Merry Go Round Broke Down 9
anonymous
February 5 2011, 13:57:33 UTC
John's always thought he could get used to anything. He adapted from stifling wealth to scraping by when he defied his father's plans for his future; he adapted to the extremes of Afghanistan and Antarctica.
And he gets used to this: to never really getting excited, to sex that leaves him feeling about the way he'd feel after a really good workout.
After all, he likes that post-workout feeling a lot. He'd train every day even if lives didn't depend on it. If that's as good as sex is ever going to get now, that's okay.
Usually it's okay. It's mostly okay.
Fuck, it's not really okay. He misses it. He misses giving himself over to the mess in his head. He misses the purity of oblivion. He misses not thinking. He misses how it wiped out everything else, how nothing else mattered, even though that was part of what was so fucked up about it, how he needed it so much it took over, leaked out and tainted other things in his life, no matter how hard he tried to contain it.
It swallowed up his self-respect, it devoured his friendship with Rodney and crapped out the sharp bones of what they have now. John's chest crushes in when he thinks too much about that-- and he's thinking too much a lot these days, without that reliable escape hatch into the convolutions of his kink.
The Moebius strip is broken, the climbing spiral doesn't go anywhere, he can't just keep circling the racetrack faster and faster til his brain blanks and his body's exhausted. Now his thoughts have to go somewhere.
And his thoughts go to the mess he made with Rodney a lot. He liked Rodney. He liked that sometimes Rodney seemed like nothing but a big bristling ball of fears and insecurities and contradictions. He liked that the guy who'd whine about a splinter and back away in wide-eyed terror from a harmless alien sheep-thing could be the same guy who worked miracles and put himself on the line and kept coming through for John, over and over again. In a way, Rodney and all his obvious damage and accomplishments let John hope that maybe being fucked up didn't have to limit him.
He didn't consider how much he was giving up when he dropped for Rodney, too parched for every abuse Rodney rained down on him. The fact that in the past he'd competed with Rodney, commanded him, earned his ungracious but honest respect-- it just made the degradation that much more exciting, that he showed what a disgusting slut he really was to Rodney, someone whose opinion of him actually mattered.
With his arousal-response cycle severed, it's hard to imagine why he let it happen. He remembers that it felt amazing and overpowering, but he can't remember how that felt, any more than he can really remember what it felt like to break his arm... he knows it hurt, but his memory can't hold the entirety of that pain. He knows it felt so good and so addictive to be on his knees, but he can't remember with any substance what that excitement felt like.
Now that it's gone, he almost can't believe some of the stupid awful shit he used to do for it. John kept a lid on it that first hard year, but once they were back in contact with Earth, he took dumb risks. He made up reasons he should visit allied worlds alone on "reconnaissance," changed into civvies and left the cloaked jumper and went to the parts of town the team never got to see on guest tours. He kept himself to only giving blowjobs, but who was he kidding-- if anyone had tried to fuck him, he would have done it.
Only without the haze of sex and shame that always used to accompany those thoughts, he realizes that's not true. A couple of times guys did try to get more out of him, and he held it to just oral sex.
He's been so used to getting lost in that cycle, so used to thinking of himself as totally depraved. He got off on the idea that he was helpless to stop himself, and somewhere in there, he almost started believing it, even outside the bedroom. But he never really acted that way. He couldn't function if he had.
And he gets used to this: to never really getting excited, to sex that leaves him feeling about the way he'd feel after a really good workout.
After all, he likes that post-workout feeling a lot. He'd train every day even if lives didn't depend on it. If that's as good as sex is ever going to get now, that's okay.
Usually it's okay. It's mostly okay.
Fuck, it's not really okay. He misses it. He misses giving himself over to the mess in his head. He misses the purity of oblivion. He misses not thinking. He misses how it wiped out everything else, how nothing else mattered, even though that was part of what was so fucked up about it, how he needed it so much it took over, leaked out and tainted other things in his life, no matter how hard he tried to contain it.
It swallowed up his self-respect, it devoured his friendship with Rodney and crapped out the sharp bones of what they have now. John's chest crushes in when he thinks too much about that-- and he's thinking too much a lot these days, without that reliable escape hatch into the convolutions of his kink.
The Moebius strip is broken, the climbing spiral doesn't go anywhere, he can't just keep circling the racetrack faster and faster til his brain blanks and his body's exhausted. Now his thoughts have to go somewhere.
And his thoughts go to the mess he made with Rodney a lot. He liked Rodney. He liked that sometimes Rodney seemed like nothing but a big bristling ball of fears and insecurities and contradictions. He liked that the guy who'd whine about a splinter and back away in wide-eyed terror from a harmless alien sheep-thing could be the same guy who worked miracles and put himself on the line and kept coming through for John, over and over again. In a way, Rodney and all his obvious damage and accomplishments let John hope that maybe being fucked up didn't have to limit him.
He didn't consider how much he was giving up when he dropped for Rodney, too parched for every abuse Rodney rained down on him. The fact that in the past he'd competed with Rodney, commanded him, earned his ungracious but honest respect-- it just made the degradation that much more exciting, that he showed what a disgusting slut he really was to Rodney, someone whose opinion of him actually mattered.
With his arousal-response cycle severed, it's hard to imagine why he let it happen. He remembers that it felt amazing and overpowering, but he can't remember how that felt, any more than he can really remember what it felt like to break his arm... he knows it hurt, but his memory can't hold the entirety of that pain. He knows it felt so good and so addictive to be on his knees, but he can't remember with any substance what that excitement felt like.
Now that it's gone, he almost can't believe some of the stupid awful shit he used to do for it. John kept a lid on it that first hard year, but once they were back in contact with Earth, he took dumb risks. He made up reasons he should visit allied worlds alone on "reconnaissance," changed into civvies and left the cloaked jumper and went to the parts of town the team never got to see on guest tours. He kept himself to only giving blowjobs, but who was he kidding-- if anyone had tried to fuck him, he would have done it.
Only without the haze of sex and shame that always used to accompany those thoughts, he realizes that's not true. A couple of times guys did try to get more out of him, and he held it to just oral sex.
He's been so used to getting lost in that cycle, so used to thinking of himself as totally depraved. He got off on the idea that he was helpless to stop himself, and somewhere in there, he almost started believing it, even outside the bedroom. But he never really acted that way. He couldn't function if he had.
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