#well the other 3 are bit parts. so.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Twelve - Highdark

Sedgeclan has no Deputy!

Murekit, Pinekit, Saltkit, and Timberkit are made apprentices. Coniferstar tells the story of the clan's founding.

Murekit takes a deep breath, holding carefully still as Wormturn rasps her tongue- again- between his ears.

His littermates- already groomed- are fidgeting a hare-leap away, their pelts sleeker and neater than Murekit’s ever seen them.

Pinekit looks sideways at Timberkit and- slowly- reaches out one paw to swat the back of her head. Wormturn doesn’t even stop grooming Murekit. “Pinekit, if you muss your sister’s pelt–”

He stops, guiltily. Saltkit and Timberkit dissolve into giggling.

The ‘day’, deepest in the heart of winter, is pitch-dark. The sun has not risen for days and days now, and will not rise again for quite some time.

Silhouetted- dark, against the darker sky- is Coniferstar. He stands on the Splitstone, waiting. The jagged, flat-topped boulder is kissed by moonlight, where it spills into the centre of their camp.

He opens his mouth, at last, and calls out, voice high and clear: “Cats of Sedgeclan! Any who have paws to carry them, and ears to listen– gather ‘round!”

Wormturn pulls away from Murekit, at last. He pauses, to smooth the last tuft of unruly fur flat, with his own paw.

He can’t afford to make a bad impression, at the ceremony.

Quickly, Sedgeclan gathers. There aren’t many of them, and everyone’s been expecting it. Harebolt and Snowstreak pad up to sit by Wormturn, chatting with her in low voices.

Murekitturn sits neatly by his siblings, tucking his tail around his paws.

He’s trying not to meet Coniferstar’s eyes directly, worried the older tom will be able to read his desperation in his thoughts. Notice me, pick me, look at me, look at me, won’t you look at me?

He glances over at his siblings instead; big, pale Timberkit. Speckled, nervous-looking Saltkit. 

And Pinekit– his only brother. Ginger, like Murekit is, but darker, and more sturdily built; the second biggest, after Timberkit. Everytime Murekit looks at him now, he tries to drink in every detail. One day, he’ll be exiled. And Murekit will never see him again; the faint tabby striping on his tail, and legs. The mischievous twitching of his whiskers, when he’s going to pounce on one of their sisters. The warmth of his pelt, when they all curl up together in the sun, and drift off into sleep.

Unless–

Murekit looks back up to Coniferstar. Look at me. Look at me.

And he does. Just– briefly, Coniferstar glances down. Murekit freezes, the leader’s eyes boring into him; pale, and flat, and calm. His expression is unreadable.

And then he looks  up to sweep the clan. The chattering between the adults falls silent. “Today is a day that we should mark. The very first young, of our clan, receiving their apprentice names.”

Murekit lifts his chin, hoping the fur hasn’t sprung back out of place, where a messy tuft tends to stick out beside his shoulder. Pinekit jostles him, nudging his side with a grin.

Coniferstar says; “It feels only right that this should come at a holy time– during the darkest days, when the warmth of sun cannot tempt us to indolence, and the prey is hard– and mouths hungrier than ours stalk the tundra.”

The wind whistles around the camp. Saltkit huddles closer to her siblings, eyes huge and worried.

“But why is this a holy time? These days when we all wish we were curled up inside our dens, sheltering against the cold?” Coniferstar looks across his clan; studies each of them, in turn. “I will tell you, now. The story of our clan. And usher in, with this tale of the path, a new beginning– carried in these brave, young paws.”

He nods down at the group of kits. Murekit meets his eyes, unwilling to seem nervous. Is that a flicker of approval, in his leader’s face?

“In the clan of my birth,” Coniferstar says, “the land was easy. We didn’t have to fight for prey, or warmth; more cats grew old than didn’t, and warriors whiled away their idle days in play, and relaxation.”

It doesn’t sound so bad to Murekit. He glances at his littermates, remembering the hungry days before the clan. Seeing Pinekit and Saltkit withering away, little by little, as starvation gnawed at them. Hearing the desperation in Wormturn’s voice, as she promised them they’d be alright, even as her milk dried up, and her fur fell out, in patches. He tries not to let any longing show on his face, at the description of Coniferstar’s rich territory, the easy hunting.

Coniferstar carries on, meeting every cat’s eyes in turn, so it feels like he’s talking directly to each of them. “But the clan turned away from our ancestors; what use did cats have for Starclan, when the earthly world provided such bounty? They grew selfish, and lazy– without respect for starclan, they abandoned the warrior code, and lived like low, base animals. Even in that plenty, kits and elders starved. A warrior might catch a mouse for sport, and leave it rotting in the sun, while a queen, in the nursery, cried out for the meanest morsel.”

There is a noise, behind Murekit; a little breath. Wormturn– he’s not sure how he knows, only he would recognise his mother, no matter what. Is she remembering the hungry moons, as well? Thinking of a queen starving, with no one there to help?

“And so– as Featherclan had turned their backs on Starclan, Starclan turned their backs on it. They visited me, in my dreams, and delivered me a prophecy. I was newly-named, then, and hoped for a way to save my clan… but it was beyond saving. Instead– I would leave my clan, and go on to build something new.”

He closes his eyes, and then intones, solemnly:

“A cat of tender years will go / Beyond the place that trees can grow / To find a land that’s hard and cold / And gather up brave cats, and bold /  To those that linger in the dark / The Stars will grant their brightest spark / And life will spring, for worthy ones /  Untainted by the clans of sun.”

There is a silence, in the wake of this strange poem. Cats glance at one another. 

Forced to sit still too long, Pinekit fidgests, and Murekit wants to clobber him. Don’t you know how important it is that Coniferstar thinks well of you? You of all cats?

Their leader opens his eyes. They glow white-silver, in the moonlight, something nearly unnatural. 

Murekit finds that he believes it, after all. About Starclan, and the rest. That something…. else really has touched their leader.

“And what do you think that means– Harebolt?”

Murekit turns, surprised. Coniferstar doesn’t spare much attention for Harebolt, usually– not since Wormturn really started learning her herbs.

Harebolt looks as surprised as Murekit is; her ears lie back, briefly, then relax. “It’s about you, obviously.” Her tail twitches; is she irritated? “And it’s telling you to come find us.”

Coniferstar nods, one ear flicking in amusement. “Quite right. Starclan guided me to all of you. To new cats, who can build a new clan– if we are willing to endure this harsh tundra. Do you understand?”

He’s still looking at Harebolt; but there’s no warmth at all, in his eyes. Murekit’s pelt prickles– glad, for once, that the leader isn’t paying attention to him instead. 

Harebolt nods. “To those that linger in the dark. I get it.” Her tone is flat, echoing the prophetic words.

Snowstreak’s voice, when she cuts in, is not. “That’s why this time is special.” She looks up at Coniferstar, eyes glowing. “Right? Because– um.”

Coniferstar blinks, warmly, as Snowstreak falters. “Right you are. Because this time- this harsh time- is so little like the clans of the south. If we endure this– we prove we are more worthy cats, than they were. You have heard me say, from every frost, a thaw. This is what I mean. If we endure this hardship long enough– I believe that Starclan will grant us a great bounty. We must only prove we are capable of receiving it, without running astray.”

He glances up at the dark sky. “And that begins with these young cats.” When he turns down again, his manner is warm, familiar. “You have all waited very patiently. Now–”

He studies the kits, for a moment. Murekit’s skin burns, beneath his pelt. He resists the urge to squirm, and fidget, like Pinekit had been doing– though even Murekit’s troublesome brother is still, under their leader’s eye.

“Pinekit,” Coniferstar says. Murekit’s throat is dry. “And Saltkit. You have both reached the age of six moons. Clan law dictates it is time for you to take on the duties of an apprentice. From this day, until you have earned your warrior names, you will be known as Pinepaw, and Saltpaw. Your paws now walk the path of Sedgeclan cats, in full. I trust you will place them carefully.”

The two young cats step forward. Saltkit- no, Saltpaw- is shivering with nerves, and big Pinepaw presses his side to hers, offering wordless support. Murekit’s heart squeezes with affection for his brother. He could be an idiot– but no one would ever accuse him of being a bad brother.

Coniferstar blinks warmly at them– and then looks to the grown cats, behind them. “Snowstreak. You are ready to take on an apprentice. You have endured great hardship, and shown yourself to be a loyal and courageous cat. I believe you understand what it truly means, to be a warrior of Sedgeclan. You will be mentor to Pinepaw and Saltpaw– I expect you to pass on your wisdom.”

Snowstreak steps forward, too, her white-and-ginger fur fluffed up with pleasure. “I will!”

“Then touch noses with your apprentices, and let us all greet them by their new names.”

Snowstreak bends to touch her nose first to Pinepaw’s, and then- with a murmured word that Murekit doesn’t quite make out- to Saltpaw’s, too.

“Saltpaw!” Coniferstar calls. “Pinepaw!”

The clan, after an awkward few repetitions, joins in, and a ragged cheer goes up. Coniferstar’s tail twitches- just the once- as they struggle to arrange themselves into a proper chant. Murekit wonders if he’s remembering his old clan– the ceremonies must have been a lot smoother, with cats who knew their roles by heart.

Even though it’s kind of embarrassing, Murekit keeps chanting until everyone else has stopped, so his fading “Saltpaw! Pine…paw…” is the last to echo in the camp. Coniferstar– is that a look of approval, on the dark tabby’s face? It’s hard to tell, quite, in the dark.

Whatever it is, it vanishes as he begins to speak again. “Now. Murekit. Timberkit. I haven’t forgotten about you. It is time for you, as well, to be made apprentices. From this day forth, until you have earned your warrior names, you will be known as Murepaw, and Timberpaw. And I myself will mentor you.”

Murepaw- the name sends a thrill through him- finds his head spinning as Coniferstar springs from the splitstone to touch noses with him. He can pick out his clanmates’ voices as they chant his name.

“Murepaw! Timberpaw! Murepaw! Timberpaw!”

Their voices are a little less hesitant, this time.

In the middle of the racket, Murepaw meets Coniferstar’s eyes. “I’ll do my best,” he says, solemnly. “I’ll be a true warrior of Sedgeclan.”

Coniferstar purrs. “I know you will.”

He has to. If he doesn’t make a good impression– who else will convince Coniferstar that Pinepaw’s worth keeping around?

They part, after that, and Wormturn rushes over to congratulate her kits, and thank Coniferstar and Snowstreak for taking them on. The litter reunites, bumping their heads together and chattering excitedly– 

Only Harebolt lingers, on the outskirts. Watching them– alone.

[phoenixcatch7]

Okay but it's super interesting how

Din = Power = Ganondorf

Naryu = Wisdom = Zelda

Farore = Courage = Link.

Because Din, in the hylian creation myth, created the physical world. Naryu then created the laws - gravity, time, etc. And Farore finally created life - plants and people.

Din created the body, naryu the mind, Farore the soul.

And the triforce and its wielders so perfectly reflect that.

Ganon is physical power, he is big and intimidating and he breaks things. He is cunning and determined, but that's not what he focuses on. He is might makes right.

Zelda is wisdom and cleverness. She is stall tactics and information and team work. She is a powerful mage with a spine of steel, but that's not how she'll win. She is the pen being mightier than the sword.

Link is courage and persistence. He is the wild card sneaking behind enemy ranks, always moving, plunging into terrifying situations head first. He's a phenomenal fighter with a keen wit, but that's not what will get him through his challenges. He is bravery not being the absence of fear but the triumph over it.

They sit in perfect parallels to each other.

And ganon is reborn through his body - his resurrection is immortality. No matter how low he is cast, as long as he has a body he can claw his way back. He can cling to his power, build it ever higher.

Zelda is reborn through the magic of her bloodline. It's the accumulated knowledge handed down for generations, the unique power she must master, the skills she must develop to survive and get her kingdom out the other side intact. Even her name, the knowledge of herself, is handed down from all the way from the very first. Her ancestors knowledge of her future presence, her stability, is what gives her the edge.

Link is reborn in spirit. He is not bound by flesh or blood. Just like his wanderlust soul he can reappear in any time or place. His variation, his unpredictability, is exactly how he fights. It's what makes him so hard to pin down.

Ganons need to build strength means he can't chase after link. Links impulsiveness means zelda can outwit him. Zeldas stationary predictability means she's an easy target for ganon.

But the other direction?

Fire melts ice, ice redirects lightning, lightning burns fire.

And that's the very essence of the triforce.

[rickybaby]

Genuine question as I am curious — I know it’s pretty obvious with his expressions/ body language that Daniel seemed shy/insecure(?) about having his braces, but has he ever outright said anything about feeling that way with them? Just out of curiosity as I am new around here!

“I feel very different in terms of looks. Fortunately, experience also bought me better looks. I’m not really too fond of showing people photos of me when I was younger”

[vargaslovinghours]

And never let you go ♥

Bonus without the overspill lighting:

[rottengurlz]

lover, don't touch me // leave, i am a danger to you // but ooh, i hunger for you

[cluescorner]

I cannot imagine being a Damian stan right now. You've got both Zdarsky's bullshit (where he clearly doesn't give a shit about your boy) and The Boy Wonder (where Juni Ba clearly gives so many shits about your boy) coming out on the same day. The whiplash must be insane. I hope y'all get some nice warm soup for your efforts jfc

[tsukasalover]

I can think of a lot of reasons why I like and have gotten attached to tsukasa more than any other fictional character and i think if i had to keep it simple (or else id be rambling for hours) id say

1. He’s so interesting. I usually pick up the extremely mischaracterized blonde characters anyways but he gets my brain working real hard. its almost 2am and i cant think straight but theres something about his duality that keeps me glued to him and the amount of Layers he has and how removing even one layer or completely ignoring how both his huge ego and kindness + selflessness coexist can really mess up your perception of him. There was something quite short i wrote about how both sides make him. Well. Him. back when his colofes dropped since i was so annoyed at the people Not getting it (while most never even read the STORIES 😁) anf ive been screaming this for a year now Please. Also the way his dream and being a good big brother go hand in hand have captured me. I really like fictional siblings and they fill something personal i miss and Looove looking at the roots of characters. Discovering where this and that and connecting events to what started their behaviors or helped their personality bloom. So seeing saki and toya play such an important role in his life keeps me HOOOKEDDD. I took the bait like tiny fish. Dont regret it. Never will. I like my fictional characters like layered cake. Thats basically how i see them. I had a yummy chocolate cake with so mant layers the other day 🤤 but anyways. I also really like when characters have to learn and grow as people after making really bad mistakes or being straight up assholes so it really took a while even after mainstory but once i got to see more of him with saki and read dazzling i was like. This is the guyyy. Youre mine now lets go. I dont like perfect characters but.. you see.. when characters who have (sometimes way too much) confidence and are dramatic yet are shown to truly be good people who enjoy making others happy… alright.. now im listening… Sign me up…

But really he has almost everything I’ve ever looked for in a character. Starting with the fact that he’s a theatre kid. And blonde. Of course emu nene and rui + more fictional characters have made their way into my heart and ive gotten attached to them on very Very personal levels but when it comes to this Idiot who wants to be a star and reminds me of a dog its something that i dont even know how to explain sometimes. Why is he here? What are you doing inside of my head. Ill never have one solid answer because he takes up too much space in my mind and i become incoherent too often when talking about him.

2. Ignoring my first answer, He is ugly. My favorite punching bag. Cartoon character. Begins floating when he smells pie. I dont know anymore

3. he just like me fr (Which is terrible i dont like that)

[ineed-to-sleep]

Well. He wasted no time

[skrunksthatwunk]

you go to a lesbian blog and find it says women only!! no men allowed!!! and go oh! excuse me, um, what about other lesbians? plenty of lesbians are genderqueer... and they go well, okay, go fuck yourself tim chop off your sweaty dick and stop calling yourself a lesbian. you do not have a dick, actually. you think about that fact often, even though it does you no good. you do not tell this person that.

you go to another lesbian blog and it says women only and you try again, and this time they change it to wlw + nblw only (non-men who love non-men :D). and you'll say hey i appreciate that but gender's not really that cut and dry for a lot of people. someone could be both a man and nonbinary, for instance. i just worry that you're looking at nonbinary as a generic third gender, or an extension of womanhood. i mean yeah you include nblw in your tags but all your posts are about pussy-havers exclusively. what's with that? and they say go fuck yourself you pervy man pretending to be a lesbian. you tried to sneak in but i won't let you.

so you go to a lesbian blog with a dozen or so posts about queer people needing to be more weird about it and you sigh in relief. but you still see the men dni. that's odd. hoping for the best, you say hey! i know you mean well but please maybe don't put men dni at the end of the lovely posts on your lesbian blog bc some lesbians are men. and they'll be like ok!! well you're allowed ;) and you say no that's not. no. some men are lesbians not just me. you think about your own dicklessness and wonder if that's why you were given entry. and you add that even if male lesbians are allowed, there's no indication of that. how would anyone know without asking? and they're like ohh gotcha gotcha well men dni + this is for sapphics only!! and you'll be like ok well that treats the concepts of men and sapphics as mutually exclusive identities and i just told you that's not true and you agreed with me so.. i don't think that solves our problem. and they're like. ok. fine. men dni but genderfluid and multigender people are allowed! and you're like no see that's. that's still the same thing.. you're saying the same thing just with different words. if you don't want men to interact but you're fine with multigender/genderfluid/etc ppl interacting then you either don't see them as Real Men (because they don't reach a standard of Full Manhood) or Complete Men (because they're only Part-Time Men), both of which suggest that they are, in some way, not men or less-than men, which is invalidating and defeats the point of the exception in the first place (accommodation) OR that you don't really mean the dni which is confusing and inconsistent and makes guydykes feel weird and uncomfortable and excluded from the lesbian space you're trying to cultivate. and they're like um. ok. so. cishet men dni? and you're like well i think that makes more sense, but what if someone identifies as both a cishet man and a sapphic? again, if we're trying to accommodate the genderfucky populace then that has to be a possibility that is considered. and they say god you people are never happy. what do you want me to do? what am i supposed to say to keep the right men out? and you pause. you empathize with the need for a space free from dudes trying to fuck you straight and feminine. dudes who watch lesbian porn and joke about what they'd do if they were allowed into girls locker rooms. who look at you like a piece of meat, and like someone who looks at women like pieces of meat in the same way he does. you get it. you know. you want a space where you can be sapphic, too. that's why you came to these blogs in the first place. you brace yourself and you say well i don't know that there are "right men" to keep out. i don't know that there's any single label that would accomplish whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. you could go for "sapphics only" or "queers only" and i think that might be the closest thing to what you want, but it's never going to be perfect. creating any exclusive space is going to shut out people you didn't account for, and the broader the label, the more people will be shut out that you didn't want to shut out. and what about people who don't know if they're allowed? what of questioning transbians, where are they supposed to go? and, frankly, i think i might rather my dykey posts get read and appreciated by a gay guy who sees me as a man than a woman who only sees me as a sacred womb, pure from male perversions or violence or whatever. i think community might just be more complex than a dni can handle. and they look at you and say i don't want to not have a dni. i think you're too permissive. you can't just "what about" or microlabel your way into everything. go fuck yourself, i bet you're not even a lesbian anyway. go find a real problem to get mad about.

you go to a lesbian blog. you ignore the men dni because you know you probably don't even count to them. or maybe you do count and, out of respect for your manhood, they'd shun you accordingly. you try to feel okay about that. you scroll past dozens of posts about mediocre men and gagging at straight friends' boyfriends and how gross and undeserving men are of the beautiful women they couple up with and how all women should be gay so they can get treated right and and and and and. you finally find a post about curling into someone you love and feeling at peace and try to lose yourself in it. you know that feeling is what unites you, what makes you belong. you try to focus on it. you think about carding your hands through a butch's hair or lacing fingers with a femme and feeling warm and loved and more yourself than you ever have before. like this is who you're meant to be. you read about lesboys and butch boytoys and genderfucky dykes and big hairy deep-voiced wonderful women (like you want to be someday, like you wish you could make yourself) and you try to ignore the men dni underneath each and every post. and you daydream about meeting someone kind and earnest at a lesbian bar even though you don't think any such bars exist within three states of you and you can't drink and don't want to drink because you need to be in control of yourself at all times so you don't fuck up like you're always about to and here in the nonexistent lesbian bar you feel wanted and safe and in good company. you picture your ideal, happiest self. it is a mistake. ideal-you has a goatee. not the mascara one you smear on and call drag even though you know it's not drag, not really, the beard you call drag because you think everyone would look at you sadly if you told them it was just to pretend you had something out of your reach. a beard that's soft and that you grew and that cannot be smudged away if you get too comfortable with it. the dream shatters. your people pull away from you, their scoffs mixing with the mind-numbing gay girl bedroom pop you learned to settle for just to have something that almost resembled you, they all pull away and turn their backs and do not look at you. you're too close to being a man now, even though you're the same amount of man as before. and they know you're not supposed to interact with men, not as you would with dykes, at least. and it sours. it's all your imagination, all in your head, but it sours.

you sigh. you think about how small you are. how short, how narrow, how feeble. how your voice pitches up when you talk to strangers because it's easier to speak quietly when it carries more, and because you're nervous. because it's a chore to talk, like everything is. you think about testosterone. you think about how your family would look at you, the questions they would ask, your answers they would only pretend to accept. the uncomfortable glances and whispered questions they'd try to hide from you. you think about how small you are, and how small you will always be. how you don't know of a way to fix it, but even if there was one, no one would want you anymore. you'd be the only one thinking it made you a cooler dyke. you think about how you don't even want a T-voice all the time, how you'll never be able to switch it at will, because you don't know how and can't bring yourself to figure it out. you think about how your throat closes around every hint of your own attraction. how wanting is perverse, how wanting is invasive, how wanting is embarrassing and too vulnerable so it must stay anonymous, as an online witness, and how you can barely manage to form or maintain friendships because your brain makes you pull away, always spinning out and struggling to recover from the simplest of interactions. how they'll all leave you and you won't chase after them at all and how that will hurt them. how stuck you get. how it looks like nothing's holding you back, how that frustrates everyone who thought you were going to be more than you were. the people you love who understand except when it comes to being ghosted, being shut out. how you don't want to hurt them. how you can't tell them that because you're stuck. how you turn to stone when touched, how you never reach out, how you lose your speech and can't look at people, how your autism is fun and sexy until it becomes real and you never see them anymore, how much you longed for someone who knew everything without you having to explain, and who loved you anyway. how unreasonable you know that is to expect of anyone. you think about that not-even-real lesbian bar. you think about how you still can't drive. how you can't leave your home on your own, without dragging somebody into helping you. how you can't leave your body. how you can't leave your manhood behind.

you think about finding another lesbian blog and ignoring everything. about skimming it for the parts you can juice some meaning from. the parts men ignore and don't understand, and how typical of you it is to do so. or the parts where you're not welcome and you should accept that, because it's for lesbians only. how you are a lesbian anyway. how you're meant to choose lesbian or man, how each is a betrayal of some kind to yourself or your people, your family, your lovely strangers, your rare friendly acquaintances. about the parts that tell you you're not wanted, that you're ugly and lazy and gross and insert yourself everywhere without even asking. about the parts that tell you you are hated, and how lesbians are above it all by rejecting men. how lesbians are each blessed miracles. about the parts that say you should be ashamed of being whatever twisted confused freak you are, of everything, of looking and wanting or not looking or not wanting, of picking and choosing instead of taking it all in with a smile. after all, shouldn't you take it? or is your ego too fragile, as men's so often are? aren't you tired? good. we're not here for your consumption. and we sure as hell don't want your company or "community" or whatever. didn't you read the sign? no boys allowed. and if you want to come in you have to make up your mind. as if you haven't told them the only answer you have. you're both. you're both.

you know you broke the rule by interacting.

but it gets lonely sometimes. you wonder if they know.

[averlym]

some very very quick costume shorthands!

[angeart]

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

(~5,2 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

this comes right after the hot spring bath, still the same setting. and once again this is based on our discord rp so most of it is going to be a lengthy back and forth for a scene that could be summed up much shorter <3 hopefully you’ll enjoy!

[cws self-destructive tendencies, like seriously, a LOT. this is all kind of just that. and trauma. and going nonverbal.]

~~~

It’s once Grian’s wings become properly waterlogged and start sinking him that Scar pulls Grian back to the shore and wakes him up. And he worries, for many good reasons, that the moment of peace will be gone as soon as Grian’s feathers dry up. 

He doesn’t expect the end to come much sooner. 

Grian’s body feels like mush after sleeping in the warm water, relaxed for the first time in forever. He feels weak, heavy. His wings are leaden. He isn’t sure he can actually walk. With trembling legs, he slumps down, instantly getting his damp skin dirty. The air brushes his damp body and sends him shivering.

Even though it’s winter, the ground outside frost-painted and frozen, the cave is somewhat warmed by the pool of hot water. It’s something, but it's still far from ideal. The walls provide them enough shielding though, and they’re relatively hidden… So Scar gingerly dares to set up a fire for the night.

Sitting down on the spread out cloak, Grian hunches up while Scar works.

Grian’s feeling Bad. Frustrated with his wings. He can’t lift them up and spread them over the fire; they’re too wet, too heavy. Everything itches So Much Worse now that the debris got dislodged from the spots he's learned to ignore. He's swarmed by an overwhelming pile of awful sensations that make him hyperaware and overstimulated in the worst ways, and he wants it to Stop. 

He needs his wings dry now, or—

Or he needs them gone.

His hands hover over his feathers, expression drawn. He considers squeezing them to get the water out, but that’s only bound to damage them—and he isn’t entirely sure if he could stop himself from yanking at them right now if he so much as touches them.

Scar watches him, uneasy, trying to figure out how to help. Tentatively, he offers to help spread Grian’s wings out close to the fire. He could cover his hands with fabric! It wouldn’t even be skin-on-feather contact! And he won’t move unless Grian moves him, and and—

He’s just rambling nervously. He doesn't actually know what to do.

Grian’s a shivering mess at this point. His nerve-endings are firing and flaring up and he’s quickly growing so tense again and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He begs Scar to help, but at the same time he doesn’t want his wings to be touched. (He can only comprehend painful touches. If Scar’d grab and pull instead of be gentle, maybe that’d be something Grian’s mind could comprehend.)

Scar tries to soothe him. “Hey, hey, we’ve got plenty of time to let them dry! It’s fine. It’s fine! I’ll help however you let me!”

But Grian’s mind is already spiralling, overtaken by the sensations that don’t let him calm down. There’s an encroaching feeling, something sharp and unpleasantly familiar. His hands curl. He whines and cries that his wings are heavy and they feel wrong.

Self destruction brushes against the nape of his neck, ghosts over his feathers. He can’t help but misguidedly crave pain against his feathers, because maybe that would feel right. Maybe that would make sense. Maybe they deserve to be punished. Maybe— Maybe they should be cut off.

Just— Please. Please make it stop feeling like this.

He needs Scar to do something, but he doesn’t know what. Can’t articulate it either to release them from this stalemate of an awful moment.

Not for the first time in this world, Scar is convinced he completely messed up for suggesting the bath at all. It was a bad idea, clearly. Why was he so eager? Why did he have to insist, even though Grian was clearly hesitant? Why did he have to go ahead and drag Grian into it, only for it all to end up like this?

He’s a bit frantic, but he’s trying to keep his suggestions level and calm. He offers Grian to lie down so he doesn’t need to keep his wings up too much in his attempts to reach the warmth of the crackling fire.

With a weak whimper, Grian curls up on the cloak. With a sharp flinch, he nudges his wing a bit too close to the fire. (He doesn’t care; he’s so upset with them. He watches blankly, sees it happen, but doesn’t move away.) (His wing is so heavy.) (What has it ever done for him—and Scar—in this world but bring suffering?) (Maybe it'd be better if it burned.) (Maybe it should.) (It deserves whatever happens to it, he thinks dazedly.) 

Scar’s stunned, locked in place at the sight. What is he meant to do here?? He can’t move Grian’s wings. He— Does he move the fire? Or— Or he could scoot all of Grian, maybe. But now he’s convinced all of his ideas are garbage now. He doesn’t want to make things worse, and he’s aware that he tends to inadvertently do that far too often.

Grian’s mind continues spiralling, untethered, in free fall. He’s blankly looking at his feathers near the fire; the sparks fly nearby. The glow illuminates the damp mess of his feathers. 

In the quietest voice, barely audible, he asks: “... Scar, do you want to cut them off?”

Scar’s lungs seize up. Surely he heard that wrong? “What?”

Grian purses his lips, a small frown settling between his eyebrows. He’s still staring in the direction of the feathers and the flame, not turning to look at Scar.

Something in Scar shifts then, so adamantly. Where he was trying to work with Grian’s spiralling before, now he just has outright refusal flowing through him. “Grian, no.” His voice is stern instead of that squeaky, panicked gentleness from before. “Listen to me, you are fine, we are safe, they will dry. I told you I’d watch your back, okay? I told you it was okay to relax, so let me figure this out.”

Grian doesn’t move. He stays lying quietly, not looking at Scar, fingers slightly curled but left with nothing to hold onto. Scar’s words swirl through him, but they refuse to take hold.

“Scar.” It’s quiet, so incredibly quiet. Wobbly and blank, somber and so horribly factual. “I don’t need them.”

“Yeah I don’t need my hair either but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna shave it,” Scar grumbles. His voice isn’t angry exactly, but he is not playing this game. “I can make another fire if you want. We have enough fuel, we’ll just have to gather more soon. And then we either wait or you let me help.” He’s gone full diplomatic, spending all his energy on remaining calm and certain.

Grian squeezes his eyes shut, pulling himself tighter into a ball. Scar’s voice is flatter than usual, not the coaxing gentleness he usually uses, and Grian silently blames himself for that tonal shift, further unease blooming under his skin.

His wing twitches, feathers moving just the slightest bit towards the fire. It’s not an intended motion, and with his eyes tightly closed and mind fuzzy, Grian isn’t even fully aware of it. (He wouldn’t correct it anyway.) 

The wings are wet and heavy and cold, and everything in them feels dislodged and damaging, and he wants to tear at them—

He curls his fingers tighter, nails digging into his palm as a whimper breaks past his lips.

Even if Scar is upset with him. Even if Grian is feeling and saying wrong things. (Things that scare him but sink into him like daggers anyway.) Even then, he still wants Scar to help. He— He needs Scar’s help, because he isn’t sure he’s going to win this fight with himself. 

Grian sniffles and looks to him, all wretched and pathetic. “Help.”

 The tension tugging at Scar’s features as he racks his brain eases slightly when he meets Grian’s eyes. His expression immediately softens, utterly weak to it. 

“Okay,” Scar says softly, even if he’s not sure what that promised help entails quite yet. He scoots a little closer, purposely putting his foot in between the fire and Grian’s encroaching feathers. “Another fire or do you want me to help you dry off?”

Notably, Grian’s feathers don’t shy from the barrier of Scar’s foot. They’d usually flinch back, maintaining distance, but Grian can’t muster up enough will to care right now. He’s willing to get them hurt.

The way Scar’s voice softens chips at something in Grian. Abruptly, his eyes flood with tears and his fists loosen, hands twitching up. (To cover his face or to reach for Scar, he isn’t sure.) “I just want— I just want them dry. Scar, please.” 

It’s not an answer to a preferred method, but it is an answer to the scale of urgency. (And that’s not even it. Grian wants more. He wants them clean but without being bright. He wants all the things lodged in them to be pulled out without them being touched. He wants them to stop feeling so awful all the time. He wants them to stop being beacons. He wants them to stop being such an incessant burden. He wants people to stop so hungrily wanting them, as if they were an object to take. He wants to stop being afraid of the day when they will inevitably be hacked off his back while he screams and can't fight back. He wants them to feel like a part of him again instead of just something unwieldy and wounded he carries along. He wants them to stop feeling so inflamed and scratched up, so tense, so big and visible, so untouchable, like a dead space around his back that has to forever be navigated around. He wants— He wants it all to stop. He wants them gone, now, on his own terms.) 

“Okay,” Scar says again. His voice is steady but his hands, notably, are not. 

Aside from the fire, every suggestion he has involves touching Grian’s wings— which as far as he’s concerned, is something he is never allowed to do. 

“Okay, just… let them down? Um, droop?” Scar slides his leg firmly between them and fire, though. “… And not too close to the fire.” He’s no longer beating around the bush with that. He knows what Grian is thinking about. He can sense the self destructiveness.

Grian tries to follow what Scar wants from him while wading through the endless suggestions his own mind spews at him. He shifts, a bit clumsy, and his wings sweep across the floor. They’re so heavy to move. To adjust. To redirect. It’s ungraceful, fumbly.

Despite Scar banning the proximity to the fire, the feathers lightly crash against Scar’s legs anyway, a small pressure leaving nothing but a despondent suggestion of Scar moving out of the way as Grian sobs quietly while his mind spins. (Tear rip destroy cut get rid of them get rid of them make them GONE pluck them out claw them off anything just gone gone gONE) (Make it stOP—)

While—as Scar presumes, anyway—Grian’s mind is preoccupied dealing with the task of moving his wings, Scar goes ahead and tears the other band-aid off. “…Grian, I’m— I’m going to have to touch your wings to make this work.” Again he’s fighting down his nerves, forcing his voice to remain even, but he struggles. 

He hates this.

Grian blinks, not looking quite at Scar. His vision is blurry and something in his chest tingles, plunging him into uncertainty. He doesn’t know how he feels. His ears ring. “Okay…” he says, a bit too quiet, a bit too flat. 

His brain fumbles through nonsensical half-sentences. He considers asking Scar to yank the feathers. He considers asking him to make it hurt? He thinks maybe he should tell him again to cut them off, get rid of the problem at the root. 

What he ends up saying instead is something else entirely, and his voice is small and incredibly off while he delivers the line.

“... Do you want them?”

“... What?” Scar says again, entirely thrown off by that nonsensical question. But he quickly decides he doesn’t want Grian to explain that, actually, and keeps talking. “No, Grian, I want you. All of you. I just—“ The gravity of those statements weighs on Scar after a moment and he stutters slightly over his words, but still powers through. “I just want you to be okay. This was supposed to be relaxing.”

It takes a second for Scar to realize Grian did provide consent for the idea of his wings being touched, which is wild, and it sets off a whole bunch of other questions he doesn’t want answered flying around his brain. “So I’ll be as fast as I can, okay? And then we can enjoy some nice warm clothes and a lovely campfire.”

Grian grows both more sheepish and more numb, quieter. It feels like surrendering. To what exactly, he isn’t sure yet. He’s just done fighting. Whatever happens, happens.

His voice is tiny and hollow, but he gives Scar another nudge, another confirmation that he’s listening and Scar is allowed to carry on. “Okay.”

“… Okay,” Scar repeats, somewhat terrified. He’s never known Grian to give in so easily to anything, even when it’s good for him. “I won’t hurt you, you know that?” It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out far too close to a question. 

The words are out there and— Grian knows Scar wouldn’t hurt him, but his brain is screaming at him anyway, and he thinks he’d welcome it if Scar did something horrible to him. (He’s verging on doing it himself—) Instead of answering, he just closes his eyes.

Scar fumbles his hands about, looking for his clothes that he set out to get warm, taking his vest for starters because it’s the thickest. He wraps the fabric over and around his hand, taking this time to steel his nerves. He really shouldn’t build up to this whole thing, even if he wants to preface it with about a dozen apologies. 

Grian can sense Scar getting ready. It sets his nerves alight, and he wants to retreat, back into that numbness, even as the anticipation builds up under his skin. He takes a shaky breath, brings his arms up and ducks his face in them, hiding himself.

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay let it happen—

Scar really doesn’t want to prolong this any more than necessary, so he gets right to it, placing his wrapped-up hand on the wing closest to him and moving it in line with the feathers, trying to place as little pressure as possible for this first pass.

Grian’s wing barely twitches, startled as Scar starts touching it. Grian’s biting into his lip, trying not to tremble, trying not to— He isn’t sure what. (He wishes Scar’d pull his claws out and dug in.) (The lightness of the touch is driving him insane.)

Restless with mounting tension, Grian shifts a little, moving to curl on his other side, effectively turning his back to Scar. It seems practical: it helps the angle, gives Scar easier access to the wing. But more than that, it also means relinquishing even more control—something Grian usually never does. (The idea of someone behind his  back usually spirals him into panic. He never really allows it. Not anymore.) (And yet.)

Scar’s surprised he isn’t given much resistance for doing this. He feels like he ought to be slapped, or in the very least shouted at for causing this whole mess. He’s miserable, not at all enjoying this disaster of a preening session, if you could even call it that.

Grian’s chest feels horribly constricted and his hands shake. Turned away from Scar, he presses his hand against his bare, damp chest, nails clawing at his skin, clutching at the pain he can’t quite get to. 

Scar presses down a little more with each pass, letting the cloth soak up as much water as it can, and after a few successful strokes down the entire length, Scar lifts ever so slightly to let it drip off the bottom, testing if he can get away with drying there as well. He doesn’t exactly want to, but it would get this done faster if he could.

The firmer pressure on Grian’s wings, oddly enough, feels better than the light touch. Grian doesn’t want Scar to be gentle. (He doesn’t know how to make him understand that.) (He thinks maybe Scar knows and just doesn’t want to understand.) Nonsensically, he wishes it’d all be worse.

 He doesn’t react to Scar manipulating his wings in any way, doesn’t twitch or flinch them away. The wing isn’t relaxed, not in the slightest, but it obliges and obeys, surrendered just like Grian. (Please please please make it hurt—)

As he works, Scar takes a breath to speak. It’s shaky, just like his hands, but he pushes past it. “I was—“ His voice catches in his throat, and he quietly curses himself for failing on his one strength here— his words. But he tries again, pushes past the wobble in his voice. “… I was gonna build a castle this season. I know I’m always on about how I hate big castle builds, but I had a block palette ready and everything.”

When Scar starts talking, voice faltering, Grian feels an abrupt rise of emotions clog his throat. It’s the first time since the start that his wing really twitches, threatening awareness on him. He fights down the uprise of panic, breathes through his mouth, a long and steady exhale.

“Wh— What palette did you— have in mind?” he manages to say in bits and pieces, voice hoarse and thick, sounding like he’s been crying. He can barely comprehend what he’s saying, half of him switched on autopilot.

Scar is so relieved to hear Grian speak, even if his voice is more pained than his own. It just feels like something more manageable than the task at hand, however, so he clings to it, continues on. 

“I was gonna use blue ice for the roof. Maybe a little impractical but—“ he almost chuckles, trying to ease into the easy conversation. “I think the worst part of castles is everyone goes for the medieval look. They suck the soul right out of the build with it. There’s no magic!” 

He scrubs more methodically, even offering the occasional squeeze to get the water out. He still hates it. The enthusiasm of his words rings false to his own ears. To make up for his frustration, he frees a small twig that had been driving him crazy before back in the hot spring. “I would go for a more pastel color palette— sandstone, terracotta, no deepslate allowed.”

Grian presses his forehead against the cloak that’s underneath him, just trying to hold himself together. (He still wants to grab the wing and do bad bad bad things—) (The freed twig sends a toppling sense of relief through him that he can’t quite decipher or understand.) He tries so hard to follow Scar’s words, instead of the unending scalding avalanche of things his mind keeps suggesting and burying him under.

He wants to tell Scar to rake his claws through his feathers.

He wants to tell him to just tear at the joint, right where Grian’s exposed back lies defenceless.

He wants to tell him to bite and tear and take—

He swallows thickly and says, instead: “A fairytale castle.”

“Exactly!” Scar says, the excitement partially real this time. “A proper castle isn’t just a build, it’s an experience!” 

It feels like this might take an eternity, but Scar does recognize progress. He continues taking out anything he sees stuck in the wings, deciding he’s at least going to make Grian’s wings feel better if he has to do this to him.

Grian's curling up tighter, shivering despite himself, but his wing is still and willing in Scar's hands, nothing but an object to be manipulated. (To be taken.) He still wants this all to get worse. He also wants it to be over. He can't stand this in-between.

With effort, Grian drags his other wing—the one Scar isn't currently working on—across himself. He hasn't purposefully touched his wings in so long, but with a stutter of his breath and mind burning, his fingers find the feathers now.

“Careful,” Scar warns, like he’s the one that should be offering wing advice somehow. “I’m almost done with this one, I think?” He lifts his hand, seeing the vest is properly soaked already.

“Mm.” Grian doesn’t really process what Scar means by saying careful. Doesn’t catch the warning. His wing tucks around him, fingers curling into the feathers without care. He’s playing with the idea of yanking as if he was playing with fire, but somehow it seems like the option that will burn him is the safe one. The letting go. Like he should pick this destructive option instead to make it all better.

His earwings shield his face, even as all of him is turned away from Scar’s sight anyway. 

They muffle the quietest, choked sob. 

Grian’s fingers pull.

Just at that moment, Scar turns to grab his undershirt, figuring he may as well. The clothes’ll dry easier than the feathers, clearly. 

When he looks back, he sees the slight pull Grian’s fingers make and he narrows his eyes, wanting to be wrong about what he just saw. He decides against bringing attention to it, instead grabbing Grian’s hand and unthreading his fingers altogether. “Let me,” he says, though he leaves little room for argument.

There’s no fighting back; Grian’s self destructive, but entirely given up otherwise, still surrendered to Scar fully. (His mind is a tangled mess of contradictions and warnings and pleas.) He lets Scar do what he wants, a sense of blank numbness descending back over him. (He wants to keep it. It’s easier. He wants to tuck himself in it and never emerge.)

Scar doesn’t bring up what he thinks he just saw, not now. He’s not so sure Grian is fully with it, something he’s become more familiar with than he’d like to be. 

He gets to work on that wing, leaving the drier one spread out near the fire. (Though he keeps a close eye on that.) The undershirt is a tad worse at collecting water, but it’s longer and still does the job. And he wants that job done as soon as possible. “How did you ever bathe back home…” he mumbles, not expecting an answer.

Grian’s completely resigned, his wing fully in Scar’s control. He’s staring blankly ahead at the darker part of the cave, not really seeing anything. His soul feels like a warzone, littered with exploded landmines. 

He isn’t sure if there’s anything left to explode. (There probably is.) (He doesn’t want to think about it.)

He hears Scar asking something, but he doesn’t quite catch and process it. The word home makes it through to his awareness though and, quietly, without a word, his eyes flood with fresh tears.

Despite not expecting an answer, it still hurts Scar not to receive one. He feels like he’s talking to the void when Grian gets like this. Like his heart is about to tip forward and fall into it. 

“Is there like… a hair dryer for wings?” His attempt at a joke doesn’t make him feel any better. Again he moves the wing to work on the underside, carefully pinching when he needs to squeeze the water out.

Numbness tingles through Grian, but contradictory, the tears continue to overflow and silently drip down his face. He doesn't know what he's feeling. Is it emptiness? Is it pain? Is it fear? He thinks of the campfire and feathers. He thinks of blood and screaming, arms and blades and being pinned down. He thinks of Scar's soft voice and of his hands massaging Grian's scalp.

He can't untangle himself.

He continues staying quiet, not reacting.

“I guess you… could just use a normal hair dryer.” Scar’s heart aches. His vision is getting blurry with tears as well. He’s still doing well drying the wings, but his chest feel likes it’s splintering. With a small sniffle, he adds on, far too quiet: “Grian, I’m so sorry.”

The apology, barely audible, elicits a small twitch of Grian’s wing in Scar’s hold.

He doesn’t understand. Why is Scar sorry? Why is Scar hurting?

He can’t get through the fog that surrounds him. (He thinks it shields him; he isn’t sure he wants to venture out.) He thinks, disorientingly, of warm beds and tight cuddles.

He wants to ask if this is over yet. He wants to ask if Scar is okay. He wants to—

(He wants to discard his wings and—)

His eyes close, eyelashes wet. His hand weakly paws at the cloak that’s still underneath him, a feeble layer shielding him from the coldness of rough ground.

“Maybe not— not one of my better ideas, the whole bath thing.” Releasing his inner conflict is comforting to Scar in some way. It makes his tears feel like less of a waste. It helps him keep going somehow. 

He might rush somewhat, but only because he can barely take it anymore. 

Softly, he croaks out: “It was nice to hear you laugh…”

A shaky breath leaves Grian. He itches to reassure Scar. To tell him the bath was absolutely wonderful. To thank him, for letting him laugh. To press a kiss to his cheek and genuinely thank him for it, for that moment of reprieve.

But he can’t.

He can’t, not now, not now, because if he does try, everything will fall apart and the carefully held back dam of panic will break and he’d suffocate.

So he just silently waits for it to be over, even as the heartache builds and builds and builds through the numbness in his heart, a desperate aching leading straight back to Scar, yelling at Grian to fix it.

Scar continues in silence after that, words entirely failing him either way— whether he opts for sentimentality or distraction. 

After a while longer, he feels like he stops making progress, like the rest will simply have to be air dried.

The wings are let go and there’s a lull, an empty moment, and Grian hazily realises he doesn’t remember most of the wing drying. Something in him skipped over it and buried it deep down, the sensation of harmless pressure over his wings lost to some void.

Scar slowly shifts to be in front of Grian as he wrings out his shirt. “Is it—“ His voice breaks painfully and he has to pause to clear his throat. “Is it okay?” He sets the shirt down near the fire and offers his empty palms, his usual placating gesture. “I could help you up?”

Grian hears Scar shift to the front of him, and it draws a small questioning sound out of him. He opens his eyes, finding Scar’s, noticing the rawness of his expression, the wetness of his eyelashes and cheeks that mirrors Grian’s own.

Scar is checking up on him, but he sounds so wounded, and it’s absolutely destroying Grian’s heart. His breath hitches, and his vision blurs anew. (Fix it fix it fix it fix it—) He still can’t quite find words. He still can’t quite find himself.

But he wants to give Scar something, and Scar didn’t take his wings, and—

Timidly, he reaches for Scar’s offered palms, but remains pressed to the ground, not attempting to get up. “Scar.” It’s hoarse and small, pleading and broken. There’s an edge of fragmentation to it, a cracked glass too sharp to not get cut on accident.

Scar’s breath hitches again at the sound of his name— god, how he loves hearing Grian say his name— and he chokes out a small sniffle, bordering on a sob. “Hi,” he says lamely, meeting Grian’s outstretched hand and taking it. His other hand immediately finds Grian’s cheek, brushing aside a few stray tears and cradling his head gently.

“Hi,” Grian echoes back so, so weakly. (He wants to give more more more more more—) His hand squeezes against Scar’s, but it’s feeble. He feels taken apart into pieces, unsure how to put himself back together.

But he looks at Scar and he thinks that Scar also needs someone to put a scrap of cloth over the wounds scattered across his heart. (They don’t have bandages. They don’t have stitches. They have hands and words, tears and prayers, and some scraps.) 

So Grian does his best to pull through the thick fog, to attempt a tiny, tiniest, weakest smile. “The bath felt nice.” It’s hoarse and precarious, but it rings sincere.

Scar coughs, choking on a small bark of laughter that’s hardly even joyful. It’s still pained. But it’s something. 

“I’m glad,” he replies softly, eyes flicking downward. “Your sweater should be all warm by now.”

Scar’s small laughter is more than just something. Grian holds onto it, wraps it up in his mind, protects it from the tingling fog as if it was the most precious thing.

“Mm.” His sweater might be warm, and gosh, what a tantalising though that is. But it isn’t within his reach.

Scar is.

Lightly, questioningly, he tugs at Scar’s hand. “C’mere?”

This time the laughter is a touch more sincere. Scar can’t help it. That simple word warms his heart enough to melt away a bit of the ice he was letting freeze over him. 

He slides his legs down, ignoring the cold ground, and adjusts himself so he can lie down in front of Grian, leaning his head close. “I’m here.”

Without hesitation, Grian shifts towards him, yearning. There’s that string between them, a bond that tugs, dictating that there’s only one direction for Grian to go to reach safety. 

His feathers are lighter. They tuck behind him loosely, still semi-sprawled, still siphoning the warmth of the fire to dry off the remaining bits. He feels a little bit silly for how violent he wanted to be with them. (He thinks he might end up wanting that again. But not now. Not now, when Scar’s lying in front of him after just laughing unsteadily, looking so vulnerable after trying his absolute best for Grian.) 

“Mm.” Grian reaches out his free hand and lightly brushes over Scar’s cheek. “You are,” he confirms in a whisper, and then he sniffles. “I’m— I—” He swallows down the apology, buries it deep within his heart as he tips forward, wanting to tuck himself against Scar. “Thank you.”

The returned gesture manages to get Scar to smile, however weak it may be. He leans into the touch, needing it desperately. “Mm, I— …Yeah.” He wants to say of course like he normally would, but it doesn’t feel right. “… Is it any better?”

Grian nuzzles himself under Scar’s jaw, searching for his spot at the crook of Scar’s neck. “It’s better,” he reassures, soft and quiet and unsteadily sincere.

Even if he's still hurting. (Even if Scar is as well.)

Even if his wings still feel off and he's still scared.

Even if he still feels exhausted and numb, a little bit volatile and a whole lot fractured. With a bruised heart behind his paper-thin ribs.

Even then, this one thing is a truth he can concede.

It's better.

It's better, because Scar was here to make it so.

And Scar is still here.

Abruptly, Grian shivers, because his skin is still exposed, and so is Scar’s, and—

Maybe rashly, on impulse, he swishes his wing up, where it falters.

“Scar.” He pulls away just enough to be able to look at him. There’s an edge of fear in his wide eyes, something so desperately shackled, and an endless pool of vulnerability. “Don’t— Don’t touch them anymore, not— Just—” He starts tripping over his words. He opts to duck back into the safety of his spot and— His wing slowly, so very slowly drapes across him and Scar, like a blanket. “Just. Is this—” He wants to ask if it’s okay, but the words don’t make it past his throat.

“I won’t,” Scar confirms immediately, and he’s glad he did, because those words would have definitely been broken up and choked out if he had waited for Grian’s wings to be draped over them. “I—“ he still stammers, hopelessly endeared and emotional by the touch. “… O–okay.”

“Okay,” Grian echoes a little breathlessly, and on nothing but instinct and yearning, the wing presses against Scar’s back in a gentle tug. And his feathers still flare up, overstimulated, but it feels different now. Like this might be something he can handle.

Like maybe this could help, too.

And it's him initiating this whole touch, perfectly aware of where his wings are and what they're pressed against. He's in control here, like walking on a tightrope, begging Scar not to unexpectedly shake it underneath him.

Being cocooned in feathers feels very natural and comforting to Grian, even though it’s something he’s been denying himself for the longest time. They shield them from the cold air, trap the warmth between them, quite like a literal blanket would, even as some of the feathers are still damp. (He hopes Scar doesn’t mind.)

Maybe clothes would be warmer, but this makes Scar feel so much lighter. His heart feels like it could spring out his chest, a mixture of relief and gratefulness stirring within him. Immensely glad that the awful part is now over, quite honestly struggling to catch up to this jump in development.

But he’ll take it.

He’ll take this over Grian asking him to cut off his wings any day.

[saturnvs]

i *might* open my regular commissions soon, as i still have time before packing for the move gets too intense :) last time i had 4 slots open but this time i will likely only open 3. keep an eye out!

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[ajdrawshq]

i can almost guarantee ive said it before but. he would thrive in a zero escape game

[bmpmp3]

everyone on earth probably has a hypothetical farming sim in their mind's eye that they daydream about on occasion because of the unfortunate situation that despite there being like a thousand farming games released every minute only like 4 of them are any good. and i think this is fun, i think its good to keep the imagination alive. if i made a farming sim i would bring back rival marriages from the old friends of mineral town. i want to steal someones wife.

[termagax]

re: "good girl" i think they say it once randomly as a joke and its just one of those things that gets him wayyy more than they expected it would. so now its their secret weapon and they use it very sparingly and every single time he gets super embarrassed about it but it works ill tell you what.