Annie (out_there) wrote,

SGA Fic: In Shades of Indigo and Violet

Title: In Shades of Indigo and Violet
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Rodney/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Wingfic porn. *Wingfic*. *Porn*.
Disclaimer: Dude, I don't own them. I don't want to admit to owning the wings, but that was my idea.
Notes: Thanks to 0bake and celli for audiencing and going "mmmm" in the right places. Thanks to seperis for betaing.
ETA: Also thanks to delurker for this stunning visual.

In Shades of Indigo and Violet

John took a deep breath. Then he rapped on Rodney's door.

He could have forced Atlantis to open the door for him -- the city would have, of course -- but he'd rather be invited in. He'd had enough of Rodney's pointy fingers of doom and loud complaints and cries of "Your fault! This is all your fault!" to last for one day.

With a slight hiss, the door slid open a foot, showing Rodney's scowling face and a section of Rodney's bare chest. "Haven't you inflicted enough on me today?"

"Once again, Rodney, not my fault."

Rodney leaned closer to the door, shoving his head through the gap. "Not your fault? This is completely your fault! I'm very, very sure that it was you holding the auto-evolver. You're the one who pointed it at me, and turned it on!"

"Because you asked," John replied, which Rodney had. He refused to accept the blame for this. Rodney was the one who pushed the device -- a small pyramid of silver with etchings of animals on each side -- into John's hands and told him to put his gene to use.

"I didn't ask you to aim it at me!"

John shrugged. "Then you shouldn't have stood in front of it."

"I thought it was going to play a children's lullaby, or maybe light up the room. I didn't think it would do---" Rodney tried to pull his head back but got a little stuck. He grunted and glared down the corridor. Seeing that it was empty, he opened the door completely and stepped backwards fast.

John followed him just as quickly. "Look, Rodney--"

"Don't 'look, Rodney' me, Colonel. This is not something that I'm over-reacting to, this is not something that you can talk your way around!" The door closed mid-rant. "Do you see this? Do you see what you've done to me?"

John had been carefully watching Rodney's face, had ignored the obvious, the thing that had Rodney acting like a prima ballerina with a twisted ankle. But Rodney's hands were waving in the air above his shoulders, and John couldn't *not* look.

Rodney. Had. Wings.

It was the type of thing that defied so many natural laws that John had surrendered to the absurdity, had given up trying to understand why something that looked like a child's fancy building block would do this and had just tried to keep the zoologists, ornithologists and biologists far away from Rodney. It had worked, apart from an hour of excited poking and prodding.

John could understand the fascination. The wings, such as they were, had suddenly grown out of Rodney's back, just below his shoulder blades: two fine, gossamer wings on either side, patterned in shades of blue and violet. The upper wings curved upwards, a few inches higher than Rodney's head; the lower wings were wider, streaked with dark shadows of indigo, and narrowed to trailing tapers that almost reached Rodney's ankles.

At the moment, Rodney looked like an oversized and cranky butterfly.

The wings fluttered, moving with Rodney's waving hands and frowning mouth. "This is so your fault. I've been turned into a laughingstock and I have to duck to get through doors, and Jurgens wanted to dissect me!"

"He wanted to take a sample of the dust you keep sprinkling everywhere." The wings, the biologists had discovered when they tried to touch them, were covered with fine, coloured dust that rubbed off on fingertips and rubber gloves alike. (Zelenka had posited that the powder was actually tiny scales, designed to ruffle up and catch the airflow -- maximizing the air-resistance and reducing the energy required to, in his words, 'offend gravity and common sense at the same time'.) From Rodney's complaints, twitches and occasional giggles, Rodney could feel the curious touches -- and was also rather ticklish. "It's not like he was planning to skin you alive."

"He was coming towards me with a scalpel!"

That had been the end of the scientific poke-and-prod because Rodney had screeched and slapped his wings against the surrounding circle of scientists, and John had decided to end it before any accidental violence could occur. "Any other complaints, McKay?"

"My back's sore. I'm spent the day using muscles I'm pretty sure I didn't have this morning, and with these stupid things I can't even lie flat and get a good night's sleep," Rodney said, which explained the loose pajama pants. It might also explain the rumpled covers on Rodney's bed, but John suspected Rodney rarely made it. "This is your fault. You should be finding a way to fix this."

"Carson's studying the blood sample and Zelenka's working on the Animal Farm building block. I can't order them to go any quicker."

"Like either of them listen to you anyway." Rodney rolled his shoulders, lending credence to his claim of discomfort. "Surely there's something useful you could be doing? Other than stopping and checking on me, and refusing to apologize for something that is clearly your fault."

"What do you want, an offer of a backrub?" John realized that was a mistake when Rodney's eyes lit up.

"That's very thoughtful of you, Colonel. Thank you."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I'm sure you were," Rodney said, the wings moving slightly, "but it remains a useful, productive idea and the least that you can do, considering this is your fault. So I'm going to lie facedown on that bed and you are going to start making amends."

John blinked. Logic dictated that Rodney was joking, but logic and McKay had never got on well. Judging by the way that Rodney twirled around -- he had to twirl, with wings that looked like a cut-out from someone's 'My First Fairy Book' -- and headed for the bed, logic was staying as far out of this conversation as possible.

John pressed his palms against his closed eyelids and weighed up his options. He could do the sane thing and refuse, walk out of Rodney's room without being guilted into this, but there would be consequences. Consequences like all transporters refusing to work for him, like his hair gel miraculously being replaced with superglue -- that hadn't been funny after Chaya and it wouldn't be funny now -- or getting locked in the mess bathroom.

He knew when he'd been out-matched.

"This still isn't my fault," he said as he walked over to the bed. Rodney was already lying on his stomach, wings stretched out to either side. The bedside lamp glowed warmly, golden light catching on the raised edges where bones should have been. John ran a finger along one ridge curiously; the powder smeared purple on his skin as Rodney squirmed. This was going to messy. Knowing his luck, it would probably stain his uniform a shocking violet. John pulled off his shirt and threw it to the floor.

Before he could question the wisdom of his actions, he toed off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He took care to avoid the wings as he kneeled over Rodney and settled his weight on Rodney's thighs.

"Colonel, please believe me when I say that your empty attempts to deny responsibility are a waste of breath. You're the cause of this predicament, and nothing you say will change that," Rodney said, rearranging his arms under his pillow and stretching his neck forward, "but I would appreciate not feeling like I've spent the last three days twisted up like a pretzel."

For a moment, John wondered when this had become his life. When he'd started giving backrubs to team-mates -- okay, he'd done that before, but that was under the promise of sex, not the threat of technological terrorism -- with big, colored butterfly wings sprouting from their back. He was fairly sure there hadn't been any mention of this in the description of the Atlantis expedition.

It was easy to find Rodney's sore spots: the muscles were tense and knotted, stone-hard under John's fingers. And if that wasn't enough of a giveaway, Rodney's "Yes, yes, to the left, now down, no, that's too far! Move up. Up, you military monkey," was another good indicator.

It didn't take long to warm the muscles up, to soothe the worst places and then, when McKay had settled into appreciative silence, John worked up and down his spine. The color smeared across John's fingertips, leaving trails of purple and sapphire across Rodney's skin, blurring into amethyst and teal as John rubbed. The bold colours reminded him of finger-painting as a kid, and without noticing it, John's hands were slowing down, pressing lighter, stroking over pliant flesh and the tight stretch of wings.

Rodney didn't object, didn't tell him to stop or go harder. The only sound he made was a low hiss as he shifted his hips against the mattress while John traced nonsense patterns across his shoulder blades.

John moved back, and then leaned forward and caught Rodney's earlobe between his teeth. "You want me to stop?"

"Um. Huh? What?" Rodney swallowed. "Do I look insane to you? I mean, yes, wings, but still a guy here. Not going to say no to sex."

"Just checking," John said and then kissed his way down Rodney's neck, along his shoulder. He dragged a fingernail lightly across the top of a wing, and Rodney shuddered. There was a difference in feeling, in pressure: less powder, more firmness under his touch, like cartilage, maybe. Something strong enough to stretch the wings into shape. There was a small part of his mind wondering about the air-resistance, the lift capacity. Wondering if Rodney could actually fly, if he tried.

Then Rodney moaned, squirming against the bed, and John was distracted by other ideas.

It was far more fun to focus on the senses: the chalky smell of the powder on his hands; the way that the powder dusted over Rodney's shoulders didn't taste like anything recognizable, but still made John think of dusty old books. The breathless sounds Rodney made when John moved his weight to his arms and pressed the length of his body against Rodney's, thigh to thigh, chest to wing, and cock to sweatpants-covered ass. The heat between them when he rocked slightly, and the angle of Rodney's neck as he pushed his forehead into the pillow and arched his body towards John.

He could get off just like this: shirtless rubbing and muffled noises. It felt like being a teenager again, illicit and full of hidden thrills. But Rodney was groaning, begging, pleading with half-formed sentences like "God, John--" and "Come on--" and "*Please*."

With a last messy kiss against the vulnerable base of Rodney's neck, John pulled back and crawled off the bed. He made quick work of his clothes, asking, "Where's the lube?" as he pulled off his pants.

Rodney waved in the vague direction of the top drawer and it was easy enough to find it. Even easier to pull down Rodney's sweats -- no boxers, smart man -- while Rodney lifted his hips helpfully.

"Now where were we?" John muttered as he settled back on the bed, this time between Rodney's spread legs, and curved a hand around Rodney's pale thigh. He skimmed upwards to the curve of ass, then inwards to the crease and Rodney tilted his hips up, open invitation.

It took a moment to slick his fingers, and then another moment to shift his weight to his knees -- to stretch over Rodney with one arm leaning on the mattress, to lean down and feel the dry brush of Rodney's wings against his chest, staining him teal and mauve -- and then he was pressing two fingers inside, and hearing Rodney's lush "Oh, Major..."

"Lieutenant. Colonel," John corrected, drawing back slowly and then adding another finger. McKay took it easily, rocking against the mattress with each slide of John's fingers, pushing his back up against John's chest and gasping at the friction against his wings.

John smoothed his left hand across the sheet, stretching forward until he could brace his elbow against the mattress. It was a simple case of hooking his left leg over Rodney's -- without falling, which he managed, and without breaking the rhythm, which he didn't quite manage -- and then he could rub against Rodney, thrust as he fucked Rodney with three fingers. It occurred to John that he was humping Rodney's thigh like some overworked teenager, and it was great.

That was how it went. His fingers slick and moving inside Rodney, his sweat mixing with the powder on Rodney's wings, smearing and sticky, and Rodney's groans, all unintelligible phrases and breathless, pleading whimpers.

Rodney moving beneath him, rutting against the mattress as John worked his cock against Rodney's thigh. It wasn't quite slick enough, had that sting of too much friction on sensitive skin that he'd regret later, but that would be afterwards. Right now, he was too focused on the tightening of his balls, of the urge to take and claim and twist his fingers until Rodney fucking *yelled*.

But Rodney didn't. Not until John caught the curve of taut cartilage between his teeth and bit down. Then Rodney roared, throwing his head back and clenching around John's fingers and shuddering like John's first car, right before it backfired and stalled.

Which was the last absurd thought to go through John's head before he came.

Afterwards -- it felt like a few seconds, but it was probably ten minutes later -- Rodney elbowed him in the stomach. "You're lying on my wing."

John pushed up, kneeling over Rodney and crawling onto the mattress beside him. "Sex doesn't mellow you out at all, does it?"

"Does too," Rodney said, briefly obliging John by lifting one wing so John could lie beside him. "If I wasn't post-coital, I would have kicked you out of bed and watched your naked ass hit the floor."

John stretched out on his back and turned his head to Rodney -- mainly to avoid the wing lying over him -- and yawned. "You're surprisingly mean for an overgrown butterfly."

Luckily for John, Rodney was already asleep, snuffling against John's shoulder.

The wings fluttered slightly as Rodney dreamed.
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