͏͏͏ ㅤ —𝑭𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑭— 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑷𝑰𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑺

I remember your hands being pleasant. So I'm sure I'm not mistaken, yoi.

x.com/i/lists/178142…

Marco cannot stop the sigh that escapes him when he finally sits up straight. There's a popping of his spine and an uncomfortable rush of lightheadedness that follows, the price of spending all day hunched over at a table writing. Though eternal flames are quick to quench pain.

♡ for my muse to say something about yours.

An eye peeks open from where Marco has buried his beak under a wing. Speak of the devil. Or some saying people used. Ace's presence enough to prompt Marco's movement. Talons kept curled to not harm as he loafs in Ace's lap with a full feathered shiver. "'S gotten cold, yoi."

A beak does not do well to convey emotions but Marco's huff is laced in amusement, "It's fine, yoi. My feathers do have insulation. I wouldn't freeze but company is welcome." Feathers that are silky smooth to the touch and powder soft in Marco's fluffy down under the flight.

The passing fingers lull Marco to relax. Being pet was never something he found as an affront. He was too old to remember if he was man or bird first. "Oyaji would be a better target, yoi, if only because I fit easier in his arms. But beings of fire like us do well together."

Summer nights are ideal for enjoying the weather. The baking sun has long hidden away beyond the horizon. Marco takes the time to doze and sleepily watch the stars.

you will watch your best friend die， and it is your fault.

Marco's beak moves languidly. The morning sun makes for the ideal time to preen. Even if his feathers are strange and half-intangible. The ɴᴇᴇᴅ to do it driving him silently up a wall.