Pairing: McKay/Sheppard of Stargate: Atlantis
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Rodney has his own fallen angel
Sometimes, when Rodney's been awake for seventy-two straight hours, he wonders if John might be a fallen angel sent to tease and please him. He's sure in certain lights, from certain angles, he can see the wings. The faintest smoke grey shadows, sweeping out and up behind that hair, tapering to blackened dusty points behind his heels.
The fancy resurrects itself at unexpected moments.
While fleeing for their lives towards the gate he's sure he sees them - a darker mass of air extending out on either side. This planet's people's version of a small projectile weapon spits out rocks the size of acorns, but with carefully tailored barbs. He hears the whistle-thunk that should mean injury, or worse, and then he hears it several times again. Yet still they run, uninjured, from the latest botched up mission, and while he knows it doesn't really make him any safer, seeing the wings helps dial the panic down a notch or two.
He sees them later too, though in wildly different circumstances - riding John to heaven's edge and back a second time. They're slicksweatshivershake alive and whole and home and everything else is quickly put aside until they're done and sated.
They're close now, riding the razor's edge at the point of no return, and Rodney knows John won't allow him to ease them back again. He's done it twice before already - pinned John to the bed, and slowed their frenzied writhing, gentled him, until the urge to come has loosed its grip.
But now it's time. He's curled right over, knees stuck out at awkward knobbly angles, much too happy with the chest to belly contact the position grants to think of trying to make himself look graceful, if he could. John's hands are in his hair, on his shoulders, roaming, stroking, pulling, scrabbling for skin and quick release. Rodney licks a path between his nipples and bites down, clings tightly as he arches, screams and comes.
And there they are, visible from the corners of his eyes, two ash grey shadows rising from the bed to cross behind him, enveloping them both as focus shifts and breathing stills. And then he's clenching, coming, whiting out and falling forward. When his eyes reopen they are gone.
In the light of day, when they're relatively safe, he knows it's just a fantasy he has - his own fallen angel. But sometimes, late at night, he wonders...