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

Fic: Pict Nae Scot, NC-17 Beckett/Lorne by inkscribe

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 04:22:21 GMT

Title: Pict Nae Scot
Author: inkscribe

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

Pairings: Beckett/Lorne
Warnings: none
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: Realisation at the LiveJournal community, slashing_lorne
Words: ~2900
Spoilers: for my own best-parts version of the events of Sunday, depicted in The Thing About Sunday
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: Lorne is a painter.

Nominated for the LORNE/OTHER category in the Stargate DiversiFICation Awards.

Author's Notes: For the LiveJournal community slashing_lorne’s challenge, “Realisation,” where somebody becomes aware that Lorne and another character are a pair. While based in part on a scene from my own AU fic, this story may stand entirely on its own.

I don’t paint, but at a guess I’d say situations depicted in this fic involve some highly-toxic materials. For the sake of storytelling, let’s all pretend that toxicity isn’t an issue. ;-)

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

Reina Biro, PhD Pathology (Honours), wasn’t observant for nothing. She was accustomed to taking note of the many morphologic and biochemical manifestations of disease in human, and now occasionally, non-human patients. She was also accustomed to performing detailed analysis of post-mortem subjects, usually on a tight, if not extreme (pardon the pun) deadline. She had observational skills in spades, and the analytical wit to come to conclusions quickly and accurately with nary a blink, and usually a joke or two to go with them.

Clinical pathology was invariably interesting, but her first love was cell-cycle regulation and apoptosis, an incredibly fortunate aspect of her training to have available here in the Pegasus Galaxy, where for some reason that baffled her completely, almost to the point of being a (pardon the pun) killjoy of her joy, an entire species existed sans apoptosis, provided the damn things were able to suck the life out of good ol’ fashioned humans.

So Reina knew without a doubt she should have noticed the sudden (pardon the pun) colour on Carson Beckett one day. Not that he was flushed or anything – no, nothing like that. He was his usual, affable self – friendly and helpful and compassionate like a doctor straight out of a soap opera. The consummate professional, both in research and clinical practise. No, his colour was fine, but one morning he had colour.

Reina realised that he had sported colour on more than one occasion, in fact, since their last brush with city-wide nanite infections, something she (pardon the almost-pun-but-more-an-interesting-rhyme) nanite-panite-demic. That was the time most everyone went insane and thought people were blowing up left, right, and centre, their heads full of images of colleagues and friends dying from the most ridiculous reasons imaginable, and Reina could imagine many things from the ridiculous to the sublime.

No, Carson sported colour many times since that day, and Reina was surprised just how long it took her to realise that something about that was ... odd. Odd because she had never known Carson to be involved in the arts beyond an appreciation for classical music and a good draught, pulled from the taps by an expert hand. Once she noticed the colour, it did, in fact, take her nary a blink to analyse the evidence and come to a conclusion that would, she was confident, prove to be correct: Carson Beckett was stepping out with Evan Lorne, Atlantis’ only resident painter.

oOo

On that fateful day, Carson flitted about from friend to friend as he tried to find a replacement to join him for a day of fishing. He was surprised to discover that Major Evan Lorne had an artistic bent, and a rather good one at that, if Carson did think so himself. Not that Carson knew that much about art, but he knew what he liked. Yes, Evan Lorne was talented. How much talent and in how many ways, Carson did not discover until a week after the nanite pandemic ended.

He took Evan’s invitation to paint him in the nude as a joke at first, and then realised the man was serious. Carson suspected he wouldn’t get a second chance with the man, so he readily accepted. He arrived at Evan’s room on the appointed day at the appointed time, shucked his clothes quickly and folded each item neatly into a small stack on a chair to the side of the room. Evan had his easel set up, his paints mixed – and Carson was impressed that the man not only had an appreciation and talent for the art, but understood the value of knowing how to compound his own pigments – and his brushes close to hand, ready to start.

Carson only meant to tease when he joked, “So you’re planning on using a canvas then, lad?” Evan responded with an expression of faint surprise followed by a slow, lazy smile that rapidly resulted in Carson simultaneously losing the ability to stand erect in the attitude of attention as his muscles and bones somehow lost their purpose as well as another part of his body suddenly gaining the ability to jut erect from his weakening body with no possible hope of deflation any time soon. Using every ounce of strength he could muster, Carson managed to remain standing after all, trembling with nervous anticipation as Evan looked at him closely, considering for a moment. He stepped forward, daubbed his brush on his palette, and stroked a line of blue in a long curve from the rotator cuff, over the clavicle, and trailing off below Carson’s pectorals.

“Yes,” Evan said softly, nodding in satisfaction. “That’s the perfect contrast for the red.”

Indeed, Carson was blushing. Blushing red, although Carson would later learn that to Evan’s discerning eyes, Carson might be crimson, ruby, cherry, cerise, scarlet, or even pink. He learned that day that the perfect contrast was azure, not sky-blue or peacock or cerulean or lazuline or even sapphire. Today, Evan began with azure.

Carson felt the paint, viscous and sticky and cold as it slid across his skin, the brushtip wet and sensuous against him, a small tongue trailing its colour as it licked him in a single, long stroke. Carson trembled against the sensations it raised in him, causing Evan to frown slightly, placing a hand on Carson’s other shoulder and saying quietly “Shhh, there – be still.”

He wanted to be still, oh God how he wanted to be still. The brush was saturated in wet colour, cold against his skin at first but warming rapidly against Carson’s heat. A dry brush might tickle, he supposed, but there was nothing ticklish in Evan’s deft yet languid strokes. Carson felt a quiver run through his body, a quiver that ended at the arrow-point of the wet brushtip. He bit his lip and willed himself to remain still.

Carson felt the wet trace delineate shape from space, hinting to his imagination circles and lines and whorls. He closed his eyes, gathering his energies against the onslaught of sensation that threatened to bring him, shuddering, to his knees. Evan continued to paint, continued to mark his skin in patterns unseen but imagined within Carson’s mind – his medical mind, concerned with arcus of bone and linea of muscle, the locus of shape and form drying rapidly on his epidermis.

“Open your eyes,” Evan whispered, his breath hot and damp and tight against Carson’s ear. He obeyed, his eyes opening to the look of satisfied completion from the painter, satisfaction concealing only slightly the raw hunger on his face. Evan crooked his fingers, silently bidding Carson follow him, the two men entering the washroom in careful, measured steps, the steps of men carrying between them a precious and fragile masterwork.

At the mirror, Carson stood, dumbstruck. Rendered in colours vivid and subtle were beasts and fowl – geese, fish, wolves, and bears, connected by sigmoid colour lacking angularity. “It’s beautiful,” Carson breathed, wonder in every syllable. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Evan nodded, standing behind him, looking also at Carson’s reflection in the silver mirror. “As is the raw material,” he said. Carson felt a thrill course through his body as Evan drew a finger down his spine, felt an answering throb in his loins, rigid and urgent and painful after so many minutes, nae, hours?, of stimulation. He melted against Evan’s touch, the finger changing to a hand, hot and dry and slightly abrasive against the sensitive skin of his back. Carson moaned.

Wet and warm velvet brushed across his neck; not a paintbrush this time but the tongue of the artist himself. Moist breath ghosted hot by his neck, then – he felt the man bite down gently first, then harder, signing his mark over Carson’s trapezius.

Evan’s hands moved to envelop Carson in an embrace. “May I?” he whispered.

“Please,” Carson answered, just as quiet, just as intense, just as hungry.

Carson watched in the mirror as Evan’s hands traced the renderings on his body, awakening and enlivening the fantastic bestiary described in chromatic colours over his body. He felt the scratch of bears digging for grubs, the padding of wolves walking their territories. He felt the wriggle and splash of fish leaping and breaching the surface of the sea, and the brush of pinions from geese in flight.

He felt the heat of Evan’s arousal as the man traced the patterns on his skin, felt the answering innervation of his cock, straining harder and higher and more rigid than Carson had ever imagined possible. He moaned, trembling under Evan’s touch, shivering against the sensations solicited by the artist’s movements across his skin.

Evan kissed him then – sternocleidomastoid, Levator scapulae, Splenius capitus, and back again to the trapezius. The artist’s hands stroked firm against Carson’s flanks, tracing now the muscles of his chosen canvas, the arrangement of things common to humans but unique to Carson. Carson moaned and pushed himself back into Evan’s body.

In their images across from them, Evan’s eyes burned, intense – ravenous. Carson realised his own eyes reflected the same burning, the same ravenous hunger. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“Stay,” Evan whispered, a command, not a request. Carson nodded. Evan returned quickly, stepping again tight against Carson’s back, a small jar held in his hand. Ah, Carson thought. Evan placed the jar on the counter, returned his empty hands to fulfilling their exploration of Carson’s body. He felt now how Evan’s clothes rasped against his skin, how the urgent need of the man’s cock was still clear and rigid through layers of cloth. Carson pushed his hips back, snugging his arse against the promise of Evan’s heat. “Oh god,” he moaned. “Please.” He whispered the last.

“Shhh,” Evan soothed, his breath again tight to Carson’s ear. “Patience.” Carson groaned, wordless, feeling his own need rising again further, again beyond what he imagined possible. Evan pulled back then and Carson felt worry flash through his mind before registering that the man was removing clothing, tugging off shirt and trousers and – everything. Carson did not realise he was holding his breath until he gasped, a gasp from feeling skin-on-skin as Evan stepped again hard to his back, nestled himself firmly between Carson’s buttocks, hands kneading his hips, thighs, and arse.

His cock leaking now, Carson bit back a scream as Evan slid his hands to Carson’s anterior, met at the medial, and grasped his cock firmly in the left, his balls firmly with the right. Evan pumped him, stroking long and slow, firm pressure with just the correct amount of change at root and tip. Five strokes, ten strokes, maybe more – then Carson was coming, hard and hot – white striping the mirror. He watched Evan’s smile widen in pleasure and heard the man hum in satisfaction, his own body humming now with relieved tension yet unresolved expectations. He wondered whether he could truly survive the something more he knew would come next.

Evan’s hands – those hands then moved yet again to delineate the patterns and colours of Carson’s body, the fantastic migration of animals ancient and holy, the beauty of shape and form and body – hands that described them all in all their glory. He felt himself tremble still with desire, shocked at his ability to remain standing, never mind his ability to respond to to sensations coursing through him at the touch of Evan’s skilled fingertips.

Evan worked semen into skin, blending dried pigment with fluid, reworking patterns, changing the designs. His hands stroked around Carson’s body, now posterior, now anterior, now posterior, now posterior medial. He felt the hard edge of Evan’s hand slide hard and firm through the crease of his buttocks, felt the cloying stickiness of his own come worked deep down to his anus.

A fingertip touched him then, there, around the tight circle of muscle. Carson shivered – the touch so long expected was nonethelss surprising, demanding, pleasing. The tickle, absent from the creation of the painted masterwork, came now, deep and enticing, a tickle of anticipation, a tickle of desire. Carson moaned and pushed himself back, tried to impale himself on Evan’s finger.

“I want to be inside you,” Evan whispered.

“God yes,” Carson gasped.

“I want to come inside you.”

Carson considered for a moment. It was at least five long years since he had been with anyone, since anyone had entered him, since anyone had loved him past the easy camaradarie and infinitely simpler rules of close friendship. “It’s been awhile,” Carson admitted quietly.

“I know,” Evan said, and Carson boggled at his words, realising that their time together now was not entirely by chance, but by design. The designs of an artist, Carson realised, are unfathomable to mere mortals.

Evan reached then to the counter, took the jar and opened it. Carson detected the distinct aroma of herbs but compounded into a blend he did not recognise. He saw Evan scoop some gel from the jar, replace it on the counter. The cool, wet stickiness of the lubricant was suddenly slicked between his buttocks, and he twitched from the change in sensation. Then Evan’s finger pressed again at his entrance, again awoke the tickle within his anal muscles. Carson moaned, wordless with mounting desire. Evan pressed forward, his finger slipping through the ring, slipping in and up and just right until Carson gasped and bucked as the finger worked its magic against his prostate.

Again and again Evan added the herb-scented lubricant to Carson’s anus, again and again he teased his anus, stroked his prostrate, entered and withdrew in varying rhythms that caused Carson’s tension to mount and mount. One finger then became two. Two fingers that drove in and out, stroked hard or gentle, two fingers that scissored and stretched him, wider and softer, as Carson relaxed and opened in anticipation of welcoming Evan deep within.

“Please,” Carson begged, thrusting his arse back against Evan, raising his head to meet Evan’s gaze in the mirror, confirming with that look what his body and voice were trying to scream. “Please, Evan. Please!”

Evan again took lubricant, this time liberally slicking himself. Then Carson felt Evan’s blunt head hard against his entrance; felt a moment of fear, a moment of pain as he was broached, then the strange sensation of tightness and openness, balanced around the heat and hardness of the man within him. Now Evan groaned, “So hot. So tight.”

Carson shivered at the voice, sultry in its lower registers. He pushed his arse back, wanting Evan within him hard and fast and without any hesitation. “In me,” he gasped. “I need you. I need you in me.”

He felt Evan’s hands grasp his hips, felt the man adjust his stance, then felt nothing but the pounding pleasure of the man as he drove deep within Carson. He heard the slap of Evan’s balls against his arse, felt the tickle and scratch of pubic hair as it whispered against his skin.

Evan grasped his hips hard, then – Carson knew bruises would form – and with a shout, he came, shuddering against Carson’s back, collapsing against him and the two falling forward, soft but inevitable, until resting, joined and splayed over the counter before the mirror.

Long moments passed marked only by their harsh breathing, Carson surprised at the noise of the blood rushing in his ears. Evan pushed back, standing; drew Carson upright with him. Withdrew his cock, dripping, from Carson’s arse. Carson felt himself grasped hard about the shoulders and turned, swiftly, coming face to face with Evan. The artist pulled him close, demanded entrance to his mouth with his tongue.

Their bodies were sweaty, doubtless melting the remaining paint, marking both lover and loved in the patterns so lovingly painted there only minutes hours? before. Carson felt Evan’s tongue explore his mouth, take everything Carson had to give. He felt Evan’s hands around his body, hands stroking his flanks, hands stroking his buttocks, his spine. Carson felt his own hands explore Evan the same way, stroking, pressing, touching.

Desire still coursed through Carson, thrummed through his veins like a medication recently administered, but he was too tired and too sated to pursue the urges his body chemistry so desperately wanted to instil. Their kisses softened, their hands stopped their ceaseless exploration, stopping to cup each other’s faces in their palms.

Evan pulled back slightly, glanced down at the space between them, and chuckled. “I think we need a shower,” he said.

Carson chuckled with him. “Aye.”

They moved to the shower, turned on the endless supply of warm water, and stepped into the cleansing spray. Water and soap and hands and mouths and tongues and cocks – they were soon exploring again, soon ready again, and were joined again. And again.

When they were finished, the shower was stained from a dozen different colours, three handprints and seven footprints that lasted for a month afterward. It was worth it. Every single time.

End Pict Nae Scot

Fic: The Thing About Sunday, PG-13 – various parings – by inkscribe

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 04:12:33 GMT

Title: The Thing About Sunday
Author: inkscribe

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

Pairings: Beckett/Lorne, Beckett/McKay, Dex/Sheppard, Zelenka/Other
Rating: PG-13
Challenge: Fix the Episode at the LiveJournal community, sgaauwtptbdfu
Words: ~1200
Spoilers: S3.14 or .17 (depending on whom you believe and why) Sunday, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Max Headroom
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: The best things about Sunday is what really happened.

Author's Notes: A big thanks to LiveJournal users lapis_laz, sgatlantislight, darkmuadib, mice1900, and the mysterious head of MI6 for their assistance in the following fic’s tweakerage. One particular piece was inspired by the brilliant SGA Motivationals of the brilliantly funny mklutz.

None of the following is really my fault. Blame my Inner!Rodney – I know I do, frequently.

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

The best thing about Sunday was when Noah Wylie was a guest star. They originally wanted the creepy bearded guy from the original publication run of The Joy of Sex, but someone figured he was too long in the tooth for the dark-attraction factor they were seeking.

The best thing about Sunday was that the golf was mercifully short, although had Carson joined the guys kitted out in traditional golf gear and the breeze came up, it would have been worth the rest of the tedium, and the bit where he would explain – without a trace of irony – the real meaning behind the phrase ‘a hole in one’ would have been a joy to behold.

The best thing about Sunday was the proof of the Universal Constant that while doctors everywhere are pestered for free advice, potential patients are Really Asking For It from those in charge of karmic retribution. The guy was probably very, very fortunate he didn’t hit up the pathologist first.

The best thing about Sunday was teaching exobiology by the lovely re-enactment of Flamingo Mating Rituals of Earth. The addition of a bit of whapperage with pointy objects only heightened the tension and reality of this very touching bonding moment. Sadly, we missed seeing either Ronon or John in pink. We’re confident they’d wear it well.

The best thing about Sunday was how Liz managed to avoid Wylie’s octopussian tendencies as he flailed and groped at her across the plastic commissary table. And her deft skill at convincing the oozing slimeball that she had consumed her Roofie-laden Evian water when she had, in fact, given it to a potted plant, was sublime in the extreme. He was no match for her masterly administrative powers.

The best thing about Sunday was finally learning, once and for all, that John has ... yearnings. We know why that marriage didn’t work out, dude, and so should you. Ronon is thrilled that John just wants him to be happy. When Ronon dropped to his knees, we knew he was finally ready.

The best thing about Sunday is the chance for Lanteans to learn The Economies of Space Economics. To wit? Tennis shoes are a luxury to ship in the Daedelus. Consumable goods such as bottled water and carbon-dioxide packaged sandwiches are not. We never did get to see the episode where an entire team died from bad mayonnaise.

The best thing about Sunday was plaid! And chess! And geeks! And plaid! Did I mention plaid? Sadly, we missed the part where Radek beat the other guy whilst blindfolded, which led to a shouting match, followed by mudwrestling, and then a lengthy shower scene. No plaid for that part.

The best thing about Sunday was Carson’s coy acceptance of Lorne’s offer to paint him in the nude. Lorne was surprised, at first, that Carson hadn’t expected any canvas to be involved, but he was willing to be flexible and the results were gorgeous. The shower was stained from a dozen different colours, three handprints and seven footprints, for a month afterward. It was worth it. We missed the part where Lorne had to hunt through his gesso to find his lube.

The best thing about Sunday was that Rodney came to recognise that accepting a PETA membership was, in fact, fraught with unforeseen dangers. Kill the fish, Rodney, and all will be well.

The best thing about Sunday was when Carson promised to sleep with Teyla. Not being inclined that way, he didn’t normally do that sort of thing, but she was a decent lass and he really could do the operation in his sleep, so what the hell, he’d take one for the team. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy, just not anywhere in the general vicinity of Rodney, of course.

The best thing about Sunday was when we saw the human slave carting his Dalek overlord through the corridors of Atlantis just so Carson could bring him a hand-packed picnic lunch. Go Carson! Else the Daleks will ex-ter-min-ate!

The best thing about Sunday was when we learned the Ancients colluded with Network 23 to create blipverts thousands of years before Edison Carter uncovered the entire scheme. No television-mounted penguins nor Mrs. Niggerbaiter were involved in the advertorial carnage. News at 11.

The best thing about Sunday was finally discovering why Rodney was being hunted in four separate Earth nations (plus three American states) for charges of bigamy. He’s a spontaneous fellow, and he probably meant the proposal – each time. He wonders whether there is a Siberia somewhere in Pegasus where he can be transferred to so he can hide out. Or, better yet, blame it on Rod.

The best thing about Sunday was discovering that those who are not able to Ascend end up going to Wal-Mart. If they were egregiously bad in life, they are sent to Disneyland.

The best thing about Sunday was discovering that John really did take gigs as a stripper. We always suspected as much and we all appreciated the opportunity to see the opening act.

The best thing about Sunday was discovering that while Asgardian beaming tech can do wonders for Go’uld extraction, apparently it isn’t of any value for tumours. At the end of the day, fancy alien tech doesn’t hold a candle to sharp pointy scalpels and blood spatter!

The best thing about Sunday was discovering that ZPM power management problems have been solved on Atlantis. Trips to transfer large numbers of people and inert cargo that has no need for time-sensitive travel is no longer a problem! As a result, we can expect next season to involve Atlantis obtaining its first Starbucks and, of course, a Wal-Mart.

The best thing about Sunday was learning that the Ascended have no sense of direction. Carson would have made it to his own funeral, but he got lost in the vicinity of a red giant that reminded him of sunsets in Skye and well, it was pretty. After he made it back to Atlantis and chatted up Rodney, he decided to assimilate into the city itself. At first, he hung out around the commissary, but then he discovered shower rooms were far more interesting. He was surprised, really, because as a doctor he had believed he’d seen it all, but it turns out that’s just not true. Hot, cold – it’s all up to Carson now. When he figures out how to make his voice audible again, he’s planning to whisper to Rodney “Cough, please.”

Fic: Coherence, NC-17 Beckett/Dex by inkscribe

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 04:03:38 GMT

Title: Coherence
Author: inkscribe

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

Pairings: Beckett/Dex
Warnings: none really (yeah, shocking, ain’t it?)
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: Cuff ‘Em, Vamp ‘Em, or Just Make ‘Em Come Already Kink and Cliché Multi Fandom Challenge
Words: ~2,800
Spoilers: eh, very tiny references to S2 Sateda, but you might blink and miss them; if you haven’t figured all of those out by inference already even without having seen the episode, well ... sheesh. ;-)
... and an even tinier reference to S3 Tao of Rodney, which can be missed even without blinking. *g*
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: Ronon and Carson engage in a profound and private ritual.

Author's Notes: For the third-annual Cuff ‘Em, Vamp ‘Em,or Just Make ‘Em Come Already Kink and Cliché Multi Fandom Challenge

My prompt:
Trust and vows (promises are kept or broken; loyalty or betrayal; absolute trust or doubt; fidelity or infidelity; blindfolds or bondage as trust symbols; commitment or fear of commitment; acts of devotion; marriage vows; unconditional love; blood brothers and oaths; showing trust/faith in someone's abilities.)

Beta by LiveJournal user mice1900, for whom thanks are never truly adequate, but thanks anyway *g*. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Thank you also to LiveJournal users mice190, sgatlantislight, nickespix, ankhmutes, and desala for listening to me bang my head against the wall on this one, far more often than I would have liked. I swear, I had this really really really great idea, but it relied upon the loan of another author’s AU, and sadly, permission wasn’t forthcoming. And of course that idea still won’t leave my head, even now! *headdesk* Hopefully this alternate effort isn’t outright embarrassing.

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

Ronon stood tall and silent, looking at the man kneeling before him. He appeared calm, even serene, his posture straight and perfect, his head bowed in submission. His breathing was deep and even, a steady flow in and out, the collected quietude of meditation enveloping the man like a warm blanket.

Surrounding them both was the leafy splendour of Atlantis' life-support core, the trees, bromeliads, mosses, and ferns, inextricably linked together in an artificial biome to help provide clean, breathable air for the city when it travelled through space. The life of the small forest sang loud in Ronon's sensitive ears, tiny pollinators and compostors going about their business undisturbed as they had for millennia while the city slept. Generations born and died, generations building and tearing down the beauty that surrounded them.

More than any other single thing within Atlantis, this one space showed Ronon the genius of the Ancestors. A place of essential function and natural form, the space allotted to it filled completely with everything essential to its long-term survival. Ronon continued to look at the man before him. Survival, he thought, his mind filled with thoughts both warm and sad. Were it not for the need to survive, they might not be here today, preparing to enter this ritual, preparing to bring their lives together even more profoundly than what they already shared. But they needed each other, they needed this: something permanent in a place where impermanence was the norm.

Ronon walked carefully around the man, taking in his posture, the way his robes were arranged about him just so. The angle of his hooded head, the soles of his bare feet peeking from under the robe. Ronon took a deep breath and stepped in front of the man, smiling warmly.

Ronon reached a hand forward to cup Carson's cheek in a gentle caress, raising the man's head so they could gaze into one another's eyes. Despite the perfect posture and the calm, steady breaths, Ronon was nearly bowled over by the intensity of desire coming from Carson. He shivered at the sensation, his body surging with its own desire, desire Carson could likewise sense.

Coherence was a ritual of belonging and being, one that allowed members to see deep within one another, and one that came in different forms for different purposes. On Sateda, Ronon had partaken of many Coherence rituals, from adoptions of orphaned children to acceptance within the ranks by the Taskmaster. This one, though – this was the only time Ronon had ever faced Coherence with his mate. His beautiful, intelligent, hurting mate.

Even under the desire, Ronon could sense Carson's pain, a raw, open wound. The strong tea they both consumed as part of their preparations made them highly susceptible to the thoughts and emotions of others. For Ronon, the experience was shockingly like a Wraith's mindspeak, only without the terror, without the fear of imminent death. Only the deep intimacy of thought and emotion, laying bare to one another what was there beneath the surface.

Ronon continued to smile as he poured his own love and desire into those bright blue eyes. Blue like the sky, he thought. Blue like the surface of an active Gate. So beautiful. So rare on Sateda.

Teyla and McKay stood for them outside, in the time-honoured role of guardians of their pairbonding – pairbonding being the most intimate form of Coherence possible, one that met both the minds and the bodies of the two participants. Ronon and Carson smiled at the shared thought: McKay hadn't known what to make of the ritual when Carson asked him to stand, but soon came around to being one of their most ardent supporters, reminding others in their circle of friends of both the joys and terrors of being able to hear the thoughts of others, and suggesting that he couldn't come up with a better way to connect people even if he were the smartest man in twenty galaxies.

Carson nuzzled his cheek into Ronon's hand as they continued to stare into one another's eyes. Teyla, too, had helped. More than any here she understood the significance of the ritual, even if the specifics of it were unlike that which her people practised. Through her contacts, she obtained both their ceremonial robes the herbs necessary for the tea. She helped Ronon to prepare it over the last few weeks, the long time necessary to render the materials into something Carson called an entheogen, but which Ronon simply called tea. Done incorrectly, though, the tea would be a bitter poison, one without cure. Ronon had no interest in harming his mate.

Ronon reached his other hand to Carson's face, holding the doctor's head gently between his hands. "Love," he breathed, and Carson's eyes answered yes. Ronon leaned forward and brushed his lips across Carson's, a kiss that was sweet, light, and delicate. A kiss unlike those that would come soon enough, yet Carson moaned as though they were already in the throes of their passion. Ronon smiled.

"I know, Carson," he chuckled, a deep rumble. "Not much longer now."

He could feel his arousal hot and hard under his robes, and knew Carson's was equally so. Knew it in his mind, in his heart – their shared minds bringing thoughts and emotions bright and tangible between them. Knew it in his very bones.

From the moment Ronon met the doctor, he had been pulled off-centre by the man's steadiness under pressure. His willingness to put himself in danger to save others – their very first meeting being the surgery that saved Ronon's life from the terror of being a Runner. Even without the tea, he had scented the man's fear, pungent and strong, as he worked to remove the transmitter embedded in Ronon's spine. Now, though – had he any doubts before, they would have been erased by the memories he saw inside Carson. I was afraid, aye. Afraid for us both.

Carson was like a gift from the Ancestors. Not only did he have their very genes within him, but he had care for the people around him that was far beyond anything Ronon was used to. Even Melena, a wonderful woman, wouldn't have compared. Ronon choked a little at the memory of his first love, blinking back his own tears of loss of his love, his people, his planet. He saw Carson's eyes likewise red-rimmed with the shared memory. Ronon knelt before Carson and kissed him again, a kiss full of warmth and love. Of belonging. The two men belonged to one another like they'd never belonged to anyone or anything before. Carson saved Ronon, and Ronon saved Carson. In the brutal reality of living in a state of war with the Wraith, they'd both saved one another more than once, and doubtless would again.

Ronon felt Carson twitch, a movement quickly stilled as he forced himself to remain in the opening position for Coherence. Ronon smiled into their kiss, feeling Carson's desire to reach forward and hold him and to be held in return. Now we begin, Ronon thought.

Remaining kneeling before Carson, Ronon reached forward, loosening the man's robes and slipping them from his shoulders to pool around him on the soft, mossy floor. Ronon gasped at the sight. He knew Carson was magnificent: they had made love many times in the last year since becoming intimate, but never had he seen him like this, kneeling, his body clean and bright with a light sheen of sweat; trembling, eager, submissive.

Ronon understood submission: he submitted for Carson and only for Carson; but for Coherence, this one time, Carson offered his submission to Ronon. Reaching inside his robe, Ronon withdrew a long cord, one braided in the colours of both Carson’s clan and Ronon’s city. He placed it reverently on the ground between them. He heard and felt Carson’s breath quicken at the sight, and he again brought his eyes to his mate’s, drinking in the desire. Ronon placed his hands on Carson’s shoulders, slipping them along muscled arms to strong hands, gently pulling those hands forward, holding them wrist to wrist. With one hand, Ronon held his mate’s wrists while he used the other to retrieve the cord and bind them together. Through their shared link, the warrior could feel the doctor’s arousal warring with his natural trepidation at being confined, and Ronon not only sent soothing thoughts to Carson, but also lifted the now-bound hands to his mouth, kissing the back of each before gently replacing Carson’s hands in a relaxed position. A position that neatly framed the rigid cock jutting there, its stillness completely belying Carson’s inner urgency and need.

Ronon smiled and stood. Trailing a single fingertip along Carson’s shoulder, he walked around him, settling again to his knees at Carson’s back. With both hands, he worked Carson’s flesh, kneading and caressing his back. He felt rather than heard the moan from Carson, the man remaining admirably still despite the desire surging through him. He leaned forward and licked a line along his spine from mid-back to the nape of Carson’s neck.

Carson shivered. Ronon felt an answering shiver travel through his own body. Ronon chuckled. He wrapped his arms around Carson’s trunk, holding him tightly against his chest for a moment while he nuzzled and licked at Carson’s neck. Carefully avoiding brushing his mate’s cock, Ronon pulled his body away and gently coaxed Carson’s body back until he was supine on the discarded robes. Kneeling at Carson’s head, Ronon gazed down into his clear blue eyes. “Love,” Ronon whispered.

“Aye,” Carson whispered back.

“Sometimes they die,” he said.

Despite the tea, Carson clearly hadn’t expected Ronon’s words. He blinked up at Ronon, his eyes bright with sudden tears. Ronon felt the surge of pain within his mate, raw as though still fresh and new. He felt his own eyes sting with tears, and then they were each crying, wet streaking their faces as they sobbed soft and quiet in the shelter of the forest biome.

So many, Carson thought. I couldn’t save them.

No, Ronon thought. Sometimes, you can’t.

His mate’s pain reopened his own, the loss of his friends and family, the loss of Melena, the loss of his entire people. The loss of any quick death at the hand of a Wraith, the horror of being forced into serving their twisted need for sport. Tears dropped from his face to Carson’s, mingling together on his mate’s skin.

Ronon cupped his hands around Carson’s face, using his thumbs to stroke the salty wetness into his skin, caressing him gently as they cried out their mutual pain. Slowly, they regained their breath, regained their sight, reddened though it was. Carson gave him a sad smile, and Ronon returned it.

“Love,” Ronon said again.

“Aye,” Carson whispered, again.

“We honour their memory,” Ronon said.

Carson blinked, nodded once. “Aye,” he said, his voice strangled yet once again hinting at the strength Ronon knew was there.

Ronon wriggled back slightly, enough to allow him to bend forward and brush a kiss to his mate’s lips. “Now we honour our love,” he said, soft into Carson’s mouth. Carson’s lip trembled against his, but he nodded his assent. Ronon straightened, smiling. He rose in one movement, hearing Carson gasp as the sensation of muscles and bone moving in lithe coordination was reflected through their bond. He stalked around Carson’s form to stand tall at his feet.

“We have proclaimed our intent,” Ronon intoned. “To form Coherence on this day as a bonded pair. Our people assent, our intent is supported. Our friends watch that none may interfere or injure.”

“We have proclaimed our intent,” Carson repeated, his voice quiet.

“Coherence binds us in thought and touch,” Ronon said. “We form Coherence as friends, as lovers, as mates, and as an eternal bond.”

“Coherence binds us in thought and touch,” Carson said, slightly louder.

“As your hands are bound, so is my heart,” Ronon said.

“As my hands are bound, so is your heart,” Carson replied.

Ronon’s heart beat wildly at the sight of his lover. Carson’s cock, softened recently from their shared pain, was again eager and hard, jutting upward, expectant. Ronon took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself sufficiently to make it through the next stages of the ritual. The constant feedback of his mate’s emotions and sensation was already intense, nearly overwhelming, and once they began to touch, he feared he would lose himself completely without finishing the ceremony.

“It’s all right, love,” he heard Carson say. He looked into Carson’s face, saw his smile, bright and shining with warmth, with love.

Ronon drew open his robes, allowing them to slide to the ground. He heard Carson gasp, for the first time seeing the intricate patterns stained on his body, patterns proclaiming in symbols both ancient and modern that Ronon Dex was the bonded mate of Carson Beckett forevermore. So beautiful, he heard Carson think. Ronon felt his cock twitch, felt the same sensation in his mate.

He slid to his knees at Carson’s feet. Slowly yet without hesitation, Ronon placed a hand on each ankle, stroking his fingers along his mate’s lower legs, painting them in patterns that matched Ronon’s, only painted solely by his finger’s touch, invisible but forever burned into his mate’s skin. He heard Carson whimper at the sensation, and he bit back his own cry of desire, of lust.

His hands crept upward, his strokes covering both the outside and inside of Carson’s legs, from ankle to hip. Wriggling forward on his knees, he sat now between his mate’s thighs, the man’s cock tantalisingly close. In one smooth motion, Ronon leaned forward and took Carson deep in his mouth, swallowing him down to the very root.

“Ronon!” Carson cried, bucking into his face. Ronon moaned around Carson’s cock, sucking at him gently for a few moments before pulling away. The sensation of mouth-cock-mouth surged through his body, the reflection of Carson’s sensations as intense as his own.

Surging upward, Ronon stood and stepped over his mate’s thighs, straddling his waist before lowering himself again to his knees. He pushed Carson’s bound arms above his head, then reached behind to grasp his cock. Holding Carson’s bright, sharp gaze with his own, Ronon lowered himself onto his mate’s cock, his earlier preparations making the physical joining of their Coherence comfortable, almost easy. With infinite care, Ronon sank down until he was impaled utterly.

Carson moaned, and Ronon felt the hot tightness almost as if it were around his own cock. He moaned likewise. Reaching up to grasp Carson’s bound wrists, he took his mate’s mouth with his, kissing him hard and deep. Carson moaned again and bucked into Ronon’s body. Ronon felt Carson shift his legs, bending them for leverage, and then the hard, pounding drive of his mate fucking him, just as hard and deep as Ronon was driving his tongue into Carson’s mouth.

Ronon felt his balls grow heavy and tight; then he was coming, spurts of his seed hot and sticky between them. In the senseless bliss of his own orgasm, he felt Carson’s begin, another layer of sensation in his own. He felt him bucking yet harder into Ronon’s body, crying out his release with incoherent sound in Ronon’s mouth.

They lay entwined, Carson’s softening cock still within Ronon. Ronon pulled Carson’s bound hands forward and over his own back, capturing himself in Carson’s bound embrace. He slid his arms under and around his mate’s shoulders before tucking his head next to his Carson’s.

“My heart, your hands,” Ronon said into Carson’s ear, his voice rough.

“My hands, your heart,” Carson responded, his voice likewise rough.

He felt Carson slip from his body, his mate’s essence running wet along his thighs. Carson lifted his arms from Ronon’s back and replaced them above his head. Without breaking apart, Ronon slid his hands along Carson’s arms, releasing Carson’s binding by touch alone. Ronon made a happy hum in the back of his throat, and he heard Carson chuckle.

“Thank you,” Carson breathed into his ear. Ronon nuzzled deeper into his neck. He felt Carson draw up his robe from the ground, wrapping them both against the chill that would come as their sweat-sheened bodies cooled even in the warmth of the artificial forest. Rolling them both sideways to cuddle tightly together, Ronon used a foot to draw his own robe from their feet, covering their legs. Carson chuckled again. “What would I ever do without you?” he said, happiness and love strong in his words and crystal clear through the sensations of their bond.

“Never without you,” Ronon mumbled, wrapping himself around and into Carson’s embrace. “Never without each other.”

Fic remix: … To Eat From His Hand, preslash Sheppard/Zelenka by inkscribe

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 18:08:02 GMT

Title: … To Eat From His Hand
Sequel to: Wanting Him
Author: inkscribe

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

Challenge: Less is More Mini-Challenge by LiveJournal user justbreathe80

Pairings: preslash Sheppard/Zelenka
POV: Zelenka

Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1500
Feedback: yes, please!

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

Co-nominated for the SHEPPARD/ZELENKA category in the Stargate DiversiFICation Awards.

Author’s Notes: A scene remixed (again), with permission, from the second part of Sgatlantislight’s Having Your Cake … And Eating it, Too.

Radek knew how to be patient, and now that John was an infirmary patient – spending seemingly endless days in recovery from his near-fatal Jumper accident – Radek expected his own patience would yield positive results. He decided to visit only occasionally, knowing full well that too often might raise suspicion, but also that too infrequent might allow the status quo to slide back into place, unmoving and unyielding without applying sufficient energy to be worthy of consideration in Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity.

The scientist knew his method, knew to gather observable, empirical, measurable evidence to investigate new phenomena and acquire not, in this case, new knowledge, but John Sheppard. Lieutenant-Colonel John Sheppard – and therein lay the rub. The man turned personal denial and suppression into something more than a necessity, into something more akin to credo, all to meet the stupid demands of American military regulations.

Radek knew stupid regulations. He’d been na vojnu like the other young men of his nation. When it came to stupidity, military was military was military – you shrugged and did your best to ignore the obvious fact that very little of it made sense, especially if you thought about it.

John is delightfully American, Radek thought. To worry so much over mere expulsion from the military. In Radek’s time, being gay in the military wasn’t so much the issue as being gay, period. When he was na vojnu, homosexuality was illegal for military and citizens alike, with terrible consequences if caught. Radek smiled wryly to himself. Fortunately, one of the great advantages to living under the Soviet Occupation was an almost reflexive ability to maintain calm, quiet composure under even the most trying circumstances. To present a face to the public – or more importantly, to the authorities – that did nothing to raise suspicion or cause anyone to take notice of you.

For that very reason, Radek did notice John. He noticed that for all John’s apparent casual American openness and laissez-faire, he rarely shared anything of himself. As though he were a man sprung fully formed into his role as a member of the military contingent of Atlantis, a man with no past to distract him from the present. It takes one to know one, Radek thought, observing John over their months together. He added his observations of John-with-alien-priestess, John-with-alien-princess, and John-with-arrogant-scientist, and felt safe in his conclusion that John needed more than a quiet invitation to come to Radek.

Or come with him, or on him, or in him – it didn’t matter. Radek wanted John, for however much John would be willing to give – or take.

Under systems theory, Radek predicted that given the correct pressures, John’s response would be in Radek’s favour. Change a parameter and the system must respond. Apply the correct stimulus, and the response? The response would be that John would be eating out of his hand. Or Radek might be eating out of John’s … it didn’t matter. There would be eating. And licking. And sucking and fucking and coming and whatever else Radek could coax from the man, whatever he could convince John was safe enough to take, safe enough to give.

Radek rapidly realised that not only did John enjoy casual chatter and gossip, but in the mind-numbing boredom of life as a full-time in-patient in the infirmary, he was also prepared to allow Radek to tease out his astounding abilities in maths.

Radek smiled to himself. In the infirmary, Radek handed John math, and John ate it greedily. On the third visit, Radek opened up his laptop and showed John the complex equation he’d been working on.

He watched John closely. He observed the man’s gaze become distant and unfocused. He’s remembering, Radek thought. Radek remembered, too. Remembered inching his way through the torn innards of the Jumper, intent on reaching John, intent on releasing him from the jaws of death gripping him so tightly. Intent on being there to offer the comfort of touch – human, loving touch – if there was no way to remove him before he died.

Part-way through, Radek snagged on something. He swore and cursed, gasping in pain as he tore himself bodily from the sharpness slicing into his back. He refused to be distracted by his own wound, or to be distracted by the decapitated head of the other soldier – a trainee, a woman. He would not fail John.

He arrived, squeezing himself through the interstices of the the wreckage, finding himself between John’s splayed legs, his face near John’s groin. He had imagined this, more than once. Not this, not the colonel with exposed bones and lacerations and almost no colour or body heat. Not the colonel nearly dead and seeping slowly toward complete death. Ne, not that. He had squeezed the man’s hand for assurance before crawling beneath the ruined console with his tools, desperate to release John before he died, desperate to give him a real chance to live, with or without Radek and his imagination.

Radek had imagined something else, of course. Something – something very personal. He forced himself to say it, a small joke to explain what was necessary, light humour to cover for the dark intimacy their relative positions implied. I am afraid I am going to get very personal for a minute or two, he had told John, white-faced and shocky above him. Radek might know how to apply stimulus to get response, but he would never take advantage of a man – a friend – by twisting the demands of the emergency to his own ends. No, Radek would seduce John through other means, sink between his legs for other reasons, at other times.

He watched John come again to his senses, flash him a grin somewhere between oops and I’m not quite right in my head. John narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the laptop screen, scanning it line by line. “Oh, here’s your problem, I think. You’re assuming this is going to be a rational number here. But what happens if it’s an irrational number?” John queried.  “That would be impossible, though, wouldn’t it?”   “In wormhole physics? Hell if I know. Ask McKay,” John said.  Radek considered the equation for a few moments, then flew into action. He began adding lines, modifying, removing bits, almost frantic. That John grasped such complexities, could see the gestalt so quickly – that alone was incredibly attractive to Radek. And John’s body isn’t hard on the eyes, either, he thought to himself.

Speaking of eyes – Radek was peripherally aware of John’s on him, on his hands, watching him with absolute absorption as he worked on the laptop. Radek had strong hands, ano. Strong and fine – good for work requiring precision and a delicate touch. Radek wondered whether John thought about that now, how Radek might trail his fingers along John’s skin, brush them across John’s nipples. How he might slide his hands into John’s trousers, pressing and releasing, just as he did with the keypad. Strong, then delicate – always precise.

His attention split between the beauty of the equation opening before him and the thought of touching – really touching – John, Radek made a sound deep in his throat, guttural. Wanting.

From the corner of his eye, Radek saw John move ever so slightly. Not a flinch, ne. More an attempt at a subtle adjustment against discomfort. He smiled to himself. Ah, John, he thought. You liked that. You want it. He decided to apply more stimulus.

“Oh, yes,” Radek almost moaned as he continued to tease the equation into new permutations. “This is ... oh, this is good.”
“Radek,” John began, his voice not quite right. “If you don’t quiet down, Carson’s going to think we’re having sex in his infirmary.”
Radek peered at John over the frame of his glasses, taking in the slight flush of the man’s skin, the dilation of his pupils, the tiny movements of discomfort centred at his groin. He smirked at John.
“Oh, I would be much quieter than this if I were going to have sex in infirmary,” he said.
John’s eyes rolled slightly into his head as though he were caught in a wave of imagined euphoria, then he blinked rapidly. Radek forced himself to ignore the display of obvious consternation. As John watched, Radek continued to type, making little pleasure sounds in his throat as he did so. Patience was its own reward, and patience would mean Radek would have John, and John would have Radek, and one would be eating from the other’s hand soon enough. Radek was patient.

Fic remix: Wanting Him, preslash Sheppard/Zelenka by inkscribe

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 18:06:22 GMT

Title: Wanting Him
Prequel to: … To Eat From His Hand
Author: inkscribe

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

Challenge: Less is More Mini-Challenge by LiveJournal user justbreathe80

Pairings: preslash Sheppard/Zelenka
POV: Sheppard

Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1300

Feedback: yes, please!

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

Co-nominated for the SHEPPARD/ZELENKA category in the Stargate DiversiFICation Awards.

Author’s Notes: A scene remixed, with permission, from the second part of Sgatlantislight’s Having Your Cake … And Eating it, Too.

On the third visit, Radek opened up his laptop and showed John the complex equation he’d been working on. John found himself enjoying those visits more and more – actually looking forward to them, and not just because he got to play math with someone who wouldn’t make a big deal about his decidedly non-jockish abilities.

No, John realised, he was starting to look forward to spending time with the man. The man who had crawled through the impossibly small space of the wrecked Jumper to rescue him before he bled out. The man who pushed through a snag from a jagged piece of metal, lacerating himself deeply before tearing himself free and losing his own not-insignificant amount of blood. Yet, when Radek had finally reached John, he made no mention of any discomfort, any pain – simply apologised that he would need to get very personal for a minute or two as he worked to help extract him from his bloody prison, huddled tight to John’s crotch.

At the time, he was only peripherally aware of the man. Bloodloss had left John pleasantly numb – not quite euphoric, but not entirely conscious of Radek’s touch. He could remember it now, distant as though he had merely viewed Radek’s work on a video feed rather than being physically present the entire time. He remembered Radek squeezing his hand reassuringly, remembered the man squirming and worming through the tiny space, cutting the crossbar trapping John’s leg, then freeing the Jumper seat so John could be extracted through the destroyed windscreen with minimal twisting.

In other circumstances – circumstances with less blood, fewer broken bones, and no head injury – it would have been as erotic as all get out.

He shook his head for a moment, trying to clear his thoughts. He’d spent too many years pushing away those thoughts just so he could stay flying, and now that staying in Atlantis was in the mix of things he’d rather not risk losing, he knew he could not afford to let his mind stray into those areas, no matter how lonely he found himself in those moments where he wasn’t saving lives or barely escaping with his own.

He glanced at Radek, noticing the man watching him, waiting patiently for John to focus on the equation on the laptop. John flashed him a grin, one that said, ”Yeah, I had a head injury,” then looked closely at the laptop screen. His eyes scanned it line by line. “Oh, here’s your problem, I think. You’re assuming this is going to be a rational number here. But what happens if it’s an irrational number?”

 “That would be impossible, though, wouldn’t it?”
  “In wormhole physics? Hell if I know. Ask McKay.”
  Radek looked thoughtful as he considered the equation for a few moments, then began adding lines, modifying, removing bits, almost frantic. John tried not to stare, but failed utterly. Radek’s hands travelled the laptop keyboard with all the grace of a master pianist. His fingers didn’t so much type as ... as ... caress the keys. His eyes, too – they were fever-bright as he tore through the equation, pulling it apart and reconstructing it so quickly that John suspected if he went just a little bit faster, the computer might melt down into a puddle of plastic goo.

John wasn’t sure he wanted to think about sticky things right at the moment. Not while watching those hands. Elegant, graceful – even exquisite. Those hands that caressed the laptop and brought forward beautiful math.

John knew the touch of hands. Hands that brought forth sticky evidence of completion, hands that brought forth shivers and gasps and sweat. Hands that teased, hands that soothed. Hands that reamed and inserted and tugged and pulled with desperation. Hands that stroked with movements expressing desire, arousal, and want.

In the tight-knit community of Atlantis, though, he couldn’t risk the touch of hands other than his – not without endangering his position, not without being recalled to Earth, never to return. Atlantis didn’t have a place where he could slip, anonymous and unnoticed like many of the men there, seeking something they couldn’t or wouldn’t admit to in the harsh light of day, where touch and sensation became the entire boundary of sex, and emotions stayed firmly separate. Sexual relations, not relationships, just like he’d explained to Rodney. John swallowed down the lump of tension beginning to constrict his throat, a tight pang of longing and unformed loss at the memory of that torturous confession to his best friend and team member.

John tried again to clear his thoughts, only to hear Radek make a sound deep in his throat. A sound that John had only ever heard made in the middle of sex – in the middle of very very very very good sex. A sound that suggested hunger to be sated, thirst to be quenched, craving to be satisfied.

That sound. John found himself growing hard under the thin infirmary blanket at that sound. Soon he was hard and slightly uncomfortable, hardness and discomfort closely matching that of the plaster cast wrapped around his lower leg.

“Oh, yes,” Radek almost moaned. “This is ... oh, this is good.”

Oh dear god, John groaned inwardly.I am going to die. John’s cock had gone from hard to rigid to straining, the speed of the transition easily rivalling Radek’s swift work with the equation. His work with those hands, those hands and that sound.

Oh god, John thought again.
  “Radek,” John tried to say the name lightly though his body was now so taut from the strain of – of Radek typing and moaning – oh dear god.

He tried to force his voice to be smooth, not the strained, husky rasp he knew wanted to scrape its way out of his chest, climbing past his fractured ribs, deep and low as though it came from his cock and not his throat. “If you don’t quiet down, Carson’s going to think we’re having sex in his infirmary,” he finally managed.

He couldn’t believe he’d just said that to Radek, of all people. Radek, the man who’d worked to free John from certain death by exsanguination in a mangled jumper, the man who’d endured his own not insignificant injury for that very same rescue. Radek, the man John currently found himself hard and aching for, strain and pain in John’s cock reminding him of just how difficult a path he followed. 
 Zelenka’s hands froze over the keyboard and he peered at John over the frame of his glasses. He smirked. “Oh, I would be much quieter than this if I were going to have sex in infirmary.”
  John blinked, taken aback. Radek – sex – infirmary. Did Radek, Radek of all people? Did Radek just say something about quiet sex in the infirmary? John blinked again. He tried to follow his thoughts as they ran though dozens of permutations, arrived at dozens of possible answers. Sex. Quiet sex. Quiet sex with Radek, after noisy sex with math. Solve for ‘x’, John thought. Solve for sex.

Oh dear god.

Radek continued to type, making little pleasure sounds in his throat as he did so. John bit back his own moan, one that threatened to seep from his body from the unrelieved tension, and tried to focus again on the math teasing open before him under the scientist’s elegant, graceful, even exquisite hands.

Fic: Doctors Do Dyson, G, ensemble by inkscribe

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 15:40:28 GMT

Title: Doctors Do Dyson
Author: inkscribe

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

Pairings: none: ensemble (McKay, Sheppard, Zelenka, Beckett, Kavanagh)
Kink: pre-kink?
Rating: G
Words: about 1700
Feedback: yes, please!

Summary: In which John misunderstands by accident but the others do so by design.

Author's Notes/Warnings: None, really. I could possibly be convinced to make this part of something longer, but I really need some guidance. This is my first-ever story posting in any fandom, so my apologies-in-advance for any astoundingly stupid errors in technique (posting/lj-cuts, etc.). Non-beta’d, so any errors are most definitely mine. The … erm … ‘item’ under discussion was available in my part o’ Canada, which may or may not help you, gentle readers. Let’s just say I’m not making that part up.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine; please don’t sue, we’ll both regret it in the morning. Anything you recognise related to the … erm … ‘item’ under discussion is especially not mine. Seriously – Rodney and I are in complete agreement on this one. Harumph.

John heard them long before he reached the door, an argument obviously heated and heating further.

“Yes yes yes, of course he’s brilliant, Radek. That should be obvious even to you.”

McKay.

A snort. “But he hid it all these years?”

Zelenka.

“Well, I think he’s got the right idea.”

Kavanagh.

Another snort, but doubled. Simultaneous snorting from the scientists? John was surprised to find he had room for more curiosity.

“Gee, what a surprise,” a voice mocked. “Kavanagh admires a slacker.”

Definitely McKay again.

John found himself feeling a bit like Alice as he was drawn in, curioser and curioser. What started this argument, and who the hell did McKay think he was calling John a slacker?

“He’s a bit posh I think.”

Beckett.

John was almost at the door and he felt his colour start to rise. Posh? What was it with everyone on this mission always ridiculing his hair? He didn’t spend any time on it at all, he didn’t have hair care products cached away for an emergency because he really never bothered with the stuff, and he didn’t think it was funny that people seemed to have no problem at all commenting on his personal grooming skills as if ... as if ... as if he were affecting the whole thing just to be showy, instead of being a guy cursed with an endless string of mostly bad-hair days. It wasn’t like it was his fault or anything that the rumpled look had become popular in recent years, that certainly didn’t make up for all the years of merciless taunting by his schoolmates and, later, the withering glares from his Air Force superiors.

John strode through the open door just as Kavanagh said, “At least he was smart enough to get rid of bags.”

John stopped dead in his tracks, completely befuddled. Bags? Something wasn’t adding up, at least not in base 10. He thought back on the last few moments, reviewing the bits he’d heard. Nope, it wasn’t adding up in base 8, 6, 19, or 2, either. He schooled his features, affected a casual, nonchalant air, and leaned lazily against the AV room wall before glancing around the room at the men there: Kavanagh and Zelenka standing, McKay upright and clearly uptight on a couch, and Beckett slouched on a second couch.

“So,” John drawled. “What are the finest minds in Atlantis up to today?”

McKay started and looked guilty, his face rapidly flushed red. Zelenka grinned openly at John, and Kavanagh just snorted, almost in tandem with a Scottish-flavoured snort from the couch as Beckett joined in. John looked from face to face expectantly. While his curiosity remained burning at a fever pitch, he re-assessed his assumptions while he continued to look at each of the assembled men. OK, so maybe not Alice in Wonderland, he thought, but quite possibly I’m in an episode of Three’s Company.

“Well?” he prompted. “Or do I need special clearance for this discussion?”

Zelenka surprised them all at that point by giggling. From the look on his face, it was hard to tell whether McKay was more mortified by the sound of one of his staff giggling or by being caught at whatever it was they were up to in the first place.

“What’s the matter,” sneered Kavanagh. “Can’t remember how to use your grownup words, McKay?”

Had John not been privy to some of the exchange before he arrived he might have thought McKay was suffering from anaphylaxis. The purplish-red blotches of colour permeating the man’s face were quite impressive, like a piece of performance art on the emotion ‘rage’.

McKay raised a fist and shook it at Kavanagh. “Don’t think that you’re safe from transfer out of here for a minute, Kavanagh. Just because you don’t report directly to me doesn’t mean you’ve got immunity from my wrath.”

John being John and completely confused yet also completely unable to help himself heard himself asking rhetorically, “And that would be the ‘Wrath of Rod’...ney?”

McKay let out a strangled gasp as Zelenka resumed his giggles, joined by more snorts from Beckett and a smug grin from Kavanagh. He brandished an index finger at John, the finger unsteady as he twitched with barely suppressed rage. “You! How could you do this to me, Colonel? We’re on the same team! I’ve saved your life,” McKay cried.

John looked stricken and raised his hands as if to ward off attack, or perhaps to keep the crazy man quiet. “I just got here, McKay,” he protested. “And all I did was ask what you guys were doing! Do I need to order you to explain just what the hell you’re not talking about?”

Zelenka threw himself next to Beckett, giggling madly.

“Silence!” roared McKay.

Zelenka quieted somewhat; however, Beckett began emitting little squeaks from his own fit of until-just-that-moment silent giggling.

John looked back at Kavanagh and found himself exchanging a shrug with the man. John knew that Kavanagh knew what was going on, but as usual, the man clearly wasn’t going to make things easy for McKay by just spilling the whole story.

John wrenched his attention back to McKay when he realised he’d just missed something muttered rapidly from the chief of sciences.

“What was that, McKay?” John asked.

McKay gave a huge sigh and repeated, “It’s all Jeannie’s fault.”

Jeannie? Why on earth would they be arguing about Jeannie? And weren’t they arguing about a guy or something? Jeannie might be a lot of things, but a guy wasn’t one of them. And, for that matter, posh wasn’t, either. John really liked the down-to-earth McKay sibling when she’d visited. No, whatever this was, it was definitely continuing not to add up.

Almost-silence stretched as John thought about her – little snickers and soft guffaws from Zelenka and Beckett continued pretty much unabated.

John nodded and winced slightly. “So McKay,” he said, trying for his calm-down-the-mad-scientist voice instead of his kill-the-overachieving-bastard voice. “What, exactly, are you blaming your little sister for?”

McKay repeated the huge sigh, his shoulders slumped in resignation. He gestured towards the dark screen at the front of the room. “She just sent me this,” McKay hissed, viciously hitting the play button on the remote.

John watched the video clip in silence, his face impassive while his body still leant in carefully-arranged casualness against the wall. When the clip finished, he waited for McKay to continue. When McKay didn’t, John took the opportunity to sigh and prompted, “She sent you a copy of a commercial?”

“Yes.”

“About a vacuum cleaner.”

“Yes.”

John stared narrowly at McKay for several seconds, trying with all his might to fit the variables together to come up with a result other than ‘null’. Nope, nothing computed. Nothing added up. But, wait – there might just be an explanation here after all:

“The commercial has some sort of subliminal fight-with-other-scientists command built into it?” John hazarded.

At this, Zelenka dissolved into a renewed fit of giggling.

To John’s surprise, Kavanagh stepped in. “McKay’s just annoyed that he actually agrees with his sister for once, and the rest of us just don’t see it.” Unseen by the rest, Kavanagh winked at John, tipping John off that they were just pulling McKay’s leg, all too successfully from the looks of things.

“Well if any of you had the collective IQ of a mouse on generic cheese, you’d be just as incensed,” McKay snapped.

“Maybe you’d care to enlighten my cheese-addled brain?” John drawled.

“Fine, Colonel. But be warned – if you’re as thick as this lot,” McKay waved his hand across the other three men, his action both dismissive and imperious. “Then I’ll lose all respect for you.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Sounds serious,” he replied.

“Jeannie sent me a copy of the commercial to prove that Earth really is doomed, being as we’re still living in the cultural dark ages.”

John thought about McKay’s words and found they still didn’t compute. John kept his eyebrow raised in expectation. “And you get this from a vacuum cleaner ad how, McKay?”

“It’s perfectly obvious!” fumed McKay. “You get this pretty-boy, well, man really,” he said. “Posh, I think Beckett called him.”

Beckett nodded in agreement.

“You get this posh British guy who’s got to be at least 55 and he’s hinting to us about his adventures in vacuum cleaner re-engineering.”

John’s eyebrow remained firmly raised.

“He’s 55!”

John’s eyebrow did not so much as twitch.

“And posh!”

Still no eyebrow relaxation.

McKay threw up his hands in a strange combination of frustration and ergo, he had solved the problem. “Colonel,” McKay said, his voice rising again towards a shout. “He’s decided to save the world, the female world for the most part, I might add, from the frustration of poorly-engineered vacuum cleaners because he discovered, as a middle-aged man, that vacuum cleaners don’t work very well!”

John let his eyebrow resume its normal position on his forehead and nodded slowly as the pieces fit together. Yes, now he had the variables, he had an equation, and he had an answer.

John coughed slightly to clear his throat of his own giggle that threatened to break out any moment. “If the guy was a decent type, he really should have stumbled upon the deficiencies inherent in vacuum cleaners when he was still in high school?” John summarised.

“Damn straight,” McKay muttered.

John nodded thoughtfully. McKay hadn’t had a coddled childhood, and John could imagine that the very idea of some pompous ass coming to the rescue of the average housecleaning-burdened serf might get McKay’s ire up. “I can see where you’re coming from, McKay.”

McKay looked at him suspiciously as John levered himself from the wall and plopped down next to him. “I’d also suggest that you shouldn’t trust the motives of a guy who wants to get rid of bags,” he stage-whispered, innuendo dripping heavily from every syllable he uttered.

“What?” gasped McKay.

Kavanagh snorted, shook his head, and took his leave. Zelenka continued his giggling, and Beckett broke out in loud guffaws.

John nudged McKay’s arm with his elbow and nodded meaningfully at the remote he still clutched. “Jeannie send anything else good for us take apart?”

“Just a couple of episodes of a lame-assed post-apocalyptic show with really bad science,” began McKay.

“Sounds good to me,” said John, and the four men settled down in contented, silent companionship to watch the lame-assed-ness.

Edited to add vid rec: It seems that I am not the only SGA fan who enjoys poking fun at adverts. Please check out LiveJournal user Starrylizard's vids, most especially the great satires on Looking for the perfect man/woman?. Please also check out the entries for the ongoing Stargate Advertisement Challenge. Enjoy!

Yes, there is something here, sort of

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 14:40:27 GMT

Backup Journal. Content to follow ... eventually. ;-)