It’s a tangible thing, like touching, the tension that runs at times between them.
Someone has to come out on top. It’s what this is, at the heart, all about. Maybe. Or maybe they are fooling themselves in thinking that’s all of what it was. It’s none the less what they’re telling themselves as they go about a deadly dance of predator meeting killer instincts.
It seems to Tyr now that it could be no other way, it was inconceivable, inevitable, and when they first laid eyes on each other, Harper had sort of smirked –all wicked and teasing, those blue eyes said ‘I know what’s going to happen now!’, and then he’d started laying bets with Atlantis’s more foolish men and women. John himself had worked to keep Ronon occupied, to delay this clash, and maybe if he had succeeded Ronon would have killed him, just to get him out of the way. Dylan had tried to interest Tyr in other things, for fleeting peace, in how well built Atlantis was, in its defense and offense, but ultimately, even Dylan had seemed to give up and give in.
So, for no other reason then Tyr snarled at the other male, this other stranger who was so like and unlike his own people, but surely an Alpha for all of that. Ronon had grinned, all teeth and curling lips. They circled a invisible ring, around and around, eyes only for each other, knowing one of them had to step down because this was a physical show of the talking that Dylan was doing with Atlantis and it’s Earth, both sides fancied themselves protector of the people. This was about that, and more.
When they clashed, it was a physical movement, a grind against skin and bone, arm blades and skivs, Ronon was tamed but had lived wilder, without the comforts Tyr once had known, but both could sympathize with each other and survive. Yet they had to find common ground, had to settle the obvious power differences. Ronon didn’t give in, but he was used to giving his back to go in for the kill at a side strike, and Tyr was used to taking every advantage offered, so Tyr straddled Ronon’s back and rode him to the ground, and when their hair was tangled together, tightly managed braids and dreadlocks, Tyr didn’t go for the kill – his arm bone spikes didn’t cut into the sensitive neck and blood didn’t stain them, and Ronon didn’t roll and kick him off to put a shiv in the once merc’s belly. They strained to stay very very still. Something different and alien surged through him, stilled him, and Tyr had to know what it was before he let himself move. He feared making a terrible mistake.
Tyr panted for breath, the heat of it cooling the sweat on Ronon’s neck, and when Ronon flexed experimentally beneath him –testing limits and boundaries as Ronon always felt he must - he closed his eyes tightly and felt the smooth expanse of skin and hot muscle, he groaned, letting out a shaky sigh. A different sort of need crawled up his spine, desire and twisting lust. Ronon smirked up at him, black pupils swallowing the brown ring.
“Want me?” That look asked, invited - and – oh yes – Tyr wanted him. Tyr took him, and Ronon was eager to be his, there was nothing frail in the taking and giving, no asking, only taking and wanting and the always consuming burning need for more and faster and harder, it was heeding him, and only him, but Tyr was no fool – Ronon had wanted to be taken, and Tyr knew that meant that he’d want to take Tyr, one day soon – and Tyr couldn’t wait. He wanted that day, was impatient at the very thought of it.
Ronon was more then his opposite-sided, or similar-minded, he was the familiar stranger – a friend. A life partner and Tyr could not explain it, because a Neitzschean didn’t have words for such things.
That was okay, Ronon just looked at him, and Tyr didn’t have to bother with words. He knew this – whatever you called it, however it was named, this was his and this was Ronon’s claim on him - for the promise it was, and Tyr’s skin shivered in answer, while Ronon only smirked more knowingly then Tyr was comfortable with, for it brought to mind the question of Ronon – maybe – planning this. Yet Tyr never asked that, and Ronon – if he knew, if he had – never told. This was theirs.
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Animal Magnetism
Date: 2010-02-18 06:14 pm (UTC)Andromeda/SGA, Tyr Anasazi/Ronon Dex, physical
-----
It’s a tangible thing, like touching, the tension that runs at times between them.
Someone has to come out on top. It’s what this is, at the heart, all about. Maybe. Or maybe they are fooling themselves in thinking that’s all of what it was. It’s none the less what they’re telling themselves as they go about a deadly dance of predator meeting killer instincts.
It seems to Tyr now that it could be no other way, it was inconceivable, inevitable, and when they first laid eyes on each other, Harper had sort of smirked –all wicked and teasing, those blue eyes said ‘I know what’s going to happen now!’, and then he’d started laying bets with Atlantis’s more foolish men and women. John himself had worked to keep Ronon occupied, to delay this clash, and maybe if he had succeeded Ronon would have killed him, just to get him out of the way. Dylan had tried to interest Tyr in other things, for fleeting peace, in how well built Atlantis was, in its defense and offense, but ultimately, even Dylan had seemed to give up and give in.
So, for no other reason then Tyr snarled at the other male, this other stranger who was so like and unlike his own people, but surely an Alpha for all of that. Ronon had grinned, all teeth and curling lips. They circled a invisible ring, around and around, eyes only for each other, knowing one of them had to step down because this was a physical show of the talking that Dylan was doing with Atlantis and it’s Earth, both sides fancied themselves protector of the people. This was about that, and more.
When they clashed, it was a physical movement, a grind against skin and bone, arm blades and skivs, Ronon was tamed but had lived wilder, without the comforts Tyr once had known, but both could sympathize with each other and survive. Yet they had to find common ground, had to settle the obvious power differences. Ronon didn’t give in, but he was used to giving his back to go in for the kill at a side strike, and Tyr was used to taking every advantage offered, so Tyr straddled Ronon’s back and rode him to the ground, and when their hair was tangled together, tightly managed braids and dreadlocks, Tyr didn’t go for the kill – his arm bone spikes didn’t cut into the sensitive neck and blood didn’t stain them, and Ronon didn’t roll and kick him off to put a shiv in the once merc’s belly. They strained to stay very very still. Something different and alien surged through him, stilled him, and Tyr had to know what it was before he let himself move. He feared making a terrible mistake.
Tyr panted for breath, the heat of it cooling the sweat on Ronon’s neck, and when Ronon flexed experimentally beneath him –testing limits and boundaries as Ronon always felt he must - he closed his eyes tightly and felt the smooth expanse of skin and hot muscle, he groaned, letting out a shaky sigh. A different sort of need crawled up his spine, desire and twisting lust. Ronon smirked up at him, black pupils swallowing the brown ring.
“Want me?” That look asked, invited - and – oh yes – Tyr wanted him. Tyr took him, and Ronon was eager to be his, there was nothing frail in the taking and giving, no asking, only taking and wanting and the always consuming burning need for more and faster and harder, it was heeding him, and only him, but Tyr was no fool – Ronon had wanted to be taken, and Tyr knew that meant that he’d want to take Tyr, one day soon – and Tyr couldn’t wait. He wanted that day, was impatient at the very thought of it.
Ronon was more then his opposite-sided, or similar-minded, he was the familiar stranger – a friend. A life partner and Tyr could not explain it, because a Neitzschean didn’t have words for such things.
That was okay, Ronon just looked at him, and Tyr didn’t have to bother with words. He knew this – whatever you called it, however it was named, this was his and this was Ronon’s claim on him - for the promise it was, and Tyr’s skin shivered in answer, while Ronon only smirked more knowingly then Tyr was comfortable with, for it brought to mind the question of Ronon – maybe – planning this. Yet Tyr never asked that, and Ronon – if he knew, if he had – never told. This was theirs.