#that feel when scapular winging

[crow-quet]

the second i started drawing more again my shoulder decided to peace out

sorry folks my issues are neverending 🫡

[embv]

my body doesn’t Hate me, per se. It just Loves being an annoying little shit

[jensensitive]

The One Thing I Want

I am selfish in my want of you Free infinity a boundless gift It was given without any condition And what do I want to make of it?

You. Just you.

The author’s life is spared, pen taken And you’ve written this song, this book Blank, blue pages of sky a declaration When heaven’s given without a look An afterlife without a sense of after Without a then and just a now Because you were and you are And yet without your eyes I have no how

My days spent staring at a sky you made for me And my nights spent quiet talking low The dark room casting us to match You formless filling my chamber Makes up everything I know

I touch tactile over jeans, my own skin And I want yours Flayed angel made of air and sparks And I want more Human things– to want, to dream And yet you want me Do you want me? Do you want? Without a body?

I feel the sunwarm blush in the dark The heat of you when I talk like this Of want and need in a muffled hush apart Teeth biting crescents into my fist

I’m filled so wholly of selfish ache Deep greed for the little I lack Is this Heaven if I can’t touch your wings Or the scapular strength that spans your back I breathe out prayers, sighs in broken off sounds For want of shaking, snaking palms The thrum in wrist and neck and chest The sounds you’d make my only psalms As I hold a dish in my hands to partake As I lick a plate full clean I need your body to consume you Sweat and mouth and all gone unseen

You said the happiness isn’t in having But I want you so much anyway I crave at grasping and holding without hands to hold And you said you wanted me You said you wanted me But if it held is all I pray

Mourning dove cry of my heart cries longing For the shape of you pulsing my hand And blue-ringed eyes poison paralyzing Pinning me down to the bed

Where Hell was embodied of torture Visceral, nerve-bright and real Heaven has sensory pleasure And you’re all that I have want to feel

And when I claim need of your body to hold And when I feel your warmth that’s you And when I tell you that it’s you I miss The air wavers And gravity pitches And you tell me you miss you too.

[cloudyskydreams]

Um hello, could I request Undertale Sans relationship headcanons with a female half angel half human reader? Sfw and nsfw, please and thank you! Hope you have a great day.

Hi! Thanks so much for being my first request I got so excited I had to tell my whole family as soon as I saw this in the inbox lol. I don't know a lot about angels but I had fun with this! I hope you enjoy ::3 NSFW under the cut!

SFW:

•Sans loves your wings he thinks they're gorgeous and would love to help you preen if you're comfortable with it, he's gentle and can reach all the spots that are hard for you to get to.

•He loves seeing you in white and gold, he thinks it makes you look even more angelic and it's a quick way to have him staring at you with a blush and dopey smile until you mention it to him and he busts out the angel puns.

•He enjoys having your arms and wings wrapped around him when hugging or cuddling. It makes him feel extra loved.

•PLEASE take this man out flying to see the stars. It's the perfect date idea and it's probably the closest to the stars he's ever been. Quick way to get this man to think of marriage lol.(Okay this is so cute I gotta write a small drabble ur being blessed today)

You chuckle as Sans clings to you.His face pressed against your chest. Currently you're flying over Ebott city with your bonefriend in your arms taking him to a supposedly special date you had set up. You called out to tell him you're almost there, having to yell over the wind howling. Once you escape the city and more importantly the light pollution you yell for Sans to look up. He does and his eyelights expand to almost fill out his sockets. His grin falters and he looks shocked before his entire face lights up. You think he says something but his baritone voice is hard to hear over the wind. He reaches a hand up as if he could reach out and touch the stars. You chuckle again and he says something else so you yell that you can't hear him. He leans up in your embrace and says in your ear

"i love you starlight" you smile as he kisses your cheek. He watches the stars as you approach as hill and land, the next few hours are spent stargazing with sans as he points out constellations and tells space puns.

•He has a dreamcatcher made with your feathers. He kept a few after helping you preen once and after finding out what dreamcatchers were he thought it would be a nice reminder of you when you're not around.

NSFW:

•He gets worried about hurting your wings a lot when boning so he normally prefers for you to ride him, he also really enjoys the scene of you cumming on his cock your wings stretching to their full glory from the orgasm. It's a sight to see.

•The uncommon position switch normally has you in doggy style. There was one time where Sans came so hard he grabbed onto the scapulars(base) of your wings to brace himself. He thought it was extremely hot to use them as handlebars but was so worried he had hurt you.

•Body worship, it just feels right for him to worship you a little. You're just so angelic and perfect to him he wants to do all of it kissing up your legs, massaging your back and wings, running his fingers through your hair as he kisses you. He just loves you so much and he's going to make sure you feel how much he does. It's one of the few times he really puts effort into something.

•Feather play, Imagine him dragging your own feather across your thighs and teasing your nipple with the tip of one as he squeezes your other breast. Sometimes he'll just tickle you during sex, pelvis deep inside you and this man has a feather tickling your sides cause he thinks your laugh is hot.

[16prayers]

Torn Flesh and White Feathers

Pairing- Castiel x Reader

Words- About 1k

Warnings- Grotesque descriptions, gore?, very slight angst, blood.

Author’s note- This is my first EVER time posting my writings, so this is probably trash. Ending is kinda rushed if you cant tell.. Be nice to me, and enjoy!!

LOWERCASE INTENDED

FIRST PERSON

and i can feel the flesh tearing, the soft feathers of my wings now sharp as daggers, ripping the porcelain skin of my back to shreds. an obscene scream came from the very depths of my throat, my hands unsteady on my knees with my body hunched over in a hideous display of sheer agony. knees buckling as i fall to the floor, kneeling with my arms clutching at my back hopelessly, so desperate for this pain to stop. the joints of my wings writhed under my teres major, protruding visibly through my skin.

As though they were growing impatient, the movements grew faster as they continued to rip their way to the surface. a scream so dire caused red hot waves throughout the bunker, crashes and yells only disappeared through deaf ears. unable to process castiel throwing himself into the room, blood stained feathers only began to show themselves through my torn flesh. first set of wings bursting through as the other two stretched through the tears.

my vision was monochromatic, my hearing was shallow, hands desperately grasping at castiels extended arm. he groaned at my grip, though no sympathy crossed me. second, third pairs sprawled across the floor as if they had any right to be tired. my body collapsed forwards and my mind grew numb. ears briefly processing castiels terrified questions, consciousness fading.

I woke much later, the room now enveloped in complete darkness as the soft mattress molded to my body beneath me. Castiel advanced quickly, his breath stolen as I inhaled sharply due to his sudden appearance. He stopped right beside me, bending his hips just slightly over the bed. His cold hand ran over my forehead, a confusing warmth spreading through my numb body. I suddenly became acutely aware of the aching foreign bones in my back, along with the soft tickle of feathers at my bare sides. A deep groan erupted from my exasperated throat. Castiel’s mouth was moving, yes, though his words seemed to pass in slow motion. His voice shallow and echoing through my head. Brows furrowed and mouth drawn tightly together in a wince.

“I.. can’t hear you.”

He only nodded, fumbling clumsily for a pen and paper. His hands grabbed at the notepad on my bedside table along with the blue pen that lay atop my various books. Immediately, he opened a random page and began to write a mess of words.

He turned it around and showed me, allowing me to read his thoughts.

It read, “Are you OK? :(”

I grabbed the utensils from his hands, shoulder blades aching at the sudden movement as i licked the tips of my fingers and continued flipping the page, quickly going to work at writing my response. I did the same as he had just done, clumsily making a coherent sentence and then handing him the paper.

I wrote, “Yes fortunately. Tell the brothers i’m sorry.”

He frowned, nodding as he turned on his heels and headed for the door, straight forward after he read my request.

I lay on a queen size bed, though i didn’t understand why i owned such a large bed with only me to inhabit it. The empty space next to me was painfully cold, my bones seemed to ache for any type of warmth, comfort even. My mind shot towards to man that was currently reaching for the door knob and i had to decide between my pride or the sweet comfort of the angel. I internally swore.

“Cas.. tiel.” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

His neck snapped in my direction, mouth open slightly as he tilted his head to my left.

“Come.” I pulled the comforter back of the empty space next to me, patting the sheet-covered mattress as a way to beckon him into my bed. Choking down a groan when my scapulars shifted in an unnatural manner.

He gulped, obvious by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, before cautiously inching towards my bedside.

I nodded, trying to convey my allowance as he reached the side opposite to me. I patted the bed once more and smiling at him, his body relaxing visibly before finally climbing into the cold embrace of my bed. The mattress dipped slightly beside me, his weight evening out the sides and his presence pulling a sigh from my throat.

He pointed towards himself and then put his thumb up with his brows furrowed, asking me if this was okay in his own form of botched ASL (angel sign language).

I nodded, my movements soft and gentle, cause being the aches still very apparent in my body. I turned onto my side extremely slowly, now facing him. My coverts now shuffling behind me in an attempt to get comfortable.

“Stay.” I said with a smile drawn across my face and my eyes closed.

I couldn’t see his reaction, but I did feel him turn towards me, his left hand lay limp on my hip. I hummed, the warmth coming back as I scooted up a bit, or bodies now only inches away. His warmth combined with mine caused an exhale to leave me. Unbeknownst to me, my right wing had draped over us in a comforting manner, our embrace now shielded from the rest of the world.

My eyes only opened for a second and met his, blue irises already staring back at me. I closed them once more and allowed my body to finally fully relax into the soft plush of the mattress. His scent, like freshly picked mint and rolling waves pulled me to sleep. My final thought his eyes, wings completely forgotten.

[eurydicees]

4 or 11 with skts :> [hi yes i'm predictable shh] for the location prompt !!!

hehe a couple months late but im excited abt this one :D

the flight and the fall / the fury and the freak

summary: in the empty field by his house, just before a storm, atsumu finds a pair of wings, and the man who has cut them off. prompt: location prompts, a desolate field in the middle of nowhere, just before a rainstorm pairings: pre-relationship atsumu miya & kiyoomi sakusa words: 2184 warnings: blood, self-injury

The humidity is like a second layer of skin sweating over Atsumu’s limbs on the day he finds the wings. 

He’s out in the field nearby his house, on a walk before the thunderstorm breaks over their middle-of-nowhere town. He’s spent the past twenty minutes meandering through the forest between his house and the empty field, and by the time that he makes it to his favorite spot, the air feels almost electric with oncoming lightning. 

His usual birdwatching route is a loop from home, through the forest, to a spot on a grassy hill where an old oak tree stands, and then back. The wings are at the top of the hill, resting at the risen roots of the oak tree. They’re gorgeous, breathtaking things: a jet black, each wing longer than Atsumu’s arm, the feathers thickly interwoven in a pattern resembling a peregrine falcon. 

The thing is that Atsumu knows birds. He knows birds. He’s cataloged every bird that’s ever passed through this area. And he knows that these wings didn’t come from a bird. They’re too big to have come from anything smaller than he is. 

He kneels in front of them. There’s one piled onto the other, a red blood dripping from the scapulars—where the wing feathers would connect to a body—of the top one onto the feathers below. In the onsetting darkness, the red of the blood looks deeper than ruby and thicker than oil. Atsumu reaches out, hesitant to touch, and just as his fingers brush against the soft of the black feathers, a sharp voice cuts open the silence. 

“Don’t you dare touch that.” 

Atsumu flinches, pulling his hand back immediately. He stumbles where he had been bent over, landing hard on his knees. He turns slowly towards where the voice had come from, swallowing down the fear that builds up heavy in his throat. 

His gaze lands on two feet in the grass, and then he lifts his head to meet the gaze of—and he’s nothing more than a man, standing in the grass. He wears pants from what clearly was a nice three-piece suit before dirt had caked the hems and tears had ripped through both knees. He’s bare chested, and there’s a knife in his right hand. The knife glints an orange reflection under the setting sun, giving the impression that the blade is bleeding where red drips from the sharp edge. 

Atsumu has heard legends of angels, of wing-wearers, of men who aren’t men at all. He has heard legends of the awe or fear those creatures instill when looked upon. He has heard legends of what happens when you find injured things with wings. 

But he’s also so sure, looking at this man standing there, that he isn’t one of those legends. No, this man stares him down and he looks much too afraid to be any kind of legend. 

“Who are you?” Atsumu asks, voice hoarse. 

The hand holding the knife is shaking, and it makes drops of blood slip to the grass faster. Atsumu takes a shaky breath as the man says, “No one. You didn’t see anything.” 

Slowly, Atsumu stands up, unfolding his knees and rising to his full height. The man is taller than him, barely, but Atsumu feels his presence in the same way a young child might feel their father’s height tower over them. He studies the man in front of him; the set of his jaw, the narrowed gaze of his eyes, the trembling of his hands. The blood that stains the knife similarly stains his wrist, long smears of red running down his forearm. 

“You’re hurt,” Atsumu says. He takes a step forward. The man takes a step back. “I can help.” 

“How the fuck could you help?” the man sneers. “You don’t know me.” 

Atsumu takes another step forward and this time the man holds his ground, tightening his grip on the knife and raising his arm slightly to ward Atsumu off. “I’m Atsumu. What’s your name?” 

The man swallows. He doesn’t lower the knife, but he does say, harshly, “Kiyoomi.” 

“There,” Atsumu says. “Now we know each other. Let me help you.”

Kiyoomi takes a long, audible breath. “Don’t touch the—the—those.” 

His words are filled with disgust that Atsumu doesn’t understand the origins of, because the wings are beautiful. “The wings?” 

“Yes.” 

Atsumu doesn’t dare to glance back at them; he keeps his eyes on Kiyoomi. Atsumu is the one with his back to the tree, but Kiyoomi looks like a cornered animal standing there in the empty, desolate field. He also looks like he has nowhere better to go. 

Tentatively, Atsumu asks, “Are they yours?” 

Kiyoomi’s lip curls. “Technically.” 

Atsumu desperately wants to know why Kiyoomi has cut them off of himself—because it is becoming abundantly clear that that’s what he did with the knife still in his hand—but that’s a question for another time. Now that Kiyoomi has admitted to his identity, he looks like he’s about to collapse from exhaustion. 

“Come back to my house,” Atsumu says tentatively. “No one else is home. I can get you some, um. First aid, if you need it. And a shirt, maybe.” 

“I don’t. Need first aid.” Atsumu arches an eyebrow, and Kiyoomi exhales slowly through his nose. “It heals itself.” 

“You’ve done this before.” 

Kiyoomi shrugs stiffly, and that only raises more questions that Atsumu is dying to know the answers to. For a moment, they’re both quiet, just staring at each other. Then there’s a flash of lightning that electrifies the sky; it cracks open the dusk and the clouds seem to turn even darker than they already are. Kiyoomi flinches at the sudden light, and then at the drum of thunder that follows. 

“Come with me,” Atsumu offers again. He glances up as he feels the first few drops of rain landing on the palms he lifts open to the sky. “The storm is only going to get worse.” 

Kiyoomi hesitates, and then the rain begins to fall in earnest. He licks his lips, studying Atsumu for a moment. Then, “Fine.” 

“It’s about a twenty minute walk,” Atsumu tells him, and then he waves Kiyoomi forward as he walks back towards where he came from. Moving slowly, like every movement pains him, Kiyoomi follows. “Can I ask you a few questions?” 

Kiyoomi hesitates, only responding when Atsumu slows his pace and then glances over at him. “I reserve the right not to answer.” 

“Fair enough.” The field is wide and feels momentarily endless as they walk. The unkempt grass grows up past Atsumu’s ankles, and it moves in the harsh wind as a rough whisper at their feet. “So tell me, Kiyoomi. What brings you out here at dusk before a hurricane?” 

“I have a presentation on Tuesday,” Kiyoomi says, stiff and unemotional. “I usually work from home but I’m going to the city for a work conference this week and I present on Tuesday.” 

Atsumu looks at him. “That answers exactly no parts of my question, Omi.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Kiyoomi says, but his annoyance sounds more indignant than actually offended. “They, um. The wings. They grow to full size roughly every month. I cut them off when I stop being able to hide them.” 

Atsumu inhales sharply, an awful grief in his words when he asks, “Why would you do that?” 

Kiyoomi looks down at his hands as they walk slowly towards the edge of the forest, where the path home lays. The blood is drying on his skin and he itches at it, scraping it off with sharp fingernails, not looking at Atsumu when he says flatly, “So no one knows what a fucking freak I am.” 

“You’re not a freak,” Atsumu says; careful, measured. “Do you know how fucking cool it is to have wings? I’d kill to be able to fly.” 

Kiyoomi snorts. “I haven’t tried that since I was a kid. My parents didn’t like letting me out in public like…that.” 

“Next month,” Atsumu says determinedly. “You should try again. I bet it’s amazing.” 

“Next month,” Kiyoomi says, just as determined, but with an undercurrent of bitter anger, “I’ll be cutting them off again.” 

Atsumu is quiet. For a moment, there’s just the sound of their feet in the grass and the wind beginning to howl. The rain is coming down for real now, with no hesitation as it lands heavy and sharp on Atsumu’s skin. 

“Whoever told you you’re a freak was wrong,” Atsumu says, voice low under the drumming of the rain against dampening leaves. “I think you’re—” 

He cuts himself off. He met Kiyoomi only minutes ago. He’s been told he can be intense, especially with first impressions; he doesn’t want to scare Kiyoomi off now. He wants to get to know him, wants to unravel all the secrets of this man who walks with wings, this man who cuts them off. 

“I’m what?” Kiyoomi asks, words sharp. “Say it. Say it, Atsumu. I’ve already heard every awful thing there is to say about things like me.” 

Atsumu swallows. The rain lands hard on his cheeks not unlike tears when he’s angry rather than sad. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing back the wet strands out of his eyes. His voice is low under the hum of rain when he says, “I think you’re beautiful.” 

“Beautiful,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “Don’t patronize me. You don’t have to hold back.” 

“I’m not—” Atsumu groans, frustrated, rubbing a hand over his face, which does nothing but work the raindrops into his skin. “I’m not trying to patronize you. I really think—you’re beautiful. And so are your wings.” 

Kiyoomi is quiet. Atsumu keeps walking, but pauses a few steps further when he realizes Kiyoomi isn’t following him anymore. Instead, Kiyoomi is staring at him with an unreadable expression; it’s like he’s studying Atsumu, trying to unravel him. Atsumu shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

The sun has just about fully sunk now, and the sky—still mostly hidden behind storm clouds—has darkened. The shadows of the treeline ahead of them fall over Kiyoomi’s face and cast him in a mask of indifference, but the hand holding the knife has loosened his grip and Atsumu can tell that something is shifting. 

“They’re disgusting,” Kiyoomi says, a vehemence in his voice that can only come out when a person is talking awfully about themselves. “They make me—different.” 

“Why is that so bad?” Atsumu asks. He thinks of his brother and the scales which line his spine and the backs of his arms. He thinks of his brother’s partner, and the deep red horns which curl up from the crown of his head back to his neck. He thinks of his old high school volleyball captain, and the gold flecks in his eyes that only shapeshifters carry. “You’re not the only one, you know, who has—” 

“A defect?” 

Atsumu narrows his eyes on Kiyoomi. “Not the word I was going to use.” 

“Yeah?” Kiyoomi asks, voice bitter. “Then what word were you going to use?” 

“Something different about them,” Atsumu says, somewhat lamely. He sighs, looking over Kiyoomi. He’s still not wearing a shirt; the rain drips over his bare chest in rivulets of water that trace his muscles. The blood on his hands has gotten wet with rain and it runs over his skin like outward veins and arteries. “And different isn’t a bad thing.” 

Kiyoomi rubs at his eyes with the hand not holding the knife; whether that’s because of the rain or because he’s getting emotional, Atsumu can’t tell. “It is for me. I didn’t want to be like this.” 

“Maybe not.” Atsumu takes a step forward. The muddy earth he stands on shifts under his feet with a squelch. “But you don’t have to cut pieces of yourself off because of it.” 

Kiyoomi tenses as Atsumu takes another step forward. The rain is getting so heavy and fast that Kiyoomi is almost blurred, only a foot in front of him. 

“I have a corporate job,” Kiyoomi says. He seems almost breathless, hopeless with the words. “A life that requires I act a certain way. Parents who want me to look a certain way. I can’t just…contradict that.” 

He says it, says he can’t go against what he’s been told all his life, but he sounds uncertain. His grip on the knife re-tightens and Atsumu stops moving closer. The rain is a wall between them, a sheet of glass that Atsumu wants to shatter. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, waiting to see which of them will break eye contact first. In the end, it’s Kiyoomi who ducks his gaze and Atsumu who smirks at him. In the end, it’s Atsumu who takes another step forward and Kiyoomi who doesn’t back away. 

“Come back to my place,” Atsumu says. Even the rain is louder. “Let me change your mind.” 

Kiyoomi swallows. For a moment, Atsumu thinks he’s going to make a run for it. Then, “You can try.” 

Atsumu grins. “Then let’s get out of this rain, Omi.” 

[gabessquishytum]

Sorry it's me again. I just happen to read your blog like the morning newspaper and it's very hard not to "yes, and-" to every ask.

I’m so happy you and 🐺-anon liked the winged Dream idea and I absolutely LOVE the rescue version? That’s so much better!!!

My brain is making excited static noises thanks to the idea that the two of them just… discover each other?

Humans and whatever Dream is usually don’t interact with each other, especially not sexually. Burgess captured Dream mainly for the magic he figured he would get out of it and then tried to break him when he was unsuccessful.

But that’s all in the past and Dream’s with Hob now. He could technically leave for his family to take care of the rest of his recovery. He could even send Hob! Hob doesn’t speak the language of his people (yet) but Dream could give him a letter to pass on. He knows Hob knows where his family likes to fly, but after a while… he finds that he doesn’t want to leave Hob.

Aside from the care Hob provides him he’s just so fascinating! He likes to talk and tells Dream all manner of things. Every day he understands a bit more of it. Hob sings when he’s going about his chores. Hob listens to Dream, even though he can barely understand him and no one has ever listened to Dream. Living with Hob is just so nice. He’s getting spoiled and pampered, there’s peace and quiet and no strenuous social rituals he has to go through on a daily basis to make his parents and siblings happy. It’s basically a spa vacation for him and the massages…

Dream knows the first time Hob touched his wings and made him cum from just that was an accident. And there are plenty of ways to care for Dream’s wings that are not sexual at all and he could show them to Hob. But he doesn’t want to. He loves the feeling of Hob’s fingers carding through his feathers and he loves the way Hob reacts to him even more.

Dream wants everything.

Thing is, Hob always leaves after Dream’s cum. He hides away in the corner, sniffling his moans while he masturbates as if he doesn’t want Dream to overhear. Dream overhears it though so he knows Hob wants him too. It’s just a matter of seducing him.

Dream has no idea how to seduce a human - elaborate bird-like courting rituals don’t seem to work - but he’s figuring it out. And soon he’s face down on Hob’s bed, Hob fucking him into the sheets, massaging his scapulars at the same time until Dream has come twice and is entirely blissed out.

What follows is a mixture of winged creature and human courting rituals and a slow but enthusiastic discovery of everything that drives the other into a frenzy. (The image of Dream's wings in Hob's underwear is mind-blowing? Just slowly torturing the orgasm out of Hob with literally feather-soft strokes of Dream's wings)

People (both humans and winged creatures) get wind of their relationship and are so… confused would be the nice term I guess. This is just not something that happens! How can they?

But Hob and Dream don’t care. They’re happy, they’re in love and they’re about to discover that whatever Dream is can be impregnated by human sperm :)

Love, 💄

Oh, this is so lovely!! It soothed my terrible terrible headache and I'm just basking in the idea of Dream and Hob living together in their little cabin, being oh so domestic. Slowly learning each others language and culture (Hob finally figures out that he can touch Dream’s wings in a non-arousing way, which is good if Dream is sleepy and just wants a gentle massage). Dream gains confidence and becomes very useful around the house, and Hob even teaches him to cook! It's domestic bliss.

Dream makes their bed into a proper little nest and it's the most comfortable place in the world. Yes, Hob is slightly concerned as to exactly what their children are going to look like, but he can't be worried for long when Dream curls up around him and makes the cutest little chirping noises to soothe them both off to sleep.

[astraymetronome]

I finished the first chapter the night before this was posted. I'm busy all day today so I can't really take time to post it so I opted to schedule it the night before.

This is a gift for @cyncerity and I do plan to write a few more chapters. It's my own play on their trapped Wilbur au so I hope you enjoy it. I'm calling this Of Starlings and Confines but the tag will just be #Starling AU since it's a little bit of a long title.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Also if anyone wants @'d when new chapters come out. Repost it so I know.

The soft cardigan that draped over his shoulders was enough to tell Tommy he was safe. He had barely managed to make this from Friend’s wool before everything went to hell. It was going to go lay it on the grave he’d made for the ghost but he couldn’t bring himself to do away with it. After all, he didn’t have a chance to see him. Wilbur and Niki had taken the sheep before he even found the sheep’s reborn body. 

On top of this the cape techno had left with him had been turned into a cover for his wings. The avian hybrid knew full well that, if given the chance, Dream would try to cut them off in a heartbeat. He brushed his blond from his eyes, narrowly missing the scar that adorned his forehead. His tail swished as he quietly fettled with his khakis and ruined green bandana that was tied around a belt loop. 

The 16-year-old knew he shouldn’t be doing this, let alone when Dream was on the loose, but he had to check on Boo and Tubbo. They may not be on the best terms as of right now but he had to know they were safe from that fucker’s greed. He wasn’t going to let anyone else get hurt from the stupid obsession. The dreamon wasn’t going to be allowed to do any more harm to any of them. He stepped from his dirt shack, running his hands through his messy curls before he let his wings spread. The wind blew through each feather, allowing his instincts to sing at the long-abandoned desire for 5 years. He hadn’t brought himself to return to the sky despite how much Philza had begged him. 

Flying had sadly become a trigger for his PTSD. He hated it considering flying was once a desired release. Dream had taken it from him by clipping his flight feathers and threatening to remove his wings altogether if he attempted to fly once they grew back. It was an endless cycle of having them retired before he even got to use new flight feathers. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure he could still fly after all this time. 

Ignoring his inner dialogue, the blonde let his wings beat almost to the rhythm of a heart before he fluttered into the air. It wasn’t graceful like his dad had once described his flight pattern and instinct, but the sensation of wind and the air brushing under and over feathers was peaceful. He could feel the cape over his shoulders getting in the way of his wings despite being decently pinned. He felt glad he’d done that so at least instead of trapping air or interrupting his flight they instead rested in between his shoulder blades and fell, following the space, past his scapulars.

Each stroke of his pinions brought him closer to his destination and the duo’s home. He knew the husbands would probably be against seeing him, considering Boo didn’t act anything like Ranboo did. Tubbo refused to let him around them since he didn’t want his platonic lover's ghost to disappear. Tommy just needed to make sure they were safe and warn them about the risk Dream opposed to them getting back at him. 

No matter how mad he get at that smiling blob of a fucking person he refused to take it out on anyone but him or not at all. Puffy’s therapy had taught him enough to grow healthy coping mechanisms but.. Well of course this had to ruin his weekly visits upon escaping since Puffy couldn’t handle having her son released. The ewe had mixed feelings after he caused Techno to be dragged into Pogtoupia’s beef which led to her youngest child’s death. 

Tommy hated going into the rabbit hole of his own thoughts but at least it distracted him from the fear bubbling in his stomach. The nagging fear that bubbled in his abdomen, flooded forward and gave a sensation of nausea that shot through every fiber of his being. He did his best to hide it deep down just like he did with most things. This wasn’t something he could hope or wish away like some of his feelings. 

As he got closer, the distant sounds of shouting and seemingly an argument reached his space. Being this high in the air he really shouldn’t be able to hear it but, if they were this loud, something had to be wrong. He broke into a hover, letting his wings slow down into a glide as he made his way down to them. It was hard to get down quickly without just dropping his weight so this was the next best option. 

Once his sneakers reached the brush, grass and moss being crushed under his weight, the teen stepped forward. It was rather refreshing to hear Toby even if he wasn’t in a good mood. The ghostly echo that seemed to speak in response wasn’t very surprising considering the connection Boo had still attached to his spouse. Nothing could kill the bond they both had, Tommy wished he could have experienced the same thing even after exile. 

“We can’t just let that bastard have our son! Goddamnit Ranboo!” His goat friend yelled out, Tommy could see how Boo kept stepping in front of Tubbo as he yelled towards if not behind the ghost. He sighed moving forward and into view of the couple. He wasn’t surprised as the fellow hybrid looked over the enderman’s shoulder and towards him. The half-blind teen simply glared in his direction before the insatiable happened. 

“Tommy! The homeless Teletubby stole Michael!” Tommy could feel his blood run cold at this. He’d been too late to stop that fuckers actions and the choice to take it out on others who no longer had a part in this. He felt a snarl press against his lips and cross his face as he turned. 

“Which way did he go.” He found himself mumbling.

“There is no-” Boo began but Tommy refused to let him finish.

“Where the fuck did he take your son!” The blonde shouted, watching as Tubbo’s eyes lit up for a moment, only a moment, as his hand pointed towards the east. Tommy didn’t even take a second to consider his options before he let his wings open and brought himself up above the trees, propelling himself in that direction. No matter how long the two of them planned to hate or dislike him, he refused to let Michael be a victim. 

He knew Boo would be mad but he didn’t care. Tommy needed to keep Michael safe when Ranboo would be eager to see him if, no, once he was back from the afterlife. He was quick to rush, his dark wings weren’t well adjusted for hiding in the dark unlike his brother’s. Wilbur’s wings had white slats that had some dark brown or black shading. He thought they were beautiful in comparison to his black primaries and bright red flight feathers. His own wingspan of 7 feet seemed to dwarf his size but it really wasn’t. In comparison to his body, when spread out, they looked proper and reminded him of Phil’s crow-based wings. He wasn’t actually aware of the bird his were based on. He knew the immortal knew but he’d never really gotten to bring it up. 

He watched the ground, much like a hawk searching for a rabbit or something along those lines. Unlike a hawk, he was well aware of what he needed to find, not a victim to instincts and a need for food, unlike the well-known predator. Tommy refused to let himself be swallowed up by stupid nature, he wasn’t going to lose himself to it. 

He was unaware of how long it took for him to take notice of pink and white. Without another hesitation he dropped, landing roughly and accidentally causing the small child to scare. The moment the three-year-old’s white eyes landed on his form, the small snort that left him as crying started caused his heart to lurch in panic. He couldn’t believe Dream would consider harming this angel.

“Hey, Big Mike.” Tommy whispered as his arms wrapped around the child’s body, his wings moving to hug him as well. He refused to let him go as the pigling squirmed to be held higher. He tucked the child on his hip, listening as he muttered something in enderspeak. He wasn’t proficient in the language, unable to learn more after Ranboo’s passing.

“Scared. Taken. Green. Blob.” It honestly made no sense to him but he knew what Micheal meant by the green blob. He could feel a growl forming in his throat as he carefully juggled the toddler's body. His hands held him protectively as he moved the cape, uncliping it as he used it to slightly swaddle him. He knew the small boar would like the texture considering he remembered how Techno used to wrap him in one of his own capes. 

Tommy heard something, his slightly pointed ears swiveling as he glanced around. His grip grew more possessive and protective as he looked for the cause. He had this sneaking feeling it was going to be who he thought it was. Dream had no reason to back up or leave. The avian had no armor or weapons on him and he was sure that he would at least need to survive long enough to get Micheal to Tubbo. 

He shook as he glared before his sharp eyes took notice of the small white form on the floor. He wasn’t used to seeing Dream’s blob form. He knew the dreamon was well versed in transformation magic but… this was different. The asshole never entered this form unless he was around George or Sapnap. Tommy lifted him up, with some hesitancy, before hastily dropping him into his pocket and making his way towards the small piglin’s home. He had to get him home before he could take care of this. 

His interest was peaked and, if Tommy was honest, having a chance to take the dreamon back to prison for once and for all, was too important to give up.

[a-dragons-journal]

I had a thought and looked up some images and I feel like I should share. Even though I switch frequently between bird-shifts and dragon-shifts, my wings actually don’t move any lower on my back during dragon shifts, just tighter together at the shoulder-joint. I actually have a really hard time visualising my wings as being any lower, and that compelled me to look up some bird and bat wing images to see if I could find a reason behind the comfort of my wings sitting directly on top of my arms’ wide shoulder blades when, logically (I thought), they shouldn’t even fit there. And I discovered that birds’ and even bats’ shoulder blades don’t look anything like reptiles’ or non-flying mammals’ scapulae!

So considering that birds and even bats have wing scapulae that are longer and much thinner than arm/frontal leg scapulae in mammals and reptiles, do you think that a pair of wings could actually attach above arm/front leg scapulae on most dragons without causing space problems on the skeletal structure? They’re perfectly comfortable where they are on me. Of course, every dragon is different, but all those anatomy posts I’ve seen trying to make sense of wing placement on a six-limbed flying creature now seem like they’re over-complicating things a bit.

I feel like there's a problem here with range of motion - even if they fit perfectly when at rest, the range of motion of a wing shoulder is necessarily huge, and I'm pretty confident that if you put the wing scapulae right between the foreleg scapulae, you're not going to be able to actually use the wing.

(Source)

This is a diagram of a bat's scapular range of motion from the front (I couldn't find a similar one for birds, though I admittedly didn't spend a ton of time looking, but I would imagine they're similar). Only the muscles are labeled in this in the original image, but I've marked the scapulae with red arrows. If you had a second pair of scapulae for the forelegs directly lateral to the wing scapulae, you would lose almost half of this range of motion because it would get physically blocked by the second scapula pair, which I'm willing to bet would ground you.

That being said, there might be a bunch of other reasons for why you experience shifts the way you do - your brain may determine wing placement based on the length of the spine or other physical landmarks instead of basing it on the placement of your shoulders, or your world's evolutionary tree may have produced an entirely different physiology that allows for that seemingly illogical placement somehow, or your brain may just plain be mismapping it because really, trying to map the proportions of a dragon onto a human frame is already an impossible task. All I can say is that by the anatomical and physiological laws of animals of this world, I'm pretty confident that setup wouldn't work - who the fuck knows what's going on on your world to make it work for you. (And that's all assuming you even believe in a "your world" and a literal physical existence of your species somewhere to begin with - I don't know your explanation for your draconity, so that's not necessarily the case, and in that case who cares if it works with physical anatomy?)

[shieldretired]

                              STEVE'S DRUNK BRAIN CAN'T COMPREHEND THIS. When you have wings, you have wings; how can they be actual and non-actual? But then they're there, just unfold like they've been attached to Balthazar's back all along (and Steve figures they are always kinda growing out of there), and he happily stares at them for a second as if they're the most amazing thing in the world. "They're beautiful," he says in the solemn voice of the drunk. Carefully pulling his arm away from Balthazar's shoulders, he turns fully and then slowly reaches out to smooth the fingertips of his left hand over the scapulars. It's like he always imagines cotton candy to feel before reality shows him that it's a very sticky, sugary affair. 

                                    "Are they always this color? Do other angels have differently colored wings? Can you feel that?" he adds in childish joy as he gently pets the bigger primary feathers. They're so soft. Steve wants to touch them for hours. He wants to press his face into them.

" Oh, yes, " he muses, sounding almost a little whimsically humored that it's even a question. " Quite simple, really —— " And the swift change in question makes him blink, makes brows furrow. " Oh, probably. But, well. What can I say. I'm an utterly terrible example. Blaspheme away. " He sighs, a brow-crinkled look sent sidelong — and his mouth presses together, oddly reticent. " The actual true things? No. Blah, blah, something about pure primordial celestial energy. "

But: from nothing, they unfold smoothly. It's — odd, conceptually, because it's almost as though seeing something suddenly that was only glimpsed out of the corner of the eye. The mortal brain usually wants to make sense of it, and he's found it so often does.

They're not fully material, not really — partly astral, still shadowed faintly. A mottled brown, black at the tips, paler down nearest the shoulders — but they are, actually, feathered, and painfully soft besides. " Mm. Go ahead. No pulling. "

[hawksinacup]

Hawks and the league (VillainHawks AU) Part 1.

Hawks successfully became a member of the LoV, how? He finally snapped. After being asked to assassinate a young child for having a life threatening quirk, he came to realize something. The commission is just as fucked as the people we call villains. Why did they want him to kill the kid? He didn't know, but after some digging, he found out that the kid was the son of a rather dangerous villain. However, due to the kid being locked up their whole life, they have no self awareness whatsoever. Making them a rather dangerous threat to Japan. Hawks couldn't do it, it reminded him of himself as a kid. Being caged just because his father was a criminal. So what did Hawks do instead? He brought the head of the president of the commission to the base of the LoV.

The whole league was stunned by the presentation. Toga wanted to keep the head, while twice was equally disgusted as he was intrigued. When questioned, Hawks confessed his stress being a top hero and how some things he was asked to do, could be considered rather questionable. He just wanted time to relax, to be free of work, to make a world where heroes have too much time on their hands. And what better way than to rid all heroes from society?

Once being accepted, he got to meet AFO. Not face to face of course, but through a rather long and informative call about the wasted potential Hawks was. How he could improve, and how he could use his quirk to do more than the bare minimum of what he does already.

Afo offered to give Hawks a quirk that made him more feral, more primal, more... animalistic. Hawks agreed, only to know how it would affect him, and boy did he love it.

His normal hands, now equipped with razor sharp talons able to cut through steel with ease. His eyes more enhanced than they were before, along with all his other senses. He now bared fangs, and a taste for blood, similar to toga. He no longer required his visor and headphones for protection as he flied, for his body had adapted to the high wind pressures and sun rays. His shoulders became more broad, and his fierce wings quirk was twice as strong. His body now more nimble, and his feet bared sharp talon like nails. His back was layered with coverts, while his shoulders were covered in scapulars. All in all, Hawks was now a beast of a bird-man. He now wore cargo shorts with wrappings on his wrists and feet. His chest bare and his body sculpted. His hair went down to his shoulder blades, and his five front stands were now shorter than his actual hair. He grew slightly, now 6ft. His wings were bigger as well to the point that his primaries dragged on the ground.

Hawks had been MIA for a year after killing the president of the HPSC, which led to rumors spreading like wildfire. Some say he immigrated east, some say he lost his hero license, others say he was killed. Though recent sightings lead to rumors of Hawks being turned into a Nomu. It wasn't until a month later did the question become answered of what happened to Hawks.

The LoV had attacked a company that specialized in hero support gear, and when heroes came into the scene, all that could be seen was red. More specifically, red feathers piercing the bodies of the heroes, killing them or severely injuring them. He then came face to face with the Lion Hero: Shishido. Hawks recognized him as the former 13th top pro, now number 12. Shishido confronted the avian, only to feel a rather dominant aura, causing the hero to submit to Hawks. Hawks commands him to leave, to which the hero does, leaving the public stunned. Many saw the current Hawks as a freak, others called him a monster, and some rather questionable folk called him even more sexy than he was before.

When his debut as a villain spread through Japan, many feared for their lives. The man known to be way too fast, was now a major threat to the population. The man, trained by the commission itself to be the perfect soldier, now against hero society, and ready to put them through the hell he had to endure with all his troublesome undercover work.

Hawks became so much of a threat, that not even the league dared to mess with him, except for Dabi. Dabi didn't fear the bird man, due to being his major weakness. Which meant that Endeavor didn't fear him, which was an issue for Hawks. Though he was rather quick to find Endeavor's weakness, his family. Holding his family hostage was enough to make him submit to Hawks and the League.

When the young heroes in training heard about the historical event happening, different emotions were spread through the dormitories. Fear, Anger, Confusion, Resolve. With a new member, and a rather skilled one at that, the League was practically unstoppable.

Though the young heroes didn't like that fact and decided to put matters into their own hands...

Part 2. Soon...

[radioves]

ok we all know the reason Grian doesnt use his old base is he doesnt want it to be unfair because he should be dead But! consider:

He just. forgot. he doesnt remember who he was or how he died, let alone that he did die, so he just sees this old house and wonders “huh. i wonder who lived there” and only thinks of it as the home of a soul long gone and doesnt realize hes the soul who belongs there.

If anything his soul is almost attracted to the house, hence the reason why he decided to build a new house overlooking the old one. his death was just so unfair- getting ohko’d and was basically dead before he even knew it- that the world decided to let him live again, just at the cost of his memories.

How he gets his house back is something im unsure of, maybe when he gets back to his 40 hours he would just. remember again? maybe it would be essentially a timeline merge, his current and old life merge and he would regain his old memories and go back to his old life. maybe he would just claim the house as his own, something hes been watching over and was so attached to doesnt deserve to rot away so easily.

He questions his scars- his pale scapular feathers, his white streaked hair, his wings that glimmer just a little bit more than he remembers- but he gets used to it. his friends, the people around him, they mention events he doesnt remember, only to backtrack or change the subject whenever he questions what theyre talking about. at some point he just learns to accept this.

if you want to entertain the idea of certain worlds and servers being connected, maybe the Goddess of Death also watches over 100hours along side her other servers and worlds, and, after watching Grian die so suddenly, pitied him. After all, she was married to the same man who is known for his hardcore experiences, she knows how it feels to lose your only life. Its a little bit selfish, but it was his first time doing something like this, and he went out so suddenly.

Besides, in her defense, it was a little bit hard to watch him wander aimlessly around the afterlife without realizing he was already dead.

[a-weird-tree]

    It was an indisputable fact that Nightmare had a specific reputation. King of Negativity; Lord of Darkness and Despair; such titles were close to him, defined who he was. So it made sense that he would make secrets out of the things that could possibly influence his reputation.

    One such secret was two extra appendages, located just on the inner edges of his scapular bones, always kept held down with the use of his tentacles and covered underneath his hoodie.

    His wings.

    Nightmare, admittedly, had little that could actually ruin his reputation. The main thing would probably be the relationship between him and his Gang, since if it was known he had four boyfriends and a rather soft side, his fearsomeness in the eyes of the outside world would certainly suffer.

    His wings, in comparison, wouldn’t be such a problem, had it not been for their appearance.

    Dark membraned wings, something more similar to a bat or a demon, would be preferred. If that were the case, he would gladly show off his wings just like he showed off his four tentacles.

    However, in reality, his wings were rather on the small side, and they were feathered. To make matters worse, they were soft.

    The feathers themselves were a dark violet, nearly black color. Each individual feather had speckles of silver and lavender. Unlike the rest of his body, they’d hardly changed after consuming the negative apples; the only difference was that they were now slightly bigger and had the silver speckles. After several years, they’d also adapted to be somewhat waterproof. Most kinds of liquids slid easily off of their surface. This happened to extend to the goop covering his body as well; the material never stuck to the feathers or the magical ecto-skin underneath.

    A problem he had quickly discovered with his wings was that they were rather sensitive. This didn’t pair well with the fact they were always kept in a stiff, uncomfortable position.

    In short, they hurt like a bitch. It didn’t help how he already had back pain to deal with because of his tentacles.

    When the pain in his wings got to be too much (and then some - it only takes a few days for the pain to be too intense for his liking, but he always waited at least a week longer from this point), he would stretch them out during a time that was commonly his “alone time”. This just so happened to be late at night.

    Usually, this worked out perfectly for him: most nights he was alone in his office, working on paperwork. Unfortunately, he wasn’t always so lucky. Since he’d officially started dating his Gang, there tended to be several dedicated cuddle nights. A time he may have been planning to let his wings be exposed would be one of these cuddle nights, and while he certainly didn’t mind the chance to relax and spend time with his boyfriends, this also meant there were extra days where he had to deal with the pain in his wings.

    And this night happened to be one of them, apparently. This, he discovered when Horror barged into his office and picked him up from his desk. He didn’t even bother fighting back as he was carried out of his office and to his bedroom. Unless he was looking to seriously injure Horror, a repulsive thought, there wasn’t much the smallest skeleton in the castle could do against the giant, no matter how gentle Horror was. There was the added fact that most of his boyfriends had even learned workarounds to subdue him when he was feeling particularly agitated. (He both loathed and loved the Magic Petting Spot that Cross had discovered.)

    Nightmare grunted softly when he was deposited on his bed next to Cross and Dust. Despite Horror’s careful handling, each little movement connecting to his back seemed to cause the pain in his wings to flare. Sliding down onto his stomach and cushioning his skull with his arms, Nightmare, for once, admitted something to himself.

    Perhaps he’d waited too long this time to stretch his wings.

    He itched to take his hoodie off and spread his troublesome appendages for several hours, but he knew he couldn’t now. Regardless, they kept twitching, which really didn’t help with the pain.

    Distracted as he was, he didn’t even notice Killer sidling up to him until the monster laid a hand on Nightmare’s spine, just beneath his tentacles. He stiffened, for a moment; then Killer started to move his hand in gentle, rhythmic circles, and the negative spirit deflated near instantly.

    “Ya’ve got that look on your face when your back’s bothering you,” Killer murmured against the side of Nightmare’s skull. “So we gonna help you out some, yeah?”

    Rather than verbal responses from the rest of their boyfriends, the bed shifted as three more skeletons moved closer to sit in a semi-circle around the king.

    Phalanges that Nightmare easily recognized as Cross’s slid over the slimy surface of one of his tentacles, probing gently into the protective covering as they went along, turning Nightmare’s mind to a contented muddle.

    Normally, Nightmare wouldn’t willingly let anybody touch his back for the fact that enough exploration could lead to one’s discovery of his wings; but right now, he was honestly feeling quite tired, and the combined ministrations of all of his boyfriends was making it hard to think straight. Hell, there was even some irrational part of his mind perking up that wanted them to help spread and preen his wings. How ridiculous.

    Nightmare sighed and closed his socket, his drifting attention loosely focusing on the fingers lovingly working around his spine: Cross lightly pushing into and petting his tentacles, Killer rubbing his spine, Horror massaging his shoulders, and Dust kneading at his neck. Someone - it sounded like Killer - murmured something, but Nightmare couldn’t focus enough to make out the words. A soft huff left his mouth as the hands on his shoulders and neck moved away, only to feel them trace along his arms.

    A nudge to his side had him shifting his weight away. He felt someone pull down the zipper of his hoodie and begin pushing it off over his shoulder. Unaware of himself as he was in his contented state, he didn’t put up any fight as the clothing was fully removed. Before any of the Gang could get back to work petting and massaging him, the negative spirit uncurled the smaller tentacles used to keep his wings pinned down. The sudden drafts of air against the sensitive appendages had them quivering violently, sending jolts of pain down his spine, in tune with the quiet gasps from above his head.

    Wait, what.

    Blinking several times to ground himself, Nightmare lifted his skull from his arms, craning his neck to peer behind himself.

    “Fuck,” he groaned lowly at the sight of his feathered wings completely exposed to his boyfriends.

    “You have wings,” Dust said slowly, needlessly stating the obvious. “Like Dream.”

    “Shut up,” Nightmare retorted, no real bite in the words. He was much too focused on the fact that the aches and needle-pricking sensations in his wings had seemingly tripled, now that they weren’t being held down anymore. He couldn’t stop the full-body flinch at one particular stabbing feeling, nor could he reasonably hide the natural reaction. That seemed to snap his boyfriends out of their stupified state, and Killer was the first to shuffle closer to get a better look.

    “Damn, babe,” Killer muttered softly, lightly poking at Nightmare’s left wing and observing the way it twitched and spasmed, causing Nightmare to flinch again and tense. Killer looked up sharply, and though there were no eye-lights to gouge just where he was looking, the king had the distinct feeling that Killer was glaring at him the way he did when Nightmare wasn’t properly taking care of himself. In response, the negative spirit groaned and dropped his skull face-down into his arms.

    “Do you never take care of these things?” Killer began his lecture. “All the feathers are out of place and ruffled. It looks like a lot of loose ones are stuck. Do you ever groom these? Or stretch them? Are they just pinned down twenty-four seven?”

    Nightmare remained silent.

    The bed shifted, clueing Nightmare in on the fact Killer had probably flung his arms up. “Fuck’s sake!” Killer exclaimed, then sighed heavily. “Cross, Dust, you two handle that one, Horror, help me with this one.”

    The bed moved again, and Nightmare hissed out a series of curses at the first touches to his wings, which jerked and shuddered in response to the light stimulation. Dust, Horror, and Cross all hesitated, but Killer wasn’t deterred. He worked his phalanges through the feathers of Nightmare's left wing, feeling out the ecto-skin underneath and getting a grip gentle yet firm enough to help extend the appendage. After a moment, Dust did the same with Nightmare’s right wing, while Cross and Horror focused on running their fingers through his feathers, untangling them and carefully removing loose ones.

    His wings still hurt, aching sharply, but the negative spirit had to admit to himself how grateful he was for his boyfriends’ help. With a heavy sigh, he let himself relax, closing his socket and enjoying the feeling of his wings being preened and straightened.

[korpuskat]

Kinktober Day 1 - Public [Tomura Shigaraki/Reader, Hawks/Reader]

[Ao3 Mirror] Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1,290 Summary: Keigo discovers something about the Paranormal Liberation Front he’d rather not have. Contains: Public sex, Voyeurism, Masturbation, one-sided Hawks/Reader 

=====

Hawks never expected the Liberation Army's influence had already spread so far. It was one thing to see the hundreds, thousands of people in the streets below or in their stupidly lavish headquarters. They had money, believers, they were threat enough- but it hadn't quiet hit home just how expansive it had become until he pushes open the ostentatious doors to the conference room. A simple report in, he thinks, any excuse to finally meet Shigaraki.

Keigo, for all his years of practiced coolness and carefully regulated distance, flinches. A single twitch of his eye, before he's playing it off as amused surprise. Nobody else seems to notice, nobody else seems to care. Tomura Shigaraki, the same damn villain he's been chasing for three months is finally before him- and it isn't even Shigaraki's face that Keigo can't look away from.

It's you.

Nobody else in the room pays any attention to the display at the head of the table, everyone averting their eyes in either self-preservation or genuine detachment. And Keigo can't look away. In his right hand, Shigaraki holds a tablet, reading through something unseen- and with the left, the half-glove of his prosthetic is wrapped around your throat as you bounce on his dick. With the terrible embalmed hand over Shigaraki's face, Keigo can't make out his expression, but with how frequently he scrolls, rage boils threateningly in his stomach at the thought that it might be disinterest.

You, you- Shigaraki is fucking you- the Liberation Army had infiltrated Hawks' own agency, had grabbed the cute little sidekick he'd kept close under his wing just to intimidate him and-

"Hawks?" You voice warbles out, weak and lilting. He sees it on your face now: your eyes half-lidded, mouth hanging open with lips swollen from kisses... or bites. Keigo's dick hardens immediately, shame only making the ache more acute. No, this isn't to intimidate him, it's merely some whim of Shigaraki's. And you- you just-

"Quiet." Shigaraki says, low and easy in your ear- and Keigo feels it with is feathers. There's no real threat to it any more than in the hand at your throat. It's about ownership, about making sure you don't forget your place in the room. It's as effective as it is simple. Your head falls back on his narrow shoulder, eyes closing as you sigh. Even hidden under the table, Keigo listens, burns with jealousy at the rhythmic shifting of your body over Shigaraki's. Every single feather on his back reports in with the near mute shhlk shhlk shhlk and the tiny, airy noise of your sighs.

"What do you have to report, Hawks?" Re-Destro is the first to speak to him.

Keigo wants to rip his throat out.

"I've been working to spread the beliefs of the Liberation Army!" He says instead, feels the aloof grin spread across his face like a mask. He ignores the twitching of his cock on his thigh, reminds himself of the stakes. Keigo hardly breathes as he reports in his saccharine tone, forces his eyes to slide across the other faces at the table.

He pauses only at Dabi. Everyone else had the good sense to be looking at Hawks or their tablets, but Dabi, no- Dabi makes no attempt to hide how he stares at Keigo's sidekick. As if everything else wasn't bad enough, to have that amoral, scarred bastard leering at you...

He's too well trained to let his smile falter, to pretend he could end this fight now- but his feathers prickle with the desire to be buried in the lieutenants' necks.

Re-Destro dismisses him with the same faux cheerful grin. Keigo lets himself look at you one more time- your mouth hanging open, drool spilling from the corner of your lips- before turning to leave. When he tucks the scapular feather between the door and the floor, he tells himself it's for surveillance on the League. They speak- he knows they do- but all he can hear, all he can feel is your little whines of desperation.

Keigo's cock aches and he can't stop himself- he ducks into the first dark corner he can find and pushes his pants open, fists himself without pretense. It should be him. Keigo had thought about having you cockwarm him at his desk more times than he can count and Shigaraki's joined with the Liberation Army not even two weeks ago and you're riding him like- like-

"Everybody out." Shigaraki demands. Keigo's hand stills on his cock, waits- but the lieutenants must be used to this order because they exit the conference room without preamble. Not a single one even looks near his secluded hiding spot-

and what Keigo hears through his feather makes his hand tighten. First, a harsh thump- and your sweet voice moaning. The sound of Shigaraki fucking you are louder now, the harsh slap of skin against skin and the wet noises of your pussy in between- Keigo can't help himself. He matches Shigaraki's pace, closes his eyes and pretends you're moaning for him, that it's his cock plunging into you over and over-

Your moans raise half a pitch and he can only imagine what Shigaraki's doing to you- in Keigo's mind he's rubbing your clit, making you writhe beneath him. Maybe he isn't that far off.

"Thank you, oh, thank you!" You cry so sweetly and fuck, you had to have been trained to do that and- your moaning crescendos. Keigo cums, bites the side of his free hand to keep quiet, to focus on all your little noises- even if most are drowned out by the noise of your pussy still being fucked until- a groan that's hardly more than a choked-off breath. A warbling little thing through grit teeth. Bastard.

Keigo tucks himself away, winces as he has to wipe his hand off- chooses the inside of his pants to be less conspicuous. He listens to the slick sounds of what he assumes must be Shigaraki pulling out and your still wrecked breathing.

"Good pet." Shigaraki's praise feels hollow, more scripted than sincere, but you give some weak whimper all the same.

Keigo should leave. He really, really should leave. Seeing you, talking to you would be a mistake- even with his cock taken care of, Keigo isn't sure how well he'd be able to control himself. You knew him from before this new façade, it's too risky. But he listens, listens as you adjust your clothes, give some formal farewell to your Supreme Leader. Something in Keigo aches with your awkward gait, the scuff of your shoes against the high-polish floors.

When you open the door, he keeps the feather well concealed, sliding along with the heavy oak as you go. He moves to follow you- and hesitates when he realizes another set of footsteps follow yours towards the door. Shigaraki must be headed out too. It's fine, Keigo can wait a moment to let the leader pass (as much as Keigo would love to take the opportunity to cut the head off the League here and now-)

but Shigaraki doesn't pass.

The footsteps get louder and louder in Keigo's head as they near the feather pressed between the door and the floor- and then just stop. Shigaraki's so close Keigo can hear his breathing now and Keigo gets that sickly feeling that makes sweat bead at the base of his skull. Shigaraki opens the door- and Keigo scoots the feather along with it. This time, it's not a vibration- fingers touch the feather, hold the crimson thing up by its quill.

"Enjoy the show, birdy?"

Keigo's stomach drops out through his toes- and is left with the sensation of his feather dissolving away into nothing.

=====

Now with FANART (fuckin WHAT dkfjdg) by @heart-chime​!

=====

If you like my writing, please consider reblogging or leaving me a tip!

=====

Tag List:

@annonymousbread

[imaginetonyandbucky]

Flights of Fancy

Chapter 2 (AO3) by @dracusfyre

Content Warning: in this chapter Bucky and Tony are both 17 and engage in consensual, non-penetrative sexual activity.

Five Years Ago: Tony

Tony smiled as he saw Bucky’s eyes drift closed, drowsy and relaxed in the quiet privacy of the stables. A lantern, partially shuttered so that the light wouldn’t go past the hay loft and attract attention in the night, cast a rosy glow over him, and for a moment Tony was so in love his chest ached. Smiling privately, he turned his gaze back to Bucky’s secondaries, smoothing down the vanes on each feather so they lay straight and unbroken, picking out stray down and detritus that gathered in them from Bucky’s work on the estate. Bucky was laying on his back on the blanket that they’d spread out over the hay, wings sprawled at his side, while Tony sat cross-legged at his hip to groom him.

“What do you think about red and gold?” Tony asked softly, now just stroking the tips of his fingers down the rachis of each feather. Bucky’s wing twitched like it tickled, but it settled back down. Red and gold paint would look lovely against Bucky’s dark brown wings.

Bucky made a humming noise, then said, “I like silver. Red and silver?”

Tony tilted his head, picturing it. Then he stretched out his own wing, eyeing it critically. His wings were a lighter color than Bucky’s, a medium brown that turned reddish in the sun. Gold would look better on his own wings, but he said, “That sounds lovely. Bars, I think, not stripes. And maybe dots, as an accent?”

Bucky opened his eyes and met Tony’s gazes. “We could paint my wings rainbow polka dots, as long as they match yours,” he said, gaze warm with affection, and Tony flushed. Without thinking, he raised his wings and Bucky’s eyes zeroed in on them, and the hungry look on his face made heat flash through the rest of Tony’s body. Under his hands Bucky’s wings tensed, and Tony had to fight the urge to bury his hands in the thick feathers and find the skin underneath.

Tony forced his wings to settle against his back and ducked his chin. “I wish we could fly together,” he said, putting his hands in his lap to avoid temptation and staring down at them. “I love you so much, the wait is killing me.”

“Just one more year,” Bucky said. “Then we’ll reach our majority, and your father can go hang.” He sat up and then there was a wing under Tony’s chin, tilting his face up. “We can go see the world, just like you always wanted.” Bucky pressed a soft, lingering kiss on Tony’s lips, and Tony leaned forward to chase Bucky’s mouth as he pulled away.

“I could get us paint,” Tony said against Bucky’s mouth. He pressed Bucky back against the blanket and leaned over him. “We could paint them, and we’d both be 18 by the time we shed our secondaries.”

Bucky’s face went slack with surprise. “Are you serious? We’d be in so much trouble if we were discovered!” His hands came up to frame Tony’s face. “As much as I love you, I don’t want to think about what would happen to you if the Duke found out you’d painted your secondaries with a commoner like me.”

“I could give up flying for a year if it meant wearing your colors,” Tony said stubbornly. “I wouldn’t even  open  my wings, if that’s what it took.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bucky pulled Tony down on top of him and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in Tony’s neck. “My love, are you sure?” he said, his voice so small and uncertain that any fears Tony had vanished.

“Yes,” Tony said, suddenly wanting it more than anything. “The next time we meet, we’ll do it.”

They didn’t get another few hours alone for a week, but when the moon rose that night it found them back in their hayloft, wings spread and two paint pots between them. Now that it was time, Tony found his hands were shaking every time he tried to pick up the paintbrush. There was a piece of paper on the floor with the design on it that they’d drawn out together, having already gone through three pages of paper trying to sketch something out. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” Bucky said when he saw how nervous Tony was. He took Tony’s hands in his own, squeezing them. “I will still love you the same if you want to wait.”

“It’s not that,” Tony managed. The nerves in his chest turned into a lump in his throat, then a hot press of tears in his eyes. “I just want it to be perfect.”

“Whatever you paint, I paint,” Bucky said softly, drying Tony’s cheeks as the tears spilled over, his own eyes suspiciously damp and voice hoarse. “And whatever that looks like, will be perfect.” Seeing that Bucky was also affected made it both better and worse, and after a few moments Tony managed to swallow back his tears.

“I’m ready,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He picked up the paintbrush and dipped it in the red, smoothing off the excess paint on the edges of the paint pot. Bucky did the same, and as Tony put brush to feather on the outermost secondary feather on the underside of Bucky’s wings, Bucky did the same on Tony’s. The popular novels, the ones that Howard always complained about, said that you could feel the paint going on, damp and cool, but to Tony’s disappointment all he felt was pressure. But the sight of the red on Bucky’s feather more than made up for it, and he couldn’t help but turn his head and compare it to his own.  He met Bucky’s eye, who was doing the same thing, and they both smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Doing the rest of the wings took a good hour before they were both satisfied that the design on their secondaries matched, and then they closed up the paint pots and set them aside so they wouldn’t spill.

“Now what do we do?” Tony asked, realizing that he was going to have to hold his wings open for a while to let the paint dry or else the design would be smudged. When Bucky didn’t answer immediately, he looked up to see that Bucky was giving him a wry look, wings also spread rather awkwardly.

“I don’t know, Tony. Given that most people paint their secondaries on their wedding night, what would they possibly do while their wings dried?”

Tony made a face and wished he had something to throw at Bucky, knowing that his face was red again. “Well, I know  that, ” he said. “But it just seems like it would be awkward, trying to do it while holding your wings open like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened and he lay back against the hay, keeping his wings splayed. Tony swallowed thickly at the display; he’d seen Bucky with his wings splayed open, but this was different because now Bucky was holding his wings open like he was flying, like an invitation. When Bucky gestured for him to come closer, he did, and at Bucky’s urging Tony settled into his lap, pulse quickening when he realized Bucky was already half-hard. “I imagine they could do it like this,” Bucky murmured, dragging his gaze from Tony’s to rove hungrily over Tony’s spread open wings. His hands settled on Tony’s hips, and when he rocked up Tony bit back a moan at the delicious friction. He did it again and again until they were both fully hard and straining at their breeches; when they had settled into a good rhythm, Bucky’s hands slid up Tony’s shirt, skating over his ribs and digging into the muscles of Tony’s back where they were tense from holding his wings still. “You can flap, if you want to,” Bucky said, voice low and dirty, and Tony shuddered.

“We should stop,” he said breathlessly, but despite his words he didn’t stop his rocking; the pressure of Bucky’s hardness against his own felt too good. They’d always stopped before it got this far, but tonight was different. Tony didn’t think either of them felt like stopping. Flapping his wings helped him keep his rhythm, but the real reward was hearing the broken sound Bucky made in his chest at the sight, thrusting up so hard that Tony had to squeeze his hips tight with his thighs like he was riding a restive horse.

But then Bucky stopped, eyes squeezed tightly closed. “We can stop if you want to,” he said, and when he started to release Tony, Tony grabbed his hands and put them back on his skin.

“No,” he said. “I know we should, but I don’t want to. I’m yours,” he said, waving his painted wings to make the point. “I don’t need a piece of paper or society’s approval to know that.” He leaned over Bucky, bracing himself on his shoulders and wings spread over them both, then kissed him, mouth sliding against his and tongue thrusting in hungrily. Bucky groaned and his hands plucked at the laces holding Tony’s shirt together at the sides, then buried his hands in the scapular feathers to grip Tony by his shoulders, pulling him down to meet his hips as Bucky thrust up. Stars burst behind Tony’s eyes at the sensation and he gasped against Bucky’s mouth. The movement of their bodies became desperate then, as they chased their relief; Tony moved his grip from Bucky’s shoulders to his wing shoulders, pinning them down, and Bucky bit back a curse and came, throwing his head back as he spilled hot and wet between them. His hands tightened almost painfully on Tony’s wing shoulders as he shuddered under Tony, and the sight and sensation sent Tony over the edge as well, toes curling and breath punching out of his lungs at the force of his orgasm. He wanted to collapse against Bucky but remembered at the last minute that his wings might still be damp, so instead he just rested his forehead against Bucky’s, both of them damp with sweat.

They breathed there in the silence together, Bucky’s hands gentling on Tony and raking through the scapulars that he’d disarranged at the height of passion, then after a moment Bucky said, “That outta do it for the paint, though,” and Tony couldn’t help laughing. He sat up, grimacing a little at the wet, sticky feeling of his breeches, and examined his wings. Sure enough, all the flapping had made the paint dry, and it was easy to pick off the few bits of hay that had stuck to the paint as it dried.

“I love you,” Tony said as he folded his wings, hiding the paint. It was going to be hard to hide the paint from his parents, but so worth it, to be able to see the design on his wings whenever he was alone and remember this moment. It would be easy work to fake a sprain and just ride a horse wherever he would normally fly. Bucky probably wouldn’t have to do the same; his work usually kept him busy enough that the only time he was even able to go for a flight was on his half-day, and no one would notice if he wasn’t flying on his time off.

Bucky’s eyes were full of awe and wonder as they roamed over Tony’s face, like he was afraid that Tony was too good to be true. He sat up and kissed Tony again. “I love you too,” he whispered against Tony’s mouth, and even though they were in a hay loft, surrounded by the smell of horses, in that moment Tony felt like he was flying.

“What in the  hell is this?” Howard thundered, voice tight with rage. He grabbed Tony’s wring wrist, fingers digging in painfully at the joint, and yanked Tony’s wing open. Tony tried to fight him off, struggling to get away, but Howard’s wing came up and clubbed him by the side of the head, stunning him.  Howard held him there for a long moment, one hand on his wing wrist and one on his shoulder, staring down at the painted secondaries.

Tony felt hot and sick with fear and anger, trembling all over. He had no idea how Howard had found out, but he was just as furious as Tony had known he would be, face white and eyes blazing. Finally, he shoved Tony away, sending him almost stumbling to the floor. “Who is it?” Howard demanded. “Who have you been flying with?”

“No one,” Tony mumbled, because it was true, he and Bucky had agreed to only go flying when they were both of age, despite the taste of marriage flight they’d had in the hay loft.

Howard slapped him. Tony gasped at the shock of pain, eyes tearing up from the surprise of it. He forced them back, though, because he’d be damned if he’d show weakness to his father. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been flying when I can see the paint with my own goddamn eyes!” He roared. “Now  who is it?”

But Tony shook his head stubbornly, crossing his arms across his chest and closing his wings tightly against his back, one of them aching from Howard’s rough grip. “Fuck you,” he said, lifting his chin. “I’m tired of you clipping my wings. I’ll be an adult in six months and then you can’t touch me anymore.”

“Oh, you haven’t even  seen  me clipping your wings,” Howard said, curling his lip. “It won’t be difficult to find out who you’ve been cavorting with.” Tony felt a spike of dread at the thought of Howard discovering Bucky, and he made a break for the balcony to try to warn him, but Howard caught him by the wing and threw him back into the room. Tony hit the corner of the desk sharply and fell to the floor. Before he could get to his feet, Howard had him by the back of his neck and was half-pulling, half-dragging him towards the closet. He shoved Tony inside and slammed the door, and Tony heard the lock turn.

“No!” Tony yelled, banging and kicking on the door. “Stop! You can’t do this!” but there was only silence on the other side of the door. Tony fought the door until his hands were bloody and his body ached, but to no avail, so finally he slid down to the floor and buried his head in his hands, praying that Bucky figured out what Howard was doing and could escape.

The thin strip of light under the door had gone dark before the door opened again, and Tony squinted against the bright light of Howard’s lantern as he stood in the doorway. “Get up,” he said, pulling Tony to his feet when he didn’t stand up fast enough. With a tight grip on Tony’s elbow he led him to Howard’s study, closing and locking the door behind them. There was a fire burning merrily in the grate, and a tray of dinner was on Howard’s desk, but that’s not what drew Tony’s eyes.

It was the pile of dark brown feathers on the desk, red and silver paint gleaming in the firelight. Tony’s blood ran cold at the sight and his knees went weak, making him stagger before he caught himself on a chair.

“I told you it wouldn’t be hard to find your lover,” Howard said. He picked one up and ran it through his fingers; Tony could see that the feather had been cut, not pulled out, so at least Bucky wasn’t bleeding out somewhere from his lost secondaries. But Howard had still brutally cut the sign of Tony’s love off of Bucky’s body; Tony felt queasy as he imagined how one or more of Howard’s goons would have had to hold Bucky down while Howard did it, could almost hear the metallic click of the heavy shears as they cut through each rachis. He doubted that Howard had stopped at the secondaries, too, and sure enough, as Howard gathered up the pile he saw the tell-tale tapered ends of primary feathers. Now Bucky would also have to bear the shame of everyone seeing that his wings had been clipped, obvious even with his wings closed; it would be months and months yet before they would start to be replaced and Bucky could even do the most basic flying again.

“I hate you,” Tony said, voice low and full of loathing. Howard shrugged and started feeding the feathers to the fire. Tony’s hands curled into fists and he trembled with rage, throat tight as he watched each red and gold feather, so carefully and lovingly painted, go up in flames; he wanted to throw himself at Howard and save them, but Howard would beat him black and blue for the effort and burn them anyway. “Are you going to clip mine, too?” he sneered. “Show everyone what a harlot your son was for a stableboy?”

“If I thought that would shame you at all, I would consider it,” Howard said mildly. “But you have already demonstrated you have no shame,” he added, waving one of Bucky’s feathers at him before he threw it into the fireplace. “Instead, I’ll be binding your wings until all of your painted secondaries have been replaced. You’ll be confined to the house as well, since I can’t trust you around the estate.”

“You can’t keep me prisoner forever,” Tony said. “The first chance I get, I will find him and you will never see me again.”

“Over my dead body,” Howard said, enunciating each word for effect, then dumped the rest of the feathers in at once, making the fire snap and throw off a greasy, stomach-curling smoke. “Or better yet, his. You either submit to my rules or I’ll have my men finish what we started, your choice. Either way, you will never see him again."

[let-me-be-a-fander-in-peace]

All of the sides have wings, all of them.

The rest of them have beautiful wings.

(I haven’t decided what there wings are, I just know that they aren’t all feathered)

But the light sides think that he doesn’t have wings bc Virgil hides them.

He hides them bc he plucks his feathers when stressed, (and when he’s bored, but more often than not it’s bc he’s stressed)

And because of that he hides his wings.

He mostly plucks the underside of his wings near his back.

He is deeply ashamed of this, which makes him pluck more, repeat.

Because of this he doesn’t have as many feathers as he should.

2/3 of his wing near the back and under his wings can’t grow feathers because of how much he plucked.

One day after a tribble plucking session he is is sobbing in regret and sadness.

He feels so guilty about how many feathers he just plucked the a wave of regret hit him once he saw his wings.

He didn’t realize how many feathers he actually plucked. He only had 1/3 of his secondary’s, 3/4 of his secondary converts, and none of his scapulars on one wing. He has half of his scapulars and 1/3 of his secondary’s and secondary coverts on the other wing.

He didn’t pluck all of those feathers, some of the bald spots have been without feathers for a while.

But he was still overwhelmed with regret.

So as he was overwhelmed with guilt, Remus poped it to drag Virgil to the weekly Movie Night.

Only to be shocked by seeing Virgils wings.

Yeah, he remembers Virgils wings, but sense Virgil was hiding them and lied that he didn’t have them, he and Janus sorta agreed to not mention it.

As Chaotic ad he was, he didn’t want to reveal and info someone didn’t want to hear.

(Remus surprisingly good at keeping secrets)

But seeing Virgil looking like a plucked chicken made him worry, he didn’t understand why he choose to keep this plucking to himself, they could have helped him.

Remus wasn’t good at comforting people, but he was going to try.

Basically he yells a greeting and Virgil yells at him to leave in fear and shock.

Of course, Remus doesn’t, and he says, “why didn’t you tell us you were a plucked chicken?”

Virgil yells at him to go away, but Remus says something like “only if you let us not let you turn into a fully plucked Chicken, I mean, I think that that would look wayyyy cooler, but that doesn’t seem like your style Virgie-poo!”

Remus is really trying to say is, ‘I don’t care what your wings look like now, just let us help you.’

Virgil rubs his eyes and says something like “first of all, I’m not a chicken, and are you blind? I still have some feathers.” While trying to have his voice be as dead pan as possible, but completely failing, but he still sounds like he just finished crying.

“And anyway, why do care, just let me wallow in regret and go and go watch some animal porn or whatever you do..”

Remus convinces Virgil to go tell everyone else buy threating to eat their organs if they make fun of him.

Virgil hesitantly agrees, and they go out.

Bc I’m considering writing this, I’m not going to tell you how this ends, so tell me if you want to see this fully fleshed out.