"Under the stars" with "no reason at all" for darkstache??
Winged!Au?
Title: Midnight Flights
“You should come up and join me, Darkie!” Wilford’s voice called down from far above, but Dark didn’t bother to glance up to try and see if he could spot him among the faintly glittering stars. Instead, he scowled, and glared down at his shoes. Wilford knew damn well he couldn’t join him. Knew damn well he couldn’t fly.
He didn’t know why Wilford dragged him out here to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night for “midnight flights.” There seemed no point to it, especially when Dark was stuck on the ground.
But he had to admit, the breeze rustling through his feathers felt nice.
“Incoming!” Suddenly Wilford blew through, his massive, pink wings flaring out to fill their 20-foot wingspan as he dropped to the ground next to Dark. “How was that?” He asked with a grin. “Impressive?”
Dark rolled his eyes. “So impressive.”
“Aw,” Wilford cooed and dipped his head to kiss him. “I knew you loved me.”
They lay in bed together, Bim on his stomach, head resting on his arms, Dark propped on his side, black eyes raking over black wings lined with delicate white stripes.
“Beautiful,” Dark repeated, reaching out to touch them, gently tracing feathers that shuddered under his touch.
Harder and harder his wings beat against the cold and the gusting snow and ice. It was getting more and more difficult to keep himself in the air as icicles formed along his primaries. His muscles strained, burned against decades of disuse.
But Dark hadn’t given up just yet. He beat his wings harder, banking against a frigid blast of wind as he scanned the bare trees, searching, searching, searching for the familiar shape he knew was somewhere below.
Where are you, Wilford? Bim had come crashing back to the facility, wind-burnt, half-frozen, and ranting about how some monster in the woods they’d gone to scope out for filming had gotten Wilford.
Dark was gone before he’d finished spewing his fear-soaked nonsense, launching himself out of the same window Bim had shattered and into the raging storm.
Before he knew what was happening wings that hadn’t unfurled in years snapped out automatically to catch the blowing wind and jerk him up into the sky, dragging a muffled grunt from him as sharp pain seized his back.
But somehow he’d kept himself in the air. Somehow he’d made it to this ragged, dead forest that reminded him oh-so-vividly of a setting from long ago. Of the thunk-thunk-thunk of an axe striking dead wood.
But there was no sign of Wilford, and his strength was beginning to ebb.
Dark landed hard, the force of the impact- even in the drifts of soft snow- shaking through his entire body.
“Wilford!” His words were lost to the snow. Dark stumbled forward, tucking his quaking wings tight against his back. “Wil!”
Suddenly he tripped over the hard lump in the snow, nearly sprawling face-first into the snow piling up around it.
Righting himself uncovered a bright flash of pink amidst the blinding white and so, cursing, Dark dove back in, clawing at the snow and ice until he uncovered none other than Wilford Warfstache.
“Wilford!” Even if the wind didn’t carry away his words, Wilford was in no state to hear: his mouth and eyelids were tinted blue and his clothes- frozen and stiff- were spattered with dots of blood. His wings were also in rough shape, tattered and adorned with bloody lacerations. One was clearly broken, and pearly white bone jutted through the frosted pink feathers.
But he was alive, as Dark found when he pressed two fingers to his neck and discovered a weak, slow pulse, though he wouldn’t be for long if they didn’t get out of there fast.
He glanced around, taking in the dead trees, their outlines blurred by snow. The wind was picking up, its howling loud and angry and drowning out everything else. It would be damn near impossible to take off, especially carrying Wilford’s dead weight.
It was then that Dark remembered the monster.
He tensed as an earsplitting cry- louder than the wind, than the rattling of the dry, bare branches- pierced the storm, whirled to see an enormous silhouette lumbering straight toward them.
“Shit!” Dark spun again, knelt to pry Wilford’s fun from his icy, unconscious fingers. It wouldn’t be much use if it hadn’t saved Wilford, but maybe it would buy them some time.
Bang! The first shot went wide. Dark swore viciously and fired again, this time striking the approaching shadow head on.
It grunted and stumbled, but a second later it was up and coming fast.
Dark threw the gun aside, not bothering to watch it disappear into the snow before he stepped in between the creature and Wilford and spread his wings wide.
If he expected his last sight to be a mouthful of razor-sharp, gore-flecked fangs, if he expected a blast of rotten breath, he wouldn’t get it; right as it reached him, the creature stopped.
And then it laughed. A man’s laugh. A laugh Dark would never forget no matter how much time passed or how faded his nightmares were.
He blinked, and the creature was gone. In its place stood Mark.
“Hello, old friend.” Mark’s wings- glossy and black- fluttered at his back and he grinned at Dark like a little kid. “I see you’re flying again!”
“Bim said he saw a monster,” Dark said, eyes widening. “That was you?”
“Guilty as charged. I can make anyone see whatever I want.” Mark’s grin got a bit bigger. And a bit more demonic. “It was child’s play to make an idiotic show host see a terrifying wolf creature.”
Dark sneered. “And what did Wilford see?”
Mark only chuckled. “Now, Damien, you know that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh. Enlighten me, then.”
Mark’s grin turned to a snarl and his wings flared. “To remind you I can get at you at any time. To remind you you are never safe, no matter where you go.”
That earned a snort. “You lured me all the way out here to tell me that? Seems a tad overdramatic, even for you.”
Mark arched an eyebrow. “What makes you think I lured you anywhere? You’re dreaming, Dames. You’re sound asleep, tucked into bed all nice and cozy with your beloved William.”
Every word was like a slap to the face. Dark made to step forward, but his feet refused to move.
“You’re lying,” he bit out, even as he realized Mark was right. Even as the snowfall seemed to slow around them and the wind stopped tugging at his feathers and clothes. Even as he realized he shouldn’t have been able to fly here. He couldn’t fly at all.
“Am I?” Mark laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and as he laughed he began to dissolve. Everything began to dissolve, until there was nothing left at all.
---
Dark woke up. Raised his head from the pillow to sharp pain in his neck and back. He gave a low groan and shifted, feeling Wilford respond to his movements and pull him closer, extending a wing to rest over him like a blanket.
Mark’s laughter echoed in his ears. Dark closed his eyes, willing it away. He tried to move his wings, tried to extend them, tried to stretch muscles that hadn’t seen movement in decades, only to fail. Only to send hot agony sparking down broken bones and ragged feathers.
How about another classic MeatLoaf song “I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that”, any pairing you’d like, but maybe in the Winged AU?
Darkstache?!
Title: Fall
It was a shaky flight. His muscles burned and shook from the effort it took to keep him aloft, and every beat of his wings brought with it a wave of decades-old fear of tumbling; falling from flight to crash to unforgiving floor and the darkness beneath.
It wasn’t his fear, weren’t his memories. Maybe that’s why he let Wilford drag him into the air, maybe that’s why he endured the humiliation of watching his lover fly circles around him.
But the air rushing through his feathers, through his hair and clothes, felt amazing.
Until it didn’t.
It felt like his wings stopped working. He dropped like a stone, falling, falling, falling, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. He screwed his eyes shut, expecting any second to hit the ground.
But he didn’t.
Wilford caught him mere feet from impact, pumping his wings hard to get them both up into the air again.
“Wil-” all the breath whooshed out of him, leaving him struggling to breathe and unable to do more but cling.
Wilford only grinned. “Didja really think I’d letcha fall, Darkie? I’d never do that.”
Wilford didn’t try to heal him again, and he didn’t try to fly. It was better that way.
His wings ached so badly he couldn’t stand or sit up, much less maintain the posture he usually so perfectly achieved. He could barely even move.
So he was bed-bound by order of Dr. Iplier, who’d popped in to hand Wilford an ultimatum on being stupid and the type of painkillers he gave the Host. Then he’d left Dark to drift in and out of unconsciousness, his two pairs of pristine, white wings held proudly at his back.
Dark had wished, just before black oblivion sucked him under, that his wings were like that instead of the crippled, useless things half-spread across the bed right now.
—
He didn’t know how long he was out, but he woke to the bed dipping, to warm, familiar hands on his back.
He tensed, but quickly forced himself to relax and pretend he was still asleep as the hands gently massage the areas around the bases of his wings. After a moment he truly was relaxed. It felt nice.
“Doc said it hurts so bad ‘cause you overused ‘em, Darkie,” Wilford said. “Guess tryin’ t’heal ya wasn’t such a great idea.”
He sighed. “Sure wish I could take the pain away for ya. But looks like you’re just shit outta luck.”
He actually sounded remorseful. As if the short flight Dark had gotten when Wilford had healed him wasn’t the best he’d ever had.
But he didn’t say that. Didn’t ‘pretend’ to wake up. He continued to lie there- half-asleep, the drugs hadn’t worn off just yet and wouldn’t for hours- as Wilford continued to massage his wings, as, eventually, he got up and left, promising to come back in and check on him in an hour.
He fell asleep again for real not long after that.
Dark and Dark Chica just chilling in bed while Dark's sick? :3c
Title: Sick Day
Staying out in a storm did have its drawbacks, the most inconvenient of which being sickness.
Dark’s normally gray skin had paled further and there was a slight tremor to his hands as he reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. Wilford had left it there an hour ago when he’d popped in to check on Dark.
He’d only stayed a moment- “Got lots t’do and a little time t’do it, Darkie!”-before popping out again, leaving Dark alone to his eternal boredom and a persistent cough.
Well, he thought, glancing at the furry shape that was draped across his bed. Not entirely alone.
Master. Dark Chica’s tail thumped against the covers as if she could sense his thoughts turning in her direction. She gnawed absentmindedly on one of his primary feathers. Feed me.
“Not now,” he told her. “Wilford will feed you later.”
Feed me. Master. She insisted, raising her head, fixing him with a black-eyed stare. Feed me.
Dark sighed, but otherwise didn’t answer. He settled back against the pillows, reaching up to massage his aching forehead.
Winged AU: Dark being questioned by a new ego on why his wings were broken.
Title: Questions
When he walked down the hallway with the Host, he always noticed that the Host’s wings- dirty and ragged and unkempt as they often were- were always held high. Proud.
Proud, where his were not. Dark’s own wings- though the feathers were well-kept and smooth- drooped, the tips of his primaries nearly dragging along the floor.
He couldn’t hold them any higher, and they could barely move at all. Not without horrendous pain. And he couldn’t fly. Not like the others could.
He knew the others knew. He heard their low whispers as they hurriedly answered the newbies’ questions and told them never to say a word.
But occasionally, someone would.
“D-Dark?” Eric Derekson was new. The son of Derek Derekson; an abominable man who shouldn’t have ever been created. But here they were regardless. “A-are your wings okay? D-Did you h-hurt them?”
“Eric-” Wilford warned, but it was already too late.
Dark whirled on him with a snarl. “That’s none of your concern, you pathetic idiot.”
Eric’s eyes widened, filling with tears. “I-”
“Leave my sight,” Dark snapped, “and if I find you broaching the subject again, you’ll wish I did nothing but hurt you.”
Tears spilled down Eric’s face and he backed away a few steps before turning and fleeing the room.
“That wasn’t nice, Darkie,” Wilford said, frowning and stepping closer, reaching out to place a hand on Dark’s arm. “Maybe y’should apologize.”
“Shut up, Wilford.” Dark jerked his arm away and left the room.
