Fic: The Sensual World
Apr. 1st, 2006 03:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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mutecornett made gorgeous art for Realm of Dryads. See it here (NWS). If I were less afraid of my mother, I would print the first one out and hang it on my wall.
20thcenturyvole wrote some wonderful comment fic here, including a terrific one for me, which is also probably indirectly responsible for what follows.
Which is, well. I'm supposed to be writing an essay on why Ronald Reagan was a wanker, and while that's a topic I should be able to go off on at length, Kate Bush's "The Sensual World" came up on my iTunes a few times, and I kept getting...distracted.
Porn: 1, Essay: 0.
But, um. It's a win for you guys, right? I'll tell myself that.
Music for reading: The Sensual World - Kate Bush
And fic!
Title: The Sensual World
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: PWP
Length: ~1175 words
Summary: He took the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth.
The Sensual World
They rose from their crouch together, holding hands. There were other hands on them, leading them through the high-ceilinged hall and over to the banquet table, covered in white cloth. The banquet was not for them. They had their own banquet, waiting.
In front of the largest table, they drew to a halt. Rodney looked up at John with blue eyes, clouded. He broke the hold of their hands and John swayed, though he’d been expecting this, anticipating it, wanting it. Rodney reaching up: slowly, slowly, lifting the veil over John’s head. His hands slipped down as soon as he let the fabric drop. They gripped each other’s shoulders, weaving in place.
The priestess bowed her head, then cut loose the piece of seedcake. Rodney’s lips dropped open obligingly and she laid it on his tongue. John could already taste it, warm and earthy. And then he did, he did: leaning forward, taking the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth.
Honey-sweet, crumbling between their firm lips, in their warm mouths. Pulling back and seeing the clouds moving through Rodney’s eyes, white swirls of wanting. Then hands on their backs again, guiding them. Outside into the light: Teyla and Ronon were waiting, smiling broadly, blindly. Rose petals spilled from Teyla’s fingertips.
The world whirled past them, color and light and sound, and Rodney’s warm presence at his side, as they were guided through the square, amongst the cheers and the scattered flowers, the bells ringing out from the tower, ushering them on. When they reached their chambers, the villagers clapped and bade them farewell. John’s veil swirled behind him in the wind, catching petals like a spider’s web.
Inside, they turned to each other. John’s mouth felt dry. He could still taste honey and grain and Rodney’s lips, and he stared at them, wanting to taste them again. But it was not for him to make the first move.
For several moments, Rodney did nothing more than stare. John felt his husband’s eyes on him and flushed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass and saw that his own eyes looked much as Rodney’s did: swirled with lust, with longing.
Finally, Rodney stepped forward and pressed a hand to his cheek, running his thumb over the curves of his face, his lips. Staring at himself, at them both in the glass, John felt bold: a slight move to the side, and he was sucking Rodney’s thumb into his mouth. He was rewarded with a moan, with the digit sliding away with a pop and Rodney’s mouth pressing finally, finally, eagerly to his. They had no words to say to each other, just kiss after kiss, learning as they moved, this new landscape.
Eventually, as John had known he would have to, Rodney drew back. His fingers moved awkwardly on his belt, and John longed to twine their hands together, to help them toward their goal. But that was not his place. Instead, he watched, and waited, until Rodney finally had the robe undone, until it slid from his broad shoulders and pooled softly around his feet. John thought he saw a hint of nervousness beneath the swirling depths of Rodney’s eyes, but there was no need for it. He’d been waiting for this. He’d been waiting all his life for this.
Dropping to his knees on the thick blanket of woven rugs, he knew what he wanted. What he had to give. And the dizzying happiness of having want and need correspond: reaching out and running his hands up Rodney’s thick, hairy thighs. Rodney’s hand dropped down to his head, caressing the tops of his ears, and John arched into the touch like a great cat. His veil tumbled off his head and onto the floor.
Tentative hands, but assured in their wants, John took Rodney into his palm. Felt him rise, come alive, readying himself for his lips. Rodney’s fingers massaged his scalp, drawing him closer, and John felt his mouth open wide—wide—wider. Taking him in, his husband, welcoming his body into his own.
He slid slickly in and out of John’s lips, a slow steady rhythm, just like they had been taught. John knew vaguely of the other things Rodney had been taught, that he was to show him later on, and he felt himself rise as well, without any sort of touch at all. It concerned him, but not as much as the noises Rodney was making: soft and desperate. It needed to be saved, his completion. They both knew it, and both felt regret as they inevitably parted. John’s lips felt huge and swollen, his whole body plump and full like a ripe fruit. Rodney drew him back up to his feet and kissed him: honey and heat and sweetness, and something else, lingering.
Then Rodney’s hands were moving on John’s own belt, loosening it with much more skill. John held his breath as he felt the fabric fall, as he felt Rodney’s eyes on him for the first time. Felt any man’s eyes on him. His husband’s eyes.
They had no need for any words but kisses, but still Rodney whispered to him, laying him out across the bed, murmuring into his skin that he was like a flower, opening before him, opening. Spreading John’s legs, caressing the insides of his thighs; John felt an ache, a deep need and wanting. He’d never felt anything like it, never felt another pair of hands on him, and he wanted—Rodney’s hands, Rodney’s; yes, and that knowledge was enough to quiet the parts of him telling him that none of this was true. Because that was. He knew it.
And it should feel unreal, his wedding night. Rodney’s fingers, sliding over him, into him, parting him like a halved fruit, cleaving them together. And this must be what he had been shown, been taught: how to bring forth that feeling, deep inside—swirling sparks of pleasure, like the filmy whiteness whirling through Rodney’s eyes.
Cushions under and around him, and Rodney’s strong hands lifting his legs, pulling him up, pushing them together. Ache replacing ache, and then again: that sweet sensation, drawn out of him, like water sluiced from a well, sliding through his fingers, circling across Rodney’s back.
In and out, in and out, like the air moving through his lungs, hitching at the last, sweeping through them like a sigh as Rodney moved and spilled in him, kissed his mouth, kissed his mouth, drew it out of him like he drew breath.
He traced the patterns of wetness on his belly, divining. He wanted to read the symbol for forever, for lasting, but his eyes were cloudy, his vision unclear. Heavy, and Rodney’s solid weight at his side, the pattern of his breathing drawing John with him still. His husband. Yes. Yes. Eyes fluttering open and closed, and even as sleep took him, he thought: yes.
This night and the next. Forever. They were bound.
*************
mutecornett made gorgeous art for Realm of Dryads. See it here (NWS). If I were less afraid of my mother, I would print the first one out and hang it on my wall.20thcenturyvole wrote some wonderful comment fic here, including a terrific one for me, which is also probably indirectly responsible for what follows.Which is, well. I'm supposed to be writing an essay on why Ronald Reagan was a wanker, and while that's a topic I should be able to go off on at length, Kate Bush's "The Sensual World" came up on my iTunes a few times, and I kept getting...distracted.
Porn: 1, Essay: 0.
But, um. It's a win for you guys, right? I'll tell myself that.
Music for reading: The Sensual World - Kate Bush
And fic!
Title: The Sensual World
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: PWP
Length: ~1175 words
Summary: He took the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth.
The Sensual World
They rose from their crouch together, holding hands. There were other hands on them, leading them through the high-ceilinged hall and over to the banquet table, covered in white cloth. The banquet was not for them. They had their own banquet, waiting.
In front of the largest table, they drew to a halt. Rodney looked up at John with blue eyes, clouded. He broke the hold of their hands and John swayed, though he’d been expecting this, anticipating it, wanting it. Rodney reaching up: slowly, slowly, lifting the veil over John’s head. His hands slipped down as soon as he let the fabric drop. They gripped each other’s shoulders, weaving in place.
The priestess bowed her head, then cut loose the piece of seedcake. Rodney’s lips dropped open obligingly and she laid it on his tongue. John could already taste it, warm and earthy. And then he did, he did: leaning forward, taking the kiss of seedcake back from his mouth.
Honey-sweet, crumbling between their firm lips, in their warm mouths. Pulling back and seeing the clouds moving through Rodney’s eyes, white swirls of wanting. Then hands on their backs again, guiding them. Outside into the light: Teyla and Ronon were waiting, smiling broadly, blindly. Rose petals spilled from Teyla’s fingertips.
The world whirled past them, color and light and sound, and Rodney’s warm presence at his side, as they were guided through the square, amongst the cheers and the scattered flowers, the bells ringing out from the tower, ushering them on. When they reached their chambers, the villagers clapped and bade them farewell. John’s veil swirled behind him in the wind, catching petals like a spider’s web.
Inside, they turned to each other. John’s mouth felt dry. He could still taste honey and grain and Rodney’s lips, and he stared at them, wanting to taste them again. But it was not for him to make the first move.
For several moments, Rodney did nothing more than stare. John felt his husband’s eyes on him and flushed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass and saw that his own eyes looked much as Rodney’s did: swirled with lust, with longing.
Finally, Rodney stepped forward and pressed a hand to his cheek, running his thumb over the curves of his face, his lips. Staring at himself, at them both in the glass, John felt bold: a slight move to the side, and he was sucking Rodney’s thumb into his mouth. He was rewarded with a moan, with the digit sliding away with a pop and Rodney’s mouth pressing finally, finally, eagerly to his. They had no words to say to each other, just kiss after kiss, learning as they moved, this new landscape.
Eventually, as John had known he would have to, Rodney drew back. His fingers moved awkwardly on his belt, and John longed to twine their hands together, to help them toward their goal. But that was not his place. Instead, he watched, and waited, until Rodney finally had the robe undone, until it slid from his broad shoulders and pooled softly around his feet. John thought he saw a hint of nervousness beneath the swirling depths of Rodney’s eyes, but there was no need for it. He’d been waiting for this. He’d been waiting all his life for this.
Dropping to his knees on the thick blanket of woven rugs, he knew what he wanted. What he had to give. And the dizzying happiness of having want and need correspond: reaching out and running his hands up Rodney’s thick, hairy thighs. Rodney’s hand dropped down to his head, caressing the tops of his ears, and John arched into the touch like a great cat. His veil tumbled off his head and onto the floor.
Tentative hands, but assured in their wants, John took Rodney into his palm. Felt him rise, come alive, readying himself for his lips. Rodney’s fingers massaged his scalp, drawing him closer, and John felt his mouth open wide—wide—wider. Taking him in, his husband, welcoming his body into his own.
He slid slickly in and out of John’s lips, a slow steady rhythm, just like they had been taught. John knew vaguely of the other things Rodney had been taught, that he was to show him later on, and he felt himself rise as well, without any sort of touch at all. It concerned him, but not as much as the noises Rodney was making: soft and desperate. It needed to be saved, his completion. They both knew it, and both felt regret as they inevitably parted. John’s lips felt huge and swollen, his whole body plump and full like a ripe fruit. Rodney drew him back up to his feet and kissed him: honey and heat and sweetness, and something else, lingering.
Then Rodney’s hands were moving on John’s own belt, loosening it with much more skill. John held his breath as he felt the fabric fall, as he felt Rodney’s eyes on him for the first time. Felt any man’s eyes on him. His husband’s eyes.
They had no need for any words but kisses, but still Rodney whispered to him, laying him out across the bed, murmuring into his skin that he was like a flower, opening before him, opening. Spreading John’s legs, caressing the insides of his thighs; John felt an ache, a deep need and wanting. He’d never felt anything like it, never felt another pair of hands on him, and he wanted—Rodney’s hands, Rodney’s; yes, and that knowledge was enough to quiet the parts of him telling him that none of this was true. Because that was. He knew it.
And it should feel unreal, his wedding night. Rodney’s fingers, sliding over him, into him, parting him like a halved fruit, cleaving them together. And this must be what he had been shown, been taught: how to bring forth that feeling, deep inside—swirling sparks of pleasure, like the filmy whiteness whirling through Rodney’s eyes.
Cushions under and around him, and Rodney’s strong hands lifting his legs, pulling him up, pushing them together. Ache replacing ache, and then again: that sweet sensation, drawn out of him, like water sluiced from a well, sliding through his fingers, circling across Rodney’s back.
In and out, in and out, like the air moving through his lungs, hitching at the last, sweeping through them like a sigh as Rodney moved and spilled in him, kissed his mouth, kissed his mouth, drew it out of him like he drew breath.
He traced the patterns of wetness on his belly, divining. He wanted to read the symbol for forever, for lasting, but his eyes were cloudy, his vision unclear. Heavy, and Rodney’s solid weight at his side, the pattern of his breathing drawing John with him still. His husband. Yes. Yes. Eyes fluttering open and closed, and even as sleep took him, he thought: yes.
This night and the next. Forever. They were bound.
*************
