Migration
Purple.
The color filled John Sheppard's line of vision. A pulsing, ever-changing purple. Morphing into all hues of the color, from delicate lilacs, to lavenders, to rich amethyst tones. To a royal purple and then to a periwinkle, a blue-violet hue that was beautiful, mysterious. Then back again. The colors swirled in front of his eyes, the purples reminding him of his wife's sexier lingerie. He quirked a smile, but blinked. Looked away from the colored lights that were strung up along the wall, over the impromptu bar where a crowd was raucously celebrating.
He all but collapsed in a chair, waved his arms to shoo the women off him. He downed his glass of Scotch, looked around blearily. The party was still going strong. Had morphed at midnight from a survival celebration to his bachelor party. The air was thick with smoke, beer, Scotch, Vodka, even some Athosian specialities that had some men already under the table. Music blared. Laughter was rude, loud. Everyone was enjoying themselves, letting go, relaxing. Drunken singing could be heard, an awful off-key caterwauling so bad John could not even identify the song.
A few women were dancing on the tables. Shimmering in sparkling clothes that were barely there. John shook his head, peered round past the mostly male crowd to locate his friends. Carson Beckett was laughing, an ever-present pint of Guinness in his hand as he regaled a crowd with a story. His Scottish accent thicker, more pronounced as it carried across the other voices. Evan Lorne was engaged in a very intimate dance with a long-legged blond woman. Ronon Dex was drinking heartily, then slammed his mug down to engage in an arm-wrestling contest with a beefy marine. Both men struggled, then fell over onto the floor. Laughing heartily. Rodney McKay was directing people like a room monitor. Pointing, gesticulating as more food was brought to display on a long table. More booze. He had a beer in one hand, a handful of popcorn in the other, all the while talking, ordering, haranguing. Thoroughly enjoying himself.
John swayed in the chair. He burped. Tasted Scotch, beer, cigar, pizza, God knew what else. He could imagine his wife's reaction. Her distaste, wrinkling her nose in that cute way he loved. He sighed. Wished he had been able to convince her to attend, but she had steadfastly refused. Had insisted she was engaged in some very important research, was on the verge of a discovery. Had all but shoved him out of their rooms and ordered him to enjoy himself. He checked his watch. The numbers blurred, then resolved into oh three hundred. Three in the morning. Moira was probably snuggled in bed, asleep. Suddenly he wished he was with her. A fierce longing making him try to stand.
But a scantily clad woman plopped onto his lap, trapping him. She was raven-haired. Curvaceous. Breasts all but bouncing out of her sequined top. Sequined skirt riding up her bare thighs like an invitation. She giggled, smiled. Slid her arms around his neck to pull his mouth into a kiss. She began to gyrate aggressively on his lap. "Ooh, bachelor boy Colonel Sheppard," she teased, "I will make sure you enjoy your last night of freedom."
"That's...um, okay. Really." He tried to extricate himself but his alcoholic buzz dulled, blurred his senses.
The woman laughed. Planted a kiss on his cheek. "Ooh, bachelor boy, I can feel it now! Can you?"
"Um, no, actually. Look, there's a rule for no strippershers," he slurred, blinking. Bleary from the wild cacophony around him.
"I'll strip for you, handsome. Oh! Look, I started!" She giggled, lifted to show an almost non-existent G-string. The dark triangle of hair starting to slime his pants. She ground into him, slithering along his crotch and thigh. Large rear bouncing, shoving.
He scowled. Caught her arms and freed himself. "Stop! You've got the wrong guy, doll! See?"
He displayed his left hand where the gold wedding band gleamed in the colored lights. "Over there! That's bachelor boy!" He pointed to Rodney who was wolfing down popcorn. Kernels were spilling down the front of his black woven shirt.
"Him? Are you sure? He told me it was you, honey," she insisted, gyrating on him again. "And frankly, handsome, I would prefer you." She was becoming more aroused. The friction of their bodies, their clothes. Having this gorgeous man at her disposal. Her desire.
"Oh he did, did he? Well, he's shy. Real shy." He forcibly shoved her to her feet. "He's the man of the hour, not me. So go dazzle him."
She pouted. "Are you sure, honey? 'Cause I'd do whatever you wanted. Anything."
"Then go! Give him the best fucking lap dance of his life!" John watched her saunter towards Rodney. Her hips swaying in the silver sequined skirt. Lights glimmered on it, making him dizzy. He snorted a laugh as the woman startled Rodney. The physicist dropped the popcorn, almost yelping. John laughed heartily at his friend's expression. Wasn't sure if he was more surprised at the woman sliding along him now or more upset at the loss of his popcorn.
He looked round, attempting to locate the doors. The egress point. Plot his escape. He spied Jason Reynolds drinking with a few other marines, at the same time locked in some sort of balancing contest as they stacked up empty bottles one by one. Shouted their hilarity when the tower fell. Glass crashing, smashing to pieces. Rodney's protest snarled by the woman kissing him, grabbing him into a dance. Aaron Josephes was slumped over a table, passed out from the alcoholic excess. John laughed at the sight of the younger man. Pieces of pepperoni stuck in his brown hair.
Another smash. John looked over to see Ronon and the beefy marine sprawled amidst the ruins of a table. Both laughing heartily. John rued the morning when Elizabeth Weir would see the destruction the party had caused.
John stood. Swayed. Looked down at his feet to make sure they were both level on the increasingly unstable floor. He looked up, locating the doors again. Strangely they had seemed to move. Saw another woman approaching. Dodged her and headed for the doors. Nearly fell when a hand grabbed his arm. "I said no! Won't you damn women ever leave me alone? You...oh...Carshon."
"What a terrible burden, John, to have beautiful women constantly throwing themselves at you," Carson teased. "Going so soon, colonel? It is your party, after all."
John blinked. He knew that the doctor had drunk as much as he had, as much as they all had, but he sounded stone cold sober. Only the thicker accent betrayed his indulgence. "A party I never wanted, if you would recall. I'm tired, Carshon, tired of all this noise and women and bouncing, bouncing breasts."
Carson laughed. "Aye, what man would want to see all those bouncing breasts? You are plastered, John. Here, let me help you to your room before you fall down."
"No! I can walk justh fine!" He swayed, leaned on Carson as the doctor directed him. "Shit. Carshon, where are we? Level two?"
"Four."
"Southeast pier?" John guessed.
"Northwest. Here we go, colonel. It was a good party, wasn't it?" he asked, leading the drunken man out of the rooms and down the hallways. They entered a transporter, emerged into another hallway. It was dark, silent. Lights softly glimmered every few feet.
The shadows and the quiet were a soothing tonic. John smiled. "Yeah, it's a great party but I want Moira. She wouldn't go. Said she's all sciency and couldn't go party me. She's mine, you know. She loves me."
"Yes, John, she does," Carson agreed, amused.
"Only me. The me not other me. I married her, Carshon."
"Yes, John, I know."
"Married me she married me. Loves me. Wants me. She wouldn't go party. My Moira's shy with all those wild people. Sciency...said she's got a verge discovery on science proteins and the with...the wuth...the wroth...the–"
"Wraith," Carson helpfully supplied. "Interesting. I shall have to ask her about it tomorrow. Er, later today, I guess. Here we are. Straight down this corridor to the last room on the–"
"I know! Go!" John disengaged himself, leaned against the wall. "Go back to the party. I'll be fine. Find Moira Shep...Slep...Shepshards...so go."
"All right, John. Straight down there. Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight Becketts."
John wove down the hallway, following after the doctor but stopped. Lost. Realized his mistake and snorted a laugh. He turned, headed back the way Carson had indicated. Staggering along, step by step as the floor swayed under his shoes. He stopped. Blinked. "All the doors look alike," he complained, weaving down the hallway as if he was on a slalom course. He put a hand out to steady himself. A panel glowed. A door opened. He stared, staggered back to the opposite wall. "Wow! That wash cool!" He stepped to the open door, peered into it, wondering if that was his room. "Moira?" he called. He staggered backwards, nearly fell, tripping over his own feet when someone grabbed his arm. "Hey, Carshons! I told you go back to party I can find my own rooms."
Susan Williams smiled. Pressed her ample breasts to his arm. The V-neck t-shirt dipped low to give him an entirely clear view straight down to her large nipples. "John, let me help you," she purred. "You shouldn't have left your own party, honey." She drew him from the doorway, pushed him against the wall. Ran her hands over his chest, rumpling the pale blue woven shirt he wore. Dislodging a few buttons. Her fingers skidded down to his belt.
"Uh, Shusan...hi. Uh. This ishn't–"
"Did you really want to leave your own bachelor party, John? We were having so much fun! So much..." She kissed him, slid her body against his. Eliciting the desired effect.
"Uh, Shusan, no. I'm married. See?" He held up his right hand. "Oh. Crap. Shee?" He held up his left hand. The wedding ring glimmered in the low lights.
"So? That didn't stop you before, John, despite everything you said, or pretended. Besides, honey, it's your bachelor party. One night to have a final fling. You know you want it." The low lights made her blond hair glimmer. Pink lip gloss gleamed wetly on her mouth.
"I...no! No I don't. I married Moira. Moira Shepshards," he protested, moving but the corridor whirled. The wall at his back felt solid. Secure. Held him upright.
"Oh, honey, not tonight. Let me perform my speciality. What was it called? Oh yes. The Sheppard express. Delivered on time. Always on time." She giggled. Kissed him as she undid his belt. "I will suck you so hard you'll come today and tomorrow. And after that you can take me however you want." She dropped to her knees, undoing his tan pants.
"Uh...huh? No, no, Shusan. I'm with Moira. My Moira. She's love me she's my wife now," he stated, trying to push her away.
"Just for tonight you are unattached, honey. Here we go. It was so good, John, so fucking good," she mourned. Hiccuped. She tugged, yanked his pants down to his ankles. The shorts following after them. "Oh John...oh John..." she purred, grabbing hold to stroke, to tease.
"Oh John," he muttered, smiling. Hearing Moira's voice. Her soft, teasing caresses on him, stroking. Her love and desire arousing him, bringing him hard, fast. Despite his inebriation, his disinclination his cock had no trouble reacting to her bold fingers. Her hot breath. Until he blinked, realizing it wasn't Moira on her knees handling him. "Shit! I shaid no, Shusan. Fuck off!" he snarled, pushing at her but groaned.
She laughed. "No? Since when does John Sheppard say no to having his cock sucked?"
"I...huh? No! Now. I said no, Moira is my–" he groaned as she grabbed his balls. Then his cock and took him into her mouth. Churning, pressing. Sucking hard, so hard on him his body reacted, unable to stop. Wanting to fill that large space. Wanting it tighter, wetter. Wanting it faster, harder. A weary moan escaped his lips.
"Excuse me."
