Archive of Our Own ^beta

The creature stirrs. The stupor slowly lifts as this cycle completes.

A brief moment of extreme vigilance when it's senses extend outside the nest. But no sounds or smells or heat patterns indicate intruders. Conditions are favorable for yet another cycle to begin.

Underneath the creature's body a source of heat is thrashing, still struggling to detatch, to escape. A sign of strenght, of health. A cascade of hormones and neurotransmiters triggers the next breeding cycle.

The way the creature's mate resists elevates the impulse over an invisible treshold. Strong. Healthy. The resource expenditure to lay an egg capable of ruling a colony is justified.

This cycle will be especially demanding of both of them. Feedback loop of external stimuli and a tilt in internal biochemistry pushes the creature into new heights of arousal. More genetic information is to be extracted from it's warm-blooded mate. The creature administers the necessary stimulation in a brutally efficient manner.

~☆~

Rodney was afraid. Not his usual rapid-fire stream of implausible worst case scenarios. Real, visceral dread.

John was supposed to be getting better. Carson had succeeded, it would just take time to completely reverse the change.

Yet here he was. Covered in cuts and scrapes, being dragged down some abandoned Atlantis hallway by John. Naked, alien John.

~☆~

He drifts into consciousness, or at least he thinks he does. There is still a haze, he doesn't remember what he's doing here, doesn't remember who he is.

He's sprawled over someone. Another male, squirming under him, making strange noises. He leans closer to get a whiff, to gather information.

The need grips him immediatelly upon breathing in the scent. He opens his mouth to outstretch his tongue and taste, to savour. He's quivering with the want, letting out a low, rumbling sound.

He registers that he's already inside the other male. Been the whole time. All he needs to do, to get the friction and the release he craves, is hold him down and thrust.

~☆~

The thing, that had once been John, didn't blink. At all. It just stared. And Rodney, who was paralyzed with fear, could only stare back into yellow, unthinking eyes and still, unmoving face.

He'd seen how the mutation changed John's anatomy. The tip of his erection now tapered off into something muscular and extremely mobile. It reminded Rodney of an elephant's trunk and was leaking profusely, dripping with a glistening, iridescent substance.

He knew what was going to happen when he got shoved down onto his back. No amount of begging and pleading could stop it. Clawed hands ripped and pushed his clothes to make him accessible and then held him open.

He turned his face and shut his eyes, so that he didn't have to look at John's warped features as it happened. The burn was there, but he pushed the sensation away, along with the wet sounds and the feeling of betrayal that his heart insisted on, despite his mind's protests. He was far away from here and now. Some place where his body didn't matter, where survival didn't matter.

But slowly, incrementally, a tingle crept in. Neurons firing, blood vessels dilating. He couldn't make sense of what was happening at first, until he got snatched back from that distant place by an unrelenting hardness in his own groin.

His revulsion was intense, but the unwanted physical state didn't subside. The worst part? The pain had been replaced by pleasure. Something inside him was stroking, pressing, with inhuman precision and endurance. He tried to go back to where the sensations were dulled and his own self was insignificant, but he couldn't.

He came inevitably, painfully. Semen spurting in white stripes across his abdomen and chest.

The thing stilled in it's movements, bent down and lapped up anywhere it could reach with it's tongue. A brief pause, three more shallow thrusts, an uncomfortable fullness while the body on top of him stiffened. And that finally shattered any hope Rodney'd been harboring. There was nothing left of John to return, he was gone. Rodney wailed.

Darkness enveloped them, the sun had set. After a few heartbeats, the thing started fucking him again and Rodney pointlessly fought back, mostly out of grief for loosing John.

~☆~

John comes to slowly, his body feels strange, foreign. But that makes sense, right? The last thing he remembers is Ronon blasting him in the face.

He's expecting the bright lights, sterile smells and tepid temperature of the infirmary. What he gets instead is dim, early morning light pouring down through a small window, placed high on the wall. Everything smells damp, musty. He feels a little chilly. He's lying naked, face down, on top of a massive heap of fabrics. Blankets maybe?

Something twitches below him.

Rodney! He doesn't look well. His breathing is fast-paced and shallow, his lips are dry and cracked. Must be dehydrated. There are dark circles around his closed eyes. Maybe he's asleep.

John tries to say his name, but what comes out sounds more like "Raawneey."

But Rodney's eyes snap open at the noise. His expression is pure terror. John blinks a couple of times and then follows Rodney's gaze as it drops down between them. Towards what now registers in John's brain as moistness and slickness and pleasant pressure.

His own naked body is still dark blue, scaly and smooth. Rodney's shirt is rucked up under his armpits, his body hair matted. Looking further down is like looking into the sun, it takes a while for his brain to decipher and accept what he's seeing. Rodney's BDUs and boxers are torn into tatters. Scratches and patterns of small, oval-shaped, purple bruises cover Rodney's exposed thighs. He can see his friend's genitals, vulnerable and naked. John's own taut appendage is below, buried inside Rodney's body.

Some cruel, primitive reflex makes his hips buck at the sight, into slickness and heat.

It's like a dam breaking, the horror washes over him. He has to run away, has to flee. His attempt to pull off only earns him a scream of pain from Rodney. He can't get out.

"No, no, please no. It'll tear, I'll tear." Rodney's voice is hoarse, like his throat is scraped raw. John shuts his eyes, trying not to imagine Rodney screaming at the top of his lungs for god knows how long. He feels his body start to shake uncontrolably. He wants to die. Wants to have died before this.

"Are you? Are you in there? Do you understand me?"

He takes a few heaving breaths before nodding yes.

"Oh thank god." Rodney's hands are pawing at his back, clutching him tightly, bringing their bodies closer and John can't take it. He recognizes the sounds he's making as desperate sobs, but this body of his can't produce any tears.

"Can we move to our sides? I'm afraid there's a bed sore forming."

John obliges and rolls them together. Something inside him breaks when he catches a glimpse of Rodney's face.

He can't speak and he wouldn't know what to say anyway. Rodney's whispering in his ear though, in the familiar McKay pattern, despite the soreness in his voice. About retrovirus doses and all the MTX he can pry from Carson's hands.

Eventually, John slips out of Rodney. Along with a disgustng gush of liquid. But Rodney doesn't run, doesn"t crawl away. Rodney waits. Then finally, he says.

"John, let's go find a way home."