fic: Make The Season Bright
Title: Make The Season Bright
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Pete/Ryland
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4300
Warnings: Um. Fairy mpreg?
Summary:
"So," Ryland says, flopping down next to Pete. "I hear we're having a seed pod."
"Patrick has a big mouth," Pete says sourly. "I should shut it for him."
Author's Note: This is airgiodslv's fault. She wrote 'Tis The Season, and then cruelly pressured me to write the Pete/Ryland story! Thanks to gobsmackit, who is the best beta who has ever beta'd, and especially to airgiodslv, who created the tiny fairy'verse. ♥_♥
It's an accident. It is completely, one-hundred percent an accident. The ground is still frozen hard, for fuck's sake, and there are still unexpected personal rainstorms when stubborn patches of frost still clinging to the leaves above melt and drip onto innocent, unsuspecting fairies.
It's not like anyone's even really stretching their wings out yet; everyone has limbs and wings folded in close for warmth, so it's not like Pete can blame Ryland. It's not Ryland's fault that his wings get sparkly early, and it's definitely not Ryland's fault that a drop of freezing cold water lands on his head at exactly the wrong moment; he nearly falls, snaps his wings open wide for balance, and there's a sudden shower of silver fairy dust that takes Pete entirely by surprise.
It swirls around him, clings to his eyelashes, and makes him sneeze.
"Huh," Ryland says, once he's regained his balance and lifted off the ground enough to turn and settle his feet back on a knob of the branch under them. Pete's wings are open, too, thanks to an overactive startle-response. "Shit."
Shit is an excellent word for it.
"This doesn't mean anything," Pete says firmly. "That might've been, like-"
"Dust?" Ryland suggests.
"Real dust," Pete says. "That did not just happen."
"Didn't," Ryland agrees. "Definitely didn't."
"We are not telling anyone about this," Pete says, jabbing his finger at Ryland's chest. "Because there is nothing to tell."
Pete's not a fairy who incubates, anyway. He's a fairy who pollinates. He has pollinated every season since he was old enough. That's just the way it works, and it'll work that way this year too. He will ambush Patrick with his fairy dust, and then Patrick will incubate their seed pod, and then Pete will hang it on a branch, and everything will be exactly the same as last year. "Exactly the same!" he says, for emphasis, and snaps his own wings open wider so he can fly off. Pointedly.
In the morning, Pete's wings look like the night sky. They're inky black and speckled with silver that shimmers in the faint light filtering into Pete's walnut shell.
"This one looks like Gemini," Patrick announces gleefully. Pete feels Patrick's fingertips skimming over his wings, connecting dots into familiar, beloved shapes.
"Fuck you," Pete says, and snaps his wings back hard, making Patrick half fall on his ass trying to avoid them. "Blow me. I hate you."
"Not my fault," Patrick says, grinning widely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hide my wings underwater until pollination season is over."
It helps a little that Pete's wings are so pretty, but only a little. It's not like there's going to be a montage of fairies stopping in their tracks and whistling whenever Pete flies by or anything, but at least it's not like the travesty that would occur if Jon ever managed to pollinate with Patrick. Pete ducks out of his walnut shell and makes sure the coast is clear before he bolts for the lake, rising in a tight spiral in the shelter of the nearest tree and flying high enough that no one can spot the lazily spreading silver stains on his wings. The wind buffets him when he flies that high, making his eyes water, but it's worth it.
At the lake, he finds a smooth spot lit up by the sun and hovers over it, beating his wings as slow as he possibly can so he can see where they're all fucked up with silver.
There's a lot of silver.
He really doesn't want to tell Ryland that they're going to have a seed pod.
::
"So," Ryland says, flopping down next to Pete. "I hear we're having a seed pod."
"Patrick has a big mouth," Pete says sourly. "I should shut it for him."
"In your delicate condition?" Ryland grins and slides closer on Pete's flower stem, stretching his wings out slowly so they brush against Pete's. "You're making bad decisions for two now, remember?"
"This is such bullshit," Pete sulks. "It was technically still winter. I was totally going to pollinate Patrick."
"I'm sure he's devastated," Ryland says, nodding solemnly. "I think I saw him crying earlier."
Twirling around in glee is more like it, Pete thinks uncharitably. Patrick never did like getting swollen and miserable every spring. It's not Pete's fault that they make awesome seed pods together. "Who knows?" he asks, slumping miserably against Ryland's side. "Does everyone know?"
"It's possible I told a few people," Ryland admits. "Like, um. Yeah, everyone."
"You're totally psyched about this," Pete accuses. He tucks his head under Ryland's chin and watches the sun turn into a narrow orange crescent above the water. "I'm going to be fat and useless, and you're gloating."
"It's a seed pod," Ryland says, lifting his hands helplessly. "It's my seed pod. It's possible I'm excited."
"Our seed pod," Pete corrects. "Don't be greedy."
"Of course," Ryland says. He nuzzles at Pete's head, so Pete closes his eyes and lets the sun set without his supervision. He trusts it will fall languidly below the horizon, as it always does, and rise up on the other side like it does every other morning. "You're doing all the work anyway."
"That's what you think," Pete says triumphantly. "You have to bring me things. And service my every need. And figure out some way to keep me from biting your throat out in the middle of the night. And you have to find somewhere to hang our seed pod, and it has to be at least as good as all the places I've hung them."
"Okay," Ryland says. He wiggles his fingers under Pete's hand until he can twist them up, hooking their pinkies together. Pete cooperates, even with his eyes closed, letting Ryland lift their hands into the air together. "Promise."
::
Pete's center of gravity drops before anything else. He can feel the earth turning beneath his feet. He can feel the trees growing when he presses his palms to them, he can feel the sun setting, he can feel the wind in his teeth, he's so connected to everything around him.
He takes to floating downstream on a broad, spring-hardy leaf, with Ryland lying next to him and their fingers tangled. "This is trippy," he says dreamily, not bothering to open his eyes. "I think it's because I'm heavier. I can feel everything. I can feel the currents."
"You are heavier," Ryland agrees. "I can feel your gravitational pull. Hey, look, a cardinal."
Pete opens his eyes in time to see a bright burst of crimson blur against the pale blue of the sky, then it's lost in a long blur of spring green and deep brown. Pete fucking loves spring. And somehow, against all the odds, he loves incubating. His stomach is rounded out gently; he can feel the weight of it in his heels when he walks, in his lower back when he flies, but it feels nice. He feels more grounded, is what it is.
"Maybe it'll have red wings," he muses. "Like a cardinal."
"I like your wings," Ryland says. "They always look soft."
"Yours are sparkly." He's always liked Ryland's wings best in the early hours, or in the very late ones. They pick up the sunrise and glow, silvery-pink or silvery-orange or silvery-lavender, and Ryland is luminous in the moonlight, more radiant than any firefly. "I like them at night," Pete says. "You're like our very own star."
"We're almost to the rocks," Ryland says, squeezing Pete's fingers. "Let me help you up."
The stream is only smooth for so long. Pete thinks there's a metaphor for life in there, but he ignores it in favor of grinning at the way the leaf dents beneath his feet when Ryland pulls him upright. He's heavier, weighed down enough by their seed pod that gravity has started to take notice.
"Ready?" Ryland says, and Pete shifts his grin up to him and nods. They take off together, with Ryland's wings casting faint, flickering shadows over Pete's eyes when they start to beat. Yeah, he's ready.
::
Pete needs sex. His fingertips ache to fuck, he's so turned on, like, all the time. All of the time. He's seen the hormone-fueled sex-craze come on, but he's never had it happen himself, and it's kind of a mind-fuck.
He's too big to lie on his stomach anymore and his breath is getting perilously short any time he lies on his back for too long. Worse than that, he gets hard if a stiff breeze hits him, and if he has to jerk off one more time he thinks his wrist is going to snap in two and fall off.
There is really only one solution.
"You have to fuck me," Pete announces. Ryland, who has just ducked into the walnut shell, drops everything in his arms.
"Um," he says.
"You have to," Pete pouts. "I told you, you have to cater to my every need and I need this."
"Okay," Ryland says again. "Okay. We can, um."
"Fuck," Pete provides helpfully. "I can't top, obviously."
"God no," Ryland says, looking appalled. He crouches and fumbles through the things he dropped, finally emerging with a yellow-green seed that he bites open and starts squeezing. "I mean. Um."
"We can talk about your sexual inflexibility later," Pete says impatiently. "Are you hard yet?"
"You could be less bossy," Ryland laughs. He manages to squeeze something slimy out of the seed in his hand and curls his fingers in protectively, nudging Pete's leg up and out of the way with his knee. "Or ask nicer."
"Please get hard," Pete says obediently. He drags his knee up as high as possible. It brushes his stomach, so he wraps his hand around his calf and hikes it up a little higher. "Please," he says, voice catching when Ryland twists two slick, warm fingers into him, "fuck me. You big, strong fairy you."
"You are such a dick," Ryland says affectionately. He twists his fingers up, crooking them hard, and Pete thinks he's about to be pollinated all over again, if the shower of silver sparks is any indication. "Maybe just stop talking."
Pete can feel that Ryland is hard, though. He's pressed against Pete's thigh, hot and thick and hard, and his breath is hitching every time Pete arches against his hand. "Ready?" Ryland asks.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Yeah, just let me..."
He doesn't want to be on his back for this, is the thing, so he pushes up awkwardly and manages to climb over onto his hands and knees. It feels like it takes about five minutes, and he can hear Ryland clearing his throat in a noble attempt not to laugh.
"You can laugh," Pete grumbles, glaring at Ryland over his shoulder. "It's not like I'm going to cut you off or anything."
"I wouldn't," Ryland protests. "It's not funny. It's, um. Hot."
"I hate you," Pete huffs. "Stick it in."
"Quit treating me like unskilled labor," Ryland says. He flattens his hand on Pete's back and slides it up, slow, warm, and soothing. Pete can feel the head of Ryland's dick rubbing over his ass, and Ryland rocking his hips a little harder every time, just barely not pushing in. Pete ducks his head and rocks his hips back against Ryland's, muffling his moan into his arm.
"Please," Pete whimpers. "Come on, please."
"Shhh," Ryland mumbles. "I'm getting there."
Pete thinks he might come from just this, from someone else's hands on him, from the hotgoodpressure of Ryland's dick against his ass, from the turn-on of being in this position, spread open and vulnerable, with Ryland touching him like he has all the time in the world. He thinks he might come from this, and then Ryland wraps a hand tight around his hip and pushes in with one hard, smooth thrust. Pete almost does come, biting down hard on his arm in surprise and wincing when his dick twitches and slaps wetly against his stomach.
It feels better than anything Pete has ever even imagined, and Pete has had a lot of good sex in his life. He doesn't know if it's the hormones or what, but Ryland pushes in, dragging the head of his dick in and out at some insane miracle angle that makes Pete whimper and spread his knees further apart. Ryland wraps both hands around Pete's hips and drags him up higher again, pushes in harder, grunting. Pete comes. He's never come so hard or so fast before, but Ryland lifts him up a little too high so his knees clear the ground and Pete comes gasping, moaning, without anyone touching his dick.
"Don't stop," he pants, when Ryland's thrusts falter and his hands tighten. "I can, again, come on. Just don't stop."
"Fuck," Ryland mumbles. "Pete."
It still feels good. Pete thinks he can feel Ryland rubbing against the seed pod, he's pushing in so deep. Pete's knees are on the ground again, and his stomach is resting round and heavy against the side of the walnut shell; he's dropped his weight onto his forearms so his spine doesn't crack in half. He has the leverage this way to rock back against Ryland, trying to keep the rhythm slow enough that Ryland won't come until Pete can get hard again.
Pete's head is still spinning. His fingertips are still tingling and his knees are still wobbly when he starts to get hard again. It almost hurts, this soon after, but Ryland slides his hand down over Pete's stomach, curving softly, lingering where Pete's skin creases and flattens out. Pete whines, low in his throat, and pushes back harder.
"I've got you," Ryland mumbles. He wraps his hand around Pete's dick and strokes. Pete goes from half-hard to really fucking hard in the space of two strokes.
He feels so full he thinks his skin might split open; Ryland in him, pushing in hard and grinding, and their seed pod weighing him down, like something in the earth wants to reach up and touch him too, put its hands on him like Ryland's are. "Close," Pete gasps. "Again. Sorry."
"No sorry," Ryland says. He slides his knees forward, spreading Pete's wider, so he can rock in more deeply. "Don't, it's good."
Ryland's hand is still moving on him, twisting easily, squeezing at the head. He has the other splayed out on Pete's hip, dragging him back. Every time he drags his fist down over Pete's dick he digs the fingertips of his other hand into Pete's hip, and the combination is making Pete's head spin wildly.
Coming the second time is a drawn out head-trip of sensation and color. He squeezes his eyes closed so tight that his eyelids dance with lights; he can feel the ground under his belly, Ryland's hands, Ryland's hips against his ass, Ryland pushing into him, their sweat intermingling. He can feel his forehead hot against his forearms, he can feel his balls tingle and his stomach get even heavier, and he barely has time to gasp Ryland's name before he comes again, muscles spasming and going tight. Dimly, he hears Ryland moaning, feels Ryland shudder and shove in hard, coming mere seconds behind him.
"Okay," Pete pants, once his head feels attached to his body again. The sun might have set already, he's not sure. "I'm going to need help."
"Yeah, okay," Ryland laughs. "Here, um. Maybe if we, uh."
It takes a good four minutes to get Pete on his back again, and half that time for him to pass out with Ryland wrapped around him and his face pushed against Ryland's neck.
::
Pete plans to disprove William and Patrick's incessant bitching about how incubating incapacitates fairies against their will by living as full and personally fulfilling a life as possible up until the moment it becomes...well, frankly, impossible.
This starts with fucking Ryland approximately ten times a day in every possible position, and it continues with wobbling out of his walnut and to every impromptu fairy gathering long after the other incubating fairies have sulked into their hidey-holes and started shouting for nectar at every meal.
He's still flying, even, well past the point where Ryan has refused to let his feet leave the ground and is instead making Jon and Spencer help him walk. Both of them. At the same time.
This particular bit of freedom ends after he loses his balance in a gust of wind and nearly tumbles headlong into a spiderweb.
"Idiot," Ryland mutters, still picking through Pete's hair and smoothing his hands over his wings like there might be danger clinging stickily to his skin. "Moron. Psycho. Asshole."
"I'm fine," Pete protests, batting absently at Ryland's hands. "I'm fine, it was, like, a freak tornado."
Pete doesn't fly again, after that.
::
He gets big. He gets big, and he's seen big before, but he's never felt how big you can be. He can't walk anymore, not without Ryland in front of him, letting Pete hold on tight for balance. He gets so big that the only way they can fuck is with Pete up on his knees, his hands braced against the side of the shell and his wings spread-wide but drooping. Only like that can Ryland wrap his hands around Pete's hips and fuck him the way he likes it: hard, with teeth in the back of his neck, with Ryland's fingertips painting a perfect arch of bruises into his hips.
Pete thinks maybe he'd like fucking Ryland when he wasn't swollen with a seed pod, when he could lie on his back and wrap his legs around Ryland's waist, or climb into Ryland's lap and ride him, face to face, with their chests sliding together, with their wings out wide, hiding them from anyone and everyone.
For now, they fuck like this. Pete pants against the side of the walnut shell, dragging his fingernails down the smooth sides and beating his wings as gently as he can against Ryland's sides. He wants to touch Ryland somehow, is all.
::
Pete gets bigger. He hasn't walked in two days. He hasn't seen his own knees in four days; if he stands up and holds onto Ryland and leans over until he feels like his feet are about to slide out from under him, he can just barely see his toes. Barely.
He has changed his mind. He hates incubating.
"This is bullshit," he tells Ryland. He can hear Ryland humming absently, can hear the soft slippery sounds of seeds being stacked and the faint whisper of Ryland's wings moving with him. "You know Jon hung Ryan and Spencer's seed pods up, like, yesterday? We cross-pollinated way before they did."
"Perfection takes time," Ryland answers easily. "Plus, it's my seed pod too. Your body is working extra hard to rise to my level of sexy."
Pete kicks out blindly, hoping to catch Ryland in the ankle. "You're not funny," he grumbles. "This thing is as big as I am."
Ryland laughs, and there's the louder sound of his wings catching air and the sudden brisk gust of them beating. Needless to say, Pete's kick misses. "Like I said," Ryland says, dropping softly to his feet behind Pete and easing down to cuddle; he wraps his skinny arm around Pete's belly and nuzzles at the back of his neck, shifting and smoothing until Pete's wings are folded neatly between them. "It's my seed pod too."
"We are never doing this again," Pete announces. "I don't want your freakish giant fairy spawn in my in me again. Ever."
"It'll be soon," Ryland soothes. "I can feel it. Look." He tangles up their fingers and drags Pete's hand down-Pete's beyond wincing at how tight and thin his skin feels-until Pete's palm is curved over the side of his stomach, with Ryland's palm warm and sure against his knuckles. "It's humming. Can you feel it?"
He can feel something, but he's not convinced it's not just his body itching to be mobile again.
"Soon," Ryland murmurs. His lips vibrate against Pete's neck, just under his ear, and that? That he can feel. "So soon. And then I'll hang it up in the sun and we'll go swimming. I'll carry you if I have to."
"You're going to carry me everywhere," Pete sulks. "For a week."
"For a week," Ryland agrees. He keeps moving their hands, dragging them in soft, slow circles over Pete's stomach. Pete's not sure he can feel anything through the pod, but he imagines the baby fairy rolling over, turning its belly up for Ryland to rub.
Against his will, he feels himself getting drowsy, his eyes getting heavy.
"Sleep," Ryland mumbles. "We'll oil you up and and rub you when you wake up."
"Freakish giant fairy pod," Pete mumbles back, sleepily. "You owe me."
"Anything in the world," Ryland whispers. "Just as soon as you wake up."
::
Three days later, Pete wakes up in the middle of the night and watches the sides of his walnut shell sprout roses. One of them buds, blooms, then sprouts little green arms and waves at him.
Beaming, Pete waves back. "Hello," he mumbles, waving tiredly. "My name is Pete."
The rose lifts its fuzzy green arms to the sky and twirls slowly. Pete would dance with it, he would, but he can't feel his feet at the moment.
"I can't feel my feet," Pete tells the rose. "I'm sorry. Maybe Ryland will dance with you."
"Who am I dancing with?" Ryland mumbles. He's curled up in front of Pete, with his calves sandwiching Pete's feet to keep them warm and his hands between them, hot and still on Pete's stomach. "Go back to sleep."
"The rose," Pete says, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. His hands feel very far way. Also, the sun seems to be rising hours early, behind Ryland's head, tiny and orbiting his skull. "Your halo is made of the sun."
Ryland blinks at him, and then he slides his hands all over Pete's stomach, digging his fingers in carefully. "I think," he says, sitting up abruptly. "It's time."
Things happen after that. Somehow he finds himself propped up against the wall of the walnut shell, with a little bundle of moss for a pillow and a flower petal laid over it for softness. Ryland keeps bringing him flower stems with sweet drops of water in them, and Pete spends at least an hour singing an old duet with the sprig of jasmine that's bloomed where the shell curves above his head.
Ryland can't see the flowers. Pete is very sad for him.
"Okay," Ryland says eventually, once Pete's started squirming. He's not sure why he keeps moving, since he feels floaty and a little tingly, but his legs keep twitching and he can't keep his back still. "It's happening now."
"It's not," Pete argues. "I think I'd know."
"Now," Ryland says firmly. He rubs his thumb over Pete's stomach and drops his head to kiss the spot. "I'm right here. Hold my hand."
The first ripple of pain takes Pete completely by surprise. "Oh fuck," he says, wheezing when the air is squeezed out of him by pain. The jasmine above him presses its stem-arms to its petal-mouth in sympathy.
"It's almost over," Ryland soothes. He clasps Pete's hand in both of his and pushes in close, nuzzling at Pete's temple. "Soon, I promise. Soon."
::
Ryland hangs their seed pod on a strong branch that's high enough to get sun but not so high a hungry bird might spot it. It gets good light in the afternoons, Pete knows, and it's placed just right so that the sunset will bathe it in purples and golds. Pete thinks maybe the tiny fairy will get some of the light through the side of the pod before it hardens fully.
It's a day before he can get on his feet and go see it, and by that time the sides are already turning brown and going stiff. Pete perches on an offshoot branch that dips lazily beneath it and runs his fingers along the fuzzy surface, with his wings open behind him and beating slowly, more for balance than anything else.
"It's on there securely," Ryland assures him. He hasn't taken a hand off Pete since they left the walnut shell, and Pete's about two more nervous twitches away from reminding Ryland that a week or two of incapacitation does not undo a lifetime of self-sufficiency. "Nothing's budging it."
"Well it's my seed pod too," Pete says. He runs his fingertips down the side and lets them fall off and down by his side. "So it's stubborn as shit."
"Of course," Ryland says. His wings flap anxiously. "Maybe we should go float now."
"Maybe we should go brag," Pete counters. "Ryan's seed pod wasn't half the size of ours. And it had spots."
"Polka-dots," Brendon corrects loudly, from somewhere off to their left. "And don't let him hear you say that."
"We haven't floated in ages," Ryland wheedles. "We can brag later. Come swim with me."
Pete lets Ryland tangle their fingers together. They have to fly slow so their wings don't beat against each other and send them tumbling to the ground, but it's okay. It gives Pete time to look back over his shoulder and watch their seed pod shine in the light.
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Pete/Ryland
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4300
Warnings: Um. Fairy mpreg?
Summary:
"So," Ryland says, flopping down next to Pete. "I hear we're having a seed pod."
"Patrick has a big mouth," Pete says sourly. "I should shut it for him."
Author's Note: This is airgiodslv's fault. She wrote 'Tis The Season, and then cruelly pressured me to write the Pete/Ryland story! Thanks to gobsmackit, who is the best beta who has ever beta'd, and especially to airgiodslv, who created the tiny fairy'verse. ♥_♥
It's an accident. It is completely, one-hundred percent an accident. The ground is still frozen hard, for fuck's sake, and there are still unexpected personal rainstorms when stubborn patches of frost still clinging to the leaves above melt and drip onto innocent, unsuspecting fairies.
It's not like anyone's even really stretching their wings out yet; everyone has limbs and wings folded in close for warmth, so it's not like Pete can blame Ryland. It's not Ryland's fault that his wings get sparkly early, and it's definitely not Ryland's fault that a drop of freezing cold water lands on his head at exactly the wrong moment; he nearly falls, snaps his wings open wide for balance, and there's a sudden shower of silver fairy dust that takes Pete entirely by surprise.
It swirls around him, clings to his eyelashes, and makes him sneeze.
"Huh," Ryland says, once he's regained his balance and lifted off the ground enough to turn and settle his feet back on a knob of the branch under them. Pete's wings are open, too, thanks to an overactive startle-response. "Shit."
Shit is an excellent word for it.
"This doesn't mean anything," Pete says firmly. "That might've been, like-"
"Dust?" Ryland suggests.
"Real dust," Pete says. "That did not just happen."
"Didn't," Ryland agrees. "Definitely didn't."
"We are not telling anyone about this," Pete says, jabbing his finger at Ryland's chest. "Because there is nothing to tell."
Pete's not a fairy who incubates, anyway. He's a fairy who pollinates. He has pollinated every season since he was old enough. That's just the way it works, and it'll work that way this year too. He will ambush Patrick with his fairy dust, and then Patrick will incubate their seed pod, and then Pete will hang it on a branch, and everything will be exactly the same as last year. "Exactly the same!" he says, for emphasis, and snaps his own wings open wider so he can fly off. Pointedly.
In the morning, Pete's wings look like the night sky. They're inky black and speckled with silver that shimmers in the faint light filtering into Pete's walnut shell.
"This one looks like Gemini," Patrick announces gleefully. Pete feels Patrick's fingertips skimming over his wings, connecting dots into familiar, beloved shapes.
"Fuck you," Pete says, and snaps his wings back hard, making Patrick half fall on his ass trying to avoid them. "Blow me. I hate you."
"Not my fault," Patrick says, grinning widely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hide my wings underwater until pollination season is over."
It helps a little that Pete's wings are so pretty, but only a little. It's not like there's going to be a montage of fairies stopping in their tracks and whistling whenever Pete flies by or anything, but at least it's not like the travesty that would occur if Jon ever managed to pollinate with Patrick. Pete ducks out of his walnut shell and makes sure the coast is clear before he bolts for the lake, rising in a tight spiral in the shelter of the nearest tree and flying high enough that no one can spot the lazily spreading silver stains on his wings. The wind buffets him when he flies that high, making his eyes water, but it's worth it.
At the lake, he finds a smooth spot lit up by the sun and hovers over it, beating his wings as slow as he possibly can so he can see where they're all fucked up with silver.
There's a lot of silver.
He really doesn't want to tell Ryland that they're going to have a seed pod.
::
"So," Ryland says, flopping down next to Pete. "I hear we're having a seed pod."
"Patrick has a big mouth," Pete says sourly. "I should shut it for him."
"In your delicate condition?" Ryland grins and slides closer on Pete's flower stem, stretching his wings out slowly so they brush against Pete's. "You're making bad decisions for two now, remember?"
"This is such bullshit," Pete sulks. "It was technically still winter. I was totally going to pollinate Patrick."
"I'm sure he's devastated," Ryland says, nodding solemnly. "I think I saw him crying earlier."
Twirling around in glee is more like it, Pete thinks uncharitably. Patrick never did like getting swollen and miserable every spring. It's not Pete's fault that they make awesome seed pods together. "Who knows?" he asks, slumping miserably against Ryland's side. "Does everyone know?"
"It's possible I told a few people," Ryland admits. "Like, um. Yeah, everyone."
"You're totally psyched about this," Pete accuses. He tucks his head under Ryland's chin and watches the sun turn into a narrow orange crescent above the water. "I'm going to be fat and useless, and you're gloating."
"It's a seed pod," Ryland says, lifting his hands helplessly. "It's my seed pod. It's possible I'm excited."
"Our seed pod," Pete corrects. "Don't be greedy."
"Of course," Ryland says. He nuzzles at Pete's head, so Pete closes his eyes and lets the sun set without his supervision. He trusts it will fall languidly below the horizon, as it always does, and rise up on the other side like it does every other morning. "You're doing all the work anyway."
"That's what you think," Pete says triumphantly. "You have to bring me things. And service my every need. And figure out some way to keep me from biting your throat out in the middle of the night. And you have to find somewhere to hang our seed pod, and it has to be at least as good as all the places I've hung them."
"Okay," Ryland says. He wiggles his fingers under Pete's hand until he can twist them up, hooking their pinkies together. Pete cooperates, even with his eyes closed, letting Ryland lift their hands into the air together. "Promise."
::
Pete's center of gravity drops before anything else. He can feel the earth turning beneath his feet. He can feel the trees growing when he presses his palms to them, he can feel the sun setting, he can feel the wind in his teeth, he's so connected to everything around him.
He takes to floating downstream on a broad, spring-hardy leaf, with Ryland lying next to him and their fingers tangled. "This is trippy," he says dreamily, not bothering to open his eyes. "I think it's because I'm heavier. I can feel everything. I can feel the currents."
"You are heavier," Ryland agrees. "I can feel your gravitational pull. Hey, look, a cardinal."
Pete opens his eyes in time to see a bright burst of crimson blur against the pale blue of the sky, then it's lost in a long blur of spring green and deep brown. Pete fucking loves spring. And somehow, against all the odds, he loves incubating. His stomach is rounded out gently; he can feel the weight of it in his heels when he walks, in his lower back when he flies, but it feels nice. He feels more grounded, is what it is.
"Maybe it'll have red wings," he muses. "Like a cardinal."
"I like your wings," Ryland says. "They always look soft."
"Yours are sparkly." He's always liked Ryland's wings best in the early hours, or in the very late ones. They pick up the sunrise and glow, silvery-pink or silvery-orange or silvery-lavender, and Ryland is luminous in the moonlight, more radiant than any firefly. "I like them at night," Pete says. "You're like our very own star."
"We're almost to the rocks," Ryland says, squeezing Pete's fingers. "Let me help you up."
The stream is only smooth for so long. Pete thinks there's a metaphor for life in there, but he ignores it in favor of grinning at the way the leaf dents beneath his feet when Ryland pulls him upright. He's heavier, weighed down enough by their seed pod that gravity has started to take notice.
"Ready?" Ryland says, and Pete shifts his grin up to him and nods. They take off together, with Ryland's wings casting faint, flickering shadows over Pete's eyes when they start to beat. Yeah, he's ready.
::
Pete needs sex. His fingertips ache to fuck, he's so turned on, like, all the time. All of the time. He's seen the hormone-fueled sex-craze come on, but he's never had it happen himself, and it's kind of a mind-fuck.
He's too big to lie on his stomach anymore and his breath is getting perilously short any time he lies on his back for too long. Worse than that, he gets hard if a stiff breeze hits him, and if he has to jerk off one more time he thinks his wrist is going to snap in two and fall off.
There is really only one solution.
"You have to fuck me," Pete announces. Ryland, who has just ducked into the walnut shell, drops everything in his arms.
"Um," he says.
"You have to," Pete pouts. "I told you, you have to cater to my every need and I need this."
"Okay," Ryland says again. "Okay. We can, um."
"Fuck," Pete provides helpfully. "I can't top, obviously."
"God no," Ryland says, looking appalled. He crouches and fumbles through the things he dropped, finally emerging with a yellow-green seed that he bites open and starts squeezing. "I mean. Um."
"We can talk about your sexual inflexibility later," Pete says impatiently. "Are you hard yet?"
"You could be less bossy," Ryland laughs. He manages to squeeze something slimy out of the seed in his hand and curls his fingers in protectively, nudging Pete's leg up and out of the way with his knee. "Or ask nicer."
"Please get hard," Pete says obediently. He drags his knee up as high as possible. It brushes his stomach, so he wraps his hand around his calf and hikes it up a little higher. "Please," he says, voice catching when Ryland twists two slick, warm fingers into him, "fuck me. You big, strong fairy you."
"You are such a dick," Ryland says affectionately. He twists his fingers up, crooking them hard, and Pete thinks he's about to be pollinated all over again, if the shower of silver sparks is any indication. "Maybe just stop talking."
Pete can feel that Ryland is hard, though. He's pressed against Pete's thigh, hot and thick and hard, and his breath is hitching every time Pete arches against his hand. "Ready?" Ryland asks.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Yeah, just let me..."
He doesn't want to be on his back for this, is the thing, so he pushes up awkwardly and manages to climb over onto his hands and knees. It feels like it takes about five minutes, and he can hear Ryland clearing his throat in a noble attempt not to laugh.
"You can laugh," Pete grumbles, glaring at Ryland over his shoulder. "It's not like I'm going to cut you off or anything."
"I wouldn't," Ryland protests. "It's not funny. It's, um. Hot."
"I hate you," Pete huffs. "Stick it in."
"Quit treating me like unskilled labor," Ryland says. He flattens his hand on Pete's back and slides it up, slow, warm, and soothing. Pete can feel the head of Ryland's dick rubbing over his ass, and Ryland rocking his hips a little harder every time, just barely not pushing in. Pete ducks his head and rocks his hips back against Ryland's, muffling his moan into his arm.
"Please," Pete whimpers. "Come on, please."
"Shhh," Ryland mumbles. "I'm getting there."
Pete thinks he might come from just this, from someone else's hands on him, from the hotgoodpressure of Ryland's dick against his ass, from the turn-on of being in this position, spread open and vulnerable, with Ryland touching him like he has all the time in the world. He thinks he might come from this, and then Ryland wraps a hand tight around his hip and pushes in with one hard, smooth thrust. Pete almost does come, biting down hard on his arm in surprise and wincing when his dick twitches and slaps wetly against his stomach.
It feels better than anything Pete has ever even imagined, and Pete has had a lot of good sex in his life. He doesn't know if it's the hormones or what, but Ryland pushes in, dragging the head of his dick in and out at some insane miracle angle that makes Pete whimper and spread his knees further apart. Ryland wraps both hands around Pete's hips and drags him up higher again, pushes in harder, grunting. Pete comes. He's never come so hard or so fast before, but Ryland lifts him up a little too high so his knees clear the ground and Pete comes gasping, moaning, without anyone touching his dick.
"Don't stop," he pants, when Ryland's thrusts falter and his hands tighten. "I can, again, come on. Just don't stop."
"Fuck," Ryland mumbles. "Pete."
It still feels good. Pete thinks he can feel Ryland rubbing against the seed pod, he's pushing in so deep. Pete's knees are on the ground again, and his stomach is resting round and heavy against the side of the walnut shell; he's dropped his weight onto his forearms so his spine doesn't crack in half. He has the leverage this way to rock back against Ryland, trying to keep the rhythm slow enough that Ryland won't come until Pete can get hard again.
Pete's head is still spinning. His fingertips are still tingling and his knees are still wobbly when he starts to get hard again. It almost hurts, this soon after, but Ryland slides his hand down over Pete's stomach, curving softly, lingering where Pete's skin creases and flattens out. Pete whines, low in his throat, and pushes back harder.
"I've got you," Ryland mumbles. He wraps his hand around Pete's dick and strokes. Pete goes from half-hard to really fucking hard in the space of two strokes.
He feels so full he thinks his skin might split open; Ryland in him, pushing in hard and grinding, and their seed pod weighing him down, like something in the earth wants to reach up and touch him too, put its hands on him like Ryland's are. "Close," Pete gasps. "Again. Sorry."
"No sorry," Ryland says. He slides his knees forward, spreading Pete's wider, so he can rock in more deeply. "Don't, it's good."
Ryland's hand is still moving on him, twisting easily, squeezing at the head. He has the other splayed out on Pete's hip, dragging him back. Every time he drags his fist down over Pete's dick he digs the fingertips of his other hand into Pete's hip, and the combination is making Pete's head spin wildly.
Coming the second time is a drawn out head-trip of sensation and color. He squeezes his eyes closed so tight that his eyelids dance with lights; he can feel the ground under his belly, Ryland's hands, Ryland's hips against his ass, Ryland pushing into him, their sweat intermingling. He can feel his forehead hot against his forearms, he can feel his balls tingle and his stomach get even heavier, and he barely has time to gasp Ryland's name before he comes again, muscles spasming and going tight. Dimly, he hears Ryland moaning, feels Ryland shudder and shove in hard, coming mere seconds behind him.
"Okay," Pete pants, once his head feels attached to his body again. The sun might have set already, he's not sure. "I'm going to need help."
"Yeah, okay," Ryland laughs. "Here, um. Maybe if we, uh."
It takes a good four minutes to get Pete on his back again, and half that time for him to pass out with Ryland wrapped around him and his face pushed against Ryland's neck.
::
Pete plans to disprove William and Patrick's incessant bitching about how incubating incapacitates fairies against their will by living as full and personally fulfilling a life as possible up until the moment it becomes...well, frankly, impossible.
This starts with fucking Ryland approximately ten times a day in every possible position, and it continues with wobbling out of his walnut and to every impromptu fairy gathering long after the other incubating fairies have sulked into their hidey-holes and started shouting for nectar at every meal.
He's still flying, even, well past the point where Ryan has refused to let his feet leave the ground and is instead making Jon and Spencer help him walk. Both of them. At the same time.
This particular bit of freedom ends after he loses his balance in a gust of wind and nearly tumbles headlong into a spiderweb.
"Idiot," Ryland mutters, still picking through Pete's hair and smoothing his hands over his wings like there might be danger clinging stickily to his skin. "Moron. Psycho. Asshole."
"I'm fine," Pete protests, batting absently at Ryland's hands. "I'm fine, it was, like, a freak tornado."
Pete doesn't fly again, after that.
::
He gets big. He gets big, and he's seen big before, but he's never felt how big you can be. He can't walk anymore, not without Ryland in front of him, letting Pete hold on tight for balance. He gets so big that the only way they can fuck is with Pete up on his knees, his hands braced against the side of the shell and his wings spread-wide but drooping. Only like that can Ryland wrap his hands around Pete's hips and fuck him the way he likes it: hard, with teeth in the back of his neck, with Ryland's fingertips painting a perfect arch of bruises into his hips.
Pete thinks maybe he'd like fucking Ryland when he wasn't swollen with a seed pod, when he could lie on his back and wrap his legs around Ryland's waist, or climb into Ryland's lap and ride him, face to face, with their chests sliding together, with their wings out wide, hiding them from anyone and everyone.
For now, they fuck like this. Pete pants against the side of the walnut shell, dragging his fingernails down the smooth sides and beating his wings as gently as he can against Ryland's sides. He wants to touch Ryland somehow, is all.
::
Pete gets bigger. He hasn't walked in two days. He hasn't seen his own knees in four days; if he stands up and holds onto Ryland and leans over until he feels like his feet are about to slide out from under him, he can just barely see his toes. Barely.
He has changed his mind. He hates incubating.
"This is bullshit," he tells Ryland. He can hear Ryland humming absently, can hear the soft slippery sounds of seeds being stacked and the faint whisper of Ryland's wings moving with him. "You know Jon hung Ryan and Spencer's seed pods up, like, yesterday? We cross-pollinated way before they did."
"Perfection takes time," Ryland answers easily. "Plus, it's my seed pod too. Your body is working extra hard to rise to my level of sexy."
Pete kicks out blindly, hoping to catch Ryland in the ankle. "You're not funny," he grumbles. "This thing is as big as I am."
Ryland laughs, and there's the louder sound of his wings catching air and the sudden brisk gust of them beating. Needless to say, Pete's kick misses. "Like I said," Ryland says, dropping softly to his feet behind Pete and easing down to cuddle; he wraps his skinny arm around Pete's belly and nuzzles at the back of his neck, shifting and smoothing until Pete's wings are folded neatly between them. "It's my seed pod too."
"We are never doing this again," Pete announces. "I don't want your freakish giant fairy spawn in my in me again. Ever."
"It'll be soon," Ryland soothes. "I can feel it. Look." He tangles up their fingers and drags Pete's hand down-Pete's beyond wincing at how tight and thin his skin feels-until Pete's palm is curved over the side of his stomach, with Ryland's palm warm and sure against his knuckles. "It's humming. Can you feel it?"
He can feel something, but he's not convinced it's not just his body itching to be mobile again.
"Soon," Ryland murmurs. His lips vibrate against Pete's neck, just under his ear, and that? That he can feel. "So soon. And then I'll hang it up in the sun and we'll go swimming. I'll carry you if I have to."
"You're going to carry me everywhere," Pete sulks. "For a week."
"For a week," Ryland agrees. He keeps moving their hands, dragging them in soft, slow circles over Pete's stomach. Pete's not sure he can feel anything through the pod, but he imagines the baby fairy rolling over, turning its belly up for Ryland to rub.
Against his will, he feels himself getting drowsy, his eyes getting heavy.
"Sleep," Ryland mumbles. "We'll oil you up and and rub you when you wake up."
"Freakish giant fairy pod," Pete mumbles back, sleepily. "You owe me."
"Anything in the world," Ryland whispers. "Just as soon as you wake up."
::
Three days later, Pete wakes up in the middle of the night and watches the sides of his walnut shell sprout roses. One of them buds, blooms, then sprouts little green arms and waves at him.
Beaming, Pete waves back. "Hello," he mumbles, waving tiredly. "My name is Pete."
The rose lifts its fuzzy green arms to the sky and twirls slowly. Pete would dance with it, he would, but he can't feel his feet at the moment.
"I can't feel my feet," Pete tells the rose. "I'm sorry. Maybe Ryland will dance with you."
"Who am I dancing with?" Ryland mumbles. He's curled up in front of Pete, with his calves sandwiching Pete's feet to keep them warm and his hands between them, hot and still on Pete's stomach. "Go back to sleep."
"The rose," Pete says, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. His hands feel very far way. Also, the sun seems to be rising hours early, behind Ryland's head, tiny and orbiting his skull. "Your halo is made of the sun."
Ryland blinks at him, and then he slides his hands all over Pete's stomach, digging his fingers in carefully. "I think," he says, sitting up abruptly. "It's time."
Things happen after that. Somehow he finds himself propped up against the wall of the walnut shell, with a little bundle of moss for a pillow and a flower petal laid over it for softness. Ryland keeps bringing him flower stems with sweet drops of water in them, and Pete spends at least an hour singing an old duet with the sprig of jasmine that's bloomed where the shell curves above his head.
Ryland can't see the flowers. Pete is very sad for him.
"Okay," Ryland says eventually, once Pete's started squirming. He's not sure why he keeps moving, since he feels floaty and a little tingly, but his legs keep twitching and he can't keep his back still. "It's happening now."
"It's not," Pete argues. "I think I'd know."
"Now," Ryland says firmly. He rubs his thumb over Pete's stomach and drops his head to kiss the spot. "I'm right here. Hold my hand."
The first ripple of pain takes Pete completely by surprise. "Oh fuck," he says, wheezing when the air is squeezed out of him by pain. The jasmine above him presses its stem-arms to its petal-mouth in sympathy.
"It's almost over," Ryland soothes. He clasps Pete's hand in both of his and pushes in close, nuzzling at Pete's temple. "Soon, I promise. Soon."
::
Ryland hangs their seed pod on a strong branch that's high enough to get sun but not so high a hungry bird might spot it. It gets good light in the afternoons, Pete knows, and it's placed just right so that the sunset will bathe it in purples and golds. Pete thinks maybe the tiny fairy will get some of the light through the side of the pod before it hardens fully.
It's a day before he can get on his feet and go see it, and by that time the sides are already turning brown and going stiff. Pete perches on an offshoot branch that dips lazily beneath it and runs his fingers along the fuzzy surface, with his wings open behind him and beating slowly, more for balance than anything else.
"It's on there securely," Ryland assures him. He hasn't taken a hand off Pete since they left the walnut shell, and Pete's about two more nervous twitches away from reminding Ryland that a week or two of incapacitation does not undo a lifetime of self-sufficiency. "Nothing's budging it."
"Well it's my seed pod too," Pete says. He runs his fingertips down the side and lets them fall off and down by his side. "So it's stubborn as shit."
"Of course," Ryland says. His wings flap anxiously. "Maybe we should go float now."
"Maybe we should go brag," Pete counters. "Ryan's seed pod wasn't half the size of ours. And it had spots."
"Polka-dots," Brendon corrects loudly, from somewhere off to their left. "And don't let him hear you say that."
"We haven't floated in ages," Ryland wheedles. "We can brag later. Come swim with me."
Pete lets Ryland tangle their fingers together. They have to fly slow so their wings don't beat against each other and send them tumbling to the ground, but it's okay. It gives Pete time to look back over his shoulder and watch their seed pod shine in the light.