2 fics
I've written two cracked out character studies. Shameless Atlantis/BTVS crossovers, both post season/show with no huge spoilers.
They are John/Buffy and Rodney/Willow and it's all Prima's and Monanotlisa's fault.
John/Buffy
Character study, PWP, Rish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Slayer and a Soldier walk into a bar.
One of the ways John Sheppard finds out that Vampires on Earth are for realz, yo.
She's blonde, perky and way too young for him, but she's built like a fighter plane- all smooth curves and sleek hard lines with the power to throw you hard into your seat if you give the stick a hard pull into a suicide nosedive. She's glistening with sweat, a little wild eyed and there is a smudge of ash on her pristine, virginal is your first thought and it's almost enough to have you sporting wood, white shirt.
You give Rodney the secret eyebrow wiggle that has come to mean "Occupado, do not disturbo," and he huffs, bumping your shoulder as he turns the other way and engages some willowy redhead in conversation. Your mind catalogues the machine gun fire exchange of words behind you and you satisfy yourself that your wingman is all right before you turn to the blonde and smile.
Her blood red lips purse and she eyes you, one slow sweep from the top of your spiky hair to the lace of your boots and back to meet your eyes. You offer to buy her a drink, playing it casual and her spine relaxes to a degree as she responds in the affirmative.
Four drinks later and you act like you've known each other since childhood. Of course you don't remember being quite so grabby with Christina from the third grade. "The Blonde" as she has come to be labeled in your head -because you can't quite wrap your brain around "Buffy"- doesn't seem to mind. You realize an hour into it that she reminds you of Teyla. Which is to say that she moves with the confidence of someone who knows she can kick your ass --which is a turn on when Teyla does it-- the blonde has you stone hard and hot because you don't know her, if you were honest with yourself you don't respect her, and you'll be in another galaxy in a week so it doesn't matter anyway.
She's looking at you like you're a piece of meat too.
It's the blonde that drags you out in the alley and reverses the script in a way that you're really going to wish you remember clearer tomorrow and you are crouching down with your face buried in dark blonde curls. (She may have laughed when you moaned reverently and murmured "real" against her skin). She's a softer pink down here, wet and fragrant and your drinking her down like you've just stepped out of the desert, and you quit being gentle five minutes ago when her nails dug into your shoulder and she bucked her hips and hissed "Harder."
You have your dick out now, working it fast and rough, tongue pushing up deep inside the blonde, your neck straining because she likes it when you rub your five o'clock shadow right there and you want to see her face when she comes because she's the most beautiful fucking one night stand you are ever going to have and you are old and wise enough to recognize this…
Then someone tries to mug you.
You've been at war in another galaxy long enough that you can recognize the smell of death when it's around. A sickly sweet rotting smell that you know isn't coming from the blonde who is tense and writhing above you. You pull away just as she pushes and you roll with every intention of popping up and kicking the ever living shit out of whoever is behind you. She's quickly buttoning her pants. You do, in fact, get a punch in when the guy with the fucked up face hits you with the force of a Wraith Soldier and sends you flying into the bricks.
You tell the blonde to run, and she does. She runs right at the guy and proceeds to kick his ass with the same skill and finesse that Teyla uses on you… She pulls out a stick and the similarity is almost comical. You simultaneously wonder where the hell she was hiding that, because the end looks sharp- a thought she punctuates by slamming the thing into the guy's chest.
That's when you wonder if Rodney isn't playing some elaborate evil genius type joke on you because the guy explodes in a shower of flame and embers. The blonde is checking her outfit with a frown, dusting ash from pink leather and flipping her hair behind her shoulder. She looks up at you, shrugs and smiles. She tells you that dusting vamps always makes her horny. You make a mental note to check with Rodney to see if there is any way you can smuggle the blonde back to Pegasus because that's got to be one of the coolest things you've ever witnessed and you've seem some damned awe inspiring things.
She asks if your okay and you hold out your hand and raise your eyebrow in answer. You're too drunk to have any intelligent questions but not drunk enough to give anything away, so you simply tell her that it's not the weirdest night you've ever had. She cocks her head in a way that says "not yet, anyway" and grins as she takes your hand and lets you lead her back into the bar
Rodney/Willow
Character Study, PWP, Rish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You've only been here fifteen minutes before you realize that John Sheppard has already acquired missile lock on a blonde that is totally your type, though you'd probably wish she were taller. Like other blondes you've lusted after, she doesn't even see you, her panties melt into a sticky puddle on the floor when John smiles. You'd be upset, but when he turns your way, you can see that it's completely fake, just skin pulling across teeth.
He wiggles his eyebrows in a completely dorky way, but you know it's his way of setting the flashlight outside the tent, so to speak- and yeah the girl looks like she could eat John alive and they've barely said ten words to each other. The redhead beside you is cute, and she smiled promisingly when you said hello, so you bump shoulders in a way that answers John's unspoken question. "Fine, whatever," you think and you leave him to it.
The redhead turns out to be not so bad, actually. She's not completely vacuous, she has more than a passing familiarity with computers, at least for earth standards, and in another life she might have been a chemist. She's no you, not your sister or a Carter either. She might have been a Zelenka, or even a Gall if she hadn't apparently been sidetracked by some mystical Gaia, earth mother, bullshit that has your eyes straining to roll every time she brings it up.
You keep buying the drinks and the conversation starts getting more interesting the blurrier your brain gets.
An hour later you wonder if it's your own personal hell where you've been condemned to talk and talk and talk and talk when all you really want to do is chart her freckles like constellations, taste her to see if she tastes just as sweet as she smells, and touch all that smooth creamy skin hiding under sheer fluttery layers and get laid.
Four years ago, you wouldn't have dreamed of picking a girl up in a bar, especially one that can't be a day over twenty four if you are being generous. If you are being painfully honest with yourself, which you always are… ten years ago you know a girl like her would have laughed in your face if you'd parked your skinny, sweaty, amphetamine popping ass next to her and tried to open your mouth.
Now you live in another galaxy and fight vampires and are probably the smartest, most unique and cool person she'll ever meet even if she can never know how or why. And you really want to get laid. You ask yourself what John would do --which is smile and make a pass-- and hey, she doesn't slap you. She even laughs and nods her head when you jerk your thumb over your shoulder and tell her you have a limo at your disposal.
You leave together, and actually pass John and the blonde as they emerge from an alley and head back inside. They don't see you, and that's just fine. You really don't want to know what he was doing with that girl in a dark, smelly, germy alley anyway. You turn back to your date and she's giving you a sharp assessing gaze that firmly cements her as a Zelenka in your mind. The man is a mess, but he sees through you every time and you miss him though you'll never ever admit it.
You never intend to come back, and you are always afraid you'll wind up marooned here when you find yourself in the Milky Way. You scan the streets for threats like this is any other alien village where you have to make nice with the natives but all you see is the crowded blacktop and your limo waiting sleek and mysterious under a streetlight.
You ask her where she wants to go.
She shrugs as she steps inside; you tell your driver to "just drive" and then you are alone without the crowd of the bar to cover for uncomfortable silences, but she just slides into your lap and moves your stiff arms, pressing your palms to her hips as she nuzzles your neck and the car pulls away from the curb.
You didn't believe her when she talked about magic and spells and power but her soft thin lips whisper incantations into your skin. She's speaking Latin as she rides you, slowly, arms stretched up in supplication, braced on the soft felt of the roof as she pushes down and grinds. Light spills from her lips, fingertips, skin- her breasts glow in the soft yellow light and you worship like a true pagan, willing to believe if this is where her magic comes from, or maybe she roofied you at the bar, because this feels far too surreal.
Her fingertips fall from the heavens and trace scars, old and new and you can see energy pulsing green and golden over your skin. You realize she's charting you like a faded parchment map. You want to tell her that there is no treasure, only sea monsters and dragons and nano-technology that wants to kill you. The vibration of the road beneath you reminds you of the steady thrum of the puddle jumper, and the serene smile above you reminds you of Teyla…
You come in a rush of energy -electricitylightsound- and hear the girl moan "Blessed be." only her lips never move.
Whatever it is she's slipped you, you wonder if you can get more.
They are John/Buffy and Rodney/Willow and it's all Prima's and Monanotlisa's fault.
John/Buffy
Character study, PWP, Rish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A Slayer and a Soldier walk into a bar.
One of the ways John Sheppard finds out that Vampires on Earth are for realz, yo.
She's blonde, perky and way too young for him, but she's built like a fighter plane- all smooth curves and sleek hard lines with the power to throw you hard into your seat if you give the stick a hard pull into a suicide nosedive. She's glistening with sweat, a little wild eyed and there is a smudge of ash on her pristine, virginal is your first thought and it's almost enough to have you sporting wood, white shirt.
You give Rodney the secret eyebrow wiggle that has come to mean "Occupado, do not disturbo," and he huffs, bumping your shoulder as he turns the other way and engages some willowy redhead in conversation. Your mind catalogues the machine gun fire exchange of words behind you and you satisfy yourself that your wingman is all right before you turn to the blonde and smile.
Her blood red lips purse and she eyes you, one slow sweep from the top of your spiky hair to the lace of your boots and back to meet your eyes. You offer to buy her a drink, playing it casual and her spine relaxes to a degree as she responds in the affirmative.
Four drinks later and you act like you've known each other since childhood. Of course you don't remember being quite so grabby with Christina from the third grade. "The Blonde" as she has come to be labeled in your head -because you can't quite wrap your brain around "Buffy"- doesn't seem to mind. You realize an hour into it that she reminds you of Teyla. Which is to say that she moves with the confidence of someone who knows she can kick your ass --which is a turn on when Teyla does it-- the blonde has you stone hard and hot because you don't know her, if you were honest with yourself you don't respect her, and you'll be in another galaxy in a week so it doesn't matter anyway.
She's looking at you like you're a piece of meat too.
It's the blonde that drags you out in the alley and reverses the script in a way that you're really going to wish you remember clearer tomorrow and you are crouching down with your face buried in dark blonde curls. (She may have laughed when you moaned reverently and murmured "real" against her skin). She's a softer pink down here, wet and fragrant and your drinking her down like you've just stepped out of the desert, and you quit being gentle five minutes ago when her nails dug into your shoulder and she bucked her hips and hissed "Harder."
You have your dick out now, working it fast and rough, tongue pushing up deep inside the blonde, your neck straining because she likes it when you rub your five o'clock shadow right there and you want to see her face when she comes because she's the most beautiful fucking one night stand you are ever going to have and you are old and wise enough to recognize this…
Then someone tries to mug you.
You've been at war in another galaxy long enough that you can recognize the smell of death when it's around. A sickly sweet rotting smell that you know isn't coming from the blonde who is tense and writhing above you. You pull away just as she pushes and you roll with every intention of popping up and kicking the ever living shit out of whoever is behind you. She's quickly buttoning her pants. You do, in fact, get a punch in when the guy with the fucked up face hits you with the force of a Wraith Soldier and sends you flying into the bricks.
You tell the blonde to run, and she does. She runs right at the guy and proceeds to kick his ass with the same skill and finesse that Teyla uses on you… She pulls out a stick and the similarity is almost comical. You simultaneously wonder where the hell she was hiding that, because the end looks sharp- a thought she punctuates by slamming the thing into the guy's chest.
That's when you wonder if Rodney isn't playing some elaborate evil genius type joke on you because the guy explodes in a shower of flame and embers. The blonde is checking her outfit with a frown, dusting ash from pink leather and flipping her hair behind her shoulder. She looks up at you, shrugs and smiles. She tells you that dusting vamps always makes her horny. You make a mental note to check with Rodney to see if there is any way you can smuggle the blonde back to Pegasus because that's got to be one of the coolest things you've ever witnessed and you've seem some damned awe inspiring things.
She asks if your okay and you hold out your hand and raise your eyebrow in answer. You're too drunk to have any intelligent questions but not drunk enough to give anything away, so you simply tell her that it's not the weirdest night you've ever had. She cocks her head in a way that says "not yet, anyway" and grins as she takes your hand and lets you lead her back into the bar
Rodney/Willow
Character Study, PWP, Rish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You've only been here fifteen minutes before you realize that John Sheppard has already acquired missile lock on a blonde that is totally your type, though you'd probably wish she were taller. Like other blondes you've lusted after, she doesn't even see you, her panties melt into a sticky puddle on the floor when John smiles. You'd be upset, but when he turns your way, you can see that it's completely fake, just skin pulling across teeth.
He wiggles his eyebrows in a completely dorky way, but you know it's his way of setting the flashlight outside the tent, so to speak- and yeah the girl looks like she could eat John alive and they've barely said ten words to each other. The redhead beside you is cute, and she smiled promisingly when you said hello, so you bump shoulders in a way that answers John's unspoken question. "Fine, whatever," you think and you leave him to it.
The redhead turns out to be not so bad, actually. She's not completely vacuous, she has more than a passing familiarity with computers, at least for earth standards, and in another life she might have been a chemist. She's no you, not your sister or a Carter either. She might have been a Zelenka, or even a Gall if she hadn't apparently been sidetracked by some mystical Gaia, earth mother, bullshit that has your eyes straining to roll every time she brings it up.
You keep buying the drinks and the conversation starts getting more interesting the blurrier your brain gets.
An hour later you wonder if it's your own personal hell where you've been condemned to talk and talk and talk and talk when all you really want to do is chart her freckles like constellations, taste her to see if she tastes just as sweet as she smells, and touch all that smooth creamy skin hiding under sheer fluttery layers and get laid.
Four years ago, you wouldn't have dreamed of picking a girl up in a bar, especially one that can't be a day over twenty four if you are being generous. If you are being painfully honest with yourself, which you always are… ten years ago you know a girl like her would have laughed in your face if you'd parked your skinny, sweaty, amphetamine popping ass next to her and tried to open your mouth.
Now you live in another galaxy and fight vampires and are probably the smartest, most unique and cool person she'll ever meet even if she can never know how or why. And you really want to get laid. You ask yourself what John would do --which is smile and make a pass-- and hey, she doesn't slap you. She even laughs and nods her head when you jerk your thumb over your shoulder and tell her you have a limo at your disposal.
You leave together, and actually pass John and the blonde as they emerge from an alley and head back inside. They don't see you, and that's just fine. You really don't want to know what he was doing with that girl in a dark, smelly, germy alley anyway. You turn back to your date and she's giving you a sharp assessing gaze that firmly cements her as a Zelenka in your mind. The man is a mess, but he sees through you every time and you miss him though you'll never ever admit it.
You never intend to come back, and you are always afraid you'll wind up marooned here when you find yourself in the Milky Way. You scan the streets for threats like this is any other alien village where you have to make nice with the natives but all you see is the crowded blacktop and your limo waiting sleek and mysterious under a streetlight.
You ask her where she wants to go.
She shrugs as she steps inside; you tell your driver to "just drive" and then you are alone without the crowd of the bar to cover for uncomfortable silences, but she just slides into your lap and moves your stiff arms, pressing your palms to her hips as she nuzzles your neck and the car pulls away from the curb.
You didn't believe her when she talked about magic and spells and power but her soft thin lips whisper incantations into your skin. She's speaking Latin as she rides you, slowly, arms stretched up in supplication, braced on the soft felt of the roof as she pushes down and grinds. Light spills from her lips, fingertips, skin- her breasts glow in the soft yellow light and you worship like a true pagan, willing to believe if this is where her magic comes from, or maybe she roofied you at the bar, because this feels far too surreal.
Her fingertips fall from the heavens and trace scars, old and new and you can see energy pulsing green and golden over your skin. You realize she's charting you like a faded parchment map. You want to tell her that there is no treasure, only sea monsters and dragons and nano-technology that wants to kill you. The vibration of the road beneath you reminds you of the steady thrum of the puddle jumper, and the serene smile above you reminds you of Teyla…
You come in a rush of energy -electricitylightsound- and hear the girl moan "Blessed be." only her lips never move.
Whatever it is she's slipped you, you wonder if you can get more.