My entry in the
Kink/cliche challenge.
Title: Timing.
Fandom: War of the Worlds (TV).
Rating: R
Your prompt: Non-con/borderline non-con.
Cue the gratuitous smut. Crit is always welcome.
The second Advocate watched the human gesticulate, his hands moving wildly, flailing here and there, pointing at the camera. The Advocate could understand human speech, but did not bother to let the meaning of the diatribe - it was likely just petty human politics - penetrate its consciousness. It watched the human in the way one might watch an insect scuttle around on the floor. It wondered absently why it tortured itself by watching these humans on the broadcasts they flung over the air. Perhaps, it considered, it was to keep it focused on its task.
A gentle touch on its mind was instantly recognizable as that of another Advocate. It turned, nodding at the suited being. "Hypnotizing, these vermin."
The third Advocate nodded, solemnly. "I wonder if we will ever be able to kill them off completely. This planet teems with them. There are over five billion - and they reproduce at a staggering rate. They have no single season for fecundity! On any given day, hundreds of thousands of their squalling pups come into the world."
The second Advocate shook his head, sending its disgust along the link between it and the third Advocate. However, the third Advocate's words touched off a train of thought in the second Advocate's mind, and it felt a need to vocalize this. "My friend..." it said, putting its claw on the breast of the third Advocate, "I believe you have hit on an important point. Killing them, while important, is not a sustainable goal in and of itself. We must prevent their propagation."
The third Advocate felt the thoughts that were shifting in the second Advocate's head. It nodded. "This is a good plan. A very good plan."
Blackwood put the paper down and rubbed his eyes. He had read the same paragraph three times without understanding it. This was no good. He needed a break.
He stood, stretched lazily, and yawned. The clock said four PM, he noted with surprise. No wonder he was tired! He had been sitting at his desk and reading since eleven that morning. He mentally chided himself. He was well aware of the importance of good circulation; he should have taken a break at the two-hour mark, and another one between then and now. Well, he would make up for lost time. A walk around the grounds was just the ticket.
As he walked down the stairway, however, he caught a whiff of coffee, touched with the flavors of chicory and cinnamon. Only Norton would make coffee strong enough to be smelled from a floor away - and the thought of a cup of that was powerfully appealing. He changed his course and turned into the elevator.
"Got a cup for me?" he asked, stepping off of the elevator.
Norton looked up from the pot with a grin. He held out a mug full of steaming liquid. "Got one here already. I figured this would bring you down - as long as you weren't dead!"
Blackwood took the cup and raised it in thanks. "Not yet!" He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. "Although - if I were, I think this would bring me back. Damn fine coffee!"
"Thanks, doc." Norton put the coffee in his lap and propelled himself to his station. "Hey, while you're here - something strange came in this morning. It's very small - looks almost like a blip. Could be a few more cosmic rays than normal messing with the detectors, but my little voice is telling me it isn't."
"God knows I trust your little voice. Let me take a look." Harrison took another sip of coffee as he picked up the printout and examined it. He pondered. Norton was right - it was indeed a faint signal, almost below the limit of detection. But despite its low strength, it was somehow just too orderly for noise. Suspicious.
"Where did it originate from?" Blackwood asked, putting the printout down.
Norton's fingers fluttered over the keyboard to a staccato beat. A map of the Bay Area appeared, and a blip of red appeared off to the southeast. "Somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley, looks like."
Blackwood nodded. "Anything going on there?"
The sound of Norton's fingers rattling on his keyboard echoed off of the walls. After a minute, he shook his head. "Nothing major. I'll have to link to all of my sources and see if I can find anything minor going on."
Blackwood nodded. "Buzz me when you're done. I'll be upstairs," he sighed, "reading."
"Over there," Ironhorse said, pointing.
Blackwood hit his turn signal and pulled into the parking lot. Valley Pesticides was a squat, dingy, industrial-looking building that looked like any other building in an industrial park. It was, however, built out on a country road in the middle of a dry, scrubby field, a good distance from any other building. The parking lot held a handful of old, dilapidated cars.
"Not much to write home about," Blackwood commented as he stepped out. He took off his jacket and tossed it in the back seat. This far from the ocean, it was almost stiflingly hot.
"I hope that turns out to be the case," Ironhorse replied. He left his jacket on. Blackwood decided he just did not want to know if it was because the man had an arsenal stashed underneath.
A bored-looking receptionist with bleach-blond hair that had been teased into a multistoried coiffe asked them to wait while she buzzed the manager without enthusiasm. The manager, a small, skinny fellow with a face as brown and chasmed as the ground outside, was quite pleasing, Blackwood decided. He had a broad smile and a firm handshake. "What can I do fer you fellahs?"
"I'm a research scientist," Blackwood told him brightly. "I always like to go out and see how things are being applied in the field!" Both statements were technically true, but after Norton had told Blackwood at breakfast about the change of ownership of this company, Blackwood had required a morning's crash course in industrial pesticides. He hoped it would suffice.
The manager turned to Ironhorse, lifting his eyebrows inquisitively. "I'm his driver," Ironhorse said. He must be liking that explanation, Blackwood decided. He wondered if Ironhorse knew it made him sound like a gay lover.
The manager showed them around the facilities. Blackwood need not have feared that his lack of expertise would get them in trouble - the man was loquacious, rattling off details of each bit of machinery he showed them. They made a fairly comprehensive tour of the plant, narrated smoothly by the manager.
"Well," Ironhorse said, "if there was anything out of place there, I didn't see it." He sounded a little short. Blackwood felt like he was starting to get a handle on the man. He diagnosed the upset as annoyance that the situation was out of his expertise. He might be pleased, Blackwood decided, to have it reduced to simpler terms.
As they stepped into their beat-up SUV, Blackwood pulled the dositometer badge out of his pocket. It was fully exposed. "Unless they're killing termites with gamma radiation, I think there's more here than meets the eye."
They returned, after a brief sleep at a nearby motel, at two in the morning. Ironhorse shut off the lights a half-mile away and drove off of the road, parking a short hike from the building. They slipped out and walked quietly to the back of the building.
They were both dressed in what Harrison referred to as 'skulking clothes' - black and form-fitting. Blackwood had to admit to himself that they fit Ironhorse a lot better - in every way. All of the awkwardness he had displayed at their previous visit was gone, and he blended into the shadows, almost dancing from one to the next. The tight clothes only highlighted that there was not a wasted pound on his body. Blackwood felt fat and clumsy in comparison.
Despite that, they both got through a jimmied-open window with no drama. Once inside, they moved quietly into the nearest corridor. A light shone from down it, and faint voices could be heard.
"Working late?" Ironhorse murmured quietly into Blackwood's ear.
"Maybe," Blackwood muttered back. He walked towards the voices, trying to move silently. The voices sounded familiar; they sounded like the harsh, guttural tones of the alien language.
Blackwood was not sure what warned Ironhorse, but he grabbed Blackwood and dragged him behind a dusty stack of boxes. Blackwood bit back a startled expletive, and after a moment, he heard the voices coming closer. He tried to think invisible thoughts. It must have worked, as the three figures speaking a language never meant for the human throat walked past without noticing the two intruders.
As soon as the aliens had moved some distance down the corridor, Blackwood stepped out from behind the boxes and jerked his thumb back the way the aliens had come. Ironhorse nodded, and they walked down the dark corridor, Blackwood trying not to trip on odds and ends on the ground.
One door stood ajar. Ironhorse pulled out a flashlight, and its beam revealed, in glimpses as it flashed around the room, equipment that Blackwood recognized as a flow cytometer, a tissue culture hood, a spectrophotometer, and various gel-running apparatuses. "Pretty sophisticated stuff for a pesticide factory," he commented, pulling out his own flashlight. He started shining it on the drawers underneath the counters. He felt, rather than saw, Ironhorse turn an odd look on him. "I'm looking for the refrigerators!" he hissed.
There were three of them - small under-bench four-degrees. Two of them held reagents. The third held racks of vials. There were three shelves, and each shelf held vials that were full of liquid of a different color. Blackwood pulled out one that was filled with a deep purple liquid, turning it back and forth in the beam of his flashlight. It was pretty, but did not give him any clues as to its composition. Ironhorse knelt in front of the refrigerator as Blackwood played with the vial. "We should take a few of these to McCullough," the man murmured, taking one of each and slipping them into a pocket at his waist.
Blackwood slipped the vial he had into his own pocket, and picked up the notebook on the table. "Right. We'll have to see what she thinks. I haven't a clue."
Ironhorse paced back and forth, trying to soothe himself with the clatter of boots on concrete. It wasn't working. "Well?" he asked, testily, as he paused.
McCullough sighed, putting her clipboard down as she looked at him with an annoyance that Ironhorse found highly unprofessional. This was a serious situation, after all. "I've examined Blackwood minutely," she said. "I can't find anything wrong with him!"
Ironhorse grumbled as he resumed his pacing. Part of the reason he was so upset, he had to admit, was because he was partially responsible for what had happened. He had noticed Harrison pocket that vial. He should have insisted that the man put it back - Ironhorse had one of each, didn't he? It was a bad idea for both of them to risk carrying the fruits of the alien experiment, whatever they were. He should have done a better job of keeping Blackwood out of the action when the two aliens returned to lock up. He was sure that was the point at which the vial had broken. True, Blackwood hadn't noticed until they got back to the car, but one of the aliens had shoved the man when Ironhorse was occupied with the other, and it must have happened at that point. Ironhorse tried to think of something useful he could do, as he listed to the clatter of his boots against the floor.
"Paul!" McCullough was looking at him, annoyance clear on her face.
Ironhorse stopped pacing again. "What?"
"I'm trying to concentrate on deciphering these notes." She waved them. "I need a little peace and quiet. In the meantime, could you be a dear and keep an eye on Harrison? Come get me if there's any problem." She spun around in her chair, putting her back to Ironhorse in a clear dismissal.
Well, at least it was something to do. Blackwood had claimed tiredness and gone to bed not long after they had returned. Well, they had been up half the night. Ironhorse, however, was used to running on less than eight hours' sleep. He poured himself a cup of some of some of Norton's god-awful coffee and headed to Blackwood's room.
Blackwood was fast asleep on his back and snoring gently. Ironhorse nicked one of Blackwood's elementary physics books and settled down in a chair to read. It was baby talk for the man, Ironhorse was sure, but it was terribly difficult for him. He was determined not to be the idiotic meathead that Blackwood accused him of being, but it was so damn hard.
It was getting harder. For some reason, a strange lassitude was on him; it took all of his will and frequent slurps of the sludge in his mug to stay focused on the book. His nostrils twitched. He set his book down, rubbed his eyes - and realized that he could smell Blackwood very keenly. It was not the acrid tang of excess body odor. No, it was a musky scent that was, somehow, fundamentally Blackwood.
His two-way radio chirped, and he almost jumped out of his chair. He quickly slipped out of the room. No sense in waking Blackwood, he decided, and headed back down to the basement.
"Paul!" McCullough said brightly as soon as she saw him. She had her bright, grinning, mystery-solved look on her face. "I've deciphered some of the notes. Not all of them, but the meat of what went into those vials."
"What was it?" he asked, leaning against the door jamb.
"The aliens were working on human fertility," she replied.
It sounded like a joke, and although it was an odd time to be joking, Ironhorse grinned. McCullough looked at him blankly, and he frowned. "What? You must be joking. Why would the aliens be working on human sexuality?"
McCullough shrugged. "Maybe they were trying to make us all sterile so it would be easier to wipe us out?" She spun around and picked up her own notepad. "That's what it was, though. They developed three compounds, and got some tests in on people they kidnapped. One of the compounds completely decreased the human sex drive, one heightened it drastically, and one - I haven't figured that one out yet. It had some effect on the physiology of the ingester. I believe pheromone enhancement was the intent, but it didn't seem to have much effect on their test subjects." She shrugged. "I don't know which one is which yet. But one thing is clear - the aliens had never been able to get the effect to last beyond a few hours. Harrison might be back to normal by now. If not, he certainly will be in a few more hours, so I'd say we just let him sleep." She winked at Ironhorse and turned back to her notes. "This is fascinating," she told her notebook. "The practical applications!"
Ironhorse decided that he really did not want to know what practical applications she had in mind. But he did trust her judgment on whatever Blackwood had gotten all over himself. Whether he was temporarily sexually enhanced or temporarily sexually dead, it wouldn't matter while he was asleep. On that topic - a shower and a nap for himself would be a great idea. He left McCullough to her work and headed back upstairs.
A strange scent tickled his nostrils as he walked up the stairs. It smelled vaguely like the vegetarian chili Ms. Pennyworth had made for Harrison a week ago. It had been terrible, and Ironhorse wasn't surprised that she was changing the recipe, and why was he walking towards Blackwood's room? He stopped outside of it, that strange scent filling his nostrils. It wasn't anything from the kitchen, he realized - it was a stronger version of that Blackwood scent he had smelled earlier, and it was compelling in a way he did not understand at all. He pressed up against the door, wanting to go in - but he was starting to get a very good sense what he would do if he did. The scent roiled in his gut and moved just a bit south of there, stirring a erection that he just should not have. He tried to push himself off of Blackwood's door, but as he did so, his erection bumped it. The stimulation made him groan, and without knowing quite how it happened, he was standing inside of Blackwood's room.
Blackwood turned to face him, bare to the waist, his shirt in his hand. He asked, sleepily, "Colonel?" Ironhorse ignored the question. His nostrils were flooded with the smell that had drawn him here, and now it was stronger - musky and sexual and unutterably appealing. With a few quick strides, he pushed Blackwood back against the wall, kissing him desperately, trying to force his mouth open. This did not satisfy the desire that was churning in him; it only fed it, as did the bare skin under his hands. He grabbed at Blackwood's back, kneading, licking the inside of Blackwood's mouth. Blackwood's hands came to his chest and pushed, hard. He was saying something, but the idea that Blackwood did not want this simply did not fit into Ironhorse's mental state. With a growl, Paul twisted his leg around Blackwood's knee and jerked, sending Blackwood tumbling to the ground. The air left the man with a whumpf.
Blackwood groaned, but all that Ironhorse cared about was that the man was not in a position to resist. Blackwood's bare back was perfectly inviting, and Ironhorse fell atop the man, rubbing skin, kissing, sucking desperately at the back of Blackwood's neck. But his rock-hard erection was separated from Blackwood by two sets of blue jeans, and he paused for a moment, stymied. That pause let him hear the echoes of something screaming. It was, he realized, his rational mind, trying to be heard through the riot of musky scent and horniness. He grasped at it, staggering to his feet, feeling his viscera ache at the separation from this body that he wanted - oh, god help him, he wanted it! He staggered out of the room, feeling like he was crawling out on his hands and knees, dragging himself away from his seething desire. He made it to his room and shut the door, leaning on it, panting. The scent was markedly decreased. He could stay, with it lessened; he could stay in his room and do the right thing. Despite the fact that he was so maddeningly horny. He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and tossed it on the floor as he pushed himself towards his bed. He fell on it and opened his pants, tearing at them, kicking them off. He stroked himself out, biting his pillow to stifle his cries as he came. All he could think about, as shudders that were too shameful to be pleasurable took him, was how much he wanted his mouth on Harrison.
He collapsed, feeling quite horrible.
Norton propelled himself out of the elevator and stationed himself in front of his well-loved computer, in the manner of a proud owner greeting his pet. "Well, I guess it went as smoothly as something like that can," he said, tossing a grin over his shoulder. "The Colonel seemed to enjoy that raid, didn't he?"
Blackwood smiled back. It was hard not to - Norton’s grin was infectious. "That's our Ironhorse. Always likes a good military action!" Norton laughed. But Blackwood's smile slipped. There was something about Ironhorse's involvement in this that did not quite jibe with that statement. It had been more strained, more desperate; the edge of the man's thin-lipped grimace had not quirked upwards slightly in satisfaction at the conclusion of the mission. It startled Blackwood a bit to realize that he had come to know Ironhorse so well - but there it was. Something was off.
Norton had asked a question. Blackwood dragged himself back to the present and tried to pick up his half of the conversation. But his head wasn't in it, and he made a few quick excuses and headed back upstairs. McCullough nearly bowled him over exiting the elevator before he could get on - despite her complaints that the strike team had shot up half of the lab, she had picked up a treasure trove of research material from what remained.
Blackwood headed up to his office with the thought of meditating a bit on this problem, but Ironhorse was standing at the window when he arrived. The Colonel’s hands worked against each other, lacing and unlacing behind his back. His legs twitched slightly. He looked supremely uncomfortable. Blackwood stepped into the room and closed the door behind him; Ironhorse's face came into sharp profile as he turned his head at the sound. "Blackwood... I owe you an apology."
"For what?" Blackwood asked, feeling a bit bemused. Yes, he knew that Ironhorse must be referring to the incident in Blackwood’s room, but he wasn't quite sure why. "McCullough told me about what I had managed to get all over myself that night. What had happened wasn't your fault." He shrugged. From what she had been able to determine later, the pheromones must have been powerfully compelling. "Actually, I have to thank you for managing to leave before..."
Ironhorse interrupted him with a cough and turned away, holding up his hand. His skin turned an odd shade when he blushed, Blackwood noted. "Please, Harrison. Just let me apologize. I shouldn't have come anywhere near you. I hurt you, and that wasn't right."
Ah, they were back on first-name terms. Blackwood found that pleasing. He found a number of things about Ironhorse pleasing. While that was odd, Blackwood was not one to argue with positive feelings - the karmic balance to all that wasn’t right in the world. Camaraderie, affection, even love. "I'm not made out of marshmallow, Colonel. You didn't hurt me in any... permanent way. I'm sorry I pushed you, as well - I just could tell it wasn't you in the room."
Ironhorse's face fell into a neutral, inscrutable look. "And if it had been me?"
Blackwood smiled broadly. He could not help it. "I would have hoped you would have been a bit slower." He put his hand on Ironhorse's cheek. It was a bit of an odd tableaux, but Blackwood knew a good person when he saw one. Despite their ideological differences, Ironhorse's heart was firmly in the right place. In his element or out of it, he would always do everything he could to do the right thing.
"Do you..." Ironhorse trailed off, words visibly failing him.
"It's not often that I see you speechless." Blackwood leaned in gently, slowly enough to feel any hesitation or refusal. But there was none; thin lips greeted his own tentatively - but the greeting in their press was unmistakable. He held his lips pressed to Ironhorse's, and noted with delight that the man was indeed slower when not gripped in a pheromone-induced frenzy. His lips parted slowly, moving on Blackwood's, and it was almost a full minute before his tongue slid gently into Blackwood's mouth.
Blackwood thought of the work piled on his desk. Well, he would get to it, sooner or later. Then Paul's hands slid to the small of his back, and he began to wonder how much trouble it would be to move his work off of his desk.
They might need it.