A/N: This was in response to a challenge on LiveJournal. This prompt was "sky".



I can't see him, not really. But if I focus my senses, I can hear the concern in his voice and can almost – oh, almost – visualize his face. He thinks he's hurting me, I realize. Funny. It's not often my flock worries over me. I can almost imagine the look in his eyes, almost visualize the firm line of his lips – almost. If I could remember what Fang looks like.

(Dark. I remember the dark of him. Wishing I could look like that. Met him the few days before my surgery, and stared in awe from the grate of my cage, because he'd been so dark and so beautiful and so damn quiet.)

"Ig, tell me if you want me to stop."

Nervous. Over-cautious, like he'll break me. Silly, when I think about it (which I used to try not to). For al that Fang is our muscle, and has punched holes in more than a few doors, he's always so gentle when it comes to me. (I'm blind, not fragile. It's okay.) His next kiss is gentle, lips barely touching mine (feather-light) and it's too little, driving me wild, bringing and unfamiliar breathy noise from me. "Fang… it's okay…"

His hair tickles my face. (The wind tickles my feathers.) "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm not fragile, Fang." I can reach up, skitter my fingertips along his skin, feel the grooves and smooth-shaped shoulders, the very distinct tremble there. "Please… it's all right. You aren't going to hurt me. Come on, stop it, you're making me nervous."

A soft laugh. Good, good; we're getting somewhere. You won't hurt me, I promise.

(It's only sky. It doesn't hurt.)

So his hands, those sosoftsogoodsocertain hands, take a nice firm hold on my hips. His warmth moves through my clothes and touches me like music. Fingertips trace the skin just above the waistband of my jeans and just under my shirt; this touch makes my heart skip, and my skin flushes hot, toowarmtoowarmtoo—

(High up, scared of falling… wings spread wide to catch the heat of the sun, and holding my breath, and getting dizzy.)

I open my mouth to give a soft noise, but Fang's lips are silencing, distracting. (Leaving me speechless as well as sightless.) Fingers inching up – no, one hand going up, until the pad of his thumb is rubbing these little circular motions just under my ear, and I hear myself – somehow, over the rapid pound of my own heartbeat – make this noise against him. And that's when Fang pauses, unable to feel what he does to me, how every touch drives me closer and closer to the edge. His skin doesn't feel like the others'; it feels better.

(Like wind catching beneath my wings, bringing me steadily toward the sun.)

"Was that a good sound?" Fang asks under his breath, sending a shiver through me. I only respond with a nod; I don't trust my lips to form words just yet. Don't want to screw it up. So he brings himself closer to me, until our bodies lay flat (his atop mine), and when our hips brush through the thick material of denim jeans, I feel sparks shooting through my body. "I won't hurt you, Ig," he whispers, breath hot against my ear, dizzying me. "I won't ever hurt you."

(It's only sky. It doesn't hurt.)

And his hips hold me down like I'm going to float away, and press down on top of mine, and nothing's – God, I've never felt so good, so right, so high, and—

I've never felt so much.

Fang's lips come down on mine once more. Wet and parting, tongue invitingly sweet against mine. He tastes like darkness and wet, wet freedom; like sunshine and the last drops of stale coffee at the bottom of an unwashed mug. It's a good taste, I decide, better than Tess or any other girl would, and I hope beyond hoping that I'm good to him too. I must be, because when he presses against me again in this little shifting movement, he gives the softest gasp and I feel his lashes flutter against my skin.

Basically like crying for more, in Fang terms. He's always been quiet.

So I hold onto him like I've never held onto anything before, catching a handful of cotton-soft shirt, other hand in his wonderfully silky hair, wishing I could see his face right now. Wishing I could see the plea that must lie hidden in his dark, dark eyes. But for now, we simply arch today, my heartbeat thundering too-loud in my ears, our bodies fitting together like a puzzle; the tips of our wings brush and it's like heaven, like church, like God and religion and angels and… and…

(Like sky.)

Fang holds me. Holds me closer than Max could ever hold him, and we come off our high together. His pulse flutters against my skin like a bird, breath hot and heavy into my neck; with a little laugh, I realize that we hadn't even had to take off any clothes. His arms around me are strong and certain. And he kisses my mouth, a trembling sigh passing between us. I'm not sure whose it is. It doesn't matter anyway.

We tremble against each other and he whispers, "Still okay?"

I smile, feeling like an atheist finding God.

"I'm flying, Fang," I reply instead, tingling all over, hearing our hearts slow in synch. He smiles against me.

(Like flying.)

Touching down to earth again, arms around each other with warmth like sun; and Fang holds me in an embrace like the heavens.

And I have never felt so very, very free.