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angeart · 3 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

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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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