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crystalrabbit246912 · 4 months ago

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Winged NRC Students

Imagine Twisted Wonderland being a world where everyone has wings. I like to think that everyone has bird wings, but you can imagine insect or bat wings if you'd like.

Heartslabyul

I imagine Riddle would have flamingo wings because flamingos are in Heartslabyul for croquet matches and it seems fitting. If not, some species of bird with red wings seem to fit best.

Ace would likely be a parrot or a macaw since he seems like a tropical bird would fit best. Such birds have bright colors and parrots are sometimes seen as annoying, especially in media portrayals, isn't that fitting for Ace?

Deuce seems kind of like a swallow, which, if you didn't know, are small birds with dark blue wings. As such, his wings would match his hair which is mainly what I'm going for.

I could see Cater as a peacock or similarly flashy species of bird considering what he's like. If not a peacock, I'd say a tropical bird since those often have bright colors.

If I think of Trey with wings, I think of him with brown wings for whatever reason, so we're going to roll with it. He could be a tawny owl, maybe. It could work.

Savanaclaw

Leona, and Savanaclaw as a whole, is largely associated with muted, warm colors such as dark orange and brown. There aren't many birds with dark orange wings, though, so we're going with mostly brown and potentially gray here. Leona seems like he'd have falcon or eagle wings.

Ruggie grew up in the slums and gray is a color often associated with such things. Being in such a hopeless environment would have leeched the color out of anyone's wings, no? Perhaps dove or mockingbird wings could work for him.

Jack, meanwhile grew up in a cold environment, so he could potentially have white wings because snow often falls on cold days. Additionally, he could still have brown or gray wings, it's hard to pick just one. Swans don't trust outsiders often, which would be fitting for Jack's lone-wolf attitude. Perhaps he could be a black swan, though white would fit better with his hair.

Octavinelle

I can see Azul with either snowy owl or vulture wings. Snowy owls because owls are associated with wisdom and learning and Vulture because vultures could be seen as bad omens which would work well with Azul's backstory.

Jade and Floyd would probably have the same type of wings, being twins and all. They would likely have brightly colored wings, like kingfisher wings that are usually teal with white dots and orange underwings. Such colors suit them, don't you think?

Scarabia

For thematic purposes, I want Kalim and Jamil's wings to be basically mirror images of each other.

Kalim's could be a pure white crane or swan wings. I'm leaning toward swan here because their wings are long and perfect for long-distance soaring which Kalim would love to do.

Jamil, meanwhile, would likely have much shorter, crow wings. The black not only matches his hair but symbolizes the shadow that's always cast on him unknowingly by Kalim. Having short wings helps him fit into other places to do his work, though everything around Kalim is set to accommodate his much larger wings.

Pomefiore

Vil seems suited toward either mockingbird or flamingo wings. Mockingbird because he's an actor and mockingbirds are good at imitating others and flamingo because they're wings are suited for acrobatic flight and it seems fitting. If he does have flamingo wings, they would be a vastly different shade than Riddle's. He would also push proper wingcare tips and supplies onto his Dorm, which Epel doesn't actually mind since he likes his wings.

Rook is very flamboyant at first glance, so a tropical bird seems to fit him, but he's also a hunter. He's an expert at remaining unseen, and bright wings wouldn't help him with that. He wouldn't let that hinder him, but I lean more toward him having hawk wings since hawks have good eyesight. Additionally, he comes from a family of hunters and I don't think they would do well at hunting with such bright, noticeable wings.

Epel would have short wings since I imagine those with longer wings build big cities that a lot of people live in while those with short wings tend to live in small farming villages like Harveston. So he could either have woodpecker, robin, finch, or sparrow wings. I'm leaning toward woodpecker or sparrow personally.

Ignihyde

Idia would have phoenix wings, but instead of burning with red fire, they would have bright blue fire like the Shroud brothers' hair. Of course, he can turn the fire off or make it harmless, but just imagine Idia with blue fire wings.

Ortho, being... well, how he is, doesn't have physical wings. Idia was able to make him capable of simulating flight with wings similar to his hair, which I assume is a projection of fake fire. As such, Ortho can change his 'wings' but likes to keep them how they are because he likes to match with Idia.

Diasomnia

Malleus seems like no one can tell what species his wings are and everyone's too scared to ask him. If you do, he'll tell you that no one can tell what his or his grandmother's wings are. The wings have a mysterious feel to them and are probably black or something similar.

Lilia would have bat wings because he's a bat but would disguise them with an illusion of crow, vulture, or potentially some tropical bird wings because bat wings are restricted to only bat fae, and not many people have ever seen a bat fae in person.

Silver, being the only pure human among the Diasomnia crew, has pure white wings. Likely crane wings, so they're white with a bit of black on the tips. He uses them to help his balance while using his sword, so they flare out when he falls asleep so he doesn't topple over.

Sebek, being half-human, would have normal wings that have a sort of 'mystical' feel to them. I think he would have quetzal wings, which are green with gold highlights because they would match his hair and he would be ecstatic to have wings that match his liege's signature color.

Ramshackle

Being a different species, Grim wouldn't have wings, but the ghosts would have ghostly wings that no one can quite tell what they are because they don't have color anymore and the ghosts like not telling to keep it a mystery.

I like to think of Yuu as either having no wings because they came from a different world or gaining/previously having hummingbird wings. Hummingbirds in the TWST world would traditionally be messengers, which feels fitting for some reason.

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watcheraurora · 9 months ago

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Wing Lessons

This was supposed to be 1.2k words of simple silliness. I don’t know what happened. Just a little thing between "brothers." Takes place after Double Life 4.0k words

Potential CW: one very brief flashback with Mild Body Horror that can easily be skipped over. It's one paragraph that’s inspired by ezzriin’s Blackest Hand animatic

—

Knock-knock!

Creak!

"Grian?"

Grian looked up from his drafting table where he'd been planning out his next build. "What is it, Tim?" He pulled his glasses off and set his pencil down. He stood and approached the doorway, stretching out his wings as he did. He'd been sitting for a while and his bones were sore.

Jimmy shifted a little so the door was still blocking most of his body. "Could I ask a favor?" he asked.

"Depends on what it is," Grian replied.

"You know how I've been the first one out of the Games every single time?"

"Of course." Grian suppressed a giggle.

"Well... it's changed me. I'm... I'm not used to this."

"What do you mean?"

Jimmy finally pushed the door away from him.

Revealing small, juvenile wings poking out from his back. They were mostly brown with streaks of yellow. Not quite downy, not quite proper adult plumage either.

Jimmy, unable to meet Grian's eyes and turning red from embarrassment, cleared his throat. "Will you teach me how to preen them?"

Grian stared. "Canary wings," he said. Not a question. "They'll get more and more yellow the more they mature." He made a shooing motion. Jimmy backed up and Grian pursued him out of the office. "C'mon. Let me show you." He led Jimmy down the hall into the bathroom.

"When did you get yours?" Jimmy asked as Grian opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a few wingcare tools. "You didn't have them in Evo."

Grian felt his wings twitch and try to puff up at that. He forced them to remain still. "Not long after I left," he replied. "What do you remember about how I left?"

"The Watchers took you. Said they were going to keep you."

Darkness, purplish lightning, the empty hoods and long sweeping robes. Screaming as wings tore themselves from his back and eyes began to open in the skin of his face—

"Something like that, yeah," Grian replied. "After I got away from them, I got wings." A simple lie. One Jimmy wouldn't see through.

Tucking his wings in close, Grian grabbed the back of his red jumper and pulled it off, leaving him in the collared white button-down he wore beneath it. Jimmy followed his lead, though he had on a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up his arms and a white T-shirt underneath.

"Alright. So. First thing's first. It's best to rinse our wings in the shower first. Do not use soap on them. Just the water is enough. They sort themselves out much better without soap. After that, you'll want to ruffle them and puff them up to, sort of, reorder the feathers where they're supposed to be. You might need to do this with your hands too, if your feathers are too messy. Once they're in order, it's time for the oil. This brush right here—" He lifted the instrument in question. "—is to get the feathers closest to your spine that your hands can't reach, but it also spreads the oil from our uropygial glands over our feathers. Actual birds only have one gland and it's usually at the base of the tail. We don't have tails and we have a lot of normal skin in-between each wing. As such, we have one gland per wing. We also have much larger wings than any bird in existence. More glands, bigger glands, more oil. More surface area. You get the point."

The unfocused look in Jimmy's eyes betrayed that he did not, in fact, get the point.

Grian sighed. "Let me show you." He grabbed a tea towel and soaked it in the sink. "Stick your wing over the bath."

Jimmy did as he was told. Grian transferred the tea towel over and stood on the ledge of the bath to be tall enough to reach the top of Jimmy's wing. Jimmy was taller than Grian, and his wings were going to be much larger and longer. At the moment, his were a little smaller than Grian's, and not big enough to support Jimmy's weight for full flight. Grian already knew he'd be the one teaching Jimmy to fly. He wouldn't trust anyone else to do so. As Jimmy's older "brother," sure he would mess with him a lot, but Grian would never allow Jimmy to fall out of the sky.

He wrung out the tea towel over Jimmy's wing, then used the tub faucet to soak the towel again and again until the wing was thoroughly soaked. Goosebumps prickled across Jimmy's arms and he shuddered.

"Oi!" Grian protested. "No shaking off the water yet! I'm not done!"

"It's cold!"

"Yes, because the water has rinsed off the oil that keeps your wings insulated. We're going to be reapplying it. But you have to be patient and not shake off the water."

Jimmy shivered again, but not as dramatically. "Okay. I'll try to hold still."

A few minutes of squawking, slinging orders, and shouting at each other later, both of Jimmy's wings were sopping wet. In seconds, Grian had doused his own wings in water as well, somehow managing not to even get his shirt wet, despite Jimmy's T-shirt being soaked.

Grian took a tool off the bathroom counter and showed Jimmy how to ruffle and puff his feathers to put them back into place. The tool was used to carefully fix feathers that didn't easily fall back into place. Then passed the tool—like long, strong tweezers—over. Jimmy fluffed and shook and reordered his feathers.

"Like that?" he asked hopefully.

Grian assessed him. "Actually, yeah. Didn't expect you to get it right on the first try. Proud of you."

Jimmy looked flabbergasted at the compliment, but didn't have time to bask in it.

Grian scooped up the brush he'd showed off first. "This is where it gets complicated." He twisted and extended one wing straight backward, primary feathers brushing the wall. "Right there. In the middle of the base of my wing, see that dark spot?"

Jimmy leaned closer, eyebrows scrunched. "Oh! Yeah!"

"That's where the gland secretes the oil that we use to finish the process. I'll go fast on the first wing and then slow so you can see what I'm doing, but we have to spread that oil everywhere. It's how we waterproof, insulate, and protect the feathers from parasites and bad bacteria. Also, feathers are essentially dead like hair. So without the oil, they'll get dry and brittle and fall apart. Which is why preening is so important." He used the brush to drag the oil across the underside of his wing first, and then used the specialized, scoop-like brush bristles to carry it over to the backside of his wings.

Jimmy watched with a dropped jaw. "How do you do it so fast?"

Grian smiled. "Years of practice, Tim," he replied. "Don't expect yourself to do it this fast and still be thorough for your first year or two. Now let me do this one slow so you can actually see what I did."

Jimmy watched closely, bent close to Grian's wings, his own juvenile ones moving around with excited twitches. Wings were like a second facial expression to anyone who knew how to read them. And Jimmy's showed off how intrigued and excited he was to learn.

Grian hoped Jimmy was actually paying attention, rather than just looking without seeing. He doubted this would be the only time he taught Jimmy how to do this. And that was fine. Preening was a process. He'd had to teach himself after leaving the Watchers and it hadn't gone well. If he could make it easier for Jimmy than it had been for himself... well. Maybe that made up, somewhat, for all the teasing.

Once his second wing was freshly oiled, he cleaned his preening oil off the brush before handing it over.

"Why'd you clean it?" Jimmy asked.

"To avoid passing any bacteria or viruses from me to you," Grian answered. "Now. Hold your wing out behind you, like I did." Jimmy did as he was told. Grian guided Jimmy to look at himself in the mirror from the side. "See the oily spot?" He pointed to a dark patch of feathers that weren't fluffy like the rest of the air-dried plumage.

"Yeah!" Jimmy exclaimed.

Grian pointed to the brush. "That's where you're going to brush from. Careful not to go against the direction of the feathers if you can avoid it. You don't want to rip any of them out."

Carefully, he guided Jimmy's hands through the oiling process, boosting himself to sit on the bathroom counter when he was confident Jimmy could do it on his own with only verbal guidance, rather than physical assistance.

"By the way," he said when Jimmy was halfway through his second wing. "We'll get you your own preening tools. It's best for every Avian to have their own. To avoid passing along bacteria. Like how you wouldn't want to share a toothbrush with someone. It's fine for this one time because it's not actually exactly like sharing a toothbrush, but in the future, you'd be better served to have your own. You'll need a longer brush, I imagine."

"Why?" Jimmy asked.

Grian gave him a skeptical look. "Our wings are proportional to our heights. Yours are going to be significantly bigger and longer than mine. Just to reach around them to the back, you'll probably need a longer handle when they're fully mature."

"O-oh. Okay."

"I'll get a set ordered for you. Call it a birthday present."

"Awww! Thanks, Grian!"

Grian pulled his red jumper back on, easily slipping his wings through their slits in the back of it. His glamour on them—the one that made his plumage look like that of a parrot, rather than the purple-tinted-black of a Watcher—flickered for a moment. Jimmy was too absorbed in his own wings to notice.

"So how often do I have to do this?" Jimmy asked, tangled up in his own arms and feathers while he tried to finish his second wing.

Grian leaned back a bit on the counter, keeping his freshly-oiled wings away from the mirror to avoid smudging it, and crossed his legs. "Well... that's a good question. Ideally, every day. At maximum, every three days. Your feathers will get really itchy and uncomfortable if you wait even that long, but sometimes things happen and you won't have time."

"Every day?!" Jimmy squawked. "This takes forever!"

"That's because this is your first time," Grian said flatly. "If you preen every day, right after you shower, you'll be as quick as I am in no time and it'll be as much of a routine as brushing your teeth within a few weeks. Also, you missed a bit."

Jimmy spun in circles, looking for a patch of feathers that hadn't been oiled, using the mirror to see the backside.

Grian snorted. "Nah, I'm just kiddin'," he said.

"You absolute buffoon!" Jimmy exclaimed in frustration.

Grian hopped nimbly off the counter and dodged out of the bathroom. Jimmy pursued him, preening brush still in hand. They ran through the base. Jimmy was shouting and Grian was cackling.

The moment he pushed through a door and out into the fresh air, Grian's wings snapped out and he took off. A powerful downdraft blasted Jimmy's hair and feathers backward as Grian launched into the sky.

"You get back here, mister!" Jimmy called. "You get back here and—and—"

Grian cackled as he soared higher, spinning and rolling. Banking in a circle while Jimmy kept shouting for him. This high up, with the wind roaring in his ears, Grian couldn't hear him.

"What's that, Tim?" he teased. "I can't hear you!" He laughed harder. Jimmy was gesticulating wildly, trying to mime for Grian to land.

Grian didn't. Just twisted into an aileron roll and shot off. Laughing the whole time.

—

It only took a week for Jimmy's wings to fully mature. Given how quickly after the Games they manifested, Grian wasn't surprised that they matured fast.

Which was how he found himself standing opposite his "brother" next to a cliffside near the base via the Nether, letting the sun warm his feathers. Jimmy's wings had indeed grown much bigger than Grian's and were so blindingly bright yellow they almost hurt to look at.

"Alright, Timmy. Put these on." He handed over a pair of flight goggles. "You'll get used to the windburn in your eyes eventually. For now it's best to wear those."

Jimmy pulled them on—and Grian snorted so hard he hurt his throat.

"What?!" Jimmy demanded.

"You look ridiculous," Grian managed to say between giggles. "No matter, no matter." He fought to get himself back under control while Jimmy pouted. Grian took several deep breaths, reining himself in. "Okay. Lesson one: flying."

"Shouldn't lesson one be, like, taking off?"

Grian laughed. "No. Lesson one is learning how to fall. Lesson two is learning how to land. Lesson three is learning how to fly. And lesson four is learning how to take off."

"How... how am I supposed to learn in reverse order?" Jimmy asked.

"Easy. Like this."

Grian shoved Jimmy off the edge of the cliff. Jimmy was bigger and taller than Grian and should have been able to stand his ground easily. But nothing a little Watcher power couldn't overcome.

Jimmy screamed as he plummeted.

Grian cackled as he hurled himself over the cliff, wings tucked close to his spine, and dove after Jimmy.

He caught up, since Jimmy was fighting to fall slowly and Grian was diving.

"Spread your wings, Timmy! Face the ground and unfurl them!"

"I can'tIcan'tIcan't!" Jimmy cried.

Grian eased his wings a little bit out to help guide him. He got close to Jimmy and grabbed his hands. "Come on! I'm holding onto you. I won't let you crash! Let them out!" He twisted so his back was facing the ground and Jimmy was above him.

Screaming, Jimmy unfurled his wings.

His falling momentum arrested abruptly.

Grian let him go, flipped over, and snapped his own out. Wind filled his feathers like sails. He navigated so he was gliding beside Jimmy. Their wings were so long that they were nearly thirty feet apart.

"Grian! Grian, I'm doing it! I'm flying!" Jimmy screeched, voice high-pitched.

Grian laughed. "Not yet! You're gliding. You fell, and now you're coasting." He lowered his wing closest to Jimmy and swept below him so they could be a bit closer to talk. "Step two is learning how to land! And it's best to run into your landing so you don't just drop and destroy your knees." He pointed toward a beach not far from the cliff. "Dip your left wing and we'll glide over there. You can watch me before trying for yourself!"

Jimmy struggled, but managed to angle himself into a bank heading for the beach.

Grian dipped and plunged through the air toward the ground. Jimmy followed at a much shallower angle. Grian pulled up at the last possible moment to slow down significantly. He banked in a circle like a vulture to get even slower as he lowered himself toward the ground. He got his legs under him and braced them to run the second they hit the ground. Jimmy kept circling overhead.

Grian ran into his landing. He could land without a run at this point, but he was a Watcher—too durable and immortal to royally screw up his joints. And he needed to teach Jimmy the easy way first.

Once he stopped and looked up, he snapped his wings back out and threw himself back into the sky. "Your turn! I won't let you crash!"

Jimmy screamed the whole way down as he spiraled ever closer to the beach. Grian stayed in tight formation just above, carefully monitoring. He had an instinct for flying now—

And he knew Jimmy was coming in too hot. At the wrong angle.

Jimmy seemed to realize it too. He was still screaming, but it got louder and more frantic.

Grian pulled up short and flapped in place, hovering as best he could. He lashed one hand out, the other wound back behind him. Both of them with strained fingers.

Purple light surrounded Jimmy and adjusted his angle. He slowed down until he was at nearly a standstill and stumbled to a landing.

Grian released the power holding Jimmy and twisted into a sharp dive, landing only a wings-length from Jimmy. "Bad angle, Timmy," he said.

Jimmy whirled. "How did you do that?!"

"Do what?"

"You stopped me from falling. I don't know how—but you did it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Grian said flatly, just the right amount of obliviousness in his eyes for Jimmy to believe it.

"Then how did I land?"

"Favorable wind, is my guess." It was so difficult not to smile or giggle.

"Do I get to learn how to take off now?"

"Nope," Grian said. "We're going to hike back to the clifftop and we're going to jump again so you can learn to fly first. There's no use knowing how to take off if you don't know what to do afterwards."

"We have to hike?!" Jimmy complained.

Grian gave him a look. "Coming from the athletic one between the two of us," he said sarcastically, already heading for the path that would lead them back to the top.

Jimmy sighed dramatically and ran to catch up. "Grian—Grian—talk me through it while we walk, yeah? Once we get up there, how do I fly?"

"I believe in learning as it happens," Grian said blithely. "Besides, you don't listen."

"I do too!" Jimmy protested, blustering a bit. "Just—just talk me through it! Like, the flapping or whatever."

Grian snickered. "Fine."

He gave very thorough, clear instructions the whole way up. Jimmy looked overwhelmed about two minutes in. But, at the very least he looked like he was trying to understand. He asked questions and sought clarification.

Soon enough, they were back atop the cliff.

"Okay. Just hop off and give it a try, then," Grian said. "Running jump to give you as much outward momentum as possible."

Swallowing hard, Jimmy backed up several long steps, looking at the ocean beyond the cliff. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I got this. I'm Big Man Jim. I can do this. I can fly." He nodded to himself. "I'm gonna fly. I will."

He ran toward the precipice.

And stopped within a foot of the edge. "I can't do this! I can't just yeet myself off the side of a cliff! Into midair! I can't." He shook his head, staring over the drop.

Grian rolled his eyes. "Oh, for goodness' s—" One quick pull and push of his arm smacked Jimmy in the back with a gust of wind that sent him off the edge screaming again. Grian ran to the edge and launched himself off. "Get your wings out, Tim!" he shouted.

Thankfully, Jimmy figured that bit out. He righted himself and got back into gliding position. Grian dove beneath him, coming back into the same formation as before.

"Okay! Now remember what we talked about! Flapping for height and distance. Banking for direction. We'll get to rolls and tricks in a long time."

Jimmy nodded, gathering his courage back up.

He started—slowly—navigating the sky.

"Yes! That's how you do it! Tim, you're doing amazing!" Grian shouted. He churned the air with his wings and surged up to follow after Jimmy.

"Grian! Grian, I'm flying!" Jimmy shrieked. An ear-to-ear grin covered his face.

Grian laughed, brushing the outside tips of his primary flight feathers against the tips of Jimmy's in a moment of reassurance. Before he flipped into an aileron roll and came to a glide on Jimmy's other side.

"How'd you do that?"

"Practice." Grian took a deep breath. "Feel that warm breeze? Use it to ride higher. It's an updraft!"

Jimmy caught a couple more meters of altitude, but when Grian hit the same updraft, he soared much higher, laughing with joy and glee.

They flew around for a little bit, practicing, before Grian came to a gentle glide above Jimmy. "Ready to practice landing again? Are your wings getting tired?"

"A bit."

"Let's land. Then we'll do a quick takeoff lesson, land again, and then call it a day."

Jimmy nodded.

Instead of returning to the beach, they landed at the top of the cliff. Jimmy managed to catch the angle much easier since he hadn't gotten too much higher than it this time. He ran into his landed much smoother. Grian just dropped onto the ground and tucked his wings back easily.

"Not bad. Now, for takeoff, it's easier to take a running start. Fill up your wings with air, and such. Standing takeoff is a lot harder. Let's start with the running."

"Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"I'll show you first." Grian opened his wings and took off at a dead sprint before beating his wings at the air and taking to the sky.

Jimmy followed. Taller, longer legged, and more athletic, he hit the air with his take off quicker and stronger, surging upward.

Grian cheered. Jimmy laughed hysterically, like he didn't believe he'd done it.

"Grian! It worked!"

Still in the air, Grian managed a pretend bow. "You've learned from the best, my young apprentice," he teased in a goofy voice.

They both banked into an easy landing. Jimmy snatched Grian into a bone-crushing hug, still careful to avoid his wings. "Ooooh! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Grian chuckled. "You're welcome, Tim." He squirmed out of the hug and took a few steps back. "Nether portal home?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah." His face was flushed with windburn and exhilaration as he pulled the flight goggles down around his neck. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever done. It's so much cooler than an Elytra!"

"Harder, but better," Grian said. "The Elytra and rockets do most of the work for you when it comes to landing and taking off, but flying under your own power is much more rewarding."

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically.

They hiked a short way to the Nether portal they'd made on the way here and ducked into it.

The journey through the Nether wasn't long. The whole way back, Grian was lost in thought as Jimmy rambled.

It had been a long time since he truly appreciated the gift the Watchers had given him by giving him wings. He took them for granted. But watching Jimmy discover the joys of real flight, not just Elytra gliding, reminded him of when he first learned to fly properly and thought it was the most amazing thing.

He glanced over at his younger "brother"—who had no memory of how Grian had been torn away from Evo and turned into a Watcher, whose wings were the result of a Canary Curse—and the smile still covering Jimmy's face was enough to make him smile himself.

Yeah. Being a Watcher wasn't always so bad, if it meant he got to share fun experiences like this with his friends.

One quick beat of his wings got him up high enough to sling his arm around Jimmy's neck and give him an affectionate, soft noogie. "I'm glad it got to be me, to teach you how to fly, Tim."

Jimmy, his big hazel-brown eyes suddenly getting a little misty, smiled. "Me too, Grian. Even if you did push me off the cliff." He gave Grian a playful shove. Grian shoved him back. They started pushing each other all the way back to the Nether portal that would take them back to their overworld base, laughing and calling out playful jibes at one another, tumbling through the portal home.

#cw: body horror #(briefly)#Traffic Light SMP fic #Jimmy Solidarity #Grian #Watcher!Grian #Aurora Writes #Rory Writes

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flower-seeks-the-moon · 2 months ago

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Summary:

The truth that no one will ever, ever unearth from his tightly clenched fingers - the beating heart that's never been conquered, even if the rest of him is to be shared - is that Baxter Alexander Ward fucking loathes his wings.

Length: 5059 words

Fandom: Our Life: Beginnings & Always

Characters: Baxter Ward, Main Character

Relationships: Baxter Ward/Main Character

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Wings

Written for @ficwip5k 2024.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Baxter's wingcare routine takes up a chunk of his day; from the outside looking in, however, it doesn't seem that way.

He tells himself that the unveiled looks of awe and desire are worth it, that the pride on Adrian and Amelia Ward's faces when their friends offer doting words of praise are a justification for the long and tedious routine of carefully preening, brushing, and oiling each feather upon the six dusty grey wings that bloom from his back. The smile he wears, when a classmate in school comes up and stammers requests for a glance of his their way, and more than mere minutes brushing of shoulders, is that of someone who's used to people's eyes first being drawn to the feathered appendages, then to the sparkling pristine image of a Ward; last, if it ever comes to that, to the young man who lets himself be touched with covetous hands, his body a feast for people's eyes and mouths and fingers, like a bird plucked and then shared among the famished until there's little else but bones.

"How do you keep these beauties looking immaculate?" A hand buries itself into the middle wing on his left side, fingers dragging through the feathers.

Baxter's jaw flexes within a hair's breadth of a frown before it smooths into a smile as he cants a look upwards through veiled lashes. "It's no large undertaking. I've made some rather excellent purchases as of late that have made it all a breeze." A tilt of the head, an empty offer tumbling from his lips that expects no acceptance. "Would you like to see how I care for them? Perhaps," here, his voice drops into a coax, though he dares not hope for more. "You would like to try it on me?"

"I might," the person in his bed laughs. "If you'd also do me the favor?"

He sees them off with a gentle swipe of his uppermost wing against theirs - a sparrow's wings, he knows he'll remember them by this and not the name which will eventually slip from memory - drawing them close one last time with a wistful peck on their mouth. They bow over him and press back, smiling as their feathers rustle against each other; one side enthusiastic to the point of ruffling the other. The sound makes Baxter's stomach twist, and he pulls away to let them step back onto their doorstep.

"You're seriously something else, Baxter Ward." They shake their head in amusement, eyes roaming up and down the length of his body again. "I've got a newfound respect for how much of a pain those things are. Seriously." An awkward pause. "My bad, for the-"

The spot on his lower right wing twinges, the scapular feather that had been wrenched and bent out of shape by an impatient hand. "It's no big deal. Nothing of import, and something that can be easily fixed."

They look at him oddly. He imagines that the concern in their eyes is his own wishful thinking. Though if it was real, it doesn't last, and soon his friend shrugs. "If you say so. Anyway, Jules's got something cooking this Saturday. See you around, then?"

"Yes, I'd love to." He knows that they won't. The campus is big enough to hold both of them and keep out of each other's orbits.

In the evening, Baxter Ward plucks the errant feather without even flinching and throws it in the bin. It irritates him to look at it, and even then, it'll grow back in time.

His hand snaps out and wraps around her wrist before she can pinch at the tip of her wing and pull.

"Don't do that." He realizes that his voice is more forceful than usual when her eyebrows pinch together, a startled look on her face.

"Come with me, if I may be so forward." He slips his hand down and twines it with hers, nudging a clenched fist open to make room for his digits. She latches on more gently than he expects out of her. Baxter exhales, casting a look at the way the wings at her hips flex and loosen in an attempt to ease off the restlessness. It's been thrumming through her the moment he opened the door and found her looking so lost, a disquiet that speaks louder to him than she likely wants it to; he doesn't fancy himself an adept coastal dweller who can tell when a storm is coming through the movements of the waves and the specific shades of the sky, but he imagines it like this - one look into Wisteria Blanc's clouded grey eyes, not a glimpse of the sun behind them, and he finds himself just as unsettled.

"It's not a big issue," Wisteria refutes, yet she's allowing herself to be led inside. "And it'll grow back. I was rather careless earlier. Normally, I'm not..."

He allows himself a silent raise of the brow, lip twitching at the near-petulance she trails off with. With a firm push, he settles her down on the couch, shooting her a look as he pats one of the throw pillows down on her lap. "Let me hazard a guess: you'd rather not have Pamela or Noelani noticing?"

She bristles, feathers on either side of her head ruffling in time with the shake of her head. "... Wouldn't be good if they did. Cove would also feel bad, and I'd rather not see that."

Baxter promises to himself that he would get to the root of what this thing is, for it to make a trenchant eighteen-year old mumble and avoid his eyes. What is he to do when he finds out, he doesn't yet know, but there must be something. He lets go of her hand, keeping all his focus on her as he sits down.

It's experience that makes him keep a respectful distance, after he's interfered with her earlier.

Wisteria's right wing curls around her; the little bent feather at its very tip flutters with the motion. He makes sure not to comment on it, sensitive to every little motion and the jitters that follow them. After a long moment, she sinks her hands into the pillow, eyes intent on the patternless maroon fabric. "I saw one of my old classmates at work today. We weren't close, but... He was very tactile with everyone in class- And I tolerated it, to an extent."

It's a picture that paints itself, even with the incomplete details that she provides him. He takes a moment to let it sink in, watching her mangle the pillowcase between her fingers, before standing up. His own wings are just as stiff as hers, mirroring her. "I shall be back shortly, we must soak that part in a basin." Is there a shallow enough washbasin around his rental condo? Baxter quietly curses at himself. Of course, his habit of hardly staying inside long enough to know his way around this temporary summer residence - which feels less and less like a prison around her - would come back around to haunt him now of all times.

Casting a warning look at Wisteria when he spies her hand slipping down to her wing, he leaves her in the living room.

When he reemerges from his hunt around the condo, he clutches the plastic washbasin in his hand. Precariously balanced on top of them are the products he uses for himself, ones that take Wisteria out of her stupor long enough for her to blink at him in incredulity. He sets it all down on the coffee table, all except for the washbasin, and hurries to the open kitchen.

The sound of water from the faucet, filling up the basin, is the only thing in the room until she speaks. "... What are these for?"

"You will see soon," Baxter replies, shutting off the faucet and turning around.

She's inspecting one of the bottles, holding it up to her face with an upwards tilt to the corner of her mouth. "Guerlain? Abeille Royal Revitalizing & Fortifying Care Feather Conditioner?"

The tight ball in his chest loosens. "I believe the results of my usage must speak for themselves." With a raised brow, he arches his six wings a little higher, a little wider, as much as he could indoors. Flaunting them, dancing around the edge of presenting. His face brightens when hers spread out on either side of her; tentative, and not as forward as she would on another day.

Baxter has to remind himself that this is the same girl who flared out her wings, a warning in the way she stepped in front of Cove, on his very first day at Sunset Bird.

Wisteria Blanc's wings are ghosts that have haunted his memories ever since that strange little Summer Soiree at a country club. He doesn't think of them on the regular, but every so often he remembers the girl with plumage that looked like white paper halfway dipped in ink. The topmost part of the backs of her wings were a gradient that began from feathers as black as a starless night sky, lightening to varying shades of grey until one's eyes were near-blinded by the immaculate white of the remiges. It was a mirror to the unusual shade of her hair, an inkwash painting given life in silken strands that fell to her back and argent eyes that looked at him with undisguised curiosity.

What stuck out the most to Baxter Ward, fourteen years of age and already loathing the dismal dusty grey of his own plumage, was the tiny pair of wings on either side of her head, like a crown of laurels.

He had been very young when he had learned that one's wings standing out was not always a good thing.

A lot of societies since the dawn of the age of man have waxed poetic and built religions out of the appendages that every human was born into this world with. Some claimed it to be a leftover of the age of the divine, when gods and monsters walked the earth and brushed shoulders with mortals. Others claimed it to be proof of the existence of the soul, a physical manifestation of your inner self - an indicator of what kind of person you would grow up to be, the mark you would leave the world with. Yet even other schools of thought out there simply believed that it was a vestigial organ linking man to an older species that had once dominated the skies. Now, flight is more often than not impossible, since the structure of most wings don't make it feasible for them to carry their human bearers. A growing sentiment in the 21st century is that wings are useless limbs on humans, and the option of having them amputated is quickly growing popular.

But most people are attached to a feature that they had been born with, even as they grow to bear complex feelings about their wings and the way the world would grow to judge you for how you carry them.

Baxter had known that his wings couldn't be an extension of his soul. They didn't reflect who he was at all, not when it took all that grooming and preening to look halfway presentable for his parents. If souls could be tampered with so easily to look as clean as a polished mirror, then perhaps humans are better off not trusting each other at all. Mirrors are dishonest things, the way they prey upon the weaknesses in your heart and morph your countenances into something you loathe once the negative feelings get their claws in.

He had wondered. What did that girl see in the mirror, with her four oddly-placed wings? It is a question that follows at the heels of fond remembrance; her blush stains that black-and-white memory, a shade of red that sometimes takes the edge off of the self-loathing that he feels when he grooms himself.

"You're very considerate," she had told him, back then, as they danced to the steps of a waltz. His wings were tucked in close to his back, painfully aware of the eyes on him. Adolescence had been an awkward, dreadful time with his lengthening limbs and wings, and how he had to make himself smaller, so as to not bump into others. "No need to keep them folded close; I want you to enjoy yourself as much as I am. The dance floor has plenty of room, and you don't need to constrain yourself for others' convenience."

A beat later, she had followed up with that blunt comment about his smile being cuter when it's genuine, and the Summer Soiree girl had found a place for herself in his heart. Autumn and his pretty golden wings, already a lingering ache that was slowly being buried with time, are swept aside by a lone encounter. One dreamlike midsummer evening that could only be topped by the summer of five years later.

His plans for this evening are cast aside; what’s one night spent aimlessly driving, seeking out the next empty attraction to whittle away his time in Sunset Bird, to caring for her? Sitting in his living room, kneeling down at the side of the touch, he keeps his palms spread open. Hovers them by her wing, eyeing her as he poses the question.

“May I touch your wing, Wisteria?” Her expression is at once hard to read and achingly familiar as he continues, “I would like to help you with your wing, if you would allow it.”

With his past flings, he’d readied himself to be rejected with his offers of them caring for his wings, after he’s finished with theirs. Yet he finds himself more mindful of her rejection, while at the same time fully understanding if she is to do it to him.

“We’ve already touched each other’s wings,” she prods, tentatively lowering her eyes to her hands. “I didn’t mind it during our hangout with the others.”

Baxter remembers fully well what she means. There’s precious few memories that could make him feel like he could fly, wings as useless as they are. He still wonders what possessed him to have such courage at the time: to draw his shirt around her shoulders, enclosing her in three pairs of wings to ward off the cold, right until her friends jeered at them. The moment is as ingrained in him as the taste of the chocolate from her popsicle, when he bent down to try it. It’s the same taste lingering on her lips when he kisses her under the glow of the fireworks, their feathers pressed close to each other as she leans back against him.

“That was then, and this is now,” he smiles at her. “As elated as I am that you’re trying to tell me that I am implicitly allowed to touch you, I would still like to hear a confirmation from you this evening. Indulge me, if you will.”

She regards him; he wonders what she sees in his face, to bring such a look of relief to her eyes. A gentle smile curves her mouth. “... right.” She takes a breath, and straightens her spine. “I’d like it if you help me, Baxter. Please, go ahead.”

It is a familiar routine to him, the act of soaking a bent feather to soften it up. “Your feather will straighten out,” he keeps speaking in low tones, taking glances at Wisteria. She’s relaxed in just the exact way to let him know that she’s not relaxed, hands lightly clasped atop the throw pillow she’s been clutching since he handed it to her earlier. If she’s mangling it like earlier, it’d probably be more reassuring.

He lips thin, pressing together as he turns his focus back to the ruffled feathers. “If I may ask. Is this your first time?”

“My first time having someone else care for them?” She shakes her head. “I groom my wings together with my family, once a month.”

Baxter hasn’t ever seen his parents tend to each other. They had people they paid to do that for them, so what was the point? It had also been the way with him, growing up as a young boy, until he had one day visited the Murrays with Qiu, seen Mrs. Murray’s gentle hands preening her kid’s feathers. Of course, his friend had blushed so furiously when they both noticed that Autumn and Baxter had arrived early.

It hadn’t seemed like a thing to be flustered about. Being preened by someone else looked warm and comforting, like a blanket around his shoulders as he sat in front of the fireplace in his big house, a cup of tea heating his palms.

He shakes his head. “Ah, I meant something else. Was earlier your first time,” he murmurs, hands drifting up to groom her feathers as the tip of her wing is left to soak in the basin. “Having your wing grabbed without your permission?”

She stiffens, the topic they had been dancing around brought to the spotlight. He briefly regrets bringing it up, before he remembers that she came to him of all people. Walked up to his doorstep, to her temporary neighbor, when she could have sought refuge at Cove’s, or even Terri and Miranda’s places. There are a good number of others that would have taken care of her, but she had come to him instead. It’s a callback to that day on the yacht, the way she had looked green around the gills and still refused her sister’s concern, only to allow him down in the cabin with her.

“No,” she sighs out. “It’s not.”

Her wings are healthy, and carefully tended; a life being well-loved writ in glossy flight feathers and soft underwings. He’s seen her and Cove sometimes straighten each other’s feathers out in casual motions, barely taking a thought to do it for each other, and felt an odd twist in his gut. It’s not quite grooming each other, but Baxter could never have afforded to be so casual with someone else in such a way. Not after he had long left Golden Grove and the days of his boyhood behind.

“I find myself sincerely hoping that your manager had words with your old classmate.” He pauses for a moment when she squirms against his hand, realizing that her scapula feathers are ticklish. “If they were a customer.”

“You don’t have to keep hoping about that,” Wisteria’s reply comes out dry. “Yes, he kinda got kicked out of the restaurant and blacklisted. My manager is at least good about that, or maybe she didn’t want me to end up punching a customer on the job.”

This breaks a laugh loose from him. “Would it be too remiss of me to say that I would have loved to see that?”

“What, me getting fired?” There’s mirth dancing in her eyes. “Or punching someone?”

“Speaking any further would incriminate myself,” Baxter says, primly stepping away from answering that . He gives her a soft grin. “Thank you for coming to me this evening.” For ending up on his doorstep, just in time for him to stop her from plucking at her feather when she deserves a place to feel safe. For asking for him on the yacht when Liz, Lee, and Cove would have gladly gone. For making his evenings feel much less empty, even when she bumbles about it.

Later, she ends up half-asleep on his couch when he’s finished grooming her wings; having deemed it a long enough soak to soften her flight feather, he straightens it and feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

After the ice cream truck, the sun shower might be one of the quintessential summer experiences that could get him near-giddy.

Running through the sprinklers in a suburban neighborhood is one thing. Rain drizzling down like a lingering remnant of the clouds that have drifted far away, splashing the unsuspecting, reminds him of the weather in Golden Grove. It often rained in Golden Grove, particularly as autumn drew close; it was a much different experience, with cloudy grey skies offsetting the deep reds, golds, and browns of the trees far below, the rain like tears that tried to cleanse the deep ache that had made its home in his heart and brought him to flee the nest.

It reminds him of Golden Grove, and yet it is everything that a rainy day in his old hometown is not.

The sunlight is still out in full force. Rain droplets, caught in the sunbeams, lit up and glinted gold as they fell and cascaded down Wisteria’s face. It is the sight of them that snaps him out of his stunned delight, long enough to remember-

He brings her in close with one arm, shutting the car door she had just come out of with his other hand. Chiding himself for having no umbrella on hand, he brings his wings up above the both of them to shelter her from the unexpected drizzle.

The sunshower continues for a few minutes more; he wonders if Wisteria can feel his heart pound against his ribcage, her face tucked against his neck. He is at once both peaceful and unmoored, in awe of how the rain can feel so gentle. They stand there, Baxter unbothered by his feathers becoming damp, the droplets seeping through the topside to run in unseen rivulets down his plumage.

For once, his seraph wings feel useful.

When the rain ebbs, he lowers his wings with a sigh. A part of him feels almost wistful; it’s another moment that passed him by so quickly, one that he will look back on from time to time.

She is suspiciously still, wrapped up in his arm, up until she pulls away. “You didn’t have to do that,” Wisteria squints at him. “Your wings are all wet.”

Baxter grins at her, broad and unabashed. The tips of her ears are very red. “I would rather not see you beset with another cold, and right after our date. My wings will simply dry off.”

Wisteria’s look is supremely unimpressed. She ruffles her wings, the ones on either side of her head flattening against her hair, and reaches out to take his arm. “Come on. We’ll dry off together inside my house.”

She brings him past the Blanc home’s threshold, pausing when they’re both inside.

Elizabeth has once again made herself at home on the living room couch, hunched before her laptop with a frown to rival the size of Pamela’s Cheshire cat grins she sometimes sends her beleaguered daughters. Her wings, in fiery hues of deep orange and pale gold, flex about in annoyance behind her. He suspects that her summer courses are going on rather challengingly, and he and Wisteria both pause when brown eyes flicker to their entrance and narrow.

“That drizzle just now got you two, huh?” She eyes Baxter’s wings. He tenses, ready to be turned out the door for dripping all over the floor. Instead, all the elder Blanc sister says is, “Why is he soaked?”

Ria shrugs. “He thought that I needed an umbrella. And then decided his wings would work out.”

The frown that had seemed near-permanent for this afternoon melts from Liz’s face. “Huh.” She regards Baxter with an odd little half-smile, an impish tilt to her eyes and lips that has her little sister immediately on guard around her. “Well, hurry to the bathroom and help the poor guy, won’t you?”

Before Liz can say anything more, Wisteria shoots her a flinty look and tugs Baxter after her. They go to the bathroom on the second floor, and she gives him a little push on his back when he hesitates at the doorway. “Come on.”

The drying fans whirr to life, pelting them on either side with warm breezes that penetrate through the top layers of their feathers. He sighs as the temporary chill - brought on by stepping inside an airconditioned home with his feathers soaked through - melts away with the heated blasts of air.

“I forgot to say this earlier,” Wisteria begins, prompting him to turn towards her. “But thanks for that.” She steps up, close and personal, towards him. “I would like to do something for you, in turn.”

His smile grows mischievous, from languid to heated at the drop of a hat. “I would adore anything from you, Ria, but you needn’t insist on a repayment.” He pauses, letting his gaze point to the closed bathroom door meaningfully. “I believe that a bathroom at your home wouldn’t be the most appropriate, though, would it?” His tone is idle musing and faux demureness.

Cocking her head, Wisteria frowns. Her tone carries a distinct note of confusion. “I was about to ask you if I could groom your feathers after they’ve dried off.”

“What.”

He… He didn’t mishear her, did he?

She grins at him, sharp and pointed. “You didn’t think I’d let you take care of me without doing the same for you in turn, did you, Baxter?”

He’s discombobulated, more than just a little stunned, and despite it all, so damn comfortable. Lying on his stomach atop her bed, he represses a shudder when lithe fingers smooth the downy insides of his wings, preening and tugging at long flight feathers.

“I’m sorry we don’t have the-” Wisteria pauses. “Guerlain products you use, but my Ma has something similar that she mixes herself.” She tilts her head. “I don’t really need additional oiling for mine, but Mom needs additional care for hers since she doesn’t produce as much oil naturally, and that’s why Ma picked the practice up. I suspected that it might be a similar case for you, considering the volume of six wings.”

An involuntary giggle escapes him when she pulls away from his flight feathers to run her fingers through the tiny feathers along his spine. He’s ticklish there, and he didn’t even realize until someone touched him gently enough to make the reflex kick in.

Baxter bites his lip afterwards, his face burning red.

There’s a pregnant pause, and then the fingers return to dancing atop the feathers up and down his spine. With a vengeance, and the deftness of an experienced piano player.

He tenses, doesn’t try to hold back that hard, and laughs; he fears that Elizabeth downstairs would hear the snorts and giggles that Wisteria evilly pries from him with her quick hand.

Once the impromptu tickle attack has ceased, and Ria has taken pity on him, Baxter huffs and glares at her headboard. “You devious little - I swear, one day I will yet have my turn.” He sends her a look over his shoulder, promising playful vengeance.

“You relaxed.” Wisteria hums, turning her attention back to his upper right wing. He tries to ignore the ache in his chest. “I’m glad.”

His throat tightens, and he rests his head against her pillow. It’s fragrant with the scent of her shampoo, sweet and entirely her. “Tending my wings will be quite the hassle, I did not wish to impose it upon you.”

“... Baxter, I help three other ladies in this house with their wings every month. Well, two, since my sister is away at college more often than not.” Wisteria’s gaze burns into the back of his head. Her voice is quiet, laden with a meaning that he’s not yet ready to comprehend. “It’s really not a problem for me.”

There’s a lull in conversation afterwards, and he finds himself near to dozing off, eyes slipping shut more than once. She takes her own pace, moving like she has all the time in the world to focus on each and every feather. It makes thinking - more importantly, dreading - so much more laborious when there’s a gentle hand in his middle left wing, treating it like it’s a cherished part of him.

Wisteria speaks, voice barely above a hushed whisper.

“In the one moment I got to take a good look at you before you hid me from the rain, Baxter Alexander Ward, I thought I was looking at an angel.”

In the hazy in-between limbo straddling consciousness and dreams, the part of him that listens recognizes the feelings that linger behind her words. He keeps his silence, letting her go on to think that such an admission went unheard.

“I think I’d prefer you over the popular interpretations of angels… You’re wonderful. You contradict yourself so often that I’m often confused. And you’re infuriating sometimes, and I can’t stop looking away from you. I don’t think real angels could ever be like that. So please, just remain as you are without trying to live up to them, or anything else.”

It’s not the first time someone has called him an angel. Rather, it’s an on-the-nose nickname from past flames, considering the three pairs of wings that he carries.

But it is the first time that someone has breathed it into the silence like it’s a secret, not meant for him to hear. Not meant to flatter him.

Why, then, are they worth millions more than the praises so easily bestowed upon him?

It’s evening when he wakes up, just in time for a dinner at the Blanc household. There’s a sharp tease at the ready for him and Wisteria when they come to the table, courtesy of Elizabeth.

As Wisteria passes him a dish of mung beans, his hand brushing against hers, he swears to carry her words and their glow with him for as long as he could.

They say that humans have long become incapable of flight, their wings not physically capable, their wings a vestigial trait left over after millennia of evolution. To fly is a pipe dream, and humans can only look to the heavens with coveting eyes or resort to contraptions of steel and technology to mimic what they once took for granted.

But he thinks they found the feeling of flying attainable in other things, in the words one can say when they think the other is asleep.

fin.

#our life: beginnings & always #olba #baxter ward #baxtermc #luna's fics #ficwip5k #ficwip5k 2024

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