He figures John won't know what his virginity would go for on eBay, so he names a price that makes John look at the door, and at the PlayStation, and at the bed. (Non-Stargate AU) Continue reading
I'm of two minds about DVD commentary: on the one hand, I can talk on and on about myself and my writing; on the other hand, I don't think anyone cares. SO! Here's one of my least popular stories, enhanced with some zombie dialogue, book and film references, and my inane rambling. Enjoy! (Any other stories of mine that you'd like to see mangled, jsut let me know!)
Title: DVD Commentary for Building Bombs (11451 words); Story originally posted here: Atlantis 9 to 5
Author: busaikko with commentary by busaikko
Betas: inkscribe and wingwyrm
Rating: R for violence and adult subject matter
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay… kind of?
Summary: Atlantis 9 to 5 AU: One hot summer during the Cold War, John Sheppard takes a job at Rodney McKay's dad's pharmacy.
Spoilers: Spoilers through all of S4
Warnings: The warning will spoil the ending of the story. If you need warnings, please click on this link. No underaged sex; only one bad thing happens 'on-screen'. And a heck of a lot of good things also happen. Still worried? Leave me a comment, and just download the soundtrack *g*.
Title: About Money
Pairing(s): RL and OCs (RL est. rel.)
Summary: Sometimes even Dark Creatures need the money
Warning(s): violence, prostitution, polyjuice, non-con, reference to DV
Word Count: 1339 ish
Credit: to Xochiquetzl for the subscription to Dungeon Quarterly (let me know of you want to cancel)
It’s all about the money, really.
Supply and demand.
I mean, it’s not always practical to beat your lover to a pulp, or chain up your boss until he begs for mercy, or fuck the bastard who cuckolded you.
There are laws and things.
But people who can’t get those ideas out of their heads—and who have the money, of course—come to Madam.
And those of us who can’t find or don’t want a good-paying job, or who have temporary cash-flow problems, gather like moths to a blazing fire. Madam employs lycanthropes for her nastiest clients. We have excellent stamina, incredible pain endurance, a supernatural healing ability, and are nearly impossible to kill. And, of course, are so often unemployed. It’s all about really good money.
I hate it.
Tonight will be my third time here, in this house. This will be the hardest time. It will hopefully be my last.
The first time I came still wearing the bruises my lover gave me. I wanted to make myself believe that I was unlovable. I wanted to kill my love. It worked. For a while. The money bought me the freedom to leave.
The second time I thought I just wanted to die. But I must have been lying to myself, because it would have been easy to starve or freeze to death. I took the money and lived.
But this time, my lover and I have reconciled and I am loved, I really am. I have joy in life. He and I are raising a child.
Today I am here only for the money. I have been an idiot and am between jobs again. We can barely afford to pay for food when I do work. I sleep in my car, for god’s sake, because I can’t live with them and neither can I pay rent. It’s pathetic, but there it is. What twist of fate made me, a werewolf, the breadwinner for our family? When the best-paying work for lycanthropes is found within these walls of pain.
Madam is still looking at me. I tell her how much money I need—“and tonight, if possible.” I know she’d loan it to me. I can’t afford the interest.
Two appointments will buy me a month’s reprieve from the wolf at the door. I wait, reading back issues of Dungeon Quarterly, until a bell rings. Then I go to the changing room and drink the polyjuice. I look in the mirror. I am taller, heavier, slower. Blond.
Madam likes me: I am a rarity, a lycanthrope wizard. Most wizards, the ones who are right in the head, would never stoop to come here. Most werewolves, not to put too fine a point on it, are crude and uneducated. In me, the best of both worlds.
This client is paying extra for a wizard. He wants a duel. I am not, of course, to harm him, or to win. Humiliating the blond is the aim of the exercise. We have forty minutes, enough so that the poly does not wear off. I do the choreography in my head. I think I can please him. I am only unsure of the strange body.
Aside from being naked as per client instruction, the duel begins normally. I will match him for the first fifteen minutes, falter and barely recover for another ten. When he gets cocky, I will rally and put him on his guard. Only in the last ten minutes will I really let him in my guard. Only then will I let him give me the full pain he wants to unleash.
This is better for him. It makes it sweeter to wait, to worry, to become enraged. It makes the cutting hex that catches me across the chest a victory, the binding that drops me head-first to the floor a thrill of pleasure that I can read in his face. He does it again and I can’t help crying out; I think one of the bones high up my arm has broken.
I have two safewords. One is for the client, the other will summon Madam. The second word will end the session. I am collapsed face-down on the floor, stunned, bruised, dizzy, and not a little nauseous. Somewhere, I think I lost consciousness. This is more than I had planned.
It takes me too long to think of how to salvage the scenario. Whether the scenario should be salvaged. Whether to risk losing the money by using the safeword. My wand is thrust into my mouth like a bit and I cannot speak. He yanks it back and my head goes with it. He could break my jaw; it would heal. He could break my neck; what would happen then?
He is a heavy weight on my back and I can feel his erection, but I honestly and truly did not think he would fuck me until I am ripped into and torn. I am terrified of choking to death on my own vomit. I fight my stomach, breathe shallowly through my nose, beat down the pain. I cannot scream with my mouth, but my body screams for me.
It doesn’t take that long for him to come.
I am still lying on the floor when Madam sweeps in. She levitates me off to the recovery room, and a few potions and healing spells put most of me right. I wonder how much of the extra I’ve earned for sex will be wasted on healing. Madam pronounces me not too ‘dirty’ to continue work. I have another half an hour before I do it again. “Eat something,” she commands, and I do, only to lose it all the instant it hits my stomach. I have to take a powerful anti-nausea potion before I can choke down the polyjuice again.
This time I am beautiful. Long, dark-chocolate limbs with hard muscles, brown hair that curls and falls over my forehead. Wide brown eyes and a mouth that looks just-kissed. Madam does not tell me why anyone would want this person to scream in pain; likely, she herself does not know. The client pays. We provide the show.
I am nervous this time, but the client likes it, so I exaggerate the soft protests as the chains are put in place and the lash first snaps across my shoulders. I scream each time, as directed, but I am also crying. The client walks around me, circles me like a sculptor intent on his masterpiece. He likes the tears, catching them as they fall from my down-turned face.
This second client obeys the rules, and as I relax in his hands I find something transcendent about the whipping. He works methodically, from my shoulders down, over my back and arse, and down my legs. I feel myself coming free, burdens broken like my skin, my blood the release that I have been seeking. I am aroused; painfully, of course. This also pleases the client. He shows no signs of sexual interest at all. I imagine that this most be some kind of cathartic revenge.
After he is gone Madam sees to my back and to my own climax. She doesn’t say anything biting about how I could get off on that; why would she? I look at myself in the mirror, now that the poly has worn off. My mouth is bruised, my face scratched, my wrists rubbed raw from the chains: it will all be gone by daybreak. My back and legs are a mass of bandages soaked in Madam’s own scar-inhibiting potion, which has worked for me before. She lets me sleep here tonight. It is too late to go home anyway.
In the morning I look almost human again.
I take my money, get into the car that contains all my worldly possessions, and drive home, to where my lover and child wait for me.
They will never know.
And in time, I’m sure I will forget.
After all, it’s only about money.