A Dream of Things That Never Are
As a direct result of the below referenced comment-fic and the discussion that followed, I then sort of changed directions with the next part of my adapt-my-comment-fic fic (Oh Mamma Meta!), which for a little while I thought was going to be from John's POV.
Instead, it's more of Ronon's brain.
Drunk with newly discovered linking power, I also now say: the originating comment inspiration (and possibly important anthropology) is Here!
The fic is below (and maybe I should say I think this is rated "R")
A Dream of Things That Never Are
His nights are restless in Atlantis. Dreams of Sateda, the Wraith and Kell chase each other in merciless circles.
He has left the undisciplined habits of his Running time behind, though, in the hope that the voices of the Ancestors will color his sleep. When they do, his nights are more restless still, as he tries to understand the images they send.
He dreams that the team from Atlantis - his team - goes to the desert world of Valarta, hoping to trade the medicines made in the labs of the Ring-Eye Beckett for ore. The medicines are not tea or ground roots. Although Ronon knows that, depending on their color, they do dull pain, ease sleep or soothe the stomach, they are small and scentless, like pebbles. It is hard to know their value without testing them, and it makes no sense to test them without need.
The women of Valarta are passionate and powerful and seldom ill. They paint their fingers and toes the rich blood-color of the stones that surround their Ring. They do not want handfuls of pebbles in return for their ore. They want Seed.
In his dream, John is taken prisoner in a fight that Ronon can't quite see clearly. (If he were still a child, he would name this a Wraithdream. But he is not a child, and there are dreams that are worse than this.) His arms and legs won't obey him, and the fight is a blur around him. John snaps blows at the Valartans. Teyla defends both herself and Rodney, while Ronon stands unmoving, and John shouts for her to get Rodney to safety.
The dream shifts and the sky is dark and Ronon is lying on the ground in the shadows beyond the tent where John is being held prisoner. The Valartan women preferred to let Rodney go rather than risk damaging him; or perhaps they looked past Rodney's eyes to John's genes and had consciously chosen which to keep.
Teyla is taking a long time to return from Atlantis. Ronon can hear the Valartan women arguing. They know they will only be able to keep John for a matter of hours, but they see his strength and they felt his fury in the fight. They calculate that, even with a rescue coming, three of them might attempt his Line.
The Valartan Mother is clever and observant. She saw John's reluctance to injure the prettiest of the warriors in the fight, and, in spite of the outcry, chooses young women with soft bodies, smooth skin and light voices to steal his Seed from him. A quarrel breaks out among them when the order of their going is decided. One, who should by birthright go first, has never borne a child, and the Mother is mindful of potential waste. The other two have equal claims for precedence, and as they argue, Ronon sees that the tent has been left unguarded.
Another shift. In one moment, he goes from feeling the brambles and small sharp rocks of the ground, rough against his chest and thighs, to the smooth hot feel of canvas, slapping gently against his face as he pushes inside the Mother's tent.
John is there. Wounded or dizzy from the fight, he can barely keep his eyes open. He's upright, his shirt half torn off and his hands tied behind his back against the standard pole of the tent. His breath is quick in his chest, and Ronon can see the sweat standing at his brow, in the curve of his collarbone, and against his naked belly.
Ronon licks his dry lips. "Sheppard", he wants to say, "John." But the words tangle in his mouth as they always have: a twist of embarrassment rendering him taciturn again. Fortunately, John has some experience now at hearing the low-voiced half sentences that Ronon can choke out. His head jerks up and his eyes open.
Ronon knows - even as his dream-self - that to speak of what will happen to John in this tent is wrong.
No matter how careless John might be with tavern girls, no man wants his Seed drawn from him by force by a foreign Society; and no Task Master would want his men to know of such shame.
And it will be infinitely bad, in strictly practical ways, if one of the Valartans manages to spark a baby of such an important Atlantis line. The child would be valuable as a Valartan Citizen, but it would also be valuable as a lever or trading token against Atlantis.
Ronon knows that it is his duty to defend Atlantis. He knows it is his duty to protect John now.
He starts towards John. The dream makes it hard to move. It seems he takes a hundred steps before he draws close enough to touch him. John tilts his head; his eyes are slits, green chasing brown chasing gold around the black pool at the center. Ronon is taller and broader than John, but when he is close enough to feel the fevered heat pouring off John's body, he can also feel John's breath, ghosting against his cheek.
Ronon knows - every Satedan boy knows - that they are taught Discipline for a reason. The body has its urges, but the Society is more important. No man can hope to continue his Line if he spills his seed in his own hands. A second spilling is not as strong as the first and the third is even worse, and a man never knows when it will be time to fulfill his Duty. Now that Ronon is older, the Discipline is easier than when he was a boy. His body still thrums with restless energy, and greets each sunrise with desire and hope, but he does not have to force his hands to his side, or turn away from the stream of water as he washes to keep from wasting his seed. When he is not called to Duty, he burns the energy running or fighting, or waits for the Ancestors to call him forth in dreams.
But John is not trying to contribute to his Society now. John is a prisoner. The Valartans want to steal what should never be theirs, and John has no way to prevent them.
If John's hands were free, he could reach for himself. Ronon knows that John would be brave enough, ruthless enough, to spill his own Seed, here in the tent in front of Ronon, to weaken whatever the Valartans will manage to pull from him.
But John's hands are bound.
And Ronon's are free.
The feel of John's breath is soft as Ronon leans towards him, sweet against Ronon's ear, and along his neck. Sweat shines along John's throat - his skin is so pale that the slightest pressure leaves a mark. If Ronon tipped forward and put his mouth against him, to lick away the salt and water, John would bear the mark for a week, bright and red under his uniform.
Ronon leans in closer, his chest moving against John's as they breathe. His legs tangle with John's as they move, knees bumping against each other, thighs locking, and his face brushes John's face, stubble rasping against his cheek.
In the dream, Ronon can barely think, heat pouring along his body, waking nerves and flushing skin. He is heavy with the desire to rescue John. The voices of the women outside are softer now, coming to agreement, and Ronon knows that time is running short.
He wraps his arms around John. Their bodies are flush against each other, breath and blood pounding, and then his fingers tangle against John's behind the tent-standard, pulling at the familiar pattern. The Knot of the Ancestors comes apart in his hands, and he steps back as John falls forward. The rope is rough and thick, and he pulls at it, running it over his skin without conscious volition, waiting for John to take himself in hand, and turn the tables against the Valartans.
John's eyes come up to meet his, flaring more gold than green, and he staggers back against the standard pole. He's reaching for himself, running his palm against the muscles of his stomach as it flexes and opening the fastening of his pants. His hand slips inside, and Ronon sees a glimpse of dark hair and pale skin, and the curved, flushed length of him, before wrenching his gaze back up to meet John's eyes again.
A breath. Another breath. The flex of John's arm as he moves. His eyes, green and gold and bright are locked on Ronon. The smell of water and salt and seed, without the scent of woman to color it, burns in Ronon's lungs, making his mouth and eyes begin to water. There is a sound locked in Ronon's throat, trying to push free. He clenches his own hands around the Valartan rope, knuckles white as it scrapes his skin. He's lost in John's eyes, blood pounding in his veins, when John gasps out a shuddering broken noise. Ronon's mouth works with John's, lips shaping words never meant to be heard, and then he too is gasping, coming awake in his bed in Atlantis, sweating and shaking and striping himself with seed,
As his breathing slows, he mouths the formal words of thanks and mourning to the Ancestors. Thanks for the gift of dreaming and release, mourning for the children he has not made this night.
He is nearly silent, as silent as he was in the tent in his dreams, licking the words inside his own mouth, licking the phantom taste of air heavy with John's scent, licking the tears that have slid down his cheeks, and swallowing them all.
He turns on his side to sleep again, half-wishing for another dream.
Instead, it's more of Ronon's brain.
Drunk with newly discovered linking power, I also now say: the originating comment inspiration (and possibly important anthropology) is Here!
The fic is below (and maybe I should say I think this is rated "R")
A Dream of Things That Never Are
His nights are restless in Atlantis. Dreams of Sateda, the Wraith and Kell chase each other in merciless circles.
He has left the undisciplined habits of his Running time behind, though, in the hope that the voices of the Ancestors will color his sleep. When they do, his nights are more restless still, as he tries to understand the images they send.
He dreams that the team from Atlantis - his team - goes to the desert world of Valarta, hoping to trade the medicines made in the labs of the Ring-Eye Beckett for ore. The medicines are not tea or ground roots. Although Ronon knows that, depending on their color, they do dull pain, ease sleep or soothe the stomach, they are small and scentless, like pebbles. It is hard to know their value without testing them, and it makes no sense to test them without need.
The women of Valarta are passionate and powerful and seldom ill. They paint their fingers and toes the rich blood-color of the stones that surround their Ring. They do not want handfuls of pebbles in return for their ore. They want Seed.
In his dream, John is taken prisoner in a fight that Ronon can't quite see clearly. (If he were still a child, he would name this a Wraithdream. But he is not a child, and there are dreams that are worse than this.) His arms and legs won't obey him, and the fight is a blur around him. John snaps blows at the Valartans. Teyla defends both herself and Rodney, while Ronon stands unmoving, and John shouts for her to get Rodney to safety.
The dream shifts and the sky is dark and Ronon is lying on the ground in the shadows beyond the tent where John is being held prisoner. The Valartan women preferred to let Rodney go rather than risk damaging him; or perhaps they looked past Rodney's eyes to John's genes and had consciously chosen which to keep.
Teyla is taking a long time to return from Atlantis. Ronon can hear the Valartan women arguing. They know they will only be able to keep John for a matter of hours, but they see his strength and they felt his fury in the fight. They calculate that, even with a rescue coming, three of them might attempt his Line.
The Valartan Mother is clever and observant. She saw John's reluctance to injure the prettiest of the warriors in the fight, and, in spite of the outcry, chooses young women with soft bodies, smooth skin and light voices to steal his Seed from him. A quarrel breaks out among them when the order of their going is decided. One, who should by birthright go first, has never borne a child, and the Mother is mindful of potential waste. The other two have equal claims for precedence, and as they argue, Ronon sees that the tent has been left unguarded.
Another shift. In one moment, he goes from feeling the brambles and small sharp rocks of the ground, rough against his chest and thighs, to the smooth hot feel of canvas, slapping gently against his face as he pushes inside the Mother's tent.
John is there. Wounded or dizzy from the fight, he can barely keep his eyes open. He's upright, his shirt half torn off and his hands tied behind his back against the standard pole of the tent. His breath is quick in his chest, and Ronon can see the sweat standing at his brow, in the curve of his collarbone, and against his naked belly.
Ronon licks his dry lips. "Sheppard", he wants to say, "John." But the words tangle in his mouth as they always have: a twist of embarrassment rendering him taciturn again. Fortunately, John has some experience now at hearing the low-voiced half sentences that Ronon can choke out. His head jerks up and his eyes open.
Ronon knows - even as his dream-self - that to speak of what will happen to John in this tent is wrong.
No matter how careless John might be with tavern girls, no man wants his Seed drawn from him by force by a foreign Society; and no Task Master would want his men to know of such shame.
And it will be infinitely bad, in strictly practical ways, if one of the Valartans manages to spark a baby of such an important Atlantis line. The child would be valuable as a Valartan Citizen, but it would also be valuable as a lever or trading token against Atlantis.
Ronon knows that it is his duty to defend Atlantis. He knows it is his duty to protect John now.
He starts towards John. The dream makes it hard to move. It seems he takes a hundred steps before he draws close enough to touch him. John tilts his head; his eyes are slits, green chasing brown chasing gold around the black pool at the center. Ronon is taller and broader than John, but when he is close enough to feel the fevered heat pouring off John's body, he can also feel John's breath, ghosting against his cheek.
Ronon knows - every Satedan boy knows - that they are taught Discipline for a reason. The body has its urges, but the Society is more important. No man can hope to continue his Line if he spills his seed in his own hands. A second spilling is not as strong as the first and the third is even worse, and a man never knows when it will be time to fulfill his Duty. Now that Ronon is older, the Discipline is easier than when he was a boy. His body still thrums with restless energy, and greets each sunrise with desire and hope, but he does not have to force his hands to his side, or turn away from the stream of water as he washes to keep from wasting his seed. When he is not called to Duty, he burns the energy running or fighting, or waits for the Ancestors to call him forth in dreams.
But John is not trying to contribute to his Society now. John is a prisoner. The Valartans want to steal what should never be theirs, and John has no way to prevent them.
If John's hands were free, he could reach for himself. Ronon knows that John would be brave enough, ruthless enough, to spill his own Seed, here in the tent in front of Ronon, to weaken whatever the Valartans will manage to pull from him.
But John's hands are bound.
And Ronon's are free.
The feel of John's breath is soft as Ronon leans towards him, sweet against Ronon's ear, and along his neck. Sweat shines along John's throat - his skin is so pale that the slightest pressure leaves a mark. If Ronon tipped forward and put his mouth against him, to lick away the salt and water, John would bear the mark for a week, bright and red under his uniform.
Ronon leans in closer, his chest moving against John's as they breathe. His legs tangle with John's as they move, knees bumping against each other, thighs locking, and his face brushes John's face, stubble rasping against his cheek.
In the dream, Ronon can barely think, heat pouring along his body, waking nerves and flushing skin. He is heavy with the desire to rescue John. The voices of the women outside are softer now, coming to agreement, and Ronon knows that time is running short.
He wraps his arms around John. Their bodies are flush against each other, breath and blood pounding, and then his fingers tangle against John's behind the tent-standard, pulling at the familiar pattern. The Knot of the Ancestors comes apart in his hands, and he steps back as John falls forward. The rope is rough and thick, and he pulls at it, running it over his skin without conscious volition, waiting for John to take himself in hand, and turn the tables against the Valartans.
John's eyes come up to meet his, flaring more gold than green, and he staggers back against the standard pole. He's reaching for himself, running his palm against the muscles of his stomach as it flexes and opening the fastening of his pants. His hand slips inside, and Ronon sees a glimpse of dark hair and pale skin, and the curved, flushed length of him, before wrenching his gaze back up to meet John's eyes again.
A breath. Another breath. The flex of John's arm as he moves. His eyes, green and gold and bright are locked on Ronon. The smell of water and salt and seed, without the scent of woman to color it, burns in Ronon's lungs, making his mouth and eyes begin to water. There is a sound locked in Ronon's throat, trying to push free. He clenches his own hands around the Valartan rope, knuckles white as it scrapes his skin. He's lost in John's eyes, blood pounding in his veins, when John gasps out a shuddering broken noise. Ronon's mouth works with John's, lips shaping words never meant to be heard, and then he too is gasping, coming awake in his bed in Atlantis, sweating and shaking and striping himself with seed,
As his breathing slows, he mouths the formal words of thanks and mourning to the Ancestors. Thanks for the gift of dreaming and release, mourning for the children he has not made this night.
He is nearly silent, as silent as he was in the tent in his dreams, licking the words inside his own mouth, licking the phantom taste of air heavy with John's scent, licking the tears that have slid down his cheeks, and swallowing them all.
He turns on his side to sleep again, half-wishing for another dream.