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quasar273Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Title: Skew Lines I: Hideous and Intimate
Author: Quasar
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season 3 "Progeny" and "Sateda"
Warnings: dark, graphic non-con, hurt without comfort
Length: ~2700 words
Summary: "Progeny" missing scene: what Rodney refused to recount . . .
Author's Note: This has turned into a series I'm calling Skew Lines.
Rodney wakes shackled hand and foot to a half-inclined bed. He doesn't remember falling asleep. Did he fall, or was he pushed?
An Asuran woman comes through the door holding something in her hand. She doesn't meet his eyes as she pushes up his sleeve and presses the blunt-nosed instrument against the skin of his arm. There's no pain of injection, only a spreading pressure.
"What is that, some kind of truth serum?" Rodney demands. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Doesn't matter what you do to me -- drugs, torture, whatever. I've been tortured before." No, better not think of Kolya. "I'm not telling you where we come from or how to get there." The addresses of Atlantis and Earth flash into his mind, but he won't reveal them. He won't.
The woman just watches him for a moment, then turns away. The chair-bed thing Rodney is strapped to follows her along the hallways. He can't tell if the thing is automated or being pushed.
The woman stops at a cell, and the gurney rolls in. When the bars have closed and the force field is activated, the shackles pop open. Rodney lifts his wrists and rubs them, sitting up to look around properly.
There's another chaise-gurney on the other side of the cell. Sheppard is sitting there, watching him intently.
"What, you didn't jump them as soon as the cell opened?" Rodney asks.
Sheppard blinks several times, then looks at the retracted shackles. "They let me go same time as you." He slides down from the gurney and looks around the cell, seeming lost or dazed.
"Did they give you some kind of injection or something?"
"Or something." Sheppard paces along the bars at the front of the cell.
"They didn't ask me any questions," Rodney says. "Not that I would have told them anything. I didn't, you know. Tell them anything. But I'm not sure what those injections were for, if they're not going to interrogate us."
Sheppard keeps pacing, arms tightly crossed.
"Maybe they're waiting for whatever it is to kick in. But then why let the bindings go? And anyway, you'd think a civilization as advanced as this one would have developed a fast-acting truth serum. Unless our physiology is different from theirs, which I suppose is --"
"Is it hot in here?" Sheppard unzips his jacket, then pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor. His black tee clings damply to his chest.
"Seems fine to me. You're hot? Maybe that's from the injection. But then why isn't it affecting me? It can't be your ATA gene, since I got the therapy too . . . why are you staring at me like that?"
Sheppard has paused his circuit at the foot of Rodney's gurney. His eyes look nearly black in the harsh light of the cell. He shakes his head sharply and resumes pacing.
"What, what's wrong, what are you feeling?"
"I feel . . . " Sheppard shakes his head again, breathing quickly.
"Are you having a panic attack? Claustrophobia? Look, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Happens to me all the time. Just breathe deeply and slowly, and blow through pursed lips when you exhale, like this." Rodney demonstrates. "Close your eyes and think of a wide open field -- or maybe a balcony overlooking the sea. Lately that works better for me, I don't know why."
"No, no." Sheppard keeps shaking his head. "That's not it. I feel -- I need . . . "
"We both need to get out of here, Colonel, but it's not going to happen if you panic. Maybe you're having a reaction to the drugs, or something. Just sit down and try to stay calm."
"Damn it, I'm so hot!" Sheppard pulls off his shirt in one convulsive motion and throws it aside, making the force field crackle.
"Uh . . ." Rodney can't keep from staring at the dog tags nestled in the hair-dusted hollow between two nicely-defined pectorals. Sheppard's chest and shoulders gleam with sweat.
"Aren't you hot?" Sheppard detours up between the two gurneys.
"Not especially."
"Come on, Rodney, take off your jacket." Sheppard tugs at it.
"Really, Colonel, I'm not feeling hot." But Rodney shrugs out of the jacket anyway, just because Sheppard asked. Then Sheppard's hands are on his shoulders, his chest, running over his shirt as if searching for something. "What is it? What are you looking for?" Rodney wonders if he should have checked himself for bugs or implants when he woke up. How long was he unconscious, anyway?
Sheppard just leans closer, his dark eyes fixed on Rodney's throat, and for a moment Rodney thinks he's found something. Then Sheppard is licking there, right below Rodney's ear where the skin is most sensitive.
"Um, Colonel? What are you doing?" Rodney pushes weakly, but Sheppard just makes an 'Mmm' noise and presses closer, climbing half onto the gurney. His mouth is roving across Rodney's neck and collarbone, making him shiver.
"Colonel!" Rodney pushes harder, and Sheppard settles back into a kneeling position on the gurney. Rodney realizes what the black eyes mean. "You've been drugged. Your pupils are enormous. Are mine?" For a moment Rodney's eyes cross as he tries to see his own pupils, then he settles for glancing at the overhead lights. "I'm not overly light-sensitive, as far as I can tell."
Sheppard licks his lips and leans forward again.
"Colonel, the drugs are making you do this. You have to fight it!"
Sheppard glances up briefly. "Why?" Then he licks right below Rodney's adam's apple, making him jump. "Tastes good." His voice is uncommonly husky.
"Why? Well, because you'll regret it once the drugs are out of your system. You should probably just lie down and, and wait until the effects clear off."
"Don't want to," Sheppard says, more stubborn than petulant. "Want you." And then he kisses Rodney on the mouth, slowly and deeply and more sweetly than he ever dared to imagine. "You want me too, don't you, Rodney?"
"Uh . . ." Rodney begins to sag back against the pillows as Sheppard investigates the other half of his neck. "I suppose it might have occurred to me that, uh . . . " Then he swallows hard and sits up, hands on Sheppard's shoulders to hold him away. "But I'm not going to take advantage of you just because you're drugged!"
"Come on, Rodney," Sheppard whines. "The drug might be making me a little horny, but I'm a grownup. I can make my own decisions."
"Well, this is not a good decision for you to make right now. Why don't we just sit and talk for a while, and if you still want to try this later, after we've escaped from this place --"
"I have a better idea." Sheppard makes a move too quick for Rodney to follow and pins his wrists over his head. "Forget the talk. Let's get it on." He plasters his body over Rodney's, rubbing and thrusting while his tongue spelunks Rodney's mouth.
"Ungh -- uh -- oh my glph -- Colonel, no, you don't want to do this -- oh god that's good." Every move Rodney makes to get away somehow becomes erotic. Maybe the drug is affecting him too, because it's becoming harder and harder to resist. Sheppard is no longer holding his wrists, but reaching up under Rodney's shirt to ignite fires in places he never knew were flammable. And Rodney's hands, instead of pushing him away, are exploring the rippling muscles of Sheppard's back.
Rodney's shirt is gone faster than he can think, and their bare chests press together. He shoves his hips up urgently, trying to get enough friction and pressure. He hasn't felt so desperately excited since he was a teenager, but he can't quite get the right angle --
"Pants. Off. Now," growls Sheppard, pulling back to wrench at his own fly.
Rodney unsnaps his pants and wriggles to get them down his hips. "Oh god. Oh god, you're never going to forgive me for this. I'm taking advantage of --"
"Maybe you'd like it better if I take advantage of you." With another inscrutable move, Sheppard flips Rodney over and pins him somehow. The gurney slips down to lie flat. Sheppard worms a knee between Rodney's legs and wrenchs them apart, despite the pants that are caught around Rodney's ankles, trapped by his boots.
"Wait, wait --" This is hot in its own way, and the friction of his penis against the fabric beneath him is exquisite, but it's moving a little faster than Rodney feels ready for. "Hang on, I can't --"
"No. No more waiting." Sheppard flattens over Rodney's back and bites his shoulder possessively, making Rodney jerk. Then strong hands pull his arms down, and a moment later the shackles snick closed again around his wrists.
A stab of panic. "No! Wait, Colonel, I can't do this."
Sheppard doesn't answer, just moves down the bed to yank at Rodney's boots and pants.
Rodney kicks ineffectively. "No. No, Colonel, please, don't do this."
Sheppard's weight moves up again, between Rodney's thighs. Rodney tries to buck, to twist away, but Sheppard just leans into the small of his back.
"No. Oh god, please, no. I can't do this."
"I know you want it," his best friend's voice purrs in Rodney's ear. "I know you've thought about it."
"Not like this! I've never -- I'm not ready -- and anyway, we need something, some lubrication or something." Rodney flinches at a spitting sound, but none of it touches him, yet. "Colonel, no. This is me saying no. I do not consent to this."
Fingers between his cheeks, wet but not slippery enough, searching, probing, penetrating.
"No! I said no! Safeword, I'm using the safeword. Puddlejumper! Is that it?"
Sheppard leans down. "I'll send my puddlejumper right through your gate."
"Oh god, no, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. Please, Colonel -- okay, that hurts. That is not fun. Shit! Ow, ow, ow. That can't be feeling good for you, either. Ow!"
"Doesn't feel good -- feels great," Sheppard says in his sexiest drawl.
"No, no it doesn't. I did not agree to this, and I'm not enjoying it. It's not nice or comfortable at all, in fact it's -- ow! -- quite painful. Oh god. You're not even listening to me, are you?"
"Of course I'm listening, Rodney, I always listen to you." They might be talking over lunch, Sheppard zoning out one of Rodney's technical explanations -- except they're not. "I love the sound of your voice. It makes me hot. Keep talking for me."
Rodney clamps his lips shut and muffles his pained noises in the pillow. It just gets worse as the inadequate spit dries and Sheppard's motion gets more urgent. It's harder and deeper and faster, all in the worst possible ways, until Sheppard's swift breathing hitches and he stills a moment. Rodney whimpers into the pillow as Sheppard's hips jerk a few more times, then he falls limp over Rodney's back. Rodney stays tense against the pain and shame, just waiting.
At last Sheppard pulls out ("Ow!") and moves away. From the sounds, he's cleaning himself off with something, but he doesn't offer to do it for Rodney. Then he moves close again, and a warm hand settles on Rodney's back -- so familiar and reassuring, yet so awful that he can hardly breathe.
"Come on, Rodney." The shackles snap open. "Turn over for me."
Rodney twists onto his side to glare at his violator, a man he once admired and even maybe desired. Now, he suspects he'll never be able to hear that voice again without wanting to vomit. "I will never forgive you," he says, hating the tremor in his voice. "I don't care if you're drugged. I don't care what your excuse is --"
"Turn over and let me take care of you," says Sheppard. His hands, gentle and firm, roll Rodney over. He blocks Rodney's pitiful attempt at a punch, catches his wrists and presses them down again.
"No! No! You will not --" Rodney writhes frantically, but the shackles snick closed again. "Sheppard! Dammit!"
Sheppard just gives a sweet, boyish smile, as if he doesn't hear or care what Rodney is saying. "Your turn, Rodney."
"What, my turn to rape you? Bullshit, Colonel! In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who's -- oh, shit. Oh god, no, don't do that."
Sheppard has Rodney's limp, miserable penis in his mouth and is coaxing it with lips and tongue to betray Rodney utterly.
"No. No, please . . . " Rodney closes his mouth on a sob and his eyes against the sight of Sheppard's outrageous hair bent over his groin, brushing his stomach. He wishes he could turn off his ears and skin as well. Because his senses are definitely betraying him, stretching out and luxuriating in Sheppard's presence, his hot mouth and soft touches. Even the lingering pain in Rodney's ass can't override these new, delightful sensations.
Hands caress his thighs and flanks, hands far gentler than the ones that pinned and pinched him just minutes ago. Fingers card through his chest hair and roll his nipples easily. And all the while the hot ring of lips and the sinuous tongue beyond are torturing him with his own lack of self-control. One hand comes up between his thighs, and for a moment he panics and flinches away, but the fingers only tease at his testicles, pressing them up tight and hot against his body. The mouth begins to suck, and Rodney loses the last of his control in a white-out flash --
-- blending into an agonizing pain in his head --
Rodney pried his eyelids open to see a woman, the Asuran woman who had given him the injection, pulling her fingers slowly out of his forehead. What the hell?
He was in a cell, but there was no gurney and too many people. Rodney's limbs felt like spaghetti, dropping him to the cold floor in an uncontrolled heap.
The standing people, he realized, were Asurans. His team members were slumped around the cell like him. Only one, Colonel Sheppard, was still upright, on his knees, with Oberoth's hand disappearing into his skull.
Weakly, Rodney shook his head, which felt as if a spike -- or a hand -- had been driven through it. He realized distantly that his wrists didn't hurt at all, nor his back or his thighs . . . or his ass, except for the half-healed arrow wound he had forgotten to worry about.
The whole thing was fake. It never happened. Of course he should have known Sheppard wouldn't do anything like that. Except that it had been so real -- even Sheppard's speech and mannerisms --
Because they took it all from your brain, genius, Rodney told himself furiously. Just like they probably took the addresses for Earth and Atlantis when you thought about them. The rest was just icing on the cake for them.
He glared up at the woman standing over him. Did she get off on that? She looked perfectly calm, grave and considering. No parted lips or shining eyes --
(like Sheppard's when he bent to kiss)
Rodney tore his gaze away, to Oberoth and Sheppard. He knew he should do something, stop this, but his legs wouldn't move.
Then Oberoth pulled his hand back, and Sheppard screamed, and Rodney was not savoring the sound of the Colonel's pain, absolutely not. Sheppard toppled to the floor, the Asurans turned silently and left, and it was over. The thing that never happened was done not-happening.
Except that Rodney couldn't imagine how he'd ever be able to look the Colonel in the eye again.
Sequel: Paranoia
Title: Skew Lines I: Hideous and Intimate
Author: Quasar
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Season 3 "Progeny" and "Sateda"
Warnings: dark, graphic non-con, hurt without comfort
Length: ~2700 words
Summary: "Progeny" missing scene: what Rodney refused to recount . . .
Author's Note: This has turned into a series I'm calling Skew Lines.
Rodney wakes shackled hand and foot to a half-inclined bed. He doesn't remember falling asleep. Did he fall, or was he pushed?
An Asuran woman comes through the door holding something in her hand. She doesn't meet his eyes as she pushes up his sleeve and presses the blunt-nosed instrument against the skin of his arm. There's no pain of injection, only a spreading pressure.
"What is that, some kind of truth serum?" Rodney demands. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Doesn't matter what you do to me -- drugs, torture, whatever. I've been tortured before." No, better not think of Kolya. "I'm not telling you where we come from or how to get there." The addresses of Atlantis and Earth flash into his mind, but he won't reveal them. He won't.
The woman just watches him for a moment, then turns away. The chair-bed thing Rodney is strapped to follows her along the hallways. He can't tell if the thing is automated or being pushed.
The woman stops at a cell, and the gurney rolls in. When the bars have closed and the force field is activated, the shackles pop open. Rodney lifts his wrists and rubs them, sitting up to look around properly.
There's another chaise-gurney on the other side of the cell. Sheppard is sitting there, watching him intently.
"What, you didn't jump them as soon as the cell opened?" Rodney asks.
Sheppard blinks several times, then looks at the retracted shackles. "They let me go same time as you." He slides down from the gurney and looks around the cell, seeming lost or dazed.
"Did they give you some kind of injection or something?"
"Or something." Sheppard paces along the bars at the front of the cell.
"They didn't ask me any questions," Rodney says. "Not that I would have told them anything. I didn't, you know. Tell them anything. But I'm not sure what those injections were for, if they're not going to interrogate us."
Sheppard keeps pacing, arms tightly crossed.
"Maybe they're waiting for whatever it is to kick in. But then why let the bindings go? And anyway, you'd think a civilization as advanced as this one would have developed a fast-acting truth serum. Unless our physiology is different from theirs, which I suppose is --"
"Is it hot in here?" Sheppard unzips his jacket, then pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor. His black tee clings damply to his chest.
"Seems fine to me. You're hot? Maybe that's from the injection. But then why isn't it affecting me? It can't be your ATA gene, since I got the therapy too . . . why are you staring at me like that?"
Sheppard has paused his circuit at the foot of Rodney's gurney. His eyes look nearly black in the harsh light of the cell. He shakes his head sharply and resumes pacing.
"What, what's wrong, what are you feeling?"
"I feel . . . " Sheppard shakes his head again, breathing quickly.
"Are you having a panic attack? Claustrophobia? Look, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Happens to me all the time. Just breathe deeply and slowly, and blow through pursed lips when you exhale, like this." Rodney demonstrates. "Close your eyes and think of a wide open field -- or maybe a balcony overlooking the sea. Lately that works better for me, I don't know why."
"No, no." Sheppard keeps shaking his head. "That's not it. I feel -- I need . . . "
"We both need to get out of here, Colonel, but it's not going to happen if you panic. Maybe you're having a reaction to the drugs, or something. Just sit down and try to stay calm."
"Damn it, I'm so hot!" Sheppard pulls off his shirt in one convulsive motion and throws it aside, making the force field crackle.
"Uh . . ." Rodney can't keep from staring at the dog tags nestled in the hair-dusted hollow between two nicely-defined pectorals. Sheppard's chest and shoulders gleam with sweat.
"Aren't you hot?" Sheppard detours up between the two gurneys.
"Not especially."
"Come on, Rodney, take off your jacket." Sheppard tugs at it.
"Really, Colonel, I'm not feeling hot." But Rodney shrugs out of the jacket anyway, just because Sheppard asked. Then Sheppard's hands are on his shoulders, his chest, running over his shirt as if searching for something. "What is it? What are you looking for?" Rodney wonders if he should have checked himself for bugs or implants when he woke up. How long was he unconscious, anyway?
Sheppard just leans closer, his dark eyes fixed on Rodney's throat, and for a moment Rodney thinks he's found something. Then Sheppard is licking there, right below Rodney's ear where the skin is most sensitive.
"Um, Colonel? What are you doing?" Rodney pushes weakly, but Sheppard just makes an 'Mmm' noise and presses closer, climbing half onto the gurney. His mouth is roving across Rodney's neck and collarbone, making him shiver.
"Colonel!" Rodney pushes harder, and Sheppard settles back into a kneeling position on the gurney. Rodney realizes what the black eyes mean. "You've been drugged. Your pupils are enormous. Are mine?" For a moment Rodney's eyes cross as he tries to see his own pupils, then he settles for glancing at the overhead lights. "I'm not overly light-sensitive, as far as I can tell."
Sheppard licks his lips and leans forward again.
"Colonel, the drugs are making you do this. You have to fight it!"
Sheppard glances up briefly. "Why?" Then he licks right below Rodney's adam's apple, making him jump. "Tastes good." His voice is uncommonly husky.
"Why? Well, because you'll regret it once the drugs are out of your system. You should probably just lie down and, and wait until the effects clear off."
"Don't want to," Sheppard says, more stubborn than petulant. "Want you." And then he kisses Rodney on the mouth, slowly and deeply and more sweetly than he ever dared to imagine. "You want me too, don't you, Rodney?"
"Uh . . ." Rodney begins to sag back against the pillows as Sheppard investigates the other half of his neck. "I suppose it might have occurred to me that, uh . . . " Then he swallows hard and sits up, hands on Sheppard's shoulders to hold him away. "But I'm not going to take advantage of you just because you're drugged!"
"Come on, Rodney," Sheppard whines. "The drug might be making me a little horny, but I'm a grownup. I can make my own decisions."
"Well, this is not a good decision for you to make right now. Why don't we just sit and talk for a while, and if you still want to try this later, after we've escaped from this place --"
"I have a better idea." Sheppard makes a move too quick for Rodney to follow and pins his wrists over his head. "Forget the talk. Let's get it on." He plasters his body over Rodney's, rubbing and thrusting while his tongue spelunks Rodney's mouth.
"Ungh -- uh -- oh my glph -- Colonel, no, you don't want to do this -- oh god that's good." Every move Rodney makes to get away somehow becomes erotic. Maybe the drug is affecting him too, because it's becoming harder and harder to resist. Sheppard is no longer holding his wrists, but reaching up under Rodney's shirt to ignite fires in places he never knew were flammable. And Rodney's hands, instead of pushing him away, are exploring the rippling muscles of Sheppard's back.
Rodney's shirt is gone faster than he can think, and their bare chests press together. He shoves his hips up urgently, trying to get enough friction and pressure. He hasn't felt so desperately excited since he was a teenager, but he can't quite get the right angle --
"Pants. Off. Now," growls Sheppard, pulling back to wrench at his own fly.
Rodney unsnaps his pants and wriggles to get them down his hips. "Oh god. Oh god, you're never going to forgive me for this. I'm taking advantage of --"
"Maybe you'd like it better if I take advantage of you." With another inscrutable move, Sheppard flips Rodney over and pins him somehow. The gurney slips down to lie flat. Sheppard worms a knee between Rodney's legs and wrenchs them apart, despite the pants that are caught around Rodney's ankles, trapped by his boots.
"Wait, wait --" This is hot in its own way, and the friction of his penis against the fabric beneath him is exquisite, but it's moving a little faster than Rodney feels ready for. "Hang on, I can't --"
"No. No more waiting." Sheppard flattens over Rodney's back and bites his shoulder possessively, making Rodney jerk. Then strong hands pull his arms down, and a moment later the shackles snick closed again around his wrists.
A stab of panic. "No! Wait, Colonel, I can't do this."
Sheppard doesn't answer, just moves down the bed to yank at Rodney's boots and pants.
Rodney kicks ineffectively. "No. No, Colonel, please, don't do this."
Sheppard's weight moves up again, between Rodney's thighs. Rodney tries to buck, to twist away, but Sheppard just leans into the small of his back.
"No. Oh god, please, no. I can't do this."
"I know you want it," his best friend's voice purrs in Rodney's ear. "I know you've thought about it."
"Not like this! I've never -- I'm not ready -- and anyway, we need something, some lubrication or something." Rodney flinches at a spitting sound, but none of it touches him, yet. "Colonel, no. This is me saying no. I do not consent to this."
Fingers between his cheeks, wet but not slippery enough, searching, probing, penetrating.
"No! I said no! Safeword, I'm using the safeword. Puddlejumper! Is that it?"
Sheppard leans down. "I'll send my puddlejumper right through your gate."
"Oh god, no, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. Please, Colonel -- okay, that hurts. That is not fun. Shit! Ow, ow, ow. That can't be feeling good for you, either. Ow!"
"Doesn't feel good -- feels great," Sheppard says in his sexiest drawl.
"No, no it doesn't. I did not agree to this, and I'm not enjoying it. It's not nice or comfortable at all, in fact it's -- ow! -- quite painful. Oh god. You're not even listening to me, are you?"
"Of course I'm listening, Rodney, I always listen to you." They might be talking over lunch, Sheppard zoning out one of Rodney's technical explanations -- except they're not. "I love the sound of your voice. It makes me hot. Keep talking for me."
Rodney clamps his lips shut and muffles his pained noises in the pillow. It just gets worse as the inadequate spit dries and Sheppard's motion gets more urgent. It's harder and deeper and faster, all in the worst possible ways, until Sheppard's swift breathing hitches and he stills a moment. Rodney whimpers into the pillow as Sheppard's hips jerk a few more times, then he falls limp over Rodney's back. Rodney stays tense against the pain and shame, just waiting.
At last Sheppard pulls out ("Ow!") and moves away. From the sounds, he's cleaning himself off with something, but he doesn't offer to do it for Rodney. Then he moves close again, and a warm hand settles on Rodney's back -- so familiar and reassuring, yet so awful that he can hardly breathe.
"Come on, Rodney." The shackles snap open. "Turn over for me."
Rodney twists onto his side to glare at his violator, a man he once admired and even maybe desired. Now, he suspects he'll never be able to hear that voice again without wanting to vomit. "I will never forgive you," he says, hating the tremor in his voice. "I don't care if you're drugged. I don't care what your excuse is --"
"Turn over and let me take care of you," says Sheppard. His hands, gentle and firm, roll Rodney over. He blocks Rodney's pitiful attempt at a punch, catches his wrists and presses them down again.
"No! No! You will not --" Rodney writhes frantically, but the shackles snick closed again. "Sheppard! Dammit!"
Sheppard just gives a sweet, boyish smile, as if he doesn't hear or care what Rodney is saying. "Your turn, Rodney."
"What, my turn to rape you? Bullshit, Colonel! In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one who's -- oh, shit. Oh god, no, don't do that."
Sheppard has Rodney's limp, miserable penis in his mouth and is coaxing it with lips and tongue to betray Rodney utterly.
"No. No, please . . . " Rodney closes his mouth on a sob and his eyes against the sight of Sheppard's outrageous hair bent over his groin, brushing his stomach. He wishes he could turn off his ears and skin as well. Because his senses are definitely betraying him, stretching out and luxuriating in Sheppard's presence, his hot mouth and soft touches. Even the lingering pain in Rodney's ass can't override these new, delightful sensations.
Hands caress his thighs and flanks, hands far gentler than the ones that pinned and pinched him just minutes ago. Fingers card through his chest hair and roll his nipples easily. And all the while the hot ring of lips and the sinuous tongue beyond are torturing him with his own lack of self-control. One hand comes up between his thighs, and for a moment he panics and flinches away, but the fingers only tease at his testicles, pressing them up tight and hot against his body. The mouth begins to suck, and Rodney loses the last of his control in a white-out flash --
-- blending into an agonizing pain in his head --
Rodney pried his eyelids open to see a woman, the Asuran woman who had given him the injection, pulling her fingers slowly out of his forehead. What the hell?
He was in a cell, but there was no gurney and too many people. Rodney's limbs felt like spaghetti, dropping him to the cold floor in an uncontrolled heap.
The standing people, he realized, were Asurans. His team members were slumped around the cell like him. Only one, Colonel Sheppard, was still upright, on his knees, with Oberoth's hand disappearing into his skull.
Weakly, Rodney shook his head, which felt as if a spike -- or a hand -- had been driven through it. He realized distantly that his wrists didn't hurt at all, nor his back or his thighs . . . or his ass, except for the half-healed arrow wound he had forgotten to worry about.
The whole thing was fake. It never happened. Of course he should have known Sheppard wouldn't do anything like that. Except that it had been so real -- even Sheppard's speech and mannerisms --
Because they took it all from your brain, genius, Rodney told himself furiously. Just like they probably took the addresses for Earth and Atlantis when you thought about them. The rest was just icing on the cake for them.
He glared up at the woman standing over him. Did she get off on that? She looked perfectly calm, grave and considering. No parted lips or shining eyes --
(like Sheppard's when he bent to kiss)
Rodney tore his gaze away, to Oberoth and Sheppard. He knew he should do something, stop this, but his legs wouldn't move.
Then Oberoth pulled his hand back, and Sheppard screamed, and Rodney was not savoring the sound of the Colonel's pain, absolutely not. Sheppard toppled to the floor, the Asurans turned silently and left, and it was over. The thing that never happened was done not-happening.
Except that Rodney couldn't imagine how he'd ever be able to look the Colonel in the eye again.
Sequel: Paranoia
