sga_flashfic | Passion du Corsair, by Miss Pamela (Harlequin Challenge)

misspamela.livejournal.com posting in

Title: Passion du Corsair
Author: Miss Pamela
Category: Slash, NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Warning: Avast! Pirates!

Huge thanks to

giddygeek for the hand-holding and the speedy, late-night beta. And also to

astolat for the pirate idea, and for *her* late-nght beta. Oh! And to

reginagiraffe for the plot ideas.

Um. I did write it mostly myself, I swear.

John Sheppard was not a pirate.

Sure, he had the ship and the ragtag crew and the really big cannons. And sure, he took what he needed, whether it was gold or slaves or prisoners of war, but he always had his letter of marque and he never killed anyone unless he really, really had to.

If pressed (by the right barmaid), John would admit that he was, perhaps, a gentleman pirate. This usually resulted in a hysteria of giggles and swooning and offers of more rum. John Sheppard, who was not typically piratical in his tendencies, was fond of rum. And barmaids. But mostly, rum.

John Sheppard hadn't seen either barmaids or rum in exactly 53 days, ten hours and nineteen minutes. He'd been out cruising the waters around Madagascar, looking for a British spy nicknamed "The Crafty Badger." The Badger had been slipping arsenic into the brandy of some very influential merchants over the past six months, and the U.S. government wanted Captain Sheppard to find out why. John never liked the messy bloodshed that was involved in getting brigands to talk, but if the gentleman was an enemy of his country, he had his duty.

His duty would be a lot easier to perform if he had been able to find the gentleman in question. Instead, he'd been chasing phantom after phantom, guided by an enthusiastic Lieutenant Ford, who claimed to have seen The Badger once in a Marseilles tavern.

But this time, Ford had seen him board The Pegasus, a dumpy little barque who yielded quickly under John's superior firepower. John heartily approved of easy victories, and was feeling well-pleased when they brought the scoundrel on board, bound and gagged.

John barely glanced at the squirming, outraged prisoner. He clapped Ford on the shoulder. "Good job, Lieutenant. Throw him in the brig."

This remark brought muffled howls of protest from The Badger.

"Sir, I—" Ford hesitated.

"What?" John frowned.

"Well, sir, he maintains his innocence. And he seems to be affecting an American accent." This raised another chorus of outrage.

"He's a spy, Ford."

"I know, sir, but the sailors on board are confirming his identity." Ford grinned. "A few of them said something about wishing he was a spy so they could hang him themselves."

John took another look at the prisoner, who had stopped struggling and was looking at him with wide blue eyes. He was stocky and blondish, with unfashionably short hair and surprisingly dirty clothes for a gentleman.

"Bring him to my cabin," John said, and strode off to check on the spoils from The Pegasus.

When he got back to his cabin an hour later, the prisoner was sitting stock-still and glaring at him. "Not so crafty now, are you, Badger?" John asked as he pulled the rag from the prisoner's mouth.

The prisoner coughed and spluttered a few times before saying, "First of all, I'm not a spy or a beaver—"

"Badger," John corrected.

"I'm not faking this accent, my wrists are chafed, I desperately need a drink of water, and will you please stop calling me an American!"

"You're not an American?" John asked, casually. He shrugged of his filthy shirt and went to the wash basin near the port window. He started splashing cool, clean water on his chest and arms.

"Uh, no." John looked over to see the prisoner staring at him. "Canadian."

John tensed, wondering if the staring was a prelude to an attack. He didn't want to get attacked in his own cabin. Bloodstains were so hard to get out.

But no, he was just staring. Afraid, angry, shocked, and…yes, amazingly, John realized that the prisoner was staring at him in desire. Interesting. John smiled. He had lain with men on occasion -- despite the laws, you'd be hard-pressed to find a sailor who hadn't – but he'd always been very careful. This man was either a very bad spy or an excellent one.

"Well, if you're not The Badger," John said, "who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Rodney McKay. I'm a naturalist. You may have heard of me." He paused, then seemed annoyed – annoyed! when John didn't respond. "Yes. Well. I'm sure that pirates aren't up on the latest scientific research—"

"Privateer," John corrected, taking a seat next to Rodney, or whoever he was. Spy or no, this guy was kind of funny. "Naturalist, huh? You study birds and bees and all that?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Oh, okay. Privateer. Big difference. Anyway," he continued, obviously working up some enthusiasm, "I'm not that kind of naturalist." He attempted to gesture with his bound hands. "I study magnetism and electricity. I've been collecting various rock specimens all over the world to test which ones have the best electrical-magnetic properties."

"That sounds…interesting?" John raised one eyebrow. As alibis went, this was one of the better ones.

"It's fascinating, actually. But I'm sure you wouldn't understand it." The prisoner looked around. "So, what am I accused of again?"

"Murder," John said softly, remembering that he wasn't here to make small talk. He picked up his sword and crossed the room to stand by the hatch. "And probably treason."

"Oh, God." The prisoner paled, his eyes bulging. "Why aren't I dead already? I—are you just taunting me? Oh, God. Oh, God, I'm a dead man." Dropping his head in defeat, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. John felt a twinge of sympathy, but quickly dismissed it. He was probably lying. Still…

John opened the hatch and shouted, "Ronon!"

His first mate thundered down the hatch. Ronon had to squeeze his head and shoulders into the room, because he didn't quite fit in John's cabin. Hell, he didn't fit in a lot of houses. "Captain?"

"This gentleman claims he's innocent." John cocked his head at the prisoner.

"Okay." Ronon looked at him as if to say, so why are you bothering me?

"And for some strange reason, I sort of believe him." John had known a lot of sneaky men in his life, and this guy wasn't sneaky. Sneaky men didn't give you anything they didn't have to – this guy gave you more than you asked for. "Could you send a letter to the mainland? There has to be someone who can verify his identity."

"Captain, thank you, please, send it to Dr. Kavanagh – no, no, he wants me dead, he'd sell me in a heartbeat. Try Beckett." He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, Dr. Carson Beckett. He's a naval surgeon on the Daedalus. They're docked in Toamasina."

John nodded at Ronon, then turned to his prisoner. "Don't thank me yet. If you are The Badger, I'll kill you myself." John unsheathed his sword and let the tip rest under the prisoner's chin. "If you try to escape, we will catch you." John smiled, cold and hard. "And then you'll have to bunk with Ronon."

Ronon stared at the prisoner. "I don't like bunkmates."

The prisoner – he supposed he should call him Rodney, for lack of anything better, but it seemed like a defeat – sniffed, "Great! A giant! This just keeps getting better."

"Ronon doesn't bite." John dismissed Ronon with a nod. "Unless I ask him to."

"Wonderful. So, what are your plans for me?"

"You're going to stay here and I'm going to go back to my men." John cast his eyes around the room. "And you're going to be thankful that you're not dead. Got it?"

"Oh. Right." Rodney was looking at him again, his gaze cruising up John's black leather breeches and down his bare chest.

John had never met a man who looked at him so openly. It was unnerving. Still, if John was honest with himself, (and he was, compared to other gentleman pirates, unfailingly honest) he liked being looked at.

Were he of a truly piratical bent, he would take Rodney as a conquest of war. But John disliked unwilling bedmates as much as he disliked government officials and dry land. Despite Rodney's apparent interest, he was John's captive, and he was unable to give his consent.

"I hope you're not planning on starving me," Rodney interjected, interrupting John's thoughts. "I have a terrible reaction to deprivation of any kind."

"Does it make you quiet?" John grabbed a shirt off the peg near his washbasin and put it on.

"Very funny. Are you going to stand there and crack jokes while I starve to death? Or does this heap of junk even have a galley?"

John's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. "Don't insult my ship," he said, calm and quiet. He meant it. The Atlantea was his life, his freedom. "You'll get fed when I do. Right now, I have to check on my crew." John climbed up through the hatch, relishing the feel of the hot sun and brisk wind. He vowed to put the prisoner out of his mind until dinner.

When he returned to his cabin, some hours later, Rodney was fast asleep. Still bound, he had slumped down awkwardly against one wall. His face was as open and unshuttered in sleep as it was while awake. John fought the urge to reach out and touch his cheek. Rodney really wasn't a good-looking man. But. Still. He was smart and strangely fierce and he had good hands and bright eyes. Yes, John would rather have him as a guest than as a prisoner.

"Rise and shine," John called as he gave Rodney a gentle tap on the side of his head. "Dinner's going to be ready soon."

"Oh, thank God," Rodney groaned. "Hey, listen, I smell pretty bad."

John couldn't argue with that.

"Do you think you could untie me long enough so I could take a bath?"

John immediately looked around, checking the cabin for potential weapons.

"I'm not going to try to escape, okay? I'm thankful enough that I'm still breathing." He wiggled impatiently.

"I suppose you're not foolish enough to jump in the ocean." John quirked an eyebrow. "Sharks, you know."

"Yes, yes, you're very scary." The prisoner twisted toward John. "Untie me?"

Truly, there was no cowing the man. Admirable.

Still, John couldn't help giving him a bit of a show. Instead of grabbing his knife, he drew his sword and, standing arm's length away, he flicked the point through the knots. The ropes fell around the prisoner in neat, precise piles.

The prisoner rolled over and moaned. "Oh God, cramp, cramp!" He writhed around on the floor for a few seconds before staggering dramatically to his feet.

John watched in bemusement. "There's a bath behind that screen," he said. "I had it filled this morning. You can go ahead and use that." He laughed softly to himself. Captain Sheppard, you're getting soft, he told himself, as he went above deck to give the prisoner some privacy.

After a small incident involving an albatross and his best white shirt, (which was currently being boiled and cut up into rags) John returned to his cabin just fifteen minutes after he left. The prisoner was still in the bath -- how indulgent – and singing tunelessly. John allowed himself a peek through the break in the wooden screen. The prisoner was slightly stocky, as he observed before. Well-fed but not fat, tanned, smooth-skinned, with surprisingly broad shoulders and muscular arms. John figured that the muscles were from working with rocks for so long…

Rocks.

He worked with rocks.

John dashed behind the screen, startling a yelp out of the prisoner. Hauling him out of the water, John grasped one of his hands and jerked the palm up.

"Ow, ow, do you mind?"

Yes. There was his proof. Calluses. Not gun or sword calluses. Rodney (for it must be him) had heavy, rough, work-hardened hands. Rock-picking hands. The Badger had never done a day's hard labor in his life; John would be his ship on it.

John grinned, rubbing his thumb over the pad of Rodney's hand. Rodney made a sound low in his throat. John pulled him closer to reassure that he meant no harm, but he then realized why Rodney was whimpering.

Rodney was naked, wet, and very hard.

Somehow, John couldn't find a reason to push him away. He just stood there, silently, staring at Rodney, feeling the warm press of his body through the leather of his pants. He shifted and Rodney moaned softly.

John remembered that he hadn't shared his epiphany with Rodney. "Calluses," he whispered.

"Huh?" Rodney looked confused.

"Calluses. On your hands. From rocks."

Rodney caught on quickly. "Ha! See? I'm not The Beaver!"

"Badger," John murmured, as the gentleman fled and the pirate took over, and he bent down to touch his lips to Rodney's.

"Whatever," Rodney said, and grabbed the back of John's neck. Rodney slipped a little in the tub, and John wrapped one arm around his waist, steadying him.

Rodney pushed his body into John's as he stepped out of the tub. "Bed," he panted. "Where?"

John answered him by kissing him harder and running his hands up and down Rodney's slick, smooth back. He nipped at those shoulders he'd been admiring from afar and licked the droplets of water from Rodney's neck. "Over here," he said, steering Rodney to the back of the cabin. John reached out a practiced hand and caught the rough knots of rope, giving them a tug.

Rodney looked back. "A hammock? You seriously think we're going to fit in a hammock?"

"You'd be surprised." John grinned. "It's a lot bigger than you'd think."

"Very mature." Rodney reached down and pinched John's behind. "Can we forget about the lame double entendres and get in the damned thing already?"

John reluctantly disengaged himself from Rodney's arms. He swung easily into the hammock, shucking off his pants with one hand and steadying himself with the other.

"Wow," Rodney said. "That's actually very impressive."

"I'm glad you think so." John inclined his head slightly. "Now give me your hand."

It took a little maneuvering, but, being highly motivated, they quickly got Rodney into the hammock.

John didn't move for a moment, savoring the feel of Rodney's skin against every inch of his own, wrapped closely in the hammock and swaying gently from their exertions. Rodney was still damp from his bath; the water created a pleasant, sensual glide whenever the hammock moved.

He moved his legs back and forth, increasing the movement. Rodney, smart man that he was, reached down, trailing his knuckles against John's stomach, and lined their cocks up together. John gasped as the next swing of the hammock shot an unbearable bolt to pleasure through his cock and down his legs.

"Jesus," Rodney panted. "I'm not – I have to—"

"Yes," John said, capturing his mouth for another deep, soulful kiss. Who knew? Who knew that this mission would take him here, in his hammock, with a cranky, impatient naturalist who had amazing hands and a surprisingly sweet smile.

Rodeny suddenly clutched at his back, hips jerking, stuttering, "Y-y-es, yes, yes, please, Oh God—" The hammock swung wildly, off-kilter, as Rodney babbled his completion into John's mouth.

There was only so much stimulation John could take after being at sea for so long. He gritted his teeth and shoved his cock into Rodney's hip, slick and wet and messy. It only took him a few hard thrusts and a solid bite on his shoulder from Rodney to send those final, hot, sparks through his gut, and he came apart in Rodney's arms.

"So," Rodney murmured, after John had nearly drifted off to sleep. "Do you go around seducing every captive on your ship?"

"Not really," John admitted.

"That must mean I'm special," Rodney said, like he didn't already think that.

John didn't dignify that with a response. "Where were you headed?" he asked.

"Nova Scotia," Rodney replied. "My sister just had her first child and is demanding my presence." He lifted his chin defensively. "I'd go anyway."

"Want a ride?" John asked, yawning halfway through the question.

"Um. What?" Rodney looked confused.

"A ride. Do you want a ride on my ship? It's the least I can do." John grinned at the thought of sharing the long voyage with Rodney. Still, best not to make him too cocky. "Of course," he added, "I'm normally much more circumspect about my liaisons with men. You won't be able to sleep here."

"That's fine," Rodney said, slowly, then with increasing speed. "No, that's fine, of course, I wouldn't dream of it—"

"Good," John said, with an air of finality. "It's settled." He winked at Rodney. "You'll bunk with Ronon."

John laughed and laughed as Rodney's look of horror was quickly erased by thunderclouds of outrage, then laughed even harder as Rodney berated him using all manner of scientific insults.

For, despite his ability to be something of a gentleman, Captain John Sheppard was also, most certainly, something of a pirate.

Three months later, John and Rodney captured the real Badger. Their daring plot involved Turkish prison guards, a rowboat, two chickens, and John dressed up as a whaler's mistress.

Rodney made a perfectly terrible whaler.

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From:

ship-recs.livejournal.com

haha, this is wonderful.

Three months later, John and Rodney captured the real Badger. Their daring plot involved Turkish prison guards, a rowboat, two chickens, and John dressed up as a whaler's mistress.

Rodney made a perfectly terrible whaler.

Love this!

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