New Fic: Slavish Fantasies, by kuonji (R) [Amnesty 2006, Slave challenge]
Title: Slavish Fantasies
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Category: PWP
Rating: R
Warning: could be considered somewhat non-con
Spoilers: none
Words: ~1800
Summary: Sheppard goes looking for something at The Market, but his find needs a little 'persuasion' to accept his point of view.
A/N: I wrote this under a 100.7 fever this week. However, the concept for this came about shortly after Amnesty 2006 started, so I can't really blame the fever for the strangeness of it all. In any case, hope you enjoy... ;D
Slavish Fantasies
by kuonji
Spaceman John Sheppard touched down on a planet known officially as R2X-209. To the natives of two thousand years ago who had built a farming community here, it had been known as Kusha. To most other people, of course, it was simply The Market.
It was here that you could get anything your heart desired, provided you could pay for it. Everything and anything was for sale, and nobody could report you without the onus of admitting that they, too, had been here.
It was here that Sheppard could get what nobody knew he wanted. He had only to look, and he would find...
"Come here, fair customer!" calls an unfamiliar voice. It is a non-descript, completely unimportant-looking man with eyes that attempt to look trustworthy. A small tent has been pitched behind him. Beside him, a man kneels naked in the obedient position, wrists and ankles bound with taut leather.
John waves him off and nearly continues. He wants relaxation today; he wants something young and soft to toy with, to tease, to shudder and laugh, to say 'yes' and 'please' and 'more'. The slave at the man's feet, with the ill-kempt hair and the wide rounded shoulders, does not appeal to him.
As John is turning away, however, the slave looks up, and there is something in the slave's eyes that draws him toward the tent.
"You've got to be kidding me."
It must be the look of complete disdain there. It's a look that says, "You have got to be kidding me. You're going after him?"
The Bidder, however, the one who owns this strangely arrogant slave, welcomes John with open arms. "Come. Look. He is a unique one, I assure you. You will like him."
"Unique? I'm sure. But like...?" John draws out the end of the sentence, waiting to be interrupted. He is not disappointed.
"I'm sure the feeling is mutual, Mr. Hairy White-Ass. Plus, there's no way you can afford me."
"I could afford fifty of you," John wants to return, but he stalls, wondering if this is a trick to goad a purchase out of him.
"Do not let him offend you, sir. As for his recalcitrance, there are ways around that." The man draws out a flexible, silvery band. It gleams like quicksilver, and the slave's eyes go wide at the sight of it.
"No, wait." His arrogance has evaporated, and the slave looks truly nervous. "I-- I'm sure he can't afford it, anyway."
John's curiosity is caught. "What's that?" The Bidder's look is sly.
"To tell you, it will cost..." He finishes the sentence with the equivalent number of fingers. It's an amount just the other side of too much. The man knows his job well. Knows people like John.
John measures him for a second. He knows people like him too. He offers two-thirds of the amount, and as expected, the Bidder accepts. He rolls the coins John gives him in his palm, then makes them disappear without a trace, presumably up his voluminous sleeves.
"This," he says, once again holding up the oddly fascinating piece of jewelry, "is a device that turns even the most rebellious of slaves into hungry whores." He traces a finger across the back of the slave's neck. "Once placed on, he will not only do as you say; he will beg for the privilege." The slave trembles, so minutely that John almost wonders if it's not an act.
"You don't need to do this," the slave pleads. His bound arms are tense with his agitation. Real, or imitated?
"It will make him want you like a man wants water after five days in the desert. It will make him need you like a man needs to breathe. He will crave your touch, beg for it, do anything you demand, no matter how fantastic, for the slightest favor of a kiss."
In spite of himself, John feels his arousal rising.
"Now wait a minute. How the hell would something like that work?"
"How does it work?" John asks. He's still pretty sure it's a trick, but the idea is so enticing, he can't walk away.
The Bidder leans closer, as if to impart a secret. "Magic," is his succint reply.
"You just have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"
John snorts. "You're going to have to try harder than that." The Bidder seems to realize that he has overdone the dramatics. He raises his hands.
"It's a trade secret. I'm sorry. However, let me assure you that it does work. Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"
The slave jerks, then raises his chin, creating a semblance of his former defiance. "He can't afford it. You're wasting your time." A swift kick to his vulnerable ribs is his master's response.
"Yes, yes, let us physically assault the poor sex slave."
"You will have respect, you lazy, fat, worthless piece of flesh!"
John can see that even as he gasps from the abuse, the slave's eyes slit in a return of true rebellion. "I've made you more money than you had the dumb luck to see before you got me."
The master seethes, but he raises the silver collar like a threat, and the slave shudders.
"Master," he says, his round tenor voice taking on a deference that John is sure is foreign to him. "Look, I don't have to wear that. I'll take care of him. I... Just don't, please."
It's probably a trick, but John is overcome by curiosity now. "Do it," he says. The Bidder smiles.
"The customer wishes you to wear it," he says.
The slave turns panicked eyes -- so blue, so round -- to John. "You don't need it. I swear. I'll be so good. Ask him, he knows."
"Yes, he is quite skilled," the Bidder concedes. "But I think you will enjoy him better this way." He slides the collar around the slave's neck, despite his protests and efforts to avoid him.
Just before the snap clicks in place, the slave turns a look of almost-betrayal on John, and the rush he feels at that makes him want to pay any price for an hour in that tent.
Dangerous, he realizes. But too late.
The transformation is subtle at first. The slave curls into himself and keens, "No..." before he gasps and begins to shiver. The Bidder catches John's eye before running one finger down the middle of the slave's back.
"Ahh...!" The moan is visceral, unfakeable. When the slave's master curls his palm around the back of his neck, he pushes back against it, panting and open-mouthed with need.
John can't help but reach out himself. The skin under the slave's chin is soft and makes him whimper. The inside of his mouth is moist and makes him sob. He tries to reach out for more and cries against his bonds when John withdraws his touch.
John swears softly under his breath. "How much?" he asks.
"For an hour or the night?"
"To buy him," is John's answer. He is captivated by this rebellious, caustic slave, now turned so helpless. "And the collar," he adds.
"Jesus."
The Bidder names a price, and John pays it, but he is too distracted to recall what it was. Somewhere in there, he has included rental of the tent for the night, and he pulls the slave to his feet, stumbling as the leather binds trip them both, before he picks him up bodily and carries him inside.
"God, that's... Are you sure your back can handle me?"
"Stop thinking," John growls, pressing him down onto the carpet-covered floor. "You don't need to do that anymore. All you have to do is please me." He pulls out a knife and hot arousal speeds through him when the slave cringes away. "This isn't for you," he whispers, even as he holds the blade closer to the slave's face, just to watch him flinch.
He slices away the bonds, leaving the slave -- his slave -- unfettered and completely bare, but for the silver band around his throat.
His slave is quivering, raw with the need that his former master had described. 'Like a man needs to breathe, he will crave your touch.'
And John touches him.
"John!"
The slave is needy, desperate, demanding and begging both. He melts away and hardens at the same time, beneath John's touch. John traces the contours of his face, the edge of his hip, the inside of his thighs. He licks the long delicate lashes, and he kisses the corners of the wide gasping mouth that attempts to form words.
He uses that mouth for other things, and his slave does nothing but moan with more want for him.
John lets his slave touch him. He allows him to run reverant hands across his own lust-filled body, because the noises he makes when he does so are incendiary.
The slave is everything that John ever wanted; he is things that John didn't know he needed. He is open and acerbic, brutally honest. He is delicate and strong, and flexible and stubborn. He is intoxicating and a little shocking.
Despite it all, however, John can sense that the slave is holding back, fighting. The collar is not enough for such a stubborn personality.
"Give it to me," he commands, taking the slave's hands away from himself, taking away his touch. "All of it."
The slave struggles, reaching again for John, pretending not to hear.
Angry, John seizes his head on either side, gripping his short hair in a savage hold. "Say it."
"No..."
The slave whines and tries to pull away, but John holds him still, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Say it!"
"Don't make me..."
"Please. Anything...!"
"Say it." John gentles his hold, leans down to share his mouth. His slave shudders and evades, not wanting to take the comfort, but John persists, and persists, and persists... and he is kissing hot tears from his slave's beaten cheeks, when he finally hears him say,
"Master... Master...!"
John enters him slow and intimate. His slave gasps, nothing now but lust and need molded under John's hands.
John has broken him. He has claimed him. He has torn down everything he is until his voice falls apart, from pleaing words, to wordless pleas, and then bursting into mindless, crazed speech:
"Don't leave me, goddammit, never... Promise! Please, Master, please don't."
"Don't leave," the slave begs, and John seizes him roughly, stemming any further words with a kiss.
"I won't," he answers, his voice hoarse with all the things that he can never say. "Never. I bought you. You're mine."
They crash against each other, each more frenzied than the other, joined in their strange and powerful dance, snarling and snapping and kissing oh so sweetly all at the same time, until it bursts around them.
And when it's all over, it's John who leans into the other's ear and speaks soft, broken endearments, tender, entrapping things that no master would ever say to a real slave, and they hold each other secure with sleepy, warm arms, as the watchful ocean hums around them both.
End.
Link to sequel: Slavish Fantasies, Too
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
Tension (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji
Wrong, by Zoe Rayne
! (Stargate Atlantis), by rageprufrock
Incision (Stargate Atlantis), by Kharessa Bloodrose
Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons (Stargate SG-1), by starting_gate
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Category: PWP
Rating: R
Warning: could be considered somewhat non-con
Spoilers: none
Words: ~1800
Summary: Sheppard goes looking for something at The Market, but his find needs a little 'persuasion' to accept his point of view.
A/N: I wrote this under a 100.7 fever this week. However, the concept for this came about shortly after Amnesty 2006 started, so I can't really blame the fever for the strangeness of it all. In any case, hope you enjoy... ;D
Slavish Fantasies
by kuonji
Spaceman John Sheppard touched down on a planet known officially as R2X-209. To the natives of two thousand years ago who had built a farming community here, it had been known as Kusha. To most other people, of course, it was simply The Market.
It was here that you could get anything your heart desired, provided you could pay for it. Everything and anything was for sale, and nobody could report you without the onus of admitting that they, too, had been here.
It was here that Sheppard could get what nobody knew he wanted. He had only to look, and he would find...
"Come here, fair customer!" calls an unfamiliar voice. It is a non-descript, completely unimportant-looking man with eyes that attempt to look trustworthy. A small tent has been pitched behind him. Beside him, a man kneels naked in the obedient position, wrists and ankles bound with taut leather.
John waves him off and nearly continues. He wants relaxation today; he wants something young and soft to toy with, to tease, to shudder and laugh, to say 'yes' and 'please' and 'more'. The slave at the man's feet, with the ill-kempt hair and the wide rounded shoulders, does not appeal to him.
As John is turning away, however, the slave looks up, and there is something in the slave's eyes that draws him toward the tent.
"You've got to be kidding me."
It must be the look of complete disdain there. It's a look that says, "You have got to be kidding me. You're going after him?"
The Bidder, however, the one who owns this strangely arrogant slave, welcomes John with open arms. "Come. Look. He is a unique one, I assure you. You will like him."
"Unique? I'm sure. But like...?" John draws out the end of the sentence, waiting to be interrupted. He is not disappointed.
"I'm sure the feeling is mutual, Mr. Hairy White-Ass. Plus, there's no way you can afford me."
"I could afford fifty of you," John wants to return, but he stalls, wondering if this is a trick to goad a purchase out of him.
"Do not let him offend you, sir. As for his recalcitrance, there are ways around that." The man draws out a flexible, silvery band. It gleams like quicksilver, and the slave's eyes go wide at the sight of it.
"No, wait." His arrogance has evaporated, and the slave looks truly nervous. "I-- I'm sure he can't afford it, anyway."
John's curiosity is caught. "What's that?" The Bidder's look is sly.
"To tell you, it will cost..." He finishes the sentence with the equivalent number of fingers. It's an amount just the other side of too much. The man knows his job well. Knows people like John.
John measures him for a second. He knows people like him too. He offers two-thirds of the amount, and as expected, the Bidder accepts. He rolls the coins John gives him in his palm, then makes them disappear without a trace, presumably up his voluminous sleeves.
"This," he says, once again holding up the oddly fascinating piece of jewelry, "is a device that turns even the most rebellious of slaves into hungry whores." He traces a finger across the back of the slave's neck. "Once placed on, he will not only do as you say; he will beg for the privilege." The slave trembles, so minutely that John almost wonders if it's not an act.
"You don't need to do this," the slave pleads. His bound arms are tense with his agitation. Real, or imitated?
"It will make him want you like a man wants water after five days in the desert. It will make him need you like a man needs to breathe. He will crave your touch, beg for it, do anything you demand, no matter how fantastic, for the slightest favor of a kiss."
In spite of himself, John feels his arousal rising.
"Now wait a minute. How the hell would something like that work?"
"How does it work?" John asks. He's still pretty sure it's a trick, but the idea is so enticing, he can't walk away.
The Bidder leans closer, as if to impart a secret. "Magic," is his succint reply.
"You just have no idea what you're talking about, do you?"
John snorts. "You're going to have to try harder than that." The Bidder seems to realize that he has overdone the dramatics. He raises his hands.
"It's a trade secret. I'm sorry. However, let me assure you that it does work. Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"
The slave jerks, then raises his chin, creating a semblance of his former defiance. "He can't afford it. You're wasting your time." A swift kick to his vulnerable ribs is his master's response.
"Yes, yes, let us physically assault the poor sex slave."
"You will have respect, you lazy, fat, worthless piece of flesh!"
John can see that even as he gasps from the abuse, the slave's eyes slit in a return of true rebellion. "I've made you more money than you had the dumb luck to see before you got me."
The master seethes, but he raises the silver collar like a threat, and the slave shudders.
"Master," he says, his round tenor voice taking on a deference that John is sure is foreign to him. "Look, I don't have to wear that. I'll take care of him. I... Just don't, please."
It's probably a trick, but John is overcome by curiosity now. "Do it," he says. The Bidder smiles.
"The customer wishes you to wear it," he says.
The slave turns panicked eyes -- so blue, so round -- to John. "You don't need it. I swear. I'll be so good. Ask him, he knows."
"Yes, he is quite skilled," the Bidder concedes. "But I think you will enjoy him better this way." He slides the collar around the slave's neck, despite his protests and efforts to avoid him.
Just before the snap clicks in place, the slave turns a look of almost-betrayal on John, and the rush he feels at that makes him want to pay any price for an hour in that tent.
Dangerous, he realizes. But too late.
The transformation is subtle at first. The slave curls into himself and keens, "No..." before he gasps and begins to shiver. The Bidder catches John's eye before running one finger down the middle of the slave's back.
"Ahh...!" The moan is visceral, unfakeable. When the slave's master curls his palm around the back of his neck, he pushes back against it, panting and open-mouthed with need.
John can't help but reach out himself. The skin under the slave's chin is soft and makes him whimper. The inside of his mouth is moist and makes him sob. He tries to reach out for more and cries against his bonds when John withdraws his touch.
John swears softly under his breath. "How much?" he asks.
"For an hour or the night?"
"To buy him," is John's answer. He is captivated by this rebellious, caustic slave, now turned so helpless. "And the collar," he adds.
"Jesus."
The Bidder names a price, and John pays it, but he is too distracted to recall what it was. Somewhere in there, he has included rental of the tent for the night, and he pulls the slave to his feet, stumbling as the leather binds trip them both, before he picks him up bodily and carries him inside.
"God, that's... Are you sure your back can handle me?"
"Stop thinking," John growls, pressing him down onto the carpet-covered floor. "You don't need to do that anymore. All you have to do is please me." He pulls out a knife and hot arousal speeds through him when the slave cringes away. "This isn't for you," he whispers, even as he holds the blade closer to the slave's face, just to watch him flinch.
He slices away the bonds, leaving the slave -- his slave -- unfettered and completely bare, but for the silver band around his throat.
His slave is quivering, raw with the need that his former master had described. 'Like a man needs to breathe, he will crave your touch.'
And John touches him.
"John!"
The slave is needy, desperate, demanding and begging both. He melts away and hardens at the same time, beneath John's touch. John traces the contours of his face, the edge of his hip, the inside of his thighs. He licks the long delicate lashes, and he kisses the corners of the wide gasping mouth that attempts to form words.
He uses that mouth for other things, and his slave does nothing but moan with more want for him.
John lets his slave touch him. He allows him to run reverant hands across his own lust-filled body, because the noises he makes when he does so are incendiary.
The slave is everything that John ever wanted; he is things that John didn't know he needed. He is open and acerbic, brutally honest. He is delicate and strong, and flexible and stubborn. He is intoxicating and a little shocking.
Despite it all, however, John can sense that the slave is holding back, fighting. The collar is not enough for such a stubborn personality.
"Give it to me," he commands, taking the slave's hands away from himself, taking away his touch. "All of it."
The slave struggles, reaching again for John, pretending not to hear.
Angry, John seizes his head on either side, gripping his short hair in a savage hold. "Say it."
"No..."
The slave whines and tries to pull away, but John holds him still, forcing him to meet his eyes.
"Say it!"
"Don't make me..."
"Please. Anything...!"
"Say it." John gentles his hold, leans down to share his mouth. His slave shudders and evades, not wanting to take the comfort, but John persists, and persists, and persists... and he is kissing hot tears from his slave's beaten cheeks, when he finally hears him say,
"Master... Master...!"
John enters him slow and intimate. His slave gasps, nothing now but lust and need molded under John's hands.
John has broken him. He has claimed him. He has torn down everything he is until his voice falls apart, from pleaing words, to wordless pleas, and then bursting into mindless, crazed speech:
"Don't leave me, goddammit, never... Promise! Please, Master, please don't."
"Don't leave," the slave begs, and John seizes him roughly, stemming any further words with a kiss.
"I won't," he answers, his voice hoarse with all the things that he can never say. "Never. I bought you. You're mine."
They crash against each other, each more frenzied than the other, joined in their strange and powerful dance, snarling and snapping and kissing oh so sweetly all at the same time, until it bursts around them.
And when it's all over, it's John who leans into the other's ear and speaks soft, broken endearments, tender, entrapping things that no master would ever say to a real slave, and they hold each other secure with sleepy, warm arms, as the watchful ocean hums around them both.
End.
Link to sequel: Slavish Fantasies, Too
If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:
Tension (Stargate Atlantis), by kuonji
Wrong, by Zoe Rayne
! (Stargate Atlantis), by rageprufrock
Incision (Stargate Atlantis), by Kharessa Bloodrose
Pretty Paper, Pretty Ribbons (Stargate SG-1), by starting_gate