#here are some idiots in love | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tswwwit · 1 year ago

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Here's a thing! Reincarnation of Dipper who's not in the best of situations. (A Cult)

Got some gore and knives in here so watch out!

In the room of ritual, everything is ready.

Off in that wide and majestic space, the candles are lit. The circle is drawn. The altar spread with gold and trinkets, little offerings of delight and whimsy, tomes of knowledge. Along with the remnants of the latest sacrifice, dried in long trails down the stone.

The tomes, though. If one looked closely, they would see mostly encyclopedia volumes from like, sixty years ago. Because, yeah, those are going to be so tempting for a being of infinite knowledge.

Long chanting rings through the hallways, preparing the way. The ritual is in less than an hour. In preparation for the service, the servants of their lord make themselves presentable.

Dipper adjusts his robe - too big for him, by at least one size- and pulls at the neckline. It always drags up against his throat, in a tight, uncomfortable way. He tugs it down again, glaring into the small mirror on the otherwise bare wall.

Bill Cipher is the most powerful being in the universe, and his reach is infinite and his discernment of the mind and mastery of mysteries is unquestionable, yadda yadda yadda.

Dipper just. Doesn’t know what everyone else here expects to happen. Especially with the setup unchanged from the one he saw last year. And the year before that. And the one before that.

Odds are, this ritual is going to end up the same as every other one.

Pointless.

Dipper adjusts his robes again, and smooths out the front with slow strokes. As long as this is going to happen, he might as well avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s had enough ‘attention’ for more than a lifetime.

There’s a rhythm to these ceremonies. Dipper hears the footsteps, and easily tucks the hood of his robe up, only semi-stumbling as he joins the twin lines of robed figures leading into the ritual room.

As he tucks his hands together, covering them with long sleeves - Dipper spends another moment to silently sigh.

He joins the line, ducking his head as he joins in formation. The two lines of followers shuffle on with their long robes brushing the floor. He can hear them whispering to each other; varying levels of excitement, boredom. Talking about plans for after the ritual. He thinks he picks up one of the more devout members, almost humming with anticipation.

Despite the murmurs, the sight itself could be quite impressive. An all-seeing eye, if it was real, might even appreciate it.

Still, all these dramatics are so over the top. Just as fruitless and stupid as every other prayer, or ritual. Never worked before, not gonna work now. Dipper’s not sure why they’re trying the same freakin’ thing, over and over again.

For a bunch of people obsessed with the infinite power and knowledge Cipher represents, they haven’t accrued any.

And for that matter! If Bill Cipher’s eye is truly all-seeing, why hasn’t he ever responded? His triangle is emblazoned on every wall, and on their robes. You can’t look at a surface without seeing it staring back at you, and there’s no short of devout worshipers, constantly praying and doing rites.

Dipper dares a glance at one of the long scrawls on the walls, seething slightly at the handwriting. And the grammar.

If he was watching, surely he would have spoken up by now. Even if it’s just to critique the decor, which is tacky as hell.

The main ritual room fills up with warm bodies, and Dipper stands in an inconspicuous place. Just to the left, and not quite entirely in the back. At the front of the room, he can see the priest nodding approvingly, hands tucked behind his back.

Hidden under the sleeves, Dipper clenches his hands together. Breathing out a silent prayer of his own, to nobody particular. He can stand stock-still through one or two more ridiculous rituals, if it means no more prayers to a blind idiot god.

A week. Maybe two. That’s it.

Then he’ll be out of these robes, and far, far away from here. He’ll never see these people again. He’ll never have to chant a single verse again in slightly incorrect Latin. He’ll never have to kneel, or go before that stone altar again, not even once.

The outside world is - there’s a lot of talk about it. There’s always a lot of talk, more or less colored by personal experiences and levels of permission to go ‘outside’. Dipper’s learned, now, that well over ninety percent of the gossip is lies.

If his palms still sweat at the prospect, it’s because it’s… New. Different. But it can’t possibly be worse than here, and, like. Novelty is condoned by his not-really-a-god. Trying new things should be standard doctrine - if the priest wasn’t a total idiot.

Not much longer, now.

Out there, things will be better. Out there, Dipper will have a chance at having a life.

And there won’t be any trouble, since he’ll keep his mouth shut.

“Children of Cipher!” The high-pitched voice of the priest rings tinnily through the air. “We are once again assembled!”

Dipper bows in concert with his fellows. Staring at the ground is a good way to not roll his eyes.

A chant rises up, and he keeps his lips clamped together as he mirrors the ritual bowing and scraping and general genuflection. The priest will go on and on, no matter what he does.

All it takes to get through this is time. Another round of kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, until they stand at the last word in a thronging chorus.

“Brothers!” A louder, shriller call, now that everyone has been drawn close to a fervor. For all his faults, the priest does know how to read the mood - “Tonight is a special evening!” His arms thrown up, spindly and bare as the sleeves drop near to his shoulders. “Who will bleed for our god?”

The only thing that prevents Dipper from flinching is how much attention that would draw.

He hardly dares to breathe, lest some wayward motion be taken as ‘enthusiasm.’

Dipper keeps his head bowed, as murmurs start up around him and his forehead starts to prickle with sweat.

Sacrifices happen all the time. Mostly animals. Last year they got a goat, and that was considered a pretty big one and the stew afterwards was filling, and probably tasted pretty good.

Human blood, though. That’s - They haven’t done this in years.

The susurration of voices in the background grow louder, and Dipper stays bowed in place. Of course nobody wants to volunteer; ‘willing’ isn’t easily found when it comes to getting a knife in your flesh - but someone’s going to bleed, tonight. The ‘volunteer’ bit will be justified by whatever’s convenient.

Around him there’s murmurs, a few, low arguments. Tension is starting to rise, but for the most part, he’s being overlooked.

He nearly thinks he’s gotten away with it, too, when a hard shove on his back sends him stumbling forward.

“Here, brothers!” The voice rings in Dipper’s ears as he tries to backtrack, slipping on the robes of the person in front of him and dropping painfully to the floor. “The provider!”

Shit, shit, shit.

Dipper tries to glance back at whatever asshole pushed him, but the crowd’s already grouped together into a bunch of faceless clumps, drawing back from his fall.

He levels the worst glare he can manage, even as both his arms are seized by two of his so-called ‘brothers’. The big ones.

Gritting his teeth, Dipper digs in his heels. Struggling’s ineffective, protesting’s impossible. Gesturing wildly, including a raised finger in the general direction of the asshole who pushed him, Dipper gets dragged to the foot of the altar.

“See how he offers his flesh! See how he shakes with joy!” The priest jogs his arms in the air. Dipper shakes his head rapidly holding up his hands. “His arms, already offered!”

And for a moment Dipper’s simply annoyed at how obvious it is that the whole damn ritual is a farce.

“Tonight, we call upon the god! Tonight! We-”

Whatever else he’s yelling about, Dipper doesn’t pay any mind. He’s busy trying to use the loose robes to worm his way out of the guards’ grip. It halfway works, until one of them gets him by the bare wrist and painfully pulls it out.

The cold stone hits his waist. One of his sleeves is drawn to his shoulder. His arm pinned, bare and wrist upraised, on the stone.

Damn it, if he finds out who shoved him, he’s going to - he arches up, but firm hands hold his shoulders. There’s little time to think about revenge when he’s trying to find a way out of this. Arm, stuck. Shoulders, held. The exits, totally blocked by a bunch of crowded figures.

In a way, Dipper can’t truly blame them. After all, if the current sacrifice got away, who knows?

They could be next.

The priest seems pleased, at least. He paces in front of the altar, gesticulating wildly, and rambling on about god and blood, and other nonsensical bullshit.

Great. They have their ‘sacrifice’ for tonight. So, so super ‘willing’ too, what with how he, quote ‘rushed to offer himself’, end quote.

Dipper takes a long breath, holding it for three beats. Then he lets it out.

Okay. If this follows most other ‘human sacrifices’, it should be bearable. Some bloodletting, a nasty scar. Maybe a missing finger, but he’s learned to deal with worse. Push through the moment, wait for it to be over. Soon enough, he’ll be on the other side of this entire godawful situation.

Focusing on the transitory nature of pain helps him steady his breathing. And more importantly, slow his heart rate.

Calming meditation. He can work on that. Though it’s difficult, with the way the priest keeps going on and on about an ‘auspicious night’. Also, the very large, curved, very sharp-looking knife.

Dipper tries his best not to stare at it. Or to linger too much on the thought of knives and flesh and blood. If he could stop thinking, for once in his stupid life, it’ll be over before he knows it.

That’s totally not not the usual knife, though. He wonders where the hell it came from.

Last time, it was some basic utilitarian repurposed chef-thing, with a crudely engraved triangle on the hilt and the blade. This one’s much more… Ceremonial. Sharper, too, with a wicked curve and a gleaming edge, and covered in runes that Dipper’s never seen before.

He mouths a swear as one guard uncurls his fingers from the edge of the altar, turning his wrist back upright. The priest waves the very, very sharp blade around, yelling something that Dipper doesn’t bother parsing, even as his mind races. He can tell it’s definitely not Cipher runes on that thing, and not the old Latin their god prefers. Did someone go outside to find this? Another random artifact that the priest got his hands on? Seems like he’s always picking up useless semi-magic items.

The knife doesn’t feel ‘useless’, though, even from a glance. It radiates a pure and terrifying purpose.

Especially as it comes down, and rests against his wrist. Almost gently, its point bites a drop of blood from his skin.

The fetid breath of the priest pants over the altar. Dipper turns away, neck twisting as far as he can manage, eyes shut.

Please let this be just a bit. Just a drop. A small, tentative cut to fill a bit of the channels on the stone. There’s a sting to the metal, a slight burn, and though Dipper’s not one of the main Holders of Mysteries or anything, he feels like that’s a very bad sign.

Then he feels. Cold.

It runs down his inner arm, lingering for an instant before blossoming into sharp, bright pain. He nearly chokes on air, cringing into a hunched position as he feels the knife slide.

The catching drag of the old knife would have been painful, but that was mostly used for taking a finger, or maybe dragging across the back of the arm, in a more decorative than productive way of drawing blood.

The ease with which this knife cuts sends a deep, swirling nausea straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Behold, the flow! The magic gathers, my children!” THe priest’s voice warbles a bit as “With this tool, with this magic, our god will hear our call! He will behold our devotion, and raise us to glory! He will answer-” More and more words, variations on encouragement. Zero substance, all hype. A fanatical motivation speaker, Dipper thinks, half-hysterically.

Vapid or not, the result is effective. The sight of blood has certainly spurred everyone into a kind of frenzy, whether from fear or fervor, Dipper doesn’t care.

And they’re certainly getting a lot of blood. More than required.

Dipper struggles up against the hold, but it’s pointless. He ‘s stuck there for a few long minutes, oozing out for an audience that can’t even see half the damn thing, and it hurts.

The red trail gathers, slowly pooling down and into the engraven triangle. Enough to fill the shallow channels easily, which, uh. Dipper’s never seen before. With the other sacrifices it kind of stopped and clotted, but this moves like it’s being wicked along the surface.

He makes a face as his blood slowly travels through the lines, but can’t see any surface changes, or feel anything that might have been put on the stone.

Until it connects at the top point. Then it meets, completing the image of Bill with a strange, too-bubbly ‘blorp’.

Okay. Weird. But that’s plenty, right? Ritual done, blood offered, and now, he should get going.

Lurching upward gets the grip to loosen up on his arms, as the guards loosen their grip a bit. They already have what they need, and hell. Dippers deserves a friggin’ break. With the immediate attention off him, he can dare a glance at his arm -

And instantly averts his gaze to absolutely anything else.

The priest turns around, arms raised. Pumping them in the air, knife glinting in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes!” He swings the blade around, nearly catching one of the big brothers in the side. “See how easily the liquid flows. The power builds! I can feel it - the summoning, in this room tonight!”

The crowd calls out their enthusiasm, a high rising ‘oooh’ noise.

Dipper sighs, and tries to scoot back away from the altar. It’s done, at least; he’ll just have to cope with the aftermath. Could be worse.

“The other arm, brothers!” A loud, clarion call. Dipper whips his head around, as the priest lowers his arms - and turns back around. Pointing at Dipper. Again. “I feel the blade crave more!”

Uh, hello? What?

Dipper glances up at the knife. At how the slight sheen of blood has dipped into some of the runes, the faint glow - and goes ‘huh’.

Alright, he’ll admit. It’s definitely magical.

But he’s beginning to suspect it has less to do with Bill, and a lot more to do with other forces. Ones that might, say, make a ritual flow smoothly. Or make a fanatical asshole even more bloodthirsty.

Behind him, he almost feels the guards shrug, right before he gets shoved against the altar again. One of the assholes even dares to pat his side, in a brief bit of unexpected sympathy. Not that it means anything.

Dipper longs to curse them out, to scream at every single one of these absolute jackasses. Every one of them is just watching this happen. Nobody thinks about what happens next, ever, including -

He grits his teeth instead, hard enough that he thinks something might crack.

Everyone follows orders. The words of their supposed ‘god’, filtered through a man who’s fallible and frail and frankly fucking stupid. Always getting stupid magical trinkets. Always trying to find a link to that demonic god, constantly pursuing magic, and power, and influence. No matter the cost.

Why would he care if one of the too-few worshipers pays the price?

And fuck that.

Before, Dipper struggled as much as he could. Partly from fear, sure. But mostly to make a point. That this was stupid and painful, and wasn’t going to do anything anyway. Knowing that with enough kicking and protest, he might get them to cut things short.

Now, seeing the priest whip the blade back around, raising overhead with both hands - he fights.

A solid kick lands in the left guard’s groin, and he gets his wounded arm back. Dipper clutches it to his chest, but the other’s still pinned and being twisted, now. Another kick gets something softer, and he hears a huff from the priest. Then a loud, angry order to ‘Hold him down!’.

Dipper’s shoved into the stone, stomach digging into the edge of the altar hard enough to make him gag. His head hits the surface, more dizzying than painful. There's a hand gripped in his hair. Then his other sleeve is drawn up, his healthy arm extended over the table. Bare skin exposed, lying over the bloody surface.

He breathes heavily, nose nearly against the altar. It quickly grows hot from his breath, and moist, too, which is probably why his face feels wet. He doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting.

He never wanted to be a part of this, he never wanted to grow up like this. In a week or so, he was going to get out, and now he’s going to get hurt again, so soon, and he only has so much blood in him. He doesn’t want to die. He shuts his eyes, tucking up against himself. Hoping the weight of his body will drag his arm away where his own strength couldn’t, choking back a tightness in his throat. He was nearly out. He was nearly safe.

He was almost free.

He breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight. He presses his forehead against the runes, and the blood, and just wishes he wasn’t here.

Metal clangs on the floor, ringing bright as a bell.

There’s a sudden intake of breath. Dipper feels the hands release him, a shocked sound. Then the ‘flump’ of a lot of draped fabric, all at once.

Dipper keeps his face against the stone, breathing slower. That’s. That’s not how any ritual goes.

He can’t waste the opportunity, though. Now that his arms are free, Dipper pulls his sleeve back up, bundling it around the cut. Shit. Does he clench his fist or leave his grip loose? Which one slows blood flow.

Whatever interrupted this isn’t going to last. He’s only got a few seconds before everyone comes back to whatever passes for their senses, and tries to ‘complete the summoning’, or whatever the hell they were after.

Gotta act. Gotta - Dipper wheels around, panting for breath.

In front of the altar, all the robed figures in the room have fallen to their knees. The priest’s dropped the knife. Dipper scoots it a little closer to himself with a foot, watching as the zealot raises his arms in devout praise.

Dipper pauses. Still clenching tight on his wrist, though his sleeve is starting to feel damp. Things don’t just stop like that. The ritual has to continue. People should be surging up to keep the momentum, but the entire room is -

Oh.

Yeah, now he sees it.

All the candles were lit before. They give a little light to a room that’s never seen electronics in its life, dim as it is.

Right now, they’re bursting with flame, rising high enough to cast weird shadows over the cavern -

And it’s a very bright blue.

Shit.

Dipper whirls around, unsteady on his feet. Staring at a long, long trail of rising blood. Almost a string, or a reverse droplet, floating up from the triangle carved on the stone. In midair it spreads into a thin web, shapeless and vaguely pulsing.

Okay. That is definitely magical. And absolutely up to no good.

He fumbles around - where did he kick the knife? Maybe if he breaks it, it’ll interrupt this whole thing. Who knows what the hell that idiot priest did, or where he got the artifact, or what it does.

Dipper doesn’t know much about gods, or spirits, or demons, but anything that gets pulled in by a blood sacrifice can’t be a good sign. He spots the damn thing near the opposite corner, and braces himself on the altar. It he’s careful, he can reach it without alerting anyone. Maybe.

Which is when the entire hall fills with bright, loud laughter.

“Well, well, well, well, well!” The voice rings just as brightly as the laugh. Dipper jerks towards the sound, involuntarily, only to see a single eye open inside the breath web of blood. “What do we have here?”

There’s a resounding groan from the crowd. Various people start chanting, but they’re all using different verses, and the priest starts his own, presumably improvised, wail of praise and devotion. The end result is an ear-rattling clamor.

Dipper looks back at the altar. Watching the blood twist in this way, and that. The eye alights on him for a moment - he freezes - but it moves on from him quickly, examining the room.

There’s a lot to see, too. Maybe terrified, devout worshipers isn’t weird for a supernatural entity, but it’s thoroughly freaking Dipper out. Even the priest is on his knees.

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kinda summon!” The net stretches, almost elastic; twisting into limblike shapes, and fractal forms. The slit-pupiled eye rolls back and forth. Then it blinks twice. “Might as well get dressed for the occasion! Hold on a sec.”

The eye shuts into nothingness. Moments later, the blood starts getting really active, pulsing faster, twisting into shapes like it’s alive.

Dipper spares a terrified check on his wrist, but. No, he’s not feeding it, or anything. This is something else. Someone else, taking the material and lending it power enough to grow.

Even as he watches, there’s a spreading arch of bone and the twist of veins. A fairly glorpy assortment of something between and below what looks like ribs, a strange thick blackness tinged with yellow…

He cringes back, and shuts his eyes. Shit, watching this is deeply unsettling.

Not that it’s gory, per se - that would imply that something’s being taken apart, when it shouldn’t be. This is something being put together, a way that it shouldn’t ever be.

He backs up a step from the writhing mass, getting more fleshy by the instant. Then grimaces, teetering in place. Blood loss, right. From the asshole who started this whole thing. He levels a glare at said asshole -

But. Beside him, the priest is quivering with tension. Trembling like he didn’t expect this to happen.

Frankly? Neither did Dipper. For all the times they’ve done a ritual, there’s never been a reaction like this.

This insane mass, forming insanely out of nothing. Or well, from blood, that spread out in a weird three-dimensional - triangle, oh shit -

He should have known. Should have noticed. This was a summon, and while the object used wasn’t for the right being, maybe that doesn't’ matter with so much gathered intent.

This is….

Dipper falls, awkwardly, to his knees. Then ducks down in as low a bow as he can manage, pulling the hood of his robe back over his head.

Part of him thought Bill didn’t exist, or at least not in the way these guys talked about him. Maybe they’d latched onto some other spirit or deity, and completely misinterpreted everything. Maybe they’d made it all up, including some of the really old texts. There was never any evidence that their lord and master was real.

But given what’s happening here…

Like hell is he gonna look like the only person who doesn’t.

Something - two things - go ‘clack’ on the altar. A few series of taps.

Then a long, pleased sigh, and the sound of soft movement, like cloth.

Dipper keeps looking down. The hood keeps him anonymous, another faceless shape in the crowd. Just one more figure genuflecting before his -

Before a god.

One that might not even deserve a capital letter on the word, perhaps, but still an entity that he should not, under any circumstances, piss off.

There’s a tap that sounds like a shoe, and a low hum. Something lands beside him with a thud. In the brief moment that he raises his head, Dipper catches sight of black loafers, and long fingers on an oddly human-looking hand.

He quickly lowers himself more towards the floor, holding his arm tight.

Yep, just one more super-devoted believer, same as all the others. Super not important enough to notice.

“You know, blood’s usually for blood gods!” Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. It’s higher than Dipper expected it to be. One of the fancy-looking black shoes kicks the knife up into the air, where it’s caught by the long fingers of that hand. “Pretty wild for you guys to pull this. With another guy’s artifact, of all things!” A chiding tut, and the knife twirls. “And pretty disrespectful, I gotta say.”

“My lord.” The priest’s voice is dry, even for a guy who already sounded half-dessicated. He rises to his knees, hands clasped together. “We meant no disrespect. We are here to serve you, master. As we always have.”

“Uh huh,” Bill says. In Dipper’s limited sight, he toys idly with the knife, pressing the tip against the finger of an opposite hand. A bead of something dark wells up, and he rubs his fingers together.

The priest recites several lines of a chant, making a triangle with his fingers. So eager, and so totally missing the disinterest in Bill’s tone- “We have always been searching for you, our worship unending! You honor us with your presence. You shine upon us your infinite glory!”

“Sure you have,” Bill says, sounding, if anything, bored. The blade in his hand flips around between his fingers, then back again. The motion reminds Dipper of a very deadly fidget spinner. “Do tell.”

Which is when the priest surges up, nearly grabbing onto Bill’s thigh. He’s only stopped by a rapid sidestep.

Dipper cringes back out of secondhand embarrassment. Bad move. Dumb move. ‘Devoted’ or not, Bill was bored already - and infinite beings of pure energy do not like being manhandled by mortals.

“Let us use this connection, and the blade! Let us complete the sacrifice.” The priest continues, undeterred. Shuffling closer on his knees, he spreads his arms wide, inviting and eager. “The blood could grant you all your power, that you might grant us-”

“Pass.” Bill says dismissively. The knife flashes, and there’s a wet, solid ‘thunk’.

Dipper catches a brief glimpse of the priest’s face - stuck in shock, pale and lined with age - just before his body falls to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll. The knife handle in his chest props him up at a weird angle, before a swift kick from a black shoe sends it tumbling down the short three steps of the dais.

Dipper cringes into a smaller ball, trying to scrunch himself into invisibility. He watches Bill pass in front of him, standing in front of the crowd. The hand rests on a hip, while the other is raised out of site. Still far, far too close.

On the one hand, Bill’s examining the congregation. Distracted, for a moment. Staying out of his attention is so, so great.

Dipper curls up in a much, much tighter ball despite that.

In every single one of his plans to get out of here, Bill Cipher existing wasn’t a factor. Much less his actual, physical presence. All he’d ever thought about was how this was bullshit, that the people he knew were awful - and how hopefully, nobody would notice if he left. Now the ‘god’ himself is here. Standing so near Dipper he could, if he wanted, stupidly touch the hem of his pants.

A distant, insane part of him chimes in with the stupid idea that it’s nothing to really worry about.

Like, compared to how he’s still losing blood, for example.

Right. Staunch first, panic later.

Dipper wraps his sleeve around his arm, as subtly as he can, teeth gritted. His first priority is to stop bleeding. No escape plan - or any plan for that matter - is going to be useful if he dies.

The immensely powerful nightmare god is also a problem, obviously. But in this moment he’s not the immediate threat.

“Hmmm.” Bill lets out a low, contemplative hum. It resonates in the room, with how deathly silent things have become. “Let’s see here…”

After a pause, he snaps his fingers. “Stand!”

The entire congregation leaps to their feet. One of them stumbles and gets a swift kick in the side.

“Sit!” Bill commands. Everyone drops to the floor. A low chuckle, then, “Turn around three times and bark like a dog!”

Oh, now that won’t -

Or maybe it will. Dipper cringes, back pressed against the altar. Don’t just comply, what the hell. Sure it’s a magical god-being, but - fuck. He watches the scene with a grimace.

Bill, though, seems to be having a great time. He’s bouncing in place, voice bright with enthusiasm. “Do a little dance! Twist yourself until your joints snap! Hell, start a fight with the guy next to you!”

There’s havoc in the room of ritual. Robed figures practically fall all over themselves, and Dipper notes with a nauseating turn that some of them have drawn knives of their own. Chaos reigns; an entire scramble to do each possible thing, all at once.

And Bill’s laughter rings out over everything, clapping his hands in delight.

Dipper’s trapped in this room with an insane madman, leading a horde of equally insane idiots, and he doesn’t have a way out. He hopes he’ll stay out of notice. He hopes that he’ll live through the next five minutes.

There’s no controlling the situation, but he can improve his odds.

The altar’s pretty close, and Bill’s turned away, for the moment. Dipper scoots back, inching himself towards the corner. With enough shuffling, he might be able to move behind it and get out of sight.

“Welp,” Bill claps his hands again, this time with finality. Some of the chaos stills. “You’re all annoying, boring little vermin, but maybe you guys could improve. I noticed the blood you used to summon me was real choice stuff!” The exaggerated sound of a kiss. “Very nice.”

Dipper feels sweat building up in his robes, and tries to be very still. Basically part of the ritual scenery. Anonymous furniture, at best.

“In fact. It was so nice.” The voice continues, at a lower tone. Almost a purr. There’s a clack of shoes on stone. “Let’s see who this little treat is!”

The god seizes Dipper’s wrist - the wounded one, sending a bolt of pain down his arm - and clamps his palm around it, incredibly tight.

Before he knows it, Dipper’s standing again, involuntarily, staring past his hood into a bright, glowing eye.

He’s meeting his god. He’s been noticed by Bill Cipher.

So far he’s not trembling, so. That’s one thing he has going for him.

Bill’s eye flicks down, then up again, almost thoughtful. Any question about his power is quickly tossed aside, because holy shit; the magic is nearly palpable, thrumming into Dipper’s skin and making his heart race.

He’s also sporting a bright, wide grin, in a face that makes Dipper do a double-take.

Like. He thought - he glances at the triangle on the back of the wall, then to the person in front of him.

Okay, it’s said that Bill Cipher can take any form he wants, human included, but, like. What?

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of the insane, stupid things Dipper is thinking. All he does is raise his hand, and with one quick motion, sweep the hood off of Dipper’s head.

Dipper flinches back. Jaw clenched, eye shut.

Shit, shit, shit. Special attention. All the scenarios he can think of say ‘not good’. Best case scenario, it’s because Bill wants to thank him, for... Whatever his blood did. The rest of them involve increasingly terrifying ideas about what ‘nice blood’ means, and how much of it Bill might want. All of it, say. Maybe immediately.

Dipper can’t pull away, not with such a strong hold on his arm. Fighting is downright dumb. Trembling’s happening, despite his best efforts, and the intrusive thought bubbles up that, hey, at least there’s lots of pressure on his wound. Could be worse.

Nothing happens. For several seconds.

Eventually, Dipper peeks an eye open.

There’s Bill Cipher, looking back at him. His eye is literally lit up, the pleased grin wide on his face.

Dipper waits for an order, but the god doesn’t speak. He just wiggles his eyebrows. If anything, he looks oddly… expectant?

Fuck. Dipper has to do something.

What the hell, there isn’t any doctrine for this.

Sure, he knows all of the catechism, and each chant he was taught. He’s got an encyclopedic memory of everything he was taught about this powerful interdimensional god-being, he knows every ritual back and forth. The tenets spring to mind, unbidden: Be obedient, speak his words, serve him in all ways - and most of all, don’t think.

But Dipper can’t chant. He hasn’t been told to do anything yet. And though it’d be a death sentence, if serving involves more bleeding he’d be tempted to kick again. Hell, he literally just watched everyone else trying the other bits. They did exactly what they were supposed to, and that was ‘boring’.

He never could stop thinking, though.

Now, his mind is racing.

A little-known and never-preached fact about Bill Cipher is that he doesn’t, actually, like rules all that much -

So.

Dipper offers a hesitant, closed-mouth smile. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand, a bit awkwardly, in greeting.

Then ducks his head again, wishing he still had a hood to cover his face.

That didn’t make it weird, right? That’s a normal, devout thing to do. Coming from a totally religious guy, who’s only slightly damp from all the sweating.

“Oh.” Bill’s voice lowers to something like a purr. He tucks a knuckle under Dipper’s chin, lifting him to meet his single eye again. An eye that’s glowing now, bright gold and half-lidded. “Ten outta ten on the offering, guys. Very cute.”

Which is a little weird, but probably -

“Y’know what?” And Bill’s grin widens, bright and wild, as his thumb strokes Dipper’s chin. “I like this one.”

Uh oh.

Dipper tries sinking down into his oversized robes, but Bill just fishes around inside them until he can pull Dipper up again by his undershirt.

“In fact,” Bill declares, sounding proud. He pulls Dipper in closer, hand still clamped painfully tight on his wounded wrist. “I’m gonna keep him.”

What?

Immediately after that declaration, Dipper’s tugged in close, thumping against his side. Bill turns to start barking orders at the congregation, sharp and sneering.

Dipper can’t quite parse it. He’s still running over the last few words in his head.

In the ritual room, the candles flare even higher, temperature rising to an uncomfortable degree. Dipper watches two worshipers collide with each other in their frantic obedience, and can’t even laugh about it.

‘Keep’, Bill said.

What does that mean? Everything here is already ‘Bill’s’, in a way. But the way he said it sounded… oddly specific.

A hopeful part of Dipper chimes in that it might just mean ‘not let him bleed out’, but he’s never been that lucky before, and there’s no reason it would start now.

With everything else going on. With the presence of a god. e.

The cultists are bustling about; a few of them deposit things near Bill’s feet, like gifts upon the altar. Boxes, totems, more lit candles that Bill idly kicks over onto one of their robes, watching them flail at the sudden burst of fire.

Eventually, Bill considered the task ‘done’, or close enough. He sighs, shaking his head. “About time, guys! Talk about slow. Hard to get good followers these days.”

Bill clicks his tongue in distaste, then snaps his fingers.

Dipper hears a weird ‘zmmm’ sound to his left. He notices that Bill’s suit is really soft material, and also that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing it like this.

He doesn’t dare look at the sound. Not when Bill’s turned towards him with smug pride, like he’s pulled off a plan without a hitch.

“Man, it's only been fifteen minutes, and I’ve had it with these losers.” Bill gives the congregation a look of disgust, then turns back to Dipper. That grin reemerges like the sunrise. “Screw these guys, am I right?”

This time, Dipper’s smile is involuntary. He quashes it fast, but not before Bill notices.

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, with deep pleasure. He takes a step closer to the altar, pulling Dipper along with a surprising lack of force. “So! What’d’ya say we ditch this joint?”

Dipper doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s been happening, either, other than it’s all been going way too fast.

But Bill Cipher is looking at him, still. Present, powerful. Eager for a response.

Dipper just shrugs.

He wouldn’t know what to say even if he still had his tongue.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bill says, eminently pleased. Pulling Dipper in closer, with an arm suddenly around his waist. “Hold on tight! It ain’t a bumpy ride, but it’s a weird one.”

Dipper follows as he walks. Partly on automatic, and partly because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

About three steps in, he realizes they’re both walking on thin air, towards and over the altar.

He jerks his head over, blinking at the source of that ‘zmm’ sound.

Because of course summoning am interdimensional god-being would leave a remnant. He had to come from somewhere.

Like, say, a weird red-yellow gap in space, with nonsense things flung around in a black and bizarre starscape. Dipper catches a glimpse of something with two many limbs, and of a series of screaming mouths with no bodies, and a duck and a grandfather clock, tumbling through the air.

It’s almost like it might be a nightmare dimension. Who could have thought.

With nothing else to cling to, his free hand clamps Bill’s shoulder, tight.

“You’re my guest for the next while, sapling.” Bill says, squeezing him tight in return as he steps in - and drags Dipper alongside him, stalking into the portal. “Glad to have you!”

#Let's see if I have any fun facts here #I am very tired!#I meant to sit on this and edit it more but I am Posting because of Reasons #Blame one of my cats for this #Sorry about all the setup #The next chapter which I have already started is where the REAL fun happens #In that whenever I think of some of the plot points I cackle and think 'Get Loved On Idiot'#So that's a hint as to what happens #Man I can never think of fun facts while I'm posting. Only afterwards #Anyway I hope this was a reasonably enjoyable read!

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angeart · 2 months ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grian doesn’t want to move.

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

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

Thank you for being here.

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

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

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

They don’t get that often.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rather likes it when Grian does, however.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s worth it.

Just a little more contact.

He needs it so bad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except he’s still not kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to scold Scar again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't want to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he messed that up again.

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

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

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

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

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

He can't decipher it.

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

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

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

Another breath, another wisp of blue smoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or is there more?

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

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

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

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

Although he’s pretty sure he knows.

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

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

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

He feels lightheaded in the best of ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe Scar knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah.

There it is.

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

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

"I know."

It's so simple to admit.

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

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

"I know, Scar."

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

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

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

Before I can't control myself, goes unsaid.

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

Grian thinks maybe he wants Scar to let go.

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

Because, yes. Wings. Wings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pause is there, hovering.

Grian is going to break it.

"But... Scar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants it to snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours," he murmurs, pushing Scar on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, Grian pulls up no protections.

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

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

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

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

He has other ways of claiming him after all.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he notices the wings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But isn’t he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To give them the love they deserve.

To give Grian the love he absolutely deserves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Grian is doomed. So completely, utterly doomed.

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

Neither of them wants to stop here.

And so they don’t.

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

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

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