[It's actually sometimes difficult to tell when one's eyes are filling with tears when one has ginormous dark eyes with ginormous Maybelline-esque eyelashes; at least, up until the tears spill over.
Donnie had half-expected Rue to want to touch him somehow in thanks because over the months he has clued in that they tend to hold back a lot around him, solely through observation and noting all of Rue's tiny aborted movements in his direction. He's gotten used to the stops and starts, had anticipated more of that here, but nope he gets swept up in truly huge, feathery, ticklish arms and held right there in sensory prison. He kind of wants to itch the skin of his arms clean off.
Physically, that's how he feels.
But somewhere inside, a little turtle toddler absolutely jubilant about his father patting his head, tenderly cradling his cheek and calling Donnie his dear, brilliant, lovely boy surges forward like a tsunami. That brilliantly warm feeling, like sinking into a hot bath, fills him up like a beaker with golden-sweet bliss. Value. He has value. He's treasured, he's so desperately wanted and needed. He provided something personal, something vital, to someone he cares about and they told him in no uncertain terms that he is cherished for it.
Donnie squirms, unsure of how to move within the hug. The feathers are a bit too much. The tenderness can never be surrendered, ever, Donnie really would rather claw his skin off. He settles for squirming a bit more before turning around in Rue's hug, his battle shell-covered back to their front, shifting their wings up atop his shoulders instead of around his arms and clasping their wrists for them in front of his plastron. There. Much better.] I'm not sure how you've been keeping up with all the commissions you've been receiving otherwise, but even if you use your, rrm, magic, [will use the word for Rue, only for Rue, without (much) reservation] to sew everything, I assumed you would like a rest from that every so often. If your magic is anything like my own family's mystic powers.
[Fiddles with his fingers, sneaking a glance up at Rue, craning his neck slightly to look over his shoulder at their expression.] You...do like it? You're not just placating me, correct? I don't want to give you something that won't be useful to you.
no subject
Donnie had half-expected Rue to want to touch him somehow in thanks because over the months he has clued in that they tend to hold back a lot around him, solely through observation and noting all of Rue's tiny aborted movements in his direction. He's gotten used to the stops and starts, had anticipated more of that here, but nope he gets swept up in truly huge, feathery, ticklish arms and held right there in sensory prison. He kind of wants to itch the skin of his arms clean off.
Physically, that's how he feels.
But somewhere inside, a little turtle toddler absolutely jubilant about his father patting his head, tenderly cradling his cheek and calling Donnie his dear, brilliant, lovely boy surges forward like a tsunami. That brilliantly warm feeling, like sinking into a hot bath, fills him up like a beaker with golden-sweet bliss. Value. He has value. He's treasured, he's so desperately wanted and needed. He provided something personal, something vital, to someone he cares about and they told him in no uncertain terms that he is cherished for it.
Donnie squirms, unsure of how to move within the hug. The feathers are a bit too much. The tenderness can never be surrendered, ever, Donnie really would rather claw his skin off. He settles for squirming a bit more before turning around in Rue's hug, his battle shell-covered back to their front, shifting their wings up atop his shoulders instead of around his arms and clasping their wrists for them in front of his plastron. There. Much better.] I'm not sure how you've been keeping up with all the commissions you've been receiving otherwise, but even if you use your, rrm, magic, [will use the word for Rue, only for Rue, without (much) reservation] to sew everything, I assumed you would like a rest from that every so often. If your magic is anything like my own family's mystic powers.
[Fiddles with his fingers, sneaking a glance up at Rue, craning his neck slightly to look over his shoulder at their expression.] You...do like it? You're not just placating me, correct? I don't want to give you something that won't be useful to you.