silver drips

Featured/recent art:

Featured writing snippet:Castor can hear judgment, in the silence that follows. "I was going to say odd," Sylvester says, carefully. "Did. . . the Church tell you that? That you're repulsive?"Castor breathes through the ice in his chest, and carefully does not move. "I can't. . . talk about that. Right now." Carefully, carefully, he loosens his wings — any tighter and he will be sore tomorrow with how much they had been pulled against his back, tension enough to cause worse pain if Castor doesn't remember to be careful with himself. "But. You don't need to lie. To me." Inhale, exhale. Pretend that not seeing Sylvester's face is better than getting a hint of what the other man is thinking. "I. . . understand if you are. . . if you do not want to. . . be close, with me. In that way."Sylvester makes a noise that's something akin to a snarl, and pulls Castor back, grabbing Castor's shoulders with both hands. "I do." He says, eyes burning fierce like starlight, like the silver left behind after a flame, like absolution. "I want to kiss you. Castor, I don't care what they said — you're beautiful. All of you. Even the parts of you that aren't fully human."Castor is frozen, and all he can do is stare at Sylvester. Words have fled — thought, too, is gone, flown away like a bird flees a cage. "Are. . . you sure?" He asks, clumsy and uncertain, in a voice small and delicate enough to snap with a mere motion.Sylvester softens, and the faint moonlight brushes against his face. "I'm sure."Tears bead at Castor's eyes, and he can't help but press his face against Sylvester's neck again. ". . . thank you. For. . . for tonight." He breathes, and breathes, and slowly the frozen, jagged thing in his chest melts, and slowly the overwhelming, dizzying heat seeps away. "Can we just. . . sleep? Here? I — I can go back to my room, if you want. But. It's. . . late." I'm tired, he doesn't say, for all that that statement is true as well. If Sylvester wants Castor to leave then Castor will, even if the thought tears at Castor.
"Of course, of course." There's a lighter note to Sylvester's voice, again, and he combs his hand through the shorter strands of Castor's hair. "You can sleep beside me, if you want. I don't mind."
The last of the tension leaves. (It will surely return, tomorrow, but for tonight, at least, it is gone.) Castor sighs, and presses closer to Sylvester. He curls around the smaller man, unfolding a wing enough to drape it over their sides — Sylvester makes a pleased noise, and Castor can't help but want to preen (in the metaphorical sense) at that fact. Good. Sylvester deserves to be warm and comfortable.-- from swan down and stardust