John's been a hot mess for the better part of a month now, slowly self-destructing in his own special John Sheppard way. It's easier to live on the edge, because you're too busy trying not to fall for anything else to matter. Without a war to fight, or a city to defend, there isn't enough work for him to drown himself in. The stakes are never high enough to make him feel alive. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He's had to get creative, and find new sources of danger.
Tonight it's getting close to hammered, picking up a stranger in a bar, and fucking out back, near the dumpsters, where anyone might find them. He didn't know the guy's name, or where he's from. All that mattered was he was tall, strong, and hard enough around the edges that John knows he can be the kind of rough John's looking for.
And he was. Bloody and bruising. Hands around his neck from behind just long enough to get a rush of adrenaline, his heart to kicking to life for what feels like the first time in weeks. John not coming so much as nearly passing out, and getting off on that little taste of death. No words spoken as they both pull up their pants and walk away without a second glance.
John limps back inside, flipping up the collar of his shirt to hide the freshly blossoming hand-prints on his throat, even more rumple than he always is. The first thing he does is order another drink, throwing it back all at once, the alcohol burning his split lower lip.
He'll probably regret that one in the morning, but for now? He feels alright. Like he could do it again if the right opportunity presented itself. It's never enough. John still sees him when he closes his eyes.
CW: Sex, violence, alcohol abuse, and poor life choices.
John's been a hot mess for the better part of a month now, slowly self-destructing in his own special John Sheppard way. It's easier to live on the edge, because you're too busy trying not to fall for anything else to matter. Without a war to fight, or a city to defend, there isn't enough work for him to drown himself in. The stakes are never high enough to make him feel alive. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He's had to get creative, and find new sources of danger.
Tonight it's getting close to hammered, picking up a stranger in a bar, and fucking out back, near the dumpsters, where anyone might find them. He didn't know the guy's name, or where he's from. All that mattered was he was tall, strong, and hard enough around the edges that John knows he can be the kind of rough John's looking for.
And he was. Bloody and bruising. Hands around his neck from behind just long enough to get a rush of adrenaline, his heart to kicking to life for what feels like the first time in weeks. John not coming so much as nearly passing out, and getting off on that little taste of death. No words spoken as they both pull up their pants and walk away without a second glance.
John limps back inside, flipping up the collar of his shirt to hide the freshly blossoming hand-prints on his throat, even more rumple than he always is. The first thing he does is order another drink, throwing it back all at once, the alcohol burning his split lower lip.
He'll probably regret that one in the morning, but for now? He feels alright. Like he could do it again if the right opportunity presented itself. It's never enough. John still sees him when he closes his eyes.
So he orders another drink.]