So there was a mini-battle between artistic integrity* and porn. Porn won.
Title: Flux
Sequel to:
The Man Who Rose From EarthRating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: 1385 words
Summary: This is a kind of flying that Rodney can get behind.
Flux
When Rodney starts sleeping in his old room, nobody says anything. Not even those who see that the balcony doors are always open, even when it rains and the water puddles on the floor.
The wind rushes in like a breath, and with it, his silent feet.
The sheets rustle against Rodney’s skin as he draws them back. Fingers like solid tines of air brush over him, calling his flesh to points, to goose pimples. John’s cheeks are red and his lips a little blue. Rodney warms them with his mouth.
John’s hands sweep down his body, as if they’re startled to have something solid to hold on to. John is naked, very naked, his skin worn smooth and oddly hairless, like a polished stone. In the light of the moon he looks like moonlight, and when he comes in the day, Rodney knows he is bright warm burnished gold, wings arcing up from his back, hair like an ebony halo above his head.
He is naked, very naked, and Rodney has taken to sleeping in the nude, too, though his body is still podgy and earthbound. John touches him and tilts his head, like a curious bird, but he doesn’t dart away when Rodney reaches up, when he touches one pinioned tip, and then another, and then another, feathers rustling like leaves in a breeze.
Some nights this is all they do: just touch each other. Learning and relearning everything that they’re each resigned to miss.
But tonight John bends low. Wings above them like a great white canopy, he kisses Rodney’s mouth, and his chin, and the span of his pasty-pale throat. “Fly with me,” John says, voice dry and cracked from disuse.
“No,” says Rodney.
“Come fly with me,” says John.
“I can’t,” says Rodney. “But you could spend the night with me.”
“Hmfph,” says John, like he’s used up his allotment of words, the last of his human speech. He slides lower, his weight barely touching Rodney’s body, like he’s always hovering, poised for flight, even though Rodney can see that his great white wings are still, silent except for the quiet ripple of Rodney’s fingers, trailing up, meeting the bone.
John circles his mouth around Rodney’s nipple, then sucks it into his mouth, tongue swirling and eager, thirsty. Rodney has wondered if John drinks from the ocean, taking salty insanity into his mouth, or whether he beats his wings until he reaches the mainland and touches down beside a pure, cold stream, and there he pauses, and drinks deep.
Rodney has wondered if this is like that, a brief, almost regrettable pause, dropping down to get the thing he needs. But he can’t imagine that John cups the water with quite the reverence he uses to cup Rodney’s cock in his hand, kissing down the shaft, wings fluttering and shedding feathers that Rodney will find later, between his sheets and underneath his pillows, snowy white and strangely lifeless in his hands.
He keeps them all anyway.
John’s mouth is on his cock and then it isn’t on his cock, and John is pushing at Rodney’s shoulders with his strong arms, urging him to turn over. Rodney figures John wants to fuck him, and he likes that idea: John’s cock inside of him and his wings stretched up above them, beating as he thrusts, like he might lift them together off the bed. That’s a kind of flying that Rodney can get behind.
So he rolls, and he lets John straddle his legs. His faced mashed into the pillow, waiting for a touch; for John’s fingers, whisper-scrape, over the crease of his ass. Instead, John’s thumbs touch down hotly across his shoulder blades, over the line of bone. Rodney makes a muffled noise as John begins a slow massage, working the tired muscle with strong hands, occasionally bending down to press kisses across his broad back. John’s hands feel good. Really good. Strong and capable and human, hands that might grip the rail tightly, afraid of falling. They could be hands like that.
But they’re not, Rodney realizes, as the hands move lower. There’s a cool, determined purposefulness to their movements, like they’re hands on a mission. Methodical in their roving. But then they do reach down and part Rodney’s cheeks, and he forgets all that.
He forgets all of that-and even the fingers, scissoring inside-when John’s mouth descends, when with a rustle of feathers and a movement of the great dark shadow they cast upon the wall, he bends low and presses a kiss to Rodney’s shoulder. Then another and another, working his mouth along the raised ridge of bone like he had across Rodney’s nipple, his cock: raising it and reddening it, making Rodney’s shoulders twitch and arch. John’s cock is pressing against Rodney’s opening, and he barely feels it slide in; he already feels fucked by John’s mouth, John’s mouth, twisting twirling tongue like the wind licking along the shore, over time, over time bending it to its will.
He can hear himself making noises, a steady stream of increasingly incoherent noises, like his throat is closing up. John is thrusting steadily in and out of him, moving in time with the sweet sucking sensation of his lips, pressure and warmth and the odd slide of John’s saliva. Rodney knows his back must be red and wet and puckered, but he wants...he doesn’t even know what he wants. More, he thinks, arcing up into John’s thrusts, into the concentrated movements of his rough tongue. “More,” he gasps. “More, I need-”
“Are you sure?” John says, voice dry like crackling leaves, like wind whipping through narrow spaces. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Rodney pants, not even sure what he’s agreeing to, just knowing that John’s in him and on him and this is the closest he’s been to him in months. That this is as close as he’s come to feeling it, that thing he sees in John’s eyes.
John makes an indistinct sound; it sounds a little like thank you. Then he’s pulling out of Rodney, drawing out almost agonizingly slow, almost all the way. He holds himself up on his knees, maybe up off the bed, and his wings beat in anticipation, once, twice, like two hands clapping.
His back arches. Rodney can see him shadowed. He’s holding his breath, waiting for something-more than orgasm; he doesn’t know what.
John licks a broad, wet stripe up his back. Then all at once, he’s slamming into Rodney, hard; and his teeth are sinking into Rodney’s shoulder blade, harder; and Rodney is coming, hardest of all, screaming as he arches off the bed. Any other lover and he’d have spilled him into the floor, but John just beats his wings and hovers, licking at the bloody mark he’s left on Rodney’s back; spilling come and feathers into and onto Rodney’s body, and onto Rodney’s rumpled, windswept sheets.
John licks Rodney’s back until it’s clean. When he turns Rodney’s head and kisses his mouth, he tastes like copper.
Rodney’s still shaking. He sees the look in John’s eyes and he’s afraid. He feels like he’s let a wild animal into his home. Into him.
John pauses in the doorway. He looks like he wants to say something-or maybe, Rodney thinks for one deluded minute, like he wants to stay. But he just smiles, oddly tentative, and then steps outside, the last motion of his hand a wave, a beckon.
Rodney gets up on shaky legs and strips the sheets from the bed. He lies naked on the bare mattress and tries to sleep.
Usually, he sleeps on his back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows. Waiting. Now, though, he is restless and uncomfortable. He thinks maybe it’s his ass aching, but he knows that’s not it at all.
He rolls over onto his stomach, tucking his forehead into the softness of the pillow. There’s a feather there, long and white. He watches the pinions in the moonlight.
When he dreams, it’s of the broad sky above him and the ocean rippling by beneath. It’s of the wind rushing into his face and a warm hand on his arm, guiding him.
He wakes up and his back itches.
*What, are you telling me that wingfic can't have artistic integrity? Pah.
ETA:
Part III. You guys know I'm your bitch, right?