![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
darkrosetiger.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sga_flashficAuthor: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkrosetiger
Pairings/Characters: John/various OMCs, John/Jack Urgyle
Archive:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_flashfic; all others, please ask.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~3,400 words
Summary: Before Atlantis, John wasn't sure where home was.
Warnings: Includes kink. Spoilers through "The Return, Part 2"; minor spoilers for "Sunday".
Disclaimer: I don't own them and I'm not pretending to. OMGMGMDUNSUE!
Notes: For the "Return" challenge onsga_flashfic. Master Chief John James Urgyle is from GI Jane, played by Viggo Mortensen. Many thanks, as always, to telesilla for not only giving this a once-over, but also for letting me borrow parts of her life. Thanks also to E. for the German help.
Age 6
John liked California. He liked living on the beach, even if the water was too cold to swim in most of the time. He liked being able to drive to Disneyland every weekend if he wanted. (Not that his parents would let him, but still, it was cool to know that he could.) He liked his school and his teachers and riding his bike everywhere. And he especially liked his best friend Joel.
Joel's dad flew planes like John's dad, and like John, Joel wanted to fly too. The two of them spent half of their time together playing pilot--or even better--astronaut. The other half of the time, they hung out in the kitchen at Joel's house. John's mom was a good cook, but Mrs. Allen made them enchiladas that burned their tongues from both the oven and the chilies, and carnitas that took forever to cook and made their mouths water even from upstairs just from the smell, and best of all, she would sometimes make pan dulce, with frosting in any color they wanted--and she always let them lick the frosting spoons. John's mom was pretty, but privately, he thought that Mrs. Allen was beautiful, with her dark hair and caramel skin and the way she sang under her breath when she was cooking. (Much later and many light years from Santa Barbara, he'd meet a woman on a planet called Athos who would immediately make him think of Joel's mother.)
John didn't understand why they had to move to Colorado, but he did know that it meant he'd probably never see Joel again, at least for a long time. Since Joel's dad flew planes too, he figured he could just live with them and eat Mrs. Allen's cooking until he and Joel were old enough to go to pilot school. The day of the move, while his parents were scrambling with last-minute packing, John walked up the street to the Allen's house. When his parents came for him a couple of hours later, Mrs. Allen hugged him tightly and gave him a package with coyotas and empanadas and pan dulce.
John stared out of the back window for almost all of the drive to Denver.
Age 12
Even before the funeral, John was sick of people telling him how brave he was. His suit was uncomfortable and he didn't want to eat any of the fourteen casseroles and it was hot and none of it was going to bring his mother back. He spent most of the funeral itself staring straight ahead and trying not to look at the casket, because no matter how good a job everyone said the funeral home had done, the thin, still figure with the grey hair and waxy skin was not his mother and he thought it was stupid to pretend otherwise.
There were enough people crowding the living room afterwards that no one noticed when John slipped out the back door. Climbing the fence in his good shoes was tough, but he finally got over and wandered down to the creek.
He'd been sitting by the water tossing pebbles in for about an hour when his dad came and sat next to him. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, his dad tossed a pebble in.
"I miss her too," he told John quietly.
When John turned to look at him, his father's face was wet. John bit his lip, wondering if that meant he didn't have to keep holding back the tears he'd felt prickling at the edges of his eyes for the past five months, since his mom got really sick. His father put his arms around John and pulled him close; John figured that meant it was okay for him to bury his face in his father's starched dress shirt and cry too. It was the first time John ever let anyone see him cry, and the last, until Atlantis.
Age 16
John actually ran away twice that year. The first time was an accident. He'd gone off-base with a couple of his friends, and when they were ready to leave, he told them to go on and he'd catch up with them later. As soon as they were out of sight, he retraced his steps back to the club they'd passed earlier in the day. John wasn't stupid and he'd joined in with the others in laughing about the fags; if he was curious about what went on inside a gay bar, his friends didn't need to know.
It was late afternoon, and the bar was mostly empty. He got a few appreciative glances, nothing that he wasn't used to--although he could never quite figure it out, because the guy he saw in the mirror every morning with the Vulcan ears, pointy nose, and hair that didn't need gel to spike didn't seem like anything special. Ignoring the looks, John sauntered up to the bar like he did this every day and said, "Ein Bier, bitte."
He took his beer back to a table in the corner where he could see the whole room. John was a little surprised to see that none of the guys--and everyone in the club, as far as he could tell, was male--were all that girly-looking. A couple of the bigger guys looked like bikers; they were watching John closely. He smiled and nodded in their direction.
"You're cute."
John looked up. The person smiling down at him was too tall, and his hands were way too big for a girl, even with the long tight skirt and the makeup that suggested otherwise. When John didn't answer right away, the guy sat across from him and trailed his long, thin fingers down John's arm and smiled.
"I'm Ricki. What's your name?"
John swallowed hard. "John. Really, I mean...that's my name."
Ricki tilted his head back and laughed. John stared, mesmerized by the long white column of his throat.
"Would you like to dance, John?" Ricki stood up and held out a hand. John took it.
"Sure--why not?"
"Dancing" in this case seemed to involve Ricki pressing close against John and moving his hips in a way guaranteed to make a sixteen-year-old boy flush and stammer. It wasn't bad, John decided, just a little weird, and by the time the song faded into something else, "weird" had become "kind of good".
John didn't balk when Ricki took his hand again and led him outside to an alley behind the club where he gently pushed John against the wall before kneeling in front of him. Despite his attempt to play it cool, like gorgeous German guys gave him blowjobs every day of the week and twice on Sundays, John came almost as soon as Ricki sucked his cock into his mouth.
It wasn't until he was halfway back to the base that he noticed his wallet was missing. Despite the time and his lack of ID, the guards at the gate didn't hassle him too much once he told them he was General Sheppard's son.
Two months later, after his last final, John shoved a couple of t-shirts and a spare pair of jeans into his backpack and went back to the Blue Angel. Ricki was sitting at the bar with a couple of friends; he flushed red when John sat down next to him.
"Buy me a drink?" John said, smiling. "I figure you owe me one."
He crashed on Ricki's couch for the next two nights. On the third day, one of Ricki's roommates asked (very politely) how long John was planning to stay. In slightly stilted German, John explained that he was kind of broke.
Ricki gave him a long look. "I think we may be able to do something about that."
Over the next three weeks, John learned how to give a quick, efficient blowjob. He discovered that when he was getting fucked, he liked it hard and fast and rough, and that he preferred to be bent over a railing or shoved against a wall rather than being on his back. He learned how to put on makeup, just a little eyeliner and some lip gloss to emphasize the fact that he had what Ricki said was a mouth made for cocksucking. Dietrich and Karl, the two big guys he'd noticed his first time in the club, started looking out for him like they did with the other boys; John knew he was family the first time Dietrich stepped in when a guy with a nasty rep tried to get John to go out back. His German improved. John was happy, because he'd realized that he liked sucking cock and getting fucked, and he was good at both.
Frankfurt was a big city, but while John knew that eventually someone would track him down, he didn't expect it would happen as quickly as it did--or in the way that it did. John was going inside after a client when he collided with one of the other boys who was heading out back with his latest.
"Es tut mir leid," he muttered as he pushed past.
"John? Oh my God..." The words were in English, in an American accent.
John looked up at one of the officers who worked with his father. They both stood there, staring for a moment before John continued inside. When he got back to the flat, he counted out enough for the next week's food and rent, changed clothes and stuffed the spare things he'd brought into his backpack, and wrote a note thanking the guys for letting him crash. He left the black mesh shirt, vinyl pants, and all of his makeup for someone else to use and caught the bus back to the base.
His father was sitting in the kitchen, head in his hands. He didn't look up when John came in. John wondered when, exactly, his father had noticed that he was missing.
When his father finally stood up, his back was military-straight as always, and he looked at some point slightly over John's head. "I've made some phone calls since Major Barnett told me he saw you in town," he told his son. "You're booked on a flight to Dulles on Friday. Your Aunt Carol and Uncle Stuart will meet you at the airport, and you'll stay with them until your classes start at VMI in September."
John was tempted to salute, but didn't. "Yes, sir." He turned to go.
"If your mother--" he heard his father say quietly behind him.
"Don't." John went upstairs and started to pack.
Age 27
When things really started to fall apart, April asked John if he'd ever loved her at all. It turned out that "I thought I did at the time," was not the right answer. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that he'd gotten married because that's what you did if you were an officer who wanted to get promoted. And if you were an officer who wanted to get promoted who was maybe a little bit--or even a lot--attracted to other guys, then you'd damn well better get married if you didn't want people to start asking and telling.
One night a week before the wedding, John changed into his riding leathers and rode his bike into San Francisco to a leather bar South of Market that he'd closed his eyes and picked out of the Bay Guardian. It was crowded and noisy and the smoke stung his nostrils; it had been a long time since the clubs in Frankfurt.
The guy he was looking for was sitting at the bar. John watched as he turned away three hopeful boys in the course of forty-five minutes, and grinned.
"Hey, could I get a Coke? And...whatever he's drinking?" he asked the bartender who smirked before pouring a hideously overpriced Coke and a club soda. John took both drinks to the other end of the bar and sat next to his target, sliding the second over to him.
"Navy? Or Marines?" John asked. The guy raised an eyebrow. "The mustache. Perfect regulation length--only reason to wear it like that."
The other man studied John for a few long seconds. "Navy. And you must be Air Force--nobody else would let you get away with that hair."
John laughed. "You got me there."
"Officer."
"Yeah."
He nodded. "Figured. Every other boy who's tried to get me to top him tonight has given me a 'Sir', at least. Not you. So my question is, are you as bad at following orders as I think you are?"
John smiled. This was going to be fun. "Depends on who's giving them."
The other man shook his head. "Fucking smart-assed flyboy." He drained his glass and stood up. "I'm looking for a boy I can hurt and maybe fuck. I don't want to know your name, and you don't need to know mine; all you need to know is that regardless of who we are when we step out of that door, right here and right now, I'm the one giving the orders. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir." John got up and followed his top for the night to one of the smaller playrooms. He pointed to an empty St. Andrew's Cross.
"Get undressed; I'll put the cuffs on you when you're done." John did as he was told, stripping quickly and leaning against the cross with his back to the room. As his top fastened the cuffs on, he glanced down at John's already-hard cock and arched an eyebrow.
"Do you need something for that, boy?"
The "boy" made John shiver. "No. No, Sir, I'll be fine."
"All right. You ready?"
"Yes, Sir." John got the words out only a second before the heavy weight of a flogger came down on his back. He tensed on the second stroke, trying to make himself relax.
"Been a while, boy?"
"Yes, Sir." Not since the Academy, when he'd managed to find a cadet who got off on putting John over his lap and spanking him, although John had always found it hard not to laugh when Mark had said things like, "That's Daddy's good boy."
He was just getting used to the solid thud of the big flogger when his top switched to a pair of whips that were lighter and stung more. That made him squirm a little and he was glad that he was restrained. Fortunately, his top didn't seem to mind John's wriggling; he never missed a stroke or wrapped.
After a while, his top switched again, this time to something nice and thuddy. It was easy for John to slip back into that space where he wasn't Rick Sheppard's son or April's fiance or anything other than a back and an ass and a mouth for someone else to do things to, where he didn't have to make decisions that might get someone killed or try to live up to anyone's expectations.
By the time the other man let him down and pushed him to his knees, John was flying on endorphins, which wasn't quite as good as really flying, but it came damn close. He gagged a little when the guy shoved his cock down his throat; he hated the taste of latex, even though he knew it was necessary. He was well aware of how lucky he'd been during those weeks on the street in Frankfurt.
His top didn't talk once he started, not during the beating, or when John was giving him a professional-quality blowjob, or when he pulled John up and shoved him against the wall so he could fuck him. It wasn't until the almost painful stretch of a cock in his ass and the friction of clothes against heated skin had John biting his lip to hold himself back that the other man finally spoke, growling into John's ear, "Come, boy. Now." John had no trouble obeying that order.
Unlike most of his tricks in Germany, this guy stuck around while John cleaned up and got dressed, and made sure that he was walking in a straight line before getting on his bike.
"Thanks," John told him.
"Not bad. I usually drop by here once or twice a month. Just ask Mike at the bar if Jack's been around." He nodded once and went back inside.
There were four increasingly frantic messages from April on his machine when John got back. He apologized profusely the next morning and pretended to be interested in the last-minute wedding preparations. He thought about going back to the bar, but he'd made a promise to April, and even if he couldn't be what she wanted him to be, he could at least take the "forsaking all others" part of their wedding vows seriously.
Two years later, after April had realized that her attempts to mold John into her ideal officer, gentleman and husband were doomed to failure, John rode into the City and went back to the bar. Mike was there, but he told John that Jack hadn't been around for over a year.
Age 35
John flipped the coin again. Like the last sixteen times, he forgot to call it, which was okay, because he still hadn't decided whether he wanted to go or not. The whole thing still sounded like an elaborate practical joke. On the other hand, while he liked Antarctica, he knew it would eventually get boring--another galaxy, probably not so much.
He wondered if he should call his father if he decided to go. In the end, he called late at night and left a message on the machine saying that he'd gotten a remote posting and wouldn't be in touch for a while.
Several months later, when Ford was collecting the videotaped messages to send back to the SGC, John thought about leaving a message for his father. He couldn't figure out what to say, so he figured it would be better not to say anything.
Age 38
John couldn't help feeling a little smug at the way Atlantis seemed to be welcoming them home. Lights came on and doors opened almost before he thought about them, and even Elizabeth swore that she heard soft music in her quarters. Jack O'Neil told John that it was "a little weird. It's like the city's flirting with you, and that's just just not right." The general clearly thought that the members of the Atlantis team were more than slightly whacked, but he did agree to see to it that General Richard Sheppard (Ret.) got his security clearance raised enough to know about the Stargate Program and Atlantis.
One of the Tria's crew had evidently claimed John's room, because there were several sets of neutral-toned clothing in his closet, a slim book that looked like a journal in Ancient on the dresser, and a holographic image of two men about John's age with matching grins suspended in a frame on the nightstand. John left everything where it was except for shoving the clothes over to make room for his things when they arrived on the next Daedalus run and wondered if coming back to Atlantis after ten thousand years had felt for the Ancients like it did for him, coming back after seven weeks.
Teyla was the first to show up, knocking politely on the door frame before coming in. John offered to give her the journal, since she read Ancient a lot better than he did, but she smiled and folded his fingers over the book, her hand warm against his. She was still there when Ronon stopped in a few minutes later. The two of them were telling John about Ladon's offer when Rodney charged in, complaining that there wasn't anything in the kitchens and that Elizabeth had told him they'd have to fend for themselves for a few days. Fortunately, Ronon had a couple of MRE's hidden inside the bottomless pockets of his coat, so they ended up having an impromptu picnic in John's room while Rodney tried to explain Area 51 and the whole Roswell thing to Ronon and Teyla, somehow digressing into a discussion of Ed Wood movies. John mostly sat back and listened and let himself relax for the first time since they'd found the Tria, now that he was back at home with his team.
darkrosetigerPairings/Characters: John/various OMCs, John/Jack Urgyle
Archive:
sga_flashfic; all others, please ask.Rating: NC-17
Length: ~3,400 words
Summary: Before Atlantis, John wasn't sure where home was.
Warnings: Includes kink. Spoilers through "The Return, Part 2"; minor spoilers for "Sunday".
Disclaimer: I don't own them and I'm not pretending to. OMGMGMDUNSUE!
Notes: For the "Return" challenge on
sga_flashfic. Master Chief John James Urgyle is from GI Jane, played by Viggo Mortensen. Many thanks, as always, to telesilla for not only giving this a once-over, but also for letting me borrow parts of her life. Thanks also to E. for the German help.Age 6
John liked California. He liked living on the beach, even if the water was too cold to swim in most of the time. He liked being able to drive to Disneyland every weekend if he wanted. (Not that his parents would let him, but still, it was cool to know that he could.) He liked his school and his teachers and riding his bike everywhere. And he especially liked his best friend Joel.
Joel's dad flew planes like John's dad, and like John, Joel wanted to fly too. The two of them spent half of their time together playing pilot--or even better--astronaut. The other half of the time, they hung out in the kitchen at Joel's house. John's mom was a good cook, but Mrs. Allen made them enchiladas that burned their tongues from both the oven and the chilies, and carnitas that took forever to cook and made their mouths water even from upstairs just from the smell, and best of all, she would sometimes make pan dulce, with frosting in any color they wanted--and she always let them lick the frosting spoons. John's mom was pretty, but privately, he thought that Mrs. Allen was beautiful, with her dark hair and caramel skin and the way she sang under her breath when she was cooking. (Much later and many light years from Santa Barbara, he'd meet a woman on a planet called Athos who would immediately make him think of Joel's mother.)
John didn't understand why they had to move to Colorado, but he did know that it meant he'd probably never see Joel again, at least for a long time. Since Joel's dad flew planes too, he figured he could just live with them and eat Mrs. Allen's cooking until he and Joel were old enough to go to pilot school. The day of the move, while his parents were scrambling with last-minute packing, John walked up the street to the Allen's house. When his parents came for him a couple of hours later, Mrs. Allen hugged him tightly and gave him a package with coyotas and empanadas and pan dulce.
John stared out of the back window for almost all of the drive to Denver.
Age 12
Even before the funeral, John was sick of people telling him how brave he was. His suit was uncomfortable and he didn't want to eat any of the fourteen casseroles and it was hot and none of it was going to bring his mother back. He spent most of the funeral itself staring straight ahead and trying not to look at the casket, because no matter how good a job everyone said the funeral home had done, the thin, still figure with the grey hair and waxy skin was not his mother and he thought it was stupid to pretend otherwise.
There were enough people crowding the living room afterwards that no one noticed when John slipped out the back door. Climbing the fence in his good shoes was tough, but he finally got over and wandered down to the creek.
He'd been sitting by the water tossing pebbles in for about an hour when his dad came and sat next to him. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, his dad tossed a pebble in.
"I miss her too," he told John quietly.
When John turned to look at him, his father's face was wet. John bit his lip, wondering if that meant he didn't have to keep holding back the tears he'd felt prickling at the edges of his eyes for the past five months, since his mom got really sick. His father put his arms around John and pulled him close; John figured that meant it was okay for him to bury his face in his father's starched dress shirt and cry too. It was the first time John ever let anyone see him cry, and the last, until Atlantis.
Age 16
John actually ran away twice that year. The first time was an accident. He'd gone off-base with a couple of his friends, and when they were ready to leave, he told them to go on and he'd catch up with them later. As soon as they were out of sight, he retraced his steps back to the club they'd passed earlier in the day. John wasn't stupid and he'd joined in with the others in laughing about the fags; if he was curious about what went on inside a gay bar, his friends didn't need to know.
It was late afternoon, and the bar was mostly empty. He got a few appreciative glances, nothing that he wasn't used to--although he could never quite figure it out, because the guy he saw in the mirror every morning with the Vulcan ears, pointy nose, and hair that didn't need gel to spike didn't seem like anything special. Ignoring the looks, John sauntered up to the bar like he did this every day and said, "Ein Bier, bitte."
He took his beer back to a table in the corner where he could see the whole room. John was a little surprised to see that none of the guys--and everyone in the club, as far as he could tell, was male--were all that girly-looking. A couple of the bigger guys looked like bikers; they were watching John closely. He smiled and nodded in their direction.
"You're cute."
John looked up. The person smiling down at him was too tall, and his hands were way too big for a girl, even with the long tight skirt and the makeup that suggested otherwise. When John didn't answer right away, the guy sat across from him and trailed his long, thin fingers down John's arm and smiled.
"I'm Ricki. What's your name?"
John swallowed hard. "John. Really, I mean...that's my name."
Ricki tilted his head back and laughed. John stared, mesmerized by the long white column of his throat.
"Would you like to dance, John?" Ricki stood up and held out a hand. John took it.
"Sure--why not?"
"Dancing" in this case seemed to involve Ricki pressing close against John and moving his hips in a way guaranteed to make a sixteen-year-old boy flush and stammer. It wasn't bad, John decided, just a little weird, and by the time the song faded into something else, "weird" had become "kind of good".
John didn't balk when Ricki took his hand again and led him outside to an alley behind the club where he gently pushed John against the wall before kneeling in front of him. Despite his attempt to play it cool, like gorgeous German guys gave him blowjobs every day of the week and twice on Sundays, John came almost as soon as Ricki sucked his cock into his mouth.
It wasn't until he was halfway back to the base that he noticed his wallet was missing. Despite the time and his lack of ID, the guards at the gate didn't hassle him too much once he told them he was General Sheppard's son.
Two months later, after his last final, John shoved a couple of t-shirts and a spare pair of jeans into his backpack and went back to the Blue Angel. Ricki was sitting at the bar with a couple of friends; he flushed red when John sat down next to him.
"Buy me a drink?" John said, smiling. "I figure you owe me one."
He crashed on Ricki's couch for the next two nights. On the third day, one of Ricki's roommates asked (very politely) how long John was planning to stay. In slightly stilted German, John explained that he was kind of broke.
Ricki gave him a long look. "I think we may be able to do something about that."
Over the next three weeks, John learned how to give a quick, efficient blowjob. He discovered that when he was getting fucked, he liked it hard and fast and rough, and that he preferred to be bent over a railing or shoved against a wall rather than being on his back. He learned how to put on makeup, just a little eyeliner and some lip gloss to emphasize the fact that he had what Ricki said was a mouth made for cocksucking. Dietrich and Karl, the two big guys he'd noticed his first time in the club, started looking out for him like they did with the other boys; John knew he was family the first time Dietrich stepped in when a guy with a nasty rep tried to get John to go out back. His German improved. John was happy, because he'd realized that he liked sucking cock and getting fucked, and he was good at both.
Frankfurt was a big city, but while John knew that eventually someone would track him down, he didn't expect it would happen as quickly as it did--or in the way that it did. John was going inside after a client when he collided with one of the other boys who was heading out back with his latest.
"Es tut mir leid," he muttered as he pushed past.
"John? Oh my God..." The words were in English, in an American accent.
John looked up at one of the officers who worked with his father. They both stood there, staring for a moment before John continued inside. When he got back to the flat, he counted out enough for the next week's food and rent, changed clothes and stuffed the spare things he'd brought into his backpack, and wrote a note thanking the guys for letting him crash. He left the black mesh shirt, vinyl pants, and all of his makeup for someone else to use and caught the bus back to the base.
His father was sitting in the kitchen, head in his hands. He didn't look up when John came in. John wondered when, exactly, his father had noticed that he was missing.
When his father finally stood up, his back was military-straight as always, and he looked at some point slightly over John's head. "I've made some phone calls since Major Barnett told me he saw you in town," he told his son. "You're booked on a flight to Dulles on Friday. Your Aunt Carol and Uncle Stuart will meet you at the airport, and you'll stay with them until your classes start at VMI in September."
John was tempted to salute, but didn't. "Yes, sir." He turned to go.
"If your mother--" he heard his father say quietly behind him.
"Don't." John went upstairs and started to pack.
Age 27
When things really started to fall apart, April asked John if he'd ever loved her at all. It turned out that "I thought I did at the time," was not the right answer. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that he'd gotten married because that's what you did if you were an officer who wanted to get promoted. And if you were an officer who wanted to get promoted who was maybe a little bit--or even a lot--attracted to other guys, then you'd damn well better get married if you didn't want people to start asking and telling.
One night a week before the wedding, John changed into his riding leathers and rode his bike into San Francisco to a leather bar South of Market that he'd closed his eyes and picked out of the Bay Guardian. It was crowded and noisy and the smoke stung his nostrils; it had been a long time since the clubs in Frankfurt.
The guy he was looking for was sitting at the bar. John watched as he turned away three hopeful boys in the course of forty-five minutes, and grinned.
"Hey, could I get a Coke? And...whatever he's drinking?" he asked the bartender who smirked before pouring a hideously overpriced Coke and a club soda. John took both drinks to the other end of the bar and sat next to his target, sliding the second over to him.
"Navy? Or Marines?" John asked. The guy raised an eyebrow. "The mustache. Perfect regulation length--only reason to wear it like that."
The other man studied John for a few long seconds. "Navy. And you must be Air Force--nobody else would let you get away with that hair."
John laughed. "You got me there."
"Officer."
"Yeah."
He nodded. "Figured. Every other boy who's tried to get me to top him tonight has given me a 'Sir', at least. Not you. So my question is, are you as bad at following orders as I think you are?"
John smiled. This was going to be fun. "Depends on who's giving them."
The other man shook his head. "Fucking smart-assed flyboy." He drained his glass and stood up. "I'm looking for a boy I can hurt and maybe fuck. I don't want to know your name, and you don't need to know mine; all you need to know is that regardless of who we are when we step out of that door, right here and right now, I'm the one giving the orders. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir." John got up and followed his top for the night to one of the smaller playrooms. He pointed to an empty St. Andrew's Cross.
"Get undressed; I'll put the cuffs on you when you're done." John did as he was told, stripping quickly and leaning against the cross with his back to the room. As his top fastened the cuffs on, he glanced down at John's already-hard cock and arched an eyebrow.
"Do you need something for that, boy?"
The "boy" made John shiver. "No. No, Sir, I'll be fine."
"All right. You ready?"
"Yes, Sir." John got the words out only a second before the heavy weight of a flogger came down on his back. He tensed on the second stroke, trying to make himself relax.
"Been a while, boy?"
"Yes, Sir." Not since the Academy, when he'd managed to find a cadet who got off on putting John over his lap and spanking him, although John had always found it hard not to laugh when Mark had said things like, "That's Daddy's good boy."
He was just getting used to the solid thud of the big flogger when his top switched to a pair of whips that were lighter and stung more. That made him squirm a little and he was glad that he was restrained. Fortunately, his top didn't seem to mind John's wriggling; he never missed a stroke or wrapped.
After a while, his top switched again, this time to something nice and thuddy. It was easy for John to slip back into that space where he wasn't Rick Sheppard's son or April's fiance or anything other than a back and an ass and a mouth for someone else to do things to, where he didn't have to make decisions that might get someone killed or try to live up to anyone's expectations.
By the time the other man let him down and pushed him to his knees, John was flying on endorphins, which wasn't quite as good as really flying, but it came damn close. He gagged a little when the guy shoved his cock down his throat; he hated the taste of latex, even though he knew it was necessary. He was well aware of how lucky he'd been during those weeks on the street in Frankfurt.
His top didn't talk once he started, not during the beating, or when John was giving him a professional-quality blowjob, or when he pulled John up and shoved him against the wall so he could fuck him. It wasn't until the almost painful stretch of a cock in his ass and the friction of clothes against heated skin had John biting his lip to hold himself back that the other man finally spoke, growling into John's ear, "Come, boy. Now." John had no trouble obeying that order.
Unlike most of his tricks in Germany, this guy stuck around while John cleaned up and got dressed, and made sure that he was walking in a straight line before getting on his bike.
"Thanks," John told him.
"Not bad. I usually drop by here once or twice a month. Just ask Mike at the bar if Jack's been around." He nodded once and went back inside.
There were four increasingly frantic messages from April on his machine when John got back. He apologized profusely the next morning and pretended to be interested in the last-minute wedding preparations. He thought about going back to the bar, but he'd made a promise to April, and even if he couldn't be what she wanted him to be, he could at least take the "forsaking all others" part of their wedding vows seriously.
Two years later, after April had realized that her attempts to mold John into her ideal officer, gentleman and husband were doomed to failure, John rode into the City and went back to the bar. Mike was there, but he told John that Jack hadn't been around for over a year.
Age 35
John flipped the coin again. Like the last sixteen times, he forgot to call it, which was okay, because he still hadn't decided whether he wanted to go or not. The whole thing still sounded like an elaborate practical joke. On the other hand, while he liked Antarctica, he knew it would eventually get boring--another galaxy, probably not so much.
He wondered if he should call his father if he decided to go. In the end, he called late at night and left a message on the machine saying that he'd gotten a remote posting and wouldn't be in touch for a while.
Several months later, when Ford was collecting the videotaped messages to send back to the SGC, John thought about leaving a message for his father. He couldn't figure out what to say, so he figured it would be better not to say anything.
Age 38
John couldn't help feeling a little smug at the way Atlantis seemed to be welcoming them home. Lights came on and doors opened almost before he thought about them, and even Elizabeth swore that she heard soft music in her quarters. Jack O'Neil told John that it was "a little weird. It's like the city's flirting with you, and that's just just not right." The general clearly thought that the members of the Atlantis team were more than slightly whacked, but he did agree to see to it that General Richard Sheppard (Ret.) got his security clearance raised enough to know about the Stargate Program and Atlantis.
One of the Tria's crew had evidently claimed John's room, because there were several sets of neutral-toned clothing in his closet, a slim book that looked like a journal in Ancient on the dresser, and a holographic image of two men about John's age with matching grins suspended in a frame on the nightstand. John left everything where it was except for shoving the clothes over to make room for his things when they arrived on the next Daedalus run and wondered if coming back to Atlantis after ten thousand years had felt for the Ancients like it did for him, coming back after seven weeks.
Teyla was the first to show up, knocking politely on the door frame before coming in. John offered to give her the journal, since she read Ancient a lot better than he did, but she smiled and folded his fingers over the book, her hand warm against his. She was still there when Ronon stopped in a few minutes later. The two of them were telling John about Ladon's offer when Rodney charged in, complaining that there wasn't anything in the kitchens and that Elizabeth had told him they'd have to fend for themselves for a few days. Fortunately, Ronon had a couple of MRE's hidden inside the bottomless pockets of his coat, so they ended up having an impromptu picnic in John's room while Rodney tried to explain Area 51 and the whole Roswell thing to Ronon and Teyla, somehow digressing into a discussion of Ed Wood movies. John mostly sat back and listened and let himself relax for the first time since they'd found the Tria, now that he was back at home with his team.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 12:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 07:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 01:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 07:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 05:21 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-01 01:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 05:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-01 02:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-01 01:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-01 01:54 am (UTC)Glad you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-02 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-02 12:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-01 02:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-04 09:52 pm (UTC)