(no subject)
YOU ARE ALL SUCH BAD PEOPLE. NO, REALLY, SUCH BAD PEOPLE.
I cannot believe I did this. I hate you all.
Aero, 1700 words, R, J2, STUPID DRAGONRIDER AU THING.
*mumbles* This is just an outtake, no promises on more, but it's totally possible that it could happen, since I am a bad person and you are all terrible influences. And, um, people are going to throw rocks at me for ending this where I did. I think this makes sense without knowing the canon, as long as you are aware of the fundamental fact that dragons go into heat and basically make their riders go into heat too, but WHO KNOWS. This has absolutely no redeeming value.
Aero
Jensen's halfway through the line at dinner when his stomach drops out, his hands clenching involuntarily on the edges of his plate.
"You okay?" says Bell, rider of the biggest blue in their wing, shoving her shoulder up against his just as Jensen feels a wave of dizziness hit.
"Fine," he manages. "Just give me a second." The stomach flu would be the perfect end to a godawful day, but thirty seconds later, Jensen's head suddenly clears.
"Stop skipping lunch, Ackles," Bell says, laughing.
Jensen's more than willing to write it off as low blood sugar, but the first bite of steak tastes off, and the second is awful. Even Jensen's apple pie doesn't taste right; it's a combination of too sweet and bitter that has him pushing his tray away.
"Not that hungry," Jensen says, when Bell nudges him again.
"You're flushed," she says, pressing her hand underneath his collar. "Running a fever."
"Probably something I ate," Jensen says, pushing back from the table. "I think I'm going to head back."
Jensen's almost to his quarters before he realizes that the low ache in his stomach doesn't feel like food poisoning, but he's still too damn warm, and opening the window in his room does almost nothing to fix it. He's already most of the way through a manual on aerial maneuvers, and studying doesn't seem like the worst distraction, but Jensen only gets through three pages before he realizes that he's barely remembering the diagrams. The edges of his vision are sliding, but it stops when he blinks. Jensen's starting to wonder if a migraine is a possibility when someone knocks on the door.
"It's open," he says.
"Kristen said you're not feeling well," someone says, and when the door swings open, it's Jared, Jensen's wingleader, holding a vial and a pitcher of water.
Jensen feels himself lose the battle not to blush - Seraneth isn't the biggest bronze in the weyr, but he's close, and Jared's a year or two from being weyr leader and still bringing metaphorical chicken soup to the third year green riders in his wing.
"You didn't have to," Jensen manages, because Jared teaches two night classes on Wednesdays - Jensen's in the second section of Applied Wing Tactics, eight o'clock two nights a week, and thinking about the way Jared lectures with his hands and the way he laughs is enough to make Jensen's stomach flip over again for an entirely different reason - and he's probably going to be late.
"Don't be an idiot," Jared says, leaning up against Jensen's doorframe, and motions him over. "Stomach flu?"
"I'm fine," Jensen says, but when Jared slides his hands underneath Jensen's jaw to tilt his face up, he's so dizzy he can't stand, or something like it, because he's suddenly closer than he means to be and Jared's touch is too warm, uncomfortable enough that he has to duck away.
"Jensen, how old is Casserath?" Jared says, and Jensen blinks, at least reasonably sure he's misheard the question, because Jared never forgets details.
"Asleep," he says, feeling it out, because the familiar presence in the back of his mind has been gone since lunch, something Jensen should have noticed, because it's out of the ordinary, and Jared's face softens.
"How old," Jared repeats, gently, and Jensen feels another rush of heat hit him when Jared pushes him backwards gently.
"Two, almost three -" Jensen says, confused, and then he realizes why Jared's asking a question when he already knows the answer.
"Oh," Jensen says, and abruptly, the heat under his skin becomes more familiar. He realizes that he's staring, that he's flushed all over, and when he sits down on the bed, it's difficult to ignore the fact that he's almost half-hard, his cock heavy and suddenly too sensitive. "She's going to -" Jensen can't bring himself to finish the sentence.
"She'll wake up soon," Jared says, sitting down beside him on the bed. "It'll be better for you if you don't let her eat."
"For me?" Jensen says, stupidly, and Jared looks like he's going to laugh.
"The sex," Jared says.
"Oh," Jensen says, "right," and he can feel Jared watching him.
"You know," Jared says, after a long pause, "when you've been doing this a while, you figure out the stereotypes aren't worth the time it takes to list them."
"Stereotypes?" Jensen says, trying to ignore the flush sliding up the back of his neck.
"Browns pick laid back, blues are half thoughtful, half sense of humor, greens are -"
"Easy," Jensen supplies.
"I was going to say passionate," Jared says, grinning in a way that pushes Jensen further toward all the way hard. "And I said I wasn't listing. Because dragons pick people, not types. I know that better than anyone."
"I've never," Jensen admits, awkwardly, because it's not something he wants Jared to know. He jumps at the hand against the back of his neck.
"Relax," Jared says. "You can't stop anyone from flying for her, but -" He smiles, low, an expression Jensen's not used to seeing on his face. "You've probably got an hour or two, so that's plenty of time to call someone back from patrol with a brown, or send someone away."
Jensen looks at him, not quite comprehending, and Jared rubs a thumb across the curve of his shoulder. "I'm saying, you can probably choose," he says. "Caniath's the biggest brown in the second, and Misha's a good guy, but Eliath can outfly most of our wing. If you want Kristen, I'll keep it quiet, keep the dragons from the second on that side of the weyr."
Jensen knows Misha, second in command of the second wing, and he knows Jared's right, that he's a good guy, that it wouldn't be so bad if Caniath caught Casserath, and Bell's sweet, funny, and he likes her.
"I," Jensen says, "Kristen would be okay." He rubs his hands over his thighs, trying to get his pulse back under control, and counts the stripes on his wool blanket. He's on seventeen before he realizes that Jared hasn't said anything, and when he looks up, there's something different on Jared's face, another look Jensen's never seen before.
"You know what," Jared says, "don't worry about it, I got it," and claps a hand on Jensen's shoulder. "Bring a book down to my quarters, I'll tell anyone who's flying her to wait there."
Jared stands, easily enough that something sharp and electric runs down Jensen's spine, and smiles over his shoulder before he lets himself out. Jensen drains the glass of water Jared left on his dresser, pouring enough from the pitcher into a basin so he can splash his face, the back of his neck. Jensen's not sure what he needs, what's going to happen, but it's easy to follow Jared's advice. He settles on the tactical book, full of diagrams he doesn't quite have to focus on, and heads downstairs.
Jensen's been in Jared's rooms before, for meetings and the occasional dinner, but when he knocks, no one answers, and it's more than a little strange to let himself in to Jared's common room. There's a fire in the fireplace, low enough that it was probably set a few hours before, and Jensen catches a glimpse of dark green sheets through the door to Jared's bedroom. It's enough to make him blush, even though there's no one to see. Jensen settles in on one of the couches, pulling a blanket down off the back in an effort to feel a little less exposed, and tries to memorize diagrams until the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach gets too distracting and he has to tilt his head back, closing his eyes.
He hears the door swing open, expecting Kristen or Misha, or another of the brown riders, but it's Jared.
"Just me," he says, with a smile, and disappears into the bedroom; Jensen can hear him moving around, and it's almost comforting, if embarrassing when Jensen realizes he's tilting his hips up, thinking about pulling the blanket tight for something to press up against.
Casserath has never been slow to wake, and Jensen's used to feeling her thoughts push into his mind like a flipping a light bulb switch, there and then not. This time, it's different, slow enough that he knows it's going to be a while, but he still feels it when she slides from a deep sleep into a lighter one, with a push of desire that knocks Jensen's breath away for minute.
"She's not really asleep anymore," Jensen manages, and Jared comes out of the bedroom, undoing his cuffs, the row of tiny buttons at his collar.
"Good," Jared says, looking up at him, and then laughs. "And you're starting to feel it."
Jensen realizes he's stretched, arching, and blushes hard, but Jared sits down beside him, pushing Jensen toward the other end of the couch with a firm hand against the small of his back, a touch that Jensen somehow feels all over.
"You don't have to stay," Jensen says, a little desperately, because Jared's really too close, and then he realizes the fundamental problem with the situation.
"You said -" he manages, "that people would be waiting here." The feeling rushing through him this time isn't desire, it's something a lot more like fear. Jensen's not all that popular, not that used to people, but the thought that no one would let their dragon fly isn't something he's ever thought about. He can feel the indecision slipping through the bond, the soft, rumbling reassurance that echoes back, even though she's not awake, but it's not enough. "Not even Kristen?"
Jared blinks at him for a second, then grins. "People only wait when they're not sure of the outcome, Jensen," he says. "No one's going to outfly a bronze."
"A bronze?" Jensen says, stupidly, and when Jared cups his face, he's not expecting it, not leaning into it until Casserath comes more awake and it happens anyway, until Jensen can't think.
"Yeah," Jared says, still grinning, "me," and kisses him, warm and sure, as Jensen's dragon opens her eyes and begins to spread her wings.
PART TWO
I cannot believe I did this. I hate you all.
Aero, 1700 words, R, J2, STUPID DRAGONRIDER AU THING.
*mumbles* This is just an outtake, no promises on more, but it's totally possible that it could happen, since I am a bad person and you are all terrible influences. And, um, people are going to throw rocks at me for ending this where I did. I think this makes sense without knowing the canon, as long as you are aware of the fundamental fact that dragons go into heat and basically make their riders go into heat too, but WHO KNOWS. This has absolutely no redeeming value.
Aero
Jensen's halfway through the line at dinner when his stomach drops out, his hands clenching involuntarily on the edges of his plate.
"You okay?" says Bell, rider of the biggest blue in their wing, shoving her shoulder up against his just as Jensen feels a wave of dizziness hit.
"Fine," he manages. "Just give me a second." The stomach flu would be the perfect end to a godawful day, but thirty seconds later, Jensen's head suddenly clears.
"Stop skipping lunch, Ackles," Bell says, laughing.
Jensen's more than willing to write it off as low blood sugar, but the first bite of steak tastes off, and the second is awful. Even Jensen's apple pie doesn't taste right; it's a combination of too sweet and bitter that has him pushing his tray away.
"Not that hungry," Jensen says, when Bell nudges him again.
"You're flushed," she says, pressing her hand underneath his collar. "Running a fever."
"Probably something I ate," Jensen says, pushing back from the table. "I think I'm going to head back."
Jensen's almost to his quarters before he realizes that the low ache in his stomach doesn't feel like food poisoning, but he's still too damn warm, and opening the window in his room does almost nothing to fix it. He's already most of the way through a manual on aerial maneuvers, and studying doesn't seem like the worst distraction, but Jensen only gets through three pages before he realizes that he's barely remembering the diagrams. The edges of his vision are sliding, but it stops when he blinks. Jensen's starting to wonder if a migraine is a possibility when someone knocks on the door.
"It's open," he says.
"Kristen said you're not feeling well," someone says, and when the door swings open, it's Jared, Jensen's wingleader, holding a vial and a pitcher of water.
Jensen feels himself lose the battle not to blush - Seraneth isn't the biggest bronze in the weyr, but he's close, and Jared's a year or two from being weyr leader and still bringing metaphorical chicken soup to the third year green riders in his wing.
"You didn't have to," Jensen manages, because Jared teaches two night classes on Wednesdays - Jensen's in the second section of Applied Wing Tactics, eight o'clock two nights a week, and thinking about the way Jared lectures with his hands and the way he laughs is enough to make Jensen's stomach flip over again for an entirely different reason - and he's probably going to be late.
"Don't be an idiot," Jared says, leaning up against Jensen's doorframe, and motions him over. "Stomach flu?"
"I'm fine," Jensen says, but when Jared slides his hands underneath Jensen's jaw to tilt his face up, he's so dizzy he can't stand, or something like it, because he's suddenly closer than he means to be and Jared's touch is too warm, uncomfortable enough that he has to duck away.
"Jensen, how old is Casserath?" Jared says, and Jensen blinks, at least reasonably sure he's misheard the question, because Jared never forgets details.
"Asleep," he says, feeling it out, because the familiar presence in the back of his mind has been gone since lunch, something Jensen should have noticed, because it's out of the ordinary, and Jared's face softens.
"How old," Jared repeats, gently, and Jensen feels another rush of heat hit him when Jared pushes him backwards gently.
"Two, almost three -" Jensen says, confused, and then he realizes why Jared's asking a question when he already knows the answer.
"Oh," Jensen says, and abruptly, the heat under his skin becomes more familiar. He realizes that he's staring, that he's flushed all over, and when he sits down on the bed, it's difficult to ignore the fact that he's almost half-hard, his cock heavy and suddenly too sensitive. "She's going to -" Jensen can't bring himself to finish the sentence.
"She'll wake up soon," Jared says, sitting down beside him on the bed. "It'll be better for you if you don't let her eat."
"For me?" Jensen says, stupidly, and Jared looks like he's going to laugh.
"The sex," Jared says.
"Oh," Jensen says, "right," and he can feel Jared watching him.
"You know," Jared says, after a long pause, "when you've been doing this a while, you figure out the stereotypes aren't worth the time it takes to list them."
"Stereotypes?" Jensen says, trying to ignore the flush sliding up the back of his neck.
"Browns pick laid back, blues are half thoughtful, half sense of humor, greens are -"
"Easy," Jensen supplies.
"I was going to say passionate," Jared says, grinning in a way that pushes Jensen further toward all the way hard. "And I said I wasn't listing. Because dragons pick people, not types. I know that better than anyone."
"I've never," Jensen admits, awkwardly, because it's not something he wants Jared to know. He jumps at the hand against the back of his neck.
"Relax," Jared says. "You can't stop anyone from flying for her, but -" He smiles, low, an expression Jensen's not used to seeing on his face. "You've probably got an hour or two, so that's plenty of time to call someone back from patrol with a brown, or send someone away."
Jensen looks at him, not quite comprehending, and Jared rubs a thumb across the curve of his shoulder. "I'm saying, you can probably choose," he says. "Caniath's the biggest brown in the second, and Misha's a good guy, but Eliath can outfly most of our wing. If you want Kristen, I'll keep it quiet, keep the dragons from the second on that side of the weyr."
Jensen knows Misha, second in command of the second wing, and he knows Jared's right, that he's a good guy, that it wouldn't be so bad if Caniath caught Casserath, and Bell's sweet, funny, and he likes her.
"I," Jensen says, "Kristen would be okay." He rubs his hands over his thighs, trying to get his pulse back under control, and counts the stripes on his wool blanket. He's on seventeen before he realizes that Jared hasn't said anything, and when he looks up, there's something different on Jared's face, another look Jensen's never seen before.
"You know what," Jared says, "don't worry about it, I got it," and claps a hand on Jensen's shoulder. "Bring a book down to my quarters, I'll tell anyone who's flying her to wait there."
Jared stands, easily enough that something sharp and electric runs down Jensen's spine, and smiles over his shoulder before he lets himself out. Jensen drains the glass of water Jared left on his dresser, pouring enough from the pitcher into a basin so he can splash his face, the back of his neck. Jensen's not sure what he needs, what's going to happen, but it's easy to follow Jared's advice. He settles on the tactical book, full of diagrams he doesn't quite have to focus on, and heads downstairs.
Jensen's been in Jared's rooms before, for meetings and the occasional dinner, but when he knocks, no one answers, and it's more than a little strange to let himself in to Jared's common room. There's a fire in the fireplace, low enough that it was probably set a few hours before, and Jensen catches a glimpse of dark green sheets through the door to Jared's bedroom. It's enough to make him blush, even though there's no one to see. Jensen settles in on one of the couches, pulling a blanket down off the back in an effort to feel a little less exposed, and tries to memorize diagrams until the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach gets too distracting and he has to tilt his head back, closing his eyes.
He hears the door swing open, expecting Kristen or Misha, or another of the brown riders, but it's Jared.
"Just me," he says, with a smile, and disappears into the bedroom; Jensen can hear him moving around, and it's almost comforting, if embarrassing when Jensen realizes he's tilting his hips up, thinking about pulling the blanket tight for something to press up against.
Casserath has never been slow to wake, and Jensen's used to feeling her thoughts push into his mind like a flipping a light bulb switch, there and then not. This time, it's different, slow enough that he knows it's going to be a while, but he still feels it when she slides from a deep sleep into a lighter one, with a push of desire that knocks Jensen's breath away for minute.
"She's not really asleep anymore," Jensen manages, and Jared comes out of the bedroom, undoing his cuffs, the row of tiny buttons at his collar.
"Good," Jared says, looking up at him, and then laughs. "And you're starting to feel it."
Jensen realizes he's stretched, arching, and blushes hard, but Jared sits down beside him, pushing Jensen toward the other end of the couch with a firm hand against the small of his back, a touch that Jensen somehow feels all over.
"You don't have to stay," Jensen says, a little desperately, because Jared's really too close, and then he realizes the fundamental problem with the situation.
"You said -" he manages, "that people would be waiting here." The feeling rushing through him this time isn't desire, it's something a lot more like fear. Jensen's not all that popular, not that used to people, but the thought that no one would let their dragon fly isn't something he's ever thought about. He can feel the indecision slipping through the bond, the soft, rumbling reassurance that echoes back, even though she's not awake, but it's not enough. "Not even Kristen?"
Jared blinks at him for a second, then grins. "People only wait when they're not sure of the outcome, Jensen," he says. "No one's going to outfly a bronze."
"A bronze?" Jensen says, stupidly, and when Jared cups his face, he's not expecting it, not leaning into it until Casserath comes more awake and it happens anyway, until Jensen can't think.
"Yeah," Jared says, still grinning, "me," and kisses him, warm and sure, as Jensen's dragon opens her eyes and begins to spread her wings.
PART TWO