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Chapter Text

Alone on the dimly lit street, hands in his pockets strategically highlighting the bulge in the front of his jeans, he leaned back against a streetlamp, tapping it with the sole of his right leather boot.

He'd had reasonable success with this approach before. The City of Sins, as one of the humans had called it, was teeming, it seemed, with people looking to "sin". And human males were surprisingly careless about their sinning.

His lithe form, long hair and youthful appearance made him an interesting target for the ones who sought the company of other males in the dark.

They thought him easy prey. They were always disappointed.

He looked on placidly as a sleek-looking silver car slowed down and stopped beside him. His right hand twitched in his pocket.

The window of the car slid down and his eyes widened in surprise. A female! How curious.

Although his time on Earth had not been long, he'd nevertheless come to learn that the Tau'ri females were much more cautious and flighty than the males. And much, much less prone to succumb to the charms of those who sold their bodies by the side of the road. Technically, human females were easier prey. But not one of the vehicles that had stopped for him so far had had a female driver.

"Hi there," she called to him cheerily.

He smiled and approached with fluid ease.

"Do you need a ride, young man?"

He shook his head no.

"Oh. I see," she laughed. "But this isn't a great spot for that, you know. Any luck tonight? Business going well?"

He shrugged with a sigh.

"Not great, huh? I'm sorry... You don't speak English well? That can't help matters any," she said with a frown of compassion.

He leaned on her window and smiled, looking her up and down in seductive invitation. 

"Come on," she said warmly, motioning for him to get in. "We can go to my place, it's close by. I'll give you some money and you can take a break today. Not sure I have what you're probably shooting or smoking, but I'll feed you some scrambled eggs or something. You look a bit hungry."

Hungry, yes...

He crossed over to the passenger door and got into the car. Leaning back into the seat, he took off his fingerless leather gloves and started absently playing with them in his lap.

*

The car went up the long, dark gravel driveway and pulled up in front of a large house. The woman turned the key in the ignition and turned to him.

"Let's go in," she smiled.

Oh no. Going in was not necessary. He would not be long. He could have his meal right here. And he needed a new car anyway.

A dark glint flashed in his eyes and his nostrils flared. His right hand flew toward her chest so fast she barely saw it coming. She cried out in pain and surprise as he slammed his palm down with eager anticipation, but did not struggle or try to fight him like the larger males had.

Instead, her hand shot up, fingers stiff, and she jammed her clawed fingers into his eyes with a fierce yell. Blinded, disoriented and in pain, he tried to catch her wrist with his free hand, but she grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the dashboard of the car, with surprising strength and ferocity, a couple of times in quick succession. The crack of bone against plastic reverberated through the air. Dark blood trickled from his eye socket and the bridge of his nose, and his body went slack.

Breathing hard, she leaned back in the driver's seat. She closed her eyes and grabbed the wheel to stop her hands from shaking. Her chest bled and stung and she felt like she'd run twenty miles.

She sat there quietly for a moment, listening to the ragged whisper of his breath.

"Still alive," she murmured. "Very good."

With methodical hands, she opened her purse, took our a small bottle and generously doused a car rag with the liquid in it. She pressed the fabric to the man's mouth and nose and held it there for him to breathe in the fumes.

Never hurts to be safe. This could take a while, can't risk you waking up.

She took a short moment to study him. He wore a long, black coat and underneath it, a striped t-shirt and black jeans. He was tall and, obviously, deceptively strong for his slim form and looked quite young, except for the strange mane of long, white hair that covered half his bloody face. Drool trickled from one of the corners of his mouth and his cracked forehead looked a patchy green under the dim overhead light.

She lifted his limp right arm to take a better look at the hand he had attacked her with. It was covered in tan foundation and she wiped off a spot. Underneath, his skin was a marbled green. His palm was split by a weird gash oozing a sort of green liquid. She touched it lightly in fascination and the edges quivered.

"What the hell is this?" she whispered.

She peeled off a piece of the man's crumbling forehead. The gash in his eye socket seemed to have healed. "What the hell are you?"

She got out of the car and opened the passenger door. Fisting a handful of hair, she pulled his head back to make sure he was still out for the count. She grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him off.

His boots scuffed against the steps to the cellar and he began to stir.

"So soon? Damn, boy..."

She dragged him quickly to a steel post sunk deep into the concrete, took off his coat, secured his wrists and ankles to the post with heavy chains and manacles, removed the spiked choker he was wearing and fitted a shock collar around his neck.

She took a bottle of water from a shelf next to a grisly looking whip rack, twisted the cap and leaned against the wall, waiting.

"Oh, how the tables can turn. Really not your night, eh, buddy?" she smiled sympathetically. "No worries, we can still have fun and get to know each other. We'll take our time, I don't think there will be anybody looking for ya."

Chapter Text

He came to slowly. 

At first, there was only pain. A pulsing throb behind his eyes and the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He felt dizzy, his head felt heavy and his vision was blurry.

He tried to rise, but the chains bit into his wrists, pulling him back to the pole like a rag doll.

Muscles straining, he thrashed, slamming against the floor and clanging against the pole. The chains groaned under the strain, but the heavy bolts held firm and the cuffs didn't yield.

He hissed through clenched teeth and looked up, blinking fast, trying to clear his vision and get his bearings.

Confusion warped into awareness. There was the woman, his unlikely captor, leaning against the wall. Instinct told him to get at his prey and he pulled at his restraints again, hissing in pain and frustration.

He could hear her heartbeat speeding up. Out of fear, excitement, or both, he wasn't sure. The signals were confusing.

She took a drink from the bottle to steady her nerves. "Thirsty?" she asked with a small smile.

He spat off the broken prosthetics in his mouth and growled at her, baring sharp, needle-like teeth. The guttural, inhuman sound reverberated through the small space.

His contacts had fallen off in the fight and he regarded her with strange yellow eyes with slitted pupils.

"You don't have to drink if you don't want to. But it will help with the headache and dry mouth from the chloroform."

She twisted the cap securely and rolled the bottle on the floor towards him. It stopped next to his leg and he grabbed it, opening it and taking a big gulp. A dark tongue snaked out to lick his chafed lips.

"I hope it helps. Although I'm not familiar with the biology of your species... Whatever you are."

She tilted her head, eyeing him curiously.

"What are you? What is that thing on your hand?"

Reminded of his hunger, even more pressing now after he'd had to heal, and of how close he'd come to feeding, he hissed at her again, scorching her with a furious look.

His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

A piece of his cheek had fallen off and a small, vertical slit quivered underneath.

"So you won't tell me," she smiled. "That's okay. We have time."

She sighed and pulled away from the wall.

"I'll let you calm down and familiarize yourself with the place, look for ways to escape, stuff like that. Call if you need anything. My name's Joan. Or don't call, growl, rattle your chains, whatever. I'll be upstairs."

She turned to leave.

“Female…” he spoke in a strange, raspy voice, layered with vibration. "You hunt well."

Without turning, she smiled and closed the heavy door behind her.

Chapter Text

Alone in the dim light, he stood.

He flexed his hand, willing his handmouth to open. Everything looked fine. She had not done anything to it. He grinned. This was encouraging. Humans were so weak in their "mercy".

His hands went to the strange thing that was circling his neck. He pushed his fingers underneath and pulled with all his strength, but it didn't give. A metal shackle of some kind, but it did not seem connected to anything. "Wireless", maybe? Or just decoration? He ran a finger around the edge. Smooth, no apparent seams. Two locks. He felt for the mechanisms. Nothing happened.

Collared like a damn animal.

Snarling in frustration, he threw himself against the metal pole. His shoulder protested badly, but nothing gave...

The chain rattled and creaked when he pulled at it. No slack. The forged links cut at his skin. The anchor points in the pole... no wobble, no seam, no rust.

Again he pulled, shoulders straining until the muscles burned. The pole held. The chain held. The lock, gleaming with fresh oil, mocked him.

Could he break the bones in his hands and pull them through the cuffs? The left one, maybe. The right, no. He would damage his handmouth badly. Maybe he could pretend he was still shackled and grab the woman with his free hand when she came close. But he was already running on empty. If he had to heal a badly broken hand... Would he have the strength?

And what would she do? This was no ordinary human. She seemed unnaturally strategic. Surely she would have another trick up her sleeve. A shiver went through him. She did indeed hunt well. And trap well.

No, this was not wise.

He forced the anger back. Anger clouded the senses. He stretched them instead. His sensory pits flared. The cellar air was damp, iron-rich, touched faintly by mildew. No hidden drafts, no rodents scurrying.

The woman’s scent lingered, fresh, close enough that he could still taste her skin’s salt in the air.

He reached for her mind. The walls blurred it, but anger and vigilance bled faintly through. She was still near.

Other humans in the house? There seemed to be none. She lived alone. Was this good or bad? Bad, he decided. Others may have been more prone to manipulation, especially the young or other females. Although she was weaker on her own. Not weak enough, his pride taunted him...

He growled and pressed his forehead to the cold metal. No brute strength would free him. No clever twist of flesh or bone would undo the bonds.

If she did not choose to release him, he would not walk out of this cellar.

Chapter Text

The smell of old wood, leather and rust lingered in the air of the dusky cellar.

And he was bored... Bored out of his mind. 

He was sitting on the floor near his pillar of torment, hugging his legs close to his body, when he heard the female stir upstairs. He heard steps and scuffing, water running, the sounds that humans made when they were moving about their dwellings. 

The heavy door to his prison swung open and he stirred. He hated to admit it, but the quiet and the solitude were driving him mad. He'd take the company of kine over that.

Barefoot, clad in a flowing red dress, the woman stepped in with a small tray of food and a bottle of water. Yellow eyes followed her with hungry intensity.

"Good morning. I brought you some food, you must be famished," she smiled.

Oh, he was famished. His nostrils flared and the slit on his cheek quivered.

She put the tray down next to him and he reached for the bread, taking a small bite. The taste was not unpleasant. He twisted the cap and took a drink of water.

"I'm gonna leave these here, okay? Do you... need to use the bathroom?"

He growled softly in response.

"I will be honest," she sighed, "I haven't really thought that part out. I'll see what I can do... I have a bathroom here, but I think I have to..."

Let me go, yes, he thought with smooth satisfaction. This was an unexpected stroke of luck. He'd never thought he'd be grateful for the humans' dirty habits.

She went behind him and he heard a click and felt the heavy cuffs fall away. In a heartbeat, he turned and his right hand flew forward towards the hapless human. A strangled roar burst from his throat as he felt lightning zap him. Terrible pain shot through his frame and he collapsed, writhing on the floor. The woman rose from behind the pole and the cuffs clicked back on his wrists. His feeding hand twitched desperately, finding no purchase. But at least the pain was over.

Panting, he sat up and snarled at her.

"So that's the way you wanna play it," she said darkly, strangely calm. She studied him, looking between his legs. "I asumme you don't need the bathroom, do you?"

Her question was met with a hateful growl.

"If you don't need the bathroom, then you probably don't eat, right?"

Silence.

"It doesn't matter. Piss yourself for all I care. But I will need to know what the deal is with that fucking hand you keep slamming on me."

"Come closer. I will show you."

"Ah, so we speak English well enough. I don't think I will, love. But you will tell me."

"Are you sure?" he grinned.

She nodded and opened her hand, showing him a small device with a button on it. Smiling slightly, looking into his eyes, she pressed it.

He roared and his chains clattered as he again convulsed in pain on the floor, teeth bared, until the current died. When it ended, he rose to his knees, chest heaving. His eyes burned with rage.

"We can do this as many times as we need. You seem like a sturdy fellow," she smiled. "Now. Do we need to do it again or will you tell me?"

"You will find out anyway, human," he growled menacingly. "You will make a mistake."

"Likely. But I'd rather find out now."

"No."

She pressed the button again and the tortuous lightning left him breathless. His heart was fluttering wildly, painfully and he suddenly grew afraid. Perhaps he should give himself a break. Wraith were powerful. Not invulnerable.

"Let's try this again," she spoke, licking her lips. "What is the thing on your hand?"

"My feeding organ," he admitted.

She frowned. "You're trying to eat me? With... that? But... I mean, I think your teeth can do the job, they look sharp enough."

"We do not 'eat' as you do, idiot," he snarled.

"How do you eat, then, fucker?" she snarled back.

"We absorb the life energy of humans," he grinned at her. "With this. The process is too complicated for your feeble mind. But that is all you will need to know, kine."

"What the fuck is a 'kine'?"

"I believe you call them 'cattle'."

She snarled at him, baring her teeth. Then she started laughing.

He angled his head in confusion. "Have you gone mad?" he asked mockingly.

"Ah, no," she replied. "It's just that you're the first talking tiger I've had in here. I find it a bit funny." Her expression softened. "What's your name?"

He hissed and bared his teeth.

"You won't tell me?"

"We do not share ourselves with kine."

"Okay. I'll let you keep your secrets. This time," she said with an amused growl. "In the meantime, I guess I'll call you Shere Khan."

"What the blazes is a Shere Khan?"

"He's a tiger from... Never mind. So you want to eat me. That's why you got into my car and then you attacked me. Twice now. On that street... I thought I was saving a wounded doe, but I guess I was walking into a spider's web," she laughed again. "That's how you hunt, huh?"

He regarded her with a smirk.

"Well, aren't you unlucky, you poor thing," she said, almost affectionately. "Do you eat anything else? Apart from humans?"

"No."

"But you ate my sandwich."

"We can eat. It does not sustain us."

"How come?"

He fell silent.

"No worries, we'll talk again," she smiled. "Why do you have those teeth, then?"

"We use them, when we are young."

"So you eat when you're young. But then you don't eat anymore."

Silence.

"Okay. Well, in this case, I'm sorry to tell you, but you're going to fast a little."

"What do you mean, going too fast? I am stationary, idiot."

"If you call me an idiot one more time, I'm gonna zap you again. Not because I give a shit about what you think of my intelligence, but because my pets don't disrespect me. Or else."

"Or else what?" he grinned.

"Oh, no worries," she purred wickedly, "I’ll be happy to show you. Push me, tiger, and I'll break you until there is nothing left. I am patient and I am inventive. And then," she said, bending over his kneeling form and pulling his head back by his white hair, "I will feed on you and throw your unworthy carcass to the neighbour's dogs."

A wave of sudden heat spread through him unbidden and he felt himself hardening up.

Chapter Text

The silence clung to the inside of his skull, viscous, cold and dead.

His prison had a small window through which light crept in. He'd focused on it as his link to the outside. His link to what, he thought and cold desperation lashed at him again. His Hive was gone, his brothers dead. He was trapped alone in this human-infested place. Yes, food was plentiful now, he grinned, the irony not lost on him... But for all their busying and scurrying about, the humans were empty drones that could not offer true connection.

Cunning, yes. Cruel, very. Especially to each other, in the pursuit of power and currency.

Yes, Wraith sought power. But what they truly respected and reveled in was power that came from within, visceral, raw. That is what the best Commanders had. True authority dominated with a steady grip, without the cruelty of weakness. Not that Wraith were perfect. But they certainly were better.

Humans, especially the male ones, gave precedence to the pursuit of power over the pursuit of personal merit, inner strength and wisdom, the place where true power and authority came from. They stepped over each other like rodents in a dark hole filling with water. Perhaps because of their pathetically short existence, he laughed to himself. They didn't have much time to get to the top.

And the females... they reveled in their weakness. Queens could be ruthless and impulsive, yes, in ways that would have gotten males killed. But he preferred that to the bland, whimpering softness of easily defeated prey, elevating worship because it could do no better.

Ah, to know the love of a Queen... scorching fire, commanding warmth, passionate embrace, breathless pleasure, uplifting validation. To kneel to such in sweet surrender was bliss to one's mind and one's senses. He bathed for a moment in the comforting thought.

Oh, how he missed belonging and connection. Stupid kine...

No, THINK AND HOPE. Keep dreaming. Wait. He had to live. He had to get out of here and continue his work, call his brethren to the wonderful feeding ground he had found. Perhaps a beautiful, powerful Queen would hear his call. And, finding him worthy like no other, would take him as her own. Perhaps not all was lost.

The sound of steps outside the door broke his reverie.

Perhaps rattled by their previous encounter, her nerves frayed by the intensity of dealing with him, the human female had not come to him for the past two sunrises and sunsets. Looked like she had finally gathered her strength to try again.

The chain clinked when he shifted. She appeared in the doorway, haloed by the bare bulb behind her. One hand rested casually on the rail, but the other carried the small black box that woke the collar at his throat. He tensed and snarled.

"Evening. You've had some time to think," she smiled.

His lip curled. "About tearing your throat out."

Her gaze flicked over him, lingering on the angles of his face. 

She stepped closer and set the box on the bench with a deliberate move. Close enough he could see it, not close enough to seize it... Clever and infuriating. "I have been thinking," she said. Her voice was calm, but something coiled underneath. "Maybe I should stop wasting time and turn you over to the police."

He laughed raspily, but his heart quickened. "You think they could hold me? I would get away. And then I'd come for you."

"Oh, they’d figure something out. And they'd find a use for you," she said ominously.

He shifted forward, letting the chain clink, leaning toward her. "And you would not?"

She shrugged and sat.

"If you give me to them, you lose everything. Knowledge. Secrets no one on this planet possesses. I can teach you about beings of power."

"Such as yourself? What good are your secrets if you keep them?" she laughed. "You’re just not giving me much reason to keep you around. True, I could entertain myself by playing with you. That was fun. But then what? Other pursuits are more fruitful and the snarling and contempt are kinda getting old. I mean, is it really worth it?"

He sneered, though his throat was dry. "You need me."

Her laugh was short, disbelieving. "Do I?"

The chain creaked as he drew himself up as far as it allowed. "I know things your kind cannot imagine. Your weapons, your defenses are child’s toys compared to our Hives'. Compared to the knowledge Wraith possess. I could tell you what waits in the dark beyond your sky."

"You're not making your case. That kind of knowledge would be more useful to our military. And your biology would be quite interesting to their scientists in the meantime."

He drew a sharp breath. She was right, he knew it! As it had become infuriatingly usual, she had driven the point straight home.

"Are you not curious, female?"

"Oh, yes! Very. But again, if you think you can toy with me and trickle useless bits of information, what's the use?"

She rose and circled him, watching him like a scientist with a specimen.

"What do you offer me?" she asked with a smile. "Why should I protect you?"

"You? Protect me?" he could not help laughing.

She sighed and turned towards the door.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! he chastised himself. That is not how you do it. You have offended the kine, they are dangerous like that. Think. What do you want, female?

"Wait," he growled. "I misspoke."

She didn't stop.

"Human, wait. Sit. Please. We will talk. What would you think is fair exchange?"

"Fair exchange for what?" she smiled, sitting on the bench.

"For keeping me. For your... protection," he spat, and the word was bitter on his tongue.

"You can't offer me what I want," she laughed darkly. "At least not yet."

"Not if I do not know what it is," he grinned. "Make some sense, will you?"

She rose again.

"I... Apologies."

"That's a start. You're catching on."

Ah, so that was it. Like all small, inconsequential things, she wanted to be given importance. The illusion of control. He could play along.

"State your terms," he said, fixing her with his alien gaze.

"You talk to me," she smiled. "When I ask, you answer truthfully. And when I tell you to do something, you do it."

He snarled viciously and pulled at the chains.

"I am not an animal for you to command."

"These are my terms," she said evenly. "You're not an animal. But you are fully in my power, and you know it. I can do anything to you, and you know it. I can take flesh from you, I can take your life if I choose to. I can starve you to death... or not. I can make you kneel with just the push of a button. You depend on me, in every way. I can make you do what I want you to do. But I'd break you."

Oh, how he would have snapped her frail neck. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply to calm down and center himself.

She rose, remote in hand, and circled him, stopping behind his back. She kicked him to his knees and he hissed, but didn't move.

"Tell me," she whispered against his neck, "do I need to break you, Shere Khan?"

She rested her right hand on his chest and he could not stop a shiver. She moaned low in satisfaction and her fingers, clad in silvery finger guards, tore at his shirt, scratching his chest. His body tensed and arched with a mind of its own and heat surged through him again. He wanted to protest, put her in her place and regain his balance, but she had made it clear that that was the way to perdition. Yes, she had him, she truly did... At least for now. He felt perversely exhilarated and when she took her hand away, an ache bloomed in his chest and he realized he missed her touch. A strange sound, half growl, half moan, escaped his lips.

She cupped his shoulder in her small, warm hand, feeling the rounded muscle, then stroked her claws down his arm and side and back up, to his shoulder blade. She tore the back of his shirt and bent closer, curious, tracing the raised spine lightly with the tips of her metal claws. This time he moaned out loud, unable to hold back. She touched one of the protrusions gently with her lips and her tongue snaked out, licking the bones and space between them with gentle pressure. He shook in pleasure, breathing hard, and moaned again.

"You are delicious," she drawled, licking her lips. "Perhaps I will keep you. But now it's late... And I've got a real date," she laughed softly.

She came round and bent over, touching her soft lips gently to his. Smiling fondly, she straightened and turned, closing the door behind her and leaving him there, dazed, hot and on his knees.

Chapter Text

She'd shut the cellar door harder than she'd meant to. Her hand lingered on the latch a second longer before she forced herself to step away.

Upstairs, she pressed her palms flat to the kitchen counter, trying to steady her breathing. His moans rang in her head, twisting her insides in a knot. She took off the finger guards and rubbed her hands against her jeans as if to scrub off the imprint of his cool, smooth skin.

I gotta change. I'm gonna be late.

Her temples throbbed, her spine tingled at her nape. She reached for the whisky, then she remembered she'd be driving. She poured herself a glass of water and took a sip, turned off the tap and reached for the Advil pack.

I should call Ethan, tell him I'm not feeling well. We can go out tomorrow. Nah. I'll be okay.

Damn fucking alien... This was insane, she was insane for letting it go that far. She was playing with fire. The damn thing was not just a serial killer. It was a fucking siren, turning her on like nothing she'd ever known.

"What in Jesus' name are you doing, woman?" she whispered. "Are you out of your mind? If they feed on humans, who the hell knows how they fuck. Venom or eggs in your chest or some other fucking eldritch horror."

But he looks humanoid enough... 

That's it! I'll call John in the morning and turn him in.

This wasn't exactly Sheppard's thing, but her brother-in-law was the only cop she knew. She trusted him, John had great instincts. And somehow, this felt safer than just turning the guy over to the regular police. Maybe he wasn't kidding, maybe he would escape. A tendril of fear and doubt pulled at her heart.

She closed her eyes to steady herself and felt a dark fascination seeping into her, an irresistible urge to go back to him. A living alien in her cellar... Unlike anything she'd ever seen. Defiant. Dangerous. Full of raw, feral power.

Come on, girl, her subconscious pulled at her. Just a taste. Let him loose, see what he does. Let him ravish you.

A shiver went through her and she suddenly felt nauseous. FUUUCK NO. Something's wrong. "Hooooly shit," she whispered. She grabbed the remote and headed back.

Chapter Text

The anger coiled raw around her mind, like a living being.

He could feel it before she even got to the door, and a shiver went up his spine. He'd failed to manipulate her and he knew he would suffer for this. But the prospect had started to excite him as much as it scared him. He'd gotten under the infuriating woman's skin, and she'd lost control. And she came back. Heeded his call.

She walked in and stood in front of him, silent, seething.

"You could not stay away," he smirked, victorious.

Her thumb pressed down viciously on the remote. His legs gave and he convulsed against the restraints, teeth bared in a guttural snarl.

"Because you tried to crawl inside my skull, freak. Think I wouldn’t notice?"

"Most of your kind do not," he replied breathlessly.

She pressed the button again and he arched painfully, crying out, grabbing at the chains. The current died and he stood slowly, shaking. 

”Is that so? And do you know many of 'my kind'?”

"I have had the misfortune... of meeting enough humans during my long existence." 

She smiled and shook her head slowly.

"Well, I've only had the misfortune of meeting one of you. Wraith, do I remember correctly?"

"Correct."

"All-knowing, from beyond the stars?" she smiled.

"Correct, little human," he sneered.

"We'll let this one slide, you look a bit frayed. And where did you meet these humans? Here? On your homeworld? What's the name of your planet? Where is it?"

He sneered and looked away.

"I thought we had a deal. When I ask, you answer," she said, arching her brow and lifting the remote. "Do you not honour your deals, Wraith?"

"We do not live on planets," he growled reluctantly. "We live on ships."

Her eyes widened a little. "I see. And where's your ship?"

His nostrils flared, muscles tightening beneath his skin. His face contorted into a mask of barely contained rage.

She held up the remote and waited, head tilted, still as a cobra before a strike.

"It is no more. That is how I ended up in this place of torment," he breathed out with more feeling than he'd meant.

"Oh," she said, and a flicker of compassion crossed her face. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"I do not need your pity," he spat, raising his chin in defiance.

"No, you do not. And you don't have it," she said, grabbing his chin and jerking his head up. "There's nothing pitiful about you, Shere Khan. You are a proud and beautiful thing," she said with a smile, looking into his strange golden eyes. 

She turned and crossed the room with measured steps towards a cabinet on the wall. His eyes followed the sway of her hips and he swallowed, licking his lips. 

She took a small key out of her pocket and slid it into the lock, opening the doors and revealing a rack of leather and metal implements that hung in neat rows. She brushed them with her fingertips, going back and forth in a loving caress, and picked up a black sinew of leather that coiled like a serpent in her hand.

"Proud, and beautiful, and untamed," she spoke low, sliding back towards him.

"And you think to tame me with a strip of hide?" he sneered.

"Oh, no. I would not presume," she smiled.

'Wise," he replied in kind.

"This isn't for taming," she said softly, twirling the leather between her fingers. "That is for taming," she pointed at a vicious looking metal rod with a forked tip and a strange yellow handle, hanging on the exposed rack. "And this," she showed him a long strip of coiled braided leather with a red handle that looked well-worn. "And this," she smiled, holding up the little black box of hurt.

"This..." she stepped closer and his feeding hand twitched, hunger flaring inside him again. "...is for pleasure."

"Yours, or mine?" he growled, narrowing his eyes.

"Why, mine, of course," she laughed. "For you, this won't be fun."

She flicked the implement towards him. The crack split the air next to his shoulder, sharp and hungry, and he recoiled with a hiss. She smiled and struck again on the other side, making him flinch, and he snarled at her, pulling at the chains.

A sting of fire sliced through his chest and he exhaled sharply, drawing back. A second one soon followed, splitting the smooth skin and drawing dark blood.

"I think you may be mistaken," he said with a strange, resonant laugh. "I am getting used to this. And it is not... unwelcome."

She threw him an incredulous, amused look.

"Incredible. It healed already..." she said, looking at his chest.

She suddenly felt lightheaded. Heat flashed through her body, trickling down her spine, and she felt herself getting soaked. Her thoughts swam with dark promise.

His exposed sensory pit quivered faintly, tasting the shift in her scent, and he shivered slightly.

"We'll see how welcome it is," she smiled, and started lashing at him methodically, with precise strikes, painting a pattern of dark welts across his chest and back.

His body danced under the lash and he snarled, pulling furiously at the chains. 

"I've missed this," she whispered. "This beautiful dance. You can take a lot, can't you," she asked breathlessly. "Say that you can."

He hissed and lunged at her and she lashed him again across the groin.

"Say it," she demanded, brushing the remote’s button. Electricity jolted through him and he threw his head back, trembling violently. His hips bucked against the air.

"I... can," he gasped, voice rough with strain. "Do it again."

Her smile widened, dark delight spreading across her face. "Of course you can, Shere Khan. Your kind is durable."

She pressed the button again and before the pain stopped, lashed at him back and forth, making him thrash in his bonds and yell fiercely, dizzy with the overload. 

She threw her head back and laughed, drunk with excitement.

"Thank you," she said affectionately. "I don't get to indulge often. But tonight, why not go wild. Tomorrow morning, you won't be my problem anymore."

"You will give me into their hands? Do you not honour your deals, human?" he panted. "You promised you would not."

"That was before you tried the mind games."

"You did not say..."

Her eyes narrowed. "So that's how it's going to be? You'll slither through the smallest crack?"

His shoulders lifted faintly. "Would you blame me?"

"No. I understand. But I don't want the bother."

"Fine," he spat. "Then turn me over and let us be done with."

She nodded and sighed.

"Go back to your bland existence. Forgo the knowledge I can give you. Forgo the games we can play," he purred.

"Gladly, dude. You are never getting in my head again."

"Not those games," he drawled, sinking fluidly to his knees. "These games," he said, looking up at her with a smirk.

A flicker of electricity danced across her expression.

"You like this game," he purred again. "Do you not? I could play."

"What is that thing quivering on your face? The slit?"

"One of my sensory pits. I have one on each cheek."

"Sensory pits?" she echoed, grinning. "That’s pretty cool, dude."

"There are many 'cool' things that you could discover about me."

"Are you scenting me?" she asked curiously.

"Yes."

"What do I smell like?"

"Sweet. Tangy," he moaned, closing his eyes. "You smell of female desire."

She brushed his jaw and lips with the fierce leather snake and slapped his face hard with the back of her hand. His tongue flicked across his lips, tasting his own blood.

"Do I smell like desire now?"

"Yesss, more so," he moaned, leaning his head back and exposing his collared neck.

She brushed the button on the remote with her thumb and he jolted and exhaled in a broken sigh. Her hand slid into his hair, tugging his head forward, and she let her lips ghost across his.

"And you taste sweet," he whispered. "I like this game."

She drew back, licking her lips slowly and he gave a small moan, straining for closeness.

"I can't keep you, you know that," she sighed and he closed his eyes, swallowing hard. Pain seemed to tear through him.

"My Queen..." he whispered.

With a small jolt of surprise, she stepped back.

"Do not give me away. I wish to be with you," he drawled. "Keep me, let me show you your power."

She looked at him with unfocused eyes, breathing hard. Fuck. Fucking hell. Fucking alien fuck. She shivered and shook her head, coming back to reality.

"Oh, honey, that is so much better than what you did before," she laughed. "You're learning! Manipulation is a skill that requires observation."

"You are pleased with me," he purred.

"Yes, I am, my tiger. Good job. It will serve you well. Study them carefully and do not presume. Who knows, you might even get away. And then you can come for me, as you promised," she laughed darkly.

She stepped close to him and bent over, hanging the whip around his neck and using it to pull him forward for a kiss. She peeled off the fake skin that still covered his left cheek, hiding his sensory pit, kissed it and went back to his lips, savouring them. Eyes closed, she felt his hand reaching for her throat. Her hand twitched slightly against the remote, but didn't push the torture button.

He swallowed and his hand descended, resting against her chest. He felt her smiling against his mouth.

She felt a sting of pain and something flashed bright in her chest, warm pleasure flooding her. She cried out in rapture, shaking and falling to her knees next to him.

Breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his and caressed his nape. "What the fuck are you doing?" she moaned.

"A gift for you, my Queen," he murmured, "as is our custom."

She cupped his face in her free hand. His cheeks looked gaunt, sunken and his breathing had grown shallow. She took him in her arms, running her hand through his hair and he leaned on her, shaking slightly with the effort of staying upright. Her chest still throbbed with that strange, searing pleasure, and, drawing back, she stared at him, this alien in chains before her, trembling, gaunt, yet glowing with something fierce. 

She gripped the whip and tore herself away, rising to her feet.

Crackling with energy, walking on air, she climbed the cellar steps. At the top she paused, looking back one last time at his silhouette knelt in the dim light. For one terrible moment she wanted to go back down and never leave. She slammed the door and locked it tight.

Upstairs, on the kitchen counter, her phone vibrated with another call.

Chapter Text

“Holy fuck. Shit. Fucking hell. Fuck.”

She sagged into a chair with her head in her hands. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

You idiot. Monumental, world-class idiot. You let him get to you. The liar. The predator. The murderer chained in your cellar.

Call his bluff. Hand him over. Let the cops deal with it.

A spike of nausea ripped through her. Her chest clenched.

Don’t lie to yourself, girl. You loved it. You’ve never had a scene that hot, that intense, in your whole pathetic life. You want to fuck him until you can’t walk.

Her head snapped up. Was that her voice, or his sliding through her skull again? What a goddamn mindfuck.

“Stop. Distraction. TV, laptop, anything.”

She opened the laptop, then slammed it shut. The cam. She'd left the lights on in the cellar.

Doesn’t matter. Stop thinking about it. Doesn’t matter.

Except it did. His body twisting under the lash. The way he snarled, the way he yielded. Her images, she knew. Her eyes. Her ears.

Tear him apart. Watch him heal. Do it again. Push further. How would he cry out when he cums?

“Jesus Christ.” She pressed her fists to her temples. Fevered up like a schoolgirl with a crush. Insane.

She imagined him grinning at her, smug, pleased with himself.

“Call John in the morning. Get rid of him. Done.”

If you do, he dies.

Her gut twisted. She could still see his gaunt face, the tremor in his limbs. The way he leaned into her touch.

He gave you what he had left.

“Fuck.” She pressed her hand over her chest, still burning where he’d touched her. That blinding pleasure… I have to ask him about it.

Not if he dies first.

“Then let him. You’ll be doing the planet a favor.”

His raspy voice in her ears again: My Queen, I wish to be with you.

“Like hell you do.”

Keep me. A gift for you.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Damn, you’re good. Took you a while, but you’ve finally got my number. And you dialed straight home.”

'Queen'? More like Queen of Fools. Queen of Cattle.

He put his life in your hands. If you let him die, the guilt will eat you alive.

Her thighs pressed tight together. Heat still churned in her belly.

“Oh God,” she moaned, sliding her hands over her breasts. “I’ve gotta do something about this.”

My Queen… keep me.

She stood, slamming her hand on the table. “You don’t own me, Wraith. Shut. UP.”

Chapter Text

Hunger tore at him, vicious and constant.

It lived in his bones, gnawed his marrow raw, howled through every nerve. His feeding hand twitched, fingers curling and uncurling as if reaching for her pulse in dreams.

He had given too much and the Gift had hollowed him. Foolish, reckless... but necessary. She would have discarded him otherwise.

He groaned, head tipping back against the pole. The taste of her filled his mouth, spicy and sweet, a drug that dulled the agony for moments at a time. His lips curved in a smile. She thought herself strong, but she was unraveling. That pleased him more than he’d admit.

His eyes burned and he let them slide shut. Shapes flickered, forming in the dark.

The ghost of her anger, the taste of her storm. Upstairs, pacing, wrestling herself. He could feel her emotions pouring down like water through the cracks in stone.

His Hive, the song of voices in his head, familiar, wrapping around him like warm silk. His Queen’s will pressed down, absolute, exquisite. 

Human eyes sharp as blades, white bosom heaving with promise, rich laughter filling the air, sharp pain-pleasure electrifying him, her scent and heat flooding his senses.

“My Queen…”

For a moment he saw her not as human, but wreathed in fire, towering over him. Then clarity snapped through for a heartbeat. Not his Hive. Not his Queen. Just a human woman with a collar, a whip, an iron will and a storm of emotions she couldn’t master.

But the image clung stubbornly, sliding over reality again. Desire made no distinction.

He pressed his head back against the pole and a ragged laughter tore from him. Was this another torment? Was it a gift?

He didn’t know anymore. He only knew he wanted her.

To feed. To be touched. To belong.

He sagged against the pole, exhausted.

He could not last long like this. And yet, he was not beaten. She had taken his Gift.

When She accepts the Gift, a true Queen claims the giver.

Chapter Text

The latch clanged, and before she knew it, she was already halfway down the cellar stairs. She hadn’t decided to come here. She hadn’t wanted to. Yet her bare feet padded on the cold steps all the same.

The light buzzed overhead. He lifted his head, hair spilling pale around his gaunt face. His golden eyes glowed faintly, cat-like.

"You came," he drawled low.

Her heart thundered as though it might break free from her ribs. And still, helpless, she drifted closer.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

He rose, taller, leaner, hungrier than she remembered. Then, like a striking fury, he lunged.

She tried to push the button, but the remote slipped from her hand. She hit her knees, scrambling desperately, and felt long, thin fingers grabbing her by the hair and pulling her up like a doll, holding her in an iron grip. With a grin, he held up the remote and put it in his jean pocket. The collar shimmered faintly around his neck.

His free hand traced her jaw, gentle as a lover, cruel as a captor. Then he crushed his mouth to hers in a violent kiss. She bit him hard and, hissing, he slapped her across the face.

"Behave."

She snarled at him.

"I don't think so. Kill me and let's be done with it."

"Why would I waste such a clever little human? I’ll use you, as nature intended. Wraith are masters. Humans are kine. And the world is finally right again."

"You'll have to kill me," she grinned. "You’re starving. I can smell it on you. You’ll break before I do."

He yanked her head back and bit into her neck. Pain flared, but her scream broke into laughter.

"You poor fool," she spat. "I'm used to being weak and abused, and I can take a lot of pain. I care nothing for my life. I've suffered worse than you and I would rather die than do your bidding."

His fist slammed into her stomach. She doubled over, choking.

"Perhaps I will kill you," he snarled. "But I will take my time. Where is the key to these shackles?"

"I forgot," she grinned. "Search my mind, beast. You’ll never leave this place. In death or life, you’re mine. Let's have fun, fucker!"

Her knee shot up, cracking into his groin. With a feral snarl, he slapped her hard again.

Then his hand struck her chest. Pain like fire roared through her body and she screamed, jolting awake.

Chapter Text

Her heels clicked sharply on the concrete as she came down the stairs.

He stood, hungry eyes following her. His body tensed, nostrils flaring and sensory pits fluttering, scenting her.

The black skirt hugged her hips as she sat on the small bench in front of him, crossing her long legs.

"Good morning," she spoke huskily. "I came to see how you were."

He didn't answer, but his drawn face and trembling hands spoke for themselves.

“Not great, huh?”

A low growl rolled out of him. His feeding hand twitched, but he stayed still, watching her with the hunger of a cat seeing a mouse just beyond reach.

"I haven’t thanked you," she smiled, tilting her head. "For what you did. I didn’t ask for it, but I understand the cost. Whatever your reason, calculation, impulse... it was a risk. I respect your courage and the trust you placed in me."

"Truly?"

"Truly," she replied.

He studied her, chest rising and falling quickly.

"I have to ask you some questions. The answers are important to me, and thus will be important for you."

A hiss escaped him, but he inclined his head. "Ask, then."

"First question. Why did you call me your Queen?"

His cheeks flushed a deep green. He turned away, jaw tight.

"You’re ashamed of it. I see that. Still, I want the reasoning."

"I… do not know."

"Lie," she said softly, leaning forward. "And not a promising start."

He hissed again, teeth flashing.

"Listen. My brother-in-law is coming over tonight. He’s a police detective. I think we can agree that in this situation, the sane and reasonable thing to do is for me to turn you over to him. Right?"

"You promised you would not."

"And you promised honesty."

His nostrils flared. Finally he muttered, "It is our way. Among Wraith, females lead. Queens rule the Hive, absolute. They have power of life and death over their men. You… remind me of home."

"The hive being the ship."

"Yes. The ship. Some rule many."

"And the males obey," she purred.

"Mm."

"In all things."

"All things," he breathed.

She gave a slow nod. "Thank you. Second question. If you had a choice: stay here, free, or leave altogether, which would you choose?"

"To go. I have work to do. I would return."

"What kind of work?"

"That, I cannot tell you."

She laughed. "Then I’ll assume it’s nothing good for Earth and humanity. But I appreciate your honesty."

His lips curved. "You would have me stay."

She raised a brow and smiled. "It would make sense for you to want your freedom. But yes… I think I’d like you to stay. In my own twisted way. I do enjoy our games."

"As do I."

"Really?" she smirked. "I don’t hold back, love. Though you take it deliciously well."

"I crave intense sensation, yes," he said, swallowing hard. "But not so much on its own."

"You crave it at a Queen's hand," she smiled knowingly.

"You… yes," he drawled. "I enjoy the way you take charge of me. And Wraith heal. Though perhaps not at the moment," he sighed.

"About that. Question number 3. What exactly did you do to me?"

"I told you that we feed from humans."

"I think I know how that feels," she said with a shiver. "I had a dream… But go on."

"The reverse is also possible."

"You feed into people."

"It is called the Gift of Life. And we give it very sparingly. I did not expect a human to understand... the significance of it."

"That kind of sacrifice is worthy of respect. Not to be taken lightly. Is it true that it’s customary to give to your Queens?"

"If they demand it, yes."

"I didn’t ask for it. You forced it on me."

His head bowed, hair spilling forward like a white veil. "You are angry."

"Angry? No. But hear me, Wraith. Giving I can forgive, but take without asking, anything, anytime, anyhow, and I’ll end this. Chains or no chains. Games or no games. Do you understand?"

"Yes." His throat worked as he swallowed what almost slipped out: my Queen.

"I know what you meant to say," she purred with a grin. "Is that weird?"

He drew a sharp breath.

"Perhaps not. You are intelligent, you inferred. Does it upset you?"

"No. It turns me on." She leaned back, considering him. "And when Queens don’t demand the Gift?"

He allowed himself a thin smile. "They rarely mind if it is offered freely. It is quite pleasurable."

"Oh, yes," she sighed, nodding. "Done it many times? With your Queen?"

His voice dropped. "No. Never."

"She didn’t allow it?"

"I have never been with her in that way. She was but one, and we were many. And a Queen chooses the strongest Commanders as her mates. Warriors, usually. I am what humans call a man of knowledge, not considered for such things."

"A scientist. You research things? Make things?"

"Yes."

"What kind of scientist?"

"I make and repair devices. Like engines, weapons, consoles or transmitters."

"An engineer."

"If that is what you call it."

"Interesting! And they prefer brawn over brains? That's foolish."

"Hm. What do you do? For work?"

"I own a company. We transport things from one place to another."

"I see. What kind of things?"

"All kinds. But we specialize in live animals. My family were circus people, tamers. When it started to go out of fashion, Dad and I had to branch out. He had connections, I had a business degree… Education, that is. Knowledge. We transport animals to zoos, horses to race tracks…"

"And you tame tigers?"

She laughed heartily.

"It’s called training now. But yes. I still do it. Though infrequently, demand is low. And the methods are quite different nowadays. But occasionally…" she grinned.

"You do get one."

"I do get one," she smiled. "If he attacks me, then he requires taming."

His eyes flared. "And if he obeys?"

"Even if he obeys, sometimes he still needs taming." Her smile widened. "But if he’s good… and takes well to discipline..."

His breath caught. "Yes?"

She leaned closer, voice dropping. "Then I will care for him a lot more. He’ll always be a tiger, wild and powerful. But… he’ll be my tiger."

His pupils widened. An involuntary growl escaped his throat.

"Can I ask something of you?" she murmured, licking her lips. Her eyes dropped to the bulge straining against his pants.

His voice was hoarse. "What would you ask?"

"I want to see you. Without clothing."

His gaze hardened. "No."

She nodded. "Fair. Your body is still yours, fundamentally, in chains or not. I won’t force it."

"Earn it."

"Ah," she smiled. "I see."

She circled him, remote in hand, trailing her fingers across his exposed skin, scraping his spine. Then she straightened. "You’ll have to wait. I have work," she purred, turning to leave.

"Wait!" he called breathlessly. "You said you had a dream."

"Mm." She hesitated. "I think your Gift had… side effects."

"That you dream of me?" he purred huskily.

"Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t a good dream. But… I think I understand some things."

"Such as?"

"I think I feel you, Shere Khan. I feel your hunger."

Chapter Text

The knock startled her although she'd been expecting him. With a hesitant breath, she opened the door. Sheppard was standing there with a crooked smile and a bottle of scotch dangling from his fingers.

“Don’t say no,” he said. “I’m not in the mood to drink alone tonight.”

She smiled and beckoned him in.

He slumped into an armchair, shirt crumpled and open at the collar, as usual, and she poured two fingers of whiskey into tumblers and put on some music. They sat together in the living room in easy, comfortable silence for a while, the bottle between them on the table.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a sip and leaned towards her.

"Joan... You ever keep something so strange to yourself, you start to wonder if you’re losing it?”

“Every day,” she laughed.

“Listen, I need you to keep this between us. Strictest confidence.”

She made a little X over her heart with her finger. “Scout’s honor.”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve got this case... Serial homicides. Bodies found out in the desert, dried up like jerky. No blood, no fluids. Just husks. Like they aged fifty years in a night.”

She went still, glass paused at her lips.

He didn’t notice. He was staring into his drink. “Fucking strange, huh? Here’s another kicker. Feds got hold of me last week. Or so I thought. But anyway. Hauled me out to some bunker in the desert. You won’t believe this.”

“Try me.”

“They’ve got someone down there. Well, something. Looks like a man, but not. Tall. Long, white hair. Weird eyes. They said he was an alien from another galaxy who feeds on human life energy, however the fuck that works.”

“That’s... creative,” she said, putting down her glass to disguise the tremor in her hand.

“At first I thought they were feeding me bullshit. There's other, even crazier stuff, I won't get into that. But they let me talk to him a little.” Sheppard’s voice softened. “He was weird and wasn't making much sense, but... Christ, he was captivating. Got this dangerous, feline vibe about him. But vulnerable too, somehow. I couldn’t pull away. Joan, he looked at me, and it was like he could see into my fucking soul. Like he’d lived through the same things I did. I don’t…” He broke off, shook his head, embarrassed. “Forget it.”

She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Sounds like somebody's got a crush.”

“Don't say that,” he muttered, flushing. “I don’t even know what the hell that thing was."

He met her eyes, searching. “Thing is, that McKay guy said that his kind leaves bodies the same way my killer does. That's why they brought me in. Which means...” He drained his glass in one swallow. “Which means I’m hunting something not human. This is nuts.”

“John.” She smiled and put a hand on his wrist, watching him twitch at the contact. “You’re not crazy.”

Chapter Text

“John Sheppard, you’re one of the sanest, most grounded people I know. For a flyboy,” she smiled, brushing the back of her fingers across his stubble-roughened cheek.

He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “Not really,” he whispered. “I’m a mess.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah. But you’re a smart mess. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

And that may be the end of my Shere Khan, she sighed to herself.

“It’s late,” he muttered, pushing up from the chair. “I gotta go home. Or maybe that motel again.”

“Motel? Why?”

“I’ve been tracking a suspect. This white-haired weirdo I played poker with last week… He jumped off a roof in front of me.”

“Holy shit, he killed himself? Then what…”

“No, that’s the thing. He survived. And ran away.”

“He ran away?” she asked incredulously.

“So yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s one of those things. Very likely my guy. Or I don't know, if there’s two, there may be more.”

“An alien invasion?” she laughed. “Holy shit.”

“Not funny. People are dying.”

“You're right. But that McKay person said they ‘feed’ on humans, right? So he’s, you know, doing it to survive.”

“Yeah, no. Fuck that. I’m gonna stop him. I’ve been stalking the motel I tracked him to, but he’s been a no show for the past few days.”

“Maybe he moved.”

“I don’t think so, the trailer’s still there. He has a Silver Bullet parked out front.”

“Maybe he abandoned it.”

“Yeah… Or something happened to him. The guy the feds had seemed bigger. So maybe he ran into a larger guy and the situation got 'out of hand'.”

“Go home, John,” she smiled. “Get some sleep, you need it. Their ship’s toast, they’re not going anywhere.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say…”

“I mean whatever they came in must’ve been toasted, or else we’d have heard something, seen something, right? Eventually? I can't believe I'm saying this.”

“Yeah,” he admitted grudgingly. “McKay said so. Though I wouldn't trust those guys and the shady shop they're from.” He stepped towards the door.

“John, there's something that I…” she paused, frowning, biting her lip.

“Yeah?”

Joan sighed deeply.

“I... Doesn’t your guy eat people? The captivating one, the one you said looked into your soul?”

“Obviously.”

“And isn’t he gonna die if he doesn’t?”

Something tightened in Sheppard's eyes. “What are you driving at?”

“Nothing. Just saying, it might be complicated... Maybe they're not so evil. I mean, all living things must eat. And maybe our herd could use a little thinning,” she said grimly.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said with a shiver and closed the door.

She stood still, listening to the gravel crunching under his boots and to the Mustang's engine growling and fading into the night.

Remote in hand, she turned for the basement. The shrill ring of the phone froze her mid-step.

“Yeah, Manny, what is it?”

“Boss, problem. I’ve got two tailgaters, black SUVs, can’t shake them. I’m sure they’re after me.”

Her hand tightened around the phone. “Maybe it's nothing. Do you have your gun?"

“Course.”

“Do what you need to. Defend yourself and the cargo. Those horses are worth more than our truck. I'll deal with any fallout.”

“Sure thing, I got it covered. Just wanted you to know.”

“Where are you?”

“On the I-15. Just past Paradise.”

“They didn’t wait long,” she muttered. “Contract job for sure.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“I’ll track your location. We’ll get you backup. Thanks, Manny.” She cut the line and dialed again.

“Frank? You and Alice home?”

“Yeah, boss. Mark too, but he was heading out. Why?”

“Good. Manny's in trouble. He's taking the Akhal-Tekes to Kyarizov's ranch and he's got a nasty tail. I don’t wanna involve the police, Kyarizov said no cops. I’m heading over there, can you come? He’s just outside Paradise, you can track him through the app.”

“Sure, boss. We’re on our way.”

*

Manny’s rig thundered down the I-15.

The headlights in his mirrors had been glued to him for a while now. He’d tried slowing, tried speeding, tried shifting lanes to let them pass, all the tricks he could think of. Nothing. His brain told him what his gut already knew.

The trailer rumbled behind him, steady as his own heartbeat. He couldn’t afford panic. One hard stop and horses this delicate and feisty would snap. He breathed through his teeth and muttered a prayer.

Headlights burst across the median: Frank’s SUV. They slid in behind Manny’s rig, Alice at the wheel, Frank leaning half-out with his gun braced across his knees.

“About damn time,” Manny muttered.

The lead pursuer edged up alongside the trailer, lights blacked out. A window rolled down; a masked face appeared, the barrel of a gun glinting. A shot rang into the air and a gloved hand signalled Manny to pull over. Professional job.

“Not happening,” Manny growled, keeping his rig straight.

A sleek silver SUV cut in cleanly, forcing the hijacker to drop back. The convoy was whole now: Joan in front, Manny’s rig in the middle, Alice and Frank tailing. Boxed in, but the right way round.

The second hijacker floored it, trying to nose the trailer toward the barrier. Manny held his ground, inch by inch, feeling the weight of the trailer behind him.

Alice swerved suddenly. Frank leaned out, braced, and fired. The rear window of the hijacker’s car blew out and the vehicle fishtailed, slammed the barrier in a spray of sparks, and stopped dead.

"Did you get him?" Alice asked between gritted teeth.

“I saw airbags. Driver’s out cold. Passenger too, if he’s not broken up already.”

The other hijacker gunned his engine, trying to make a run for it, but Joan swung across his lane. He tried to dodge, clipped the barrier, and metal screamed. Gunfire popped into the night. The black car stopped, smoke coming out of the engine.

Shaken, Manny pulled up on the shoulder.

Alice slid in behind him. She was out fast, yanking open the trailer doors. “They’re fine, Manny,” she called, voice breaking with relief. “Scared, but fine. Thank Jesus.”

Manny circled his truck with shaking hands. Dented, scratched, but no leaks. Engine solid. Drivable.

Alice clapped his shoulder. “We’ll finish the run. You head back.”

Manny shook his head. “Nah. They’re mine. I can see it through.”

Frank was already at the wreck, dragging one of the hijackers free. The man groaned, half-conscious, blood on his temple. Joan pulled up beside him, climbing out with one arm clutched close to her ribs.

“He’s alive. The other one's toast. You okay?” Frank asked.

“I’m fine. Just a graze. Help me with this fucker.”

They hauled the unconscious hijacker into Joan's back seat, tucked a whisky bottle by his side, and draped a blanket over him.

“Frank, the other one back there goes in my trunk. Throw the dead guy in there too, I'll make him disappear. Then you and Alice pull their cars to the shoulder and head home,” Joan said simply.

Frank gave her a tight nod, grateful not to know more. He did as he was asked and climbed into Alice’s SUV without a word.

They left the wrecks smoking on the shoulder. To anyone passing, just another late-night crash.

Chapter Text

She dropped the unconscious man in a heap in front of him.

“Dinner,” she said simply.

In a flash, the Wraith was upon his prey, slamming his hand against the man's chest. The human jolted awake with the pain and the cellar filled with a terrible sound, part roar and part scream, echoing off stone walls. The man clawed at the Wraith's arm, but the Wraith only leaned in closer, eyes closed, inhaling as if drunk on the flow.

The hijacker’s scream guttered into a ragged gasp. His skin tightened over bone, drying up like old parchment. In moments, his face collapsed into hollows and his hands fell limp.

Joan stood with her arms crossed, watching until the husk toppled against the floor with a hollow thump.

The Wraith rose like a coiled spring, grinning wildly, hair like bleached silk hanging around his face. Shine had returned to his skin and his chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. His molten yellow eyes fixed on her, feral and unblinking.

She sat down on the bench across from him, arms loose in her lap. No whip. No remote.

“Kneel,” her voice cracked the silence.

A ripple went through him, barely there, just the twitch of his fingers curling. He pulled against the chains, baring his teeth. “We only kneel to our Queens.”

“Exactly,” she said evenly. Her chin lifted a fraction. “If that’s what I truly am to you, show me. Show gratitude for what you just received.”

He laughed, harsh and ragged. “You are not Hive. You are not Wraith. You are…”

“Ah. So I am not your Queen. I understand strategies of survival, but lies are for the dishonourable and the weak. Are you a liar, Wraith?” her voice boomed.

His growl tore through the cellar, bolts groaning in the concrete as he strained.

Joan rose slowly and crossed the room. Her scent reached him before her touch did.

His eyes narrowed and fluttered and he inhaled sharply, sensory pits trembling. Her nearness filled his senses like fire in his lungs. Despite himself, the long hours of terrible emptiness, broken only by her visits, had burned her into him. Her musk, her warmth, her footsteps, her heartbeat, the rhythm of her breath, the timbre of her voice that burrowed into the silence.

“Predator and prey,” she murmured, raising a brow. “Or Queen and warrior. Which shall it be?”

Pride and fury clawed at him. Yet old, terrible yearnings were stirring in his blood, too powerful to deny. They called to him irresistibly through her steady heartbeat and her unflinching eyes.

With a snarl half-born of rage, half of surrender, he dropped. One knee struck the floor, then the other, slowly.

Joan felt urgent heat rising in her. Her breath sped up and she reached forward, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling his head back, exposing the line of his throat. The collar, silent silver, pressed against his skin.

A low, vibrating sound broke from his chest, caught between hunger and something he still refused to name. Hunger coiled tight between her legs, pulsating, alive.

“Careful, woman,” he rasped. “Fire burns.”

“Good. I like fire,” she smiled dangerously, caressing his face with the back of her hand. She brushed her lips to his, bit his lower lip once, then withdrew.

At the top of the stairs, she turned to him with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Rest well, my tiger.”

The door closed with a heavy thud. Breathing her in, he closed his eyes and didn’t rise.

Chapter Text

“Open the door, Genady,” Joan ordered silkily.

With her gun pressed between his shoulder blades, the tattooed, fierce-looking young man pushed the steel door open and stepped in. He set eyes upon the chained figure who had turned to them sharply with a growl and stopped at the top of the stairs, yelping in panic.

“What fuck is that??” He tried to turn and make a run for it.

“Ah, that would be my man,” Joan said, pushing him roughly down the stairs and within the Wraith's reach. “Spectacular, isn't he?”

“So soon, my Queen?” the Wraith purred with his raspy, inhuman voice, grabbing the man's arm and tearing his shirt open. “I have pleased you.”

“And you will please me more,” she laughed darkly. “Now let's get to the matter at hand. Slowly. I have some questions for the gentleman and we wouldn't want him unable to answer.”

Wide-eyed, the human struggled, but between the woman's gun and the creature's iron grip, he was caught like a fly in a spider's web.

The Wraith’s lips peeled back in a grin. He waited for her nod, and his palm landed square on the man’s chest.

A yell tore from the hijacker's throat. His spine arched, his fingers clawed the air. In a blink, his skin had sagged and lost its shine. 

“Stop,” Joan said sharply.

The Wraith obeyed, reluctantly drawing his hand back, nostrils flaring. The slits on his cheeks opened greedily. The captive slumped, breathing hard, and the acrid stench of sweat and fear filled the air, mixing with the sharp tang of the green liquid that smeared the man's chest.

Joan circled them, caressing the Wraith's white mane. He leaned into her touch like a great hunting cat, a low hum rolling through his chest.

“Who sent you to steal my cargo?” she asked the young man.

The man’s breath rattled in the silence.

She tilted her head toward the Wraith. “Again. A drop.”

The Wraith's long fingers splayed over the man’s sternum. A low hum vibrated in his throat as the life-force poured into him.

Joan’s hand lifted. “Enough.”

The Wraith hissed softly at being denied, hunger flashing across his face, but he withdrew. The captive sagged in his grip, hair plastered to his temples, cheeks hollowing, eyes wide and glassy.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” Joan’s voice was calm, almost soothing. “Every year burning off you. You’re, what, twenty-four? Or you were. You’ll be fifty in a few minutes.” She leaned closer, her breath brushing his ear. “Or I can let you walk.”

The man shook his head violently. “I... I can’t...”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” She brushed her fingers through the Wraith’s pale hair, her nails grazing his scalp. “You see, he doesn’t care which it is.”

The Wraith’s grin widened, teeth gleaming. “Shall I show him?”

Her nod was subtle.

The Wraith’s hand clamped back down, and the man screamed, jerking in his grip. His voice cracked, high and broken, until she lifted her hand.

“Stop.”

The Wraith snarled but obeyed, chest heaving. The hijacker sagged like a puppet with its strings cut, panting.

“You look like you're down a decade already,” Joan murmured, leaning towards him. “One decade for silence. How many more will you buy with loyalty?”

“No... Please...”

“Oh, darling, I’m not the one you should be begging.” She leaned close, whispering against his ear, “Talk, or my man here drinks you like a fine wine.”

The Wraith chuckled obscenely, golden eyes fixed on his prey.

Joan straightened. “Again.”

The Wraith’s hand slammed down, harder this time. The captive’s scream filled the cellar, raw and tearing. Joan watched his jaw hollowing, his hair dulling by shades. 

She waited until he was whimpering like a beaten animal before she spoke again. “Whose orders?”

“Rahmanov!” the man gasped. “Colonel Rahmanov... Turkmen army. He say Kyarizov betray the motherland, he is corrupt, sold gold to the Americans. He wants... revenge, to ruin traitor, make him pay.”

The Wraith inhaled greedily, nostrils flaring. “Pride, vengeance... Such sharp flavors,” he rasped.

Trembling like a leaf, the man pissed himself.

Joan smiled. “There, that wasn’t so hard.” She brushed the damp hair off his forehead, almost tenderly. “Rahmanov may actually be right,” she murmured with a chuckle. “Now, you’ll take your colonel a message. Tell him I respect him and his patriotism. But if he touches my business again...” she glanced at the Wraith, who grinned with feral relish, “I’ll set loose my vengeance. And I won’t stop them as I’m stopping him now.”

The hijacker whimpered, trying to pull away from her touch.

Joan nodded once. “Feed, love.”

The Wraith growled, low and eager, and struck the man's chest with violent delight. The human convulsed, his face seeming to sag into middle age in the space of seconds. His dark hair was threaded with gray when Joan finally raised her hand.

“Enough.”

The Wraith froze, every muscle taut, hissing in frustration. His chest heaved with restrained hunger. Slowly, with a guttural growl, he pulled back, and the man collapsed to the floor like a discarded rag.

Joan pulled him up and shoved him toward the stairs.

“Run home. Be thankful for your life. And pray you never see me again,” she said simply.

The man scrambled up the stairs, half crawling, half stumbling, desperate to get out alive. The cellar door slammed shut behind him and silence fell in his wake.

“You wasted sustenance,” the Wraith growled, his voice deep and electric.

She smiled faintly, trailing a finger over the remote, and a whisper of a shock jolted through his body. “No,” she said softly. “I sent a message.”

“Cruel... but effective.” His eyes gleamed, locked on her with a fever-bright hunger that had nothing to do with food.

“Yessss,” she purred. “On your knees.”

The chains clinked as he obeyed, fluid and immediate, sinking before her.

Joan straddled him, her skirt sliding up, and kissed him passionately. His growl vibrated into her mouth, his scent intoxicated her. Her hands roved down his taut body and he squirmed under her, shameless, breath ragged against her throat. His hands twitched desperately, grabbing the chains, not daring to touch unbidden.

“God, I can’t take this anymore. Touch me,” she whispered hungrily.

His hands clamped to her ass with frantic need, kneading her warm, tender flesh, pulling her against the hard line of him.

Her hand slid between them and she freed him with a swift tug of denim, wrapping her deft fingers around his length. A moan tore from his chest and she shifted, panties shoved aside, and lowered herself on his hard cock with a guttural cry.

She felt him shaking beneath her, every muscle trembling with restrained need. She stilled, biting at the crook of his neck.

He shivered and gave a strangled, needy moan of pain-pleasure, and all her restraint broke. She started fucking him in earnest, moaning and rubbing against him, nails dragging fire into his skin.

“God, you make me burn,” she panted, hair falling wild around her face. “If you finish before me, I’ll kill you.”

“Then do not... talk... like that...” he gasped, driving into her with each word.

She shook and her head snapped back with a cry of rapture. “Yes, yes, fuck me, give it to me!”

Frenzied, undone, he let out a fierce roar and shuddered violently, spilling himself inside her.

Breathing hard, Joan stilled and clung to him, still shaking with pleasure. She felt something thrumming in her veins, strangely alive, as though some echo of him had taken root inside her. She guided his head against her chest, kissing and stroking his hair.

“My tiger... my beautiful man,” she whispered fondly.

“My Queen...” he murmured. A strange, sweet pain was spreading through his chest. “Light of my eye, stay with me.”

Chapter Text

Joan knew something was wrong the moment she pulled the car off the dirt road and saw Mark’s rig, hazards flashing, stopped across the shoulder.

Her boots scraped the gravel as she approached slowly, cautiously, calling his name.

That was when she heard it, the sound no one could mistake once they’d heard it before. A low, guttural snarl, layered with a moan of pain and a wet rasp. She rounded the corner of the cab and froze.

Mark lay on the ground, his limbs twitching weakly. A dark figure crouched over him, pinning him down. Even in the dim light, she could see the skin of Mark’s face tightening, the years draining out of him all too quickly. The creature feeding on him raised its head, and moonlight caught on a mane of tangled silvery hair.

Another Wraith.

Joan’s hand went to the gun on her hip by instinct, yet she hesitated, watching with a kind of terrible fascination.

The Wraith stilled, his head tilted sharply, nostrils flaring, sensory pits widening as though tasting the air. His shining yellow gaze rose and focused on her. His grip on Mark loosened, he hissed and recoiled, as though struck by something unseen.

Joan’s pulse hammered in her chest. She knew that reaction. The way his head had tilted, the way he'd sniffed the air... she’d seen it before, downstairs, when her Wraith sensed her in the dark.

Mark lay gasping, alive but wasted, his skin sunken and his greyed hair damp with sweat. The Wraith looked at Joan with a strange, haunted expression, snarled at her once again and bolted into the darkness, vanishing into the desert.

Joan dropped to her knees beside Mark, touched his shoulder and dialed 911. She felt relief at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, but beneath it churned something else, something darker: regret. She’d let one go. She’d let him escape.

As the desert night pressed in, she knew what she had to do. She needed to talk to John again. She had a question no one else had asked, for someone no one else had been able to reach just yet.

The desert carried echoes.

Chapter Text

The cellar door groaned open and the Wraith lifted his head at once, sensory pits flaring. His eyes narrowed and a small smile curved his lips in anticipation. Be it pleasure or pain, or maybe both, something interesting was about to happen.

Barefoot, wearing just a short silk robe, Joan came down the stairs and approached him with her usual smile. In one hand she held the black remote, but in the other she produced a strangely shaped key. She crouched at his back and he felt the pressure easing off his wrists and ankles as the chains and the manacles fell away.

He rose and stretched his bones with a deep growl of satisfaction.

“Come,” she said, and led him up into the house, her thumb brushing against the remote to remind him with a little thrum of electricity that he was still restrained.

She stepped into the bathroom and he followed. The air was warm with steam and smelled faintly of sandalwood and soap.

She took off her robe and felt the Wraith's gaze travel over her like a pair of hungry hands. She slid into the water, sighing at the warm touch, and motioned him to join her.

“You’re grimy,” she said, sliding a finger along the water’s rim. “If I’m going to fuck you, we have to make you presentable.”

The corners of his mouth curved in amused mock outrage. “Do I offend my Queen?”

“You reek of cellar dust and neglect,” she drawled, leaning back in the water. 

He discarded his torn, dirty clothes on the floor and sank into the bath opposite her. The water rose against his chest, caressing the inhuman veined, greenish skin. His shoulders dropped as the tension peeled away, and for a long moment he only soaked in the hot, scented bath. Then half-lidded golden eyes opened on her again.

Joan smiled faintly and scooted closer. She straddled him and her thighs clamped around his hips beneath the water, pinning him down. She felt him hardening against her belly and brushed her full breasts along the smooth planes of his chest, making him twitch and shiver against her.

“You big boy,” she murmured. “Careful with that thing, you could be trafficked as a love slave in some places.” A raspy laugh escaped him at the shameless, greedy appraisal.

She picked up a bar of soap from a nook behind him and slid her soapy hands over him, deliberately, lovingly, nails scraping enough to make him twitch. She scrubbed away the grime and worked her fingers through the knots in his hair.

His breath deepened and a low purring sound resonated in his chest.

“I like it when you do that,” she cooed. “I like it very much.”

She dropped the soap and her hand hooked into his hair, wrenching his head back. She planted a kiss on his jaw and her other hand snaked down, taking hold of his hard ridged cock. Moaning, he thrust greedily into her touch.

“Always fire,” he rasped.

She pulled his head back harder, until he gasped. “Mine to burn,” she murmured against his neck.

He shivered and his hands gripped her hips under the water. She kissed him, lowering herself onto him in one long, slow motion and he shivered and grunted, his hips pushing up to meet her with a will of their own. She let go of his hair and, leaning back against his raised knees, she started moving against him, slowly and gently, then harder and harder, relentlessly, with feverish intensity. He slid his hands over the curves of her flushed body, caught between moans and growls, his own skin alight under her touch.

His mouth sought the peaks of her breasts and he latched on wetly, with a moan of satisfaction, tasting, teasing and suckling with breathless need while she undulated wantonly on top of him, chasing her pleasure. The water surged around them, spilling to the tiled floor as her back arched and she cried out, her body tightening and shuddering against his. Enflamed, he felt himself passing the point of no return and, with a fierce growl, his own climax tore through him a heartbeat later.

They stilled together, clinging to each other, trying to catch their breath.

Slowly, Joan leaned her forehead against his. Water dripped slowly onto the tiles in the intimate silence.

She sighed, kissed his shoulder and rubbed her cheek against it and rose, drops rolling over the curves of her body. She picked up a large, fluffy towel, wrapped herself in it and threw another one to him, grinning at his predator reflexes. Then she took his hand and led him to her bedroom. No chains, no stone walls, just soft sheets and lamplight. He hesitated at the edge of the bed, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but she tugged him down beside her with quiet determination.

The soft mattress dipped under his weight, unexpectedly comfortable against his ridged back. She curled into him, her leg hooking over his hip, her hand pressed flat against his chest. Her warm skin smelled of soap and female musk.

For a long time, he didn’t move, as if waiting for a trap to spring. Then, slowly, his hand settled at the small of her back, pulling her closer.

He lay still, breathing evenly, listening to the soft cadence of her heartbeat. She was so vulnerable now... But he could not for the life of him bring himself to disturb her, as though the pleasures and comforts she had given him had somehow managed to root her inside his bones.

With a sigh, in the stolen peace of her bed, he allowed himself to drift off.

*

An echo brushed along the inside of the Wraith's skull, breaking his reverie, as though someone had trailed fingers across the edge of his mind. A dry rasp, like wind blowing over a dusty plain.

Ashborn. Brother. You breathe still.

The Wraith’s eyes snapped open. His body went rigid and his senses stirred, going on high alert.

Dustveil. Brother, he responded. I endure.

A ragged laugh slithered back. Endure? You are fed and sheltered. I feel softness around you. You have a nest, and you bar your brother from it?

Joan stirred, murmuring in her sleep, and he stroked her hair until she settled. He sent a pulse of warning across the link.

I do not mean to harm you. But this human is under my protection.

Dustveil’s voice cracked with hunger. Protection? She is prey, Ashborn, you forget yourself. Share her!

Ashborn’s snarl rolled through the silent link, sharp enough to make Joan twitch against his chest.

If you touch her, I will end you.

Silence. Then… not silence. A whisper curling underneath, hot and covetous.

Of course... I should have known. She is your worshipper. Then she can serve me too. Do not be greedy, brother. So few of us still live in this den of torment.

Ashborn hissed and his grip tightened possessively around Joan.

You will not speak of her again.

Dustveil’s hunger pressed harder, ragged and insistent. You think to hoard her? Keep her in your arms while the rest of us starve? She will be ours or she will be nothing.

Ashborn lashed out with dark determination.

She is mine to keep and mine to kill.

The psychic clash snapped like thunder in his skull.

Dustveil recoiled, snarling, his mental pressure scattering like sand flung into the wind. But his shadow lingered, pacing at the edge of his brother’s senses.

Chapter Text

The door of the small, sparse office was wide open, but Joan gave it a couple of gentle knocks anyway. The tousle-haired man sitting at the desk raised his eyes from the file he was studying.

“Twice in one week? Careful, you'll get a reputation if you call on me so often,” he grinned at her playfully.

“Why, John, I'd be flattered,” she shot back with an easy laugh, patting his shoulder and bending down to kiss his stubbled cheek.

Sheppard leaned back in his wobbly, old chair and steadied himself with a boot against the desk. “So, what's up?”

Joan closed the door and stood in front of him, biting her lip. “Remember when you told me,” she said, lowering her voice, “that you met one of those?”

Sheppard’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, two of them. Why?”

“Well,” she said, a humorless laugh slipping out, “now, so have I.”

His face fell in alarm and the chair scraped back. “What? Where? How?”

“On the highway. I saw one of my trucks stopped on the shoulder and had a hunch something was wrong, so I stopped. My driver was on the ground with this white-haired... guy on top of him.”

“What the fuck? So you drove off. When did this happen? Where was it?”

“No, I wasn't in the car, I'd gotten out. I just rounded the corner and came face to face with him.” The colour drained from John's handsome face. “He looked at me, sniffed me or something, snarled and... ran off. My man is in the hospital right now, he's stable, but he was damn lucky. And, as it seems, so was I.”

Sheppard’s brow furrowed. “Damn right. That’s not their usual playbook.”

“So I gathered. That's what haunts me.” Her voice dropped. “He could have easily attacked me. I wanna know what happened. Maybe he got scared of my gun, I don't know, he looked like a cornered starving coyote.”

Sheppard tapped his fingers against the desk. “Funny timing, you know... I’ve been seeing our friend down in holding again.”

“The charming guy.”

“Yeah. I've been there a couple of times since, they asked me to talk to him, he took a shine to me. I named him Todd, I had a roommate Todd in college, pale as hell, looked like death warmed over. Same vibe. The fucker seems to like his name,” John's mouth twitched in a smile. “Anyway, he's kind of a funny guy, but we can't get anything straight outta him. I’ve tried, believe me. It's just stories and riddles about bees buzzing in the desert and fish swimming in ponds. I mean he seems coherent otherwise, but sometimes I wonder if he's all there.”

“Maybe he's starving and lost his marbles. Or maybe he doesn’t want to give you anything useful, but he likes your company. I mean, I relate,” she grinned.

“Maybe.” Sheppard leaned back, studying her.

She sighed and her jaw tightened. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Let me talk to him.”

He shot her an incredulous look.

“He'll likely weasel out of talking to me too, of course. But if my story unsettles him, he may let something slip. And I really have to know, it's keeping me up at night.” She raised her hand to shut him up. “Don't worry, I'll be safe. I have you guys there. You said you tried everything. Think about it, zero risk, potential pay.”

Silence stretched, filled with the quiet hum of the neon light.

At last, Sheppard blew out a long breath. “I get you. But Woolsey's probably gonna slam the door in our faces.”

“Who's Woolsey?”

“The head honcho over there. Said he was FBI, but... It's a long story, I'll brief you if they agree to let you in. But I hope you're sure, Joan, because you're opening up a huge can of worms that can't be closed back.”

“Oh, I'm sure. And I'd say the can of worms, or rather aliens, is already open, isn't it?” she countered. “Look. It's not such a big deal. We don't need to do anything on the books. Just ask the guy to put me in the same room with this Todd character. Let’s see what happens.”

Sheppard rubbed his temple, muttering under his breath, then chuckled. “Believe me, it's a big deal. A very big deal. In any case, that's not how Woolsey operates.”

“Now you've made me even more curious,” she leaned forward on his desk, grinning.

“You don't scare easily, do you?” John grinned back.

“I scare plenty,” she said, shaking her head. “There's just so many things to be scared about. You gotta choose your poison, ya know?”

That earned her one of his sideways smiles. “You’re trouble.”

“You like trouble.”

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “God help me, I’ll talk to Woolsey. If I pitch it right, maybe he’ll see the value. Worst case, I’ll be stuck in another round of paperwork hell.”

Joan's nostrils flared and the corners of her mouth twitched. “That’s all I'm asking for.”

She turned for the door. His voice stopped her.

“Joan.”

“Yes, love?”

“Just... if we get there, be very, very careful. These things can be charming, but don't fall for it. One blink the wrong way, and they’ll remind you exactly what they are.”

*

To Sheppard's hung-over brain, Woolsey’s intimate office was brighter than it needed to be. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face while the other man finished scrawling something on a form.

Finally, Woolsey looked up. “You said this was urgent.”

“It is,” Sheppard said. “We’ve got a civilian who’s had direct contact with a Wraith and lived.”

Woolsey’s eyes widened and his pen stilled. “Go on...”

“She was driving back home late at night, came across a feeding in progress. By the time she reached the victim, the thing had already fed. It looked at her... and then it ran off.”

Woolsey blinked slowly. “Ran off?”

“Didn’t touch her. Didn’t finish the kill, just bolted. Now she’s rattled and wants answers. And you know what, I think Todd might talk to her. It's worth a shot, anyway.”

“Detective...” Woolsey’s voice held that familiar blend of exasperation and suspicion. “You want to bring a civilian into contact with our homicidal alien detainee because you think she’s special?”

“She could be,” Sheppard countered. “One had her dead to rights and walked away. That’s not nothing. You’ve sat in on the Todd sessions. You’ve heard the riddles, the non-answers. Maybe this woman shakes something loose, maybe Todd reacts differently to her than he does to me.”

Woolsey steepled his fingers. “Or maybe he reacts badly and we have another incident on our hands.”

“He'll be restrained, right?” Sheppard said evenly. “Keep things as controlled as possible. Don't give her access to the facility. Just the room. With guards. With me.”

Woolsey studied him over the rims of his glasses. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Sheppard sighed. “She's Paula's sister.” Woolsey's brows rose. “Look, I trust her. She’s smart and steady, a business owner, not some conspiracy nut who’ll run to the papers. And frankly,” John allowed himself a wry smile, “I like having someone I can actually talk to about what we’re dealing with. It's kinda lonely in here,” he said, tapping his temple.

“Ah,” Woolsey said dryly. “So this is part professional, part personal.”

“You think I’d risk bringing her into this if I didn’t believe it was worth it?” Sheppard leaned forward, bracing his hands on the chair. “We’re sitting on a prisoner who knows things we can’t get him to say. This woman might be the lever we need. You said your job was to mitigate risks. Well, here’s one worth taking.”

Woolsey’s gaze flickered, calculating. He tapped his pen against the desk.

“You may be right. Believe it or not, the fact that she's a woman may help, though we haven't had much luck with ours,” he said finally. “Limited access, supervised. One session. If the Wraith shows a flicker of aggression, she’s out. We'll check her and her business out beforehand. And if she so much as hints at breaching our security afterward, I will bury you both.”

Sheppard sighed. “Understood.”

As he left, Woolsey’s voice followed him. “If you develop a habit of bringing strays into this program, detective, one of these days it’s going to bite you.”

Sheppard turned to him with a crooked smile. “Story of my life.”

Chapter Text

The desert had scoured him down to bone and instinct.

For weeks, Dustveil had clung to survival the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. The crash had left him broken, though not beyond repair. He had fed and healed. The real wound was the silence. No Hivesense to shore him up, no Queen’s touch to soothe the raw edges of thought. Just the endless scrape of sand against skin, the sun burning like mockery, and hunger clawing at him.

He fed when he could. A traveller caught alone, a hiker who strayed too far, a drunkard who stopped where he shouldn't have... But in the blistering heat of the day and biting cold of the night, it was never enough. He was always hurried, hunted by the army of the humans. Always fearful, looking over his shoulder. Never getting the deep, satisfying feeding he got within the Hive’s embrace or in the comforting presence of a brother.

Then came the man by the highway. Dustveil had drunk greedily, desperately, until the more-than-scent reached him. Human, yet not human. Prey, yet not prey. Not-Hive, and yet... a thread of home woven through foreign cloth.

He did not know what it meant. It unsettled him greatly and instinct told him to flee, leaving the human clinging to his life.

But he could not let go. The imprint drew him back, across barren rock and sand, until he found himself circling the abode where it lingered like a beacon.

A Wraith. A brother lived. His Hive-mate Ashborn had found shelter, had compelled a worshipper to help him, and now he would not share her. Dustveil had to make him. Ashborn was strong, but Dustveil was desperate.

After his brother rebuked him, he stalked the house without getting too close again, tracing the woman’s comings and goings, learning her schedule, observing her defenses. She had no animals to protect her. Did not seem to have any traps laid or weapons outside. True, Ashborn was there, but he did not come out once. He could grab her before his brother could intervene, of that he was sure. And then maybe Ashborn would negotiate sharing his shelter, otherwise Dustveil would feed on his worshipper.

The hum of a motor took him out of his reverie. He saw the woman’s silver vehicle coming up the road. The night was clear, and in the still air, an animal called in the distance under the Earth’s bright, solitary moon.

The woman got out of the vehicle. She was small and slight, with a mane of dark hair, and was dressed in black. A short leather coat, leather trousers and boots. She circled to the back of the contraption and opened its hatch, then stopped and seemed to smell the air.

In a flash, he was upon her. But she turned around with unnatural speed and instead of the victory of capture, he felt terrible, painful lightning burning through his every nerve. He roared and his legs gave. He fell to his knees, shaking.

The door of the house slammed open and Ashborn flew out, and Dustveil thought that was the end of him. But the small woman raised a hand and his brother stopped in his tracks.

"Thank you, love," she said, smiling. "I got this."

Panting, Dustveil raised his eyes and saw his brother grinning, leaning against one of the pillars holding up the terrace.

"It seems that you do, my Queen," he laughed.

Stunned, Dustveil turned to the woman. She was holding a short yellow stick with a forked end in one hand and grabbed the short, white hair on his chin with the other, tilting his head up. Her small hand felt cool and soft against his skin.

"Ah, it’s you," she breathed in recognition. "Come to finish the job, you poor soul? How did you find me?"

Snarling, he threw his right hand up towards her exposed chest and his own chest exploded with pain again. Out of breath, heart fluttering wildly, he doubled over.

"Brother of yours?" the woman asked matter-of-factly, turning to Ashborn.

"Yes. Hive-mate," Ashborn growled.

"I see. He looks young. And very hungry."

"That is not our concern."

"He did attack me, I guess I should be mad at him. Then again, you all seem to do that," she laughed. "And he is your brother."

"We are not close, my Queen. Give him to me. I will rid you of him and his life will be well-spent."

What was this utter madness? Dustveil raised his eyes, disturbed and suddenly quite afraid.

"Brother…"

The woman grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, looking at him with fierce, blazing eyes.

"Look at me," she ordered and he felt her determination strike him like a hot wave. "We are done playing."

His sensory pits quivered, scenting her again. A shiver went down his spine and he hardened up, following an ancestral call he could not control. He heard Ashborn growling menacingly and a sudden yearning flared beneath his skin, terrible and breathless.

Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. She lowered her head and sniffed his neck, and he could scent her arousal growing. She kissed and bit at the crook of his neck, tasting the dust of the desert, the salt of his skin and the strange, metallic tang of his blood.

Ashborn stepped forward, snarling.

"No, my Queen..."

She turned her head to him and snarled viciously and Dustveil's head went slack in her grip. He felt hot and dizzy, every cell in his body screaming surrender.

"What's your name, dry silk that smells of desert and cinnamon?" she drawled low, like honey over his overcharged senses.

"I am called Dustveil," he whispered.

"Ah, so interesting," she laughed, looking at Ashborn. "He is white-hot with little embers burning."

Ashborn's mouth fell open. "Impossible," he muttered.

"What do you mean?" she asked dreamily, closing her eyes. "Don't worry, love," she laughed, "I still want you. On second thought, do worry. Your desire is sweet, and your jealousy is spicy. Sweet and spicy go well together. I like it very much."

She opened her eyes and looked at him, tilting her head. 

"Come here. Gift your brother."

Ashborn snarled low and recoiled. His fists balled up and he swallowed hard, but came down the stairs slowly. Joan opened Dustveil's coat and his hand clamped to his brother’s chest, fingers splayed over the sternum. Dustveil shivered.

"How much should I give him, my Queen?"

"Enough to sustain him until we find him something. He's weak, that will not do."

Dustveil gasped as the first pulse of energy passed between them, a ripple of strength threading into his starved body. His back arched and he groaned in pleasure, but too soon, Ashborn ripped his hand back, breathing hard. The younger Wraith sagged, but color had returned to his face.

"Wait here," the woman ordered. "If you dare hurt each other, it will be the last day you see."

She went into the house without looking back. The two Wraith hissed, thoughts clashing fiercely, but neither dared move until she came back out, holding a back box.

"Dustveil... By the way, what's his name?" she asked pointing at Ashborn. "He wouldn't tell me."

Dustveil laughed, a low, raspy, rich sound. His eyes glowed faintly, catching the porch light.

"He did tell you, or so it seems."

"Spell it out loud for me."

"He would be Ashborn in your tongue."

She closed her eyes and smiled, humming, and Ashborn's chest swelled with a strange pride. He felt... seen, deeply seen, and he was flooded with the Hivesense, the lifeblood of Wraith, that invisible matrix of connection that he had missed so badly since crashing in this foreign place.

"Dustveil," she spoke again. "Do you want to stay with us?"

"Yes, my Queen," the young Wraith spat breathlessly, unable to stop himself. Ashborn hissed warningly, and the woman licked her lips in satisfaction.

"My shelter comes with conditions. I reign here, do you understand?" She gave him a sharp, pressing look and he nodded. "Do you see the collar at Ashborn's throat?"

He nodded again.

"You must wear one as well. Do you know what it is?"

"No, my Queen. But I can guess."

"It's trust with teeth," she said, smiling. "If you obey, it's your pride. If you step out of line, it will hurt you. Do you still want it?"

"Yes, my Queen."

A strange, sob-like sound came out of Ashborn's throat and he grimaced in pain, shaking his head no. Joan went to him and pushed him to his knees, then ran her hand through his hair, holding him close and kissing the crown of his head. She pulled his head back and slowly, hotly, kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his sensory pits and finally his mouth, lingering and tasting his lips.

She straightened and looked at him with a warm smile, then let go and went to Dustveil, opening the box. He felt his pulse stutter as she pulled the collar out.

"We shall have a small Hive," she said, locking the collar around his neck. "That's best for all of us. We're stronger this way, and you both know it."

She ran her hands slowly through Dustveil's matted, dusty hair. 

"Come inside. You need a bath," she laughed and turned, leading the way.

Chapter Text

The water in the large tub ran brown almost immediately. Stripped to her tank top and lace boyshorts, Joan worked with quiet efficiency, her hands firm on Dustveil's scalp as the sprayer sluiced grime from his white hair.

Leaning against the door frame, Ashborn watched, seething.

If looks could kill, she thought, amused, and his scowl seemed to deepen.

Happy as a green clam, Dustveil leaned back in the hot water with his eyes closed, purring as Joan’s hands massaged his scalp and then descended to the rounded muscle of his shoulders, kneading and soaping his marbled skin.

Her right palm pressed against his chest and he jolted violently.

“Apologies. Sometimes I forget,” she purred in his ear with a grin. "Okay, that's done. Here's a sponge, here's the soap. Let's drain the filth and refill the tub, and I'll let you soak a little and scrub yourself. When you're done, the towel's over there."

Dustveil sighed as her hands left him and she leaned forward, kissing his forehead.

"My Queen, I am not proficient with human things... perhaps you can still assist me, show me how you want things done..."

That drew an easy laugh out of her and a menacing growl out of Ashborn.

"Well," Joan drawled, "I could watch you do it and offer direction."

Dustveil nodded eagerly.

"Or I could feed on his filthy, impudent hide, if that helps," Ashborn dutifully offered.

"How diligent of you, darling. But there's no need. You have the same tattoo on your arm and back, by the way, is that a Hive thing?"

"Yes, my Queen," the younger Wraith answered. "We are allowed to get it when we prove ourselves worthy in service to our Queen and Hive."

"So we should get a mark of our own, shouldn't we? I'll think about it," she laughed as both males perked up. "What was your job on the Hive, Dustveil?"

"I was, I am, a Blade, my Queen."

"Soldier."

"Pilot and fighter."

"Ah, like John," she mused with a smile, to the men's confusion. "So now I've got a maker of things and a defender. Stand up," she ordered, pulling the plug to drain the dirty water.

Dustveil rose in a fluid, elegant motion, standing in front of her in all his bare, chiselled glory. A small 'ah' escaped her and Ashborn snarled jealously behind her back.

"Are you all this... gifted?" she asked, licking her lips.

"Gifted, my Queen?"

"In the... male attributes department," she purred, circling the tub and running the tips of her fingers along his hips and small of his ridged back. His knees bucked and he grabbed the shower pipe to steady himself. Her breath hitched in response, eyes flashing in satisfaction.

"I think I compare... favourably to most," Dustveil purred, stretching.

"To most," came a growl from the doorway.

Joan burst out laughing and leaned forward to turn on the faucet. Two pairs of greedy yellow eyes followed the movement of her curvy form.

"I think you'll do just fine with the human things, love. Ashborn, bring a pair of your jeans, you seem about the same size as your brother."

Reluctant to leave her alone with the other male, Ashborn let out a small hiss, but a pointed look and a head gesture sent him in the direction of the bedroom. He came back almost immediately with the first pair of jeans he'd set eyes upon.

"When you're done, dry yourself and put these on. We'll be in the kitchen. The place with the human food," she laughed. "Come on, love, let's allow your brother his privacy."

"Forever, ideally," Ashborn growled and followed her.

*

The air crackled with electric tension as Joan made her way down the hallway. She could feel Ashborn’s gaze like a physical pressure between her shoulder blades, a silent, furious indictment. She didn't make it three steps into the kitchen before his hand closed around her upper arm. He spun her round and crowded her back against the cool refrigerator, his body a cage of taut muscle and simmering wrath.

"Gifted?" he hissed, the word a venomous echo of hers. His golden eyes bored into hers.

Joan leaned into his hold, grinding her hips against his. She moaned lewdly when she felt him hardening up.

"I am taking inventory of my assets, Shere Khan. It's what a good Queen does," she said with a sharp, unrepentant smile.

She brought a hand up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin, and snaked her way to his nape, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his head down for a kiss.

Moaning into her mouth, angry but unable to help himself, he snaked his hand around her waist and devoured her soft lips with desperate intensity.

"What are you doing to me," he snarled in frustration and kissed her again as she caressed up and down his spine, making him shiver.

Footsteps, hesitant and barefoot, padded down the hall.

Ashborn didn't move, holding Joan pinned, a deliberate display of possession for the newcomer.

Dustveil appeared in the kitchen doorway. The borrowed jeans were indeed a near-perfect fit, sitting low on his hips. His damp, white hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp planes of his face and elegant curve of his collared neck, now clean of desert grime. He looked from Ashborn's back to Joan's flushed face, peering over his shoulder.

He took a tentative step inside. "My Queen, the human clothes… they are… restrictive."

Joan laughed, pushing gently at Ashborn's chest. With a warning glare, he relented, stepping back just enough to give her space, but not enough to concede the field.

She looked Dustveil up and down, in a slow, appreciative sweep. "You'll get used to it. Or you'll learn to like the way it feels."

She moved past Ashborn, her shoulder brushing his, and went to the cupboard, taking out a bar of chocolate.

"Now," she said, tossing it onto the counter. "Let's see if our defender has a palate, or if he's going to be as picky an eater as our engineer."

The two Wraith stared at the package as if it were a live bomb, their personal war momentarily suspended in the face of this new, shared human absurdity.

"We do not..." Ashborn started.

"I remember, darling. But you can, do I remember correctly? It just doesn't nourish you? I want to get you accustomed to as many things as possible. In time, you'll understand."

With no further hesitation, Dustveil reached for the chocolate and ripped away the package and the foil, sticking it unceremoniously into his mouth. His eyes widened and his pupils flared, and a small surprised growl emitted from his throat.

Vexed, Ashborn reached for the food, but Dustveil pulled back with a snarl. Joan extended her hand towards him.

"Share."

He let go of the chocolate into her hand, smearing the melted piece over his lips and face, to Joan's great amusement. He licked his lips and wiped his face with his long fingers, sticking them greedily into his mouth.

"See? That's why," she said, breaking off a little piece and handing it to Ashborn, who promptly stuck it into his mouth, tossing his head back and closing his eyes.

"What is this delightful thing, my Queen?" Dustveil asked, eyeing the rest of the tablet. 

"We call it 'chocolate' and it's a very popular treat," she said, breaking off a small piece from the melted side and pushing it into Dustveil's mouth. "Suck it off my fingers. Don't bite, darling."

Closing his eyes, he did as instructed and sighed deeply as he sucked on her fingers. His hand snaked down between his legs and he adjusted himself.

Ashborn hissed and looked at her tilting his head, nostrils flaring, the very picture of 'wronged, hurt and betrayed'.

She pulled out her fingers from his brother's mouth, to his greedy dismay, and repeated the gesture with Ashborn.

Closing his eyes, he licked and sucked at her fingers as if they were ambrosia, catching her by the waist again and rubbing against her with his whole body, as if trying to work his scent into her very being and claim her as his own.

He released her fingers, but only to capture her mouth again, his kiss a branding iron of frantic need.

Dustveil watched with a low, thrumming purr, his confusion burned away by the raw, visual lesson in what was permitted. His golden eyes were fixed on the point where Ashborn’s body met Joan’s, his own hand still resting on the noticeable strain of his jeans. He was learning, and the lesson was setting him on fire.

Joan broke the kiss with a moan and placed a firm hand on Ashborn’s chest, pushing him back just enough to create a sliver of space.

“Enough.”

The single word cracked through the kitchen. Ashborn stilled, his body trembling with the effort, but he obeyed. His eyes, however, promised a reckoning.

Joan turned her head, her gaze locking with Dustveil’s. The air was thick with the smell of dark chocolate, Wraith pheromones, and human arousal.

“You see?” she said, her voice a husky drawl meant for both of them. “There are many kinds of hunger. And in my Hive, we learn to savour them all.”

She picked up the remainder of the chocolate bar, brought it to her own lips and took a small bite, tasting it with a moan, her eyes closing in pleasure.

“But a Queen cannot play favourites with her… treats,” she mused, opening her eyes. She placed the chocolate between them on the counter. “The rest is yours. Figure it out.”

She stepped back, leaning against the counter as if watching a particularly fascinating nature documentary.

For a heartbeat, the two Wraith were frozen, staring at the chocolate, then at each other. This was no longer about the food. It was a proxy war for the favour she had just dangled between them.

Ashborn moved first, his hand snapping out with efficient speed. But Dustveil was all instinct; he didn’t grab for the chocolate, he slapped his hand down over Ashborn’s, pinning it to the counter. A feral snarl ripped from his throat, the first real challenge he’d offered.

“Mine,” Dustveil growled, the word guttural and raw.

Ashborn’s face contorted in cold fury. “You have no concept of what is yours, you desert scavenger.”

Joan's calm voice cut through the air. 

"If you fight, the loser gets my favour."

Two stunned Wraith heads snapped towards her.

"This is not about who's in charge here. Who is the master and who is the underling. I am the mistress of this house. This is about coexistence and sharing."

"We do not share our food and do not share our Queen," Ashborn growled.

"Liar," Joan answered with a wry smile. "'She was but one, and we were many', isn't that what you said? That sounds like sharing to me. Dustveil, did your former Queen only keep one man?"

"No, she had many favourites," Dustveil grumbled under Ashborn's murderous gaze.

"And is that customary?"

"That is our way, my Queen."

"Your way, eh? And did she care for all of them?"

"I think she did, my Queen. But I cannot be sure."

"That's fair," Joan laughed. "Shere Khan, you have a habit of lying to me. Perhaps next time I should chain you to the foot of my bed and make you watch as Dustveil learns what it is like to lie with a Queen. What do you think?"

"I..." Ashborn's breath came in ragged gasps as his eyes drilled holes into his rival.

"Kneel," Joan ordered silkily. He closed his eyes and dropped and she took him into her arms, kissing the crown of his head.

"You are not being displaced, beloved. My feelings for you have not changed one bit. You are a gift and I shall cherish you as one. But you will not make my rules for me. Do you understand, my darling?"

A charged, heavy silence stretched between them for a moment.

"Yes, my Queen," Ashborn spoke.

“Good,” she said, caressing his hair. “Now that we’ve established that… Ashborn, show your brother the garage. Dustveil, try not to break anything more expensive than you are.”

She turned and walked out, leaving them in the charged silence, the taste of chocolate, arousal and rivalry still thick in the air.

Chapter Text

"Are you ready?" John asked in front of the heavy door.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," Joan sighed.

"Good. Try not to flirt with him."

"No promises."

"Yeah," he muttered, swiping his keycard, "that’s what I’m afraid of."

The lock hissed open.

Her heart was bucking in her chest like a purebred eager for the starting gun. Finally. Sheppard’s Wraith.

Behind the security glass, Todd was lounging in his chair, long legs stretched out, fingers steepled. His matted white hair was a stark shock against the grey jumpsuit and drab surroundings, his golden eyes gleaming with cynical amusement.

"You return to me again, John. One might think you have no one else to talk to."

"You’re my last resort, Todd. My therapist’s on vacation."

"Ah. Abandonment issues. Classic."

"Shouldn’t have gotten you that psychology manual."

"But it was fascinating. Such deviant diversity," the Wraith laughed. "And today you bring me another present. You should not have. Sadly, my larder is... metaphorical at the moment."

"She's a consultant, not a snack."

"Pity. The best consultants usually are."

Sheppard turned to Joan.

"This is our guest. He won’t tell us if he has a name. But we call him Todd," he grinned.

"‘Guest’ is a generous term for a man in chains, John. Perhaps ‘unwilling interior decorator’ is more accurate. The ambiance in here is largely my doing."

"Yeah, you really brought the place together," Sheppard deadpanned. "Especially the whole ‘indestructible glass’ motif. It’s very you."

"One strives for a cohesive theme," Todd rasped, his voice a dry, layered vibration. "Tell me, does your consultant have a name?"

"This is Joan," Sheppard said.

"Joan," Todd repeated, the theatrical laziness evaporating from his frame. He leaned forward, his sensory pits quivering. "A pleasure. You smell of... freedom. Of open air. A welcome change from the sterile fear in here."

Joan took a chair and sat in front of him, crossing her legs, hands resting in her lap.

"I prefer daring. And open air," she smiled.

"Naturally," Todd purred. "As would I," he said glancing at Sheppard. "You keep interesting company, John Sheppard."

Sheppard shifted. "Let's get down to business. We're here to discuss an incident. One of yours was feeding on a man and Joan interrupted him. He looked at her and fled. Why?"

Todd’s brow ridge rose in genuine curiosity. "Fled? How unorthodox." His golden eyes slid back to Joan. "What did you do to him?"

"I just stood there," Joan replied, shrugging.

"She just stood there," Sheppard echoed. "So, what’s the play? Did he malfunction?"

"John, we are not machinery. We are organic perfection. A finely tuned predator does not ‘malfunction’."

"Could’ve fooled me. This one’s fight-or-flight seemed to pick door number two."

The air stilled and, in the brief silence, Joan felt an ancient mind, vast and hungry, brushing curiously against the edges of her consciousness. Not an attack, but a gentle probe, a question asked in a language older than humanity.

And she answered.

She didn't know how, but she did. She opened a door, just a crack, and let a stream of sensations flood through: the cool silk of Ashborn's hair beneath her fingers as he leaned his head against her thigh; Dustveil's low, contented purr as she held his waist; the taste of chocolate; the profound rightness of a Hive that was, against all odds, a home.

Todd went perfectly still, the cynical amusement on his face replaced by an expression of intense, focused avarice. The gold of his eyes went black and his lips parted slightly. A low, resonant thrum, more vibration than sound, escaped his chest.

On the other side of the viewing glass, Woolsey frowned. "What the hell is happening?"

The Wraith slowly reclined again, composure coiling back around him. He looked from Sheppard to Joan and back again, the ghost of a real, uncalculated smile touching his lips.

"Even the most efficient system falters before a substance it has never encountered. That does not mean that the system is flawed, only that the substance is unprecedented."

Sheppard shifted uncomfortably. "Let's not start again with the riddles, Todd."

"I do not speak in riddles, John, I speak in ecosystems. A single bee is a buzzing, pointless thing. But a hive has a purpose. A queen. A structure. Tell me, Joan," he purred. "Do you enjoy keeping bees?"

Joan's eyes narrowed. "Only the vicious kind, Commander. They give the sweetest honey."

A flicker of sharp teeth. Amusement, admiration, hunger.

"Fascinating," Todd breathed. "You asked me once, John, if my kind knew anything but hunger. You know better now, do you not? We are not so different. We all hunger. For purpose. For a place in the order of things."

His gaze returned to Joan.

"It seems that you have built a garden in the desert, Queen of the Open Air. A good place for bees."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a tender multi-tonal whisper. "And I… have always been an excellent gardener."

Staring into the Wraith's shining eyes, Joan rose and placed her left hand flat against the glass. Fluidly, Todd rose as well and mirrored her, his own larger, marbled hand aligning with hers on the other side, only the transparent barrier between them. Tilting her head, fixing him with her dark gaze, she smiled. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back and exposing his neck.

A loud, sharp click came from the intercom. "That’s enough," Woolsey’s crisp voice filled the room. "This session is over. Detective Sheppard, Ms. Grajewski, please step out."

Todd turned to John and gave him a serene, unnerving, toothy smile.

"Give my regards to the desert, John. It is buzzing. So many secrets yet to bloom."

Chapter Text

"What on Earth has happened here?" Joan asked rubbing her forehead and looking at her wrecked living room.

Her favorite lamp lay on its side, its cord torn out of the wall like a pulled vein. The socket was hanging out. Books and paperweights littered the floor. The little coffee table had been split down the middle and the couch cushions were ripped to shreds.

"Just a sparring match, my Queen," Dustveil purred, far too smoothly. His voice still carried the edge of a growl. "We were feeling restless."

"Yes, sparring," Ashborn rasped. "You need not concern yourself."

Her gaze drifted from one to the other. No wounds, not a drop of blood, just torn shirts, tense shoulders and the kind of stillness predators have right after they’ve stopped themselves from killing each other.

"Well," she murmured, "I think you'll be interested to know what I've been doing."

She closed her eyes and tried to feel them again as she had on the night of Dustveil’s arrival. She relaxed and felt a jolt of pleasure as a quivering mesh of electricity enveloped her brain like the moving waves of a warm, living sea.

Without looking, she could suddenly tell where each of them was in the room. Ashborn, white hearth with small burning embers, smelling of warm wood and sage. Dustveil, warm, tan silk, spiced with cinnamon.

She tried to recall what she'd done in front of Todd. She opened a door in her mind, and through it she let bloom the image of the ancient Commander, hand pressed against hers through glass, eyes closed, throat bared in silent surrender.

Both Wraith felt it at once. The cold slick of glass against the palm. The sudden quiet of a millennia-old mind bowing, even for a heartbeat. And most potently, they felt her emotion: the sweet, dark wine of victory, the possessive warmth of a Queen securing a prize beyond measure.

Dustveil gasped as if struck, staggering back a step, pupils flared to black pits. The Commander is alive. He has seen her, bowed to her. A low, wounded sound escaped him, part awe and relief, part sharp, unexpected jealousy. He looked from the destroyed room to her, earlier quarrels now seeming childish and pointless in the face of this.

A growl tore from Ashborn’s throat. He lunged into the empty space between them, his body a coil of incandescent fury. His feeding hand twitched spasmodically.

"He touched you, the snake!" The words were a raw, psychic roar as much as a physical one. The image of Todd's hand aligned with hers was a brand on his mind. The jealousy he'd been nursing for Dustveil was a candle flame compared to this forest fire.

"This was your 'meeting'?" he hissed. "You went to him! You let Guide mark you with his obeisance!"

The "sparring match" made sense now: a violent, desperate outlet for the mental storm they had felt brewing. They'd torn their territory apart in a primal response.

"Kneel, both of you. Now," she thundered, and both men dropped instantly, without thinking. "You will be making obeisance to me. And I will show you how to do it. Stay there and do not move one muscle."

She went down to the cellar and returned a minute later, with a thick length of chain and four manacles.

She threw them between the two men.

"You will cut the chain into four equal lengths, weld the cuffs on, and affix these to the posters of my bed. Sturdily. If there is any chance of them giving, I will punish you severely. Tools are in the garage. Cutter, welder, coolant, whatever you need. You have one hour and not a minute more."

For the next thirty minutes, the only sounds in Joan's house were the brutal, industrial noises of their punishment. The shriek of a metal cutter biting through thick chain. The hiss and blinding flash of the arc welder as Ashborn, a picture of cold, focused fury, fused the heavy manacles to the wrought-iron posts of her bed. Dustveil worked with him, his movements efficient and sharp, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

They didn't speak, but the air between them was thick with a storm of emotions they dared not project at her. Burning proprietary rage. Simmering competitive anxiety. And every spark from the welder was a spark of their own defiance being hammered into submission.

When it was done, four lengths of chain hung from the bedposts, each terminated by an open, gleaming manacle.

Joan came in carrying a black bag. She inspected their work, humming approvingly, then took out two white candles, put them on the nightstand and lit them up.

"Stand by the bed," she ordered.

They obeyed, flanking the foot of the bed like two white-haired statues of wrathful angels.

"Undress."

Two pairs of golden eyes went wide in both fear and anticipation.

Ashborn’s nostrils flared, his breath hitching, and his hands trembled ever so slightly as he discarded his torn clothes. It had been days since he was last with her and his body called with physical need. He stood in front of her bare, a statue of green marble, already hard, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up. Yet unbroken to a Queen, but no less eager, Dustveil threw off his clothes and stood too, tilting his head like a questioning big cat.

"Ashborn, lie down on the bed, face up," she ordered, and the man obeyed. "Dustveil, shackle him." Dustveil moved with quiet efficiency, securing his brother and rival to her bedposts and licking his lips in anticipation.

"If he gets out of those, I will shock you both until your hearts stop beating," she growled. "Will he?"

"No, my Queen, he will not," Dustveil answered, looking at her, one knee on the bed next to his brother’s restrained form. In defiance, Ashborn struggled, pulling at the restraints until he was a sweating, panting mass of corded muscle. Grinning, Dustveil ran a gentle hand over his brothers taut abdomen and muscled thigh and back toward his straining cock, and Ashborn squirmed with a small hiss.

"Ah, so he's like a bucking stallion with everybody," Joan laughed. "Dustveil, get your hands off your brother and kneel by the side of the bed until you're called," she said, taking off her skirt and discarding her shirt to reveal a transparent black lace bra.

Lips parted and sensory pits quivering, fixing her with his gaze like a lion hunting a gazelle, Dustveil knelt as Joan straddled Ashborn with a wicked grin.

She leaned down, tracing the smooth, hard planes of his muscles with her nails and the pads of her fingers and teasing his pebbled nipples with her wet tongue, making him shiver.

Her gaze traveled up and down his body like a predator savoring its meal, and she licked her lower lip before her tongue circled the weeping crown of his cock with deliberate, torturous slowness. Ashborn arched off the bed, moaning with the new sensation, and she smiled, taking him into the wet, consuming heat of her mouth. He gave a guttural, broken cry and pushed his hips up and she swallowed him, working him over with the muscles of her throat. He grabbed the chains and pushed his head into the pillow, sighing and moaning in utter bliss, but too soon, she released him! A growl of frustration broke from his chest and he cussed, writhing, amid the rustle of sheets and the sharp clink of chains.

"Your brother is going to lose his mind," Joan laughed darkly to Dustveil. He watched, rapt, his own need a palpable force in the room, his hard length gleaming wet in the low light. "You will soon see why the restraints were necessary. I like to play with my males until not much reason remains in their addled brains."

Dustveil gave a strangled moan, crouching forward and gripping his thighs.

"You may touch yourself if you need to," she purred with a smile. "But do not release, or I will sever that beautiful, treacherous thing from your body."

His hands flew to the small of his back. "No, my Queen," he rasped. "I am yours."

She leaned her head back with a small cry of delight and turned back to Ashborn, who'd started growling jealously when he lost her attention.

"No," she said sharply and slapped his cock. He jerked and buried his face in the pillow with a muffled curse. She did it again, over and over, in a quick, staccato rhythm that left his skin tingling. Chuckling, she traced the angry marks with a cool fingernail before taking him back into her mouth, sucking wetly and swallowing him again.

When she felt him tremble she released him and he groaned desperately, thrashing from side to side. She reached for the nightstand, taking out a small bottle. She oiled her hands and began to tease him with deft fingers and palms as he bucked into her hands, his control unraveling with every slick, twisting stroke.

He tensed and shivered and she let go again, leaving him achingly empty, and took a candle from the nightstand. Leaning over him, she tilted it, letting the hot wax drip in slow trails over his heaving chest and belly. He gasped at the sudden, sharp pain-pleasure, his body trembling like a plucked bowstring while her other hand continued its slow, maddening work on his hardness.

A fine vibration began again within his cock and she stopped instantly, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "No, no, no," she cooed, "not yet, my darling."

Snarling, Ashborn strained against his bonds and she laughed, placing a feather-light, taunting kiss on his tip.

Dustveil whimpered, panting, trembling, his eyes dilated into pools of black need. She eyed him with an inviting smile and crooked a finger, calling him over to the bed.

"Get behind me," she commanded, and he was moving before the words had fully left her mouth. She pushed her lace panties aside, the scent of her own arousal blooming stronger between them, and reached back to guide him to her sopping entrance, impaling herself on his length with a single, fluid motion.

"Fuck me, beautiful man," she breathed over her shoulder, touching herself and shivering in pleasure. He gripped her hips, his claws pricking her skin, and drove into her, crying out as a pleasure so deep it bordered on pain washed through him. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, her scent, the tight, wet heat of her. He thrust like a man possessed, his reason incinerated in the furnace of his need.

Ashborn roared, yanking frantically at the chains, the metal biting into his wrists and ankles. His sensory pits flared, drinking in the scent of their joining, and his eyes flashed with a mad, possessive light. But his primal brain, connected through the fledgling Hivesense, felt his brother's pleasure, bathed in it... and to his horror, found it didn't want the feeling to stop. Belonging and jealousy waged a war within him, and in that moment, he damned and blessed the Hivesense at the same time, unleashing a string of curses, threats and pleas in a liquid, raspy tongue.

Touched, Joan moaned and shivered, throwing her head back and crying out in rapture. Her inner muscles gripped Dustveil's cock, milking him, driving him over the edge and he shook with a broken, ecstatic shout and slumped over her back, his lips finding the space between her shoulder blades in a final, worshiping kiss.

"You filthy serpent, I will skin you alive!" Ashborn spat, thrashing like a beast in a trap while his brother lay spent, a dazed, delirious grin on his face.

Breathing hard, Joan reached for her bag and drew out a large knife with a curved, dangerously sharp blade. She pressed her free hand on his chest and held it to his throat, a low growl rumbling in her own, and he stilled like a deer in the headlights, his gaze locked with hers. Smiling, she brought her oil-slick hand down and wrapped it around his cock again. His anger fractured and melted, replaced by a desperate, pleading hunger and he began to moan, a continuous, passionate litany, thrusting into her soft, knowing hand. She felt the inevitable, building vibration deep in his core and took her hand away.

"No," he sobbed. "No, my Queen, please, I cannot... I beg of you, let me finish! Have mercy!"

She dragged the knife down his chest, scraping away the wax to reveal the unmarked skin. Biting her lip, she started to draw fine, twisting lines on his chest and leaned forward, licking the beading dark blood before the cuts could close. She moaned with wicked satisfaction and let her fingers brush again, feather-light and utterly maddening, over the tip of his cock.

"Please, my Queen," he whispered, his voice hoarse with strain, "I break for you... Please..."

"Who do you belong to?" she purred.

"You, my Queen!" he breathed, throwing his head back.

"Whose is this gorgeous body?"

"Yours!"

"Whose is this warrior's heart?"

"Yours, you have conquered it!"

"Whose is this splendid, desperate cock?"

"It is your property, your plaything! Yours!" he moaned, his body bowing off the bed.

"Oh, my God, you're incredible, you're so fucking hot," she moaned, her own control fraying, and sheathed him inside her in one smooth, claiming motion. Dropping the knife, she leaned forward, her hips setting a fierce, consuming rhythm. She drove her teeth into the crook of his neck, shaking in bliss again, and he shouted, a raw, unraveling sound of pure rapture, arching beneath her as he poured himself into her, his body shaking with the violence of his release.

She took him in her arms and for a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths mingling in the air. The tension that had held him like a bowstring vanished, and he went utterly boneless beneath her, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping his lips. She relaxed into a slow, intimate rock as she felt the last of his tremors subside and pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the slowly vanishing mark she had left on his neck.

In the charged silence, Ashborn's head lolled to the side and his eyes, hazy with spent passion, met Dustveil's over Joan's shoulder. No words passed between them, but the furious rivalry was gone, replaced by a dazed, mutual understanding forged in pain and pleasure.

The shrill, uncompromising ring of her phone shattered the silence. She reached for it. Sheppard.

Chapter Text

TO: [REDACTED], Deputy Director
FROM: Richard Woolsey, Site Director, Project GOLIATH
SUBJECT: URGENT - Anomalous Behavior During Interrogation of Subject 7461 ("Todd") & Security Assessment of Civilian Consultant Joan Grajewski
CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY - LEVEL 10

1. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY:
   The scheduled interrogation of Subject 7461 on 10-13-2025, involving Detective John Sheppard and civilian consultant Ms. Joan Grajewski, was terminated prematurely due to an unprecedented and concerning series of interactions between the subject and the civilian. The encounter demonstrated a non-verbal, ritualized communication and a radical shift in the subject's behavior, indicating a severe and immediate security breach. The civilian, Ms. Grajewski, is now assessed as a high-level security risk and a potential active asset of an unknown Wraith element.
2. KEY OBSERVATIONS:

• 2.1 Anomalous Non-Verbal Coordination:
  At 14:32, Ms. Grajewski initiated unsanctioned physical contact with the containment barrier. Subject 7461's response was immediate and specific: he mirrored her gesture, aligning his hand with hers on the opposite side of the glass. This was followed by a clear gesture of submission (cranial tilt, neck exposure, eye closure) directed solely at the civilian. This sequence bears all the hallmarks of a ritualized cultural exchange, the meaning of which is currently unknown but clearly significant to both parties.
• 2.2 Aberrant Physiological & Behavioral Response of Subject 7461:
  Prior to the physical interaction, the subject exhibited a marked physiological response to Ms. Grajewski's presence, including acute pupillary dilation and a low-frequency vocalization. His demeanor shifted from standard operant manipulation to a state of intense, focused engagement with the civilian. His subsequent verbal references to "bees," "queens," and "gardens" further contextualize the interaction within a previously unknown Wraith social hierarchy, with Ms. Grajewski placed at its apex.
• 2.3 Civilian Composure and Complicity:
  Ms. Grajewski displayed no surprise or alarm at the subject's extreme behavioral shift. Her composure was consistent with an individual who either expected this reaction or possesses an innate understanding of Wraith dominance dynamics. Her final statement to the subject, "Only the vicious kind, Commander. They give the sweetest honey", confirms her active and willing participation in this coded exchange.

3. SECURITY ASSESSMENT & CONCLUSIONS:

• 3.1 Assessment of Ms. Grajewski:
  It is the assessment of this department that Ms. Grajewski is not a neutral consultant. She is either a witting or unwitting participant in a complex interspecies dynamic. Her ability to elicit immediate, profound submission from a high-value Wraith asset suggests she represents a power center we were previously unaware of. Her prior claim of a Wraith "fleeing" from her is now viewed not as a lucky escape, but as further evidence of her unique and dangerous status.
• 3.2 Implication of a "Hive" on US Soil:
  Subject 7461's statement, "It is buzzing. So many secrets yet to bloom," strongly suggests that there are more Wraith at large that the one we know Ms. Grajewski interacted with, and implies an active, organized presence.

4. RECOMMENDED ACTIONS:

1. Immediate: Subject 7461 is to be placed on full communications lockdown. All non-essential contact is suspended. Physiological monitoring is to be increased to 24/7.
2. Immediate: Initiate 24/7 surveillance of Ms. Joan Grajewski. All her financial data, digital and personal communications are to be monitored.
3. Investigative: Detective Sheppard's judgment is deemed compromised. He is to be temporarily reassigned away from Project GOLIATH and debriefed regarding the full nature of his relationship with Ms. Grajewski.
4. Strategic: We must operate under the assumption that a hostile, non-terrestrial power structure is being established within our jurisdiction. We are no longer simply containing a prisoner; we are facing an incursion.

R Woolsey

Chapter Text

Richard Woolsey saved the security memo to an encrypted draft folder, a sense of profound disquiet settling in his gut. He had just outlined the greatest national security threat of his career and was about to reach for the secure line to his superior when a soft, insistent chime echoed from his office door.

No one was scheduled.

"Enter," he said, his voice tighter than he intended.

The door slid open to reveal two men in impeccably tailored, dark suits. They moved with a quiet, bureaucratic lethality that was more intimidating than any soldier's swagger. The taller one, a man with silver-flecked hair and sky-blue eyes, offered a thin, humorless smile.

"Mr. Woolsey. I'm Agent Harper. This is Agent Miles. We're with Special Projects." He didn't specify which branch. He didn't need to. The phrase 'Special Projects' was a ghost, a euphemism for the blackest of black budgets, the kind that answered to committees Woolsey wasn't cleared to know existed. The NID had stuck its venomous tail in his business.

"Gentlemen," Woolsey said, not rising from his chair. "To what do I owe the... pleasure?"

Harper placed a slim, sealed folio on Woolsey's desk. "We're here to facilitate a transfer. Subject 7461. His continued containment here has been deemed a security risk and a misallocation of resources."

Woolsey's blood ran cold. He kept his face a mask of neutral professionalism. "I was not informed of any review. And this facility is uniquely equipped to handle a being of his nature."

"Your facility is for observation and passive study," Miles spoke for the first time, his voice a low monotone. "The directive," he nodded at the folio, "is for active, in-depth examination. The scientific potential is immense."

Woolsey didn't need to open the folio to understand. In-depth examination. He'd seen the preliminary proposals that crossed his desk, the ones he'd immediately red-stamped and buried. Proposals for sustained tissue regeneration studies under duress. Neural mapping via direct cortical stimulation. Vivisection. They were going to take Todd apart to see how he worked.

"My latest report," Woolsey said, tapping his computer screen, "details a critical, ongoing intelligence operation centered on this subject. Transferring him now would catastrophically compromise..."

"The decision is final," Harper said smoothly. "The subject's unique biology is considered a higher-priority asset than any research you may be conducting here. You can't weaponize riddles, Mr. Woolsey. But you can weaponize the secrets of his cellular structure."

The two men stood, waiting. The silence stretched, filled with the unspoken threat of their authority.

Woolsey looked from their impassive faces to the secure line on his desk. He could call his superior, but he knew with a sickening certainty whose side they would take. The 'scientific potential' was too alluring, the fear of the unknown too great.

He thought of Todd in that room. The intelligence, the wit, the sheer, ancient personhood in those golden eyes. He thought of the ritual with Joan, a moment of terrifying, alien beauty. To reduce that to a collection of dissected organs on a slab was not just a crime; it was a desecration.

And in that moment, Richard Woolsey, the consummate bureaucrat, the man who lived and died by the rulebook, made a decision.

The rulebook was about to be set on fire.

He gave a curt, tight nod. "I understand. The transfer paperwork will, of course, need to be processed through the proper channels. It will take me until morning to assemble the requisite files and prepare the subject for transport."

Harper's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We'll be back at 0800. Have everything ready, Mr. Woolsey."

The moment the door hissed shut behind them, Woolsey's demeanor shattered. His hand trembled slightly as he opened his draft folder. He didn't send the report. Instead, he encrypted it with a personal key, stashing it in a digital dead drop.

He then opened a new, blank document. His mind was no longer on reports or protocols. It was on timetables, security blind spots, and the one deeply unstable, deeply loyal detective he could no longer afford to keep in the dark.

He picked up the secure line and dialed Sheppard's private number.

"John," he said, his voice low and urgent the moment the call connected. "We have a problem. A terminal one. We need to talk. Now."

Chapter Text

Sheppard leaned against his Mustang, arms crossed, as Woolsey's sedan pulled into the concrete wasteland of the deserted parking lot. The director got out, his usual crisp composure frayed.

"Woolsey. You said terminal."

"It is." Woolsey's voice was tight. "Eight o'clock tomorrow morning, a team from Special Projects is taking Todd. Their 'examination' involves scalpels. Permanently."

Sheppard's casual slouch vanished. "You can't stop it?"

"Not through channels. I will not be the custodian of a war crime, John. But I also cannot be responsible for unleashing that... thing on the city."

"So we're between a rock and a hard place," Sheppard summarized. "We can't let them have him, and we can't let him go."

"Precisely. Which leaves one, close to unthinkable option." Woolsey met his gaze. "We have to give him to someone we can keep an eye on, someone who would be able to control him."

Sheppard's eyes narrowed. "Joan."

"You saw the way Todd reacted to her. The other one fled from her. You were right, that woman is not your average bear." His voice trembled. "If what we witnessed is real, then with her, he is not in a lab, and he is not hunting on the Strip. He could still be contained."

"She's not a zookeeper, Woolsey."

"No. But she is, apparently, a Wraith-whisperer." Woolsey took a step closer. "You said you trusted her. Now I need you to stake national security on it. Can she handle him? Detective, I am staking my hard-won career on you and this woman."

Sheppard thought of the ritual in the interrogation room. The way Todd, a millennia-old Commander, had bared his neck to her. He thought of Joan's unshakable calm, and the cold knot of suspicion about the white-haired killer tightened in his stomach. He was either saving the day or building a monster.

"Yeah," he said with a short pat on Woolsey's shoulder. "I think we can trust her. I think she can handle him. I'll stay involved and we'll keep you in the loop."

Woolsey gave a single, sharp nod. The decision was made.

"Then call her," Woolsey said. "We have less than twelve hours. Tell her... the gardener needs a new home. And he needs to find it before the landscapers arrive with shears."

*

Sheppard waited until Woolsey's taillights disappeared before pulling out his phone. He leaned back against the still warm engine of his car, took a deep breath, and dialed.

"John." She sounded breathless, but warm and calm, as usual. "Is everything alright? What do you need?"

"Everything's fine." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "We just have a little situation. The... gardener. The people who own the greenhouse have decided he's more valuable as compost. They're sending a team with shears at 0800."

There was a beat of silence on the other end. When she spoke, her voice had lost its casual warmth, replaced by a focused, razor-sharp intensity.

"I see. That's a shameful waste of a rare specimen."

"That's what we thought." We. He'd just included himself in her conspiracy. "The head groundskeeper agrees. We need to relocate him. Tonight. We were wondering if... your garden had the space. And the security."

Another pause, shorter this time. He could almost hear her mind working, calculating.

"My garden is always prepared to receive what you bring, John," she said, her tone smooth and assured, all business. "But transplanting a mature tree like that is delicate. It requires the right equipment and precise timing. We'll need adequate transport, and we'll need the head groundskeeper to ensure safe passage."

"Understood." A plan was forming in the space between her words. "What else?"

"I'll text you coordinates. Be there at 4 a.m. Bring the gardener. I'll handle the rest."

"Joan..." Sheppard hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. "This one... he's different. I've got a feeling I don't even know the half of it, but he will be a handful. You understand that, right? We'll help, but this isn't a stray. This is a Rottweiler."

On the other end of the line, in her bedroom overlooking the desert, gently stroking a mane of white hair, Joan Grajewski smiled a slow, dark, triumphant smile.

"We'll make it work, John," she purred. "Now stop worrying and get me my gardener."

Chapter Text

The digital clock on the reinforced console glowed 03:25 in the sterile, subterranean atmosphere of the facility. The only sounds were the hum of servers and the soft, anxious tap of Rodney McKay’s fingers against a keyboard.

“This is insane,” McKay muttered, not for the first time. “This is the kind of insane that gets you a dedicated footnote in the ‘How Not To Run a Secret Base’ handbook. Which, incidentally, I should write, because the examples are piling up at an alarming rate.”

“Relax, Rodney,” Sheppard said, leaning against the wall with a feigned casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. He was watching Woolsey, who stood ramrod straight before the main monitoring station, his face a pale, tense mask. “We’re just facilitating a transfer. To a… more suitable location.”

“Suitable, my ass. A location that happens to be a civilian’s house in the middle of the desert!” McKay hissed, lowering his voice. “A civilian who, according to your own heavily redacted report, gives a millennia-old Wraith war commander the equivalent of psychic puppy-dog eyes! For all we know, she’s going to feed us to him as a housewarming present!”

“She won’t,” Sheppard said, surprised by the certainty in his own voice.

Woolsey finally moved, his voice clipped and quiet. “The NID transport is scheduled for 0800. Their override codes are already in the system. Our window is now. Dr. McKay, the security loop.”

“Almost... there...” McKay typed a furious sequence. “And... done. For the next twenty-three minutes, the cameras in Sector Gamma will be showing a lovely, uneventful recording of Subject 7461 meditating. Or brooding. It’s hard to tell with the bony brow.” He swiveled in his chair. “Jennifer? The sedative.”

Dr. Jennifer Keller stepped forward, holding a high-pressure hypospray. She looked pale but determined. “It’s a concentrated neuro-inhibitor based on the Wraith enzyme. It should keep him docile for transport. In theory.”

“’In theory’ is the motto of this entire operation,” McKay grumbled.

“Let’s go,” Woolsey said, his jaw tight. He led the way, his footsteps echoing with a grim finality in the empty corridor.

The door to Todd’s cell hissed open. The Wraith was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t lounging or feigning nonchalance today. He was perfectly still, his golden eyes taking in the unlikely quartet: the bureaucrat, the detective, the scientist, and the doctor. His sensory pits flared, tasting the cocktail of fear, resolve, and concern in the air.

“An unscheduled visit,” Todd rasped, a little alarmed. “And so early. To what do I owe the honour?”

“We’re moving you,” Sheppard said, his hand resting on his holstered sidearm. “There’s been a change of management.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Todd’s face. It was not a pleasant sight. “I see. The Queen’s influence reaches far indeed.”

“Nobody’s influencing anything,” Sheppard snapped, though the word ‘Queen’ sent a cold jolt down his spine. “This is a tactical relocation. Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. Your choice.”

Todd’s eyes flickered to the hypospray in Keller’s hand. “The ‘easy way’ involves being rendered helpless by your chemicals. The ‘hard way’ involves you attempting to force me, which would end... messily.” He tilted his head, the picture of serene analysis. “I believe I shall choose a third way.”

He slowly, deliberately, brought his hands together in front of him, wrists touching.

“I will come with you,” he said, his gaze locking with Sheppard’s. “Willingly. There will be no need for your infantile tranquilizers.”

McKay blinked. “He’s just going to come? Willingly? That’s a trap. That is a classic, textbook ‘lure you into a false sense of security’ trap.”

“What are your terms?” Woolsey asked, his voice tight.

“Terms?” Todd chuckled. “I am in no position to set terms. I am merely accepting the inevitable. And I am eager to meet my new recipient.”

He took a smooth step forward. Sheppard and Keller tensed, but Todd simply stood, waiting, his hands still offered for restraints.

“We don’t have time to argue,” Sheppard said, pulling a set of heavy, magnetic cuffs from his belt.

“Indeed, you do not,” Todd agreed amiably, as Sheppard secured the cuffs. The Wraith didn’t so much as flinch as the locks clicked shut. He simply looked down at them, then back up at Sheppard, his smile widening a fraction. “Adequate.”

The journey through the silent, pre-dawn facility was a study in surreal tension. Todd walked between them, not as a prisoner, but as a guest being escorted to a much-anticipated event. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace that made the sterile hallways feel like a jungle path.

“The car is just outside the service bay,” Woolsey murmured, swiping a blank keycard at a final, secured door. “McKay, the external sensors.”

“Already looping. You have a seven-minute window before the patrol passes this sector.”

*

Sheppard pulled the unmarked van onto the gravel shoulder at the coordinates Joan had sent him. The place was deserted, nothing but cracked asphalt, sagebrush, and the vast, star-dusted sky that was lightening to a deep indigo, painting the desert in shades of grey and purple.

Except for a vehicle that was already waiting. A heavy-duty, custom-built animal transport van, its silhouette stark against the landscape. A small, slender woman was leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed. She was dressed in dark, practical clothes, her expression unreadable in the gloom.

Sheppard pulled up beside her and killed the engine. He got out, his hand resting on his sidearm. “Joan. Your ‘package’ is delivered.”

“Thank you, John,” she replied casually, as if he’d brought her a pizza. She pushed off the van and approached them, her eyes never leaving Todd, who had also exited the car and now stood beside it, waiting.

She stopped in front of Todd and held up a metallic collar.

“This is going around your neck,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for discussion. “It will hurt if you disobey. Do you understand?”

Todd looked from the collar to her face, his golden eyes gleaming with something that looked unnervingly like approval. “I understand.”

“Kneel.”

Todd dropped to his knees and Sheppard watched, his mind recoiling at the surreal normalcy of it. Joan closed the collar around Todd's neck and he shuddered as the device seated against his skin, a faint, almost imperceptible hum of power emanating from it. But he didn’t look pained. He looked... settled.

Joan turned and walked to the back of her truck. She unlocked and swung open the heavy rear door. The interior was a stark, professional tiger cage: reinforced steel bars, a bare floor, a water drip-system.

She beckoned Todd over and he rose smoothly and walked to the truck. He paused at the threshold, casting a final, unreadable look at Sheppard, a mix of amusement and ancient patience, then ducked inside.

Joan slammed the door shut and locked it with a solid, definitive thunk.

She turned back to Sheppard, pocketing the cuff key and the remote.

“There. It’s handled,” she said, her voice soft but firm. A smile curved her lips. “You can go, John. Good luck, dude. You owe me one.”

She got into the van, started the engine, and executed a smooth, three-point turn on the empty road.

Sheppard stood there long after the taillights vanished, the image of the most dangerous creature he'd ever encountered kneeling in the dust for his sister-in-law, and willingly walking into a cage, burned into his mind.

He'd gotten what he wanted. He just couldn't shake the feeling that he was part of a play where only he didn't know his lines.

Chapter Text

Joan returned just before sunrise with her unusual cargo. She parked close to the door and unlocked the van.

"Come, Commander," she said, smiling at the white-haired, fierce-looking old lion as he got out. "Please hold out your hands."

She unlocked the cuffs and turned, leading the way and opening the door.

"Welcome to my Hive," she said simply.

"My Queen," he rasped with a small bow and followed her inside.

Ashborn and Dustveil were waiting, tense like two coiled springs.

"Commander..." Ashborn greeted coolly.

"We are thankful you live," Dustveil bowed.

Closing his eyes, Guide let the fledgling Hivesense wash over him with an unguarded sigh of pleasure and relief. Finally! Perhaps new tortures were to come, but that particular one was over, for now.

"Ashborn, show our guest to his room," Joan said, then turned to Guide. "You'll find clean clothes on the bed. Sadly, I've just ran short of Wraith uniforms, so we'll have to make do with jeans and t-shirts. Ashborn will show you where and how you can take a bath, you look like you could use one. Come downstairs when you're done."

Half a human hour later, clean, dressed in the simple black clothes Joan had provided, Guide stepped into the kitchen, a study in reclaimed dignity.

The morning light streamed in, painting the tile floor in warm gold, and the kitchen smelled of fragrant tea, cocoa and the subtle musk of Wraith. Steam curled from a mug in Joan’s hand. At the stove, Ashborn stirred a pot of hot chocolate. Dustveil, perched on a counter, meticulously peeled an orange, his claws making precise, surgical incisions.

Guide's eyes swept the room, lingering on the orange peel coiling from Dustveil’s fingers, on Ashborn stirring the pot, on the strange creature at ease in her home.

"Please, take a seat," Joan offered with her usual warm smile. "There's oolong tea on the counter, if you want some. And Ashborn is making something that I highly advise you to try. For the taste."

He moved to the table and sat, the chair groaning softly under his weight.

Joan took a slow sip of her tea and closed her eyes, and the Hivesense was flooded with a fragrant aroma. 

Guide’s gaze pressed with a physical weight, first on Ashborn’s back, then on Dustveil. Ashborn didn't turn from the stove, but he stiffened, sensory pits quivering. Dustveil’s claws stilled.

"A Blade, peeling fruit. An Engineer, playing cook." Guide’s voice was an amused, layered rasp. "How the mighty have... adapted."

Joan laughed. "Yes, they are men of many talents. And one does not preclude another. Ashborn, how's that sensor array coming along?"

"Very well, my Queen," he said, turning slightly towards her. "I will have the schematics ready for you tonight."

"Have you thought out your new schedule, Dustveil? Have you familiarized yourself with 'the Google Maps'?"

"Yes, my Queen," Dustveil laughed. "It was not a 'big deal'."

"Good," she said, rising. "I have work to do. I leave our esteemed guest in your capable hands."

*

The engine's rumble faded, leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake. She was gone.

In the kitchen, the air began to cool. Ashborn put down his hot chocolate and licked his lips. He picked up a sensor node and sat at the table, his long fingers disassembling it with methodical precision.

Todd rose from his chair and flowed into the living room, a shadow reclaiming its territory. He stopped in the center of the room, his golden eyes sweeping over the two men. The human clothes Joan had given him looked like a disguise on his predatory frame.

His sensory pits flared, drinking in the atmosphere again, the fragile, whispering Hivesense spun from three Wraith and the lingering echo of a human woman's authority.

"So," he rasped, the dry vibration that seemed to absorb the room's ambient noise. "This is the garden she cultivates. I had imagined something... grander than fruit and sweet treats."

Ashborn didn't look up, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. Dustveil, by the window, slowed the rhythmic scrape of his blade on a whetstone.

Todd paced a slow circle, his gaze not on the furniture, but on the space between them, as if studying the architecture of a ghost.

"Fascinating. To see Wraith partake in the rituals of their prey. Does it make you feel more like them? Or does it remind you of what you are not?" he asked, amused. "I must confess that I am... curious. The capable Ashborn, whose mind could reassemble a damaged hyperdrive, now masters the intricacies of the hot beverage. A fascinating application of your talents."

Ashborn raised his eyes with a hiss.

"A Queen's comfort is a more complex and rewarding equation than a plasma conduit. As you should be aware, Commander." The weight of the word, now spat ironically, hung in the air.

"Truly," the old Commander laughed, seemingly unfazed. "But I have known Hives of living bone that sang with the voices of a thousand brothers and felt the warmth of a Queen's will thrumming through walls of ancient hide." He stopped, his sharp golden gaze locking onto the other man's. "This... is a nest of dead wood and processed stone. Your Hivesense here is an echo in a tomb. It must be... lonely."

Ashborn's head went back and he gave a low, raspy laugh. "It is not lonely, quite the opposite. It is rich. Efficient. Secure. And it is ours."

"'Ours'," Todd repeated, the word a soft, poisonous dart.

He turned his focus to Dustveil, aiming for the heart of the warrior's pride. "And you, who have felt the true song of a Hive in flight, the shrill call of a Dart diving into battle... can you truly find solace in peeling fruit? Do you not feel the lack?"

Dustveil's jaw tightened. The whetstone stilled. He did feel it. This was a sanctuary compared to the screaming chasm of starvation, but it was a pale thing next to the enveloping chorus of a true Hive. Todd had found the deep, aching bruise and pressed, expertly.

"My Queen's will fills the Hive. And I serve in all ways she requires," Dustveil growled, the defense sounding hollow even to his own ears. 

"Does it?" Todd's question was a surgeon's scalpel, precise and cold. "Or does it simply plaster over the hollow ache? You have traded a palace for a shack and call it home because she is inside it. But what are you inside of it? A warrior without a war? A blade kept in a drawer?"

"That is enough." Ashborn stood, his posture rigid. He took a step forward, his own eyes blazing. "You speak of bone and hide as if they are sacred. They are materials. This 'tomb' has lights, power, and a sustainable strategy. And you may not see this in your shortsightedness, but it has a true Queen the likes of which I have not met. Your 'palace' is dust. You led it to ruin and its song ended in fire. Adapt or starve, the choice was simple. We made it and we are better for it."

The two Wraith stared each other down across the sunlit room, the ancient world of whispers against the new world of pragmatic, engineered survival.

Todd held the gaze. A snarl almost escaped him, but instead of pressing the attack, he let his shoulders relax. A flicker of what looked like respect, even concession, crossed his face and the confrontation ebbed, leaving behind a charged silence. Ashborn stood defiant, Dustveil unsettled. Todd turned away.

"Your logic is sound, Cleverman," he said, his voice losing its edge. "The old ways failed us here. A new strategy is required." He turned his gaze to include Dustveil. "But a strategy requires more than just survival. It requires a goal. A Wraith goal. Not just... domesticity and maintenance."

He moved to the large city map on the wall, a tapestry of Ashborn's meticulous data and Dustveil's patrol routes. He didn't just look at it; he absorbed it, his gaze tracing the lines of power and vulnerability.

A long, silent moment passed. Then, his voice reemerged, not as a challenge, but as a low, resonant thought given sound.

"The human city is a body," he mused, almost to himself. His elegant clawed finger did not touch the map, but hovered over its heart. "And we are an enzyme."

He finally turned his head, his golden eyes catching the light. He looked not at Ashborn's face, but at the schematics he was working on.

"Engineer. Your models are flawless. But they are defensive. You have mapped the circulatory system. I am speaking of the nervous system." His gaze was an open invitation, a genuine appeal to a peer's intellect. "The lifeblood of this city is not water or power. It is fear. And greed. What if, instead of hiding from its immune response, we learned to administer ourselves directly to its brain?"

Ashborn, who had been ready for another philosophical assault, found himself disarmed by this rare invitation to share in Guide's plans. His eyes flicked from the man's angular face to the map, his brilliant mind already running the new variables. The stiffness in his shoulders softened into the posture of a problem-solver.

Todd’s focus shifted and his eyes settled on Dustveil.

"And you, Blade. You patrol the edges. You watch for the single threat." He gestured to the sprawling urban zones on the map. "But your strength is a scalpel. I shall give you an empire to operate on. To make the very ground we walk upon loyal to us through calculated, undeniable pressure."

Dustveil’s restless energy, so recently agitated into defensiveness, stilled. His eyes widened, not with anger, but with a dawning, hungry comprehension. The old Commander was offering him a battlefield worthy of his talents.

The change in the room was palpable. The fragile Hivesense, which had been a tense triangle, began to bend. The psychic threads that connected them began to curl, subtly, imperceptibly, toward the ancient, compelling presence standing by the map. As usual, Guide was not shouting his authority; he was becoming a gravitational force, a dark star around which thoughts and ambitions began to orbit.

He had not given an order. He had painted a masterpiece of power and offered them brushes.

And in the silence that followed, as Ashborn’s mind whirred and Dustveil’s heart beat with a new, dark purpose, the unspoken command hung in the air, more powerful for its silence:

Follow me, and we will remake this world.

*

In her quiet office in the city, Joan was smiling, watching the hidden camera feed, and learning.

Chapter Text

A rusty evening had settled over the valley when the lock turned with a soft clink. Three pairs of golden eyes lifted toward the door and three pairs of sensory pits fluttered softly, scenting the air.

Joan stepped inside and let her keys fall into the bowl by the door with a muted chime. As if pulled by an invisible thread, Ashborn and Dustveil moved to her at once, sinking to their knees, offering themselves to her touch. Her fingers slid through pale hair, over sharp cheekbones, and the air stirred with her scent. Warmth bloomed through the Hivesense along with another feeling, burning yet nurturing, possessive yet gentle, ripe, full and rich like the fragrant beverage of the morning.

Leaning against the couch, Guide watched, arms loosely folded, an amused softness easing the austere lines of his face. Joan's gaze settled on him for a moment with calm, detached interest, and despite himself, he felt the stirrings of a yearning that had gone unfulfilled for far too long. But millennia of training had taught him how to shutter himself from the Hivesense, and his mind remained veiled, untouched.

She bent toward her kneeling men and kissed them in turn, slowly, savoring their lips parted beneath hers. The musk of her rising arousal threaded into their sensory pits, and they shifted, throats rumbling with low, instinctive growls. Across the Hivesense, heat fluttered like tinder catching flame.

Joan left them with a final brush of her fingers and wandered into the kitchen. The soft glow of under-cabinet lights silvered her hair as she opened a tin, plucked out a cookie, and bit into it with quiet satisfaction. She leaned a hip against the counter, taking in the energies of the three men in her living room.

"How was your day?" she asked, as casually as if they were accountants or mechanics instead of ancient predators. Dustveil murmured about patrolling in the heat of the desert. Ashborn spoke of the sensors he had been calibrating. Guide simply inclined his head, a smile fluttering on his lips.

She nodded, licked a smear of chocolate from her thumb and set the half-eaten cookie aside.

"Alright," she said, voice taking on the cool authority that made their backs straighten. "We have a pressing issue to solve tonight. The Commander is starving. He was kept without sustenance for far too long, and that is unacceptable."

Three golden gazes fixed on her. The Hivesense rippled in agreement.

"Tonight, we shall attend a 'concert', a gathering of humans drawn together by music and darkness." She let the promise hang in the air, sweet and venomous, and their pupils widened as hunger coiled through them.

"Ashborn," she continued softly, "we will need the key to your motel room, go get it. We’ll retrieve your accustomed paints and prosthetics," she said. "We go masked in human skin. No fangs, no ridges, no excuses."

She started towards the stairs, winking at them playfully.

"I’m going to change into something more appropriate. That is all."

*

The motel room still smelled faintly of smoke, the scent clinging to the long black coat tossed carelessly across the bed, a ghost of Ashborn’s half-abandoned life among humans. Joan swept through it with precise efficiency, rifling through drawers, pulling worn duffel bags from beneath the frame. She gathered his peculiar arsenal: prosthetic cheek ridges, spirit gum, pale foundation, the blue-grey contacts meant to dim the predator’s gleam in his eyes.

Dustveil watched from the doorway, baffled.

"You want us to hide ourselves under false skin," he said, more accusation than question.

Ashborn only smirked, fitting the prosthetics against his cheekbones with practiced ease. "False skin buys you time. A seat at the table. A drink without stares." He tipped his chin toward Dustveil. "And you, brother, had better learn quickly, unless you’d rather spend your nights sulking at home while we feast."

Dustveil’s lips curled, a low hiss rising, but Joan laid a hand on his arm. He went still.

"Just try," she murmured. "I promise, it’s worth it."

Later, in front of the large mirror, Dustveil stood with the foundation sponge motionless in his hand. Pale powder masked the green undertone of his skin, the prosthetics softening the alien geometry of his face.

He stared.

He looked wrong.

Human. Weak. Tamed.

A flicker of shame twisted through his chest, sharp and instinctive. But beneath it, something else glowed faintly in the Hivesense: the acknowledgment of how Ashborn’s disguise shifted him from monster to myth. Not prey, but predator wearing glamour.

He straightened his spine. This was war paint and he would wear it like a warrior.

Ashborn passed behind him and caught his eyes in the mirror. Said nothing. Just smirked, as if to say Now you understand. Dustveil bared his teeth, not in denial, but in acceptance.

By the time they returned to her house, the transformation was complete. Two tall figures with long white hair, skin powdered pale and smooth, bone ridges softened beneath paint. They didn’t look human, not exactly, but they resembled something humans might conjure in a fevered dream: beautiful, feral, dangerous. The kind of men who drew stares and parted crowds, who inspired whispers but no questions.

Joan herself had dressed to match, leather that hugged her like armor, silver gleaming at her wrists, her hair dark and loose. She stood between them like the queen of a very strange court.

Guide watched them as they came in, his expression inscrutable. He had worn many faces in his lifetime; warrior, scientist, commander, prisoner, ally, traitor. But never human.

His jaw tightened and for a breath, he could taste humiliation, copper-sharp on the back of his tongue. To wear the skin of prey. To dim the marks of his lineage. To obscure millennia of survival beneath powder and false flesh.

But then he breathed, slowly, and the shame cooled into purpose. If a human face allowed him to walk among humans unseen, to feed his starving men, to protect his Hive, to prevent more cages and needles and screaming hunger, then he would bear it.

Even pride could be a luxury.

*

The smell of coffee and cookies filled the kitchen and Joan was already regretting not cancelling. Claire had texted “Five minutes out!” before Joan could type “Not today.”

Five minutes wasn’t enough to hide three Wraith.

Dustveil was sprawled with lazy feline grace across her couch, his long fingers idly tracing the fabric. Joan swiped a thumb to blend the last patch of tell-tale green on his neck.

Ashborn stood by the window, a study in predatory, focused stillness, his fitted leather jacket catching the low lamplight. The contacts in his eyes were a stormy human blue, but they couldn't quite hide the faint, phosphorescent gold that seemed to glow from behind them.

“Be quiet,” Joan said, rising. “And for God’s sake, try to look normal.”

Ashborn blinked. “Normal?”

“Less ‘about to disembowel someone.’ More… human.”

He raised his chin at Dustveil with a grin. “You heard the Queen! Look human.” In character, Dustveil stuck out a dark tongue at him.

Joan threw a quick glance over her shoulder as she prepared to open the door. “Remember, she’s off-limits. As in, permanently.”

Dustveil grinned. “You say that, my Queen, and yet you invite them to dinner.”

“Shush!” Joan said, opening the door.

“Joanie!” Claire breezed in, all warm perfume and jangling bracelets, holding a bottle of wine. “You minx. What have you been doing, bathing in milk and honey?”

“Hi, love. You're radiant, that trip to Spain really brought out the fire in you. You have to tell me about it,” Joan laughed warmly, hugging her.

“Well, there was this guy in Barcelona... Helloooo, Nurse,” Claire drawled, looking over Joan's shoulder. “Are these contractors? Models? Or did you finally join that polyamorous vampire cult you joked about after your tax audit?”

“Claire,” Joan warned.

“No, seriously,” Claire replied with a grin. “Last week you were complaining about losing your Tupperware lids and now... this.”

Dustveil leaned in a little, his smirk a perfect copy of every bad-boy rocker poster Claire had ever pinned to her wall. “We are guests.”

Ashborn inclined his head with cool grace, his voice a raspy velvet. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Claire’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh god, they do accents. Joanie. Honey. You have two six-foot-four Renaissance oil paintings living in your house. Blink twice if you’re in a cult. Blink three times if I should call your therapist.”

“I’m fine,” Joan laughed. “These are my friends, Ash and Dust.”

Claire arched a brow, her gaze flicking between the two leather-clad figures. “'Ash' and 'Dust'? Holy communion. Are those their real names or just what you speak in tongues when they take you to heaven? Cause you look like you skipped the earth part and went right for the resurrection.”

Joan rolled her eyes, the picture of exasperated innocence. “It’s not like that.”

Dustveil chuckled, the sound low and resonant in his chest. “Not entirely,” he purred.

Joan shot him a warning glance, but Claire had already latched onto it, her eyes dancing with delight. “Oh my God, it is like that.”

“Claire...” Joan tried for stern, which only made her friend’s grin widen.

“So where did you find them? Do they have jobs or are they, like... professionally mysterious?”

Dustveil smirked. “We travel.”

Claire nodded solemnly. “Cool. I do accounting.”

Joan pinched the bridge of her nose, a mix of genuine exasperation and helpless amusement. “Honey, we’re actually heading out to the Marilyn Manson concert, you caught us on the way out the door.”

Claire grinned slyly. “Mhm. A rock concert with your two ‘not-boyfriends’. Just be careful, Jo. Guys like these are trouble.”

Smirking, Ashborn took a silent step forward, his presence suddenly filling the space, making the air feel thin. “Trouble,” he said licking his lips with a soft, dangerous promise, “is a matter of perspective.”

Rooted to the spot as if hypnotized, Claire blinked and shivered, momentarily stunned.

“I’m really happy to see you, but we’ll save the bottle for next time, okay?” Joan said warmly, taking her by the shoulders and gently spinning her towards the exit.

Claire gave a theatrical sigh. “Alright. But you’re not getting out of this. We’re grabbing coffee soon, and you are telling me everything.”

The moment the door clicked shut, Joan turned on the two Wraith, hands on her hips. “What part of ‘blend in’ did you not understand?”

Ashborn’s smirk deepened. “We said nothing unseemly.”

Dustveil laughed, rich and unrepentant. “And your friend liked us.”

She let out a long, slow breath. “God help me,” she groaned and turned to climb the stairs.

*

“Enter,” Todd rasped from behind the door.

Dressed in the dark leathers Joan had laid out for him, he stood in front of the mirror, applying the final touches of his prosthetics with a surgeon’s precision. He looked up as they entered, his disguised eyes, a human brown, missing none of their ancient intelligence. Gone was the ancient geometry of Wraith flesh, the proud ridges carved by evolution and war. In its place stood something almost Tau’ri. A strong, weathered face, skin softened to a warm human tone. He looked... gentle.

“The social call concluded successfully?” he asked, amused.

Joan sighed. “As successfully as possible,” she said with a small chuckle. She leaned against the door, her gaze hardening.

“Okay,” she gestured for the men to gather close. “We have to establish some ground rules. Just a couple, but there will be no deviation, at least for now. These rules exist for your sake. Rule one: the concert is a feeding ground, not a slaughterhouse.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on her, their hunger a palpable force in the damp air.

“A slaughterhouse, my Queen?” Dustveil asked, tilting his head.

“Ah, sometimes I forget,” she sighed. “It’s a facility where humans butcher animals for meat. The animals are killed. We will not kill tonight. You need to feed, but if people start dropping dead or turn a hundred in the middle of the mosh pit, our ‘blending in’ ends. Permanently. And painfully.” She fixed them with unflinching eyes. “Therefore, you cannot feed fully. No killing. No substantial aging.”

A ripple of discontent went through them. Ashborn scowled. Dustveil hissed softly.

“You would have us feed on scraps?” Ashborn asked, his voice tight.

“No. I am asking you to feed strategically,” Joan said, her voice softening.

She let the words hang for a moment. “Rule two: if possible, you will choose subjects in altered states. You will take a little, then you will give a little less back. The pain of the feed, followed by a wave of pleasure. It will confuse them, leave them dizzy and euphoric, blaming the music, the crowd, the drugs. They’ll remember an incredible high, not an attack.”

Todd, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “The Gift is not a tool for misdirection, little Queen. It is a sacrament. Reserved for the devout, for brothers in arms. To bestow it upon random kine… it is profane.”

Joan nodded. “I understand. And I respect that. But my first duty is the survival and secrecy of this Hive. We cannot thrive but in the shadows. So, I am asking you, what is your alternative proposal? How do we sustain you without leaving a trail of corpses for my brother-in-law to find?”

The room was silent, the only sound the faint whoosh of the air conditioning. Todd’s jaw worked. Ashborn looked away, frustration in his stance. Dustveil simply watched, waiting.

Todd’s eyes closed. He was running scenarios, his brilliant mind navigating the constraints. After a long moment, he opened them, a grim acceptance in their depths.

“There is no elegant alternative. Not on this timescale.” He looked at Joan, a flicker of that old, cynical respect returning. “Your method is… tactically sound. Brutally pragmatic. We will be careful. A sip, not a swallow. Followed by a drop of honey to disguise the bitterness.”

Joan closed her eyes and nodded. “Good.” She reached out, her hand briefly brushing Todd’s cheek, then Ashborn’s, then Dustveil’s. “Then let’s go. Remember, you are my guests at a concert. You’re there to enjoy the music. Anything else is part of our… twisted symphony.”

She turned to Todd. “And, Guide, call me ‘little Queen’ again, and I will make you a head shorter.”

Chapter Text

The concert was a living organism, a single entity of breath, bass, drums and fevered pulse. The singer's voice crawled through the speakers, all teeth and silk. Strobing lights cut through the haze, illuminating a sea of upturned, euphoric faces.

From the mezzanine, Joan watched her wolves scatter among the lambs.

Dustveil was a storm of seduction.

He slipped into the crowd as if he belonged to it, his movements a smooth, predatory dance. Humans leaned toward him without knowing why.

He found his first course near the bar: a shirtless long-haired young man, uncertain on his feet, whose friends had just left him to get more drinks.

Dustveil’s off-hand clamped on the man’s shoulder in a gesture that could have been camaraderie, and his other hand flashed out, palm resting against the man’s chest. The confused youngster jolted in a shock of pain, but before he registered it, Dustveil leaned in and the shock melted into a slack-jawed stupor. He stumbled back, grinning dopily at Dustveil as he melted away.

A raven-haired young woman with a pierced lip sauntered up to him. "Hey, pretty boy. You lost?"

Dustveil's smile was all sharp, wicked delight. "I was," he purred. "But I think I just found what I was looking for."

His eyes flicked toward a dark nook behind the speaker stacks. A challenge. A promise.

A few moments later, he emerged alone, a new, vibrant energy in his step. He caught Joan's eye and gave her a triumphant, boyish grin, fueled by the years he had just sipped from his willing victim.

"I am the god of fuck," the eerie singer moaned.

A serpent among mice, Ashborn's slender, leather-clad form leaned against a concrete pillar, an island of calm in the chaos of the mosh pit.

A cluster of girls in fishnets and velvet gathered around him like moths to a dangerous flame.

"Are you a biker or a vampire?" one with fire-red hair asked cheekily.

Ashborn tilted his head. "Closer to the second," he rasped in a layered, otherworldly voice.

He didn't touch them at first. He spoke to them, and they leaned in, hungry. Then, as the beat dropped into The Beautiful People, he took the red-haired girl's hand and pressed it to his chest. A moment of intimacy, a feigned connection. Then his own hand covered her sternum over the mesh top she was wearing.

From a distance, it looked like flirting. But Joan knew the truth: the tendons in his wrist working, the slit opening. The girl gasped, her body seizing with sharp, electric pain before her eyes rolled back in a wave of tingling euphoria. Her friends screamed in delight, thinking she’d fainted from excitement. Ashborn caught her, set her gently against the barrier, and whispered something that left her smiling through her delirium. He walked away, his collar dusted with the glitter that covered her face and hair.

Joan watched him zero in on a tattooed man in leather trousers by the restrooms.

He approached like a lover, whispered something against the man’s ear, and his palm pressed to his bare chest just above the leather straps that crossed it. The man's face contracted in pain and he convulsed, then stumbled back, his eyes wide with a terrifying, yet blissful revelation, his chest now marked with blood and his life force a shared secret between him and the monster who had faded back into the crowd.

"So let me paint you with my love,” Manson crooned from the foggy stage.

Guide moved with fluid, feline grace, a tall, intriguing stranger materializing beside a young woman swaying by herself.

He didn't flirt; he simply was. His head tilted toward her ear, and she laughed, nodding at words Joan couldn't hear. He placed his right hand on the small of her back, drawing her to him, and rested his forehead against hers. The woman gasped, her body arching as pain shook her, then her head lolled back in bliss-soaked surrender. He held her upright for a moment, an unholy angel bathed in red light, before vanishing and leaving her bewildered, addicted to a ghost.

Near the emergency exit, a promoter in a tailored suit paced, shouting into a headset. He never saw Guide until the Wraith was beside him.

"They’re waiting for you backstage," Guide murmured, his voice calm, assured, impossible to ignore.

Irritated and confused, the man followed, muttering into his headset as they pushed into a concrete hallway where the music was a dull rumble.

Guide stopped and the air thickened like in the pause before a lightning strike. Before the man could speak, a pale hand lifted, elegant and inhuman, and touched his neck.

The man seized. His pupils blew wide and a startled sound escaped him as his knees buckled. His headset clattered to the floor. For a suspended moment, he twisted in sharp agony, then his shoulders dropped as if a great weight had lifted. His lips parted in an ecstatic grin and he slid down the wall, eyes open but seeing nothing of this world.

The Wraith adjusted his collar and walked away.

Guide had found himself a sinner and had shown him God.

"Are you motherfuckers ready for the new shit?" the speakers blared.

Joan felt a presence at her elbow. Ashborn.

"The music is aggressive," he said, his voice barely a rasp over the din. "But pleasantly so. And there is a pattern, a mathematics to the chaos."

"And the hunting?" she asked.

His lip curled. "Undignified. Though entertaining. And... effective."

Joan followed his gaze to where Guide was scanning the crowd, selecting his next target.

Her plan had worked. In the heart of the screaming, sweating, pulsing humanity, her tigers had learned to hunt in a new way.

*

Back at the house, the transformation began in reverse.

The prosthetics came off piece by piece. Contacts dropped into saline, latex peeled from cheekbones, painted skin wiped clean. From beneath the human masks, the Wraith emerged, ridged, terrible, and magnificent.

The living room hummed with a different kind of electricity. Gone was the gauntness from Todd's frame, the desperate edge from Dustveil's movements. Their veins thrummed with stolen life. They weren’t just fed. They were intoxicated.

Dustveil stood by the window, unmoving except for the faint flutter of his sensory pits as he replayed the night’s sensations. Guide leaned against the mantelpiece, arms folded loosely, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He no longer looked hollow. He looked dangerous.

Ashborn broke the silence first. He poured himself a glass of water as if performing an experiment. "The method is efficient, but requires refinement," he said, swirling the glass without drinking. "The timing of the Gift must be precise, to prevent cries of alarm. It is a delicate operation."

"But you see the value," Joan said softly.

A corner of Ashborn’s mouth lifted. "I do. It is a new kind of tool, though it requires considerable self-restraint. The intake is lower per individual, but the rate of acquisition, with negligible risk of detection..." he hesitated, searching for the human phrase. "It is a sustainable model," he purred contentedly.

Dustveil stretched like a great cat, a low rumble in his chest. "I like it. The hunt is not just in the taking, but in the choosing. Which human is ripe for the experience? Which one can handle the storm?" He grinned, all sharp teeth and feral delight. "It is a better game. And they grow willing in their ignorance. They lean into the touch. A much better flavour."

Joan's gaze finally settled on Guide. "And you, Commander? You called it profane."

"I did," he acknowledged, his golden eyes gleaming. "And it is. It twists a sacred act into a tool of deception."

“But?” she asked smiling, raising a brow.

"But I have lived a very long time, my Queen. I have learned that new worlds require new ways." He paused with a flicker of dark admiration. "What we did tonight was not merely feeding. We wove ourselves into the fabric of their world, we became the hidden source of their agony and their ecstasy. That is a deeper, more insidious form of power than simple consumption."

His voice dropped, almost reverent. "And power... is the oldest sacrament of all."

Chapter Text

The subtle call was not a sound, but a shift in the atmosphere, a low-frequency hum in the Hivesense that pulled at them with the inexorable gravity of an event horizon. Downstairs, the simmering, restless energy of the two younger Wraith snapped into sharp, single-minded focus.

Ashborn’s head came up, his analytical thoughts scattering like snowflakes in the wind. Dustveil, who had been pacing a slow, predatory circuit of the living room, went perfectly still.

Come.

It was less a command than an invitation, layered with a promise of warmth and pleasure and a flicker of her own dark, answering hunger.

They moved as one, a blur of pale hair and leather, leaving Guide alone in the silent living room.

*

In the honeyed, dim light of her bedroom, her thighs slick with wetness, Joan waited. She had shed her concert leathers for a simple, red silk robe that hung open from her shoulders, both hiding and promising her sinful curves.

She felt their approach as a rising tide in her blood, a primal thrum of anticipation, both hers and theirs.

The door opened and Ashborn and Dustveil filled the frame, their silhouettes blotting out the soft light from the hall. Their golden eyes burned in the dimness, powerful bodies humming with the residual energy of the hunt and the denied, coiled need of the last hour. Their musk invaded the room, pushing her senses into overdrive.

She didn’t speak. She sat on the edge of the bed and held out her hands.

They were on their knees before her in an instant, pressing their faces against her thighs, scenting her arousal. Their low, resonant purrs seeped into her bones.

“You did so well tonight,” she murmured. Her fingers slid into Ashborn’s hair, then Dustveil’s, gently, possessively scratching their scalps.

“My Queen,” Ashborn sighed. His feeding hand twitched on her knee, the slit trembling faintly, a tell-tale flutter of exposed nerve and raw sensation.

Joan’s gaze fell upon it. Slowly, she took his wrist, lifting his right hand. He tensed, a flicker of instinctive panic in his eyes. This was his weapon, his sustenance, his vulnerability. For centuries, no one had touched it and lived.

“Shhh,” she soothed, her thumb stroking the back of his hand in slow, deliberate circles. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

He swallowed hard, his pupils blown wide. “Yours,” he whispered.

She brought his palm to her lips. First, she kissed the cool, marbled skin around it, feeling the fine ridges. Then, with a deliberate slowness that made the air crackle, her tongue swept a hot, wet, sensual path, back and forth, directly over the quivering slit.

Ashborn cried out and arched as if struck by lightning, his free hand clawing at the bedsheet. It wasn't pain, but it was a sensation so acute, so shockingly intimate, it bypassed all his defenses and speared directly into his core. It was the tender violation of his most sacred taboo, and it was ecstasy. Brought forth by her ministrations, a bead of green enzyme pooled into his palm.

Dustveil watched, mesmerized, a low moan emanating from his own chest. When Joan turned to him, he presented his hand without hesitation, a desperate, trembling offering.

She repeated the act, her tongue laving his feeding slit with the same focused intensity she would have given to the most sensitive part of his cock. Dustveil bucked, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing in stark relief as a string of guttural, pleading words tumbled from his lips. Enzyme dripped from his palm onto the floor.

With her devilish tongue, the brazen, blasphemous human woman went on exploring their instruments of death, turning them into objects of forbidden pleasure. She traced the edges of their slits with her lips and fingertips, feeling the strange, soft texture of the flesh and the thrilling, dangerous pulse within.

"Take your clothes off," she ordered. "NOW." They shed their leathers instantly, unceremoniously, clothes flying across the room. Shivering with need, she drew both men onto her bed.

As Ashborn moved on top of her, his weight a delicious anchor, she guided his right hand to her breast. The slit made contact with her soft, warm, pebbled nipple and he groaned, overwhelmed by the sensation. The feeding slit wept over her pale breast, rippling around her nipple like a warm mouth, sending shocks of pleasure to her brain. Joan’s back arched and she let out a moan so lewd, so enticing, that Ashborn felt his sense leaving him. Driven by pure male instinct, he sheathed himself in her and started fucking her with frantic, deep, claiming thrusts.

Vibrating with need, Dustveil lay beside them, touching his weeping cock with his feeding hand. He tangled his long fingers in Ashborn’s hair, turning his head. His lips found the sensory pits on his brother’s cheeks, and Ashborn's breath caught at the electric sensation, his rhythm faltering for a moment before driving into Joan with renewed fervor.

Lustfully, Ashborn's mind brushed against his brother’s in a hazy, carnal invitation that Dustveil was not about to refuse. He reached for the small bottle on Joan’s nightstand and moved behind Ashborn, slicking himself up with his fluids and the scented lube. His left hand caressed the length of Ashborn’s ridged spine, making him arch and sigh, then his slick fingers slid to his brother's entrance, preparing him with insistent, circling caresses.

“Oh my God, yes,” Joan moaned, her nails digging into Ashborn’s back. “Holy fuck, that is hot. Yes, Dustveil, fuck him, oh God...”

With a low, resonant growl, Dustveil pressed into him, a slow, inexorable glide that made Ashborn cry out against Joan’s throat. Joan captured his mouth with hers, swallowing his moans, her tongue dueling with his as Dustveil began to move his hips in slow, measured strokes.

Taking a page from Dustveil’s book, her lips moved to the quivering sensory pit on his right cheek and the tip of her tongue flicked gently over the edges, making him gasp. From behind, Dustveil grabbed his hips, sinking his claws into the taut muscle, to his brother's delight. He started driving into Ashborn mercilessly, hard and fast, angling himself to feel and hit exactly the right spots.

Eyes closed, in a feedback loop of pleasure, Ashborn moved inside Joan with abandon, teasing her nipples with his feeding hand. She arched her back to meet his touch, pushing her head into the pillows and grabbing at him, moaning shamelessly as the fullness between her legs and the electric, consuming touch on her chest unraveled her.

Lost in a maelstrom of sensation, she felt herself rising higher and higher. Her nails dug deep grooves into Ashborn's shoulders and she shouted, her inner muscles clamping down around his cock in wave after wave of blinding pleasure.

Ashborn shattered. A guttural roar tore from him as a long, violent, shuddering climax ripped through his frame. Feeling his brother's peak, awash in the shared sensation flowing through the Hivesense, Dustveil lost all control. He drove into Ashborn one last time, his own roar joining theirs as he spilled himself inside his brother’s sated body.

They collapsed together into a landscape of tangled, sweat-sheened limbs. Ashborn, spent and boneless, purring, rested his head against Joan’s shoulder, his feeding hand splayed over her left breast. Dustveil lay curled against his back, one arm slung possessively over his brother’s waist, his face buried in Ashborn's soft white hair.

*

Alone in the dark, Guide stood frozen. The fledgling Hivesense, a quiet hum before, was now a live wire, vibrating with a cascade of raw, unfiltered sensation.

First, there was a spike of shock, sharp, instinctive, panicked. Ashborn. It was the terror of ultimate vulnerability, the core of his predatory self laid bare. Guide’s own feeding hand twitched in sympathetic memory. He had not allowed another to touch the slit since his true Queen, lifetimes ago.

Then, the shock bloomed, into a feeling so profound and disorienting it stole the breath from Guide’s lungs.

He felt Ashborn’s brilliant, ordered mind dissolve into static. He felt Dustveil’s fierce energy become a single, worshipful note. Through the shared sense, he tasted the vibrant, possessive heat of Joan’s approval, the thrilling power she wielded with such intimate tenderness.

A rasp of aching want escaped him. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool window. He was the spectator to a ritual he had never dared imagine. This was not just the claiming of a Queen. This was something else. Something aflame, alive, something that reforged his brothers in the crucible of her affection.

He felt Joan's pleasure spiking, consuming, lustful, female, then Ashborn’s climax, a powerful, resonant release, and Dustveil’s, a shockwave of urgent, hot, rough bliss.

Silence descended, thick, warm and sated.

Guide remained there, next to the window, looking at the foreign world outside without really seeing it. The ghost of sensations not his own played across his nerve endings. The loneliness that had been his constant companion for centuries felt vast and hollow, an empty throne in a silent hall.

A slow, weary, intrigued smile touched his lips. He had thought this woman a clever human playing with forces she could not comprehend. Perhaps he had been wrong.

She was not playing. She was building a new world, and she was birthing it out of them. And as the echoes of their union faded, against all caution, Guide, the ancient gardener, knew that he wanted nothing more than to be grafted into her design.

He would wait. He was a master of patience. But the game had changed. It was no longer about survival or strategy. About the clashing egos of Commanders and Queens, human or otherwise. It was about earning an invitation to that living fire, and proving himself worthy of the same sacred, terrifying, and glorious consecration.