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    Summary

    So the next thing he feels is Scar’s fingers, gentle and elven-slender as ever, make contact with the spot where his feathers meet his skin and start smoothing them out. It’s a familiar pleasantness, one that he’s generally gotten used to minimising his reaction to over the years, because depending on the flock-bond these kinds of actions will carry different meanings, and even when he’s hit with the deliciously satisfying zing of the wayward feathers sliding into place, he doesn’t give any more reaction than he usually -

    Scar moans.

    Another "soulmates share more than just pain" smutfic to add to the collective pile - now with preening!

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