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FIC: Around for the Dawn (1/?)
Title: Around for the Dawn (1/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: CWRPS, JA/JDM
A/N: Mpreg. Man, I don't even know. My shame is broken.
Jeff nearly misses his appointment.
It happens. The tasteful cream card comes once a year like clockwork, and they left messages on his machine to confirm the appointment, but it's not like there aren't other things on Jeff's mind. The Masters account is closing up, Bisou is favoring her paw, his car's brakes-- there are always other things. Fertility is everybody's priority, the party line, but the truth is that nothing ever comes of it. It's a nuisance, somewhere between jury duty and emissions testing on the 'pain in the ass' scale.
All that means is that Jeff skids into the waiting room just in time to get a dirty look from the nurse. She looks at him all arch over her glasses and asks, "Mr. Morgan?", like it's not the first time she asked.
"Hi. Yeah." Jeff flashes his dimples. "Guess I'm late?"
It doesn't work. She gives him a long sour look, letting him stew in her distaste, then grabs a clipboard off the counter and disappears behind one of the grated doors. Jeff follows.
The fertility center is like any other government building, grimly pleasant. There are pictures of babies on the wall. Through half-open doors, Jeff can see the tables and the metal stirrups. The chains.
"Here," Nurse Ratchet says suddenly, snapping open a door. "Someone will be around shortly."
It isn't the normal consultation room. There's a cot, a tray of syringes. Jeff tenses, turns around to ask the nurse what's going on, but she's already receding down the hallway.
It's an uneasy wait. Jeff sits on the edge of the cot, his body braced to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Which is ridiculous; it's a routine check-up, only procedure. It has to be only procedure.
When the nurse comes back, she has two men in suits with her. They're on high alert, too big for the room with its narrow walls, and they're carrying guns under the tailored lines of their suits. Their IDs read CFC, Center of Fertility Control. Jeff's misspent youth has him raising his hands by habit, placating.
"Hey," he says, "something going on here, guys?"
The suits exchange silent looks before one nods and walks away. The nurse ignores them, taking Jeff by the wrist like he's a little kid and reaching for one of the syringes. "Thank you for waiting so patiently, Mr. Morgan. You'll understand that we have to follow procedure--"
"I don't understand anything," Jeff says. When she tries to stretch his arm out, baring the veins, Jeff resists. He's easy-going, he likes to think, but he's not stupid. "What is this?"
The nurse huffs out a breath, but she stops trying to stick him. "Your genetic profile is compatible with a breeder who's recently gone into heat. I need to check your blood for any contaminants, please."
"I-- oh." Jeff blinks. "Breeder? I'm--" I'm gay. I'm a pothead. I hate the government. I'm not ready for kids. "--but I'm 42."
One of the agents snorts, then covers it with a cough. The nurse unbends enough to give Jeff a thin smile. "We had a successful delivery just this morning from a sperm donor in his 60s. You'll be fine. Your arm, please?"
Jeff looks at the agent who just materializes in the doorway, towing along... Jeff's breeder, he guesses. It's a man, pretty enough, short brown hair and glasses. Young. He's got a death grip on a battered book, its pages tucked protectively in the bend of the kid's elbow. The agent doesn't want to touch him, this skinny thing who hunches under the weight of his baggy sweatshirt, who's pale like he's been sick a long time. Jeff thinks he can see the kid's cheekbones through his skin. "Oh," Jeff says again, lamely, then gets up.
The kid and both agents flinch like he pulled a weapon. Jeff hesitates, hands open and spread, then steps away from the cot. "Hi. Um, here, you wanna sit?"
The kid glances at Jeff, a sidelong punch of green green eyes, then at the guards. When the guard (the one who'd laughed) gives him a curt nod, the kid shuffles into the room. He moves awkwardly, like someone much older, and it takes Jeff a moment to notice the shackles around the kid's ankles.
Jesus.
As the kid brushes past, Jeff's breath locks in his throat. The air against the kid's skin tastes hot and sweet, like pot smoke, like gunpowder residue; the scent reaches up into Jeff's mind, around the human and straight to the primal. His dick throbs in his jeans like a wound, and he has to stop his hands from knotting in the kid's clothes. Heat, he realizes dimly. Pheromones.
They're watching this closely, the guards, the nurse. They're watching, this cot available in case Jeff can't hold out against that delicious smell, and the kid can't even run away.
It violates every instinct Jeff has, but he takes a polite step back. Tries to breathe through his mouth, until he realizes that he can taste the kid there, the sweet spice of him. That scent is tucked in every corner of the kid's body, hidden like a secret for Jeff to find with his mouth and fingers. And god, he wants to. He wants to tear the sweatshirt off the kid's back and bite him to see if more of that scent rises up, if he's ripe inside like fruit. What would he taste like if Jeff pushed the globes of his ass open and licked there, sucked that tight little hole until...
He's sweating.
The kid doesn't look at him, but he doesn't relax until he sits on the edge of the cot where they expect Jeff to rape him. Pulling the book open, the kid bends his head and blocks them all out. The nape of his neck is pink like he's blushing. Heat. Does he feel this fever under his skin? If so, how can he bear clothes?
"Mr. Morgan?" The nurse holds out her hand. "We still need to do the bloodwork."
"Of course." Jeff's tongue feels thick and numb. He gives the woman his arm, lets her band him and take his blood away in neat little vials. She doesn't acknowledge the breeder or the agents, just does her work and goes.
The agents keep watching. Are they waiting for Jeff to break? Taking bets? It seems like the thing these men would do. Anything to ignore the fact that they're toting a prisoner around. Jeff leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms, tucking his hands against his body.
The breeder's book is full of puzzles. He has a pen hidden inside. The puzzle he's working on is all numbers, some kind of math Jeff isn't smart enough to figure out. The kid doesn't even show his work, just crunches numbers in pen and doesn't cross anything out. The silence stretches long; Jeff clears his throat. "Sudoku?"
The breeder gives him a look that borders on sardonic but says only, dryly, "Yeah."
"That's pretty good."
The breeder shrugs, scratching in another number. The movement sends another wave of scent, and Jeff can't talk again for a few minutes. He wonders if the breeder did that on purpose just to shut him up.
When the nurse returns, it's with an armful of paperwork; the agents recognize it and shift around. Jeff realizes dimly, distantly, that he's been selected for breeding service. He's become the exception. It doesn't feel like an honor, or even a nuisance. He can't call it a nuisance when he can see the breeder's reaction, the clench of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. It feels enormous.
"You've been cleared for reproduction," the nurse says, handing Jeff a pen. "You and Breeder 76 will be paired for the next six months. You're eligible for a leave of absence from your job, or you can choose to work part-time. You'll receive a stipend for 76's care and feeding..."
The rest of the speech drones away. Jeff signs his name a lot, numbed out and inexplicably exhausted. The nurse hands him a little bag of courtesy aids, instructions, recommended positions and contact numbers. One of the agents unlocks 76's ankles and hands Jeff the key. And that easy, they're dismissed, and Jeff has his new life of government service.
Nobody tells Jeff the kid's name.
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: CWRPS, JA/JDM
A/N: Mpreg. Man, I don't even know. My shame is broken.
Jeff nearly misses his appointment.
It happens. The tasteful cream card comes once a year like clockwork, and they left messages on his machine to confirm the appointment, but it's not like there aren't other things on Jeff's mind. The Masters account is closing up, Bisou is favoring her paw, his car's brakes-- there are always other things. Fertility is everybody's priority, the party line, but the truth is that nothing ever comes of it. It's a nuisance, somewhere between jury duty and emissions testing on the 'pain in the ass' scale.
All that means is that Jeff skids into the waiting room just in time to get a dirty look from the nurse. She looks at him all arch over her glasses and asks, "Mr. Morgan?", like it's not the first time she asked.
"Hi. Yeah." Jeff flashes his dimples. "Guess I'm late?"
It doesn't work. She gives him a long sour look, letting him stew in her distaste, then grabs a clipboard off the counter and disappears behind one of the grated doors. Jeff follows.
The fertility center is like any other government building, grimly pleasant. There are pictures of babies on the wall. Through half-open doors, Jeff can see the tables and the metal stirrups. The chains.
"Here," Nurse Ratchet says suddenly, snapping open a door. "Someone will be around shortly."
It isn't the normal consultation room. There's a cot, a tray of syringes. Jeff tenses, turns around to ask the nurse what's going on, but she's already receding down the hallway.
It's an uneasy wait. Jeff sits on the edge of the cot, his body braced to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Which is ridiculous; it's a routine check-up, only procedure. It has to be only procedure.
When the nurse comes back, she has two men in suits with her. They're on high alert, too big for the room with its narrow walls, and they're carrying guns under the tailored lines of their suits. Their IDs read CFC, Center of Fertility Control. Jeff's misspent youth has him raising his hands by habit, placating.
"Hey," he says, "something going on here, guys?"
The suits exchange silent looks before one nods and walks away. The nurse ignores them, taking Jeff by the wrist like he's a little kid and reaching for one of the syringes. "Thank you for waiting so patiently, Mr. Morgan. You'll understand that we have to follow procedure--"
"I don't understand anything," Jeff says. When she tries to stretch his arm out, baring the veins, Jeff resists. He's easy-going, he likes to think, but he's not stupid. "What is this?"
The nurse huffs out a breath, but she stops trying to stick him. "Your genetic profile is compatible with a breeder who's recently gone into heat. I need to check your blood for any contaminants, please."
"I-- oh." Jeff blinks. "Breeder? I'm--" I'm gay. I'm a pothead. I hate the government. I'm not ready for kids. "--but I'm 42."
One of the agents snorts, then covers it with a cough. The nurse unbends enough to give Jeff a thin smile. "We had a successful delivery just this morning from a sperm donor in his 60s. You'll be fine. Your arm, please?"
Jeff looks at the agent who just materializes in the doorway, towing along... Jeff's breeder, he guesses. It's a man, pretty enough, short brown hair and glasses. Young. He's got a death grip on a battered book, its pages tucked protectively in the bend of the kid's elbow. The agent doesn't want to touch him, this skinny thing who hunches under the weight of his baggy sweatshirt, who's pale like he's been sick a long time. Jeff thinks he can see the kid's cheekbones through his skin. "Oh," Jeff says again, lamely, then gets up.
The kid and both agents flinch like he pulled a weapon. Jeff hesitates, hands open and spread, then steps away from the cot. "Hi. Um, here, you wanna sit?"
The kid glances at Jeff, a sidelong punch of green green eyes, then at the guards. When the guard (the one who'd laughed) gives him a curt nod, the kid shuffles into the room. He moves awkwardly, like someone much older, and it takes Jeff a moment to notice the shackles around the kid's ankles.
Jesus.
As the kid brushes past, Jeff's breath locks in his throat. The air against the kid's skin tastes hot and sweet, like pot smoke, like gunpowder residue; the scent reaches up into Jeff's mind, around the human and straight to the primal. His dick throbs in his jeans like a wound, and he has to stop his hands from knotting in the kid's clothes. Heat, he realizes dimly. Pheromones.
They're watching this closely, the guards, the nurse. They're watching, this cot available in case Jeff can't hold out against that delicious smell, and the kid can't even run away.
It violates every instinct Jeff has, but he takes a polite step back. Tries to breathe through his mouth, until he realizes that he can taste the kid there, the sweet spice of him. That scent is tucked in every corner of the kid's body, hidden like a secret for Jeff to find with his mouth and fingers. And god, he wants to. He wants to tear the sweatshirt off the kid's back and bite him to see if more of that scent rises up, if he's ripe inside like fruit. What would he taste like if Jeff pushed the globes of his ass open and licked there, sucked that tight little hole until...
He's sweating.
The kid doesn't look at him, but he doesn't relax until he sits on the edge of the cot where they expect Jeff to rape him. Pulling the book open, the kid bends his head and blocks them all out. The nape of his neck is pink like he's blushing. Heat. Does he feel this fever under his skin? If so, how can he bear clothes?
"Mr. Morgan?" The nurse holds out her hand. "We still need to do the bloodwork."
"Of course." Jeff's tongue feels thick and numb. He gives the woman his arm, lets her band him and take his blood away in neat little vials. She doesn't acknowledge the breeder or the agents, just does her work and goes.
The agents keep watching. Are they waiting for Jeff to break? Taking bets? It seems like the thing these men would do. Anything to ignore the fact that they're toting a prisoner around. Jeff leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms, tucking his hands against his body.
The breeder's book is full of puzzles. He has a pen hidden inside. The puzzle he's working on is all numbers, some kind of math Jeff isn't smart enough to figure out. The kid doesn't even show his work, just crunches numbers in pen and doesn't cross anything out. The silence stretches long; Jeff clears his throat. "Sudoku?"
The breeder gives him a look that borders on sardonic but says only, dryly, "Yeah."
"That's pretty good."
The breeder shrugs, scratching in another number. The movement sends another wave of scent, and Jeff can't talk again for a few minutes. He wonders if the breeder did that on purpose just to shut him up.
When the nurse returns, it's with an armful of paperwork; the agents recognize it and shift around. Jeff realizes dimly, distantly, that he's been selected for breeding service. He's become the exception. It doesn't feel like an honor, or even a nuisance. He can't call it a nuisance when he can see the breeder's reaction, the clench of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. It feels enormous.
"You've been cleared for reproduction," the nurse says, handing Jeff a pen. "You and Breeder 76 will be paired for the next six months. You're eligible for a leave of absence from your job, or you can choose to work part-time. You'll receive a stipend for 76's care and feeding..."
The rest of the speech drones away. Jeff signs his name a lot, numbed out and inexplicably exhausted. The nurse hands him a little bag of courtesy aids, instructions, recommended positions and contact numbers. One of the agents unlocks 76's ankles and hands Jeff the key. And that easy, they're dismissed, and Jeff has his new life of government service.
Nobody tells Jeff the kid's name.