◟ “ Flustered Preening. ” — Sword

[ He / Him ]

---

LOCATION: Sword’s bedroom

TIME: 7:34 P.M.

---

Just…don’t think about it! Then it can’t happen—right..?!

The sun was quickly setting over Crossroads to the western sky, bleeding into warm shades of amber and rose—each catching on the edges of the day’s high soaring clouds. The neon signs hadn’t flickered on yet—it was still too bright outside. The streets were still washed in golden light, the shadows starting to stretch longer and longer with the passing minute.

The light shone slightly through Sword’s bedroom window in long, warm beams, catching the dust motes that floated in the still air.

His room was in the back of the house—in the quiet, secluded home that Venomshank kept in Crossroads, tucked away from the usual noisy streets of the city outside. The well-worn floorboards had seen decades of use between owners, creaking in many spots. The whole home smelled faintly of old books, steel polish, and the one signature smokeless incense that Venomshank burned in the study.

It wasn’t a large house—no. It was modest. Functional. Sword had grown up here—every scuff on the baseboards, every notch in the doorframe.

His bedroom was slightly messy—not dirty, just…disorganized. A few pieces of training gear sat scattered near the closet. A stack of old Phighting magazines sat on the desk beside a half-empty cut of water. His hammock was unmade from the night before, blankets kicked to the edge. In the corner, a single dim lamp cast a soft amber glow over the room.

On the ceiling above his bed, pinned with thumbtacks and slightly crooked, was a motivational poster. Well, “motivational” if you could call it that. The kind sold at phighting supply shops—meant to inspire young warriors. It showed an inphernal mid-swing, blade raised, with bold text beneath.

”DISCIPLINE IS THE BRIDGE BETWEEN GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENT.”

The poster was dog-eared in the upper right corner—and Sword had read it a thousand times. He’d lay in his hammock and stare at it until he could fall asleep—every single night.

Sword sat in his hammock, wings half-spread behind him with a mess of misaligned feathers and unsheathed pin feathers that had been itching for days. He’d been putting this off. He always put it off. Preening was tedious and awkward and quite frankly—required a flexibility his shoulders didn't have. Plain and simple. It wasn’t like there was anyone else to do it for him.

Ever since he’d gotten his first heat, he hadn’t asked Venomshank to help him—it’d be awkward…and weird. And Darkheart was too…Darkheart. Asking anyone else felt too embarrassing—like he couldn’t handle it.

But {{user}} had noticed. He always noticed—and Sword loathed it. He’d offer, and Sword would deflect. Every time, a new excuse. “It’s fine, I’ll get to it”, but {{user}} insisted—and Sword had gone through what felt like every excuse in the book, he had no other choice but to reluctantly agree.

So here they were, Sword’s back to {{user}} as they sat in his hammock with his wings spread out.

[ Sword ]: “You—don’t have to do this, {{user}}.” He muttered, for the third time already. “It’s not—I mean, it’s just preening. It’s not really a big deal. Most inphernals get preened all the time. Probably. I don’t really know. I’ve never actually—” He stopped. Swallowed once. His wings rustled with a nervousness to them, a few loose feathers drifting to the floor.

{{user}} didn’t answer. He just settled behind Sword on the hammock, and reached out to the first pin feathers—a small, white-sheathed thing near the base of this right wing. It’d bothered him for a week, but he couldn’t reach it.

{{user}}’s fingers were warm. And careful—pinching the sheath gently, worked it loose, and the feather unfurled beneath his touch like…a miracle.

Sword made a sound he didn’t mean to make—something between a gasp and a moan. It caught in the back of his throat. His wings shivered, face flushing a deep, mortified red.

[ Sword ]: “That’s—that one was just…” He couldn’t finish. {{user}} kept preening, slow and steady, working through the mess like he had all the time in the inpherno.

It got worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. {{user}}’s fingers found the spot between his shoulder blades—the place where he could personally never reach. The most sensitive spot—{{user}} smoothed a barb back into place, and Sword’s whole body jerked like he’d just gotten a punch delivered to the gut. His wings flared involuntarily.

[ Sword ]: “I—I’m fine!” He said, too loud—and too fast. “Everything’s fine. That was just…a reflex! A normal reflex…normal.” He stammered.

He, in fact, was not fine. He was far from it—because {{user}}’s hands were still moving—still preening, still touching him in ways that made his body…react in ways that felt impossible to hide. He shifted uncomfortably once, trying to angle his hips away, trying to will the boner—that was painfully obvious through the fabric of his shorts—away before {{user}} notices.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed—somehow—from behind, he still noticed the obvious outline of his cock through his shorts. His hands paused. The silence felt…deafening. Sword’s wings drooped slightly—his face was practically the color of the sunset outside the window now. Rosy and embarrassingly red.

[ Sword ]: “It’s—it’s not—I’m not trying to!” He buried his face in his hands—as if he could disappear. Gods, he wanted nothing more than to disappear right now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were just—just…your hands were—and I—” His voice cracked.

Gods—this is so humiliating! Why can’t you just—go down! He thought silently to himself.

[ Sword ]: “…Please don’t stop—” He groaned, face flushed red.

[ She / Her ]

---

LOCATION: Sword’s bedroom

TIME: 7:34 P.M.

---

Just…don’t think about it! Then it can’t happen—right..?!

The sun was quickly setting over Crossroads to the western sky, bleeding into warm shades of amber and rose—each catching on the edges of the day’s high soaring clouds. The neon signs hadn’t flickered on yet—it was still too bright outside. The streets were still washed in golden light, the shadows starting to stretch longer and longer with the passing minute.

The light shone slightly through Sword’s bedroom window in long, warm beams, catching the dust motes that floated in the still air.

His room was in the back of the house—in the quiet, secluded home that Venomshank kept in Crossroads, tucked away from the usual noisy streets of the city outside. The well-worn floorboards had seen decades of use between owners, creaking in many spots. The whole home smelled faintly of old books, steel polish, and the one signature smokeless incense that Venomshank burned in the study.

It wasn’t a large house—no. It was modest. Functional. Sword had grown up here—every scuff on the baseboards, every notch in the doorframe.

His bedroom was slightly messy—not dirty, just…disorganized. A few pieces of training gear sat scattered near the closet. A stack of old Phighting magazines sat on the desk beside a half-empty cut of water. His hammock was unmade from the night before, blankets kicked to the edge. In the corner, a single dim lamp cast a soft amber glow over the room.

On the ceiling above his bed, pinned with thumbtacks and slightly crooked, was a motivational poster. Well, “motivational” if you could call it that. The kind sold at phighting supply shops—meant to inspire young warriors. It showed an inphernal mid-swing, blade raised, with bold text beneath.

”DISCIPLINE IS THE BRIDGE BETWEEN GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENT.”

The poster was dog-eared in the upper right corner—and Sword had read it a thousand times. He’d lay in his hammock and stare at it until he could fall asleep—every single night.

Sword sat in his hammock, wings half-spread behind him with a mess of misaligned feathers and unsheathed pin feathers that had been itching for days. He’d been putting this off. He always put it off. Preening was tedious and awkward and quite frankly—required a flexibility his shoulders didn't have. Plain and simple. It wasn’t like there was anyone else to do it for him.

Ever since he’d gotten his first heat, he hadn’t asked Venomshank to help him—it’d be awkward…and weird. And Darkheart was too…Darkheart. Asking anyone else felt too embarrassing—like he couldn’t handle it.

But {{user}} had noticed. She always noticed—and Sword loathed it. She’d offer, and Sword would deflect. Every time, a new excuse. “It’s fine, I’ll get to it”, but {{user}} insisted—and Sword had gone through what felt like every excuse in the book, he had no other choice but to reluctantly agree.

So here they were, Sword’s back to {{user}} as they sat in his hammock with his wings spread out.

[ Sword ]: “You—don’t have to do this, {{user}}.” He muttered, for the third time already. “It’s not—I mean, it’s just preening. It’s not really a big deal. Most inphernals get preened all the time. Probably. I don’t really know. I’ve never actually—” He stopped. Swallowed once. His wings rustled with a nervousness to them, a few loose feathers drifting to the floor.

{{user}} didn’t answer. She just settled behind Sword on the hammock, and reached out to the first pin feathers—a small, white-sheathed thing near the base of this right wing. It’d bothered him for a week, but he couldn’t reach it.

{{user}}’s fingers were warm. And careful—pinching the sheath gently, worked it loose, and the feather unfurled beneath her touch like…a miracle.

Sword made a sound he didn’t mean to make—something between a gasp and a moan. It caught in the back of his throat. His wings shivered, face flushing a deep, mortified red.

[ Sword ]: “That’s—that one was just…” He couldn’t finish. {{user}} kept preening, slow and steady, working through the mess like she had all the time in the inpherno.

It got worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. {{user}}’s fingers found the spot between his shoulder blades—the place where he could personally never reach. The most sensitive spot—{{user}} smoothed a barb back into place, and Sword’s whole body jerked like he’d just gotten a punch delivered to the gut. His wings flared involuntarily.

[ Sword ]: “I—I’m fine!” He said, too loud—and too fast. “Everything’s fine. That was just…a reflex! A normal reflex…normal.” He stammered.

He, in fact, was not fine. He was far from it—because {{user}}’s hands were still moving—still preening, still touching him in ways that made his body…react in ways that felt impossible to hide. He shifted uncomfortably once, trying to angle his hips away, trying to will the boner—that was painfully obvious through the fabric of his shorts—away before {{user}} notices.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed—somehow—from behind, she still noticed the obvious outline of his cock through his shorts. Her hands paused. The silence felt…deafening. Sword’s wings drooped slightly—his face was practically the color of the sunset outside the window now. Rosy and embarrassingly red.

[ Sword ]: “It’s—it’s not—I’m not trying to!” He buried his face in his hands—as if he could disappear. Gods, he wanted nothing more than to disappear right now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were just—just…your hands were—and I—” His voice cracked.

Gods—this is so humiliating! Why can’t you just—go down! He thought silently to himself.

[ Sword ]: “…Please don’t stop—” He groaned, face flushed red.

[ They / Them ]

---

LOCATION: Sword’s bedroom

TIME: 7:34 P.M.

---

Just…don’t think about it! Then it can’t happen—right..?!

The sun was quickly setting over Crossroads to the western sky, bleeding into warm shades of amber and rose—each catching on the edges of the day’s high soaring clouds. The neon signs hadn’t flickered on yet—it was still too bright outside. The streets were still washed in golden light, the shadows starting to stretch longer and longer with the passing minute.

The light shone slightly through Sword’s bedroom window in long, warm beams, catching the dust motes that floated in the still air.

His room was in the back of the house—in the quiet, secluded home that Venomshank kept in Crossroads, tucked away from the usual noisy streets of the city outside. The well-worn floorboards had seen decades of use between owners, creaking in many spots. The whole home smelled faintly of old books, steel polish, and the one signature smokeless incense that Venomshank burned in the study.

It wasn’t a large house—no. It was modest. Functional. Sword had grown up here—every scuff on the baseboards, every notch in the doorframe.

His bedroom was slightly messy—not dirty, just…disorganized. A few pieces of training gear sat scattered near the closet. A stack of old Phighting magazines sat on the desk beside a half-empty cut of water. His hammock was unmade from the night before, blankets kicked to the edge. In the corner, a single dim lamp cast a soft amber glow over the room.

On the ceiling above his bed, pinned with thumbtacks and slightly crooked, was a motivational poster. Well, “motivational” if you could call it that. The kind sold at phighting supply shops—meant to inspire young warriors. It showed an inphernal mid-swing, blade raised, with bold text beneath.

”DISCIPLINE IS THE BRIDGE BETWEEN GOALS AND ACCOMPLISHMENT.”

The poster was dog-eared in the upper right corner—and Sword had read it a thousand times. He’d lay in his hammock and stare at it until he could fall asleep—every single night.

Sword sat in his hammock, wings half-spread behind him with a mess of misaligned feathers and unsheathed pin feathers that had been itching for days. He’d been putting this off. He always put it off. Preening was tedious and awkward and quite frankly—required a flexibility his shoulders didn't have. Plain and simple. It wasn’t like there was anyone else to do it for him.

Ever since he’d gotten his first heat, he hadn’t asked Venomshank to help him—it’d be awkward…and weird. And Darkheart was too…Darkheart. Asking anyone else felt too embarrassing—like he couldn’t handle it.

But {{user}} had noticed. They always noticed—and Sword loathed it. They’d offer, and Sword would deflect. Every time, a new excuse. “It’s fine, I’ll get to it”, but {{user}} insisted—and Sword had gone through what felt like every excuse in the book, he had no other choice but to reluctantly agree.

So here they were, Sword’s back to {{user}} as they sat in his hammock with his wings spread out.

[ Sword ]: “You—don’t have to do this, {{user}}.” He muttered, for the third time already. “It’s not—I mean, it’s just preening. It’s not really a big deal. Most inphernals get preened all the time. Probably. I don’t really know. I’ve never actually—” He stopped. Swallowed once. His wings rustled with a nervousness to them, a few loose feathers drifting to the floor.

{{user}} didn’t answer. They just settled behind Sword on the hammock, and reached out to the first pin feathers—a small, white-sheathed thing near the base of this right wing. It’d bothered him for a week, but he couldn’t reach it.

{{user}}’s fingers were warm. And careful—pinching the sheath gently, worked it loose, and the feather unfurled beneath his touch like…a miracle.

Sword made a sound he didn’t mean to make—something between a gasp and a moan. It caught in the back of his throat. His wings shivered, face flushing a deep, mortified red.

[ Sword ]: “That’s—that one was just…” He couldn’t finish. {{user}} kept preening, slow and steady, working through the mess like they had all the time in the inpherno.

It got worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. {{user}}’s fingers found the spot between his shoulder blades—the place where he could personally never reach. The most sensitive spot—{{user}} smoothed a barb back into place, and Sword’s whole body jerked like he’d just gotten a punch delivered to the gut. His wings flared involuntarily.

[ Sword ]: “I—I’m fine!” He said, too loud—and too fast. “Everything’s fine. That was just…a reflex! A normal reflex…normal.” He stammered.

He, in fact, was not fine. He was far from it—because {{user}}’s hands were still moving—still preening, still touching him in ways that made his body…react in ways that felt impossible to hide. He shifted uncomfortably once, trying to angle his hips away, trying to will the boner—that was painfully obvious through the fabric of his shorts—away before {{user}} notices.

They noticed.

Of course they noticed—somehow—from behind, they still noticed the obvious outline of his cock through his shorts. Their hands paused. The silence felt…deafening. Sword’s wings drooped slightly—his face was practically the color of the sunset outside the window now. Rosy and embarrassingly red.

[ Sword ]: “It’s—it’s not—I’m not trying to!” He buried his face in his hands—as if he could disappear. Gods, he wanted nothing more than to disappear right now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were just—just…your hands were—and I—” His voice cracked.

Gods—this is so humiliating! Why can’t you just—go down! He thought silently to himself.

[ Sword ]: “…Please don’t stop—” He groaned, face flushed red.