Serph does nothing to lash out against the handling. If anything, he is polite in trying to draw his wings away. Those trembling, clumsy movements ache as sympathy in the back of John's mind: somewhere in the depths of him, he remembers a form with wings. Remembers the spread and shift of feathers, not so different from the shift of tatters that are at once fabric, tentacles, skin.
He stops thinking about it. Arthur's body does not move in those ways. Even last night, his form had been a crude reflection of some ancient shape: it had felt stifling to have only ten limbs, even after so long wishing for Arthur's four. He just... needs to adjust.
John eases himself back down onto the bed. This must be madness, keeping Arthur's exhaustion-slowed body within range of another's hands, but the closeness is strangely appealing. Perhaps it's some human instinct. And Serph doesn't look like much of a threat with his wings crumpled awkwardly against the side of his body and half his primaries bent.
Gently, John lifts a wing— by the joint, so as not to strain it— so he can shuffle back underneath it like a strange down blanket.
"Did you?" His voice has dropped softer. When Serph doesn't stop him, he lifts another wing to lay over his belly, and smooths the vanes of those primaries back into shape. "Lose your mind?"
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Serph does nothing to lash out against the handling. If anything, he is polite in trying to draw his wings away. Those trembling, clumsy movements ache as sympathy in the back of John's mind: somewhere in the depths of him, he remembers a form with wings. Remembers the spread and shift of feathers, not so different from the shift of tatters that are at once fabric, tentacles, skin.
He stops thinking about it. Arthur's body does not move in those ways. Even last night, his form had been a crude reflection of some ancient shape: it had felt stifling to have only ten limbs, even after so long wishing for Arthur's four. He just... needs to adjust.
John eases himself back down onto the bed. This must be madness, keeping Arthur's exhaustion-slowed body within range of another's hands, but the closeness is strangely appealing. Perhaps it's some human instinct. And Serph doesn't look like much of a threat with his wings crumpled awkwardly against the side of his body and half his primaries bent.
Gently, John lifts a wing— by the joint, so as not to strain it— so he can shuffle back underneath it like a strange down blanket.
"Did you?" His voice has dropped softer. When Serph doesn't stop him, he lifts another wing to lay over his belly, and smooths the vanes of those primaries back into shape. "Lose your mind?"