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Summary
Khaslana sucks in a breath. “Wait–”
It’s too late. Curious fingers gently stroke the base of his left wing.
Every muscle in Khaslana’s body locks up tight at once. His wing immediately twitches beneath the touch, cautious as it is, a small and uncontrollable jerk of sensitivity.
He can’t help the faint, shocked noise that leaves him, barely audible.
Phainon makes a low, intrigued sound, and adds two more of his fingers. With every digit but his thumb, he starts at the sharp tip of the base and slides up and outwards.
A great shudder wracks through his wing from base to tip, a wave that follows in the wake of Phainon’s palm, and it ricochets all the way until it returns to Khaslana’s back and shivers through the rest of him. A bright, quaking warmth begins to pool in his chest.
Oh.
—
Khaslana’s wings are sensitive. This is a problem until it suddenly, miraculously, isn’t.
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