Moisture drips from the ceiling and rolls down skin that burns beneath her touch. His throat is dry and he swallows a bitter taste.
He’s lucky today, he thinks, as she straddles his waist. Teeth scrape against his bottom lip. Blood drowning bile and revulsion.
She offers no words to comfort what she’s taking from him. Grunts and groans fill the room and this time he bites his own lip to make himself believe he’s not enjoying the wave as it falls over him.
His head falls back against the wall. Eyes close and he pretends he’s somewhere else. Another room. Another ship that doesn’t fester and rot under his nail-scarred flesh.
Exhaustion finds him only to awaken as something is shoved between his lips. He pushes himself away only to be stopped by a chastising hand against his chest.
The single word belies sympathy, the food shoved into his mouth. He chokes and wants to spit out the flesh. His head falls forward as the room spins and he swallows. Stomach clenching, he hopes he’ll vomit. His body has other plans, needs, and it works to find sustenance any way it can after so many days of slowly dying.
“Good. You must remain strong. The family needs…I need you, to remain strong.”
Fetid air brushes his face as a calloused hand rubs against his chest. He wasn’t as lucky as he thought.
His gaze shifts and he tries not to think as the unwanted touch begins to creep downward. He can see himself, lying askew against the far wall. Head lolling aimlessly.
Too many Crichtons can spoil the pot. The thought would have been funny once upon a time, but he’s watched himself crawling on all fours too often.
The other was the luckier one of them both. Understanding left him long ago. One twinning too many, and the man can only converse with the wall.
He arches under the practiced hand and feels like he’s dying. His body shudders and collapses onto the floor. He’s not lucky enough to die today.
He sleeps and dreams of a life that was once his own, but now he shares. Not with just one, or two, but with a dozen. Soon that number will dwindle once more to him and his brother before beginning all over again.
The chains are heavy on his wrists. Built to hold a Luxan during hyper-rage, they are a constant reminder of all that he’s lost.
You are leading us to our death!
He always hated it when D’Argo was right.
He moves slowly under the weight. His body weakened and growing more emaciated with each passing day, but he still tries to push away another Xarai that approaches him after Kaarvok finishes feeding on one of the Crichton brothers.
The male advances once more, faster. A fist connects against his skull. The room darkens slightly around the edges, another figure joins the first, and he lies there as he’s cleaned. Cool tongues wipe away the fresh blood, cum and sweat from his skin. He’s sad that the touch no longer fills him with revulsion.
Several pregnant females sidle slowly up to feed in the center of the room; they smile, their distended stomachs scrapping along the floor.
“Havin’ my baby…” Falling silent, he wants it all to go away.
His chained twin drops the remains of what was once Pilot’s arm and licks himself clean of the rivulets of blood. He isn’t privy to the same four-star treatment.
He’s left alone at last and he curls up in the farthest corner. Cocooning himself away from the sights and sounds of the room. He wonders if the others had been able to complete any or all of the repairs to the pod before they fell or even if there is a pod remaining in the hangar. Brushing his cheek against the cold floor, soft keening erupts from his throat at the idea. He tries to stop. To not draw attention to himself, but he can’t.
He soon falls asleep, and dreams of a life that was once his own, but no longer is. And he slowly dies a little inside as he builds the family he used to want.