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angeart · 10 months ago

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hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (make the danger feel good)

(~11 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

there's a bunch of things in this one that might make some people want to skip it. please be aware this tips into suggestive stuff (ok maybe a notch beyond the line, but nothing too explicit). there's certainly intimacy, nudity (that was there all along but now we Pay Attention To It) and more prominent cws would probably be... everything around vex instincts. so mentions of: blood, biting, consensual violence, blood/fear-play, prey-play?? they're deranged. i tried to keep it as tame as possible lol but be aware those are the topics and tones.

in case you skip this one, just know this is when scar and grian start to be truly intimate, and this is when grian gets the mating bite from scar (neither of them are aware that's what it is; there's a whole bunch of bites.) (dEranged.) also, there's more wing touches.

rp based, so wordy. <3 this follows directly after the wing spiral so we're still in the hotspring cave

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The moment slowly tips into something else as they both lay on the spread-out cloak, fire crackling behind Grian’s back, his still somewhat-damp wing slung gingerly across Scar.

It all drags at Scar’s heartstrings, watching as Grian navigates his way through the maze back to something sensible, something more like himself. Freckles barely show in the flickering light, eyes dark and shiny from recent emotions, a bruised spot on his lip from nervous biting. Grian’s hair falls around him in soft, golden strands, fire painting over them with copper.

“You’re…” Scar stops, almost scared to finish the sentence. It feels like they’ve reached a comfortable silence after what felt like literal hours of agony. But he’s already broken it, so— He tucks his head into Grian’s hand, smothering the words into his palm. “… so beautiful.”

He looks at Grian’s eyes when he says it. No part of his wings, even though he means to include every bit of him. But he needs Grian to know he means it whether the feathers are included or not.

A swell of emotions rushes through Grian at that; he isn’t sure how to react, all he knows is he feels heat and tingling, and it’s so, so very different from the tingling of that numbness from earlier. This is nervous, skittish, warm, present. He feels rooted to the moment, to the softness of Scar’s eyes and his breath against Grian’s palm and—

And he feels like Scar is a hot spring and Grian is floating, melting into it.

“You can’t— You can’t say that,” he sputters, not quite able to pull forth any better quips than something stumbling and lost and irredeemably flustered. “What do you even mean.”

As soon as he says that, he realises those words might be a mistake. He doesn’t want Scar to answer.

Grian’s mind spins for something else to jump to, and he blurts out, ridiculously: “It’s because you washed my hair.” (He doesn’t quite remember that either. He regrets falling asleep so fast, although he can’t deny he slept so well, even if only briefly. He… really needed that.)

“Mm,” Scar mumbles into Grian’s palm again, buzzing his lips there. “No, I thought that before I washed your hair, too.” He was meaning not to say something embarrassing again, but failed completely.

Grian’s mind snags on the way Scar’s words feel against his palm, a riveting, delightful experience that he wishes to relive a million times. His thumb gingerly brushes across the heated skin of Scar’s cheek, but he keeps his palm in place, ready to catch any and all words that might spill out of Scar’s lips.

“You’re silly and sappy,” Grian accuses, but it sounds so achingly soft and fond.

Scar changes his mind almost instantly about not saying embarrassing things, seeking out more of that softness Grian’s voice holds— that simplicity and affection. He’ll keep saying embarrassing things if he gets that. It’s worth it.

“This is true,” he admits easily. “But I’m also right.”

Craning his neck, Grian leans in to place a kiss against Scar’s face, tender and loving. (He’s weaving all the gratitude into it, all the affection, all the apologies and forgiveness all at once.) “You’re also ridiculous,” he adds, a little bit cheekily, but it again carries no bite, words made of cotton and warmth.

His wing shifts higher, covering their upper torsos and faces, dunking them into more darkness—something that instantly makes Grian sleepy. The fire crackles behind his back, somewhat still keeping up, although definitely in need of more fuel.

Grian doesn’t want to move.

“Also true.” Scar nods. “Thank you for noticing.”

There’s an unsaid thank you for so many more things in the way Scar delivers the line so seriously: Thank you for speaking to me. Thank you for shielding us with your wings. Thank you for going along with my shenanigans.

Thank you for being here.

Scar wants to fall asleep then and there, unperturbed by the mess of remaining concerns that still plague them, but he tries to be the strong one here. “…I should fuel the fire. Maybe set up a small perimeter so we can both get some sleep?”

He wants to sleep beside Grian. He doesn’t want to take turns keeping watch.

And isn’t that a wonderful thought? For both of them to be able to sleep at the same time, curled up together by a warm fire?

They don’t get that often.

Grian latches onto that hope, pushing his fatigued body up as he gingerly releases Scar from the cocoony hold of his wing. He offers to help even though his mind still feels a little slow, body a little off; if he can assist Scar and make this happen, then he wants to do it.

Scar gets up reluctantly, but he’s pleasantly surprised how little his muscles protest after the nice soothing bath they received. That’s a rarity. He directs Grian to check up on the fire while he’ll make some walls, promising cuddles at the end of it.

The idea of that sort of reward makes pushing through their exhaustion and putting in the effort worth it.

Tending the fire isn't a skill they needed on Hermitcraft, but through trial and error, they learned the best ways to distribute fuel materials for the most efficiency and the least smoke. It comes to Grian easily now, automatic, and notably it takes much less time than wall building.

Once satisfied, Grian looks over at Scar, asking if he should help with the wall. After all, the faster they're done, the faster they can cuddle.

Scar nods, noting he’s sleepy and he might miss spots. A second pair of eyes to check after him would be good, and any help is certainly appreciated, especially since it’s their safety at stake here. He’s using a bit of a hodgepodge arrangement of materials, just doing the minimum to keep mobs out, but it’ll do, as long as they do it properly.

Grian pushes himself to his feet; his wings feel a little strange, and he can't quite tell why, but he swerves away from thinking about it. His muscles feel weak, wanting to go back to blissful resting, looking forward to sleep. A faint lightheadedness hits him at the first step, but a short pause and a deep breath is enough to chase it away.

He slots himself next to Scar, reaching to take some materials from him. As soon as he's in his orbit, Scar can’t help but reach over and lightly touch him on the waist, pulling him in for a brief, only slightly-awkward kiss. He smiles, toothy and real, before handing off some of his materials, whistling to himself like it didn’t happen as he turns back around.

Grian can't help but adore and crave the easy intimacy; the way he's reached for and tugged and kissed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gravitates towards Scar in return, peeking at him and quietly studying his expression as Scar whistles and works.

There isn't terribly much needed to do with the walls, and Grian fixes up his end to the best of his capabilities given his energy level, then makes sure to look over Scar's work as requested, too, making sure they don't miss something due to fatigue. (Mistakes are too costly here. They can’t afford them.)

When they're done, Grian clicks his tongue appraisingly. "It's not a terracotta shack, but it'll do."

Scar snickers, highly amused by the callback. “Yeah, it might actually be uglier. I should put up a sign for any googlies to leave a review.” He slips in behind Grian and kisses the top of his head, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Mmm, warm clothes?”

Grian shifts his wings gently out of the way, but he itches to press himself against Scar, so he clumsily turns around in his loose grip, trying to maintain some space for his feathers as he goes.

Somehow, now that this is all very intentional, without the mental fog and fresh tears and jumbled cravings, this feels more intimate. Their bare chests are near each other, reverberating with heartbeats and moving with their breaths, and there's so much skin and—

Timidly, Grian's fingers find Scar's waist, a featherlight touch exploring upwards, fingertips counting across the lower ribs.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Scar's jaw. "Mm." His head tips and he rests his forehead against the spot he's just kissed. His hand travels higher, across Scar's chest, to his shoulder, mapping out his skin. "Warm clothes," he agrees, even though nothing about his actions suggests that.

Scar shivers at the drawn out touch over his bare skin, ears flicking wildly as his heart stutters in his chest for a moment. Sure, he’s no stranger to walking about without a shirt, but people don’t typically touch—

He rather likes it when Grian does, however.

Not nearly as bold, Scar settles for tracing small shapes over Grian’s sides, gentle and reverent. “And warm cuddles,” he adds, also not making any move to do so.

Grian hums at Scar's touch; on nothing but wishful instinct, he moves closer, trying to get deeper into Scar's hold. (He wants Scar's hands to wrap around him. To envelop him fully and properly.) (He wants to be held.) (He wants to be wanted, in a way so wholly different from what this world demands.)

He tips his head and presses a kiss to the side of Scar's throat as his fingertips dance from Scar's shoulders across his collarbone. He likes this. Being able to trace paths across Scar's skin. To, hopefully, provide him with something that can touch him without causing pain and scarring.

The air is cold on the back of his neck, and he figures Scar is not any better off, without having the extra fluff of feathers shielding his spine. He tucks a small sigh against the hollow of Scar's throat, because he knows he should pull away. He knows they should get dressed. His legs feel weak underneath him, craving a bed. (There's no bed here)

"Yeah... Yeah. Let's go get some rest."

He's still not moving to make any of it happen.

Scar really doesn’t want Grian to let go of him right now (nor does he want to let go), so he’s glad Grian is yet to make a move to leave. He’s tired and cold and wants to go to sleep, but after the absolute rollercoaster back and forth of emotions, Scar is too attached to this moment of serenity.

In a spur of stubborn refusal, Scar strengthens his grip and lifts, hoisting Grian up just enough so that maybe he can walk them both over. He pulls the avian tight, letting him secure his balance onto him.

And it’s silly, because they’re really not even that far from the fire— and they still need to separate to put on their clothes. They’re still only in their underwear, which makes Scar’s ears twitch again when it occurs to him.

But it’s worth it.

Just a little more contact.

He needs it so bad.

Grian lets out a delighted chirp in surprise as Scar's hold on him tightens, and then— then he loses contact with the ground. He tips forward, easily trusting Scar with his weight, and he giggles quietly against the crook of Scar's neck. His wings unfurl, instinctively seeking out balance. (He doesn't remember when was the last time they felt free to do this; to give in to instincts.) (He isn't even paying attention to them, not really aware that it is happening.)

Without complaint, he presses himself against Scar, and oh, this is different. This is skin on skin. This is—

“Mhm, off to sleep with us!” Scar cheers as he presses Grian close to his chest.

Grian wraps his arms around Scar's shoulders and stays close, heart hammering against his chest in a way that Scar's surely bound to feel, right against his own ribcage. He coos in a flustered encouragement at Scar's statement. Off to sleep. (He'd go anywhere Scar takes him right now. He'd stay anywhere Scar puts him. He'd be anywhere Scar wants him.)

Maybe the earlier struggle was all worth it if Scar gets to hear those sweet little chirps pressed into his neck and feel Grian’s heartbeat against his own fluttering chest. Past anxieties forgotten, Scar is entirely smitten. He feels warm even though logically he shouldn’t. He hums a jaunty tune while he walks them both back over to the fire, pleased with himself and the entirely unnecessary decision to carry Grian.

And Grian happily lets himself be carried, even though he could’ve easily taken those four steps himself. He isn’t carried out of necessity (for once). He’s being carried because Scar wants to carry him, wants to hold him, wants to keep him pressed close. It warms Grian, too. It makes him feel cherished and safe.

But he’s always been made of mischief, and he can’t help it. He tips his head, lips brushing over the skin of Scar’s throat, and then he’s baring his teeth, letting them come into the gentlest contact with the skin. (Just to tease.) (Just for the reaction.) (His hold on Scar tightens just in case he’s about to be dropped in response.)

Scar’s legs wobble as he muffles a tiny yelp, but he’s been trained to deal with Grian’s tendency toward menace, so he does manage to stay on his feet and keep his grip.

If he dips just a little and lightly pinches at Grian’s sides though? Deserved.

“Youuuu…” Scar warns, attempting to growl even though it comes out purely silly. “You love to tempt fate, don’t you?”

Grian takes a sharp breath and squirms as Scar dips, holding onto him. (Even if Scar did want to drop him, Grian refuses to go easily.) At Scar's light disgruntlement, Grian huffs out a breathless laugh, all of it right against Scar's pulsepoint. His teeth are back on Scar's skin, still gentle, but he does apply a little bit more pressure this time, cheekily.

"Maybe I do." He sounds entirely too cheerful and unbothered, another quiet laughter broken against Scar's throat.

“Mmmm,” Scar grumbles, holding back a full-body shiver. It’s definitely the chill. Definitely.

In retaliation, Scar takes one large step to finish their path to the fire, then dips Grian even lower, threatening to plop him back down on the cloak. “Then accept your fate, you rascal!” Scar cackles, wriggling his fingers at Grian’s sides to try to get him to forcibly let go and fall the rest of the way down to the floor.

Grian laughs openly now—at Scar's attempts to get him off. At his grumbles. At being called a rascal. He delights in it and stays stubbornly clinging to Scar, wrapping his legs around him for extra security.

"I like to tempt fate, Scar, not accept it," he informs him all too giddily, voice still heavily tinged by laughter. "And you can't get rid of me."

Scar snickers, amused by his new clinging bird accessory. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of it, but—“ He exaggeratively sways from side to side like he’s trying to shake Grian off (he’s really not). “—pesky birds deserve retribution!”

Grian still holds on, unwilling to lose. He cranes his neck, on his way to the next mayhem. "Well then you're going to have to try harder," he lectures. And he lightly squeezes Scar's earlobe in his teeth. (It's not his fault it was so perfectly within reach.) (It's not his fault he has zero impulse control when he gets pesky.)

Scar opens his mouth to say something in return, but all that comes out is a flustered squeak. His face properly flushes as his ear attempts to flick out of reach. ”Griannn!!” he whines, embarrassment obvious in his tone. He’s released his hands at this point, but Grian’s grip is all too secure. So now his hands wave about in the air pathetically, unable to decide on exactly what retribution is in order for Grian.

Grian laughs, a bright, joyful, unbridled cackle pressed against the sensitive patch of skin directly under Scar's ear. His wings flap lightly (the fire flickers momentarily, sparks sent flying, explosive like Grian's soul) at the loss of Scar's hold as he rebalances himself, but remains clingily wrapped against Scar, not budging. "Yes, Scar?" he hums innocently.

Scar finally settles on some form of revenge, bringing out his claws and trailing a very long drag of his nails up Grian’s spine, careful not to actually scratch— just a graze, just a tickle, just a suggestion. He can’t go too far without risking touching the wings, but he does what he can. Grumbles again in response to the innocent hum from a very not innocent bird. “Menace,” he breathes out, still somewhat dazed.

Grian doesn't even try not to shudder under the graze of Scar's claws; he's sure Scar can feel the way he took in breath, then held it in, too. The uptick of his heart rams against Scar's ribs as Grian presses closer, an instinctual back-arch to the sensation.

He still manages to laugh again, a breathless little thing. "Your menace, though."

And it's surprisingly easy, to give himself over to Scar, in a world where everyone wants to own a part of him.

Scar stops that slow drag of claws, settling somewhere in the middle of Grian’s back and instead tapping them there as he hums out what comes across a bit too much like a low growl. It’s not meant to be threatening— it’s not even meant to come out at all, really— it was supposed to be an exaggerated groan, but it instead comes off as a deeply satisfied confirmation.

“Mine,” Scar concedes, voice barely a whisper, before remembering they’re meant to be teasing. “… Lucky me.”

Except he’s still not kidding.

And yet despite the fondness with which Scar means it, there's an instant swell of something ugly in Grian at the words lucky me, a razor-edged impulse to make Scar regret those words, to show him just how wrong he is— but he swallows it all down, in a moment of uncharacteristic quiet after all the giggling. He presses himself closer to Scar, takes a deep breath, tries to claw his way back to that pesky playfulness from just seconds ago.

Instead of more teasing, he tips into tenderness. His hold loosens, and he presses his lips to the side of Scar's neck.

He isn't sure Scar understands just how his Grian is.

A breathless half-chuckle leaves him despite himself. And he can't help but ask, quietly, edging shyness. "Does that mean you're mine...?" He's okay with the answer being no. He'll still be Scar's, heart and soul. But... He just wants to know. To hear Scar say it. "My ridiculous person?" These words come easier, softer, more playful.

Scar’s hands shift back to holding Grian, claws fading away into harmlessness. He tries to lean his head back to see him, to look at him as the words fall into place so easily. But Grian doesn't let him pull away, doesn't let him move to see his face; he burrows, hiding himself in the crook of Scar's neck. His wings fold—still loose, instead of what they're used to—feathers slotting over Scar's skin without a hassle.

Scar doesn’t mind Grian’s insistence on keeping his face pressed close. He likes that as well. In fact, he gives up on dropping Grian down at all and plops himself onto the cloak with Grian still attached.

“Always,” he replies, voice still low and grainy, but filled to the brim with affection. “Always yes.”

"Always," Grian echoes quietly, and the word leaves his tongue like something precious and fragile.

Feeling sappy, as usual, Scar tacks on, “… Have been for a while.”

Words line themselves up in Grian's mind like poison, things to fight back and argue with, to explain that this is not going to be good for Scar. That he really, really isn’t lucky for this.

He swallows them all down. This isn't about that. This isn't and shouldn't be about that.

Scar is saying something incredibly fond, and Grian shouldn't try to destroy it.

His wings press tighter, feathers still slumped right over Scar's arms.

"... Can we keep it that way...?" he asks in the end.

“Mm, I’d like to, yes.” Scar nods, teeth clacking as he grows a big grin. He takes one hand to fumble for Grian’s sweater.

"Okay." Grian pauses, and then adds in a soft murmur: "Me too." He feels Scar move, but doesn't process what he's reaching for. Grian just stays clinging to him, placated by Scar's words and his hold.

Scar brings the warm fabric over to their bare skin. It makes him giggle slightly at the heat, because it means at least one of his ideas tonight was good. “Here,” he says as he pushes the sweater in between them for the warmth. “As much as I’d love to offer to help you dress—“ he clicks his teeth again in amusement. “—might be a little difficult.”

Taking the soft, warm fabric, Grian puffs his cheeks in an overdramatic pout. "Don't need help, I know how to dress myself." That being said, he still doesn't let go of his wrap around Scar, even though this isn't the best position for putting clothes on.

“Oh I know, but I like to touch you,” Scar goads, grinning innocently.

Grian's cheeks heat up, the words spurring him enough to pull away just to be able to look at Scar, wide-eyed and flustered. "You wh—"

“Hm?” Scar continues to grin, innocent as ever. He looks over Grian, seeing the red trickle over his cheeks. “Oh I think you heard me, but I can repeat myself if you want?” Now that he has the chance, he leans his face in close to Grian, even completing the act with a goofy wink.

"No!" Grian immediately says as his hands fling up, covering Scar's mouth just in case he'd do it anyway, and oh, it's good that Scar is sitting down and holding Grian, because if they were still up, Grian'd definitely fall. His wings fling out anyway, just in case, gathering his balance. The sweater pools between them, a warm barrier between their chests. "That— You don't have to repeat it," Grian blabbers, red.

Scar kisses the palms that cover his mouth, several times like an attack to free himself from the hand prison. He muffles into them as well in between kisses: “But I want to!”

"Scaaaar," Grian groans, and he releases Scar from his hold, only to bury his own very red and very warm face in his freshly-free palms.

Scar follows those hands despite just being freed, kissing them again now that they cover Grian’s face. “I mean you’re not making a lot of progress putting on your sweater— are you sure you don’t want help?” His hands find their way to Grian’s chest, pressing lightly right in the middle.

Grian's heart positively skips a beat, a tiny squeak leaving him at the offer. He's dissipating, too flustered to really form words.

He wants to scold Scar again.

He wants to tell him he's fine, he can dress himself.

He wants to tell him that, actually, yes, Scar can help, whatever that help would actually mean.

Instead he just grumbles something incoherent and flustered into his palms.

Still feeling playfully devious, Scar slides his hands up Grian’s chest over to his bare arms, grabbing slightly and pulling them upward. His movements are needlessly slow and incredibly drawn-out. “Well it would help if you raised your arms like this…” he teases, far too pleased with himself for the shade of red that’s spreading across Grian’s skin

Grian's palms are still pressed to his face, the angle Scar tugs at slightly awkward, but it doesn't make the explosion of sensations rushing through him any weaker. Scar's touch is so delicate, so slow, Grian can't help but go insane under it.

He makes more incomprehensible noises into his palms. His arms shiver under Scar's fingertips. The hold of his palms over his face relents a little bit, not because he doesn't want to be hidden anymore, but because everything in him yearns to give in to Scar's guidance, no matter Scar's goals.

Gingerly, the palms leave Grian’s face, his arms lifting the littlest bit. His eyes shine, flooded by some deep, rich and raw—and entirely flustered—emotion. His lips are slightly parted, cheeks flushed— and then his earwings fling to take the spot his hands occupied just a moment ago, hiding him away from Scar's gaze in a flash.

Scar’s entire plan comes to a stumbling halt when he sees Grian’s face. His eyes are shamelessly drawn to Grian’s lips, the way they hang open ever so slightly, framed by reddened cheeks and accented freckles.

He’s momentarily stunned, enamored by the gorgeous sight before him, but it’s stolen away all too soon. And with the earwings no less, so he can’t exactly pry them off.

He decides to drag his hands back down to settle in the dip of Grian’s shoulders, no longer fooling either of them into believing this has anything to do with helping. “Hey—“ he starts, unsure of what to say exactly, but gosh does he want to see Grian’s face again. “Don’t hide from me,” he croons, voice low and sultry.

Scar's touch is electrifying, sending sparking signals across Grian's body, something culminating in the pit of his stomach. He's asked not to hide, but his embarrassment only rises, at the implication that revealing himself would mean being plunged straight to being seen, Scar's eyes surely intense and scrutinising.

He whines a little, breathing deeply but shakily against Scar's hands.

And then he shifts the earwings, just a little bit, half-obliding, peeking through the feathers.

Scar is about to complain, insist Grian show his entire face, but this is even cuter and he can hardly handle it. His expression shifts into something softer, adoring. Instead of his drawling voice from before, confident and insistent, Scar speaks timidly, an easy smile spread across his face. “… Hi, pretty.”

Grian huffs against his feathers; his earwings twitch, wanting to go back to shielding him as embarrassment swirls in between his ribs, spreading incessant warmth through his face.

But he is drawn to Scar, like a damned moth to a flame, and he can't pry his eyes away from the soft fondness in Scar's green ones. "Hi," he returns, voice cracking.

Scar leans down to place a kiss on Grian’s chin where his feathers don’t quite reach. He wants to say so many things, keep showering Grian with compliments, but he spares him. He lingers close to Grian’s lips with a sly smile, eyes flickering up to meet his. “… Your sweater’s gonna get cold.”

With Scar this close, Grian's earwings twitch a little bit more out of the way—not out of unwillingness to brush against Scar, but because— Well. Grian's tightening stomach has something to say about Scar hovering so close to his lips.

"Don't care." it's hushed, but entirely dismissive. Grian’s eyes roam across Scar's face, returning the favour of lingering at the sight of his lips, taking in the curvature of them, remembering how soft and warm they feel pressed against his skin.

Scar grins when Grian doesn’t take the out, so he doesn’t waste any time capturing those lips from him, desperate and yearning. His fingertips dig into the soft skin directly next to his neck, pulling Grian in as close as he can.

Grian leans in easily, without resistance, meeting Scar back. His earwings fall completely away from his face, his eyes closing. His own hands find their spots on the sides of Scar's face.

Without breaking the kiss, Scar grabs at the sweater and places it next to them and the fire, not necessarily with the idea to keep it warm, but simply so there’s nothing in their way— Scar likes it when their skin brushes together. It’s vulnerable and exciting all at once, something satisfying about baring yourself for someone in a world that would normally punish such foolishness.

His hands are back on Grian in an instant, and he closes his eyes as he traces over more of that skin, exploring and teasing all the same.

Entranced, Grian hums against Scar's lips. He shifts, tracing kisses from the corner of his mouth down across his cheek and jaw, until he finds his spot right under Scar's ear. One of his hands slides back, fingers dragging over the back of Scar's neck until they reach his hairline and dip in.

It's tantalising, to be this vulnerable and open. To have his skin, soft and defenceless, right under Scar's fingertips to map and do whatever he pleases with. To trust Scar fully, boundlessly.

He doesn't want to stop.

"Scar." He breathes his name right there, on that sensitive patch of skin that he so adores. Right under Scar’s ear.

Intimacy wraps around them, tiny step by a tiny step and then suddenly all at once.

They give in, drunkenly following its lead, forgetting all about the world that wants to relentlessly hunt them down, take apart their bodies for nothing more than bloodied trophies that will gather dust.

Instead, they take each other apart in a completely different way. Entranced by their closeness, their skin heated, they familiarise themselves with a whole new vocal range of sounds that draw out of their throats, exploring what they have to offer. Giving and taking and unravelling.

Somewhere amidst it all, early on in this game they’ve invented for each other, Scar runs into the wall of impulsiveness that buzzes underneath his skin, begging for more. Because Grian is a daring menace, insinuating Scar should put him in his place if he doesn’t like his pesky retaliations. Telling him to do something about it if he finds it unfair, while his wings lift, half-unfolding.

It’s a gesture made on instinct of Grian’s dazed mind, coaxing him to put his feathers on display in a situation where he feels completely safe and equally completely besides himself. The violet hue, freshly cleaned, dances with various shades in the firelight.

Scar’s eyes are instantly drawn in by the lifting feathers framing Grian, firelight dancing across Grian's skin and wings alike— Scar is so doomed. He feels entranced, so entangled by the myriad of sensations and desires that he almost doesn’t register how his fingers gravitate to the feathers.

He stops himself quickly, breathing out a wisp of blue, and refocuses on a patch of freckles that spread across Grian’s chest as he processes what he almost did on instinct alone.

He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch so badly. He hasn’t seen Grian’s wings shine so brightly in months, or seen him bare the undersides like that to him ever before. He’s not sure what that means in bird body language, but he was almost certain it was an invitation.

But he would never forgive himself if he messed this moment up.

If he messed that up again.

(It’s not fair that he can’t unravel Grian the same way Grian can with a nip to his sensitive vex ears. Scar wants to hear what kind of sounds Grian would make if he raked his fingers through his wings. Would it feel as good as Grian’s hands do in his hair? Better?)

Scar shudders, expelling those thoughts before he entirely spirals. The treacherous hand finds its way to Grian’s chest, tracing a pattern into those newly discovered freckles. His eyes flick back up, meeting Grian’s with a complicated expression— it’s one of slight conflict, immense adoration, but more than anything, intense desire.

“…careful what you wish for there, G,” he says, restrained.

Grian hums, shuddering slightly under the touch of Scar's fingertips mapping out patterns on his skin. A purr-like coo makes it out of his throat, and his wings lift the littlest bit again, positioning themselves so perfectly within reach.

His head is muddled, thoughts dragged through velvet that so softly covers up rationality and leaves behind something gently ravaging, able to pull the string and let him unknot into a puddle. But even through that, he is able to catch that torn expression Scar has, something not quite right in his eyes, the words almost a warning.

He can't decipher it.

He leans away; his wings stay where they are, half curled around them, a brillaintly violet feathery offering. His hips don't move either; it's just his upper back, making his spine arch. (He wants Scar's claws to rake over that curve—) He's watching Scar carefully, even though the firelight continues dancing across his dark irises in endless, unspooling want.

"If it's unfair," he says, voice low, quiet, a purring string for Scar to follow. (He's always been good at pressing buttons. At not knowing limits. At trying and testing and teasing.) "Then do something about it," he suggests, because he doesn't know why Scar is looking so horribly conflicted, and he doesn't want this to be unfair; it should be mutual, and he's welcoming Scar to take, to even out the playing field. (He'd even let him tip the scales completely, if that's what Scar wants.)

Scar does drag his other hand up that curve Grian’s making for him, although with no claws involved. He feels the dip in Grian’s back, that divot where he can rake his fingers over his spine.

Another breath, another wisp of blue smoke.

Scar’s claws emerge and he has to actively pull his fingers up to avoid scratching.

It’s not fair because while Grian can lean into his instincts, use them as a familiar crutch, a display of trust and warmth— Scar’s not nearly so fortunate. Letting his vex urges surface would mean violence and danger and taking and— god Scar wants to take.

And Grian is egging him on. His fingers twitch with want, tapping their pointed nails against soft, bare skin. If only Grian knew what he was asking for right now…

Scar’s hopelessly pulled along by that alluring string, that low purr that escapes from Grian’s throat. He thinks, dazedly, that maybe Grian does know.

Especially since the drag of Scar's fingers—that moment of them shifting into claws—makes Grian arch more. Not away from it, but into it, encouraging, needy.

He knows what Scar is. He knows he's made of sharp things, claws that can tear and teeth that can bite.

He doesn't care.

He wants Scar, and he wants all of him, and—

His thoughts are slipping from him, dazed and lost in some deep, raw want that pulls him under.

“Always a fan of the resistance, huh?” Scar’s tone is rough, not unlike a low, warning growl.

Grian can’t help but grin, ever so cheeky, mayhem running wild in his veins. Scar was always the first one to witness this part of Grian. Whenever there's a spark of mischief, Grian feels drawn to him, wants him to see it, to catch on fire together with him.

And maybe Scar is. Catching on fire together with Grian. Because the next thing Grian knows, he's pushed back, he's pushed down, and—

He's a fan of resistance, but he gives to this so willingly. His eyes never leave Scar's as he lets Scar's hands dictate the way gravity shifts around him. His thighs remain wrapped around Scar even as his back lowers, wings spreading across the ground. (He spares one mindful thought to shift his wing to avoid the campfire. The feathers flutter, instead, near Scar's skin, wing curved upwards, almost brushing his shoulder.)

He lays down, and he wonders, does this make it fair?

Or is there more?

He looks up at Scar, his heart wild in his chest but expression calm and endlessly fond. Waiting for the next step. Licking his parted lips, waiting to see what happens, wordlessly inviting Scar to do more.

Scar’s eyes dart from the wing that curves around them back to Grian’s face when he sees Grian’s tongue slide over his lips. Shamelessly, he finds himself mirroring the motion, green gaze hungry.

"It felt good, you know," Grian murmurs, and it's the quietest thing. (He means the claws. The growls. The way Scar pushes and skirts taking more.) "It all does."

Grian’s words scream at Scar to let go, to let loose and see what it is exactly that he wants so desperately from Grian right now.

Although he’s pretty sure he knows.

He plants one hand firmly beside Grian’s head, using it to hold his weight, then uses the other to cup Grian's chin, two claws tilting his head while the others graze across his throat.

Scar leans in closer, ghosting their lips together. “Still good?” he asks, though his voice seems so far away, like he’s floating astray as his resolve grows ever thinner. Instead of kissing him, Scar ducks down lower, pressing his lips just above Grian’s collarbone, kissing roughly enough to threaten a bruise.

The way Grian succumbs to Scar's touch is so simple. Through all the resistance in his soul, none is reserved for Scar right now; he's surrendered, a willing participant in the fate Scar strings up around them like a sticky, inescapable spiderweb. Grian's baring his neck, not shying from the claws; the most he does is let out a shaky breath, a tingle of promising excitement shooting through him like fireworks.

He feels lightheaded in the best of ways.

"Good," he confirms, more a coo than a word, but the fraying string of vowels still makes sense.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and they’re both aware of it. And they’re both still choosing to continue hurtling down this path.

The rein Scar has on his vex side demanding he takes more slackens, falls out of his grip at Grian’s goading tug. He lets out a low hum against Grian’s throat before slacking his jaw and biting. His fangs hook into the skin above his collarbone, threatening to break skin, but not quite yet. No blue magic escapes Scar’s mouth this time, only hot and heavy breath in between roughly teething at Grian’s soft skin, reeling at the feeling of blood coursing so close to his fangs. Instead the haze trickles across his irises, eyes flickering blue as he indulges instead of resists.

Grian's head is quickly becoming a mess, but it's a mess in the best of ways. There's not a smidge of fear under his skin, and oh, isn't that something. It's entirely replaced by craving, by this submissive need to push Scar over the edge and take everything Scar gives him— and, equally, let Scar take everything he wants.

Intoxicatingly vulnerable, Grian offers no defences, leaving himself wide open, tempting Scar to continue. The pain sparks, but it translates to pleasure; it says good good good, it makes Grian want to press closer to Scar, it makes him want to keep his neck bared, it makes him want to sink his own, dull fingernails into Scar's skin just to let him know that this feels wonderful.

A dizzying thought hits Grian, a hazy wondering if Scar knows Grian is giving him everything, right now. All of himself. Every little bit. He's putting himself completely at Scar's mercy.

But maybe Scar knows.

Maybe he knows, because when Scar lifts up, looming over Grian, what he chooses to say is mine.

The word reverberates through Grian, shakes something at his core, but it feels warm. It feels tingly and like a precipice, but one he wants to fall over.

Breathless and defenceless, he chirps in affirmation, before he vocalises it in a hoarse half-whisper, and despite the pleased haze that coats every letter, something in his tone is almost daring: "Yours."

Scar loves that little chirp — he loves the confirmation, however daring it may be posed. In fact, he likes that particular detail a lot, because he's happy to oblige.

His fingers trail across the curves and freckles, exploring again now that he can shamelessly stare and watch for Grian's reaction. He meets Grian's gaze, vision still somewhat foggy, and he realizes he needs to say something now before he's too far gone to resist. Because he's slowly losing himself to the boundless desire to consume, whatever that may entail, and his skin is practically sizzling and singing every spot where feathers overlap…

Grian meets Scar's gaze back, equally dazed and indescribably present; a scalding, endless pool of emotions reflected in his eyes, open yet unreadable. He makes soft noises at Scar's touch over the tender skin, fingernails lightly dragging against Scar's back in response, but none of him is running away from this.

He's staying put, an obedient little prey, ready to be consumed.

"Grian," Scar forces out, leaning back in so his breath is felt over Grian’s cheek.

Grian's breath hitches instantly in response, eyes falling shut. His name sounds so sweet yet strained on Scar's lips, and he wants to take it from him, to unshackle those restraints around it.

But Scar's leaning over his cheek, not his lips, and Grian is nothing but obliging, baring his skin, whichever part of it Scar happens to desire.

"Scar," he returns in a hoarse whine, the need to call him back scalding hot in his veins.

"You're—" Scar’s voice cracks, but it's different than before. It's like he's interrupted by a needy growl, teeth bared. But Scar recollects himself, eyes still blazing, alight with wild magic and yearning. "You're toeing a dangerous line here, y’know..." He's trying to be delicate about it, merely allude to the burst of primal emotion he's fighting to control. "... toying with a vex." He says it like it could just be a joke, a simple tease, but he's so entirely serious about it.

Ah.

There it is.

Grian suddenly understands all the complexity swirling through Scar's expression.

And he takes it without flinching. He hums, bringing one hand up, to brush through Scar's hair, fingertips reaching to the back of Scar's ear, teasing lightly. A featherlight touch.

"I know."

It's so simple to admit.

His lips are slightly curved. A miniscule grin, something knowing, tender, welcoming.

He cranes his neck, leans in, steals a quick kiss.

"I know, Scar."

And he's still right here. Still so willing. Still absolutely surrendered. One wing draped over Scar, the rest of him pliantly underneath him, neck tilting to regain its bared position, not a shred of survival instinct left on display.

Scar still swallows hard, nerves alight. He's certain his desire is practically a tangible thing now, magic thrumming across his skin and driving him crazy.

"If you—" he starts, hoarse, still so very strained, speaking through his teeth as they involuntarily press tightly together. With a shaky breath, he admits it, timid, but determined to be entirely transparent by just how much his instincts are running wild: "I'm gonna want to touch them— you, your wings—" He wants it to be clear it's only because it's a part of Grian that he wants this, and he prays that's coming across, but words are so difficult to form in his dizzying haze. "... so if you don't want that, you need to tell me now."

Before I can't control myself, goes unsaid.

The conflict is so clear now, the way Scar is trying to hold back, for Grian, always for Grian.

Grian thinks maybe he wants Scar to let go.

Thrill runs across his spine, delving into downy feathers that coat his back, as Scar says the word wings. It's not often Grian hears it on his tongue, with Scar always carefully skirting around it. And what would at other times make him uneasy, now makes Grian perk up—some bird instinct that's taking deep root in him, tangling into myriad of desires.

Because, yes. Wings. Wings.

The feathers draped over Scar's bare skin move lightly, brushing against him. repositioning. Not leaving that point of contact. Not shying away.

The possibility looms in Grian's mind, something set ablaze at a deep dark precipice, and as he swallows thickly, all he can think of is: want.

Scar needs an answer, and Grian thinks maybe he can give him some. Maybe he can— Maybe they can—

He licks his lips and his fingers tenderly brush through the hair behind Scar's ear, trying to soothe him into this. "I can't promise it'll be okay..." he starts. And it's true. He can't. He's aware he's riddled with countless barely-buried triggers right under his skin (under his feathers—), all of it linked to a horrible terror, always just half a step from dreadfully raw, spiralling panic. But this, this feels different. This feels like maybe he could be something else, too. Like it doesn't have to be that.

He feels it, that glowing, intense desire to give himself over to Scar fully. A prey to a predator, shameless, fearless, unabashed. Untamed, both of them. Wild.

He tilts his head. Strands of hair shining with shades of gold in the firelight shift, fall across his forehead and out of the way, soft and clean, thanks to Scar's careful, loving hands.

The pause is there, hovering.

Grian is going to break it.

"But... Scar."

He lifts himself up, reaching for Scar; his hand tugs lightly at Scar's hair to aid him in his movement; his wing presses against Scar's back, too, helping Grian reach Scar's lips. He presses a tender kiss there, affectionate and pleading, and it tips into unbridled craving as he finishes with a flick of tongue and a gentle bite of his teeth.

"Make the danger feel good," he whispers, a half-purr half-growl tucked against the corner of Scar's mouth, breath hovering over the bitten spot on Scar's lip.

And then Grian's hand falls away from Scar's hair. All of him falls away, as he lets himself lie back down, his gaze flickering with warmth and desire in the hot, glowing light of the firelight. He's putting himself here willingly, underneath Scar, defenceless, skin bared, chest lifting up with breaths as his heart hammers against his ribs.

"And then you can touch," he finishes hoarsely, so very quietly. Soft and inviting, equally as hopeful as it's needy, his eyes never leaving Scar's.

And it's still so very different, a craving driving him insane—he wanted Scar's claws on his feathers not too long ago, but that was for destruction, and this— this isn't that. This is something completely different, miles away from whatever that spiral from before was; something that leaves Grian's throat dry, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He's playing with fire, and he fully intends to let it burn him. To consume him. He yearns desperately for this kind of intimacy, for Scar, Scar, Scar, for things to be something else for a moment. (Hands in his feathers and teeth on his skin and him amidst it all, willing, pliant, giving.)

Make the danger feel good, echoes throughout Scar's increasingly emptying mind— he's slipping further, those words are driving him wild. He blinks several times, trying to process the roundabout permission he's been granted, the chance to try if only he can fulfill the promise of pleasure amidst danger. He hopes to clear his vision, lift the haze for a moment to provide a coherent response, but each blink only serves to hide the swirl of vibrant blue that dances across his eyes, glowing brighter each time he opens them.

Grian watches, patient and silent, lips parted in invitation, as Scar processes what he's just said. He sees the brightness of his eyes, the blue wisps that dance around. He knows how fraying and thin Scar's self control is.

He wants it to snap.

Scar opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a needy, shaken huff before he's leaning down and devouring, barely even a kiss, more of an open drag of teeth that's pressed into Grian's mouth, nonsensical and demanding.

There are claws and fangs and a bright blue fog swirling around the both of them, fighting against the vibrance of the firelight and winning.

Despite the initial apprehension, it’s a wonder to Scar how he ever doubted himself, because of course he wouldn’t irreparably hurt Grian— protecting him is as ingrained in his instincts as anything else. It’s a spiral of both sides of his vex urges— to please and to devour— a dizzying mesh, a thrilling fusion of desires.

They let themselves slip into this. Into controlled violence and hovering threats, into claws and fangs and blood, into nails dug into skin and bodies pressed close. Into danger that feels mindbogglingly good, stripping them of sanity as they keep, all too willingly, sinking deeper and deeper.

(Listen they’re little freaks they definitely should’ve negotiated a safe word before this all went down.)

"Mmm." Grian groans, a drawn out sound. There’s a fresh bite wound at the side of his neck that throbs, overcome with sensations as the tender, broken skin meets air and Scar's mouth, the fresh, warm blood smeared around in the process.

Deliriously, he tips his head to the side, eyes closed and hands trembling, giving that whole side of his throat to Scar. (He'd give him anything now. Anything.)

Scar grins, teeth bared and lips slightly smeared with blood, when Grian cranes his neck even more, allowing for even further abuse. He presses in close again, kissing the spot using his wicked little smile. "You'd really give in so easily?" he murmurs against the bruised skin, tone as crackly as it is velvety, a contradictory blend. His words are playful, but his voice drops as he adds, pensive: "... only for me I'd hope."

There's a small spur at the words, a reminder that Grian's soul should be made of resisting, stitched through with endless, mischievous fights. And yet it leads nowhere, a dead end against Scar's breath at his throat, the velvety rumble of his voice.

Grian whines, nonsensically, fingers weakly pawing at Scar's back without any real intention to sink in for now. His wing brushes over Scar again, a restless little motion of soft feathers, vulnerable prize caressing a vicious predator.

"For you," he echoes on a whine, barely remembering how to speak. And then he adds, laying himself bare and pliant, stripping all the defences and pressing control solely into Scar's palms (into his claws, into his teeth��): "Anything for you."

Scar practically keens at the admission, the surrender and for a second his voice is incredibly lucid as he lets out a quiet and almost incredulous, "gosh," words interlaced with a small chuckle.

The chuckle anchors all of Grian's attention for a searing moment, a different kind of delight rushing wildly through him, curving his lips heedlessly into a triumphant smile. Knowing he's making Scar feel things tastes like victory, like a reward in itself, and he wants to gloat, taking it in, before he throws himself off the precipice and gives Scar more of himself, to exacerbate that, to make Scar tip into this fall with him.

There's a more gentle, fond and intrigued touch down one of Grian's sides, a little less claw as Scar drags down his bare chest, but the tether snaps again as Scar licks over his lips, still hungry for more. The touch grows more purposeful and intense as he maps out his prey, testing the skin, seeking something.

He spots whatever it is in the center of Grian's chest, the dip of his ribcage, something vulnerable and alive as he feels the rush of blood and a battered heartbeat under his fingertips. His claws tap there eagerly as his grin once again grows toothy and wild, presenting his expression to Grian and drinking in the sight of his own.

Grian shudders under the touch Scar traces across his chest, something soft and exploratory. Grian can feel his breath stutter against those fingertips, wonders how Scar feels about that; but his answer is right here, as his gaze meets Scar's at the attention-calling tap of his fingers.

Breathlessly, Grian takes in Scar's grin, and oh, he's in trouble. His heart beats wildly against his ribs, somewhere under Scar's claws, as his eyes hang on Scar. Grian's irises are glowing with reflected blue, gaze as intense as it is hazed, vulnerability fighting with desire. His neck still throbs. The rush of urgent craving is ceaseless, drumming through his veins.

With a pang of ache that travels all the way down to pool below his stomach, Grian leans up, not minding that there are claws in the way on his chest, reaching to press the smallest brush of his lips against Scar in an almost-kiss, reverent puff of breath tingling in its wake.

"Yours," he murmurs, pushing Scar on.

Scar has to reel in his claws so as not to break skin when Grian moves— that's his job to do— and he purrs lowly against Grian's lips, smile turning devilish when Grian's speaks, the word music to his happily-flicking ears.

As pleased as he is by the gesture, he pushes Grian right back down where he belongs.

With a tantalising, toothy smile Grian obeys without struggle, cooing in encouragement, a praise, an affirmation that Scar's doing what he should here.

There's a searing awareness of their roles tearing a path through him—something about Scar's ability to tear him apart at the slightest whim; something about his own helplessness; something about how he's essentially pinned down. The flush of dizzying, quivery pleasure he feels at the thought is disintegrating all of his rationality, rendering him into an all too willing prisoner of any and all of Scar's cravings.

Scar’s claws drag down Grian’s chest, enough to mark but not to break skin. He's toying with the idea, letting the thought of drawing blood dance across his mind, set something ablaze in his eyes. (But he shouldn't— not here— not too much…)

Grian shudders; his rapid breaths tremble right underneath all that sharpness, his fluttering heartbeat rabbity beyond a cage of ribs that suddenly feel all too brittle, paper-thin, a protection that means nothing if Scar decides he doesn't want it there.

And still, Grian pulls up no protections.

He’s a willing participant in this bloody abuse, letting Scar claw and bite, lost to the deliriousness of the sensations it brings. Like sea dragging him under, beckoning him to let it happen.

And at some point down the line, soft feathers of Grian’s earwing brush across the back of Scar's hand that’s cupping his face. Grian wants him to know how much he's at his mercy, and how much he wants to be at his mercy.

Scar extends his fingers, no longer curling around Grian's cheeks, now experimentally carding through the feathers of the earwing that's been offered. He almost doesn't consciously register his decision to do so, he just feels something soft and knows he wants to touch, to claim, to pull, but no— No, he won’t.

He is not going to harm Grian. Not like that.

He has other ways of claiming him after all.

And while Scar might only be dazedly, barely aware of the shift and touch of his hand, it shoots across Grian's senses—the fingers burrowing into the soft feathers of his earwings.

It's got nothing with a conscious decision; Grian’s body is controlled by a nonsense of instincts, and they dictate him to go limp, drawing a low, soft sound of out him. His earwing twitches, at first away, then towards the touch, giving itself over just like the rest of him.

Scar feels the moment the earwing gives into him, and he's instantly thrilled, sliding the longer feathers in between his fingers and releasing a low purr. His other hand does the same, mirroring the touch on the other side.

The earwing touches are enough to drive Grian insane, triggering something in him that's been dormant for too long, drawing out a spillage of pleading bird noises out of him. His wing that was lying sprawled across the ground lifts somewhat, curves, just to show off the feathers; they glisten with brilliant shades, reached both by blue wisps of magic and the warm glow of the campfire.

Scar shifts to more gentleness over the bruises, then reverently kisses the tips of Grian’s feathers, a soft little gesture he’s never been allowed to offer. His claws trace circles over the indents of his latest bite, and he leans to kiss and lightly suck on it, dazed from the taste of blood on his tongue.

And then he notices the wings.

The beautiful, multicolored span outlined by his own spectral glow— a breathtaking sight. Scar’s eyes dilate as they lock onto the delicate hues that are normally so hidden away. They shine, freshly-cleaned, and although perhaps the method wasn’t preferable, Scar still feels his soul catch fire with the knowledge that he was the one to wash them. He’s the reason they sparkle right now and simultaneously the reason they’re on full display.

His eyes are wide and eager, scanning the feathers and grinning wide at the sight— his expression a mixture of ravenous and adoring.

Almost brainlessly, Scar mutters a string of nonsensical phrases under his breath: ”mine, pretty, my pretty bird, so good, so good—“ before leaning down and properly kissing Grian, the words still slurred against their lips.

At the string of praises and possessive words, Grian coos, equally as incoherent. His wing stretches a bit higher, delighted, feathers shining against the multicoloured glow. The muscles ache, unused to the motion, but it feels good, something in him tingling and telling him that this is right. The vulnerable underside of the wing is there, perfectly within reach, not trying to hide or tuck away, a state they haven't been able to achieve once in this world before this moment.

Grian's gaze snags at Scar's grin, at that expression that tells him Scar's treading the thought of devouring him whole. It tugs at his guts, tightens his stomach, sends his breath out of rhythm, but none of it feels bad. He revels in it, shivers and sinks into it, the feeling ultimately warm, slinking around him like a spiderweb, making him hold still, dazed and unaware of the imminent danger.

"Yours, yours, good, yes, all yours," he echoes back at Scar, words half-coos, melting into the kiss. He hums against Scar's lips, a pleased, needy little noise. His hands travel higher up Scar's back and press, tugging at him, telling him he wants him right here, over himself.

When the kiss breaks, he follows, nipping at Scar's lips, trying to elicit something more yet again, playing into Scar's instincts in a way that seems deliberate, but is just a hazed jumble of incomprehensible cravings, something deep and richly yearning that doesn't take no for an answer.

Grian refuses to let Scar retreat in the slightest, and it’s that utter willingness and provocation that’s keeping Scar just barely tethered to reality— because surely his prey shouldn’t be this pliant. Shouldn’t be urging him on.

Because Grian isn’t his prey, nor or his meal—

But isn’t he?

Once again, Scar’s head spins, dizzied as the line between mate and prey becomes muddled in his vex brain. And somehow through it all comes laughter of all things because— because this started with a bath and now Grian is underneath him trilling and begging to be manhandled. It’s borderline absurd and the sheer irrationality of both their behavior right now results in a sudden, throaty chuckle emerging from Scar as he teases Grian’s lips with his teeth.

It’s almost silly, but more than anything, it’s electrifying, thrilling, exciting. There’s blood smeared over Scar’s fingers, and yet he’s having fun.

Scar's laughter sends a wave of warmth through Grian, so very different from the scorching heat of everything else. It's a sound he basks in, slotting it somewhere next to his wildly beating heart, treasured amidst the inferno that ravages the rest of his body. He hums quietly against it, reveling in the way the sounds merge, even as it tips into a whine at the tease of Scar's teeth on Grian's lips.

With struggling clarity, Scar continues to giggle, although it morphs into an alluring purr. “Always said no one can have ‘em—” Scar’s hands frame Grian’s face, tucking his earwings over his cheeks. “—well what if I want them?” A careful drag of claws through those tiny feathers and heavy breath over Grian’s lips. “What if I want you?”

Grian’s breath hitches, noises falling silent for a moment as Scar's claws lightly rake across his feathers, tucking the soft fluff of the earwings against Grian's cheeks. Grian's gaze holds onto his, dark and intense, and his throat bobs as he swallows emptily.

He feels dizzy, like he's going insane. His brain bounces the sharp thought of danger against his feathers, but he's holding still for Scar, expression hot and adoring and desiring. It feels explosive, like sparks of a live wire, and he wants it, all of it, a tinge of fear crashing into safety of this being Scar, the trust at the dazed awareness that he's in good hands, and he wants those hands to be clawed and at his skin—at his feathers.

A part of Grian’s brain that's made of pure instinct trills in happy victory, telling him this is what he wanted, that he succeeded—he showed off his feathers and his mate now wants him. It's intoxicating, a jumbled mess of agreements thrashing underneath Grian's tongue while he fights to figure out how to express any of them.

In the end, he coos, a small whine pressed against Scar's hovering lips. His earwings twitch, sending a spike of sensation though him as that creates a gentle drag against Scar's claws, eliciting a tiny mewl from his throat.

And through it all, he's still here, still not running.

When he finds his voice, it's equally soft and pleading; it sounds like gentle affection and like deep craving, all at once. It's showing boundless love to the beast while tempting it to devour him. "You can have," he murmurs, low and hoarse. "You can have me." All of me.

Scar feels as if he could howl with excitement and triumph, but instead what comes out is a hushed purr, a rumbly thing pressed right up against the corner of Grian’s lips.

“Won’t hurt,” he whispers, in spite of all the damage he’s already wrought. But even in a haze of delirious bloodlust, Scar still draws the line there. He doesn’t want to harm Grian’s wings. He has no intention of breaking those gorgeous feathers or of taking them for himself. He doesn’t need to. He has Grian, all of Grian, and all Scar wants to do is to admire his lovely possessions.

To give them the love they deserve.

To give Grian the love he absolutely deserves.

Scar tucks a promise against the corner of Grian's lips, and Grian quietly coos back. A hushed, I know, tender and loving and trusting.

There’s still slight hesitation in Scar’s movements, months of ingrained resistance still fighting his every motion, but Scar’s hand finally leaves Grian’s cheek and those soft, tiny feathers to embrace the real prize. Dozens of greedy hands have tried and yet Scar— fangs and claws bared— is being offered them willingly. His lips curl in satisfaction.

Grian hums quietly at Scar's hesitation, hands tracing light patterns into the skin of Scar's back. Mapping out all the scarred tissue there, the edges of which he's seen many many times, memorised, and now they unfurl under his fingertips. His to touch. His, his, his.

He's going to be gentle with Scar's wounds, like he is with Grian's wings.

— and then his thoughts dissipate, his breath hitching shakily, as Scar's hand makes contact with his wing. A confusing onslaught of feelings rushes through him, and he both wants to look and doesn't want to see it. Some deep-rooted part of him tells him that he should be scared, that this should be dangerous, but the rest of him pushes against it, whispering soft and pliant I know, I know, I know.

He wants Scar's hand right where it is, and more. He wants—

Claws sink in between the feathers harmlessly as Scar trails his fingers down their length, positively entranced by this allowance. There’s a soft hum of appreciation, of reassurance, and Scar’s other hand stays, just as content with raking his claws through Grian’s hair.

Grian shudders, his emotions a tangle that tips into pleasure as Scar's clawed fingers drag across the tender underside of his wings, caressing the feathers that have been untouched for months. He tips his head into Scar's other hand that's tangled in his hair, nuzzling as a spillage of coos makes it out, a nonsensical string that is very, very far from distressed.

He takes one deep breath, that's meant to be steadying but instead quivers all the way through, and he pushes his wing into Scar's touch.

Eager to get access to every bit of what’s just been offered to him, Scar drags Grian up, settling him once again in his lap. His other hand snakes around Grian’s waist, searching for a spot he was never allowed to touch, travelling to the base of Grian’s wings, claws running over the smaller feathers. He sinks his fingers into their length, revelling the softness in contrast to all his sharp edges.

And Grian is doomed. So completely, utterly doomed.

He shudders in the best of ways, the coo that makes it past his lips vibrating with it as his back arches and wings blissfully push into the touch. The hands in his feathers are driving him crazy. He's pressing himself against Scar, a babble of purring, whiny, defenceless bird noises spilling out of him unbidden, any semblance of self control left.

Neither of them wants to stop here.

And so they don’t.

[there’s somehow 10k more rp words to this debauchery. just use your imagination we now fade to black <33]

#hhau #cw suggestive #all the cws are upfront so uh #scarian #they're insane about each other your honour #in our original rp we called this bit “the obscene idiots”#not safe or sane but very eagerly consensual #smitten idiots in love #they know nothing about vex stuff or mating bites at this point mind you #just a friendly reminder of that <3 #but the mating bite absolutely happened here #i skipped over some stuff but i think it still reads ok #(say hi if u read it and didn't skip it pls this took so much effort)#(but it's ok to skip ofc!!!)#GRIAN GETS HIS WINGS TOUCHED!!#they're in love and this was a big moment #for so many reasons

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angeart · 5 months ago

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hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (love and other gifts)

(~11 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

it took me forever but here it is. still stitched together from that one rp chain, so this is lengthy again. hopefully, that’s a treat and not a detriment <3

we start in the aftermath of last part, which means there’s some nudity, but it’s just sort of. there. nothing explicit! if you skipped the last part because of the suggestive cw warning, don't worry, we’re done with the depravity now. just know that grian’s now been given a mating bite.

you can expect mainly a lot of aftercare here. there are hints at possibly subdrop-adjacent feelings, a little bit of debriefing and checking in with each other, and some light mentions of bruises and other wounds/marks from what just happened, coupled with a sprinkle of good old wing trauma. but a lot of it is just.. clinginess and emotional fragility, soft comfort and reassurance. and, maybe most importantly, some expressions of love… :3c

hope you enjoy <3

---

After everything, once the adrenaline has settled and the exhaustion is crawling back into their bones, Scar takes care of Grian’s wounds as best he can. He doesn’t have a lot to offer—a bit of healing salve that they’ve managed to steal along their way (which they should honestly probably save for more… unavoidable cases of injuries). But they also have warm water and a campfire, and Scar isn’t going anywhere, if that counts at all.

(It does. It very much does.)

Grian makes a small noise as Scar presses the healing salve into the tender wound, but for the most part, he's now gone quiet. He's lying semi-curled up on the ground, not willing to force himself to move yet. He's good right where he is. Moving is overrated anyway.

His eyes are closed; the flame dances over his eyelids with dimming warmth that barely reaches his skin. Myriad of aches blanket his body, slowly sneaking up on him, even though they still feel mercifully muffled and numb. His wings are still sprawled, a fact that hasn't quite caught up to him yet through the floaty feeling of not being quite fully present. The only thing anchoring him is Scar's incessant touch, a careful soothing pressed into the few unabused patches of skin; something that makes Grian both comforted and overwhelmed at the same time. He lets it. For now, he lets it.

Scar’s gone timid and nervous in the aftermath, the feral, hungry, possessive vex side retreating and letting old softie Scar to deal with the consequences, having to navigate what he’s done—what they’ve done. Together. (He reminds himself this was a mutual effort. Reminds himself that they both wanted this; he made sure.)

He checks in with Grian softly. With a genuine lilt to his voice, he asks if there’s anything he can do—and he truly means it. Anything. It’s the least he can do after Grian so willingly offered the same.

Grian considers the question, managing a hoarse little complaint in the form of “cold,” sounding a touch dazed. (He is. He very much still is.) He revels in the gentleness of Scar's touch; it wraps his heart in a sort of ache that is not unpleasant. He wishes to lean in and sink into it. His eyes are closed, making him feel like he's drifting. He's so tired. He doesn't want to think about anything. Not now. He just wants to be. That's all he can do, and he thinks he's doing a great job.

Scar nods, almost chuckling. “Well, great news. Turns out I’m smart and handsome because your clothes are all warm, bundled up by the fire.” He grins easily at his joking, finding comfort in the familiar goofiness. He still feels a little off, not necessarily in a bad way, just— different. But speaking is grounding him. Words have returned and he fully intends on overusing them. “I’d offer to help you get dressed but that got a little derailed last time—“ Scar teases with a softer touch to Grian’s chest, taking in the lovely sight before it’s gone again.

His joking elicits the smallest of chuckles from Grian, a weary but amused little sound. It's reassuring, in a way, to hear Scar ramble, saying ridiculous things—it reminds Grian that Scar is still Scar, his Scar. That things are okay. (And oh. Oh. When did he start worrying that they might not be?)

Scrambling to swerve from the swell of this weird, dangerous-seeming feeling, Grian flutters his eyes open again, watching as Scar reaches for the fire-warmed clothes. He sees his skin illuminated by the dim light, can trace the scratches he left on him (nothing like the marks Scar left on Grian—), crossing the scarred map he's so familiar with. (He's starting to feel more weird.) (He doesn't like it.) (He wants to crawl back to that blissful floating. To that good, ecstatic feeling.)

The bundle of clothes gets handed to him and Grian paws at them, half-blindly and half-heartedly. He's still lying curled up on the ground, seemingly having to intention to pull himself up in order to dress.

His dark gaze jumps between Scar's eyes, as if searching for something. "You can help this time," he says very quietly; his voice is hoarse, frayed from all the other sounds that have made it out of his throat this night.

“Oh, sure,” Scar replies, quickly slipping on his own underwear just to be semi-decent when he moves closer. He looks Grian over a moment, trying to decide how exactly he can help, noting how large and spread out his wings still are— and there’s blood that spilled over onto some feathers. He should really do something about that.

But he slots that away for later and offers Grian his hand, using his other to slip behind him to help lift. “Up ya go then.”

Finding himself oddly desperate for more of Scar's touch, Grian reaches for the offered hand, letting himself be pulled up. He's not very helpful himself in the process, instantly lightheaded, finding very quickly just how weak he feels, and—

He takes a sharp breath, eyes squinting. His body does hurt now. In so many places.

He doesn't complain, he just takes a moment to quietly regather himself. A small, deranged laughter escapes him without meeting Scar's eyes.

Scar gathers Grian close to his chest, also starved for more touch, needing it. He tilts his head at the unexpected bout of laughter, raising an eyebrow and humming curiously. “Uh oh, what did I do now?” he jokes, although partially serious.

Grian chuckles, a velvety, muffled sound. All too eagerly, he presses himself against Scar, seeking out both the comfort of his presence and the warmth of his hold. "I just—" Grian trails off momentarily, submerged in the throbbing aches and the messy half-memories of everything that happened. "We really did all that, didn't we?" There's a darkly amused edge to it, something almost teasing in the curve of his lips as he grins up at Scar, eyes bright. And yet— And yet it is all coated with something unsteady that he's trying so very hard to tuck away.

Scar softly snorts, meeting Grian’s eyes with his own, still rather awestruck by the face that looks back at him. But he feels it too, that edge of something a little uneasy. The ground has shifted beneath their feet and they may have to stumble to regain their footing.

“Yeahhhh,” he starts, light, his eyes ducking down for just a moment, almost shy. But they find their way back up almost immediately, drawn into the fire that reflects in Grian’s dark eyes. “Y’know, feel free to forget some of those incredibly embarrassing things I said.”

Grian's laugh somehow turns more unsteady at Scar's lighthearted, embarrassed remark. Still, he presses closer, wordlessly placing a soft kiss below the edge of Scar's jaw. (He doesn't know how he should feel. It feels silly, after all the desperate craving and begging for Scar to hurt him, to suddenly feel like he might fall to pieces if he doesn't receive comfort.)

Scar’s admittedly a little nervous not receiving a verbal response, but he swallows down the doubt when he feels Grian’s kiss, replacing the feeling with unbound fondness, holding Grian close like he’s a treasure. (He is.)

“Have I told you you’re beautiful?” he whispers, unable to help himself.

Scar's saying sappy things and Grian thinks he might reconsider his need for comfort if it involves getting irredeemably flustered. He huffs, pulling a little away, but he can't hide the way his cheeks colour. (Although his earwings halfheartedly try.) "I think you've said that plenty," he grumbles, but there's an audible smile in it, betraying him.

Scar beams in success when he sees Grian’s cheeks darken. Grian claims he’s said it plenty, but he doesn’t think it could ever be enough.

He presses the sweater into Grian’s chest again, warmth permeating the small space between them. “Mhm. Now how can I help with this?”

Slowly and carefully, Scar helps Grian put the sweater on, offering some much needed soft warmth.

Once the sweater is over his head and Scar is dealing with the back, Grian can't help but tip himself forward again, forehead resting against Scar's chest. A tiny grateful coo is pressed over Scar's ribs, a tired little sound. Grian's eyes close as something splintering in him is clumsily scrambling to grasp at every piece of comfort—Scar's closeness and the way he helps so eagerly and so, so very carefully.

Grian shifts his wings, trying to adjust them, but they feel clumsy, not quite willing to listen, exhausted from Grian actually letting them stretch out and move for once. He fumbles, his own limbs groggy and not listening right.

It makes him feel off.

It makes him feel helpless in the wrong way.

As soon as the sweater is down over his back, he instantly presses even closer to Scar, barely noting that Scar's skin is still bare. (He should let him dress up, too.) (He should move away, give him space.) (He should—) Inadvertently, a small sniffle escapes him.

Scar is midway through carefully coaxing the feathers through the gap in Grian’s clothes when he registers the sound, snapping to attention.

“Gri?” he asks, voice soft, gentle, much like his hands coaxing through the feathers, trying to soothe Grian. “Hey, hey, I’m here. What’s wrong?”

Scar almost feels as though he should be panicking at the idea of Grian sniffling after their whole debacle, but he feels a forgiving bout of calmness, only aiming to comfort his partner, insistent and sure.

The immediate reaction both reassures and destabilises something in Grian, pushing a whimper past his lips that he's powerless to stop. He's burying his face in Scar's chest, keeping himself out of sight, tucking himself where he knows it to be safest, right by Scar's beating heart.

"I just— I—" He tries, voice wobbly, but words keep failing him. He doesn't really know what to say, or how to explain. He doesn't know why he's feeling like this all of a sudden.

His trembling hands tentatively touch Scar's waist, itching to wrap around him and hold on, but timid, as if awaiting some necessary permission.

Scar gives the sweater one last tug from the bottom to free Grian’s wings completely before he’s back down to his level, eyes laced with worry, searching Grian's expression. He registers Grian’s pause and lets his own hands reassuringly find Grian’s waist, pulling him in closer, mindful of the mark he left there before.

Obliging, Grian snuggles himself into the hold, relieved and compliant. After all, this is what he knows how to do, after tonight—to comply and surrender and let Scar be in control.

Dizzyingly, he's swept by feeling like he's half stuck still pinned down on the ground. His breath catches in his throat.

He wanted to be there. He wanted it, there's no doubt in his mind about it. It was dazzling and wonderful, absolutely breathtaking in the best of ways, but—

“It’s okay,” Scar says, and although nervous, he’s rather sure of that. The way they’re both clinging to each other for contact has to be a good sign in a way— proof that they undeniably desire closeness. “It’s okay, you can talk to me.” Then, softer, “… is it something I did? because— I mean— that’s fine, I can take it. You can tell me.”

Grian’s thoughts dissipate around him into jumbly mess. He can't untangle them to figure out what he's feeling and what he wants now. Does he want to be free? Does he want to be held and never let go? Does he want Scar to bite down to snap him out of if? Does he want Scar's touch to remain gentle and careful, reconstructing all the safety back around him?

His mind catches on that word. Safety.

Scar asks if it's something he did, and Grian responds by a frantic shake of his head. An aching, drawn-out sorrowful coo quivers when it meets Scar's chest, breaking over the skin. He isn't sure how to express himself. He isn't sure how to tell Scar about this mess in his soul. How to reassure him he did nothing wrong and yet admit that Grian is feeling all kinds of off now.

Clumsily and nervously, they navigate their way through a simplified debrief. Making sure they were both okay with what happened (they were), and that they liked it (they did). It doesn’t make the aftermath feelings any less complicated, but it’s a step in the right direction. Reassuring. Unknotting some anxieties that were slowly creeping up on them.

Still cuddled up, Grian’s gaze is drawn lower, and he brings his hand to Scar's chest. Almost absently, he traces his collarbone. There's a little red spot, a kiss mark Grian left there sometime during the night, muffling drawled noises into it. His fingers encircle it so very gently and carefully, before sliding away.

Scar's skin is still bare, and the fire hasn't been stoked, and Grian's thighs feel cold, so surely Scar must be cold too. With a let out breath, Grian looks back up. "Put your clothes on, Scar."

Scar obliges, barely, putting on his shirt without bothering to button up.

Grian's glad to see Scar immediately react and reach for clothes. There's a complicated tug in the pit of his stomach at the act anyway, telling him that Scar covering up his skin means that this is all officially over. (As if Grian wasn't sitting here already in his sweater—)

And yet somehow Scar still leaves his chest exposed.

Grian stares at the patch of scarred skin that's still so easily reachable, so unworryingly left on display. (Isn't he cold?) (Should Grian not be cold?)

Honestly, Scar still feels warm after everything, even though the campfire is slowly dying next to them, in dire need of refueling. But there’s a different task at hand that feels more dire to Scar right now: cleaning Grian up.

Troubled, Scar eyes the spot where the blood has soaked into Grian’s wings, knowing that needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. Before Grian finds it in a much worse headspace.

With deliberation, he starts sifting through their supplies, looking for scraps of cotton or fabric they were saving for whatever purpose they may have.

In the background of it all, quietly and discreetly, Grian’s thoughts start slipping again, like scattered rabbits. He doesn't really notice Scar looking through their supplies, or glancing at the water. He's lost in that unidentifiable feeling that sets him askew and unbalanced. He's walking across a spiderweb, its ropes sticky underneath his feet, but also ready to snap, and— He could just fall, right? He could fall. He was caught before. Not in a spiderweb, but he was caught, and it was okay.

He was pinned and scared but not afraid, and he wanted to stay there.

He's not there anymore, and he isn't sure how he feels about that.

But Scar’s still checking in with him, even while doing all these other tasks, nervously rambling on and unknowingly tethering Grian. He follows up on his question if things were good (if he was good) (Grian replies a very embarrassed wasn’t it obvious? and then a muffled it was very good spoken into his palms) with a sputtering “I just want to be sure!”

And it’s true. He wanted to hear it again when Grian’s voice wasn’t so coated in delirious desire. (Not that he didn’t love that.)

“Besides— is it— like is it still good? You don’t, like, regret anything about all that?” He gestures at a vague bruise on Grian’s thigh, but shakes his head almost instantly. “Okay regret is a bad word for it uhh— I’m not trying to imply anything bad because that was incredible and, and insane, and it means a lot to me that we trust each other enough to be a little crazy, and—“ It’s Scar’s turn to press his palms into his eyes, groaning exaggeratedly as his face turns beet red. “Oh my god bring the vex back, that Scar was way better with words.”

Grian listens to scar’s voice, a sound that he’s always drawn to, so weak to it in any way, shape or form. It makes him want to expose himself and lie right back down and tell Scar he is his, doesn't he know how much he's his? (The side of his neck and his waist throb the worst, echoing that he'll always be Scar's, a proof written in flesh and blood, sinking deep into his soul.)

But then Scar asks if it's still good, and he brings up the word regret, and all of Grian's thoughts screech to a halt.

Should he regret it?

Does Scar?

His thoughts don't have a chance to spiral, because they're too distracted by Scar spiralling out loud, babbling on. It's enough for Grian to drop his guard, earwings and palms shifting out of the way so he can look at him and see this trainwreck in motion.

He latches onto Scar saying that it was incredible, just a random thrown in sentence that coaxes some of Grian's own anxiety to dip down, unbeknownst to Scar. But it seems where Grian's anxiety loosens slightly, Scar's ticks up.

Scar’s groan makes Grian's earwings flick and flutter, alarmed and attentive, and he tips forward, reaching out before he realises he's even doing it. His fingers brush Scar's wrists, and he doesn't tug them down but the suggestion is there, a wordless plea, skin on skin whispering that he's here and he can be a safety net, it's okay, it's okay.

"Scar." His voice is soft as he breathes out his favourite word. "Scar, listen."

A small chirpy coo, asking for attention as Grian shifts and repositions himself in front of Scar.

Scar does comply, all too easily, when Grian tugs at his wrists and chirps for his attention. (He always has Scar’s attention.) His face is no less red, but it’s not like he has a lot to hide from Grian at this point.

Grian isn't sure what he wants to say. He just wants Scar to stop getting derailed so horribly. "I trusted you with myself. And. And I still trust you." And then, quieter: "And I'd trust you again."

Having the attention of Scar's green eyes always sets something in Grian alight and tingling. He doesn't budge away from it, staying put, hoping the message gets across. Because he needs Scar to know just how limitless Grian's love for him is—for all of him. How willing he is to put himself in Scar's hands, no matter if they're soft or clawed.

His words settle the beast rumbling inside Scar’s chest, soothe his nerves and put him back on course.

Grian still trusts him.

Somehow Grian seriously isn’t at all afraid of the monster laying dormant inside of Scar, nor of any of its capabilities. In fact, he seems to undeniably like it—

And he’d trust Scar again—

Scar swallows, slotting that particular train of thought away for later. Then he smiles, earnest and almost shy. “… you’re so good to me.”

"I'm just—" Grian starts saying but gets easily sidetracked by Scar's smile. Even if shy, it is bedazzling and Grian wants to kiss it.

Instead, it’s Scar who presses his lips to Grian's forehead, eliciting a soft appreciative hum from Grian.

“Give me a second?” Scar asks after a beat, holding up the scrap of fabric to give Grian some idea as to what he needs to do before quickly slipping out of Grian’s grasp and sliding over to the pool’s edge to dampen the cloth.

Maybe it's weird— No, it definitely is weird that Grian instantly feels unease as Scar gets away from him. That shouldn't be the reaction, not when Scar moved barely a meter away. Not when he intends to come back.

He tilts his head, like a confused abandoned puppy. "Scar?"

It only takes a moment to do what Scar needs and he's back in Grian’s orbit, hand reaching out to take hold of his cheek with a smile. “Sorry, I’m here,” he says knowingly. Another kiss, this time on his nose, gentle and a little silly. “Let’s get you a little cleaned up, yeah?”

He eyes Grian’s wings in particular, remembering that spot soaked with blood. But Grian’s wings are no longer splayed out, no longer giving Scar easy access. (Though he notes they also aren’t pressed so tightly at his back, which eases any worry before it can form.) He moves his hand with the cloth, but stops.

“Can I… still touch? Just to clean a small spot on this one here?” He gestures at Grian’s left wing, then sets his hand back down, perfectly willing to accept no for an answer.

The cloth in Scar's hands starts finally making sense to Grian, and it feels so silly how he was missing its purpose this whole time. A little bit slower still, he registers what exactly Scar is asking, because he never said the word wings but that's what he means, right?

Grian's gaze flits to the feathers and away, skittish. He takes a breath. Then another. An odd, unwelcomingly familiar unease crawls underneath his skin. (He wants to scratch and tear until he can pluck it out; he wants it gone gone gone.)

He remembers Scar's hands in his feathers. He remembers feverishly wanting it, chasing it, begging for it.

He also remembers other hands on his wings. Much less safe. Much less controlled.

They twitch behind him now, feathers puffing up slightly as his feelings become a mess of a warzone. He thinks maybe it'd be easier if Scar didn't ask at all and just did it, but now Grian's attention is chained to his feathers, and he's not dazed enough to pretend the trauma isn't there.

He swallows dryly, then looks away. It's okay. It's okay it's okay it's okay.

Didn't he just say he trusts Scar with himself?

He does. He does.

His wing unfurls, but it's a hesitant, timid motion.

"You can," Grian confirms, but he's not looking at Scar. He doesn't know what to expect. He wants to allow this to happen, but he worries his body will betray him.

Scar can sense the unease, like it's a tangible thing swirling in between them, trying to set up a barrier where Scar refuses to allow. It's strange because realistically he cannot comprehend why now would be any more difficult than before, when his claws were out and inhibitions lost, but he still easily accepts the hesitance— he doesn't need to understand to respect it.

With Grian's face turned away, Scar plants another kiss, this time over his brow. "Won't take long," he promises, using both hands so he can gain some leverage, though he keeps his head very close, wanting to continue to offer some sort of contact. He smiles, pressing his lips into Grian's hairline. "You're in good hands."

It's clear that Scar can sense Grian's distress, but instead of shying from the scrutiny, Grian lets Scar's awareness calm him instead. He senses how careful Scar is around him, how gentle, pressing kisses and barely touching, and it makes him once again feel like surrendering himself over to him.

Scar promises he's in good hands and Grian knows it to be true.

Scar doesn't dawdle, but remains incredibly gentle with his touch, in stark contrast to his tugging from before. He can still hardly believe he did that, but there are feathers in disarray to prove it. He itches to brush them back into place, but resists, focusing on the task at hand for now.

The cloth is warm and not too horribly damp, and aside from the soft fingertips keeping the feathers still, he barely touches at all, just wiping at the blood until it stains the fabric instead.

Despite knowing he’s in good hands, Grian’s feathers spike with sensations as Scar touches, no mental fog to dissolve them in now. The cloth is wet, rubbing at his feathers, and his nerves instantly fray. His wing twitches in Scar's hold, not quite yanking away, but not complacently still.

He wants it to stop.

He doesn't say it. He clenches his jaw and closes his eyes and wraps arms around his abdomen, and he just. Breathes.

This is meant to be nice. This is benign. This is Scar, and he can feel right where his own hand presses against his waist that he clearly trusts Scar with his body.

Then why why why why why—

He's growing upset and frustrated with himself. His grip on his own torso tightens, resulting in a spike of pain that helps distract.

Scar remembers earlier, how speaking kept Grian distracted from the overwhelming sensation of heavy, wet feathers as he did his best to dry and preen. And although words are tough, still confusing and almost too loud now for the small sense of quiet they've come to peace with, Scar settles on a small hum. It's not a particularly catchy tune, just a low background melody, casual and calm.

Grian slowly becomes aware of the sound, his attention shifting to cling to it. He doesn't even realise that his arms loosen their hold somewhat. Doesn’t realise the spike of pain melts back into soft throbbing. Doesn't realise the band around his chest relents slightly.

His eyes are squeezed shut, brows pinched, back tense. But he holds still, attention flickering between the sparking sensations in his wing and Scar's soothing hum.

It hurts Scar to do this, because he can tell Grian is not completely okay with this. And Scar doesn't want to be doing anything that upsets him, but he knows, he knows it would be so much worse to leave this stain for Grian to stumble upon again when he's in a worse headspace. It hurts because he knows Grian is hurting and it hurts even worse because part of Scar can't help but wonder what's wrong with himself if Grian only wants him to touch his wings when he's hot and bothered and utterly distracted—

No, he knows it's not personal.

He knows.

It doesn't take too long. It feels like eternity, electrifying and explosive against Grian’s feathers in all the wrong ways, but realistically, it's just a moment.

It's a small, short, tiny, insignificant moment, causing everything to fall apart.

The yearning for safety, for comfort and protection, slips out of Grian's grip. A part of him—the timid part that'd never really admit to it—wants to be taken care of. He wants to be scooped up and reassured, after the intense experience of their shared intimacy. (It was wonderful. It was so, so amazing and Grian doesn't regret it a bit. He just— He just needs— He isn't sure what he needs.) (It makes him feel cornered.)

And this is being taken care of. This should be good.

And yet.

Grian feels wretched and horrible, because he should be handling this all much better after everything that happened. He should be cooing and relaxing into Scar's gentle, loving touch. This should feel good.

It doesn't, though, and he's so confused and upset with himself.

Through all the distressing sensations, he feels, on top of it all, like he's failing Scar. He's sending across an awful message, a nonsensical tangle of mixed signals, and there's so much space for miscommunication. He doesn't want this to hurt Scar. He doesn't want this to hurt Scar. He—

Scar sets the cloth down for a moment to give his attention back to the tightly wound up avian in front of him. He can't have that. Not after he spent so long properly and exhaustively undoing him.

His hands brush over Grian's arms, telling him it's done. Thanking him.

And yet all that Grian can do is press his eyes shut tighter and sob.

Scar’s eyes widen and his heart about breaks when he hears that wretched sound. Those are not the same tears he kissed away not too long ago, the ones laced with delirium and complicated ecstasy. No, these are awful, and Scar’s hands tremble a moment as he panics, worried he did something horribly wrong.

He knew Grian was uncomfortable, he should have stopped—

But he had to get them clean, it was for the best, he had to—

But now Grian’s crying and that shouldn’t be happening, they should be happy, they—

Scar takes a deep breath.

Heavy exhale. Wisps of blue and white dissipate before his very eyes and oh that is so strange to be doing after everything that’s happened tonight.

“Grian,” he starts, voice surprisingly even. Both of his hands find Grian’s cheeks, cupping him close and brushing his tears away. “Hey, heyyy. It’s okay. The worst is over, I promise.” He presses his forehead to Grian’s own, narrowing his vision down to only Scar if he just opens his eyes. “You’re safe, you’re fine. You are so precious to me.”

Grian's breath hitches and hiccups and he sobs again, but Scar's warm, steady hands are on his cheeks, and everything in him tries to redirect to them, to that touch, to that voice.

It feels like trying to redirect a landslide.

Tears roll down his cheeks. His hands unlatch from himself and instead find purchase on Scar's wrists, desperate for more contact and grounding even as he feels wholly undeserving of it. His wings shift behind him, uneasy and unsure, slotting back to somewhat-folded—and yet, through it all, they're still not reclaiming their tightly-pressed position right against his back.

"I'm sorry, Scar, I'm so sorry." The words spill out of him between sobs, small fragmented little things full of guilt and distress and failure. But he's leaning into Scar's touch, and that has to count for something. That has to communicate something across. (He wants Scar to understand. He needs him to know that Grian doesn't mean to hurt him by being like this. That it's not because of Scar.)

Scar tells him he's safe, and it barely registers, but Grian tries so desperately to hold onto it. He tips his whole body forward, seeking more of Scar, more of that promised safety.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry for?” Scar replies, clearly surprised by the babbled apologies. “I think we’ve experienced like every emotion in the span of a couple of hours, so it’s perfectly understandable to be a touch fragile.”

He kisses each of Grian’s hands, just over the knuckles that wrap around his wrists, then nestles one between his eyes. He can tell his own eyes are watering as well, from empathy or his own complicated tug of emotions, but it doesn’t bother him.

The affection is soft and soothing, and Grian wishes for nothing more than to fall into it, to feel the cottony bedspread it lays underneath him, catching his fall. He sobs and sniffles as Scar reasons this out for him, tells him it's okay to be a little bit overwhelmed and a little bit fragile.

Hearing that makes Grian feel a bit better, helps tug at the knot of confusion. Scar says it makes sense to feel things. Maybe it's okay. Maybe it's okay to be a little bit of a mess, after all of that intensity. Maybe— Maybe Scar can love him anyway.

Love him?

Grian lets out a small timid coo, questioning but unspecific.

“Let me take care of you?” Scar suggests, words soft and sugarcoated, phrased very intentionally to make it seem like a favor to Scar of all things, which really isn’t a lie at all. His thumbs run over Grian’s cheeks again, cherishing each individual freckle as the skin squishes slightly beneath them.

It's hard, finding his voice. But Scar is offering to take care of him, and that's everything that Grian wants and needs right now, so he fights to let him know. To tell him that it's okay. That it's wanted.

He tilts his head and presses a small kiss to Scar's wrist, right over his pulse point, then nuzzles against his palm, closing his eyes again. His brow is still pinched and his heart still aches in his chest. But it's okay.

It's okay, because Scar is going to take care of him.

"Okay," he manages. It's a wobbly and small word, but it is out there. And then: "Please."

Everything Grian does is so weak and clearly a struggle, but it tugs at Scar’s heartstrings, the vulnerability and sincerity of that tiny kiss and nuzzle, slowly piecing his aching heart back together again. He smiles, perhaps small but honest all the same, and nods, the motion incredibly stilted by their position but felt nonetheless.

“Anything for you,” Scar reassures, placing another small kiss. He reaches for the damp cloth, turning it around to find a mostly clean side in lieu of abandoning Grian for the pool again, and sets to clean him off so that Grian could get properly dressed. (Although the baggy sweater and nothing else look is quite nice—Scar keeps that in mind. Commits that image to memory.)

Scar’s words echo through Grian. Anything for you. He cups them gently and tucks them into secret corners of his heart, protected. It feels good, right now, to have Scar take care of him. To stay close and give him attention and care.

His wings slump slightly behind him, still reluctant to slot to where they'll surely have to be once they leave their shelter, once they let go of this moment. But for now, they just want to be, and Grian lets them.

Gingerly, he tips to rest his forehead on Scar's shoulder, trying to angle his body in a way that’d be helpful and give Scar the access he needs, but it’s hard. His body is so clumsy, and even the slightest struggle makes him want to cry again.

Scar’s happy to take the weight of Grian’s head on his shoulder, even leans into it with a pleased hum. Now that he’s not fretting over it being his fault, he finds he doesn’t mind the fragility in the slightest. In fact every ounce of relief he can provide to Grian is weight off of his heavy heart and it comforts him just as much.

Grian honestly can't tell how much time has passed, but after a while, Scar's touches seem to turn a little aimless, a little less deliberate. And yet Grian doesn't mind. He continues sinking, slumped against him, once again left completely at his mercy—although this is so very different from before, filled with tenderness and care where wild cravings and passion were before.

“…you look cute like this,” Scar lets slip, unable to help himself. He’s basically done cleaning up now, but he’s lingering just a bit, just a few more casual touches, calming and sweet.

With a grumble, Grian burrows his head into Scar's shoulder, hiding his growing blush at the remark. "Scar." (And yet he can't help but feel pleased.) (He wants to look good for him.) (His legs twitch and shift slightly, and he wonders if Scar is watching—)

Scar gives Grian’s leg just the gentlest pinch, more of an indulgent act than anything else, just to drive home the point.

A tiny yelp escapes Grian at the pinch, but he burrows it into Scar's shirt. (Instantly, he wants to shift to where Scar's shirt still hangs open, to tuck any and all sounds directly against Scar's skin, where they belong.)

Scar smiles innocently with an audible click of his teeth. “Cute, but probably cold.”

Grian shuffles to the side, peeking up from his hiding spot. "Probably cold," he echoes in weak agreement.

Scar pulls away—only a little bit, he's still right here, but Grian still doesn't like it. It still feels like just a smidge too much distance, even if it only lasts a moment, and then the heated pile of clothes lands in Grian's lap.

He hums, looking down at it instead of at Scar; he busies himself by putting the pants aside for now and picking out the underwear, just so he wouldn't have to address how silly and clingy he's being.

“I could stoke the fire while you get dressed?” Scar asks, lips once again pressed into Grian's hair, voice hushed and intimate. “Or I can help with that, too.” One hand has made its way back to Grian’s hip, finding some unmarked skin to idly run his fingers over before he loses the lovely sight.

Grian's head whips up at the suggestion of Scar moving away to tend to the fire, and okay, they will have to address how clingy he is, because his eyes are wide at the mere notion of Scar moving away.

Even if he might like more of the fire warmth, he can't bring himself to allow the possibility of Scar going anywhere out of his reach right now. Running on some wild instinct, Grian coos and his wings unfurl just enough to block Scar's way—the kind of motion they wouldn't dare to do before tonight.

The idea of Scar leaving his proximity seems tragic and unbearable, and somewhere in the back of his mind Grian knows he's being ridiculous, but he can't help it, and the awareness of it leaves him feeling askew and plunging straight back into fragility. But Scar's still here. Still here, lips pressed into Grian's hair, fingers running over Grian's hip.

"Stay," Grian asks, and it comes too close to begging.

Scar nods, perfectly content to. He honestly might be able to get the fire to spark back up with some simple prodding, so maybe he can get away with doing that a bit later as they properly get ready for sleep. For now, he resolves that he’ll just have to be the equivalent of a warm fire for Grian and stays close. It’s where he wants to be anyway.

Slowly and carefully, Grian works to get his underwear on, asking for Scar’s help in the process. Despite all the gentleness, it’s an ache-filled endeavour, but Grian doesn’t mind, as long as Scar’s near.

He considers, idly, that he’ll feel these bruises and wounds for a long time, but he can’t find it in himself to mind. Maybe he should—maybe this should bother him.

But it doesn’t.

Once he's more decent, he leans in, reaching to press a small kiss to Scar's throat.

Scar hums appreciatively, adoring the placement. Despite all the power play, he bares his throat just as easily, leaning forward into the touch. A predator entranced by its prey, all defenses dropped.

"You know I'm yours?" Grian murmurs against the kissed spot. He might’ve already said it before. And the marks on his skin are there as a proof. And yet. Grian wants to make sure Scar knows that it still stands. That it wasn't just something born out of dazed indulgence and unthinking. That it wasn't just in the moment.

Scar's hum shifts to a low purr.

“I do know that,” he croons, tucking Grian closer than he was before. “Very aware, in fact.”

Grian releases a breath of relief, satisfied. A light chuckle presses against the bottom of Scar's jaw, as if it was ridiculous to ever doubt it.

There’s a very intentional drag of Scar’s fingers up Grian’s sweater, ghosting over the particularly nasty bite. His hands are still so warm, like blood has yet to stop coursing through his veins at rapid speeds.

Grian's stomach tightens at the hovering touch of Scar's fingers over the wound—the most loudly aching one. His breath hitches and he waits.

He's not sure what for.

His skin aches and burns, an affirmation that whatever Scar did to him is lasting, and yet it's coated with that prideful feeling. He took it. Scar gave this bite to him, and Grian accepted, and now he's marked and he can't find it in himself to regret it, even as it pangs with pain.

Scar only lingers there a moment before locking together with the other hand behind Grian’s back, holding him tightly, dearly.

Grian gladly gives all of himself to that touch, shifting wherever Scar wants him.

Scar’s throat is still open to Grian, loving the feel of his breath over his pulse point— two proofs of life coming together— when a dastardly idea enters his mind.

“Can you—“ He swallows, which is likely very intimately felt. He knows Grian is tired, and so is he but— “I want… wanna know what it feels like. …wanna be yours, too.”

(He is. He is already. But the idea of having it just as visibly apparent is tantalizing.)

Grian’s mind trips up at the words and halts.

His breath hovers over Scar’s throat, but he isn't sure what exactly Scar wants here. Testingly, he nips at Scar’s skin, lightly, his energy levels depleted.

He doesn't think he can do this properly, sink his teeth into flesh—and he isn't sure if that's what Scar is asking for, but— but if he is—

Is Grian going to fail him? To disappoint?

"You are mine," he murmurs against Scar’s pulse point, a little bit lost, a little bit helpless. He doesn't want to fail him. "You are?" he frowns, as if unsure all of a sudden. He was maybe too hasty there. Scar says he wants to be his, not that he is his. Is Grian wrong? "You are—" he tries again but falters, burying his forehead in the crook of Scar's neck. He's getting so lost in this. "Mine?" he coos quietly against Scar's collarbone.

Scar flushes slightly when he registers what it is he just asked for, and he’s almost grateful Grian hesitates to comply. His ears flick with embarrassment and he laughs timidly, before it occurs to him that he’s made Grian perhaps doubt the sentiment.

“Oh, gosh, yes,” he immediately recovers, nuzzling his face info Grian’s hair, down behind his earwing where he plants a kiss, instantly relieving Grian’s anxieties. “Yes, yours, always.” He tries to make a bit of a coo in return, though his voice is clearly not made for the sound. It doesn’t make it any less adoring— a tad broken but an earnest attempt.

Grian laughs quietly, but it's not mean. He loves it. He adores Scar for trying. It sets warmth skittering through him, and he hums and nuzzles against him. He coos again in response, more confident this time.

“It was silly, but… um. I’d want you to have me, too?” Scar admits quietly. “Like— y'know, physically?” He ducks his head down further, hiding his blush in Grian’s hair. “Just… some time maybe.”

Grian's face flushes horribly and he squeaks, pressing his face against Scar. He thought that maybe Scar was suggesting a mere bite, but now it kind of sounds like he wants more and— Heated memories of tonight flood Grian's mind, the pain and the pleasure and the intimacy, and he wonders if Scar is saying he wants their roles there at the end switched? Or maybe he's not saying that at all and Grian's just being an idiot, misunderstanding completely.

"Scar?" his voice is muffled. "I think I— I think I need you to be more specific."

Scar whimpers pathetically, but it's mostly dramatics. Words are so difficult. And in a completely different way than they were before. He has all the words this time, he's just struggling to organize them into a coherent thought.

Well, bluntness has always worked for him in the past—

"Bite me, too, sometime," he sputters. "Mark me. Sh-show the world I'm yours as well."

His face feels hot. He squeezes his hands together tightly and fidgets his thumbs a tad nervously, finger pads running over Grian's back.

It's funny, really. Phrasing it that way. Like this world has any right impeding on their affairs. It's not like leaving a hickey for a poor, unsuspecting hermit to see and gawk at, leaving a private sense of pride and amusement. No, realistically no hunter would ever register such an inconsequential detail. But to be unquestionably marked—claimed—a vex and his avian, an avian and his vex. The wild sense of possession and mutual reliance, wholehearted trust.

Scar craves it.

A beast equally as retained.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, salivating at the mere thought. "... Sometime," he clarifies again, a reminder that it needn't be now.

The answer is what Grian originally thought it to be. The way Scar stumbles through it makes Grian grin against his neck, now that he's more sure what this is about.

He hums, almost contemplatively. The skin is right there, for the taking. Scar isn't shying away.

He nibbles again. It's light. It's careful. It's oh so gentle.

He really can't bring himself to do anything more right now. He just wants to be soft. Weak. He wants to submerge them into a cocoon of tender affection. (He wants to keep Scar's arms around him and know that he's safe.)

"Mm... Sometime," he muses noncommittally. Gently, he kisses the spot he was teasing with his teeth, and then he shifts, nuzzling his forehead against it. His legs are still bare, and he folds them, pressing against Scar. (The bite at his side burns with the shift of his muscles, the way his belly bends.) (He doesn't mind. He wants to curl up and be near Scar. Nothing else seems to matter.)

Scar swallows against the sensations and—oh that feels nice. He nods, slow and a little shaken when Grian pulls away with a kiss. “S-sometime,” he breathes, left with more than enough to hold him over— an idea to look forward to.

He unlocks his hands and runs them under Grian’s sweater, admiring the soft skin and the feeling of Grian relaxing against him. Wanting to continue to soothe and comfort and take care of the bird in his hold.

Grian adores the way Scar touches him. He's got free access to his skin, to the private areas under his sweater, the patches of his back that never get touched. He melts into it easily, feeling an absolute yearning for it to stay, to continue. He wants more of this, easy intimacy, private little things. Mindless touches that mean everything.

And then he blinks.

Show the world I'm yours.

An idea occurs to him.

He pulls away, straightening up, eyes seeking out Scar's. "You want the world to know you belong to me?"

Scar’s hold loosens up as Grian pulls away. “Wh—“ he starts, but upon processing, his answer is immediate. “Yes.”

The hastiness of Scar’s agreement is endearing, and Grian can't help but lean in and steal a kiss, one hand coming up to brush against Scar's cheek. His fingertips come to tease the edge of his ear. "We can do that. We can— We can show it. If you want."

He's still not explaining, and something in his tone turns almost sheepish as he pulls back away to regain eye contact. His plan makes sense in his head—Scar is a vex, and he marks with teeth. Grian, however, is an avian. He has other ways to show what is his.

Scar breaks into a grin as his ear is touched, not minding the small flicks it elicits because the feeling is delightful, along with Grian’s direct attention.

His hands stop just over Grian’s waist, holding still, immensely curious. “Don’t leave me in suspense here, G,” he says, almost giggling at the slight tickle, then more seriously: “I want it.”

Grian's lips turn skewed with a half smile at Scar's eager curiosity. "Alright, hold on," he murmurs, shifting his attention away.

And then he unfolds his wing and brings it forward in a curve. The primaries reach behind Scar's side, just barely, hovering at a distance. But the inner feathers are there, on display and within perfect reach.

Scar watches in awe as Grian’s wing stretches out around him once again. There’s that persisting itch to touch again, ever muted, ever contained. Frankly, Scar still can’t believe he did touch them. He feels so unbelievably honored to have been trusted, however briefly.

Grian reaches out for his wing.

He doesn't even think about how this is the first time in a long while that he is deliberately touching them—he let Scar touch them plenty just tonight, but this is something else. His own fingers burrow in, searching for something. They don't straighten any feathers along the way.

For a moment, Scar entertains the possibility of Grian giving him a feather. It seems altogether improbable, but Grian is searching through his wings right now, and— Scar can’t help but smile at that. At Grian actually touching his wings.

A contemplative, focused hum leaves Grian, and then his fingers wrap around what he needs, and he yanks.

Scar almost panics at that, assuming the worst, memories of distressed Grian plucking at his plumage rushing to the forefront of his mind, but everything quickly resettles as he watches this gesture unfold, stunned.

The feather is loose enough and goes willingly, without pain, but it's a pretty one—unbroken and whole. Grian regards it quickly, as if making sure it's good enough for his partner, and only then does he lift his head, his eyes bright and hopeful as he properly presents the feather to Scar.

"For you." Nervousness prickles along Grian’s spine, and he coos quietly, suddenly anxiety-riddled. "Yours."

Scar meets Grian’s eyes again. He’s properly short-circuited, staring and blinking rapidly as tears threaten to flood his vision. But no, no, he wants to see this, to see Grian’s eyes, big and vulnerable and open and such a beautiful feather being offered—

To him—

“A-are you sure?” he chokes out. His hands have gone rigid, nervous and unsure of where to plant themselves. “That’s— really?”

Grian swallows drily, unsure yet what to make of Scar's reaction. He's still gingerly holding out the feather, a vivid violet thing with a black tip, with a bit of fluff at the base of the shaft. Clean, after the bath that Scar coaxed him to have. Surprisingly soft to the touch, too. (Grian forgot how it feels, to touch them.) (It feels incredibly brittle in his hold, a fact that is bound to haunt him later.)

"I'm sure," he says softly, holding Scar's gaze. His expression is open, but also timid, a faint flush over his cheeks as his heart beats a wild rhythm in his chest.

He's never done this before.

He's never done it, but he's absolutely certain he wants to do it now.

A hint of worry crosses his face as Scar isn't taking the feather yet and instead keeps double checking, as if maybe this wasn't meant to be happening. "I'm— You can take it," Grian reassures, voice a bit tight, incredibly vulnerable. A faint tremble reaches his hand, his nerves fraying. The wing half folds back behind Grian, shyly dipping out of the spotlight.

Scar’s ears flit attentively, realizing he’s yet to react properly. Or move at all for that matter. He’s been glued to the spot, stun locked and enamored, trying so hard not to get emotional over this.

(He’s failing.)

His hands leap from their place on Grian, fingers twitching nervously as he struggles to decide how exactly to take the feather. It seems precious. So precious. He wants to be careful. His hands remember how to be careful right?

“Right— I, ah—“

He ends up holding both his hands out, cupped. Realistically, he knows his nails are retracted, but the thought of piercing any single fiber keeps him from taking it directly, all too timid and aware of himself.

Grian's stomach is tightly wound as Scar still isn't quite taking the feather. He does, however, cup his hands, and that at least tells Grian he probably wants it.

Gingerly, Grian drops the feather into Scar's expectant palms, slow and careful as he does so. His eyes trace the barbs, watching as they shift hues as they catch different light, until they ultimately come to brush Scar's skin. (At the sight, Grian's wings behind his back tingle with the memory of touch that sets Grian's breath slightly off rhythm.)

“Grian…” Scar starts, eyes darting from the feather back up to Grian’s eyes, his own failing the battle with the tears as they begin to overflow. They streak down his face, meeting the upturn of his wobbly smile.

The call of his name falling from Scar's lips yanks Grian's attention up, up to meet Scar's eyes—Scar's tear-filled eyes—

Grian's too nervous about this to be reading things correctly. He can tell Scar's smiling—a wobbly, quite honestly adorable smile—and he did reach out for Grian to give him the feather, but the tears, and the original reluctance, and— And Grian doesn't know what to think, anxiety rampant in his veins. (This is meant to be a nice moment. This is meant to be good.) (Is it good?)

Grian sniffles, a consequence of seeing Scar cry when he himself is feeling wholly fragile, and he reaches up to brush the tears away. "Scar...?" He wants to ask him if this is okay. If he likes it? If it's good enough for what Scar wanted? (To be Grian's. To have a proof. A mark of sorts.) But he can't find the words. He coos at him instead, soft and nervous and questioning.

Scar stares down at the feather for a long moment, still in awe, still in disbelief. His throat feels dry and he can barely form words, but what he does do is carefully take both of his hands and press the gifted feather to his chest. Right over his heart. Held dear, held so carefully.

Grian glances down to see Scar press the feather to his chest, and his breath catches in his throat as his heart skips a beat at the sight. He's powerless to stop the pleased vibrato of a coo that escapes him, wings lifting slightly in a happy, prideful preen. His gaze flits back up, cheeks warmed, instantly feeling more secure with his feather-gifting gesture than just a second ago.

Scar's forehead presses to the side of his, gently nuzzling in, and Grian feels even warmer. He leaves one hand still on Scar's cheek, thumb brushing over the wet skin, caressing so very carefully and tenderly.

His earwings flit as Scar fights back a choked sob, forcing a complicated swell of emotions through Grian. He wants to soothe Scar, even though he doesn't think that Scar's emotions are coming from a place of distress. He still wants to press him close and cherish him and make him feel loved, make him understand that he is loved, let him know that Grian's always going to be here to catch his tears and wrap his arms around him if Scar needs it.

He tips his head slightly, kissing the edge of Scar's cheek that he can reach. His wings unfurl easily, unthinkingly, and curve around Scar, a protective cloak of feathers gently settling against Scar's back, a light weight keeping him close.

“Grian, I love it,” Scar manages to say. He shifts his head just a little, sniffling. “God, you— I… I love it.”

"You do?" Grian laughs a little, unsteady. His voice is quivery, a fragile, timid thing. He's pleased, so very pleased that Scar loves the feather, yet still left feeling complicated, like this is all actually precarious.

Scar tries oh-so hard to match the cooing sound, a crackled laughter and sniffle-laced sound overflowing with pure affection. It makes him giggle at himself. It warms his heart pressed against the feather.

Briefly, he wonders what exactly this gesture is supposed to mean for avians. What that makes Scar to Grian.

But realistically, he knows. He knows, he knows.

"Gosh, yes, Grian, I love it. I do." Scar can feel the feathers of Grian's wings wrapped around him and oh, it's almost overwhelming how trusted and adored he feels right now. "This is— Thank you, I—"

His hands twitch, itching to wrap around Grian in a wholehearted embrace, but— the feather. He doesn't want to put it away, it feels so, so wrong to stuff it away in his pack with everything else like it's some kind of scrap. And Grian offered it to him in lieu of something physical, something obvious and showy, so— Scar slips it over his ear, tucked there like he would a pencil while he sketches. And, maybe it's silly, and it's definitely temporary, but it means his arms are around Grian in an instant, barely able to contain himself enough not to lift him slightly off the ground and tug him so, so close. "I love it..."

With a squeak of surprise tipping over into a breathless laugh, Grian's hands wrap around Scar in return and, without a sliver of hesitation, he submits fully to his hold. "I'm glad you do."

There's less unease in Grian's voice now. He feels steadier. He feels like it really was a good thing to do, after all, and the relief and pure joy of it starts flooding his veins. He giggles, and it sounds mildly disbelieving, but mostly absolutely delighted.

Scar pulls back after a minute, making sure he gets a good squeeze. "Is this okay?" he asks, a tad timid with a big, bashful smile. "I mean like, am I supposed to wear it?"

It's a loaded question, he knows. Not only is it a public display of their relationship, but it's a public display of a bright violet feather, and Scar knows how troubling that can be for Grian to show off, so he can only imagine the complicated nature of having his own portion of that for show. (He thinks of the hunters and their bejeweled weapons, feathers tied to them in boast. It makes his fingers twitch slightly, aching for his claws.)

(Mournfully, he finds himself wishing this was Hermitcraft (a thought he tries to avoid), and he could wear it proudly to show off to his friends. That Grian is his and he is Grian's.)

Grian's face burns at the question, eyes flicking up to bask in the sight of the feather behind Scar's ear. "I— I um—" he stammers. He likes having it on display, and all the implications of it. It makes something in his chest purr with happy warmth. But— Is Scar supposed to wear it? Grian's never done anything like this before. He actually doesn't know.

His fingers reach, but he doesn't touch the tucked feather. Instead, his fingertips brush Scar's earlobe, and he wonders how wonderful it would feel to see Scar proudly wear the feather as an earring.

But then the reality crashes in. Grian's fingers tremble and pull away, and he swallows thickly. His eyes are big and vulnerable, with a touch of troubling, deep-rooted fear, when they find Scar's again. "I— Scar, I—" he stammers again, in a completely different pitch this time.

His wings slide off of Scar's back, reclaiming their spot behind Grian, making themselves smaller. (And yet. And yet they're still not as tightly pressed to his spine as they used to be.)

He thinks of a bright spot of violet, permanently tied to Scar, on display. In a world where that particular brilliant shade is as good as a death sentence.

"I don't know," he finishes in an unsteady half whisper, heart hammering painfully in his chest.

Scar watches Grian fumble with his words and how his wings retreat, nervous and almost ashamed of their gorgeous hue. Scar finds that he really does not like that.

He meets Grian's eyes, steady even as his own are still red from shed tears. "Do you want me to?" Then, softer, serious. "I want to." His eyes flick downward, pondering his next words carefully before seemingly resolving to something. He looks back up and adds, unwavering. "Maybe dangerous, but... feels good. Feels… right."

Grian doesn't even have to consider Scar's question; he knows the answer instantly. Yes. Yes, he does want that, but—

He can't. He can't say that. He can't bear the implications, he possibilities. He can't stand the thought of making Scar any more of a target than he already is.

He feels his eyes water as his heart is locked in this hopeless fight. Scar tells him he wants to do it, and that it feels right, and damn, Grian knows it feels right—it feels so, so horribly right for Scar to wear the feather on proud display.

And yet. Grian's eyes close, sending tears tumbling down. His head dips as he shakes it no, suddenly so very afraid.

He doesn't want Scar to get hurt because of him. Because of this. Because of a silly, sentimental foolishness.

Scar pauses, heart aching at the display of complicated emotions that shower over Grian's face, shifting and moving until he lands on something all too close to despair and dips his head low. Scar chews his lip, also dismayed by the reality they live in, before pulling his little avian in close again, pressing him to his chest where he can cry.

"Maybe... just for now," he whispers, secure in their current privacy. "And we'll figure it out?"

Grian burrows in easily, relishing Scar's hold, the comfort and protectiveness of it. It seems to hold some unspoken promise that Grian desperately wants to come true.

"Just for now?" Grian repeats, wobbly and so, so small.

"Yeah," Scar says, voice rich with many emotions. "I want it. It's perfect."

He runs his hands down Grian's back, affectionate and gentle. All the things they both need right now. It's soothing and careful, a soft lull as his muscles all begin to loosen, exhaustion slowly creeping in.

"Mmm, want to get to sleep?" Scar asks after savoring their position for another moment.

"Sleep," Grian echoes, feeling very tired yet awake, the emotions stirring in him abruptly too loud. The feather and the bruises and the scratches and the— His earwings flutter, his face flustered once again. He burrows in. "If you want," he mutters, muffled.

“Mmm, I do want,” Scar drawls, voice sleepier the moment sleep is brought up. “Want you.”

It’s tempting to shamelessly drag his hand up further at the simple line, but he keeps his touch subtle for the sake of winding down. His hand does lightly trail down, however, reminding him that Grian is still not fully bundled up. (Neither is he, but honestly, irrelevant.)

Want you. Grian replays those words over and over as he nuzzles against Scar, letting the sentiment wash over him. Even exhausted, he feels hyper aware of Scar's hands on him and the path they take across his back. (He wants to fall asleep to his gentle touch.) (He wouldn't mind if Scar pushed it over the line and woke them up instead, either.) He hums quietly, bonelessly slumped against Scar's chest, finding that he really likes to be at his mercy.

“Jeans or no jeans?” Scar teases with a small prod to the waistband of Grian’s underwear. “Don’t want you to get cold.” (As much as Scar will try to remedy that himself with how much he wants to wrap himself around all of Grian and hold him tight.)

"...'s cold," Grian agrees in a tired mumble, but makes no move to push himself away and reach for the clothes. Dressing up sounds like too much effort. He wants to stay nestled in Scar's arms.

It’s not really an answer, Scar notes, but the way Grian has slid himself into his arms like a puddle of feathers really speaks for itself. Scar doesn’t want to move to get dressed either. Honestly couldn’t even be bothered buttoning up his own shirt.

So he opts to slowly lean backwards.

Scar tips them until he's lying down, and Grian's happy enough with this development. He remains curled up on his chest, his wings falling around them limply, blanketing at least some parts of them.

With the extra room on the cloak Scar’s laying on, he drags it around to drape it over them, too, like a little cocoon. “Warmer?” he asks, reaching to grab their heated clothes just to stuff at their uncovered sides like a ridiculously inefficient nest.

It's so messy and it's barely sufficient and it reeks of fatigued improvisation, but Grian's so very content anyway. It's almost a nest. It's nest-like enough to please something in his tired brain. He laughs quietly against Scar's collarbone, because it's ridiculous and silly, but the sound tapers off into a coo that rings with content agreement. "This good," he murmurs with a smile, stifling a yawn.

“Good, good,” Scar says, kissing the center of Grian’s head. He knows it’s shabby, but he’s got his arms around Grian and he still feels warm. So warm.

And so incredibly happy.

With one last check on the feather tucked behind his ear, Scar smiles and lets out a contented hum. “Need anything else?” he asks sleepily, though attentive nonetheless.

"Mmn." Grian tries to dismiss Scar's question, but he finds himself abruptly incredibly sleepy, cozy even, unable to form words.

This is the best spot to sleep in. Who needs clothes, anyway. Grian is happy, right here, right like this. And sure, his body aches. And he will have a lot to process tomorrow. But for now, that doesn't matter. He's tucked safely in Scar's arms, and he feels loved, and what more could he possibly want?

Scar snickers at the lack of response, fine with it. His hands settle comfortably over Grian’s back, running his fingers over the wrinkles in his sweater. “Goodnight, G,” he murmurs into his hair with another little kiss. “I— …g’night.”

Grian feels himself melt into the cottony edge of sleep. His mind is hazy, unthinking; it's all just mushy feelings and loose, relaxed muscles.

It's so rare, for him to go to sleep without a looming sense of dread, countless horrible possibilities crowding at the walls of their space.

But he's not worried now.

He's not afraid.

He's curled up on top of Scar, his legs are naked, and this is the worst excuse for a nest ever, and yet— It's perfect. This is right where he wants to be. Where he feels safe.

Barely audible and heavy with sleep, he murmurs "love you" before he drifts off completely.

Scar’s eyes had been drooping, barely awake himself, but they snap open at what he thinks he just heard.

He— didn’t imagine that right?

His heart skips a few beats, even if it’s silly, even if they’ve said it before, in jest or in desperation, but—

This is different, right?

Scar wanted to say it, too, precisely because it felt different.

With a nervous swallow, Scar closes his eyes again, envious that Grian could fall asleep so easily after dropping that on him. He feels like he’s going to be up all night on that potential high. Forget all the biting— this is going to drive him wild.

A shaky breath, almost a laugh, and then: “Love you, too.”

#hhau #scarian #i wanted this ready for valentine but we all know i failed kajsnkjnxcb #sorry this took forever #smitten idiots in love strike again #one more part until we're done with the main in-between mimic arc rambles!#then just the red haze bit :3c #(nothing to worry about there at all surely)#(not an ominous ramble title in the slightest)#and after that we can finally unearth the redacted mimic arc PART V #yayy #wiggles excitedly #i hope u guys are also excited hehe

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angeart · 3 months ago

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hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (hopewards)

(~12,5 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

we start the next morning, so expect brief mention of their last night's debauchery and grian’s resulting bruising, some naked skin (their legs are bare) and some teasing. just for a tiny bit. nothing explicit here at all though! a lot of this is actually them being giddy and stupidly in love. enjoy! <3

—

Even though they should be used to it by now, waking up in a different place keeps being disorienting. And this time, it hits worse. Because for the first time in a long while, they were actually able to relax. Sleep curled into each other.

Grian stirs first, waking up to barely-lit surroundings, the fire reduced to nothing but faintly glowing embers. The walls of their little shelter don’t let through any light that might betray the time of day. There’s a warm body underneath him, rising and falling in the rhythm of calm breaths.

He wants to stay here, pressed against Scar. He thinks of closing his eyes and going back to sleep.

But the wind is whistling outside something horrible, and the space around him is dark and dizzyingly unfamiliar, and— The moment he moves, his body shoots back with pain.

A confused, pained yelp escapes him, the memories of last night still not rearranged properly in his dazed mind. He slips off Scar, coming to sit up on his bare legs, looking at the darkness with wide, unseeing eyes as his earwings flutter, trying to catch any noise that might hint at a coming threat. One of his wings is still slumped over Scar, a fact that's not quite registering in his mind as it tries to reboot to full alertness.

Scar is snapped out of his pleasant lull of sleep the moment Grian moves, and he's sat up as well the instant he hears Grian yelp, eyes darting around looking for danger—a trained reaction at this point. His glowing tail shoots out on instinct to provide some sort of light when the fire isn't doing it for him.

But when all he sees is Grian, he visibly untenses, his ears dropping back down from where they were rapidly flicking around to listen for unseen threats. "What in the world?" he says with a half-nervous, half-relieved sigh. "You scared me— you alright, G?"

Grian’s gaze anchors on Scar. "I—" He sits perfectly still, save from the rapid tempo of his chest as something akin to panic teases at his bloodstream. His wing stays draped over Scar's lap. His body hurts. His legs are cold. There's a—

There's a feather behind Scar's ear?

Grian stares. "I thought—" He can't get the words out. His fingers curl, arms coming to wrap around his abdomen only for a flare up of pain to burn under his careless touch, an injury on his side hidden by a sweater and forgotten about by his still jumbled mind. He takes a sharp breath, a pained whimper slicing through it.

Scar shimmies out of the feathery blanket he's been given in order to get right to Grian's side, gently reaching out to touch his cheek and his waist, knowing exactly which side to avoid. "Oh, shoot, hey, heyyy—" Scar moves so his face it's in front of Grian, filling his vision with his only slightly illuminated smile, soft and gentle. "Take it easy. You okay?"

The instant response from Scar and his ceaseless attentiveness help put Grian slightly at ease, enough to reclaim his breath and hopefully maybe start slotting things together in his mind. His gaze jumps between Scar's eyes, hopelessly needing grounding that Scar so readily provides.

Instead of wrapping his arms around himself, his hands reach out, coming to grab at the edges of Scar's still-open shirt. "I... thought we're home?" he manages to finally say, voice incredibly small and wobbly, sounding a little as if he was about to cry.

They're not home. They'll never be home again. It sears through his chest, the sliver of comfort so viciously yanked from him for the second time.

Scar is so ready to help, to set Grian's mind at ease, but oh. Oh, that hurts. He can't help with that at all. Home is so impossibly out of reach here.

"We're... safe," Scar tries anyway, vaguely nodding at the walls they constructed.

He truthfully understands how Grian could confuse things. He doesn't remember the last time he woke up feeling warm and secure, in his boxers of all things, too. And to have that illusion torn away so instantly?

Scar's heart aches and he mournfully presses a kiss to Grian's temple. " 'm sorry..."

Grian sniffles, inconsolable, but he tips forward into the offered affection, desperate for every sliver of comfort he can get. His heart tears itself apart behind his ribs, a hot-white, grief-stricken pain that feels like it might kill him.

"We're safe," Grian repeats, his voice raw and so miserably tear-filled, there's no salvaging it and pretending this isn't painful. "We're— I still have you." His fingers clutch at the fabric, desperately tugging at Scar, needing him right here.

It's painful to Scar to see Grian so clearly distressed, though the determination to remedy that and soothe his partner's nerves thankfully overwrites any of his own sorrow for the time being. He graciously wraps Grian up in his arms and pulls him close to his still bare chest, nuzzling his head in.

"Of course," he says. That much is obvious. That much is always true. "I'm here. You're here." That's all we need, right? goes unsaid, only heard through the rapid rythym of Scar's heart.

A choked sob gets pressed against the collar of Scar's shirt as Grian burrows into the hug. "You're here," he repeats, needing those words like a lifeline. "You're here you're here you're he–re." His voice cracks and fails, and he's shaking, but Scar is here, and that matters immensely, more than anything.

Grian swallows thickly, trying to push down the quivery emotions that make him fray at the seams, at least enough to be able to speak again.

His forehead nuzzles against Scar as he sniffles again. "Please don't ever leave. Don't leave me." Not again.

Scar's mouth goes dry as he tries to swallow, all stability rapidly crumbling away. "... Shit— Grian, no. Not leaving." He wants to say never because god does he mean it, but he really can't, can he? And that's what arguably hurts the most. Makes him feel like a failure.

Scar has so much more he wants to say. He can imagine the words, he feels the sentiment, but nothing is forming. He feels so broken.

So he buries his head into Grian's shoulder, fully slumped over the avian and wrapping him in close. "I—I said... yours," he forces out, choked and forcing back tears.

He needs to be strong right now. Needs to, needs to, needs to.

Then he pulls away, just enough, trying to offer his best attempt at a smile and a small tilt of his head in the direction of the feather, his mind leaping to awareness of it. Clinging to it. "Yours, remember?"

Not leaving. Yours.

The words echo through Grian, an endless ricochet looking for purchase, for somewhere to sink into. He wants to keep them bouncing. Alive and on constant replay.

Scar is pulling him closer and then pulling away, leaving Grian with a bewildered whiplash. He just wants to burrow in. He wants Scar to be his nest. His home. He is— He's his everything and Grian is terrified to let go, he needs to hold on, he needs to cling—

But Scar puts distance between them, and it's not even really distance, it's just enough for them to be able to have eye contact. And yet Grian still can't help but feel destabilised. His eyes trace over Scar's features, desperately trying to reassure himself with the familiarity of them, mapping out the weak, barely-there smile as if he was trying to memorise it all for the inevitable loss.

(No, no, no, he can't think about that. He can't—)

(He remembers how it felt. Deep in the woods, all alone, not knowing if Scar is alive.) (Not knowing if he will survive another hour.) (No hands to hold. No arms to burrow into. Nobody there to build a feeble safety net underneath his exhausted, wobbly legs.)

Scar tips Grian's attention to the feather and, obediently, Grian's attention goes, catching on the bright spot of violet. It makes his heart trip, fear and affection crashing violently into each other. One of his hands unlatches from Scar's shirt and reaches up, going for the feather. "Mine," he mutters unsteadily under his choked breath.

Scar tilts his entire head into Grian's hand, offering not just that portion of him marked with Grian's feather, but all of himself, desperately hoping the sentiment is understood. "Yours, always yours," he confirms, something like a croak breaking into his voice.

At least that statement can ring true. It's always been true from the moment they found each other in this world.

He absently nuzzles into the touch like a touch-starved cat since he may as well commit to the animalistic instincts at this point, silly as they may be.

Scar wants to apologize, even if he's not completely sure what for. He's already apologized a thousand times over for leaving Grian, and he doubts that's something Grian actually wants from him right now. No, apologies would only be for his own sake, wouldn't they? Craving forgiveness and comfort from his own dreadful shame. That's not going to help Grian right now at all.

"Safe, I promise," he says, somewhat weak. It's not home, but— "Nothing bad here."

Grian listens to the promise. To Scar’s reassuring voice.

They're in a small dark box, surrounded by walls. It smells like smoke, but feels all too cold.

It's not a place for an avian.

"Okay," Grian relents anyway, voice small. Because it doesn't matter where he is as long as Scar is there with him.

With careful gentleness, Scar coaxes Grian to lie down again and rest a bit more while he gets the fire going. Obligingly, Grian curls up in a loose ball, draping a wing over himself—something he wouldn’t usually do so freely, his feathers on full display, vulnerable and bared. Still, he dips underneath, warmed by some fuzzy instinct descending over him, and he falls silent while Scar works.

Scar dutifully moves to relight the fire, trained at maximizing the effectiveness of limited kindling at this point, then starts gathering a few things for an almost proper meal, because he feels like taking the extra time.

It’s the gentleman-y thing to do, surely? To make a nice breakfast for his partner?

Either way, he wants to, so he gets out the basic clay mixing bowl they have and starts throwing in all the decent-tasting stuff they’d been saving— mushrooms, a few of the more bitter berries that taste better fried, their little jar of foraged herbs, and even the suspicious looking potato they’ve been hesitant to eat. Now’s as good of a time as any to check that it’s good.

It’s the smell of food permeating the air that lures Grian to peek out from his dozing pile. The fire is crackling, warm and bright, and Scar is fixing them some food over it.

For a moment, Grian watches, barely peeking over his wing, just his messy hair and dark eyes visible. He seems curious and cautious alike, but mostly, he's just endeared. He takes in Scar's features as the warm glow of the fire dances over them, the way his hands move, the way he prepares the meal from the measly scraps they have, and— oh.

Oh, he's so horribly in love.

Every bite and scratch and bruise on his skin makes so much sense. Just looking at Scar fills him with good kind of tingling, something that tells him he'd give himself over to him willingly. He'd give him everything.

He finds, all of a sudden, that he doesn't regret any of last night. Even if he feels exhausted still, his body fragile and in pain. He's glad it happened. He wants to protect it, that insane wildness they showed for each other, an unsatiable craving stitched through with madness and blood and an assembly of all-too-private sounds, fully knowing there's softness and care to follow.

He's silent for a moment longer, sneakily observing. And then he says, quiet and out of nowhere: "Would you do it again?"

Alarm rings through Scar at the sudden sound (even though reasonably he knows it’s just him and Grian here), making his tail go almost comically rigid as he catches the bowl that practically leapt from his hands. To his credit, however, he doesn’t yelp in surprise like he normally would.

A muffled laugh escapes Grian, eyes flitting to Scar’s rigid tail. It's a wonderful sight, only because Grian knows they're safe and there's nothing to be afraid of. It allows him to bask in it, innocently startling Scar out of focus and reminding him that he's here with him.

The answer to Grian’s question comes so easily to Scar. He admits almost instantly: “Yes.” Then softer, more hesitant and cautiously optimistic, “That is, if you— … would you?”

Because that’s the real question, isn’t it? Grian is the one with bruises to show from their little escape from reality. It’s Grian who really put himself out there with his wings on display and body for ravaging—

Scar feels his cheeks heat up slightly, causing him to fumble over his words some more before even waiting for an answer, flustered and a little apprehensive. “Y–y'know, with or without the whole, um, foreplay.”

His ears burn.

Grian's eyes brighten at Scar's answer, but he continues hiding in his wings. He can tell Scar shifts from an instant answer to hesitation, and then dips straight from that to a flustered mess, and god, Grian wants to kiss him.

"Yeah." It's painfully audible that he's grinning, even as his expression continues to be shielded by feathers. And it surprises him how much he means it, too. How easy it is to admit.

He watches Scar's fluster, and it makes him want to tease him more. It's adorable.

His wing shifts, dragging up in an arch, revealing all of Grian that was tucked underneath—especially the cheeky smile, and the still-bare legs, bruised and scratched. He slightly uncurls, a process that just makes him show more skin, all the vulnerable bits of it there for Scar to see. The held-up wing seems almost like an invitation. "Yes, Scar. All of it," he reinstates, his eyes never leaving Scar's, watching for reaction.

Up until this point, Scar was basically talking at the fire, a little too nervous to look Grian in the eye and still focused on his task. But when Grian also agrees? Scar can’t help but shift himself, to turn around and chase after the sight of that smile he can hear pierce Grian’s words.

He gets much more than a smile when he looks Grian’s way.

Oh if his ears weren’t burning already, they are now.

He’s tempted to look away, not wanting to stare and further embarrass himself but… another part of him very much wants to ogle his mate. Because he can. Because Grian is his as much as he is Grian’s. And because he knows Grian likes it when he gives him attention.

So he allows himself to stare. His eyes wander from the beautiful, cleaned, outstretched wings to Grian’s legs, bare and bruised and occasionally bitten, and— yeah, Scar finds he doesn’t regret a damn thing either.

He also finds that he overwhelmingly wants to pounce, something primal as well as impassioned. Entranced by that invitation, eager to accept.

All of it.

His tail has begun a low swoop, like a predator watching its prey, and wow Scar needs to hide that thing so it stops giving away his already incredibly obvious motives. He swallows hard, then, without even realizing, breathes out a small wisp of blue.

Finally, Scar clears his throat loudly, face flushed, and turns his attention painfully back to the food, which is luckily basically done. “Ahem, um. G-good. Yep. Good.” He laughs at himself freely, amused. “… Food’s almost ready.”

[a little extra scene here - suggestive, preyplay, no explicit sex]

Even when they’re ready to eat, Grian finds himself struggling, body too weak—after months of barely any rest, and last night’s activities, and the ever-curdling hunger—but Scar’s all too ready to offer to carry him, despite his own weariness.

"What'd'you make?" Grian murmurs as he weakly holds onto Scar, suddenly curious about the food, now that he's secure that Scar isn't leaving his proximity. "It smelled nice."

"Why, my famous... potato berry mushroom scramble? ... Patent pending." Scar settles next to the fire, keeping his little bird snugly in his lap. "Believe me, I outdid myself on this one," he cheers, grinning with satisfaction.

Grian presses a giggle to the base of Scar's throat at the description of the food, complete with a pending patent. It sounds like Scar's used just about anything good they had and threw it all together, but Grian can't fault him for it. Not now. Now he wants domesticity, and a little bit of play-pretend. He wants to ease into something that might be more living than surviving. So he's happy to indulge this.

When they settle down, Grian’s eyes are drawn to Scar, and he's rewarded with a delightful grin, and goddammit he really can't control himself—

He kisses Scar. Again, just a quick steal. Just a short, soft thing. A quiet trill pressed against Scar's lips. "Sounds wonderful." Laughter rings in his voice, heavy with tiredness and contentment, the earlier distress easily forgotten.

Scar's grin grows even wider, and he attempts to reciprocate the trill, a happy little sound passing through his toothy smile. "You're wonderful," he replies, giggling at the corniness.

"Wah!" Grian sputters in protest, face flushing instantly. "You— big goof. You silly— You—" He can't come up with anything good enough that'd sit right on his tongue, but he feels the need to let Scar know he's a ridiculous, cheesy idiot, and anyway. He tips forward and bites at Scar's jaw in revenge.

It's the softest thing. It's barely anything, so horribly harmless it's laughable as a threat.

Scar snickers, unashamed of his goofy response. "No, no, you eat the food, not me, Grian."

Grian giggles against Scar's skin, remaining pressed close to him. "But I want you."

Just as thoughtlessly, Scar replies, "Well you can have me for dessert then." Then, without registering at all what he just said, he gently nudges Grian to turn around. "You should grab some food before it gets cold."

"You're ridiculous," Grian lets him know, flustered and amused and fond. He edges saying something similarly corny in response, but for the sake of his dignity, he swallows it down, glancing instead towards the bowl of food. And he still manages to say something horribly embarrassing. "Aren't you going to feed me?"

“Oh, is that what you want?” Scar chuckles, a teasing fire alight in his eyes as well. “Want me to feed it to you like a baby bird?�� He presses his snickering lips right up to Grian’s in an annoyingly sloppy kiss.

A dissatisfied grumble leaves Grian, even as he allows the kiss. Only to bite at Scar's lip. "Not a baby bird," he protests, as if that was the important part. He entirely fails to dismiss the rest of it. But he makes a big show of huffing and turning his face away.

Scar laughs again, but he nods somberly, as if agreeing to his very grave error. "Of course, right," he says, but he reaches for the food anyway. "Then, you want me to feed you like a lovely, doting boyfriend?"

And oh, it's very silly, the way his face flushes at the word boyfriend, because it's not really a word they get much use of in this environment. It seems to carry a bit too much innocence and domesticity for the intensity of the bond they've cemented here, but— Scar smiles shyly. He thinks he likes the way it tastes on his tongue in this moment.

Grian's about to protest again when he hears Scar going on about feeding him—it was just silly, Grian didn't really plan on it being a thing—but then Scar drops the word boyfriend and Grian's whole mind screeches to a halt.

His eyes widen, gaze snapping back to Scar.

Painfully slowly, his mind restarts, but it comes out still wrong, haywire. His whole body tingles, electric and staticky. "You— What—" He stammers, eyes roaming Scar's entire face, searching for something. "Say it again."

"I—uhh—" Scar's face heats up further under the careful scrutiny of Grian's attention. He feels his ears flick anxiously and almost groans out loud because he's so undeniably caught being embarrassed. "Like... a doting boyfriend?" he practically squeaks, growing more nervous the longer Grian stares at him with those big, dark eyes.

A slightly manic, uncontrollable smile grows unbidden on Grian's lips. All of a sudden, he feels immensely giddy, restless.

A simple word shouldn't do that to him. Not here. Not in a world where it's meaningless, it changes nothing, it's just the two of them like it's always been.

And yet—

And yet.

Grian's eyes squint a little, in a happy grin. "A boyfriend, you say?" It comes out teasing, but the joy is undeniable in it.

In an instant, that anxiety is gone and Scar's beaming right back at Grian, smile full and wobbly. "I mean—" he starts, letting laughter spill out as his nerves relax, but he shifts straight into being teasing as well. "I've never really been the type of guy for one-night stands, soooo..."

Grian's expression shifts into a toothy smirk. He raises an eyebrow, playfully questioning. That hovering implication that Grian could've been a one night stand prickles around Grian's spine, even though he knows it's impossible. "You wouldn't dare."

Briefly, he thinks of waking up in the morning after all of that—after all of giving himself over, after all of marks Scar left on him—only for Scar to say it was a one-off thing.

Teasing disappears from his expression, replaced by something almost troubled. He's playing with his own thoughts, dispelled what-ifs that didn't even occur to him until now. It's nothing to get upset about, certainly.

He can feel the aches echo through his body, fresh enough to easily remind him of everything he's given over to Scar without asking for any sort of commitment. And yet Scar is here, offering it anyway. (Or at least, Grian thinks that's what's happening?)

Scar watches Grian's face, how it morphs into a playful smirk, but then fades into something slightly fragile. It's a subtle thing, almost missable, but Scar catches it easily. He hums thoughtfully as he leans further into their little wordplay, eyeing Grian's lips, the tilt of his head, every miniscule gesture he's grown so accustomed to.

"I think I'd be a darn fool to let you pass me by," he says, very purposely flipping the narrative to one where Grian is holding that power, of Grian being the one that Scar is fumbling to tie down in their simplistic, more whimsical portrayal of events. And when Scar smiles, it's small, but incredibly authentic, because in reality, that is the version of events he's intimately familiar with— a story of a hermit pining hopelessly after his neighbour, and now that he actually has him, Scar has no intention of ever letting go.

Grian chuckles weakly. He wants to play along. He wants to, really.

But the reality is pushing down on him, insistent and as present as the dark corners of their small shelter. His heart is so tired and yet it beats so fast in his chest, unerringly stumbling as it aches for more of Scar, more love, more of those ridiculous promises he so tenderly weaves around Grian like a bed of petals to sink into.

"I really don't think you'd be a fool for that," he says, and it comes out hoarse. Like speaking past a lump, throat dry.

Because Grian is still just a beacon in this world. And Scar would be better off passing him by and choosing someone else.

That's a slippery slope of thoughts.

Grian finds he can't quite meet Scar's eyes.

Scar stops glancing over Grian’s face, just staring for a moment as he blinks in utter confusion. He feels as if he needs to kickstart his brain with how unexpected that comment was to him. Honestly needs to kickstart his lungs as well.

“What?” he manages to say, still baffled. After a few more slow blinks, Scar looks Grian over, wondering if this is some kind of joke that he’s missing the punchline for, but now Grian won’t even look at him.

Nervousness sets in at the pure bafflement Scar displays. Grian isn't sure what to make of it. He didn't say anything that strange, did he?

“Are you kidding?” Scar asks, though it’s rhetorical. “Grian, I’ve—“ Say it again echoes though his head and Scar swallows past the lump in his own throat as he continues, “—I’ve wanted to be your boyfriend for like an embarrassingly long time.”

Grian can't help but let out a small squeak. He's still not meeting his gaze, and his face is burning, even as everything in his chest continues to tangle and trip, a complicated mess.

Scar's words carry an implication of a lost past possibility. If they were braver—less idiots, really—they could've had it all. Beds and homecooked meals and domesticity. The full package.

Instead, Scar has him now, when Grian is nothing but an express ticket to Scar's permanent death.

Even though Scar's words are nice, Grian can't stop the hitch in his breath and a fresh dose of tears. His wings finally slot tightly at his back, where they belong. Emotions come too easily to him now, everything in him frayed and fragile. He can't hold back a sniffle, staring down but not really seeing anything. No words form through the messy nonsense of his thoughts.

It hurts Scar when Grian doesn’t respond. It hurts even worse to hear him begin to cry.

Scar can’t help but wonder where exactly he fumbled. At what point did he say something that tipped the scales in favour of tears over laughter?

He thinks he ought to cry as well, but unfortunately all he feels is a festering numbness settling under his skin, leading him to wonder why his words never seem to be enough.

(Why can’t he ever be enough?)

“I still do,” Scar whispers, perhaps a bit uselessly, but it feels so, so important to say. And the words keep tumbling out. “I— feel stronger when I’m with you? Maybe that’s silly, but… I… know you’re always there to catch me when I fall?” A mirthless chuckle, but he does break a smile. “Which is a lot. And… you’ve never doubted me either? You never treated me like a burden or like I can’t carry my own weight, which… I don’t know, that’s… that means a lot to me.” He sighs softly, trying to lower his face so Grian will look at him.

Please, please look at me. Scar wants to say.

“Please say something before I keep talking myself into an embarrassing little hole?” he says instead.

Grian's mind stumbles to unlatch from the storm of its own thoughts, fumbling to shift focus to Scar's words. He tries to understand. All the things Scar lists for why he wants him. Why this is good. Why it matters, maybe now more than ever.

Grian isn't sure he can process it right here, right now, like this. Maybe he'll ask him sometime to say all that again. When his mind is slower and more ready to accept it.

When Scar begs him to speak, Grian closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. "I wanted—" No. No, it isn't working. His voice falters. Runs away from him like a startled rabbit. He has to go and find it again.

He takes another breath, deliberate. His fingers slide over Scar's shirt, trying to find the contact with the warmed, worn fabric grounding.

"I wanted to live with you," he finally says—chokes out—confesses. "Wanted to share a bed. Wake up next to you—" His voice gives out again.

In a way he has those things now. Sans the bed. But it is forced by horrible circumstances. It has nothing of the soft, warm domesticity of the fantasy.

He sobs and his hands leave Scar, in favour of pressing at his own, tear-streaked face.

"Wanted you to b— to be happy with me."

Another choked laugh escapes Scar at the small confession, something fragile and almost broken. “I wanted that, too,” he admits, voice hoarse.

He’s relieved Grian responded, not only that, but with something so sweet, because the fear of Grian entirely shutting down was there. And Scar isn’t sure he could handle the despondency right now.

It hurts horribly in Grian's heart, knowing that Scar wanted the same thing, and yet they never had it. They never allowed themselves to cross that imaginary line they thought was there. It tastes thick and raw like grief, to know it was never there at all and they could've had it all along.

And they'll never have it now.

Grian chokes on heaved breaths, drowning on sobs, but Scar keeps talking.

“And… I am happy with you, Grian,” Scar continues, slow, carefully considering his every word now. “I think I would have gone mad by now if it weren’t for you. You’re— like… the only good thing in this stupid world. I feel like joy shouldn’t even be allowed here, yet I feel it with you.”

The words feel slippery to Grian; he tries to hold onto them, but knows this is something he will need to be told again, once his mind stops being so rampant. Once his bruised heart tears at itself less. He wants them spoken to him in a quiet moment, serene maybe, if such a thing exists. He wants Scar's hands to gently trace his skin and he wants to hear him say it again; that Grian makes him happy, even in a place as wretched as this.

Scar’s face reddens again as he thinks of all kinds of cheesy things he could say here. You make me so happy. You are my joy. My darling. Light of my life.

Yet somehow, despite the embarrassment, he grows bold with his words in an another way entirely.

“And maybe it’s not the same, but… we’ll have it all someday! A ridiculously over-the-top home, a full kitchen, a fluffy bed, way too many cats… I’ll even finish the backside for us.”

It’s been so long since Scar last spoke of promises of going home. After so many months, that spark of hope had long since been extinguished, but Scar feels resolute in his statement this time.

Because this time he means something else.

He reaches for his satchel, pulling out a compass he nabbed from the last hunter that crossed their paths. It’s scratched and the arrow points at a slightly off-angle, but it shines like an absolute treasure under the light of the fire.

He presses it to Grian’s chest, offering it to him.

“We’ll keep going north. North until we’re so far from civilization that no one can ever bother us. And…” Scar pauses, using his free hand to brush away some of Grian’s tears, his fingers lingering at his jaw as he tries to urge him to look up into his eyes. “… it can be just me and you, like it should have been a long time ago.”

Beffudedly bewildered, Grian blinks through tears, looking down, mind sparking at the offer of promise, a held out hope. Both of his hands come to meet that faint pressure, brushing against Scar's skin before they come into contact with the small object. His fingers shake as he takes it, tries so very hard not to instantly drop it as he shifts it and processes what it is. (He does it with one hand; his second one stays loosely around Scar's wrist, greedy for the warmth of that contact. His own skin is cold, fingertips wet from tears.)

The compass catches the glint of the fire. It feels precious and rare, a little bit like it could break at any second, as Grian keeps his shaky grip on it.

He sniffles, unable to resist the tug of Scar's gentle touch on his jaw. He blinks through more tears, tips his head up, finally meeting Scar's gaze through the hot, blurry haze.

North. Just me and you.

The idea trips through Grian.

Scar is extending a promise—a hope—a future, and Grian desperately grasps at it, wanting it to nest in his heart. It feels immensely brittle. It feels incredibly necessary.

He takes a less aborted breath, trying to let Scar's voice stich him back together.

"We— Can we—" His words fall apart, but he keeps trying. "We can have that?" His voice cracks, breaks completely, hitches into a sob as more tears flood his vision.

He brings the compass to his stomach, holds it against himself. His other hand lightly and harmlessly claws at Scar's forearm, looking for something to hold onto, something to ground all these loud, overwhelming emotions.

"You'll—" A small, off-kilter chuckle breaks through the more miserable noises. It's tiny. It's wet and broken. And yet it's such a bright sound amidst it all. "You'll finish the back?"

Scar’s heart threatens to break at the broken little sob that escapes Grian’s throat, but instead he feels those stitches solidify and strengthen his resolve even further as Grian also grasps onto the promise, however weak his words may be.

“Yes,” Scar confirms— to all of it. “We… we can bring home here.”

Because if they can’t go home, they’ll do this instead. They’ll make it work. It can be enough. As long as they’re together, maybe it can be enough.

The word home stings but simultaneously, it feels like velvet. Like something impossibly soft to sink into. Like warmth and protection and good things.

Grian wants it.

He wants a home again.

He wants a home with Scar.

Wordlessly, Scar tilts Grian’s head up just a bit, kisses his forehead, wipes away a few tears. He’s so entirely serious about this, so very determined to make it true. He hopes that’s evident on his face, how his eyes flicker with purpose and truth.

The kiss feels like a seal of the promise; Grian whines weakly, leaning into it. He thinks his heart hurts less. He thinks— Maybe there's something at the end of all of this. Something they can have. Something they can share. Something theirs.

"Promise?" Even though it already feels like a promise, Grian still needs to hear it. His voice is wobbly and small and so achingly hopeful. He sniffles and in a rush, he tacks on: "I— I want that. Please, Scar."

“Yes,” Scar says again, nodding resolutely. “Absolutely. Promise.” He squeezes at the compass and the hand that Grian is holding onto. He presses another kiss to Grian’s brow. “It’ll be the most beautiful base this stupid world has ever seen. Or rather, never will see, preferably.” He smiles brightly, confident in everything he says. Truly confident.

It’s that confidence that really helps settle all the on-fire nerves under Grian's skin. It guides him to follow, to trust, to believe.

They're stubborn. They're going to persevere. They'll do it. They will.

"I'll hold you to that," Grian warns with a small laugh, still skewed towards broken, rather than carrying any signs of cheer, but it's something.

He finds himself leaning forward, tipping towards Scar, wanting to bury himself against his chest. One of Grian's hands remains trapped to his stomach, pressing the compass closely to himself, but his other hand wraps around Scar, needing to hold him, to tuck him close to himself.

"I mean." He sniffles, but he's no longer crying. No longer choking on his breaths. "I'll help."

“Oh, I should hope so. I’m gonna need that special Grian touch,” Scar hums. He leans down to also burrow himself into Grian, right into his hair, his own special spot. “… I’d love to build a home with you,” he adds, spoken softly into the curls.

I'd love to build a home with you.

Grian's breath hitches, but not like he's going to cry. Not like he's in pain. There's something else entirely swirling within him, a deep, raw, fond emotion that knows no bounds when it comes to Scar.

"Can you—" This is the second time he's asking this in a short while, but he can't help himself. His words are muffled, slightly embarrassed and very needy, pleading. "Scar? Say that again?"

Scar’s briefly worried when Grian’s breath hitches, but he quickly exhales a soft laugh when he realizes why. “Mmm,” he hums against the top of Grian’s head, a cheeky grin spreading across his lips. “I’d love to build a home with you, my boyfrieeeend.”

Grian tenses and squawks, feeling his face get hot. This was unfair. This was an attack! An ambush! He wanted to hear it again, sure, but not like this. He huffs and groans and he doesn't know what other noise to make to show Scar just how unfair this was.

"I'll bite you," he warns gruffly.

But actually, he's very happy. He's pleased. His feathers give him away, puffing up a little to show off, wings unfolding slightly more, happily presenting themselves to his mate. He nuzzles against Scar's collarbone, a small, deliriously giddy giggle traitorously escaping his lips.

“That’d only be fair, really,” Scar continues to tease, making a little biting sound by clacking his teeth together, but he nuzzles back afterward, unable to help expressing his boundless adoration.

Grian lets out a string of completely incoherent, flustered noises. He keeps pressing himself close to Scar, hiding his flushed face. His wings bend forward and swoop, partially encapsuling them in a loose half-circle, feathers trusting and within reach.

Scar chuckles, pleased with himself, and so, so grateful for the mood shift. It feels like he did something right, and the fact that it was just him speaking from his heart makes it so much better. “Hmmm, you won’t bite me if I call you precious, will you? Because you’re precious,” he purrs, keeping his face buried in Grian’s hair as a defense mechanism.

Grian's grip on Scar tightens in protest. He squirms a little and makes a growly noise, although he's not very good at making it sound threatening. Certainly not now, with how flustered he is. "I will."

Instead of biting, it's one of his wings that swoops closer, lightly smacking Scar's shoulder. An action that'd be unthinkable under normal circumstances. And yet Grian isn't even thinking about it now—his instincts aren't even thinking about it—he just does it, playfully grumpy.

Scar makes a surprised gawking noise, completely caught off guard because frankly he forgot Grian could retaliate using his wings at all. He sputters a bit, shocked, before breaking into a fit of tiny giggles, something so incredibly familiar about the gesture, something he hasn’t had happen in ages.

The surprised noise delights Grian to no end. The giggles feel wonderful afterwards. But—

Scar says it: “… Precious.”

He says it and Grian is going to jump out of his skin from how his face burns. "Scar!" he chastises, then delves into some more incoherent noises as his wings lift and spread, filling up the space around them, trying to be a threat. They flap in indignation. "You're the worst," he accuses, but it's clear he doesn't mean it.

Scar peeks up from the safety of Grian’s hair, unable to help himself when he hears the wings expand, smiling up at the gorgeous display. Grian’s a fool if he thinks that’s intimidating to him. It arguably makes him even more precious.

“Is that any way to speak to your lovely, doting boyfriend? I mean gosh, I even made breakfast!” He can’t help but keep pushing. It’s fun and fun is hard to come by in this world. (Although not so hard as long as Grian is here.)

The noises Grian makes shift into theatrically miserable. His wings droop a little, some fight draining out of them.

And then there's a pause.

Scar's holding him, and Grian can hear the smile in his voice, and it is true he made breakfast, and actually, he's done so much for Grian. The little teasing notwithstanding. (And oh, the word boyfriend still sounds so wonderful on Scar's lips, even if it's used as a tease.)

Eventually, Grian burrows into Scar’s shoulder, mumbling something, too quiet to catch when it's muffled into Scar's shirt.

“What’s that, darling?” Scar croons, lifting his head in preparation for being whacked again. Unfair, really, because all he’s doing is speaking freely.

Instead of delivering another whack, Grian pulls away when Scar lifts his head. Not fully, not properly. Just to look up. His face is flushed, eyes glowing dimly with unknown intensity. His eyes trail the curve of Scar's neck, wondering if maybe he should deliver on his threat and bite him.

Scar is instantly so ridiculously enamored by Grian’s lovely reddened face, always pleased with how the colour trickles across his freckles and melds into the purples of his feathered ears. He watches, entranced in a daze, devoted to any fate Grian’d weave for him.

Grian opts for a different kind of retaliation—he lets go of Scar's back and instead shifts until he can reach and— His fingertips meet Scar's ear and brush over it.

Scar squeaks at the touch, fighting his urge to duck away, because he’s happy to allow this form of retaliation. “Hey— you—“

But Grian speaks first—despite his bashful fluster, he takes a breath and repeats the unheard sentence: "You're wonderful."

Scar instantly goes silent, lips perking up into a goofy smile. “… You’re sweet,” he finishes instead of whatever he was originally going to say, darting his head to one side to uselessly hide his blush. He knows his ears are giving him away anyway.

Grian traces the ears again, featherlight touch, and he hums musingly. They flick underneath his fingertips, skin warm. A grin spreads on Grian’s face, completely endeared to the sight, feeling enamoured and triumphant. "You're blushing," he notes—a ridiculous thing to say when his own face is still flushed, too.

“Noooo…!” Scar protests, snickering. “I’m a very serious man! Never done such a thing.” But he’s giggling to himself as Grian further torments his ears, letting them twitch either which way happily.

Grian's grin doesn't disappear; it's only his flush that slightly fades, as he's settling into this. Into laughter and touching Scar, into something easy and soul-warming, a balm to all the wounds and aches. "And your ears are twitchy," he continues his observations, just to prod, just to hear Scar try to defend himself some more.

“They’re ticklish!” Scar whimpers, making literally no effort to move away. “And sensitive, I’ll have you know.”

(He knows Grian knows.)

(He knows Grian is a little shit and loves it.)

Grian just giggles, giddy and free. His hands don't move away. "I know." (He knows Scar knows he knows.)

“Peskyyyyy—“ Scar whines, finally ducking away and cackling into Grian’s shoulder. “I am sooo nice to you and this is how you repay me!” It’s clear from his voice that he adores this attention, however, his complaints all for show.

Grian laughs, not minding that label one bit. He lets go of Scar's ears and wraps his arms around him. The compass is left in Grian's lap; he can still feel its weight, the sense of it a comfort, but most of him is focused solely on Scar right now. He wants to hold him and tug him closer.

"You know what you've gotten into." Fond amusement laces Grian’s voice as he nuzzles against Scar's hair. A purr-like coo makes it way out of him, an odd sound that's all too content. "You wanna be my boyfriend? You get peskiness. That's the deal." He puts nothing else on the table, nothing to entice Scar into wanting to stay his boyfriend.

He knows Scar will take the bait anyway.

Scar grins, flicking his ears a few more times to adjust, then moves both of his own arms to wrap around Grian’s waist. “Ahh, well…” He clicks his tongue a few times, like he’s considering it. “Yeah, I can deal with that.” And he tries to copy the sound, as he often does, and while he nails the purr, the coo comes out silly and broken.

Grian chuckles, low and soft and warm. It does feel a bit precarious, but he tucks that away. "Okay. If you're sure." He dips his own head, melting into their hug, bringing his wings in around them, feathers softly and carefully slotting against Scar's back. "...This okay?" Grian asks quietly, almost nervous.

It’s more than okay, if anything it should be Scar asking that. He swallows a tad nervously, adoring the feeling of feathers tickling against some of his bare skin. They’re soft and they feel so lovely— the significance of the gesture is not lost on Scar at all.

“Mhm, yes, very okay.” He gives Grian a gentle squeeze through the embrace. “I like this.” A happy little hum. “I like you.”

Scar likes this. Scar likes this.

Grian's head turns into staticky mush for a moment, his bird instincts immensely pleased. He perks up, in a way that Scar is bound to feel, and his wings press a bit more tightly against Scar.

It's weird. It's— There's that part of him that wants to be loud with warnings. That wants to overload him with all the sensations firing away from his feathers. All the pressure, the brush against something solid; he can feel each of Scar's breaths like this. And yet. And yet there's a wholly different part of him that's winning, shutting it out. Pushing it away. (He needs to.) (He has to.) (He can't ruin this again.)

A sliver of anxiety slips through, but it only results in his wings tugging at Scar, demanding closeness.

And yet it's so fragile. Grian doesn't know if his brain won't short circuit the moment Scar moves too sharply or unexpectedly. But he doesn't know how to tell him, especially since that warning thought is so slippery right now—he's content and happy and warm. Pleased. Sickly in love.

He coos, the softest little sound. And then: "I like you too." He nuzzles against Scar, kisses the side of his head. "Love you." It's a very deliberate wording, and he thought he'd struggle, but it comes past his lips easily, a silky truth wrapping around them like his feathers.

Scar melts into his new feathery cocoon and briefly wonders if this is similar to what Grian feels like when he carries him— light, warm, secure. He keeps himself so still, trying to respect the fragility of this situation, careful not to tip the scales again, but—

His ears flick up rapidly, twitching as he confirms what he just heard, processes it, slowly and stupefied. “Hah— you—“ He tries so hard not to tremble, to squeeze, to do something rash and excitable like he so, so wants to. “You do??” he says stupidly, lifting his head to reveal his bright, practically twinkling eyes. “Like, really?”

He can hear his tail whip onto the floor like it’s legitimately wagging, and he’s tempted to groan, but he doesn’t care. He’s absolutely beaming.

Nervousness settles like fire in Grian's stomach as Scar stutters and asks for confirmation—even though he can tell he's beaming, he's so overjoyed, and yet. Now that he has the full intensity of Scar's attention, it feels harder to repeat. A soft thumping noise lets him know Scar's tail is doing things, and oh that's adorable, and Grian tries really hard to soak in the fact that he is the one who made Scar this happy.

It didn't even take that much. Just a little bit of vulnerable honesty.

An incredulous, nervousness-laced chuckle falls out of him. "'Course I do." He says as if it was obvious. As if it was the most sure thing in the whole wide world.

But he thinks maybe that's not good enough. And he— Gosh. This is hard.

He moves his hands to Scar's face, cupping it, even as his wings stay slumped across Scar's back. He wants to look into his eyes and make sure Scar understands.

His fingers brush Scar's cheeks, and Grian's breath stutters for a second. Grasping, he tries to regain control. His stomach flutters. He knows there's no smidge of rejection on the other end of this, and yet it feels so scary to say with no hint of doubt, putting it all out there. Baring his heart.

Still, he does it. Anything for him.

"Scar. I love you insanely much."

And oh, Scar can’t escape when heat spreads across his face, not with Grian holding him steady. But Grian’s eyes are so big and wide, so genuine, and Scar finds he doesn’t want to escape at all. Grian can see him flush. Grian can see how his ears flutter as if he was the one with earwings. Grian can witness how he wags his spectral tail and lets out a joyous purr as he presses his forehead close to his, breathing in shakily as he threatens to cry from happiness.

It's mesmerising to see Scar’s reaction—all the subtle ways Scar's expression shifts, softens, brightens. The way his face flushes and his ears flick, the eagerness with which he leans forwards.

Grian loves him. Hopelessly, utterly, irredeemably loves him.

His stomach still flutters as he thinks that if hearing this makes Scar so happy, maybe he ought to tell him more often. Maybe he should slot this little phrase into his daily dictionary. Make sure it gets said.

“I thought— you, you said something last night and I wasn’t sure if I heard you right, but I hoped I had, because it made me so unbelievably happy and—“ Scar stops, blinking a few times as he mentally resets, almost laughing out loud as he registers just how far ahead of himself he’s gotten. “Wait, oh my gosh, I love you, too. I— I love you so much, Grian.”

Grian’s thoughts jump to blankness as he hears the confession. He has just enough time to process and reset before Scar is saying it again and— For a hot second, Grian doesn't know how to exist. His breath catches in his throat and he holds it in as the fluttering in his stomach gets worse in all the right ways.

Scar's giggling, nuzzling at his cheek, and it finally pushes a breath out of Grian, lined with a delirious, giddy laugh. It sounds wondrous and bright, if a little unsteady. (He wonders if this'll make him cry again, in a completely different way.)

He wraps his arms back around Scar's shoulders and squeezes at him, needing that extra hold, just to seal this moment. To entrap them in it. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, ready to burst, as he lets the words bounce around in his head.

And then he tips the giggles into a chuckle, sliding from delirium to something more controlled, loving but playful, just a touch amused and a whole lot fond: "My doting boyfriend loves me." And he giggles again, stupidly and freely and oh-so-very brightly.

“I do!!” Scar cheers, thrilled and unabashed. Grian’s laughter fills Scar with absolute joy and he feels his fingers twitch and twinkle as a fresh surge of ecstatic magic thrums through his veins. He giggles just as brightly and happily, and he catches the puff of blue that escapes him just as sheer excess— there’s simply too much giddiness for him to contain. “And you love me,” he sing-songs, meaning it as a goofy tease, but it comes out all too eager and genuine. He can’t help it. That fact is absolutely incredible to him, even if it’s something he ought to have known— he did know, but to have it said out loud? To admit it freely and without fear?

It only further cements his decision, eyes flicking down to where the compass lies in Grian’s lap.

A home. Safety. Something real. Something worth holding onto.

Love.

Grian's tone shifts at Scar’s half-tease as he replies: "I do." Although some of the laughter still rings in his voice, this is different. This is more tender than anything else. A cottony reassurance, undeniably genuine.

Scar resists the full-body shudder his excitable magic shoots through him, but it still results in a buzzing thrill dancing across his skin, undoubtedly felt by them both.

A staticky warmth runs across Grian's skin, a confusing and electrifying sensation that, once it reaches his wings, makes his feathers puff up in thrill. It's a strange but not unwelcome feeling, and Grian's pretty certain it comes from Scar's magic. He purringly coos against it, appreciative and happy with it.

“Now I’m absolutely feeding you,” Scar says, pressing each word against Grian’s skin in the form of a kiss, entirely over the top with each. “Man, not fair, I wish I could make dessert. A massage maybe? I could wash your hair again?” He grins wide against Grian’s lips after a particularly accented kiss. “I love you.”

Quietly, Grian laughs against the kisses. "I thought I was meant to be the dessert," he remarks, because he can't help the little tease to slip in. But Scar keeps distracting him with kisses, forcing another small giggle out of Grian as he confesses again. And, honestly, Grian doesn't want him to stop. Ever.

He pulls away just a little bit, just to be able to grin at Scar, eyes twinkling with far more warmth and joy than mischief. "So what you're saying is... You're going to spoil me?"

“I’m going to spoil you rotten,” Scar corrects with a cheeky smirk before reaching over to grab their very neglected food. He practically has to drape himself over Grian to do so, but it’s silly and he loves it because it’s more contact, more, more. Scar swears he’s on fire and he’s gladly basking in the flames.

"I should've done this a long time ago then. You mean I could've gotten spoiled this whole time?" Grian jokes lightly, even though he knows Scar always gave him so much in this world. Attentive, gentle, protective Scar.

A pit in Grian's stomach tells him how despairing it was without Scar, and how much he needs him in more ways than one. His expression shifts into something more quiet and somber as the memories threaten to crowd him.

He swallows thickly, pushing those thoughts out as he's being jostled by Scar. Instead, he anchors his attention on this: on Scar leaning over him, happy and content and in love with him, reaching for the food. He's so close and so warm and— And Grian cranes his neck and kisses Scar's ear.

Words line on his tongue, more feelings than anything coherent, and he's probably about to say something sappy again, but his stomach saves him. (By growling loudly, demanding that food.) Grian sputters, hangs his head to hide it in Scar's shoulder. "You didn't hear that," he lets him know, feeling the burn of embarrassment slink over his skin again.

Scar giggles as he pulls himself back to a proper sitting position, even if he’s just as hungry as Grian. “A lesser Scar may have brought attention to that, but I’m your doting boyfriend, so I heard nothing,” he says with a big goofy smile, offering a bite to Grian and resisting about half a dozen baby bird jokes.

Grian's eyes are wide as the food is presented to him and before he can catch himself, he chirps.

His face burns. Stupid avian instincts. He has a troubling thought that they might be a little bit more present now that they've established this whole boyfriend thing. (Scar's his mate. His flock. And in many ways, he already was before, but Grian feels it so much more acutely now—)

He clears his throat, squints at Scar almost as if he was chastising him from luring that sound out of him—and yet he can feel the twitch of his lips as they want to grin, happy fuzzy feelings gathering behind his ribcage.

He thinks he could indulge Scar. Solely because of the way Scar's beaming at him. (Who could resist?) He tells himself this is playful. Scar's being so endearing and excited to play his newly confirmed role of a doting boyfriend, and who is Grian to deny him this joy?

So he takes a breath and discards his pride. It's surprisingly easy, even if it leaves a nervous tingling in its wake, making him feel oddly vulnerable as he leans in and opens his mouth to eat the offered food.

(It isn't the first time Scar's fed him; he did it when Grian was too sick, feverish enough not to really remember it, but he knows it happened.) (This is different.) (This is so very different.)

Scar has to press his lips together so, so tightly in order to stop himself from laughing. That sound was positively adorable and Scar would smack himself eternally if he were to scare future instances away by giggling. It's not even that it's funny, it's just the obvious unintentional nature of the chirp and the way Grian's face flushes red stirs something warm in Scar that just can't help bubble to the surface in the form of unbridled laughter.

But he will resist.

Instead he grins wide in response to Grian's muted smile, delighted and amused, and pops the food into Grian's mouth with only the tiniest chuckle.

So many things he has to resist right now. Giggling. Ridiculous nicknames. Kissing Grian. Buzzing his lips together to imitate an airplane. Kissing Grian.

He deserves an award for his restraint, truly.

As soon as the food is in his mouth, Grian pulls away slightly and finally allows his earwings to slink partially in front of his face, to cover up the fluster that's so clearly reflected across his skin.

It's so magnificently telling, that this meal was made using their best ingredients. Maybe it wouldn't pass on hermitcraft, but here? After months of surviving off scraps? This is actually a treat.

Grian's eyes twinkle over the fireglow-warmed violet of his earwings as they roam across Scar's face, finding anchor in the green of his irises. He wants another bite. He's not asking for it. No way.

"You—" He starts, and finds his voice hoarse. (A bird noise wants to fall out of his throat instead, and he has to fight it back.) His eyes flit away for a second, a fragment of a moment to regather himself, before they're inevitably drawn back to Scar. "You should eat, too," he murmurs quietly.

"Oh, of course, right," Scar says, grabbing a piece for himself. "I probably should have taste tested this first! But I got a little...carried away." He grins and tilts his head in a sort of apology before trying his concoction himself.

It's not bad. He's certainly made much better breakfasts in his lifetime, but it might be up there with his best meals on this particular server. And, well, if they're going to settle down somewhere eventually (hopefully), then he's going to have to get a lot better at scavenging for good ingredients.

"What do you think?" Scar asks, already picking up another bite and tapping it to Grian's lips like a menace.

Grian huffs, making sure to look troubled, even as he doesn't really mean it. In fact, he very happily obliges the tapping, biting down on the provided food.

"—think it's amazing," he replies with his mouth still full, contently chewing. He waits until he swallows to regard Scar, his whole expression softening. "Good job." And then he leans in and oh so very softly kisses scar's cheek. "Thank you."

Scar's face brightens up again, pleased and lovestruck even from the tiniest affection. "Anything for you," he croons, then takes another bite so he can distract himself from how entirely genuine that sentiment is.

Grian’s mind catches on the words. Lets them echo through him, nestle and root deep behind his ribs, gently seeping into his bloodstream:

Anything for you.

A part of him wants to do something silly—demand him to show it, by some absolutely ridiculous means. It wants to twist it into joke, into a playful amusement, into theatrics. A different part of him wants to just sink in, as if the words were cotton; he craves to willingly drown in them.

A wholly another part wants to protest and beg him to take it back.

"Anything?" Grian asks, his voice suddenly fragile, so very small.

He barely has the time to let that word out before Scar's touching him, fingers tracing a tender, aching spot on Grian's neck. There's nothing that could stop him from shuddering at that touch; nothing that could stop him from closing his eyes and tilting his head slightly—baring his abused neck to Scar's roaming fingertips.

"Mhm." The sentiment weighs a little too heavy for Scar’s liking, even if it's true, so he adds, even with his mouth full: "I think we deserved a treat. Rough night for some reason." He brushes his fingers over the bruising bite on Grian's neck before offering him another chunk of food. "...Crazy."

A timid coo escapes Grian’s lips before it merges into a laugh. "Crazy," he echoes. Maybe it's strange that this interaction grounds him, but he feels more sure afterwards, brightness returning to his expression until it morphs into something positively cheeky, promising trouble. "Maybe I like it rough."

A choked, aborted laugh escapes Scar's throat. He did not expect those words from Grian, so openly suggestive with that pesky smile on his face. "No kidding," he manages to say, grinning back with all of his pointed teeth as he chuckles at their absurdity. But he still offers another spot of food to Grian, because as rough as they both seem to like things, gentleness and care feel equally as important right now.

Grian laughs, openly and wildly. It's such a delightful sound, filled to the brim with life and amusement. Briefly, he ignores the offered food in favour of pushing it gently aside so that he could kiss Scar's lips—a chaste little thing, laced with pure endearment and none of the roughness he just spoke of. "I love you." The words are pressed against Scar's lips for him to breathe them in, before Grian pulls away and with a satisfied smile tips to collect his food.

"Yeah, I'm not gonna get over that fact," Scar says, ducking his head down in soft embarrassment, cheeks almost hurting from smiling. "I love you, too," he murmurs, suddenly a little timid.

Grian's smile widens even as he chews food, giddiness ceaselessly strumming at his heartstrings. He chuckles quietly, mouth closed, tipping his head slightly to catch Scar's gaze. "You know—" he pauses, just enough to swallow, allowing his smile to grow. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing that." And then, after a beat, smile morphing into a grin once again: "My doting boyfriend." He giggles, his tease filled with fondness. And he doesn't stop himself this time either—he leans in and kisses Scar's nose. Just because he can.

Scar has to power through the intense endearment he's feeling just to get words out at all, but he pulls away dramatically, tutting at Grian. "Hey now, dessert is for later." But he steals a kiss on Grian's nose as well, because it's only fair.

The affection feels wonderful, so good it lets Grian forget where they are in its entirely. He hums, playfully pensive, and his hands abandon their position on Scar's shoulders. They drape more over him, reaching back, one hand tracing a path up the back of Scar's neck, fingertips gently raking the skin and delving into hair. "Yeah?" He teases, pesky, just because he is insanely curious for Scar's reaction.

Scar keeps his composure for the most part, but that spur of energy that shoots through him from his magic makes him shudder regardless. “Mhmm…” he says slowly, restrained. He presses another bite of food to Grian’s mouth in an attempt to save himself. “L–later.”

A small laugh slips past Grian's throat. He pulls slightly away, but his hands remain; the touch softens, turning to soft caress through Scar’s loose stands. "Promise?" he asks, just as cheeky and bright as before, and seamlessly shifts his attention to eat the offered food. (It tastes so good on his tongue, prepared with careful, thoughtful love)

Scar can’t help it. With that adoring touch threading through his hair, tempting him to slip into those deep purrs he only lets out on rare occasion (more often lately), he breathes out slow and heavy, drawn forward just a tad. His eyes are focused on Grian’s lips, shamelessly, and he leans in further before he speaks.

“Anything for you,” he repeats, letting that purr slip through as he draws out his words. And then promptly takes a bite of food instead of acting on his growing urges.

Grian basks in the attention, and every subtle way in which Scar moves or breathes. It's wonderful to see, eyes roaming across Scar's features unabashedly, freely, taking it all in.

"Anything," Grian repeats again, still musingly, but this time it isn't a question.

He swallows the food and a wholly mischievous grin spreads across his lips, toothy and threatening, as he plays with the idea of saying something dirty to make Scar absolutely flustered. (The thrilling curiosity tingles down his spine. His feathers shudder, brushing against Scar's back.)

His eyes shift towards the food instead, and he tips his head, obediently awaiting delivery.

That smile spells trouble and Scar knows it, tickled by the feeling of feathers at his back. Oh, he is far too weak for anything Grian could pull, so he’s thankful when Grian leans in for more food and happily obliges.

“You heard me,” Scar still says, because he’s also made of trouble and loves to tempt fate.

As he's chewing the food, Grian chuckles quietly, nothing but a huff of air through his nose, but so very clearly amused. He didn't think it was possible to smile this much while eating, and yet here he is.

His wings move again, brushing, tightening their little space and making it smaller. As he swallows, he leans in, face lightly nuzzling over Scar's cheek and temple before his lips end up hovering over his ear. "Mkay," he purrs, a sound verging on a coo. It still has those mulling tones, but it also spells a plan made entirely of mischief and daring.

He doesn't actually voice it; Scar didn't ask. He presses a small kiss to the edge of Scar's jaw as he pulls back away, wings shifting and loosening too (although still staying put on Scar's back, oddly and unexpectedly relishing that sensation), without giving anything away. His eyes twinkle, and he's still smiling like he's made of trouble, just waiting for Scar to crack. (He knows Scar's curious.) (He's tempting him as much as they're both also playing with fate in this very moment.)

"I heard ya," Grian reassures, faux-nonchalantly, and tilts himself for more food.

Scar splits the rest of the food evenly between them, although the task is difficult when Grian is so clearly hinting at something and Scar is far too curious for his own good. It's going to doom him entirely.

(And so will the feeling of Grian's breath on his ear)

He offers another bit of food, but his eyes are narrowed, suspicious of that falsely innocent tone. He knows better than anyone that innocence and Grian do not belong together. "Do I dare ask what I may have just agreed to?" he questions, too dazed by the miniscule affections and how much of an effect they have on him to reconsider asking.

Grian bites off the offered food and then he abruptly pulls back—only with his upper half—dragging his wings up along Scar's back until they ruffle his hair as Grian laughs around his food. The wings come away, only briefly, flapping at the air before they settle around Scar's shoulder like a feathery cloak, giving Grian a moment to chew and swallow the food.

He looks at Scar and it's so clear the innocence has nothing to do on his face, and yet it's so stubbornly woven into his expression. Brightness wars with mischief in his grin. "Oh, Scar." That's all he says, and it verges on playfully pitying, but mostly cheerful.

He's laughing around his words, only for his hands to pull back and cup Scar's face, thumbs fondly brushing across Scar's cheek as Grian's gaze softens. (Damn. He wants to tell him again.) (He's drunk on the fondness that swells in his chest.)

Scar was going to eat the last bite of food, but the feathery cloak offered to him completely short-circuits his brain and he drops it right back into the bowl. He can't even process the teasingly condescending tone Grian speaks to him with (which he'd normally dramatically pout about), because there are beautiful wings curled around him and suddenly his cheeks rival the red hues of the deeper violets in the end feathers draped over his shoulders.

His attention gets pulled back when Grian strokes his face and, gosh, he had to have been staring. He can't help it. He's in awe right now, like he's somewhere else entirely, somewhere where Grian willingly slots his wings around him, pulls him close like he's something so very dear to him.

"You," Grian breathes out, his tone shifting entirely, into something mesmerised and bewildered and impossibly smitten.

"Wha... uhh," Scar sputters uselessly, dazed in the happiest way. "You... you have me." He blinks, somewhat confused in his haze of adoration. His words are spoken like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because it is, really. The words slide out all too easily.

Grian giggles at Scar's dazed expression and words, but it also warms him immensely, in the softest, safest way. He almost slots his cheeky words away, because Scar fragments something in him, stuffs the edges with cotton, makes all of him softer and more harmless and—

All of a sudden, Grian doesn't know how to be.

He whines softly, a questioning little sound.

Scar says he has him. He? Has Scar?

His hands still, thumbs pressing the lightest pressure against Scar's cheeks as he tips his head, confused.

This shouldn't be confusing. But—

Something about it keeps tugging at Grian and pulling him in.

He takes a ragged breath, and he remains a touch bewildered as he looks down. "You didn't finish the meal." And then, still looking down, he adds: "You can't have desert without finishing first." It's not cheeky. His tone has shifted entirely. It's laced with the tiniest bit of confusion as he wrangles with something unspoken.

Scar closes his eyes for a moment, really taking in the feeling of Grian’s hands on his face and feathers on his skin and relishing in it. He can hear that shift in tone, how softness nestles in between Grian’s words as he speaks, matching the gentle affections. Scar feels light, each point of contact a tiny spark.

“Right,” Scar says, but he sounds so distant, almost delirious. He smiles as he opens his eyes, then shifts himself so he can press a kiss to one of Grian’s palms, because surely he’s still allowed a taste of his treat.

The kiss against Grian’s palm tingles, something wonderful and stitched with promises. Warmth spreads from that point of contact through Grian, and he shudders lightly; Scar can surely tell, because it reaches all the way to his wings.

Scar quickly pops the last piece of food into his mouth and sets the bowl aside so he can reach out to take hold of Grian’s chin, tilting his head back up so he can view his partner’s face. “Better?” he asks, still smiling, eyes still glossed over with boundless adoration.

Grian traces the path of the bowl as it is set aside, and it sparks something uncertain but pleasant in his guts. His eyes find Scar's, needing grounding; then Scar's hands are on his chin, and he's as captivated as he's captured, gently, tenderly, lovingly.

"Mm." Grian takes in Scar's question, and only then it slots in that, yeah, actually, eating did make him feel better. But he also feels oddly off balance now. And he isn't sure how to express it.

He was going to tease Scar, once he finished eating. He was going to be pesky and curious, and push. But now he's left staring into Scar's eyes, searching for something that even he can't name. His hands slide down to Scar's front, palms resting on his chest, feeling his breaths.

"Better," he echoes in reply, but it doesn't sound quite sure. It doesn't feel quite anchored.

Both of Scar’s hands make their way to Grian’s face as soon as he has the chance. His thumb brushes over Grian’s chin, gently caressing now that he’s looking Scar’s way. The other rests against his cheek, fingers flitting over his freckles and those tiny feathers leading toward his ear.

“So I’m pampering you, right?” Scar asks with a bright twinkle in his eye, easing into a fantasy where they have time for such frivolous things. Because, right now, maybe they do. Enclosed in their own little world, bellies and hearts full, they truly might. “Spoiling you rotten?”

The touch makes Grian positively melt against it, leaning in without any defenses. Especially when Scar's fingertips reach the tiny feathers that lead to Grian's earwings, he's doomed. He closes his eyes, tips his head into the touch, and coos. (It feels so good. So right.)

Scar asks some questions, and it takes a moment for Grian to catch up. When he does, he hums an affirmative, still leaning blindly into the touch.

Scar watches with deep endearment as Grian leans into the touch, mouthing a silent ”precious” in response when Grian coos so sweetly. He very carefully navigates around the scar across Grian’s face, tracing over the skin softly before placing a kiss there as well.

Then he perks up, humming happily as he lightly rocks their bodies to either side to suggest they move. “C’mon then, I have some ideas.” And he tilts his head toward the water again.

Scar coaxes Grian towards the hotspring pond, offering not only a bath, but also a massage—a boundless sense of care as he works through Grian’s aching muscles, avoiding all the bruises and injured spots with deft fingers, showing his boyfriend what his hands are actually good for (Scar’s words, not mine). Making Grian melt into a groaning puddle, spoiled with the little they have, allowed to rest and recover and, for once, not be afraid.

For once hopeful.

Indulgently, they decide to stay one more night, before inevitability forces them to move on: they need to scavenge and hunt for more food and resources. But decisively, they know a direction to go in:

North.

Towards their future.

#ange writes #hhau #hopewards!!!#this concludes the hot spring bit #<33 #can you tell we love them?#scarian

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angeart · 1 year ago

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hhau rescue rambles - part III

>> part I here // part II here // hhau masterpost here <<

3,3k words. cw for this one - violence, injuries, maybe mild gore?

-- The hunters come, drawn by the loud noises of panic Grian was making, unerringly making their way towards them. They yell and holler at each other and cheer, feeling triumph from cornering their prey. It’s going to be them who get the wanted poster reward money. Them who will get their hands on those rare, special, bright feathers.

They do not hesitate to approach and attack.

Scar is tightly holding onto Grian, unwilling to let go. He’s going to protect him with everything he has, and if right now that’s just his body? If it means being a shield? He’ll do it.

He’s in his vex form, which allows the wounds to heal, but they still hurt. It still feels desperate. It still feels like there’s a limit, and the enemies are approaching, cautious around the clearly feral vex.

Scar’s going to have to let go of Grian if they have any chance to fight them off here.

He pleads and begs, asking for Grian’s attention and trust, hoping for some coherency. Hoping, to all hells and back, that Grian can do this last thing. That he won’t run, that he won’t give up, that he won’t give himself over in some misguided attempt to protect Scar. (There’s no protecting Scar here. He’s on that wanted poster as well, after all. He’s already caught in this skirmish.)

There’s only one thing for them to do.

Fight.

So he looks at Grian, trying to anchor his panicked gaze, and begs him to fight with him.

Please, fight with me. Please, Grian. It can be the last time.

And Grian nods. He rubs the tears out of his eyes. There’s nothing else to do here. He’s going to stand by Scar’s side and do his part in their survival, like always. Even if it might be the last time. (Grian definitely thinks the last time means something else here, but he’s willing to take as many hunters down with them as possible.) (He also thinks this just proves his point that he’s a beacon and he’ll draw danger to Scar, constantly, always, until they die.)

They slip into something learned, feral and fierce. A flash of steel and claws, blue magic and violet feathers. The panic and exhaustion take second place, pushed away entirely by a haze of a fight, blood gathering on their hands as they cover each other’s back.

It’s violent. It’s vicious.

This is how the hermit rescue party finds them.

They’ve never seen Grian and Scar like this. They’ve never seen a scene quite like this one. But the fight is far from over, and more hunters are coming, and— The hermits don’t really get time to process what they’re seeing—what any of it means, a reflection of two years of horrors—they simply rush in to help.

Scar is relieved to see them. They can now see that Grian is alive! (And they can help keep it that way!) And Grian can see that there really is hope!

Except Grian isn’t really processing that this is their friends. His mind is completely haywire, adrenaline loud in his ears. This makes no sense to him, and he doesn’t have the space to stop and pause and take it in. It’s staticky and numb and far away, nonsensical to his frightened heart. The coherency evades him.

There’s nothing here for Grian but blood and death and Scar Scar Scar Scar.

He barely dodges an arrow aimed at him and pounces at a hunter who was approaching Scar from the side. There’s no hesitation in his motions. No pause or remorse about fighting to death on a permadeath server. About killing, ruthlessly and brutally. It’s long since past the time when thoughts like that felt like they hold any weight.

The hermits quickly assess that this isn’t going to go well. The fight won’t easily be turned in their favour if they’re overwhelmed by numbers. They need to go. Now.

They don’t get to tell their plan to Scar and Grian. There’s no time. There’s no real way to explain anything in this chaos of a fight. They simply act.

It’s Cub who manages to get close enough to vex-mode Scar, snapping a bracelet on his wrist.

Scar barely registers that there’s something against his skin before he feels a sharp yank as he’s teleported away, without warning or consent.

Disorientedly, he finds himself on a ship, the surroundings quiet where before everything was loud. Cub is there with him, and so is Doc and Ren and Impulse. Xisuma hurries into the room, eyes wide, asking if Scar’s okay.

Scar isn’t okay, because he is here and Grian isn’t.

Scar isn’t okay, because Grian was ready to give up and sacrifice himself before Scar found him, and now he's alone again.

Scar isn’t okay, because Grian is terrified and Scar isn’t there to help. He isn’t there to keep him grounded. He isn’t there to keep him alive through this. He—

It doesn’t matter that Cub promises they’re coming. So very sure the others will join them very soon. Any second, really! Aaaaany second.

Scar’s going ballistic on the ship. Gone full vex brain, and they can’t snap him out of it. Doc tries to restrain him with his bionic arm, since it can resist Scar’s claws. (Scar does not like seeing a creeper right now, either. He’s not thinking straight.) Scar’s hair is still white, eyes shining blue, vex magic rampant in his veins as feral panic floods him, leaving him thrashing and yelling at them, demanding to see Grian. (They took him away, he can’t be taken away, no nononono—)

Cub keeps repeating they’re coming. They’re coming.

Scar keeps trying to fight back, get free, get them to listen to him. Insisting, urgent and panicky: Send me back send me back send me back.

A minute passes, then another.

The others aren’t showing up.

Scar’s agitation only grows. He told them. He told them that Grian needs him! They aren’t listening to him. Nobody is listening.

Impulse tells him to trust them.

Scar shouts back that he doesn’t trust anybody.

It’s bewildering and startling and wild. On top of that, Cub is freaking out, because Scar’s still in his vex form, and Cub knows all too well that it’s actively dangerous to Scar to keep holding onto that much vex magic at once for too long. That Scar needs to stop.

Scar won’t stop. Not until Grian is safe.

Grian isn’t safe.

The fight is messy and the hermits showed up in the middle of it and Grian isn’t processing any of it. He just knows someone’s trying to grab him, and then Scar is gone, and Grian’s left in an even worse state, everything a cacophony of danger and panic.

Amidst the chaos of the fight, he does what he knows best: he avoids being touched. He avoids capture, which is what his brain perceives as the hermit rescue party trying to do. They need to get close to him, within touching distance, and put the bracelet on him, and— He isn’t letting them. He isn’t letting anyone near him. (Anyone but Scar.) (But Scar isn’t here anymore.)

Alarms blare through Grian’s head at the loss of Scar—his only source of safety irreparably gone in a way he can’t comprehend—hurtling him deeper into confusion and despair. Everything’s a blur of blood and adrenaline, and he’s terrified.

But Scar asked him to fight, one last time. So Grian does.

Scar, too, fights.

He fights to get free, to get sent back to Grian, somehow, he doesn’t care how just send him back. He’s distressed in a way they’ve never seen, and the more time passes without the rest of the rescue party coming back, the more grim it all becomes.

Doc is still on Scar-restraining duty. Impulse and Ren are trying to help but are lowkey pressing themselves against the walls, trying to avoid the lash out. Cub’s still trying to get to Scar, urging him to calm down before the vex magic burns him out completely (and literally). Xisuma is anxiously counting every second that the rest of the rescue crew isn’t coming, trying to process the severity of the implications without having all the informations to do so.

And then, finally, Pearl comes through.

Only Pearl.

She’s dazed. She’s bleeding.

Scar doesn’t care. He tries to tackle her and demand answers, Doc’s hold slipping, managing to reel him back just in time.

Everyone’s now on high alert. They don’t know what’s going on down there and they also need to take care of Pearl’s injuries.

Turns out, Gem triggered Pearl’s teleport to get her out of there when she got severely injured. It’s now only Grian and Gem against a whole bunch of hunters in a world that doesn’t play nice.

Scar swivels, yanking himself free of Doc’s hold. He grabs Xisuma. “Send me back.”

Pearl’s pleading the same now. She was so close to Grian! She doesn’t know what’s going to happen now that she isn’t there. Now that she doesn’t have a chance to reach him anymore. There was so much blood everywhere. Her injuries throb in a way she’s never felt, dread thick on her tongue like blood.

She can’t bear the possibility of this going wrong.

Nobody can.

Impulse snaps to action (as the Unhurt Sane Person��). “Alright, that’s it. I’m going in.”

X, worried for Gem and Grian, lets him.

Which makes Scar more feral, because he also wants to go, and now he knows Xisuma is capable of sending him back. He starts straight up threatening them all, tries to snatch at the controls himself, tries to grab Xisuma by the throat, all the bad things. He yells at them that Grian’s going to die. Can’t they understand??? His words are jumbled and desperate and hard to comprehend, but he needs them to understand. He needs to go back.

His claws are still smeared by blood of the hunters. He’s still in vex form, hair white and eyes blue, fangs sharp. Breath hitching, tears dripping down his chin, heart beating wildly in his chest. He needs to go they need to let him they have to. Grian’s going to die.

Cub decides he has to make compromises. He says they have to send Scar back in. (Scar isn’t going to let go of his vex form here like this.) He makes the call to trust Scar despite all the damage he’s causing here. He approaches him, even though Scar is scary and has been lashing out, grabs his hand and presses a bracelet into it.

He tells Scar, “Save him.”

The second Scar spawns back down, he is welcomed by Grian’s visceral scream of pain.

His first instant thought is a harrowing not again, vividly remembering how he found Grian that very first time in this world. How close to death that ended up. How awful it was.

He wanted to never hear that kind of sound again. And yet he keeps hearing them. Screams of pain he’ll never be able to forget.

The scene that greets him is dismal.

Grian’s on the ground, his wing tangled into a trap that keeps dragging and ripping at it. There’s a lot of hunters trying to approach the trap—they want to kill Grian so he’d stop thrashing and tearing his wing apart, because they don’t want their precious money-making wings destroyed. Gem and Impulse are slightly off to the side, getting overwhelmed as they’re desperately trying to keep the hunters on them and away from Grian.

It’s a blur. Scar rushes through the hunters, drawing blood as he goes, mindless and with only a singular goal in mind: get to Grian. He doesn’t care if he’s getting stabbed or sliced in the process. (It’ll heal. It’ll heal. Grian might not.) A growl rips from him, low and deep and feral. A handful of hunters startles away from Grian, stumbling out of the mad vex’s path, but it doesn’t save them from their fate.

Scar’s claws are drenched in scarlet, leaving behind an absolute carnage by the time he collapses to his knees by Grian’s side, unable to relax until he can gather Grian in his bloodied arms.

Impulse and Gem keep fending off hunters, but they also watch this scene unfold in stolen, fragmented little moments, keeping an eye on the two of them. And it’s destabilising to witness, for very different reasons than everything else that’s happened so far.

Because it’s only when Scar has a hold on Grian does some of the white bleed out of his hair, his hands softening from claws into blunt nails and harmless fingertips.

Because where there were only growls and snarls and seemingly no control, there’s suddenly gentleness and soft murmured words.

Because Scar kisses Grian’s hair as he soothes him, and Grian finally grows quieter and calmer, even though he’s still shivering and sobbing and clearly in immense pain.

Because Grian lets Scar put that bracelet on him so easily, so willingly, clutching onto him, Scar’s name on a desperate, hoarse, endless loop on Grian’s lips.

It all suddenly makes a lot more sense. (They messed up taking Scar away.)

They all get teleported out of there, this time Grian included.

It isn’t pretty. The trap that tears at his wing and leaves him hopelessly ground-bound is so firmly attached to him that it gets teleported with him, its sharp edges buried deep into the flesh of Grian’s wing.

He keeps freaking out whenever someone tries to approach, making it impossible for them to help.

It’d be best if Peal could come and take a look. She’s a moth hybrid, not an avian, but she still knows more about wings than any of them. (She should know a lot about Grian’s wings, their relationship once almost sibling-like, but she looks at the tangled, bloodied mess that Grian is, flinching away from her, and she is terrified, finding no traces of that bond in Grian’s frightened gaze.)

Scar keeps holding onto Grian, blindly eager to keep everyone away as well, attuned to Grian’s panic. But his worry wins over, his adrenaline-muddied mind unable to figure out the trap without assistance.

So he eventually allows Pearl to approach.

Grian has different ideas. He’s having none of this. He doesn’t want anyone near his wings.

Determined and not seeing much of a choice here, Pearl crouches as close as Grian allows. Scar’s blocking Grian’s view, trying to redirect his attention and keep him calm through the waves of frantic, leftover but still very real panic. (He’s using his wings to block the view.) (Cub cringes at the state of them. They all do, actually, momentarily stunned but determining that this isn’t the time to ask.)

Pearl is just close enough to inspect the tangle, and just far enough for it all to be out of reach.

It’s hard to see, through the blood and the feathers and various other bits that she really doesn’t want to think too much about.

Trying to take control over her trembling voice, she does her best to navigate Scar through it. It would’ve been so much simpler if she could do it herself—it’d probably avoid some mistakes and more damage, and it’d be faster. (Verbal navigation with frenzy-muddled thinking is difficult.)

But Grian can’t can’t can’t

Scar’s hands tremble almost the entire time. He’s still on an adrenaline rush. He’s exhausted from his magic usage—even having his wings out is a struggle.

At one point, Pearl tries to lay a soothing hand on Scar and he jumps.

And it just really settles then—that, wow, they’re both really messed up, aren’t they?

Scar ends up being the one to bargain with hermits. Bargaining is a strong word, it’s more of a list of demands, really. Safety lines, kind of. Grian’s still not processing quite right that this is happening—it’s a numb, almost dissociative feeling; he knows these are his friends, but he doesn’t understand how this is real, and his feelings are nonsensical and haywire. He feels very far from normal. (He doesn’t remember what normal is.) He doesn’t want anyone near.

They’re given lots of potions in lieu of a more proper medical examination, and a private shared room. Scar’s always the one to answer the door, on guard, tense even as he slips on an easygoing smile most of the times.

They’re given new comms, which they tuck away and promptly forget about, completely unused to such a thing.

Once things settle a bit, all the startling differences come into focus. Cub points out that Scar’s got new scars, and everyone notices his stark white streak in his hair. (Not to mention his tattered wings.) On top of that, Grian is scarred now too. And they hold themselves differently, twitching and flinching, curled up and quiet. Guarded and unapproachable.

Everything feels horribly precarious. The hermit crew skirts the topic of what that world was like, what happened to them, never quite managing to ask in any meaningful way, even as the questions burn on their tongue.

They’re not going to get any answers. Not now. Not for a long time.

Nothing but hints and flashes of fear in eyes and marks written deeply into skin, to stay forever, carry across respawns (which will now be a real possibility again, but it’s a concept Scar and Grian don’t know how to grasp anymore.)

The rescue crew sends a message home, to warn the others. Telling them to be careful and maybe not approach too fast. It’s vague, devoid of details. They themselves don’t really understand the triggers, after all, feeling confused. The journey home isn’t long enough for any of it to properly settle, a mere two days worth of travel until they’re within reach of Hermitcraft.

So of course the messages don’t make much sense to anyone waiting home on Hermitcraft. Everyone’s simply hyped and excited that this’s been a success, that Scar and Grian are going home!

They organise a welcome party.

It doesn’t go well.

Grian and Scar spawn in, not expecting to be instantly surrounded by people friends. It’s chaotic and loud, everyone cheerful and celebratory, ready to throw themselves at the two of them—

Except Grian’s backing away now, lowkey having a panic attack, and Scar’s protectively standing in front of him, shielding him, used to block the view of Grian’s wings on sheer instinct. Everything’s too much all at once, an onslaught of noises and people crossing lines before either of them are ready for it, and—

Well, Grian runs.

Scar, who has a slightly more solid understanding of how they’re meant to be safe now, falters. (His emotions aren’t settled at all, but he can somewhat rationalise it to himself.) (Grian can’t grasp it just yet at all.) He mumbles an anxious and slightly startled “Sorry— This— No.” Before he bolts after Grian.

The rescue crew sighs, telling the others they shouldn’t have done this. The welcome party was a bad idea. But nobody really understands. They can see now that, clearly, it was a bad idea, but they’re left reeling, trying to catch up to it. (Scar’s white streak. Grian’s scars. The panic in their eyes. Scar’s protectiveness. Grian’s fear.)

They’ve been looking forward to this reunion. They’ve spent weeks, months, feeling despair and hopelessness, an empty space left on the server where two beloved, pesky members of their family should be. And now they’re left standing here, in the wake of what should’ve been a happy occasion, all kinds of confused and concerned and confused.

Everything is far from ideal.

They’re going to take a breath, have an (unproductive) meeting about this, and do their best to figure out what to do about this situation.

Grian and Scar, in the meanwhile, are going to dig a hidden bunker. (The others had a house prepared for them, near the shopping district, lively and easy to visit.) (They didn’t even get to tell them.)

Well.

This is going to take some time.

But they’re home now. They’re home, and one day, that revelation is going to properly sink in.

Until then, they have each other. (And everyone else, waiting and ready for them. <3)

———

updating this with link's tags coz they deserve to be seen :3c

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angeart · 1 year ago

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hhau mimic arc rambles - part II: reunion

(~3,4 k words) // part I here // au masterpost here --

After being left out in the open, weakened and alone, without supplies or his cloak, wings on full bright display, Grian… isn’t doing so well.

He barely survived the attack. He scrambled so much to defend himself. He used the arrow (the one that was once buried in his thigh; the one he kept because it was sharp-edged and better than nothing). There was so much blood. It was all so horrible.

Now he finds himself alone and cold and terrified, bleeding. Everything hurts and he doesn’t know where Scar is—

Where is Scar?

... Did Scar leave him?

Scar wouldn’t leave him, right? (He doesn’t want to believe it. But the possibility that Scar might be in danger, somewhere far away from Grian, is absolutely dreadful.)

The camp is empty when Grian stumbles back into it, and the ribbon is gone, and— Maybe Scar did replace him, after all? Got rid of the burden of Grian’s violet wings, chose the path of least resistance, opted for survival instead of trying to constantly fight against Grian’s doomed fate?

Grian is so scared and confused. Worried sick too, but he feels abandoned and doesn’t know where to go. He misses that fabric on his wrist. He feels so so alone.

He tries waiting, for a while. But it’s dangerous to stay put and, eventually, he’s forced to move. And it almost feels familiar, in some awful way—it’s as if he was plunged back into his first week in this world. Hostile and cruel and nightmarish, with no reprieve, no kindness, no gentleness. No warmth to curl against, no hands to hold him steady, no safety net beneath his wobbly feet. Except he’s worn down by months in this world. And it’s colder now. And on top of that, he’s already wounded horribly.

He scrambles from place to place, leaving a trail of blood that he’s sure someone can trace. He tries so hard to hide himself, to lose any potential pursuers, but—

But a part of him wants to leave a trace. A part of him keeps hopelessly wishing that Scar might be out there, looking for him.

As days pass, that seems less and less likely.

Grian barely sleeps, reverting to old habits of wings pressed tightly against harsh surfaces in an attempt to hide them, surrendering the very much needed warmth they could provide if only he wrapped them around himself instead. He shivers, exhaustedly alert to every little sound. Dizzy and hurting and terrified.

He’s got nothing left now. Being with Scar feels like less of a memory and more of a fever dream. He's so sure it’ll now forever be this: him, lost alone in this vast forest, running until he can’t anymore. It will be the cold, or the hunger, injuries, or the hunters—something will inevitably bring him down, soon.

He misses Scar.

He hopes Scar is okay.

(He tries not to think about how he wishes this would all just end.) (He tries not to sink too much into exhausted, hopeless despair.) (He tries to dredge up his pesky resistance, any sort of spite against fate that could fuel him to just keep going, keep surviving.)

It’s a harsh week. He gets into more fights, each of them bleak and panic-filled and horrible. (A lot of the scars he later has—including the one on his face—come from this week spent alone.) He’s so, so tired. It all hurts. He’s scared.

When it happens, he’s curled up, hurt and bruised, face dirty and bloodied, body shaking from the cold, stomach twisted with hunger. All of a sudden he jolts, thinking he heard something distant that sounded like Scar’s voice. And he doesn’t know if he’s imagining things, because at this point that seems more likely than this being real, but he still can’t help himself as something urgent swells in him, begging him to reply, to call back.

He tries to call for Scar, but his voice falters and fails. His throat is so dry. He hasn’t made a sound in days.

Scar’s voice moves further away and Grian panics. He scrambles, unfurling his sore wings. Everything aches, his balance is off, but he tries to get up anyway. Desperate, he lets out a cry—a loud, sob-like sound, the only one still willing to wrangle itself from his throat.

And then he does something he hasn’t done in months: he spreads his wings further, and he tries to fly.

The branches are thick, and Grian’s wings don’t really carry him, and in his blind desperation, he quickly crashes against a tree. His wing spikes with pain and he tumbles harshly to the ground, but he doesn’t pay it any attention.

Panicked desperation keeps flooding his veins as he’s sprawled on the forest floor, his own body not listening to him as his lungs edge hyperventillation. Because— Because Scar was there but he was moving away and Grian couldn’t follow and he’s— he’s—

He’s just going to die here, isn’t he?

The trees rustle. There’s a loud noise Grian can’t quite decipher, but it doesn’t matter.

All that registers is danger.

Danger danger danger danger

It’s only ever been those horrible creatures. Nothing good approaches from the sky here. Grian’s made too much noise, and now they’ve found him, and he can’t fight, not anymore, not again, please—

A series of panicked, frantic chirps spills out of him on nothing but blind instinct as he tries to back away, press against something, flatten against the ground, anything.

His wings are bright. He doesn’t have a cloak. He can’t hide. He can't run.

He doesn't stand a chance.

He can’t do anything as the source of danger swoops down on him.

---

When Scar left Juni, he was a mess of conflicted emotions, the hurt and betrayal fresh and wildly flaring. But as he keeps moving, those emotions get overrun by others that spread through him like a wildfire: the rage, the desperation, the fear.

He doesn’t know where to go.

He doesn’t know if Grian’e even alive.

With heart torn to pieces in his chest and nothing but feeble, foolish hope—and an insane amount of blind recklessness—he clutches the ribbon, spreads out his tattered wings, and leaps up, scaling the trees to get as high as he can. The morning light is soft, pale and gentle, interspersed with fog that obscures everything further in a cottony haze.

Scar’s wings struggle to carry him, but he doesn’t care. He needs to go. He needs to go, and this is the fastest way, and—

He’d do anything right now. Anything to find Grian.

Desperately, he tries to feel the tug of their connection; the dark fabric of the ribbon prickles against his grip in silent accusation and Scar begs it to lead him. Yet there’s nothing to help him pick a direction; he simply scrambles in whichever way feels right.

He hollers. It’s not a word, just a cry. A call.

He really shouldn’t be loud, shouldn’t heedlessly drag attention to himself, but he doesn’t care what he attracts. The only thing that matters is that he also attracts Grian.

It feels futile. The world is vast and Scar doesn’t even know which direction him and Juni took, because he was continuously dosed with weakness. He doesn’t know how to get back to where he saw Grian last. (Days ago—)

He flies and glides and leaps, yelling, heart feeling like it’s going to explode in his chest.

And then he hears it.

A sob. A wretchedly (wonderfully) familiar sob.

His ears twitch rapidly, latching onto that. His whole body whips backwards midair, almost making him tumble completely. Frantically, in a haze of vex magic that edges on feral, he delves in the direction where he heard it.

He knows he’s near when his ears flick, catching another sound. Terrified little chirps.

He makes his way down through the trees. Down the branches. Down towards his avian.

---

Grian’s panic breaks the moment he catches sight of those bright spectral wings. Broken. So broken. Tattered and frantic.

Scar is made of sharp claws and fangs and wisps of pale blue magic. He looks like a monster ready to pounce. He looks absolutely nightmarish and terrifying.

Grian’s never been more relieved in his life.

He scrambles forwards. He’s on his hands and knees and his wing throbs and his face is wounded and none of it matters. Scar rushes to meet him, his wings fading before he’s even on the ground, and he practically falls into an embrace. (His claws stay pressed to his palms, careful, so careful. His tail wraps around them as he holds on, holds on, never wanting to let go again.)

They both cling tightly and cry. Grian’s making garbled noises, as if he was trying to say things, but he’s crying too hard to be coherent; he just paws at Scar and clings and burrows into the comforting safety of his arms. (He thought Scar left him.) (He thought Scar got captured.) (He thought Scar was dead.)

Feeling the shivers and cold skin, Scar scrambles to wrap the cloak around Grian, noticing the limp wing in the process. (His heart hurts.)

The familiar weight of the cloak provides such a small but important sense of security. Grian tucks his wings underneath it, even though it hurts, one of the wings twitching and moving wrong. He hisses in pain, but it gets swallowed up by his sobs and crying.

Amidst it all, Scar isn’t doing well—he only just got clear headed from that constant dose of weakness and he’s just majorly overused his magic, slamming into trees as he glided recklessly—but he has to keep pushing through, keep using his magic to be able to function right now, because Grian is the priority here and Scar won’t rest until he knows Grian is safe.

Here isn’t safe. They’re out in the open, after making loads of noise. And— Grian’s hurt. He’s bleeding. It’s so clear that something happened and Scar wasn’t there and— He can’t bear it, can't forgive himself.

Grian looks so cold and small and scared. And even though Scar was dosed with weakness potions, at least he was fed and kept warm. At least he was carefully steered away from danger and into shelters, left to rest. At least he wasn’t alone, terrified out of his mind for his life.

Grian didn’t have any of those luxuries. And there’s no way Scar can undo any of it.

Now Grian presses close to him, desperate to have him be here and be real. Through the crying, something desperate comes through—something that sounds like “Please don’t leave me again.”

With a hitched breath and a heart torn to absolute pieces in his chest, Scar shakes his head. He’s choking on sobs as he babbles, “Never, no no no no, never, never—” Urgently, he tucks the ribbon back into Grian’s hands.

Grian thought he lost it forever. He immediately clings to it, in such a desperate, urgent gesture. Needing to feel it in his grasp, to tell himself that it wasn't lost, that its connection persists. That it still belongs to him. (The ribbon and Scar's heart alike—)

“Yours, yours yours yours.” Scar, too, means more than just the ribbon.

Grian cries so hard he can’t breathe. He’s holding onto the ribbon and pressing himself against Scar and— he’s loud. His sobs carry. He can’t get them under control; it’s just so so raw.

With shaking hands, Scar tries to tie the ribbon around Grian’s wrist, where it belongs. He’s shaking too much, he’s struggling. (Trying to ignore the bruising he sees there. As if someone tried to pin Grian down by his wrist—) He’s babbling incoherently through it all, the words that tumble out of him both reassurances and apologies, repeating that he’s here, he’s here, he’s so sorry. Once he manages to get the ribbon tied, his words stumble through “This is yours, always yours, I’m yours, I’m sorry—”

Grian has no words beyond Scar’s name.

In all of this, Scar’s feeling weird. He wants to scoop Grian up and never let go, but he’s a little afraid of his claws— a little afraid of himself, really. This has never happened quite like this, with the surge of vex magic that borders on feral. He is lucid but off. He still feels a bit like he’s spinning. This is real, right? It’s real?

A frightened squeeze to Grian’s hands is reciprocated with a squeeze back and a whimper. Scar makes a quick decision to pull Grian up, to lift him and hold him tight. (He feels so urgent and needy, desperate and afraid that Grian is going to slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.) He tries not to be rough, but he still feels only barely in control of his own body. And despite the bruises and wounds that litter Grian’s body—despite everything hurting—Grian barely makes a sound of pain, instead tucking himself closely to Scar. Relieved to be held, to feel him so near. Trusting him fully with himself.

Securely holding Grian, Scar breaks into a run. His ears twitch, catching sounds of the forest as he tries to avoid them all. It’s chaotic. It’s all a bit of a blur. He keeps slurring more nonsense to Grian: “Sorry, safe, safe, never again, sorry.” Something broken about “love”.

Once Scar finds a semi-safe place, he kneels down, but he’s hesitant to let Grian go. Everything feels weird and light and he’s terrified it’s a dream he’s waking up from.

Grian isn’t any better, though; he keeps clinging to him, too. Scar was gone for so long and now he’s randomly back? He can’t quite process it; all that he knows is that he’s terrified to let go. (He remembers feeling woozy on weakness potions, and he remembers the deep pit of the fever from that arrow wound way back, and... This feels similar. Like maybe he’s not quite aware, not quite getting things right. Maybe— Maybe Scar isn’t here?)

Grian begs Scar to stay. (He feels like he’s asked that of him before, but it’s hazy in his exhausted mind.)

Scar can feel himself falling from the high of his magic; he feels weak again, confused, distant. But he latches onto that. “I’m not leaving,” he says, suddenly so clear. “He— he tricked me…” his voice wobbles. He feels awful, like a failure. He doesn’t want to think of the mimic ever again. He’s terrified to as well. The fact that he didn’t kill him means he could return—

Grian feels such a tangled mess at that admission. He wonders if Scar felt better with Juni? It took so long for him to realise and go looking for Grian, maybe he was better off with the fake one? It's so... it's so horrible to think that Scar took this long to realise Grian wasn't with him.

Scar still hasn’t let him down, instead falling to his knees entirely and cradling Grian close. He doesn’t want to admit how hard he fell for the trick. He hates himself for it. What if he didn’t find Grian?

His skin feels prickly and odd like his whole body has fallen asleep. He’s numb and weak and heavy and— Is he drugged again?

He wants to provide so many answers but— His skin is pulsing an off whitish blue. And he just croaks, “S–something’s wrong. I don’t feel— Grian. I don’t feel good.”

That singular admission throws Grian into sharp focus, panicked. He ignores his bruises and aches and the cold and tiredness, the wooziness from hunger and thirst—all of it. Instead, he whips to attention, looking Scar over. Trying to get him to tell Grian what’s wrong. (Obviously the colour is wrong—Scar’s not meant to pulsate with magic hue like this. But Grian doesn’t understand it. He’s never seen it. He’s— He’s so scared that this is something he won’t be able to help with, won’t be able to fix.)

Instead of a constructive answer, Scar stammers, slurred: “Did you— he— more potions?” He feels like he’s falling past some edge. His body won’t listen to him. His thoughts are turning fuzzy and staticky and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking about weakness potions.

Grian’s holding his cheeks, trying to keep eye contact. He doesn’t think a potion could do this. He pleads with Scar to tell him what does he need. How can he help?

The genuine concern from Grian horribly reminds Scar of the mimic. The nausea churns in his stomach, acidic, and he feels painfully helpless in this moment as everything seems to slip past his fingers. “Please be real?”

Grian makes a miserable sound, edging a startled sob. Something aborted and strained. His thumbs brush over Scar’s skin and he leans in. “I’m real,” he promises weakly, desperately, sealing it with a soft kiss to Scar’s cheek. And then another one to his temple, and his eyebrow, and his forehead. A swelling build up of helpless heartache translates to hot tears dripping down Grian’s face. “I’m here. You found me. I’m here.”

The tenderness, as well as the easy forwardness of the affection help reassure Scar. Juni wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. He never did. (Maybe Scar should’ve realised sooner—)

Grian’s fingers brush over Scar’s cheeks. His touch is featherlight, gentle, as if he was worried Scar will break underneath his fingertips. (Scar’s skin still pulsates, a sickly hue that reminds Grian of those awful, rotting vines they found in a cave so many months ago.) (He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Scar and it terrifies him.) His breath hitches, and then he finds himself saying, “Please don’t leave me.” His voice cracks. It’s so awful.

The words snap Scar to attention—as much as he can currently manage. “God— No. No, not leaving.” The flickering hue of magic across Scar's skin speeds up, like a panicky heartbeat stuttering out of rhythm.

The change frightens Grian and he scrambles to make things better, in any way he can. He thinks maybe they need to stop panicking first. Maybe— Maybe they both just need to take a deep breath. Surely they could both benefit from some proper breathing.

He suggests just that, and it does help somewhat. The flickering slows and steadies and almost fades, and Grian moves to pepper Scar’s face with soft kisses, tiny and light and greedy. And wet. Because he can't seem to stop crying.

Grian’s own cheek throbs with his unhealed wound, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. He just needs— He needs Scar to be okay, and he needs him to be right here with him, and he needs both of them to believe that this is real.

With deliberation, he moves his hands to brush them over Scar’s ears, knowing full well how sensitive they are. Remembering Scar’s flush, that very first time, and the way his ears twitched underneath Grian’s touch. A weak, destabilised chuckle precedes his strained words, ready to break. “Remember when I did this before?”

Scar barks out a little laugh at that. And… it helps. It helps to hear Grian bringing up a private, intimate memory they both share.

And then all of a sudden, he’s begging for forgiveness. “I messed up. I’d… I’d never leave you, Grian.” Even with a leaden, exhausted body, he pulls together enough strength to graze his fingers over the wound on Grian’s face, his touch gentle and sad.

Grian falls quiet for a moment, breaths still tripping in his throat, coming out shaky. “I thought— I thought you—” He can’t say it.

“Never.”

Exhaling, Grian falls against Scar. He curls up and presses into the crook of his neck.

Scar still feels tingly and strange and light, but it’s almost pleasant now. Like he could pretend it’s from Grian and not overextertion. Like it’s just silly nerves. And even though he wants nothing more but to collapse, to curl up with Grian in his arms and drift off to sleep, he can’t. He can’t have that.

Because Grian’s wounded, and hungry, and so horribly exhausted, and Scar needs to patch him up and grant him some safety. He needs to try to clean Grian’s wounds. (On next to no supplies.) He needs to get him to eat something. (He doesn’t have anything to offer; he fled Juni so fast, unable to think past Grian might be dying right now.) He needs to let Grian rest, after a week of horror; he needs to take watch and let Grian sleep. (He’s so, so tired, the magic overuse weighing him down in a way that makes him almost certain he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight.)

This feels familiarly miserable.

But Grian isn’t dying.

He isn’t dying, and Scar found him, and they’re together. And he won’t let anything separate them ever again.

(But he might not have a choice.)

#hhau #ange rambles #ange writes #i borrowed a lot of link's words for scar's bits <3 #credit where credit's due #scarian #these rambles were long overdue #this was meant to be only like #half of the stuff #but i got carried away with details and it got too long #so there will be part THREE that is the aftermath of this disaster #and i'll also separate the bit about what happened to our li'l mimic friend #(friend might be a questionable word to use)#dw about that ending #that's not relevant to the mimic arc at all #>:3c hehe

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