Ink and Wings

by spurious

Summary:

It’s simply not possible.

 

This is what Rodney tells himself for two and a half days after he sees what he thinks is a butterfly tattoo on Major John Sheppard’s thigh.

Notes:

My wife and I were discussing gloriously terrible tattoos John could have gotten during his messy gay disaster phase and she came up with a butterfly, with the reasoning that John gives in this story, and, much like Rodney, I was haunted by the image until I had no choice but to write it in a mad frenzy. Very much PWP with the most flimsy, contrived of premises.

It's simply not possible.

This is what Rodney tells himself for two and a half days after he sees what he thinks is a butterfly tattoo on Major John Sheppard's thigh.

They'd been sharing a tent off-world, and Rodney'd thought Sheppard was already done changing when he barged in, pushing the flap aside and in the middle of a complaint about the humidity when he saw it: just a flash as Sheppard pulled up his sweats, the curvature of a wing stretched out over a hairy, muscular thigh.

But, surely, Rodney was mistaken. John Sheppard, United States Air Force Major John Sheppard, cannot possibly have the kind of tattoo gotten mainly by drunk sorority girls.

It was a trick of the light, a hallucination brought on by hypoglycemia, certainly not reality.

For one thing, Sheppard's upper thighs, a part of his body Rodney's never once seen uncovered, should not be just as perfectly golden-tan as the rest of him—unless, a hysterical, terrifyingly vivid part of Rodney's imagination supplies, he's regularly sunbathing out on a balcony somewhere, stretched out gloriously nude on one of those soft-woven Athosian mats; but this too is simply not possible, strains credulity even further than the tattoo, which Rodney has already determined had been a figment of his imagination.

His second theory regarding the tattoo is that perhaps it does exist, but is something significantly more masculine than the delicate, colorful butterfly Rodney thought he saw. Perhaps a fighter jet, or a sexily-posed woman, or…some other masculine tattoo design Rodney isn't privy to. The fighter jet theory in particular has merit: the wings could be shaped in a way that, in the low light, looked enough like a butterfly to trick Rodney's eye.

That, of course, leads Rodney to several days of endless wondering about what it really is, staring aimlessly at Sheppard's thigh, imagining the secret hidden underneath the straps of his holster, the thick canvas of his BDUs.

It starts to keep Rodney up at night, which is really just unacceptable: he has enough real reasons to get no sleep, so something like this making him toss and turn for hours is, frankly, a danger to the mission, which is something he's certain that Sheppard would want to solve, if he knew.

Or, at least, that's what Rodney tells himself when he's knocking on Sheppard's door at three in the morning after another sleepless night.

Sheppard is mussed and annoyed when the door slides open, his hair even more unruly than usual.

"What can I do for you, Rodney?” He asks, stepping aside with an exaggerated gesture and letting Rodney in.

Rodney hadn't thought of a good lead-in, doesn't have time for it anyway, so he just opens his mouth and says, "I need to see your tattoo.”

Sheppard's eyebrows climb, muppet-like when they inch toward the mess of his hair. "My tattoo?”

"Your…on your,” Rodney gestures vaguely; suddenly, belatedly, realizing how awkward this is. "On your thigh.”

Sheppard looks at him, like he's sizing Rodney up somehow, and then he hooks a thumb in his sweatpants and tugs them down, unceremonious.

He doesn't seem to be wearing underwear.

Rodney's throat goes dry at the same time as his mouth floods with saliva, and he swallows, blinks, blinks again, works very hard to avert his gaze from the dark spray of Sheppard's pubic hair, and then, there it is, in clear, non-hallucinatory technicolor: a monarch butterfly, in flight at the apex of John Sheppard's thigh.

"Oh,” Rodney says, his voice coming out oddly high and strained. "I guess I wasn't imagining it, then.”

Sheppard huffs out air through his nose. "You saw it the other day, didn't you? In the tent.”

Rodney nods, still staring. Sheppard's hand is curled right over where his cock probably is, Rodney thinks, unbidden. "I thought I must've been…mistaken.”

"Yeah, well, you weren't.” Sheppard says. "Can I pull my pants back up now?”

"What?” Rodney squawks, his head snapping up to look at Sheppard's face. "I—yes, of course.”

Sheppard does, and then he throws himself back onto his bed in a lanky splay of limbs, still giving Rodney that oddly calm, scrutinizing look.

"Alright, go ahead,” he says eventually. "Maybe you've come up with one I haven't heard before.”

Rodney flushes, hot and angry and sudden, at the thought that he's not the first person to demand answers about this part of Sheppard's body; the fact that Sheppard seems braced for Rodney to make fun of him about it.

"I'm a scientist,” Rodney says, in a desperate attempt to excuse his prying. "I just need some facts.”

"Facts,” Sheppard says, flatly.

"Yes," Rodney confirms, lifting his chin. He's here, he's not backing out now. "When?”

"College,” Sheppard says. "Spring break, my junior year.”

Rodney nods, slotting this information in. "Where?”

"You saw where,” Sheppard answers, teeth flashing on a grin, quick and sharp. "Shitty little place in LA. One of the guys I was surfing with worked there.”

"How—"

"Drunk was I?” Sheppard finishes. "Pretty buzzed, not wasted.”

Now, the only really important question. "Why a butterfly?”

Sheppard turns onto his back, stares at the ceiling for a moment before he answers. "I thought it was pretty,” he says, quiet and bare. "It flies. Doesn't live very long.”

Everything Rodney thinks he knows about John Sheppard begins to rearrange itself around this admission. Sweat prickles at his hairline, itchy and hot.

"Plus,” Sheppard says, turning toward Rodney and grinning that dangerous, boyish grin again, "I thought it would really piss off my dad if he ever found out.”

"Right,” Rodney says, still sweating, still revising calculations. "Well, thank you! For your assistance in this, uh, fact-finding endeavor.” He clasps his hands together, turns for the door, and bolts, barely hearing Sheppard's "Night, Rodney,” as the door slides shut behind him.

***

The thing is, Rodney can't let it go. He should, by all accounts, be able to close this chapter of inquiry: he's gathered all the necessary data, has sufficient explanation for what he's seen. But instead, he's tortured by visions of Sheppard's thigh: the spot where the elastic waist of his sweatpants dug into the skin when he pulled them down; the comfortable splay of his hand over his crotch, like maybe that's how he touches himself, working himself over the soft cotton of his pants; the tattoo, incongruous delicate beauty splashed over muscular, hairy masculinity, a contradiction like Sheppard himself.

Sheppard who likes football and anything that goes fast but also likes talking about Star Trek. Sheppard who can shoot a gun but passed the Mensa test. Sheppard who, for whatever reason, seems to actually like Rodney. Sheppard who never seems interested when women throw themselves at him. Sheppard who was oddly comfortable pulling down his pants at Rodney's behest.

Sheppard who has a butterfly tattoo on his upper thigh.

He makes it six days before he shows up at Sheppard's door in the middle of the night, again.

"Hate to break it to you, Rodney,” he drawls, stepping aside so Rodney can barrel through the door, "but I don't have any other tattoos besides that one.”

"Oh, yes, ha ha," Rodney says absently, pacing Sheppard's floor in a tight circle. When he hears the door slide closed, he lifts his head, letting the words out before he has a chance to think better of it. "This is still about the, uh, original tattoo, actually."

"Oh," Sheppard says, leaning against his desk, hip cocked out, arms folded. "More scientific inquiry?"

"Actually," Rodney answers, "this is, well, I suppose not entirely unscientific, but—well, biology being what it is..."

"Biology?" Sheppard sounds almost interested, even though this isn't necessarily going the way Rodney had hoped.

"Yes, biology." Rodney starts pacing again, letting his hands flit through the air to help his thoughts form coherence. "I can't seem to stop thinking about, um, it."

"Uh huh."

"The thing is," Rodney says, "I keep picturing it, and wondering if, well, maybe, um, wondering what...other, sort of, uh, nearby areas might look like, as well."

"You wanna see my dick?" Sheppard says, not sounding angry, which is good, but also sounding distinctly amused, which may not be good. "For science?"

"No," Rodney explains, "I told you, this isn't for science, this is for—um, for me. Because I want to. I mean, if you...also want to."

"Finally," Sheppard mutters, shaking his head. "God, I knew you wanted to the other night, you wouldn't stop licking your lips."

"I—I wouldn't?" Rodney asks. He hadn't thought about it at the time, but his mouth had felt wet, tingling, hungry when he'd seen Sheppard's skin. "Okay, yes, maybe."

"You were so focused on getting data that you didn't notice I was trying to test the waters, either," Sheppard adds, and then he strips off his t-shirt, tossing it to the floor. "So, are we doing this?"

The only way Rodney can think to answer that is to scramble out of his own shirt; when he emerges from the tangled cocoon of fabric, Sheppard is right there in front of him, smiling a little and looking Rodney over—seeming, against all odds, openly appreciative of what he's seeing.

"You done much stuff with guys, McKay?" Sheppard asks, and his voice has gone quiet, low and conspiratorial.

Rodney swallows, shakes his head. "Not, um, not since my first PhD."

Sheppard chuckles, low and amused, and puts his hand on Rodney's waist, pulls him in. "Alright," he says, "I'll try and keep things at a doctorate level, then."

And when Rodney tilts his chin up, Sheppard bends and kisses him, his mouth soft and warm and insistent against Rodney's, tongue sliding wet over his lower lip. Sheppard kisses Rodney in a way that silences at least half the constantly-whirring processes in his brain, sending him hurtling into euphoric quiet as he lets Sheppard steer him toward the bed, never wanting this to stop. He pushes his hands through the insane mess of Sheppard's hair, amazed at how soft it is—there's no gel or any sign of styling products, is it really just naturally like that?—and thrilled by the muffled moans he makes into Rodney's mouth when he tugs at it.

Sheppard pushes Rodney down onto the bed, shucks off his sweatpants, and, god, Rodney's gaze ping-pongs back and forth between the tattoo and Sheppard's dick, like he's watching some kind of X-rated tennis match. Unable to resist, he reaches out, thumbs over the ink-touched skin, filled with something like reverence, something like awe. They fly; they don't live very long. They're beautiful.

Rodney swallows, throat suddenly dry, and strokes his fingertips up the crease of Sheppard's thigh, over his hipbone, across the base of his cock. It throbs against Rodney's fingers, wetness beading and glistening at the tip. He licks his lips.

"Wanna see yours," Sheppard says, his voice breathy, eager.

"O-Okay, yeah," Rodney says, immediately working open his belt, because how the hell could he say no to that? "I've, uh, I've never had any complaints," he says, and then feels ridiculous, but Sheppard just laughs, low in his throat, and bends to help Rodney out of his shoes, socks, pants, underwear.

He presses Rodney onto his back on the bed, clambering on top of him, somehow graceful despite being all elbows and knees, his skin searingly hot everywhere they touch. Sheppard straddles Rodney's thighs, takes Rodney's cock in his hand and looks at it, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"Nice," he murmurs eventually, eyes flicking up to Rodney's face. "Real nice."

"Uh, thanks," Rodney says, feeling pinned by the scrutiny. He can't stop looking at Sheppard's thighs, spread wide around Rodney's hips; the butterfly taking flight above him.

Sheppard leans over him, grabs something from his nightstand, and then readjusts, inching closer so he's perched on top of Rodney's hips, lining their cocks up with one hand, the perfect heat of it enough to make Rodney want to buck his hips up, wild and desperate. He stays still, though, watches Sheppard spread lotion onto his palm, his long fingers, before he tilts his head, thoughtful, and then wraps his hand around both of them, as tightly as he can.

"Fuck,” Rodney groans. "This is—wow, so much better than fumbling in a lab supply closet.”

Sheppard smiles, something smug and suggestive and private in it, and twists his wrist, letting his palm swipe over the head of Rodney's cock. "Guess maybe this is more, like. Post-doc stuff, then,” he says, and Rodney giggles, giddy from the pleasure of touch, the weight of Sheppard on top of him.

Rodney reaches out, puts his hands on Sheppard's hips, thumbing over the jut of bone, feeling muscles shift as he rocks into his own hand, against Rodney's cock. He lets his palm cover the butterfly, pressing into the hot skin, and then slides his hands around, gripping the taut musculature of Sheppard's ass, urging him forward to fuck his fist.

"Nnn," Sheppard grunts, "you're a fast learner, huh?"

"Obviously," Rodney says, rolling his eyes.

He shifts his hips up, careful not to dislodge Sheppard, just enough to feel the hot wet slide of their dicks against each other, and Sheppard squeezes, pulling a plaintive, too-high whine from Rodney's throat. It feels brain-meltingly, earth-shatteringly good, and the physical stimulus is only heightened by the visual input of Sheppard writhing above him, head tipped back in pleasure, throat exposed. Add on to that the fact that the most intimate touch Rodney's experienced in at least a year has been getting patched up in the infirmary, and he's near to coming embarrassingly quickly.

Sheppard seems to be right there with him, though, pumping their cocks like a man possessed, gaze roving over Rodney's body, hot and almost palpable, making him shiver with it.

"Oh god," Rodney grits out, "I'm, shit, I'm really close—"

"Yeah," Sheppard breathes, licking his lips. "Yeah, that's good, come on, Rodney, give it up."

He leans over, spine curving impossibly so he can press his mouth to Rodney's, hot and sloppy, mostly tongue, and Rodney grabs at his thighs, desperate and mindless, coming into the hot space between them, feeling Sheppard's cock start to pulse against his own. Sheppard mouths across Rodney's chin, groaning like maybe it's been a while for him, too, like maybe he needed this just as badly as Rodney had. His middle-of-the-night stubble scrapes roughly over Rodney's throat as he shivers, going limp above him.

Trying to catch his breath, Rodney kneads aimlessly at the meat of Sheppard's ass, his muscular thighs. Presses his fingers into the spot where he knows the butterfly is still in flight, perpetually frozen in motion. Sheppard lets out a breathy little laugh, sitting up and groping on the floor for his discarded t-shirt, which he uses to do a very perfunctory cleanup before stretching out next to Rodney, twined around him, and pulling the sheet up.

"Uh," Rodney begins, feeling like he should make a gesture at leaving Sheppard alone—the man's antisocial at the best of times, and Rodney understands the value of privacy—but he just curls closer, tangling his leg between Rodney's, like he's afraid he'll wander off, float away.

"Stay," Sheppard mumbles, tucking his face into Rodney's neck. Rodney loops his arm around Sheppard's shoulders, lets him cuddle closer, and, okay, yet another incongruity: Air Force Major John Sheppard is a cuddler.

Sheppard feels smaller, almost vulnerable in Rodney's arms. He's taller than Rodney, sure, but he's so lanky, and Rodney can feel out all kinds of bones that, on himself, are covered in rather a lot more padding. He touches aimlessly across Sheppard's body, but his hand keeps finding its way back to his thigh, to the butterfly.

"It flies," Rodney says, remembering, "and it doesn't live very long?"

Sheppard breathes out something like a laugh. "Guess it was too much to hope you'd forget I said that, huh."

"You..." Rodney starts, questions bubbling up in his chest but, uncharacteristically, not forming into words.

"I thought it'd kill me," Sheppard mumbles, shrugging. His breath is warm against Rodney's throat. "Hasn't yet, though."

Drifting close to sleep, shockingly comfortable in this tiny, shared space, Rodney strokes his fingers over the delicate lines of gossamer wings, the shape he committed to memory, however unwittingly, from the moment he saw it, and thinks, Don't let it; please don't let it.

Notes:

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