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sga_saturdayTitle: Bent But Never Broken
Author: Neevebrody
Wordcount: 400 or so
Rating: G - Art is worksafe
Characters: John Sheppard
Beta: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melagan for looking this over for me.
Notes: This art/word is for the lovelyesteefee who mentioned something about Sheppard and James Dean and leather, though this is probably not what she had in mind. The ficlet is a fractal impression of Sheppard pre-Atlantis that came from somewhere inside the art.
Disclaimer: Not mine, I wish. The base for the manip is actually a cheesy '70s porn promo shot that I judiciously cropped for use here.
Summary: He couldn't deny this was crazy, stupid on so many levels, but it felt good.
Bent But Never Broken
Jesus, he'd once thought of the Air Force and thumbing his nose at the family business as rebellious. He chuckled at the word and how ridiculously out of place it sounded to him now. This was taking a hell of a chance, but what he had on the CO seemed like insurance enough. He wasn't the only one – just one face in the collection, and that's where they all had it wrong. Sheppard wasn't collectible and he wasn't about to be anyone's bitch. He belonged to himself and that was the way he liked it. If you did your job… did the right thing… what did it matter?
Being a rebel meant resisting or rising against some authority, control or tradition. People had tried to control him his whole life, make him bow to tradition. In most cases, it was easier to let them think they had succeeded. In others, unfortunately, somebody almost always got hurt. After a point, it had become merely who he was. Not a total disregard for authority… authority was good; it was necessary. He only bucked when it became like barbed wire across his ass. He chose his concessions wisely but never handed over the control. The Air Force may have been one of those choices, but it was a box as well. A great big box full of authority and tradition and he walked right into it, eyes open, but with that one errant spark in his heart. One he didn't mind keeping to himself as long as his reward was the sky – the liberating and limitless open range that made his heart race, his blood sing, and gave him his purpose.
So, where exactly did he fit in? Was there a place where the socially defective met for drinks, exchanged business cards, networked? Did anyone even care anymore? Did they even notice? He did his job… he'd done the right things.
He tossed the photos on the bed – they weren't half bad. He couldn't deny this was crazy, stupid on so many levels, but it felt good. It felt free. Smiling, he watched them disappear inside the crisp uniform pocket. Sure, the ante might be raised at some point, but for now, and for the price of a shy little game of footsie, he got to strip, play dress-up, and embrace every glorious facet of his dysfunction.
And if there was fallout… Well, hell, he was sure there was some ass-end, far-flung refuge with his name on it somewhere.
Author: Neevebrody
Wordcount: 400 or so
Rating: G - Art is worksafe
Characters: John Sheppard
Beta: Thanks to
melagan for looking this over for me.Notes: This art/word is for the lovely
esteefee who mentioned something about Sheppard and James Dean and leather, though this is probably not what she had in mind. The ficlet is a fractal impression of Sheppard pre-Atlantis that came from somewhere inside the art.Disclaimer: Not mine, I wish. The base for the manip is actually a cheesy '70s porn promo shot that I judiciously cropped for use here.
Summary: He couldn't deny this was crazy, stupid on so many levels, but it felt good.
Jesus, he'd once thought of the Air Force and thumbing his nose at the family business as rebellious. He chuckled at the word and how ridiculously out of place it sounded to him now. This was taking a hell of a chance, but what he had on the CO seemed like insurance enough. He wasn't the only one – just one face in the collection, and that's where they all had it wrong. Sheppard wasn't collectible and he wasn't about to be anyone's bitch. He belonged to himself and that was the way he liked it. If you did your job… did the right thing… what did it matter?
Being a rebel meant resisting or rising against some authority, control or tradition. People had tried to control him his whole life, make him bow to tradition. In most cases, it was easier to let them think they had succeeded. In others, unfortunately, somebody almost always got hurt. After a point, it had become merely who he was. Not a total disregard for authority… authority was good; it was necessary. He only bucked when it became like barbed wire across his ass. He chose his concessions wisely but never handed over the control. The Air Force may have been one of those choices, but it was a box as well. A great big box full of authority and tradition and he walked right into it, eyes open, but with that one errant spark in his heart. One he didn't mind keeping to himself as long as his reward was the sky – the liberating and limitless open range that made his heart race, his blood sing, and gave him his purpose.
So, where exactly did he fit in? Was there a place where the socially defective met for drinks, exchanged business cards, networked? Did anyone even care anymore? Did they even notice? He did his job… he'd done the right things.
He tossed the photos on the bed – they weren't half bad. He couldn't deny this was crazy, stupid on so many levels, but it felt good. It felt free. Smiling, he watched them disappear inside the crisp uniform pocket. Sure, the ante might be raised at some point, but for now, and for the price of a shy little game of footsie, he got to strip, play dress-up, and embrace every glorious facet of his dysfunction.
And if there was fallout… Well, hell, he was sure there was some ass-end, far-flung refuge with his name on it somewhere.
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