theeverdream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theeverdream) wrote2009-12-17 06:24 pm
theeverdream) wrote2009-12-17 06:24 pm
Entry tags:
His Own Worst Enemy - John Sheppard / doppelganger John (SGA) - Adult
Title: His Own Worst Enemy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theeverdream
Pairing: John / doppelganger!John
Episodes / Spoilers: Set post 4x04 Doppelganger, and alludes to that episode and to the SG-1 episode 1x07 Cold Lazarus.
Words: 3.3k
Rating: Adult for sex / language / themes.
Warnings: Angst. Non-con. Dark!John. Abusive situation regarding OMC and potential underage sex.
Prompt: John / doppelganger!John, issues
Author’s Notes:
beta: HUGE thanks to my wonderful betaslybrarian, whose feedback saved my sanity.
sequel info: This is a self-contained story but may one day have a sequel, so keep your eyes peeled!
cover art: Made by me - click image to enlarge
backstory: Things haven't been going well in the Pegasus galaxy, and the IOA has made Colonel Sheppard and Major Lorne scapegoats, recalling them to the SGC and forcing them to lead teams where the IOA can keep a closer eye on them.
Smells: fresh linen, antiseptic. Infirmary. Open eyes. Blink, blink. Too bright. Eyes closed again. This isn’t...
Atlantis?
Doctor, Sheppard’s conscious.
Beckett?
...
Hi, there, Colonel. How’re you feeling?
Not Beckett.
Open eyes. Focus... focus....
This isn’t Atlantis.
******************************
John Sheppard knows better than to touch any strange crystals, this time around.
He turns away from the shelf of blue crystals and started pacing. His accommodations could by no means be called a cell, but he has no doubt he was a prisoner, albeit a comfortable one. Held hostage against his team’s good behavior on some sort of important first contact trade ally-making thing, he’s been trying to steel himself for a few days of boredom and lounging around.
At least it beats the Wraith and Genii all to pieces.
He glances at the small pile of his supplies they had left him with after they took anything that could be considered remotely dangerous. He reaches out for his candy bar and starts to unwrap it. He had purchased the Milky Way from an on-base vending machine in a fit of irony. He didn’t really want it, and shoved the chocolate into his tac vest later, quiet and sulking.
He was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, right? Always had been. Until Atlantis, of course. And really, who could resist falling in love with a city that sang to you, or easily let go of the only family they’d ever really felt a part of?
John knows now what smiling without faking it really feels like, but that ability seemed to work in the Pegasus galaxy only. He eats the slightly melted chocolate and decides that he’ll ask General O’Neill if they can talk, when he gets back to Earth.
******************************
Lorne. Familiar face.
Voice doesn’t work. Ice chips, melting.... try again.
Atlantis.
No, sir. You’re here at the SGC.
Blink.
Do you remember?
Oh. Yes.
******************************
He knows better than to touch any crystals, which is why he is a little put out that they make him.
When he wakes up, his head hurts and he thinks for a second that he’s hallucinating. There is another John in the room.
Oh crap.
It’s no hallucination. That smirk is unforgettable.
“Hello, John.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” John feels it’s best to get this established right off the bat, because his counterpart is looking at him with sadistic glee. Be cocky, be cool, he tells himself – just like every other capture, despite the fact that the last time he saw this guy he’d ended up with nightmares that left him shaken.
Its voice is silky-smooth: “Oh, yes, you are.”
John smirks. “You’re just a dream.” He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that says it hadn’t been “just” anything.
Apparently it knows things, because it answers, “No, I’m a bit different from the crystal you brought home to Atlantis. I’m here. In reality.”
John blinks, but rallies fast. “Okay, so you’re a guy who just so happens to look like me.” He smirks again. “I don’t get particularly scared when I look in the mirror.”
John should have practiced and used the look that the entity gives him next. It would probably have stopped Wraith in their tracks. “You sure about that?”
John swallows. He’s not so sure. “Yes,” he says.
“I’ve had contact with many beings of your form, and I’ve learned something. No one is that good at lying to himself.”
******************************
Nurses come and go, tests and bright flashy lights and blood taken. Dozing.
And, waking up again. Things feel less dizzying now. Not completely. And there’s this ache, this ache....
Lorne, what happened?
Sir, while your team was on P8X-210 you were exposed to a crystalline being. It was similar to the one, um, that got brought to Atlantis, but the being existed in reality, not dreams. In that way it’s also similar to one that the original SG-1 found here in the Milky Way years ago. We actually think it’s a third distinct species.
Blink.
You with me so far, sir?
... Yeah.
Lorne seems too normal to be sitting by the bed of a dying man.
Am I...?
Sir, you’re gonna be just fine. You got beat up a bit but you should heal quick, and the doctor said the confusion should wear off in a day or so.
******************************
When John looks again, he sees Holland, and he bites off a curse. He is accustomed to seeing his reflection, although not so distorted with evil, but certainly not the long-dead face of the man he couldn’t save.
“This isn’t really who I am,” says Holland.
“No shit,” John gasps, still shaken. It doesn’t help that the face looks as it does in his dreams – Holland in his last moments, broken and bleeding through his final gulp of air.
“You think this is me.”
”What?” John yells, willing Holland away.
And, mercifully, he goes.
John waits a moment while his heartbeat slows, and then he screams at the now-returned other-John - screams with fists balled and anger having replaced his panic.
“Don’t you dare,” he shouts, “use his memory against me!”
“Why not? You do,” the entity responds. “All the time.”
John is a strange mix of confidence and emotional self-flagellation, and when he is in the latter state he focuses, always, on what he could not do for Holland. He thinks this crystal thing might make a strange amount of sense, that maybe he does use Holland’s memory as a weapon against himself, that maybe this isn’t fair to his lost friend.
The entity is apparently giving him some time, obviously seeing the emotions and thoughtfulness play out on John’s face, and then he goes on: “You did everything you could for Holland, you know. You think you failed him, but you didn’t.” John is surprised at the kind words, and they’re nice to hear, even if he doesn’t feel he can believe them. “So Holland isn’t me, no matter how much you think he is. Because I... I am your failure.”
The entity smiles, and steps towards the chair John has sunken into, and kneels at his feet. The gesture would feel submissive except for the manic glint in its eyes.
“Let me show you,” it says, and John doesn’t want to know what’s next.
What’s next is the entity becoming a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. Still kneeling at his feet, the manic look gone.
“You think so often of Holland,” the boy murmurs, “ but what about me?”
There is another shift, and a new image: the same boy, but now beaten. Not bleeding as much as Holland was, which is nice, but looking infinitely more vulnerable and terrified.
The face is now a memory. A young John Sheppard, afraid of his own confusing desires. John’s first sexual encounter: this boy giving John a slow, sweet blow job, and John, sated but shaken, giving him in return a black eye, a bloody nose, and a good-sized dose of fear.
“You don’t even remember my name!” the boy accuses, and it’s true – John had worked so hard to forget.
John reaches out a hand to stroke the boy’s face, but crumples instead, his head now on his arm on the arm of the chair, and all he can do is whisper “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” over and over and over.
The entity lets him wallow for a while, and just when John feels himself getting back together, it starts all over again.
******************************
For two days the entity talks to John, berating him in agonizingly minute and incredibly vivid detail. Not for Holland, not for what he’d tried his best to do, but for the things John usually doesn’t beat himself up about.
If John were more considerate towards women, he wouldn’t be so happy at the missions where the natives want to have sex with them. Sex is fine, but some of those girls have more than lust – he can see hero worship on their faces, and disappointment when he goes.
If John were more considerate towards men, he wouldn’t have lied to Lorne when he asked John how he really felt about him, wouldn’t have angrily denied he liked men too.
If John were more patient, he wouldn’t have felt a bit happy about accidentally shooting McKay in a forest, and if he were a better friend he wouldn’t have fantasies about dominating McKay sexually in order to get him to shut his mouth for once.
If John were a better leader, he wouldn’t have lost Ford; if he were a better lover, he wouldn’t have lost Nancy.
If John were a better human being, he wouldn’t kill other human beings, most of whom are trying to live and follow orders just like him. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep, seeing in his mind all the faces he’s watched die by his hands.
But he’d been sleeping fine.
******************************
There is knowing. There is less remembering, but definitely knowing: there is definitely an earlier vow to refrain from touching any strange crystals.
“Lorne, I didn’t touch it.”
Seeing Lorne looking up after the silence is broken, bright eyes caring and infinitely more aware of the entirety of the situation than this questioning brain.
“Sir?”
“How did I get exposed? To the being.”
“They made you touch it, sir.”
“Why?”
“To be honest, it involves a ton of internal politics of P8X-210 that I won’t even pretend to understand, but the gist of it is that your team messed up in the negotiations and the crystal was punishment.”
******************************
After two days, John longs for the image of Holland to return. At least he... he realizes now that deep down he has always known that wasn’t his fault. But the rest?
He has always been afraid to face the darkest parts of himself. He does not like the man who makes a decision about which lives are worth more than others. Does not like the man who kills people to protect other people. He does not like his sexual fantasies or how he uses people in an attempt to not get too close.
And this dislike has been festering down deep inside him, hidden in favor of brooding about Holland, when in fact the choices he made there were the right ones. And now, this parody of himself is showing him all these things that he knew but didn’t know, and ran from so hard that he didn’t even realize he was running.
John is apparently very, very good at avoidance – better than he could ever have thought. He realizes that this is what he’s been doing his entire life, and when the avoidance periodically broke down and he just had to deal, he was still avoiding dealing with what he should have.
He misses the entity who simply told him he was a bad friend rather than forcing him to finally deal with everything, and all at once.
******************************
The entity has worked itself to a seeming crescendo. “You know what? There’s nothing I can do about any of this. I can’t make the bad things you’ve done go away, can’t make you change your mind about any of this stuff.... But I’ve saved the best for last.
“You’re a narcissistic bastard, Sheppard.”
He looks like he’s waiting for a response but John’s long past the point where he can bring himself to say anything. His posture as he sits in one of the chairs moved past his normal slouch a while ago and is now firmly into “dejected slump,” and his eyes look zoned out and lifeless. John still hears the condemnation, though – every word of it – and it’s true, all true.
“How many pretty girls did you go out with just because they looked nice on your arm? Better yet, how many people did you turn down because they didn’t live up to what your family taught you was good enough?
“How many people did you turn down because they didn’t look as good as you?”
John can see some of their faces, behind closed eyelids that dam away a tear.
“So, since you’re apparently just a gift to humanity, Sheppard, I’m going to do the one thing I can do. I’m going to give you that gift.”
John’s posture becomes a bit more alert, his gaze a tiny bit more focused, and the entity stands up and moves towards him. When it gets to the chair it reaches for John’s arm and pulls him up with ease. Its strength jolts John a bit as he remembers being sent flying up the gateroom stairs like he was a ragdoll. The entity pulls him in close, and that’s another jolt as he remembers being pushed to the floor, looking into his own murderous eyes, and seeing the emotion there that was far worse than getting beaten.
He knows exactly what he sees in the eyes this time, and it isn’t murder. It’s absolute animal lust.
He knows what it intends to do. John can’t quite bring himself to care – not after hour after hour of looking at his sin-stained soul up close. He doesn’t deserve any mercy.
The lips on John’s are warm, wet, full, soft, all things John has enjoyed in the past. But John can barely register these sensations because the kiss is so demanding, so possessive, that the only thing John is filled with is the sense of being owned.
Owned with the force of that mouth pressed against his, the strength of the grip that remains on his wrist, the sting of other hand tangled in and pulling at his hair.
John has been with many men. Blonde and black hair, short and tall, loud and quiet – they’ve all had two things in common. They’ve all been pretty. And they’ve all been weak.
As the entity ends the kiss with a hard, quick bite at his lower lip, John knows: he’s not safe anymore.
It seems that John’s lack of resistance has changed the entity’s approach – while the possessiveness is still there, communicated through every movement of its body, the pure primal animalism is gone. It doesn’t mean John feels less owned, just that, if he had had the presence of mind to be terrified before, he might feel a bit less so now.
He’s being kissed like his body’s not his own, and he just stands there numbly, offering his mouth, his neck, without resistance. Long, thin fingers strip John of his belt and open the button on his pants. They caress the now-exposed strip of hair above his boxer briefs, and it tickles. John becomes more alert by degrees: he’s never allowed anyone to undress him before. But he allows himself to be pushed towards the bed and he sits on it, his face now level with the entity’s own pants button, and the swelling below.
This brings John back to reality like nothing else yet: looking right at what might disturbingly be called his own erection. Sensations and facts flood John’s brain: how that hand has never left its strong grip on his wrist, how his own breath is coming shorter, quicker, and how while he can’t smell anything of himself, he can smell the entity: soap and aftershave, brands instantly familiar.
John doesn’t waste time panicking, just tries to break the entity’s hold on his wrist. It is a futile effort, of course, and the entity simply removes its tongue from John’s ear, stands up straight, and looks down at John calmly.
John looks calmly back. Okay then. We’re apparently doing this his way.
The tongue returns, making a warm, wet path down his earlobe and along the side of his neck. And the hand’s gone from his wrist, too, to settle on his shoulder, firm like it’s gripping a liferaft.
Then John’s pushed to the mattress, breath leaving his lungs in one big rush.
After his tongue got thoroughly sucked on by his own mouth and he got to feel his erection from the other side, pushing demandingly into his thigh, John was ordered to strip. He was out of his boots, socks, and most of his shirt before the non-military trained portion of his mind caught up and he realized that maybe this was an order that was okay to break (and before the rational part of his mind asked if he was just going to let this happen). Because really, he doesn’t want to have sex with this creature.
So he stops, his shirt pulled up to his shoulders, and says, “I don’t think so”.
And before he can breathe his shirt’s removed for him, his pants and boxer briefs pushed down, and his cock, just a smidge away from being completely soft, is embraced with a hand, a mouth, and it’s been way too long for this not to feel good, but even if John’s body doesn’t mind, his brain tells him it’s wrong, and he struggles.
The entity, kneeling on the bed near his waist, puts his other hand on John’s throat just firm enough to hold him still.
John breathes. He gasps and moans and whimpers until the hand tightens around him – the one on his neck. It doesn’t cut off his breathing but it does take it to just the exciting side of difficult, which is something new for John.
And now his breath comes shallow, and his cries of pleasure are gone in favor of more focused breathing while the pleasure intensifies. It’s not about blood flow, but instead about...
About what?
Maybe the control John has always worked so hard, even in relationships, to maintain....
Maybe John’ll have to find someone, after this turned-into-a-nightmare captivity is over, to take away his control. Thinking is overrated.
John comes.
And he almost cries for himself, realizing that he’s going to end up repressing this too, not letting himself ever think about how fucked up he is that he almost liked it.
John floats inside his head, not noticing his pants and underwear being pulled off or the entity pushing down its own. Or how it turns him easily from his back to his stomach and –
Oh. That, John notices.
A finger, apparently wet with John’s own semen, is inside of him.
This is new. So new. So different and so, so not okay.
John fights back in earnest now, heart hammering at the thought, only now truly real, that he is going to get fucked for the first time in his life by a nightmare he never wanted in the first place.
Lying on his stomach with the side of his face squashed to the mattress, arms wrenched and held beneath his shoulder blades with one cruel, familiar hand, John is hit with a thought. It’s a thought of gay bars and anonymous sex after long months of missions and a few guys he reamed who slunk away practically whimpering, not meeting his eyes.
It’s happening now, with shallow, jabbing thrusts. John is so full. So invaded.
He screams and screams and can’t believe that nobody’s coming to help him or at least to see what the fuss is about, although the tiny little noises of the zat fire he has to be imagining are kind of nice.
Somewhere close behind John’s head there’s a laugh.
******************************
“I remember everything now, Lorne.... Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“They didn’t think you should know right away,” Evan whispers.
“I wish I'd never known.”
“I’m sorry about what happened, sir.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m sorry.... Evan whispers. He looks miserable, and at a loss. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Tell me I didn’t deserve it.”
He does.
Sheppard hopes that maybe, one day... he’ll believe it.
Author:
theeverdream Pairing: John / doppelganger!John
Episodes / Spoilers: Set post 4x04 Doppelganger, and alludes to that episode and to the SG-1 episode 1x07 Cold Lazarus.
Words: 3.3k
Rating: Adult for sex / language / themes.
Warnings: Angst. Non-con. Dark!John. Abusive situation regarding OMC and potential underage sex.
Prompt: John / doppelganger!John, issues
Author’s Notes:
beta: HUGE thanks to my wonderful beta
slybrarian, whose feedback saved my sanity.sequel info: This is a self-contained story but may one day have a sequel, so keep your eyes peeled!
cover art: Made by me - click image to enlarge
backstory: Things haven't been going well in the Pegasus galaxy, and the IOA has made Colonel Sheppard and Major Lorne scapegoats, recalling them to the SGC and forcing them to lead teams where the IOA can keep a closer eye on them.
Smells: fresh linen, antiseptic. Infirmary. Open eyes. Blink, blink. Too bright. Eyes closed again. This isn’t...
Atlantis?
Doctor, Sheppard’s conscious.
Beckett?
...
Hi, there, Colonel. How’re you feeling?
Not Beckett.
Open eyes. Focus... focus....
This isn’t Atlantis.
******************************
John Sheppard knows better than to touch any strange crystals, this time around.
He turns away from the shelf of blue crystals and started pacing. His accommodations could by no means be called a cell, but he has no doubt he was a prisoner, albeit a comfortable one. Held hostage against his team’s good behavior on some sort of important first contact trade ally-making thing, he’s been trying to steel himself for a few days of boredom and lounging around.
At least it beats the Wraith and Genii all to pieces.
He glances at the small pile of his supplies they had left him with after they took anything that could be considered remotely dangerous. He reaches out for his candy bar and starts to unwrap it. He had purchased the Milky Way from an on-base vending machine in a fit of irony. He didn’t really want it, and shoved the chocolate into his tac vest later, quiet and sulking.
He was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, right? Always had been. Until Atlantis, of course. And really, who could resist falling in love with a city that sang to you, or easily let go of the only family they’d ever really felt a part of?
John knows now what smiling without faking it really feels like, but that ability seemed to work in the Pegasus galaxy only. He eats the slightly melted chocolate and decides that he’ll ask General O’Neill if they can talk, when he gets back to Earth.
******************************
Lorne. Familiar face.
Voice doesn’t work. Ice chips, melting.... try again.
Atlantis.
No, sir. You’re here at the SGC.
Blink.
Do you remember?
Oh. Yes.
******************************
He knows better than to touch any crystals, which is why he is a little put out that they make him.
When he wakes up, his head hurts and he thinks for a second that he’s hallucinating. There is another John in the room.
Oh crap.
It’s no hallucination. That smirk is unforgettable.
“Hello, John.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” John feels it’s best to get this established right off the bat, because his counterpart is looking at him with sadistic glee. Be cocky, be cool, he tells himself – just like every other capture, despite the fact that the last time he saw this guy he’d ended up with nightmares that left him shaken.
Its voice is silky-smooth: “Oh, yes, you are.”
John smirks. “You’re just a dream.” He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that says it hadn’t been “just” anything.
Apparently it knows things, because it answers, “No, I’m a bit different from the crystal you brought home to Atlantis. I’m here. In reality.”
John blinks, but rallies fast. “Okay, so you’re a guy who just so happens to look like me.” He smirks again. “I don’t get particularly scared when I look in the mirror.”
John should have practiced and used the look that the entity gives him next. It would probably have stopped Wraith in their tracks. “You sure about that?”
John swallows. He’s not so sure. “Yes,” he says.
“I’ve had contact with many beings of your form, and I’ve learned something. No one is that good at lying to himself.”
******************************
Nurses come and go, tests and bright flashy lights and blood taken. Dozing.
And, waking up again. Things feel less dizzying now. Not completely. And there’s this ache, this ache....
Lorne, what happened?
Sir, while your team was on P8X-210 you were exposed to a crystalline being. It was similar to the one, um, that got brought to Atlantis, but the being existed in reality, not dreams. In that way it’s also similar to one that the original SG-1 found here in the Milky Way years ago. We actually think it’s a third distinct species.
Blink.
You with me so far, sir?
... Yeah.
Lorne seems too normal to be sitting by the bed of a dying man.
Am I...?
Sir, you’re gonna be just fine. You got beat up a bit but you should heal quick, and the doctor said the confusion should wear off in a day or so.
******************************
When John looks again, he sees Holland, and he bites off a curse. He is accustomed to seeing his reflection, although not so distorted with evil, but certainly not the long-dead face of the man he couldn’t save.
“This isn’t really who I am,” says Holland.
“No shit,” John gasps, still shaken. It doesn’t help that the face looks as it does in his dreams – Holland in his last moments, broken and bleeding through his final gulp of air.
“You think this is me.”
”What?” John yells, willing Holland away.
And, mercifully, he goes.
John waits a moment while his heartbeat slows, and then he screams at the now-returned other-John - screams with fists balled and anger having replaced his panic.
“Don’t you dare,” he shouts, “use his memory against me!”
“Why not? You do,” the entity responds. “All the time.”
John is a strange mix of confidence and emotional self-flagellation, and when he is in the latter state he focuses, always, on what he could not do for Holland. He thinks this crystal thing might make a strange amount of sense, that maybe he does use Holland’s memory as a weapon against himself, that maybe this isn’t fair to his lost friend.
The entity is apparently giving him some time, obviously seeing the emotions and thoughtfulness play out on John’s face, and then he goes on: “You did everything you could for Holland, you know. You think you failed him, but you didn’t.” John is surprised at the kind words, and they’re nice to hear, even if he doesn’t feel he can believe them. “So Holland isn’t me, no matter how much you think he is. Because I... I am your failure.”
The entity smiles, and steps towards the chair John has sunken into, and kneels at his feet. The gesture would feel submissive except for the manic glint in its eyes.
“Let me show you,” it says, and John doesn’t want to know what’s next.
What’s next is the entity becoming a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. Still kneeling at his feet, the manic look gone.
“You think so often of Holland,” the boy murmurs, “ but what about me?”
There is another shift, and a new image: the same boy, but now beaten. Not bleeding as much as Holland was, which is nice, but looking infinitely more vulnerable and terrified.
The face is now a memory. A young John Sheppard, afraid of his own confusing desires. John’s first sexual encounter: this boy giving John a slow, sweet blow job, and John, sated but shaken, giving him in return a black eye, a bloody nose, and a good-sized dose of fear.
“You don’t even remember my name!” the boy accuses, and it’s true – John had worked so hard to forget.
John reaches out a hand to stroke the boy’s face, but crumples instead, his head now on his arm on the arm of the chair, and all he can do is whisper “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” over and over and over.
The entity lets him wallow for a while, and just when John feels himself getting back together, it starts all over again.
******************************
For two days the entity talks to John, berating him in agonizingly minute and incredibly vivid detail. Not for Holland, not for what he’d tried his best to do, but for the things John usually doesn’t beat himself up about.
If John were more considerate towards women, he wouldn’t be so happy at the missions where the natives want to have sex with them. Sex is fine, but some of those girls have more than lust – he can see hero worship on their faces, and disappointment when he goes.
If John were more considerate towards men, he wouldn’t have lied to Lorne when he asked John how he really felt about him, wouldn’t have angrily denied he liked men too.
If John were more patient, he wouldn’t have felt a bit happy about accidentally shooting McKay in a forest, and if he were a better friend he wouldn’t have fantasies about dominating McKay sexually in order to get him to shut his mouth for once.
If John were a better leader, he wouldn’t have lost Ford; if he were a better lover, he wouldn’t have lost Nancy.
If John were a better human being, he wouldn’t kill other human beings, most of whom are trying to live and follow orders just like him. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep, seeing in his mind all the faces he’s watched die by his hands.
But he’d been sleeping fine.
******************************
There is knowing. There is less remembering, but definitely knowing: there is definitely an earlier vow to refrain from touching any strange crystals.
“Lorne, I didn’t touch it.”
Seeing Lorne looking up after the silence is broken, bright eyes caring and infinitely more aware of the entirety of the situation than this questioning brain.
“Sir?”
“How did I get exposed? To the being.”
“They made you touch it, sir.”
“Why?”
“To be honest, it involves a ton of internal politics of P8X-210 that I won’t even pretend to understand, but the gist of it is that your team messed up in the negotiations and the crystal was punishment.”
******************************
After two days, John longs for the image of Holland to return. At least he... he realizes now that deep down he has always known that wasn’t his fault. But the rest?
He has always been afraid to face the darkest parts of himself. He does not like the man who makes a decision about which lives are worth more than others. Does not like the man who kills people to protect other people. He does not like his sexual fantasies or how he uses people in an attempt to not get too close.
And this dislike has been festering down deep inside him, hidden in favor of brooding about Holland, when in fact the choices he made there were the right ones. And now, this parody of himself is showing him all these things that he knew but didn’t know, and ran from so hard that he didn’t even realize he was running.
John is apparently very, very good at avoidance – better than he could ever have thought. He realizes that this is what he’s been doing his entire life, and when the avoidance periodically broke down and he just had to deal, he was still avoiding dealing with what he should have.
He misses the entity who simply told him he was a bad friend rather than forcing him to finally deal with everything, and all at once.
******************************
The entity has worked itself to a seeming crescendo. “You know what? There’s nothing I can do about any of this. I can’t make the bad things you’ve done go away, can’t make you change your mind about any of this stuff.... But I’ve saved the best for last.
“You’re a narcissistic bastard, Sheppard.”
He looks like he’s waiting for a response but John’s long past the point where he can bring himself to say anything. His posture as he sits in one of the chairs moved past his normal slouch a while ago and is now firmly into “dejected slump,” and his eyes look zoned out and lifeless. John still hears the condemnation, though – every word of it – and it’s true, all true.
“How many pretty girls did you go out with just because they looked nice on your arm? Better yet, how many people did you turn down because they didn’t live up to what your family taught you was good enough?
“How many people did you turn down because they didn’t look as good as you?”
John can see some of their faces, behind closed eyelids that dam away a tear.
“So, since you’re apparently just a gift to humanity, Sheppard, I’m going to do the one thing I can do. I’m going to give you that gift.”
John’s posture becomes a bit more alert, his gaze a tiny bit more focused, and the entity stands up and moves towards him. When it gets to the chair it reaches for John’s arm and pulls him up with ease. Its strength jolts John a bit as he remembers being sent flying up the gateroom stairs like he was a ragdoll. The entity pulls him in close, and that’s another jolt as he remembers being pushed to the floor, looking into his own murderous eyes, and seeing the emotion there that was far worse than getting beaten.
He knows exactly what he sees in the eyes this time, and it isn’t murder. It’s absolute animal lust.
He knows what it intends to do. John can’t quite bring himself to care – not after hour after hour of looking at his sin-stained soul up close. He doesn’t deserve any mercy.
The lips on John’s are warm, wet, full, soft, all things John has enjoyed in the past. But John can barely register these sensations because the kiss is so demanding, so possessive, that the only thing John is filled with is the sense of being owned.
Owned with the force of that mouth pressed against his, the strength of the grip that remains on his wrist, the sting of other hand tangled in and pulling at his hair.
John has been with many men. Blonde and black hair, short and tall, loud and quiet – they’ve all had two things in common. They’ve all been pretty. And they’ve all been weak.
As the entity ends the kiss with a hard, quick bite at his lower lip, John knows: he’s not safe anymore.
It seems that John’s lack of resistance has changed the entity’s approach – while the possessiveness is still there, communicated through every movement of its body, the pure primal animalism is gone. It doesn’t mean John feels less owned, just that, if he had had the presence of mind to be terrified before, he might feel a bit less so now.
He’s being kissed like his body’s not his own, and he just stands there numbly, offering his mouth, his neck, without resistance. Long, thin fingers strip John of his belt and open the button on his pants. They caress the now-exposed strip of hair above his boxer briefs, and it tickles. John becomes more alert by degrees: he’s never allowed anyone to undress him before. But he allows himself to be pushed towards the bed and he sits on it, his face now level with the entity’s own pants button, and the swelling below.
This brings John back to reality like nothing else yet: looking right at what might disturbingly be called his own erection. Sensations and facts flood John’s brain: how that hand has never left its strong grip on his wrist, how his own breath is coming shorter, quicker, and how while he can’t smell anything of himself, he can smell the entity: soap and aftershave, brands instantly familiar.
John doesn’t waste time panicking, just tries to break the entity’s hold on his wrist. It is a futile effort, of course, and the entity simply removes its tongue from John’s ear, stands up straight, and looks down at John calmly.
John looks calmly back. Okay then. We’re apparently doing this his way.
The tongue returns, making a warm, wet path down his earlobe and along the side of his neck. And the hand’s gone from his wrist, too, to settle on his shoulder, firm like it’s gripping a liferaft.
Then John’s pushed to the mattress, breath leaving his lungs in one big rush.
After his tongue got thoroughly sucked on by his own mouth and he got to feel his erection from the other side, pushing demandingly into his thigh, John was ordered to strip. He was out of his boots, socks, and most of his shirt before the non-military trained portion of his mind caught up and he realized that maybe this was an order that was okay to break (and before the rational part of his mind asked if he was just going to let this happen). Because really, he doesn’t want to have sex with this creature.
So he stops, his shirt pulled up to his shoulders, and says, “I don’t think so”.
And before he can breathe his shirt’s removed for him, his pants and boxer briefs pushed down, and his cock, just a smidge away from being completely soft, is embraced with a hand, a mouth, and it’s been way too long for this not to feel good, but even if John’s body doesn’t mind, his brain tells him it’s wrong, and he struggles.
The entity, kneeling on the bed near his waist, puts his other hand on John’s throat just firm enough to hold him still.
John breathes. He gasps and moans and whimpers until the hand tightens around him – the one on his neck. It doesn’t cut off his breathing but it does take it to just the exciting side of difficult, which is something new for John.
And now his breath comes shallow, and his cries of pleasure are gone in favor of more focused breathing while the pleasure intensifies. It’s not about blood flow, but instead about...
About what?
Maybe the control John has always worked so hard, even in relationships, to maintain....
Maybe John’ll have to find someone, after this turned-into-a-nightmare captivity is over, to take away his control. Thinking is overrated.
John comes.
And he almost cries for himself, realizing that he’s going to end up repressing this too, not letting himself ever think about how fucked up he is that he almost liked it.
John floats inside his head, not noticing his pants and underwear being pulled off or the entity pushing down its own. Or how it turns him easily from his back to his stomach and –
Oh. That, John notices.
A finger, apparently wet with John’s own semen, is inside of him.
This is new. So new. So different and so, so not okay.
John fights back in earnest now, heart hammering at the thought, only now truly real, that he is going to get fucked for the first time in his life by a nightmare he never wanted in the first place.
Lying on his stomach with the side of his face squashed to the mattress, arms wrenched and held beneath his shoulder blades with one cruel, familiar hand, John is hit with a thought. It’s a thought of gay bars and anonymous sex after long months of missions and a few guys he reamed who slunk away practically whimpering, not meeting his eyes.
It’s happening now, with shallow, jabbing thrusts. John is so full. So invaded.
He screams and screams and can’t believe that nobody’s coming to help him or at least to see what the fuss is about, although the tiny little noises of the zat fire he has to be imagining are kind of nice.
Somewhere close behind John’s head there’s a laugh.
******************************
“I remember everything now, Lorne.... Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“They didn’t think you should know right away,” Evan whispers.
“I wish I'd never known.”
“I’m sorry about what happened, sir.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m sorry.... Evan whispers. He looks miserable, and at a loss. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Tell me I didn’t deserve it.”
He does.
Sheppard hopes that maybe, one day... he’ll believe it.
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I also really liked the Lorne/Sheppard implications... sighhhhh. Don't suppose there's plans for a Lorne/Shep comfort fic? Although, wow, how would you get over an experience like that?
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Thanks for your comment :)
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I don't completely agree with your view of John, but that doesn't matter, because this could be what his psyche looks like, and that's pretty much the point of this kind of fanfic anyway.
Nice hints of John/Evan too. Is a relationship between them what you want to focus your sequel on?
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And yes, as I said above, my personal view of John isn't really this dark. But, I think that John could have a lot of emotional baggage where he blames himself for things, and I wanted to play with that idea. The entity is using John's bad self-esteem against him, so perhaps John is being a bit too hard on himself when the entity is accusing him of things.
I wrote it as the entity is really telling the truth with everything... but is that just John's perspective? It's an idea, at least!
It wasn't really where I was thinking of going with the sequel. But with people being really interested in that, I may just take it in that direction!
Thanks for the comment!
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A sequel would be nice, but you should only write what you feel like writing. Would be a shame if you felt forced into writing anything. :)
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And yeah, I won't feel forced. It's just really exciting to have people be interested in a certain aspect of the story like that, you know?
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Oh, John! This right here is where I broke.
And he almost cries for himself, realizing that he’s going to end up repressing this too, not letting himself ever think about how fucked up he is that he almost liked it.
And that's what put the nail in the coffin.
The thing I found OOC, though, was this - It’s a thought of gay bars and anonymous sex after long months of missions and a few guys he reamed who slunk away practically whimpering, not meeting his eyes. Because while I think that John might hate himself for certain things, I'm not sure I can buy him commiting what amounts to near-rape. I know you said this John isn't your canon John, and to me, that's where it breaks off. The rest? I can believe.
I really liked the beginning, and this part especially - John knows now what smiling without faking it really feels like, but that ability seemed to work in the Pegasus galaxy only. He eats the slightly melted chocolate and decides that he’ll ask General O’Neill if they can talk, when he gets back to Earth.
Nice job. Even though you *broke* him.
The only sequel I need is the one where you bring the COMFORT! k? please? Maybe back on Atlantis? *hopes*
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On the OOC thing: It might be good for me to go into more depth on that part in another story. The way I viewed this part, the sex was consensual, and what John did wrong was being a bit rougher than he probably should have been, and being totally emotionally disconnected from his partners (which might make sense with the anonymous sex thing) and from what was happening (which probably doesn't), in a way that his partners would have picked up on and probably felt bad about.
I don't know if that helps, but at least now you know more about what I was thinking.
re: sequel - I am thinking there will probably have to be more angst before any comfort happens, but I will try to put John back together!
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Personally, I have always thought of John as being the Alpha male but in a non slashy way,(but don't get me wrong, I don't have an issue with it ;), so I could see that domination by himself especially would be his downfall.
I love how you dug deep into his soul and in the end, it was that that broke him - we have always seen that no amount of torture will crack him, but emotionally, he is a wreck and that is his weakness (if played upon right - and you did!)
As you said, I can really see John being emotionally disconnected during sexual encounters, especially in the latter years - his innocence was gone and his walls came up - I could easily see that when shown how/what he had become, he would crack - and who better to show him that John himself.
I will admit, that this bit brought a lump to my throat:
"He screams and screams and can’t believe that nobody’s coming to help him.."
Wonderful fic, beautifully written - I hope you write more fiction and I can't wait for more H/C from it :)
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I really agree with what you said about this being worse than physical torture for John. I totally jumped on this prompt (John / doppelganger John, issues) when I saw it because I knew I'd have a lot to play with, because I can see so many of his issues just being internalized. And the thing about the Alpha male stuff, yeah... I can see John needing a lot of control, so this would be really scary for him!
I hope that I can do a sequel to this soon but I'll certainly be writing other stuff in the meantime (and I do need a break from poor whumped John!). Thanks again for the feedback - I really appreciated it! :)
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Whoa! There were so many fucked-up details of John's psyche, but this one got to me the most.
And I do have to say that I didn't equate any of the anonymous bar-sex as semi-rape; it's just that he was less egalitarian than the guys he hooked up with expected and that quid pro quo was definitely NOT in his vocabulary.
I definitely like the way you write, even though OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH OUCH. Poor (yes, I'm repeating myself), fucked-up John.
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Thank you so much for the feedback. What a perfect (and lovely) icon!
It's always nice to see specific parts that people enjoyed or were struck by. I liked the way the part you quoted turned out.. definitely helped get across my view of this John as having control issues. And wow, the way you worded the bar sex thing is totally how I would have viewed it if I had fleshed out the backstory more in my mind.
I have to say, it's nice to see all those "ouch"es, since my goal was indeed a very whumpy John. :D
Thanks again! :)
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