[Fic] Feather Light
Jul. 22nd, 2010 08:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Feather Light
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Pam/Cas (seehottestpsychic and soldier_ofgod for details)
Word Count: 939
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pam and Cas spend a quiet afternoon together on the couch.
A/N: Wingporn! Written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo prompt "Tickling"
The reading thing never lasted very long, most of the time. There were days when they could sit on the couch, curled together, and read to each other for hours. Or she would do some mundane task like mending things or sorting bills while he sat and read on the couch, one hand turning the pages and the other rubbing her feet or her calves or something like that.
But when they were curled up together reading aloud, it never lasted very long.
He turned her face to his with gentle fingertips under her chin and stopped her in mid-word with a kiss. Ford Prefect, apparently, could wait.
"Don't you want to hear how they..." she got out, before he kissed her again, and this time she turned in his arms to kiss him more thoroughly back.
"No, I would rather do this."
Okay, that wasn't that hard to guess, and he was smiling against her mouth. So she kissed the corner of his mouth, nuzzled at his cheek so that he would have to chase her back down for a kiss. Which he did. They had the most fun little games together.
Kissing eventually did lead to sex, but not for a little while. First there was the holding each other, one of her hands pressed against him and rucking that rumpled dress shirt up along his back. His arm tight around her waist and his other hand buried in her hair, combing through in slow, very slow strokes that made her scalp tingle happily. Long kisses, punctuated by short ones until they'd caught their breath again. Each blending into the next and every one blending into a haze of warmth and love and peace. When the war had raged, this was their haven, the stolen moments they allowed themselves. Now that the war was over this was their fond indulgenc e.
"Maybe..." she murmured, when his embrace slid into the range of passionate and his hands were roaming under her shirt more than hers were. "Maybe it's time to move this upstairs?"
"Why upstairs?" he smiled again. Well, all right then.
And in the next moment he had turned her over and was undoing the laces of her blouse.
She half expected him to use his mouth, but he used his wings instead. They had become quite the pair of sensualists in the last year, reveling in the sensations they gave each other, touch and taste and sound and sight and Sight and scent and senses present only in her dreams. One of her favorite sensations by far was the touch and tickle of his wings over her skin.
Despite lore, his wings weren't visible. Or not to most people anyway. If she half-closed her eyes and let her mind relax, a little like looking at a magic eye painting, she could see them. Just the outlines. Like smoke or mist, the shadows of them cast in candlelight on her walls.
He brushed his wingtips over her body, after he'd peeled away every little piece of clothing and folded them (he was the only lover she had had who folded her clothes so often) and laid them to one side. First a long brush down her body that woke every nerve along her skin and then a light flicking of the tips of his stronger feathers over her breasts, flicking her nipples once or twice, tracing them along the sides of her breasts, down to her ribs.
Which, of course, made her shiver and giggle and try not to squirm her way off the couch.
He smiled as she squirmed under him, teased over her pale stomach with another brush of his wings and she arched up, trying not to laugh. "Careful," he murmured. Or they'd fall off the couch.
"We could have gone to bed."
Except by the look in his eyes, this was more fun.
Teasing her, tormenting her with sensation. First the heated, exciting kisses, his mouth traveling down her body. And then the light brush of his wings and when his mouth was between her legs and working her over slow and he still somehow managed to brush his hands, his wings, over her hips and thighs and whole body she thought she would go mad from sensation. From the lightest tickling to the most intense, wet playing on her nerves.
After he made her moan, then he made her happy.
In relative terms, the idea of sex was new to him. He still didn't understand all the nuances, and she found herself explaining a lot of things about human behavior with regard to sex and the expressions of sexuality, why people partnered as they did and why they pursued some sexual pleasures. This, though, he understood. The need of a physical creature to be physically close sometimes, in this way, to someone with whom they were so bound up in love, that was plain. The euphoria that came with the act, the intimacy, the closeness of it. Even the simple pleasure that came from giving pleasure.
And afterwards, holding each other. Resting in a heap of trembling, sweaty limbs and drifting contentment, it was the sort of moment where the outside world hadn't yet returned and their awareness hadn't extended past each other. When he could touch her and caress her and look into her eyes and see her smile, relaxed and blissful, before worries intruded.
And apparently, when he could sneak in one last tickle or two with fingers, this time, instead of wings. This time, she did fall off the couch.
Which was all right. She took him with her.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Pam/Cas (see
hottestpsychic and soldier_ofgod for details)Word Count: 939
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pam and Cas spend a quiet afternoon together on the couch.
A/N: Wingporn! Written for the
kink_bingo prompt "Tickling"The reading thing never lasted very long, most of the time. There were days when they could sit on the couch, curled together, and read to each other for hours. Or she would do some mundane task like mending things or sorting bills while he sat and read on the couch, one hand turning the pages and the other rubbing her feet or her calves or something like that.
But when they were curled up together reading aloud, it never lasted very long.
He turned her face to his with gentle fingertips under her chin and stopped her in mid-word with a kiss. Ford Prefect, apparently, could wait.
"Don't you want to hear how they..." she got out, before he kissed her again, and this time she turned in his arms to kiss him more thoroughly back.
"No, I would rather do this."
Okay, that wasn't that hard to guess, and he was smiling against her mouth. So she kissed the corner of his mouth, nuzzled at his cheek so that he would have to chase her back down for a kiss. Which he did. They had the most fun little games together.
Kissing eventually did lead to sex, but not for a little while. First there was the holding each other, one of her hands pressed against him and rucking that rumpled dress shirt up along his back. His arm tight around her waist and his other hand buried in her hair, combing through in slow, very slow strokes that made her scalp tingle happily. Long kisses, punctuated by short ones until they'd caught their breath again. Each blending into the next and every one blending into a haze of warmth and love and peace. When the war had raged, this was their haven, the stolen moments they allowed themselves. Now that the war was over this was their fond indulgenc e.
"Maybe..." she murmured, when his embrace slid into the range of passionate and his hands were roaming under her shirt more than hers were. "Maybe it's time to move this upstairs?"
"Why upstairs?" he smiled again. Well, all right then.
And in the next moment he had turned her over and was undoing the laces of her blouse.
She half expected him to use his mouth, but he used his wings instead. They had become quite the pair of sensualists in the last year, reveling in the sensations they gave each other, touch and taste and sound and sight and Sight and scent and senses present only in her dreams. One of her favorite sensations by far was the touch and tickle of his wings over her skin.
Despite lore, his wings weren't visible. Or not to most people anyway. If she half-closed her eyes and let her mind relax, a little like looking at a magic eye painting, she could see them. Just the outlines. Like smoke or mist, the shadows of them cast in candlelight on her walls.
He brushed his wingtips over her body, after he'd peeled away every little piece of clothing and folded them (he was the only lover she had had who folded her clothes so often) and laid them to one side. First a long brush down her body that woke every nerve along her skin and then a light flicking of the tips of his stronger feathers over her breasts, flicking her nipples once or twice, tracing them along the sides of her breasts, down to her ribs.
Which, of course, made her shiver and giggle and try not to squirm her way off the couch.
He smiled as she squirmed under him, teased over her pale stomach with another brush of his wings and she arched up, trying not to laugh. "Careful," he murmured. Or they'd fall off the couch.
"We could have gone to bed."
Except by the look in his eyes, this was more fun.
Teasing her, tormenting her with sensation. First the heated, exciting kisses, his mouth traveling down her body. And then the light brush of his wings and when his mouth was between her legs and working her over slow and he still somehow managed to brush his hands, his wings, over her hips and thighs and whole body she thought she would go mad from sensation. From the lightest tickling to the most intense, wet playing on her nerves.
After he made her moan, then he made her happy.
In relative terms, the idea of sex was new to him. He still didn't understand all the nuances, and she found herself explaining a lot of things about human behavior with regard to sex and the expressions of sexuality, why people partnered as they did and why they pursued some sexual pleasures. This, though, he understood. The need of a physical creature to be physically close sometimes, in this way, to someone with whom they were so bound up in love, that was plain. The euphoria that came with the act, the intimacy, the closeness of it. Even the simple pleasure that came from giving pleasure.
And afterwards, holding each other. Resting in a heap of trembling, sweaty limbs and drifting contentment, it was the sort of moment where the outside world hadn't yet returned and their awareness hadn't extended past each other. When he could touch her and caress her and look into her eyes and see her smile, relaxed and blissful, before worries intruded.
And apparently, when he could sneak in one last tickle or two with fingers, this time, instead of wings. This time, she did fall off the couch.
Which was all right. She took him with her.