Title: It's A Trust Thing
Author: Thing With No Talent
Genre: Storm Hawks
Disclaimer: Right. I own Storm Hawks. And there are penguins at the North Pole. Seriously.
Warnings: Slash. Sexual acts between a Merb and a human. A bit of strong language. OH THE HUMANITY.
Summary: Stork is in his element. Finn is out of his comfort zone. Somehow he doesn't really mind.
Notes: Official sources state that Finn is fourteen. I have met many fourteen-year-olds; I don't buy it for a second. As far as this story is concerned, he's at least eighteen. Emotional maturity is another matter.
It's midnight, more or less. Most of the crew are asleep. The bridge is dark and quiet except for heavy breathing. The ship is flying smooth and level, but for once its helmsman is not actually at the helm.
His back is pressed against the viewing window, his legs wrapped around another's waist in a steel-wire grip. His arms are outstretched to grasp whatever supportive objects they can reach. The other's movements are almost frantic as he presses to the slender figure - so much so that it's almost a wonder the whole ship isn't shuddering from the vibrations. Their bodies are slick, one from sweat, the other quite naturally so. Their breath fogs the glass, obscuring the view of the stars above and the roiling cloud-cloak of the Wastelands below.
For Finn, it's pretty surreal. Feels so weird to be doing this here of all places, with the empty bridge at his back. His skin crawls with the stares of an imaginary audience, but that really isn't subtracting from the thrill; quite the opposite. Naked except for the sheen of perspiration, he's acutely aware of how chilly it gets at this altitude, and that isn't turning him off either. The creature he's embracing is even colder, his skin satin-smooth and clammy-cool, at once repellant and strangely pleasing to the touch. Same for the taste as he licks and nibbles at the pilot's long neck, a strange not-human flavor he couldn't possibly describe in words, but is getting more and more used to.
Everything is touch and taste and scent and sound, because Finn can't see a damn thing except for dim shadows. The meager instrument lights on the bridge aren't enough for his sharp marksman's eyes. His partner is only a vague silhouette against the starlight reflecting from the clouds outside.
Stork is another matter. Even now Finn can make out his too-large eyes, pale yellow in the gloom, almost fluorescent. They can see everything just fine, Finn included. Their searchlight stare is unnerving, especially when he can't make out the expression on the pilot's face. It's kind of a relief when Stork's eyelids flutter closed and he tilts his head back against the window, freeing Finn from his eerie scrutiny.
Amazing how much trust he shows, this morbid and suspicious personality for whom trust is a rarer commodity than courage. He could shove Finn away with one elastic frog-legged kick, probably send him clear across the bridge, but instead he holds on like he honestly needs the human to hold him up, like he couldn't suspend himself effortlessly from those sinewy arms alone. With his head thrown back, not looking at his partner, exposing his lean throat to the human's pearly incisors, he almost seems to be inviting betrayal. "Use me," says the posture of surrender. "Hurt me if you will," says his relaxed profile, now outlined by starlight so its expression is unmistakable.
It's enough to evoke awe, even from Finn, whose thoughts normally reach about as deep as a puddle. He wants to be tender in response, wants to reward trust with pleasure, wants to whisper reassurances in those long ears. But he wouldn't have a clue where to begin, and he's already way outside of his comfort zone. So he tries to shut out uncomfortable thoughts and focus on his own pleasure, making the most of what they're doing. Stork will have to take care of himself.
The ship shudders slightly, and at first he almost wants to take credit for it, but then he realizes they've hit a patch of mild turbulence in the calm night air. As far as Finn can tell, it hasn't upset their course any. Stork, however, makes a low murmur of disquiet and perhaps irritation. One leg suddenly vanishes from Finn's waist as the pilot reaches over to make a tiny course correction with his foot.
The human shivers as a deeper chill runs through him. He's not sure why - maybe the realization that the guy he's banging is also the only one currently in control of this flying deathtrap, or that Stork is choosing now of all times to multitask - but that makes him really uncomfortable. "Hey, could you possibly not do that right now? It sorta freaks me out."
Just like that, he's back in the searchlight stare. This time Stork's eyes are narrowed, and Finn wonders briefly if he's annoyed him enough to kill the mood.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want my full attention?"
With that, both of those prehensile feet (holy shit I keep forgetting they're practically HANDS) grab Finn's ass and squeeze. It's a grip stronger than any human's by an order of magnitude, a grip that could easily tear Finn's entire body limb from limb if he were so inclined. As it is, he's probably leaving bruises in the tender flesh. Finn lets out a high-pitched gasp, his back arching involuntarily as what feels like an electric shock travels up his spine and through his scalp and makes his hair stand on end and his toes curl and his fingers dig into Stork's back in a feeble attempt to return the pressure-
-and the uncomfortable thoughts can't be pushed away this time, the realization that the person who's been submitting to his thrusts could crush the life out of him between those stork-thin legs, that he's in control of this situation and has been from the beginning. And just as the fear makes his heart skip and his breath catch in his throat, something else races down his spine and out through his nerves and sets his heart to pounding and his icy skin on fire. A low whine escapes involuntarily through clenched teeth as the unexpected sensation reaches clear to his groin and simultaneously wipes all rational thought from his brain. Finn bites down on cold green flesh and slams into Stork once, desperately, and it's over. It feels less like shooting and more like being sucked dry. It feels like his mind is liquefying and running out of his body along with the release. He groans, and in his ear he hears a low, dark chuckle that shoves him even further off the edge of control.
Everything goes limp simultaneously. Through the sudden emptiness inside his skull comes the vague thought, I'm gonna pass out.
But he doesn't. It's over just like that, and the world starts to return to normal, albeit slightly tilted and a bit fuzzier than before. Finn's legs are still under him, though now they're shaking. He's thankful that Stork doesn't simply drop him, but instead eases him almost gently to the floor, letting him sit there for a moment catching his breath and trying to collect his scattered wits.
His ass hurts. There is definitely bruising. He's going to be shooting Stork dark looks for a couple of days. As long as nobody else asks what happened, because Finn isn't too sure of that himself.
A towel hits him in the face. Still running a bit slow, he picks it up and stares at it, then tries to glare up at Stork. He's positive the Merb must be smirking back at him, though all he can really see is the faint yellow gleam of those nocturnal eyes. At least he has good reason to smirk.
"Might wanna clean yourself up, hotshot. Shouldn't leave evidence lying around, should we?"
Finn braces himself for further teasing, but hears only the rustling of cloth as the pilot slips back into uniform. He must've hit the bathroom and taken care of his own cleanup while Finn was still sitting there waiting for the bridge to stop spinning. Determined not to be shown up, the marksman staggers to his feet and starts wiping off whatever needs to be wiped off, trying to act as nonchalant about the whole affair as Stork seems to be.
By the time he's gotten himself dressed, Stork is already back at the helm, steering the ship as if nothing has happened. This night just keeps getting stranger. Finn's used to their casual act by now, but he would've thought the milestone of fucking on the bridge warranted some sort of acknowledgment, some recognition. Hell, he has no way of knowing if Stork even liked it. Between weird Merbian anatomy and Stork's own secretiveness, he can never tell if the pilot gets off or not.
Of course, he can always ask. But he has to ask a certain way, to preserve face. Can't sound too concerned. The question comes out cocky, full of himself, a little challenging.
"So, was it good for you?"
Stork is busy with something at the controls, apparently something more engrossing than Finn, and the sharpshooter has to wait a moment for an answer.
"Eh." Finn can hear the shrug in his voice. His heart starts to sink, before Stork adds breezily, "I got what I wanted."
Not sure whether to believe him, Finn moves closer, standing behind the pilot and squinting in an effort to read his body language through the gloom. "You sure?" He rests a hand between the narrow shoulders, at the base of the Merb's neck. "I'd hate to think I left you disappointed."
His voice hasn't lost its cocky self-assurance, but his concern must have bled through the touch. Stork leans back against it just slightly, arching his back into Finn's fingers like a cat, encouraging him to start scratching. He does, and Stork lets out a contented sigh. "Mmm. Oh yeah."
Finn frowns, a little puzzled, and keeps scratching around his shoulders and down his back, past the wings of the Storm Hawks emblem on his uniform. Stork practically melts under his hand... and then it hits him. Earlier that day, he'd clapped Stork on the shoulder in a typical friendly gesture and had felt the pilot tense. Not flinch - Stork had gotten a lot better about that since the days when he used to cringe if any of them even looked at him the wrong way - but he certainly hadn't relaxed into it like he was now. It's as if, through sex, Finn has breached a barrier and is now included in Stork's perceived circle of safety. He's solidified his status as a Friendly Touch. Come to think of it, every time they have sex, Stork seems more at ease with Finn for a while afterwards. He never really tried to pinpoint the reason before, but...
"This isn't really about sex for you, is it?" he says, the newfound revelation falling crudely into words. "It's like a... trust... thing."
An inaudible chuckle vibrates through the bony shoulders. "Well, what do you know. He does have a brain."
Finn should be offended, but he's proud of himself for figuring it out, so he ignores the slight. "So I'm right?"
He can see the dim silhouette of Stork's head turning as the pilot scans the skies ahead. "Let's just say I learn the hard way who can be trusted and who can't. Sometimes... sometimes I need a reminder."
He sounds unusually serious, almost solemn. Generally that's Finn's cue to leave. But the conversation has not left him unaffected, and he gives the Merb's shoulder a final, affectionate squeeze. "Hey man, I'll remind you anytime you need it. Just say the word."
"Please. I don't even have to say anything. I just drop my pants and I've got you at my beck and call." There's a smile in the voice, and Finn smiles back, relieved to hear it. Then Stork - reluctantly, he thinks - finally shrugs off his hand. "Now get to bed. If you keep distracting me, I'm gonna crash in the Wastelands and kill us all. And I do not want to explain to Aerrow tomorrow why his self-proclaimed sharpshooter is cross-eyed from exhaustion."
Finn relents, but he won't back off without a parting shot. It's a matter of principle. "Gimme some credit. I've shot down Cyclonians on no sleep before. Besides, you can always just tell him we were dressing up as pirates again."
The bubble pipe misses his head by inches as he ducks out the door.