hi!! could you write a scarian wing kink flash fic please?
It's lucky for both of them that Grian has a button that turns his brain right off. Not that he's just going to come out and say that, of course, but Scar knows the score. When Grian comes to him for the fifth time asking Scar to check if his feathers look neat, or complains that his muscles are sore, they both know what he's really asking for. His feathers might end up messier than they started out, but he'll definitely be more relaxed. And Scar doesn't mind letting him save a little face. Once he gets a hand on his wings, Grian will melt for him either way.
This time, he's barely even bothering with the pretense. Instead of turning around, trying to hide his blush and look all proper, Grian plants himself down on top of Scar, heated face buried against his chest, those lovely wings of his spread over both of them like a blanket.
It gives Scar excellent access to the place where they connect to Grian's body. He can't keep his hands away from the downy fluff in the center for a second, sinking right in, but Scar isn't just playing around. He knows what he's doing here, all of the nerves that run together here, the exquisite sensitivity. He finds a nice big group of muscles that feels tense and jumpy under his fingers, and starts kneading it luxuriously. Firm, smooth strokes of pressure until he can feel the tension unravel, the muscle worked over into pliancy.
Grian has no time to adjust. His wings slump, twitching weakly as the tension is worked out. Scar's fingers are digging in, almost painful, unbearably good, into the exact right spot to turn his whole brain into static. It's not good for his self-respect how fast he's turning into a mindless, chirping puddle on top of Scar, but fuck his self-respect if it means he gets to feel like this. The cluster of nerves between his shoulder blades is sending fuzzy signals that interrupt his higher brain functions in favor of base animal instincts, and Scar is attacking it like he knows exactly what it's doing to Grian. His trimmed claws scritch through the fluffy down, and then his grip goes to the base of both wings, massaging around the strong but vulnerable limbs.
A shudder works its way through Grian's whole body. His cheek is pressed to Scar's chest, mouth hanging open with a steady stream of needy moans, probably drooling on him. Scar loves doing this to him, wringing as many sloppy, unguarded noises out of him as he can. There's nothing in him left to feel selfconscious, just a warm glow of contentment. Scar's chest reverberates underneath him with a smug purr, and Grian doesn't care about that either. There's only those wonderful hands that are making him feel so good.
Fingers comb between his feathers, teasing out a few close enough to shedding, work them loose until they can be pulled free. Twitches of satisfaction just this side of pain ping all along Grian's spine, and his cries reach a new pitch. A desperate, aching arousal is building along with a dreamy confusion that makes it hard to do much about it. All that's left for him is to rock his hips down against Scar, humping him weakly to try and ease the throbbing heat in his crotch. He's hyperaware of the spicy musk of Scar's skin, the signals flooding his overtaxed brain urging him to mate in bold and simple letters, but he's too passive to do anything but let it wash over him.
Scar is enjoying himself tremendously. Having Grian all squirmy and blissed out on top of him is something he can always use more of, with that fluffy hair plastered to his forehead, dark eyes blank and unseeing underneath. Scar pets firm circles in the center of his back with one hand, the other combing through the bulk of feathers, working the odd loose one out. Grian twitches and pants and tries to grind against him some more while lacking any sort of coordination, making Scar feel fond and amused and furiously turned on all at once. There's a prickle of frustration at the fabric between them, a hot and simple urge to tear it away and give them both what they want, but he can control himself for a while longer. The way he can reduce Grian to an incoherent, fuckdrunk mess just by playing with his wings never gets old. He can push it further, tweak those sensitive nerves until deeper shudders work themselves through the poor quivering pile of instincts on top of him.
It pulsates outwards from Grian's spine in throbbing, sparking waves, a climax that steals every last bit of strength from his limbs, blanks out his brain, and only makes the feverish desperation between his legs worse. But even that needy ache just feels good now, and the fuzzy realization that Scar is far from done with him comes with a rush of relief. Without a care in the world, trilling and moaning sweetly for him, it's easy for Grian to admit to himself that this is just what he wanted.
