Supernatural (PG13)
Supernatural (PG13) ~830 words
[AU, set after "The Eye"] John is a _____ and Rodney is a ______. (And this, as they say, is a fic of crack.) Many thanks to sheafrotherdon for encouragement, and amberlynne who instigated ♥
Supernatural
Rodney has a pretty damn awesome cerebrum, if he does say so himself. It's a sleek, perfectly tuned physics machine, a 1964 Porsche. His cortices are frictionless and never misfire and if he were going to design an electrochemical supercomputer, well, he'd use his brain as the template. It's the benefit of being thousands of years old: he's had a lot of time to perfect the art of thinking.
Not much trips it up, because his processors are smooth as silk, but every now and then something gets in under his guard and his brain and body and time half-halt, a pause before thought and realization coalesce. He's just had one of those moments - there aren't many - and he still feels like he's left some part of himself out in the control room trying to assimilate what he'd seen barely a half-hour back, even as he pushes John up against the wall of his quarters. With John this close, firm muscle pressed all up and down him, chest and chest and two pairs of hips together and their knees a bit awkward and bumping each other, his brain tries to go offline again.
John's kissing him, and Rodney knows he knows what he's doing, smartassed and slow, teasing Rodney into moans and clumsy attempts at getting closer. His fingers stroke Rodney's face, sketching out geometries that might have Rodney concerned at any other time - he's bound by symbols, by patterns, but the only thing John's binding him to is this moment, and he doesn't need magic circles to do it. Just his mouth, Rodney decides, coaxing and encouraging, and the shallow dip of his torso that pulls Rodney in like gravity.
"This would explain a lot of things," Rodney mutters against the warm, warm curve of John's neck. John's skin smells like ozone, sharp in Rodney's nostrils like the air around a burning candle. "The sparkliness for one."
"Thought you didn't…" John trails off when Rodney finally gets a hand up under his shirt, scratching at damp, smooth flesh. No hint of a scale, not even, when Rodney can flatten a palm along the ridge of John's shoulder, the faintest flicker of scaly and dragonish wings.
Rodney runs a finger down the stepladder of John's vertebra.
"Sparkles!" John squeaks.
He twists, lithe and graceful, just two of the things that pull people to him, two of the things that have made Rodney roll his eyes, because veela slinkyness - that boneless-hipped stride, the elastic spine - never has done much for him. Give him a problem and he'll worry over it like a dog with a bone, because that's what daemons do, but give him a veela dressed only in their windblown hair (not that John has it, and his hair looks mostly like a static charge has just been through it) and whatever it is that makes them shine, and they slide around the corners of his awareness.
So this, now, John's quick, frantic breath against his mouth, his skin and eyes hotter than hell could ever dream of being, this, this is something else entirely.
Finally, John had grumbled, barely two seconds into what Rodney had wanted to be a marathon kiss, what the fuck took you so long? I thought I was off my game. Rodney had ignored that, too busy obsessing over John's lower lip, the day's worth of stubble and the taste of gunpowder and blood that's collected under his jaw.
"You actually shot fireballs at him," Rodney says now, and he still can't quite believe it. Fireballs. John makes a sound of distracted agreement and pulls at Rodney's pants.
"He pissed me off," John huffs, and the hand that isn't tangled in Rodney's hair hovers carefully at the bandage wrapped around Rodney's arm. Carson had redone it, muttering about how it was a good thing Kolya hadn't had pure iron on him, just second-rate steel. Rodney had quietly, shiveringly agreed. "I've been wanting to do that all goddamn day." He pauses, pulls back a little, and his expression manages to be sharp and hazy at the same time. "Couldn't you have, I dunno, struck him down or something? Can't daemons do that?"
"Limitations of the human form," Rodney grunts. He doesn't really like being stuck in a human body, but it's either that or spend eternity being summoned by impertinent, ignorant magicians who weasel secrets out of him and then take the credit. He'll take allergies and sinus conditions and the deep, coruscating ache of arousal any day. He'll take this any day, friction and flesh, watching football with John. The chance to thumb one of John's nipples and feel him shudder, the seismic ripple of him. "Thanks for the rescue, by the way."
"Don't mention it," John says. "In fact, don't mention anything else for the next hour."
Rodney thinks about mentioning he'd heard somewhere that veelas could go all night, but then John's mouth closes on his again, sly and slick, and he tastes like fire and wine and the secret of everything, and there's nothing more to think.
-e-
Notes: John is a veela in the spirit of Harry Potter. (Sorry, JKR.) Rodney is a daemon, not necessarily in the sense of "evil spirit," but a spirit that has access to arcane knowledge and can be summoned by a magician to provide instruction in the sciences and secret arts.
[AU, set after "The Eye"] John is a _____ and Rodney is a ______. (And this, as they say, is a fic of crack.) Many thanks to sheafrotherdon for encouragement, and amberlynne who instigated ♥
Supernatural
Rodney has a pretty damn awesome cerebrum, if he does say so himself. It's a sleek, perfectly tuned physics machine, a 1964 Porsche. His cortices are frictionless and never misfire and if he were going to design an electrochemical supercomputer, well, he'd use his brain as the template. It's the benefit of being thousands of years old: he's had a lot of time to perfect the art of thinking.
Not much trips it up, because his processors are smooth as silk, but every now and then something gets in under his guard and his brain and body and time half-halt, a pause before thought and realization coalesce. He's just had one of those moments - there aren't many - and he still feels like he's left some part of himself out in the control room trying to assimilate what he'd seen barely a half-hour back, even as he pushes John up against the wall of his quarters. With John this close, firm muscle pressed all up and down him, chest and chest and two pairs of hips together and their knees a bit awkward and bumping each other, his brain tries to go offline again.
John's kissing him, and Rodney knows he knows what he's doing, smartassed and slow, teasing Rodney into moans and clumsy attempts at getting closer. His fingers stroke Rodney's face, sketching out geometries that might have Rodney concerned at any other time - he's bound by symbols, by patterns, but the only thing John's binding him to is this moment, and he doesn't need magic circles to do it. Just his mouth, Rodney decides, coaxing and encouraging, and the shallow dip of his torso that pulls Rodney in like gravity.
"This would explain a lot of things," Rodney mutters against the warm, warm curve of John's neck. John's skin smells like ozone, sharp in Rodney's nostrils like the air around a burning candle. "The sparkliness for one."
"Thought you didn't…" John trails off when Rodney finally gets a hand up under his shirt, scratching at damp, smooth flesh. No hint of a scale, not even, when Rodney can flatten a palm along the ridge of John's shoulder, the faintest flicker of scaly and dragonish wings.
Rodney runs a finger down the stepladder of John's vertebra.
"Sparkles!" John squeaks.
He twists, lithe and graceful, just two of the things that pull people to him, two of the things that have made Rodney roll his eyes, because veela slinkyness - that boneless-hipped stride, the elastic spine - never has done much for him. Give him a problem and he'll worry over it like a dog with a bone, because that's what daemons do, but give him a veela dressed only in their windblown hair (not that John has it, and his hair looks mostly like a static charge has just been through it) and whatever it is that makes them shine, and they slide around the corners of his awareness.
So this, now, John's quick, frantic breath against his mouth, his skin and eyes hotter than hell could ever dream of being, this, this is something else entirely.
Finally, John had grumbled, barely two seconds into what Rodney had wanted to be a marathon kiss, what the fuck took you so long? I thought I was off my game. Rodney had ignored that, too busy obsessing over John's lower lip, the day's worth of stubble and the taste of gunpowder and blood that's collected under his jaw.
"You actually shot fireballs at him," Rodney says now, and he still can't quite believe it. Fireballs. John makes a sound of distracted agreement and pulls at Rodney's pants.
"He pissed me off," John huffs, and the hand that isn't tangled in Rodney's hair hovers carefully at the bandage wrapped around Rodney's arm. Carson had redone it, muttering about how it was a good thing Kolya hadn't had pure iron on him, just second-rate steel. Rodney had quietly, shiveringly agreed. "I've been wanting to do that all goddamn day." He pauses, pulls back a little, and his expression manages to be sharp and hazy at the same time. "Couldn't you have, I dunno, struck him down or something? Can't daemons do that?"
"Limitations of the human form," Rodney grunts. He doesn't really like being stuck in a human body, but it's either that or spend eternity being summoned by impertinent, ignorant magicians who weasel secrets out of him and then take the credit. He'll take allergies and sinus conditions and the deep, coruscating ache of arousal any day. He'll take this any day, friction and flesh, watching football with John. The chance to thumb one of John's nipples and feel him shudder, the seismic ripple of him. "Thanks for the rescue, by the way."
"Don't mention it," John says. "In fact, don't mention anything else for the next hour."
Rodney thinks about mentioning he'd heard somewhere that veelas could go all night, but then John's mouth closes on his again, sly and slick, and he tastes like fire and wine and the secret of everything, and there's nothing more to think.
-e-
Notes: John is a veela in the spirit of Harry Potter. (Sorry, JKR.) Rodney is a daemon, not necessarily in the sense of "evil spirit," but a spirit that has access to arcane knowledge and can be summoned by a magician to provide instruction in the sciences and secret arts.