Vod! I see that Wing!Moshang.
I see it.
o.o
asdfghjkl it’ll be short bc you are not the only one who wants Wings!Au, but here ya go!
-WIPSNIPPET-
Warm hands wrap around Shang Qinghua’s fingers and gently pry them away from the feathers. He jolts at the touch, eyes snapping into focus and darting to the left; heart thudding in his chest for no damn reason.
It’s only Mu-shidi, holding his hand. Dabbing at Shang Qinghua’s finger tips with a cloth to wipe away the red that seeps out from under his nails.
Shang Qinghua blinks. He glances dispassionately behind him at one of the accursed appendages that he’s been saddled with — the one along which he had been running his hands in his search for the source of that terrible, awful itching.
There are feathers missing, now, and blood smeared across the rest that sit all ruffled and askew around the places they’d been.
“Why don’t you leave the task to me, shixiong.” Mu-shidi’s voice offers in a voice that does not really leave room for argument.
Shang Qinghua tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. It’s not interesting at all, but there are no feathers up there, so it feels like the safer option.
“Sure,” he replies, blandly.
It’s not like he cares. He stopped caring at all, actually, the very second that he realized they weren’t going to allow him cut the damn things off.
Why do they even care?! It’s not like the wings belong to them.
Because he had asked, first. He’d begged them to. He shouldn’t have asked. He knows better than to ask for anything.
It’s always better to seek forgiveness than to risk refusal.
But even if he did, what would there be to forgive? It’s his body — not that the wings are a part of that, because they can’t be; he doesn’t want them, he wants them gone —
Mu Qingfang’s hold around his fingers tightens incrementally, the backs of his knuckles briefly turning white before he forcefully relaxes them, but Shang Qinghua doesn’t notice that.
Neither does he notice the stare his shidi is directing at him, all furrowed brows and pursed lips.
He is too busy trying to count the individual grains in the neat and uniform wood panels above him — a task that is more important than anything else right now. Because he knows that if he sees one more fucking feather, then he is going to start screaming.
