purposes a queue that stretched one quarter around around the city – comprised of scientist or military, it didn’t matter – no one was surprised. He waited in the stinking dark, crying, whimpering, begging. Pleading.

Word gets around.

Someone discovered it could be better. Pinch him, slap him, choke him with firm hands. He took it all and then some. He pleaded for more.

That now the queue stretched to encompass half the city, a queue still comprised of both scientist and military – it didn’t matter – surprised no one. He took it all, hard. Begged for more, whimpered for more. Shook and shivered in the anonymous gloom and pleaded for more.

Nothing seemed hard enough, nothing stopped the torrent of broken begging. Whether military or scientist, those in the queue found themselves inflamed by the sound of his voice, low and harsh, rasping and torn. They kicked, they pinched, they choked; he cried only for more.

Word gets around.

The tattoos were complex, interlaced and woven together so tightly that the existence of something more buried inside them was discovered almost embarrassingly by accident. A broken arm, compound fracture through the forearm, both radius and ulna broken, the radius showing through the lacerated skin. Not the arm with the tattoo, but the other. Anaesthetic and surgery to set things right, and then someone noticed a word in the intricate design on the arm opposite.

The first one to be discovered was receptacle, a term known to the scientists but never in this context, never in the context of something with no purpose other than waiting to be filled. Only then was the pattern examined closely showing that what appeared to be a pattern composed of whorls and lines was in fact one of letters, glyph, and word. Words that were written in a dialect of Ancient, words that were Wraith.

The linguist paused over the tattoo, her eyebrows frowning in concentration, then fear, as she began to unravel the words and the meanings they held. Slut. Whore. Dozens of words, synonyms of debasement and demoralisation. Words that described the function of the man so inscribed: a toy for rutting males holding no privilege with their Queen. An entirely new take on heretofore unknown aspects of Wraith culture.

She blinked back tears and called for the doctor.

Word gets around.

Carson gave orders, his voice tight with controlled emotion. Isolation, far from the city. Close to help from the Athosian village, but not close enough for casual visits. Supplies brought regularly from the city, with only members of Team Sheppard and Team Lorne allowed onboard for carefully-rationed contact.

Isolation, Carson thought. Time to heal. Time to recover. They would be together, alone and isolated. Away from prying eyes, away from whispering voices. Away from the pain, away from the horrors he sought, the horrors he had taken within since returning.

With red-rimmed eyes Carson walked briskly to the jumper bay, his lover asleep on the gurney pushed alongside him. Colonel Sheppard – John – he would pilot. Ronon and Teyla had already gone ahead to prepare their camp. They would debark, and none would remain except Carson and Evan. Alone, Carson thought. We can be alone. They would be alone and Carson would do anything possible in this galaxy or the next to ensure that no one would fuck with his lover ever again.

Word gets around.

Evan blinked against the bright light of the sky, overcast and white above him. He shook his head, disoriented. He heard voices nearby, scraps of conversation with no context or sense. Socialisation. Reintegration. He sniffed – something was burning. Only then did he notice the crackle, pop, and hiss of a wood fire, saw the scattered wisps of smoke pass between his eyes and the naked brilliance of the sky above.

He glanced around, taking in the open jumper hold nearby to one side, the sturdy tent slightly farther to the other. The tent built for long-term use in the field. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t form thoughts into statements or questions such as who? where? why?, though those questions flickered through his awareness nonetheless. He saw the fire, saw the men in the distance just behind. Saw John and Ronon and, no – Teyla, too. Not just men. And the last? Carson.

Evan closed his eyes against the pain that surged within him. Carson. He glanced down then, saw the hard material encasing his arm, felt the ache that meant something as mundane and real as a broken bone. Wondered at how it happened, when he was treated, what they had done. What does Carson know?

Word gets around.

Carson waved off the group, watching the jumper as it rose swiftly and directly away, away to the city, away from them. Evan, he thought, and turned to his lover. Evan had awoken some time ago, then slept again, drifting in and out of his post-surgical fog, succumbing to his exhaustion. Ronon carried him from the gurney to the tent, placing him on a bed just inside the tent, flaps open to the sky, to the fire.

Open to where Carson could see him, and he could see Carson.

Carson’s eyes brimmed afresh with tears as Evan closed his eyes and turned his face away.

He walked forward, sure and steady, so different than his heart, beating wildly and erratically with pain that tore through him every time he saw his lover, every time he thought his name. He knelt beside Evan, reaching forward to grasp one hand, squeezing the fingers lightly in his own.

“Evan?” he asked, his voice soft.

Evan did not turn to face him, did not reply. Carson waited, squeezing his fingers rhythmically, softly. Pouring his love into the man through his fingertips.

“Love?” Carson tried again.

Evan tugged at his hand, trying to pull his fingers away from Carson’s grasp. Carson only firmed his grip. “Nae, Love,” Carson said. “I’ll not let you go, not now.”

Silence; then a sob, a gasp. A cry of primeval pain that nearly shredded Carson in its raw, ragged edge.

Carson tightened his fingers around his lover’s, his silent tears turning to loud sobs that dragged through his lungs with pain, fear, anger, and remorse. “God, Evan,” Carson sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Evan cried and cried. Long minutes passed defined by the despairing sound of the two men’s grief and pain.

“I promise you, Love,” Carson whispered, his breath regained slowly only after he exhausted his tears. “I promise you, they will pay for this.”

Carson didn’t make empty promises. He was a talented geneticist, one whose discoveries had opened new worlds for people like Rodney, not born with the blessing of the ATA gene but now able to partake of its wonders directly. One who had shown it was possible to pull the DNA of the human to the forefront of the beings they called Wraith. One who was not to be trifled with.

Word gets around.

Evan blinked through gritty eyes and breathed through a heavy chest. His arm, broken badly and surgically repaired, hurt with both a dull pulse and sharp sting that reminded him of nothing else, yet reminded him of everything else.

Hurts, he thought. Hurts, hurting – pain that was real and tangible and dancing along his nerves with slippers made from shards of glass. He felt tears seep from his eyes, a response to the pain inside, the pain in his bones, the pain in his heart. He was alive.

He heard someone breathing nearby, knew it had to be Carson. Carson, his lover. Carson, the Chief Medical Officer of the Atlantis mission. Carson who now knew or guessed too much about what Evan survived on the Hive Ship. Carson whose fingers were tangled into his, blended together like nothing was different.

Everything was different.

Evan tried to slip his fingers away, only to feel them held tighter. “Nae,” he heard Carson whisper. “No more running away, Love.”

Evan began to cry again. “You can’t,” he began, only to see Carson rise suddenly from beside him, loom suddenly over him, his face both worried and angry.

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” Carson whispered, hot and fierce. “Whatever they did to you, they didn’t make me stop loving you.”

Evan looked into those eyes, blue that should be clean and pure, but now ringed by the red rawness of Carson’s tears. He felt a sob rise again to choke the breath from his very body, choke him as thoroughly as any cock, Wraith or human, had done in the long weeks of torment. He felt his own eyes flood again with tears as he fought to breathe past the tension, fought to release himself to a more forgiving world than he had yet imagined.

Carson smiled, gentle and thin – not forced, no, just cautious. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing they could do to you, nothing they could make you do, would make me stop loving you.”

Evan looked into those endless blue eyes. He saw truth. He saw commitment. He saw passion. He believed Carson. Anyone would believe him, anyone would have to believe him – Carson’s eyes burned with a pure blue flame, hotter than any fire.

Word gets around.

“Aye, he’s doing better,” Carson replied to John. “Sleeping longer stretches now, his nightmares aren’t as intense.”

John nodded and offered Carson a sealed envelope. “The results you were looking for,” he said.

Carson smiled mirthlessly. “Indeed,” he said.

“You’ll find it’s all in order,” John said, a cold smile on his own lips.

Carson stepped close and shook his hand firmly. “Thank you,” he said, his voice almost cracked from the earnest truth of his words. “I’d expect nothing less.” He gestured for the man to sit, two camp chairs next to the constant fire. Carson opened the envelope and scanned its contents. He smiled in grim satisfaction.

“Aye, very good,” he confirmed. He saw John let out a sigh, the tension held in the soldier lessening a little from its constant stranglehold on the man. Where Carson wanted to scream for his own foolishness in letting Evan spend even a moment supposedly alone after his ordeal, for believing that giving his lover space was not only what he wanted but needed, John carried a different burden that tore at him, a burden that kept his eyes black and dark from guilt and lack of sleep. Eyes that doubtless looked so much like Carson’s, so much like Evan’s.

John was responsible for the military contingent of Atlantis, and on a greater scale, responsible for the safety and security of each and every member of the expedition. No one blamed him, even he didn’t blame himself, for Evan being snatched away by the Wraith in the first place – everyone on the mission lost friends, lost colleagues. The dangers of life in Pegasus were too prevalent, too close to the exhalation of the next breath, the thump of the next heartbeat.

But like Carson, John had failed to hear the rumours, failed to hear or recognise that something terrible was happening within the bowels of their adopted city. Something that played out its line and ensnared men, military and scientist alike. Something that drew them down to the dark, sickly-sweet corridors, closets, or alcoves close to the city composter. Something that let them become other than good men of stead, other than good men, strong and true. Something else. Something that would let them use and abuse Evan in his time of need. Something that would let them walk away, only to return again, then walk away – never to whisper a word of worry to someone like John, to someone like Carson.

For someone like John, Carson knew the burden was almost insurmountable. That people on his watch, his people, would do this, horrified him. That one of his own people had this done to one of his men, by anyone on the mission, hurt him. John hadn’t said, but Carson knew nonetheless – the paper he held in his hand listed the name of everyone, military or science, who had helped to take and take from Evan. Each one, down to a man, knew he had been caught. Knew he was being watched. Knew that a shoe had yet to drop.

Word gets around.

Evan walked next to Carson across the frost-covered ground. Though the thin snows and cold sleet of the mainland winter were long dissipated, cold nights and mornings still left the brush of frost-leaves across any surface more often than not. The cold felt good, even as it flared the pain in his arm, still mending. Pain that reminded him he was alive. Pain that told him he was somewhere other than in that ship, somewhere other than on his knees, choking on come. Pain that meant he wasn’t miraculously drained and then repaired by the strange workings of Wraith enzyme. Pain that meant he was still human, still alive.

Regardless of the pain, he knew he was doing better. When the first truly warm day of the inland spring hit them, just a few days ago, and the fragrant air brought melted snow and thawed earth, the smell hit him not with the hope of spring, but with the despair of the Hive. The grotty smell of the organic ship, the smell of being fully within something living that permeated every pore of his skin long before the scabs of his tattooing healed. A smell not unlike that of snow moulds uncovered by the melt, or the smell of compost ripening in the depths of Atlantis. Yet on that day, he did not fall to his knees in the conditioned reflex of the Hive, did not beg, did not plead. That he whimpered at all was only from the memories that flicked through his mind, memories of pain and fear and disgust and overwhelming loss of a life he thought forever stolen from him by his captors.

And when Evan whimpered, Carson understood. He pulled Evan close and held him, stroking his fingers through Evan’s hair, caressing his body gently through his clothes. He guided Evan back to their tent, carefully tucked them together into bed. Lest Evan not understand the touch, Carson spoke everything in words, words soft yet strong. Loving, not condemning. In response to his soft sounds of fear, he heard Carson: “I love you, Evan. I’ll not let you go.” Carson loved Evan, and Evan loved Carson, possibly more than either of them could have anticipated.

Word gets around.

Carson stroked Evan’s hands, caressing them with his fingertips, brushing the backs with his thumbs. He held Evan’s gaze, a gaze no longer quite so wild and open, a gaze with some small spark of brightness returning, like the glimmer of the first star in the evening showing the hope and promise for clear navigation through the inky depths of night.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice soft and warm, offering all his love to the man before him, the man he would do anything to heal, if only it were in his power.

Evan nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. Yes, he wanted Carson to make love with him, touch him intimately and closely and naked, skin-on-skin contact. Lick him and kiss him and oh so much, just not …

Debasement and defilement by the Wraith was not entirely as one might expect, Carson now knew. The creatures’ own obsession with hunger drove even their sexual desires to something more akin to a feeding frenzy than lovemaking, and while for all any of them knew, Wraith reproduction involved the meeting of male and female genitalia, their use of a … a receptacle was likewise fixated around the figurative hunger of the mouth. A mouth not kissed, a mouth not cherished for its words or its smiles. A mouth to be fucked, brutal and hard and deep until they spilled themselves inside. A mouth that was nothing more than a place that collected their abuse, that accepted their rut.

Carson would make love with Evan, aye. Their weeks of voluntary isolation gave them both silence and words, both speaking volumes, both bringing together the threads of healing and recovery for the broken man. Blood chemistry returned to absolute human-normal, physical contact limited to that which was healing and healthy, not harsh and abusive and deadly. Replacing the object, the receptacle with the man, the living, breathing, subjective-not-objective person, the person Carson loved.

Carson leaned forward, his lips brushing against Evan’s in a gentle kiss. “All right then, Love,” he whispered. And then Evan kissed him back.

End Word Gets Around