Random WC wingfic
Apr. 10th, 2011 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelPeter's first hint is a flash of black ink, seen out of the corner of his eye as he tries not to watch Neal change shirts. He doesn't get a good look though, and anyway the time isn't right to ask, and then he forgets to ask.
Later, when he does think of it, he makes an offhand comment about not pegging Neal for a tattoo guy; Neal just gives him a blank look, and says, "I'm not."
"Huh," is all Peter says to that.
#
There are many traits that do not describe Neal, and 'body-shy' is one of them. He is willing -- too fucking willing, it seems sometimes -- to show skin. Sometimes it's rolling up his sleeves, sometimes it's unbuttoning his shirt a bit, sometimes it's baring his arms to the heat of summer, sometimes it's being totally fucking shirtless.
Peter has ample opportunity to see Neal's back, and every time he looks for the source of the flash of black. Every time, he never finds it.
#
"You're staring," Neal says mildly. He doesn't seem to mind; it's more just idle poking.
Peter's denial is an automatic reflex, but then he catches himself, and shakes his head. "You're right, I am," he says, with an undertone of /and your point is?/.
Neal laughs, spreads his arms out, and turns in a circle. "See anything you like?"
"No comment." Looking away is another reflex, part embarrassment, and Peter is suddenly aware of a sweep of black down Neal's back. His head snaps back, but all he sees is skin.
He can't see it, but now he knows it's there.
#
Elizabeth is on her back, still half dressed, and Neal is between her legs, whispering secrets that have her practically purring. Peter's just watching this time. He wants to get in there and touch, like usual, but he also wants to /see/. And Neal's sufficiently distracted that he isn't going to try to misdirect Peter, or even notice what he's doing.
When Peter looks directly at them -- they're gorgeous together, enough to make his breath catch in his chest -- he sees what is there, Elizabeth and Neal. He can't see Neal's face, but there are acres of smooth unmarked skin, legs and ass and long sweep of back.
When Peter lets his gaze slide away, what he sees is totally different. El's the same, but Neal's back is a map of black, a tattoo that shifts and ripples with the movement of muscles beneath.
Trial and error gives Peter the angle he needs: indirect enough that the ink, or whatever the hell it is, shows up; direct enough that he can tell what it is.
Wings.
They start near the spine, arch upwards over his shoulderblades, follow the swell of his ribcage, and sweep down, with the longest feathers splaying over the curve of his ass. And the detail on it is intricate, to the point that they look real.
Peter's gaze comes back to El as she moans and arches up into whatever Neal's doing with that mouth of his, and he can't see the wings any more. It's not a tattoo, much as it looks like one, because there's no ink in the world that doesn't show up when you look at it but does when you don't. And Neal's skin is smooth, unmarked, unscarred.
"Peter," El calls, one hand stretching out to him, and he joins them on the bed. One of his hands goes to El, fingers twining with hers. The other is free to roam over her body, lingering at collarbone and breast and hip, and then moves seamlessly to the back of Neal's neck and down his spine.
He keeps his eyes locked with El's because he can, because she's so goddamn beautiful when she's flushed with want and need and her gaze is bright and her bottom lip is between her teeth and he can't ever get enough of seeing her like this, but also because it gives him the visual angle he needs to see the not-a-tattoo on Neal's back. He follows the lines with his fingers, up and around and down.
It feels like skin under his fingers, and it also feels impossibly like feathers, and Neal gives a muffled cry and shivers hard. "Peter--" he says in a strangled sort of voice, looking up; the emotion on his face is naked and raw and not something Peter can quite identify. His pupils are wide and black but there is a ring of color around them that is an impossible, unnatural shade of blue.
Peter leans down to kiss him without taking his hand off of Neal's back, and the feathers seem to shift against his touch. He curls his fingers, tentatively, and they sink down just a little, and Neal groans helplessly into his mouth.
Peter nuzzles his way to Neal's ear and whispers: "Tell me. Later."
A brief nod, and then Neal twists away from him: just a momentary breaking of contact, but it's enough to leave Peter touching skin again. His head ducks back down and Peter shifts back up to kiss El.
"What was that about?" she murmurs, but Peter just shakes his head, because if she didn't see anything...
/Maybe it's not real,/ a voice in Peter's mind says. /Maybe you're losing it./
He looks into El's eyes, and mirrored in them he can see the arch of Neal's back with just a flash of black.
#
If I were way better at doing manips? This is close to what I'm imagining. But alas, anything I tried would be totally "Neal's head is pastede on yey" so... nah.
Later, when he does think of it, he makes an offhand comment about not pegging Neal for a tattoo guy; Neal just gives him a blank look, and says, "I'm not."
"Huh," is all Peter says to that.
#
There are many traits that do not describe Neal, and 'body-shy' is one of them. He is willing -- too fucking willing, it seems sometimes -- to show skin. Sometimes it's rolling up his sleeves, sometimes it's unbuttoning his shirt a bit, sometimes it's baring his arms to the heat of summer, sometimes it's being totally fucking shirtless.
Peter has ample opportunity to see Neal's back, and every time he looks for the source of the flash of black. Every time, he never finds it.
#
"You're staring," Neal says mildly. He doesn't seem to mind; it's more just idle poking.
Peter's denial is an automatic reflex, but then he catches himself, and shakes his head. "You're right, I am," he says, with an undertone of /and your point is?/.
Neal laughs, spreads his arms out, and turns in a circle. "See anything you like?"
"No comment." Looking away is another reflex, part embarrassment, and Peter is suddenly aware of a sweep of black down Neal's back. His head snaps back, but all he sees is skin.
He can't see it, but now he knows it's there.
#
Elizabeth is on her back, still half dressed, and Neal is between her legs, whispering secrets that have her practically purring. Peter's just watching this time. He wants to get in there and touch, like usual, but he also wants to /see/. And Neal's sufficiently distracted that he isn't going to try to misdirect Peter, or even notice what he's doing.
When Peter looks directly at them -- they're gorgeous together, enough to make his breath catch in his chest -- he sees what is there, Elizabeth and Neal. He can't see Neal's face, but there are acres of smooth unmarked skin, legs and ass and long sweep of back.
When Peter lets his gaze slide away, what he sees is totally different. El's the same, but Neal's back is a map of black, a tattoo that shifts and ripples with the movement of muscles beneath.
Trial and error gives Peter the angle he needs: indirect enough that the ink, or whatever the hell it is, shows up; direct enough that he can tell what it is.
Wings.
They start near the spine, arch upwards over his shoulderblades, follow the swell of his ribcage, and sweep down, with the longest feathers splaying over the curve of his ass. And the detail on it is intricate, to the point that they look real.
Peter's gaze comes back to El as she moans and arches up into whatever Neal's doing with that mouth of his, and he can't see the wings any more. It's not a tattoo, much as it looks like one, because there's no ink in the world that doesn't show up when you look at it but does when you don't. And Neal's skin is smooth, unmarked, unscarred.
"Peter," El calls, one hand stretching out to him, and he joins them on the bed. One of his hands goes to El, fingers twining with hers. The other is free to roam over her body, lingering at collarbone and breast and hip, and then moves seamlessly to the back of Neal's neck and down his spine.
He keeps his eyes locked with El's because he can, because she's so goddamn beautiful when she's flushed with want and need and her gaze is bright and her bottom lip is between her teeth and he can't ever get enough of seeing her like this, but also because it gives him the visual angle he needs to see the not-a-tattoo on Neal's back. He follows the lines with his fingers, up and around and down.
It feels like skin under his fingers, and it also feels impossibly like feathers, and Neal gives a muffled cry and shivers hard. "Peter--" he says in a strangled sort of voice, looking up; the emotion on his face is naked and raw and not something Peter can quite identify. His pupils are wide and black but there is a ring of color around them that is an impossible, unnatural shade of blue.
Peter leans down to kiss him without taking his hand off of Neal's back, and the feathers seem to shift against his touch. He curls his fingers, tentatively, and they sink down just a little, and Neal groans helplessly into his mouth.
Peter nuzzles his way to Neal's ear and whispers: "Tell me. Later."
A brief nod, and then Neal twists away from him: just a momentary breaking of contact, but it's enough to leave Peter touching skin again. His head ducks back down and Peter shifts back up to kiss El.
"What was that about?" she murmurs, but Peter just shakes his head, because if she didn't see anything...
/Maybe it's not real,/ a voice in Peter's mind says. /Maybe you're losing it./
He looks into El's eyes, and mirrored in them he can see the arch of Neal's back with just a flash of black.
#
If I were way better at doing manips? This is close to what I'm imagining. But alas, anything I tried would be totally "Neal's head is pastede on yey" so... nah.
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Date: 2011-04-11 04:42 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-04-12 01:11 am (UTC)