Day 13: SGA/Combat Sheep: Oh to be in Scotland, now that April's Past
Title: Oh to be in Scotland, now that April's Past
Author: temaris
Fandom: SGA/Combat Sheep
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Carson Beckett. Peaches.
Summary: New members of the Atlantis team remind Carson of the past -- and offer promise of a bonny future.
A/N: For moonlettuce. I have no excuse. It's a long running joke between a small group of people about crossing the Combat Sheep into every available fandom. There is fic. Quite a lot of it, actually, considering. Also alcohol, which may explain the original fic, but this ... no. There's also a running joke in SGA fanon where McKay and Sheppard accuse Carson of... well. You'll figure it out.
Yes. It is *exactly* what you think.
Warnings: Bestiality. Tastefully alluded to.
Apologies to Robert Browning for bastardising his poem.
The notes are now almost as long as the story. I take a certain comfort in that.
Carson was enjoying a little quiet 'him' time. Life was depressing and far too fast paced on Atlantis. All he wanted some days was to stride over the moors, the smell of peat and heather in his nostrils, the low baaing of sheep in his ears. Fish in the dark lochs of his childhood home, and go home, the moon shining down, braw and bricht, a string of fresh trout on the line, and a song in his heart.
It had been nice to meet the new arrivals this morning. They'd brought a pleasant feel of home -- the sights and sounds, the smells and feel as fresh in his memory as they could be without actually being there.
He hitched his kilt up, pushing the sporran out of the way. No further adjustment was necessary, for all his father's lowland blood, his mother was a McGregor, born and bred.
The lassie on the new team was *very* bonny. Standing so fine and tall, proudly lifting her head, sure of her right to be here, with the best and the brightest. He'd love to run his fingers over her, explore every soft, warm inch... He sighed, stroking himself happily with thoughts of home and fair lassies who took him there in his heart, even if he couldnae go in person.
He was gulping air, hand and hips moving against each other, his eyes half closed when the door hissed open.
"Jesus wept," Carson yelped, flailing for the sheet, and fell off the bed trying to pull it out from under him. He peered over the bed at the ex Army mascot eyeing him, an amused smirk on her black and white face. Peaches, British Expeditionary Sheep Taskforce commander, and och, a fine figure of sheep.
He bit his knuckles.
"Hello, big boy," Peaches said, and sauntered in, her hooves clacking lightly on the floor. The door hissed closed behind her. "Don't stop on my account." She sashayed closer to the bed.
"Are, are ye lost, miss," Carson said weakly, scrambling under the covers as quickly as he could manage and still maintain a level of decency.
"Pish tush," Peaches said. "I've known men like you before, Doctor Beckett." She came closer and set her front hooves on his chest and pushed hard enough that Carson found himself tumbled backwards until he was sprawled out on the bed, helpless beneath the predatory eyes of the beautiful sheep.
"Christ," he said with dazed smile as Peaches settled on top of him and began to move, "Oh, oh, oh my good lord."
And much later, on a low, helplessly happy groan: "Christ, that'll sting in the morning."
Author: temaris
Fandom: SGA/Combat Sheep
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Carson Beckett. Peaches.
Summary: New members of the Atlantis team remind Carson of the past -- and offer promise of a bonny future.
A/N: For moonlettuce. I have no excuse. It's a long running joke between a small group of people about crossing the Combat Sheep into every available fandom. There is fic. Quite a lot of it, actually, considering. Also alcohol, which may explain the original fic, but this ... no. There's also a running joke in SGA fanon where McKay and Sheppard accuse Carson of... well. You'll figure it out.
Yes. It is *exactly* what you think.
Warnings: Bestiality. Tastefully alluded to.
Apologies to Robert Browning for bastardising his poem.
The notes are now almost as long as the story. I take a certain comfort in that.
Carson was enjoying a little quiet 'him' time. Life was depressing and far too fast paced on Atlantis. All he wanted some days was to stride over the moors, the smell of peat and heather in his nostrils, the low baaing of sheep in his ears. Fish in the dark lochs of his childhood home, and go home, the moon shining down, braw and bricht, a string of fresh trout on the line, and a song in his heart.
It had been nice to meet the new arrivals this morning. They'd brought a pleasant feel of home -- the sights and sounds, the smells and feel as fresh in his memory as they could be without actually being there.
He hitched his kilt up, pushing the sporran out of the way. No further adjustment was necessary, for all his father's lowland blood, his mother was a McGregor, born and bred.
The lassie on the new team was *very* bonny. Standing so fine and tall, proudly lifting her head, sure of her right to be here, with the best and the brightest. He'd love to run his fingers over her, explore every soft, warm inch... He sighed, stroking himself happily with thoughts of home and fair lassies who took him there in his heart, even if he couldnae go in person.
He was gulping air, hand and hips moving against each other, his eyes half closed when the door hissed open.
"Jesus wept," Carson yelped, flailing for the sheet, and fell off the bed trying to pull it out from under him. He peered over the bed at the ex Army mascot eyeing him, an amused smirk on her black and white face. Peaches, British Expeditionary Sheep Taskforce commander, and och, a fine figure of sheep.
He bit his knuckles.
"Hello, big boy," Peaches said, and sauntered in, her hooves clacking lightly on the floor. The door hissed closed behind her. "Don't stop on my account." She sashayed closer to the bed.
"Are, are ye lost, miss," Carson said weakly, scrambling under the covers as quickly as he could manage and still maintain a level of decency.
"Pish tush," Peaches said. "I've known men like you before, Doctor Beckett." She came closer and set her front hooves on his chest and pushed hard enough that Carson found himself tumbled backwards until he was sprawled out on the bed, helpless beneath the predatory eyes of the beautiful sheep.
"Christ," he said with dazed smile as Peaches settled on top of him and began to move, "Oh, oh, oh my good lord."
And much later, on a low, helplessly happy groan: "Christ, that'll sting in the morning."