Oh, wow. The usual version of wing tattoos where they’re folded up against the shoulder blades doesn’t appeal to me but these… oh yes.
GET ON MY BODY
still really love this.
Oh, there should be wing!fic where the tattoo changes to real wings as someone is watching …
You had always admired his tattoos. He was positively covered in them; a spade on the back of his left hand, the words “love is all we live for” across his chest, beautiful, vibrant splashes of watercolor-like skin-art almost dripping down his thighs onto bands of pink and red around his calves. They hugged him, lean and wiry as he was, and they suited him perfectly. It was like they bound his soul to his body.
But none of them seemed as real, as completely him, as his wings.
You’ll freely admit that you have a bit of a kink for tattoos, and you’ve dated more than one person with wings on their back, but none of them were as intricate or as realistic as his. Sometimes, you swear that as he walks around your apartment, bare of a shirt, the feathers ruffle. It’s almost like the dark ink is never the same way twice.
And god, he’s sensitive about them, too. You asked who did them, if you could get something like them, and he almost hissed. So defensive, he won’t tell who his artist was. Not like that was the only way he was sensitive about them. The way he moans when you’re having sex and you drag your hands over his wings, you’d think you were his fucking god.
You’ve called him your angel more than once. He always laughed, brushed it off. And you’d ghost your hands over his shoulderblades, marveling at how soft his skin was as he melted under your touch.
But not this time.
It’s been a year since you started dating, and you just proposed, and here your angel is, shaking his head, looking worried.
“You wouldn’t want me to marry you, if you knew.”
“Knew what?” You’re surprised at how distant your voice sounds. At how heavy the air feels.
He turns around and shucks his shirt, exposing his gorgeous shoulders, the beautiful curve of his spine, his lovely tattoos.
“What are you-“
You only get out half a thought when you notice the air around him shimmer. You blink once, then twice, convinced you’re seeing things- it’s almost like the feathers are moving on his skin. And then, you realize, they are.
It starts with the leading feathers, secondaries, you think they’re called. They peel off his flesh, like a sticker from paper. For a moment, they’re ephemeral, a two-dimensional apparition in three-dimensional space. Then the air shimmers some more (glittering would be a more suitable word) and you catch the barest hint of whispers, and they’re suddenly real.
The other feathers, and then the flesh and strong muscle follow, tawny and speckled, matching his freckled skin. They’re bigger than at first, too- the five foot wingspan that stretched across his arms and back rustling into reality at least fifteen feet wide. From where you’re standing, as he flexes the no doubt tense muscle, you’re walled in by impossible wings.
They smell like his hair.
It takes a few minutes when the transfiguration is complete for you to realize that he’s talking to you. You had been staring in awe at your angel’s feathers; he was staring at your face over his shoulder.
You stumble over your words. “P-pardon me?”
There’s a faint trace of his normal smile on his face, twisted by bitterness. “I said, see? I’m kind of a mutant.”
You shake your head and step forward, tracing a finger lightly over his wing joints. Dimly you’re aware of how he trembles just like always, his wings sensitive like nothing else. “Why would I- why did you keep this hidden? They’re gorgeous, my god…”
“Mutants aren’t really welcomed by most, you know.”
“I’m not most.” You turn away from his wings and wrap your arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck and reveling in the feeling of farm feathers around you. “Can you fly?”
He chuckles lightly. “Of course I can.”
You duck under his wings, circling to his front so he can see just how big your smile is.