Pairing: John/Rodney, John/OFCs
Rating: light NC17
Summary: ten fantasies John Sheppard fulfilled on the way to happiness
Spoilers: a brief, character spoiler from Trinity
AN: Thanks to Laura and Amy! Also, flowers.
Amy Reznor. Beautiful girl, really. Tall, slender, gorgeous. But of course, no one likes her, because she’s different.
Well, so is John.
So he asks her out. Asks her to Prom. And hey, out of her loose, black clothes, under her abrasive, bitter personality, she’s everything. Soft and beautiful, encased in flimsy, bright colours. John’s corsage suits her perfectly, and he pins it to her with steady hands. Prom night, and they look like the King and Queen; they won’t be, no, but they look like it.
That night, John falls a little bit in love with her. With Amy, smart, sarcastic Amy Reznor, loner and rebel both.
That night, she gives John herself, sleeps with him, her first, and in return he gives her what little he can, and the next day he invites her to sit with him in class, begs her to watch his game, welcomes her into the superficial world of the vapid and popular. And he smiles as she backs out, retreats, and he makes sure to wave at her in the halls.
In a class of bored jocks, stuttering geeks, and pretty, primping girls, John Sheppard is Mr Jandy’s saviour. One kid, in an ocean of ordinary, who stands out, who pays attention, who has pi memorised to the 22nd digit by choice.
John Sheppard. Pretty boy, jock, math genius, and the boy wants to fly.
The disturbing thing is that he can, if he wants to.
But now, right now, he’s in Math class, at the back with the jocks and the burnouts, but he’s taking notes, he’s raising his hand to answer a question, and in Mr Jandy’s worn briefcase, his latest test has an ecstatically red A+ scrawled over the right corner.
He’s never had a student so appreciative, a student who understands the beauty and elegance of math; but John Sheppard does, and that, right there, it’s almost enough to make up for twelve years of teaching ignorant ingrates. Not quite, but almost.
John’s third, fourth, fifth girlfriend, Laura, Laura Dancy, she has a habit of somehow, somehow, manipulating John into doing what she wants. What he doesn’t.
It’s how he learned salsa dancing. How he tried abseiling. How he watched Cary Grant movie after Cary Grant movie. It’s also how he discovered his mild, mild allergy to crayfish. Just a rash, furiously red, spreading down his face, neck, chest. Painful.
It’s also how he ends up here. Here, sprawled spread-eagled over his, her, bed, hands and ankles cuffed, trussed like a turkey. Blindfolded, of course, and gagged; the restraints trapping him, the gag choking him, and he doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to do it, but he is, and he’s at her mercy. Just like she wants.
Just like always.
And he can’t escape, just gives in, lies inert and allows her to manipulate him until finally, she’s done, he’s done, and she lets him go.
A week later, she breaks up with him.
Mr Sheppard— no, no, General Sheppard, he’s military, mustn’t forget that— all he wants for his son is a military career. Anything to toughen the boy up.
The boy, with his non-regulation hair and that insolent grin, his inability to follow goddamn orders- Sheppard Senior doesn’t understand his son at all.
And the idiot wants to join the air force. Did, indeed, join USAF. Wants to fly, he said. And now he’s off to war.
About damn time. Maybe he can make a man of himself, grow up some. Maybe. He’s not holding much hope, though. Not since he caught John on his knees in front of Weatherly, the kid down the road. Though if there’s anything the US military is good at, it’s driving out that type of thing right out of a boy.
Mrs Sheppard— no military status there— loves her son. She does, really, she loves him with all the affection she’s never expended on her husband, his father.
What she hates, however, is violence. She hates death and crime, prefers to stay in her pretty house and bake, prefers to look after her John. So when John leaves, flies off to war without so much as a backward glance, it breaks her heart.
When he appears again, with new scars, with a blank look in his eyes, with a newly lazy drawl, her heart heals again. Her son, the Southern Gentleman, safely home from war, from protecting his country.
And she loves her son, she does, but she hates his father, and the next time John leaves, her heart breaks again and never quite heals.
The first time Elizabeth Weir meets John Sheppard, he lights up her life. He sits in a chair, he leans back, and magic happens.
In the space of five minutes, John Sheppard gives her Atlantis, gives her freedom, adventure, frees her from diplomatic bullshit.
She falls maybe, maybe, a tiny bit in love with him.
And the technology he lights up, oh, it’s beautiful. Scientific and medical equipment that advances them by centuries. And scrolls, scrolls and scrolls of information, enough to keep Daniel Jackson in raptures for years.
And John, blessed John, does it accidentally.
In Sateda, military was everything. Would, still, be so, if not for the Wraith. And in the military, your Taskmaster is almost your lord.
More your master than your King. More your lover than your wife. More your comrade than your brother. And for Ronon, Kel fulfilled them all. Traitorous bastard, yes, but still a Taskmaster. And Ronon still loved him.
Then he ran. Ran. Seven solitary years, heart pounding, feet pounding, and then he was saved. A scientist, a doctor, a warrior diplomat—and a Taskmaster. John Sheppard. And a fine Taskmaster, too. Noble. Brave. Intelligent, to a degree. Maybe, maybe, a little too careful with enemy lives.
Sheppard doesn’t like the loyalty, the obedience, the need; despises the subservience, but he accepts it. Ignores it, mostly, but he understands. He does it.
He does it, he plays a Taskmaster, because Ronon needs it, and that’s what makes him a fine leader, he does what his people need.
Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell. Don’t Pursue. The basis on which the hypocrisy of the US military is founded. It’s enough to make tightly clenched teeth ache, and John’s no exception.
That’s why in emergency #536, when Atlantis opens Lorne’s doors for him, he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react at all, in fact, to his 21C lying naked in bed, arm wrapped securely around his bed partner.
His partner, one David Parrish, and John spares a thought to wonder at the apparent siren call of shy, excitable botanists.
John raises a hand to his ear, fakes a radio call, turns away. He calls back for Lorne, over his shoulder without looking, and leaves, knows that they know he knows, but that’s alright.
He’ll prove his worth. He is not a hypocrite, he likes to think he’s a good friend, a good CO. and he’ll keep this secret, he’ll protect his men, and that’s enough.
It’s not quite a secret than John and Rodney are friends. Best friends. Almost brothers.
They love each other. They share heated glances, they touch innocently, innocuously. Incessantly. They play off each other, they trust, they share. And then one day, John turns around and kisses Rodney. Just slams him up against the wall and devours his mouth, catches every moan and whimper, lets Rodney grind high up into his leg until he comes, comes, comes.
Then, John pushes him down on the bed, peels away every layer of clothing, every barrier, and he kisses down, down and he slicks his fingers and slides them into Rodney, first one, then another, then another. And then, then, he sits back and pulls an incoherent Rodney into his lap, slides up into him slow and sweet, slow and sweet, and Rodney groans and moans and sweats, falling apart in John’s arms, and when Rodney comes a second time, John follows helplessly in his wake.
It’s not that he never wanted to be fucked. It’s just that there’s never been anyone he trusts. No one he trusts to see him vulnerable.
And then Rodney comes along. And he loves John. Loves him like physics and Atlantis and coffee, more than those, and he’s not pushing John. Hasn’t even asked, but he wants to, he’s not that good a liar. He wants to fuck John, wants to push into him firm and steady, wants to spread him open.
John wants it too.
So he says yes. He says yes and welcomes Rodney’s big, big hands. And he jerks in surprise at Rodney’s tongue, wet and warm and dexterous, sliding over his balls, perineum until he reaches shadows, and then he licks, a wide, wet swathe over John’s crack before he firms the point of his tongue and drives in, in, in.
John comes the second Rodney enters him, after hours of foreplay, so slick and stretched there’s barely any burn, just enough to build on the pleasure, and Rodney fucks him and fucks him until he comes again.
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