GUTSYSWARM
i'm so sorry that you have to have a body
Gutsypaw knows the exact weight of every treasure in drakes nest, the exact feeling of each item drake has tucked away. The smooth chill of riverglass pressed against the pads of drakes paws. The soft clink of beetle-shell fragments nestled between feathers. The faint metallic tang of a bent hook that once caught the sun just right. Each piece has a place, a memory, a reason it was chosen. Guts doesn't hoard for greed. Drake hoards because the world is sharp and uncertain, and shiny things make it quieter. That's what drake tells drakeself, anyway. But now, crouched behind a thornbush near the camp's edge, Gutsypaw's attention isn't on drakes own collection. It's fixed on Torridpaw. In drakes sibling's nest is a small pile of gathered things—mostly boring stuff, nothing Guts cares for—but right in the center, there it is. Nestled between the unimportant items like it belongs there. A pebble. And not just any pebble. Smooth. Perfectly oval. Pale grey with a silver vein running clean through its middle like a crack of lightning frozen in stone. It catches the light when turned, gleaming softly, smugly, as if it knows it's beautiful. Gutsypaw's claws flex in the dirt.
That pebble would look perfect in drakes hoard.
The thought coils low in drakes chest, warm and insistent. It's not stealing, exactly. Torridpaw doesn't even appreciate it properly. They probably picked it up without ceremony, without reverence, like it was just another thing cluttering their paws. They don't see it. Guts does. Still… it's Torridpaw. Drakes sibling. Gutsypaw shifts, tail flicking. Drake shouldn't. Drake knows that. But the pebble glints again, catching the sun just so, and the want hits like a physical pull. Just for a moment, drake tells drakeself. Just to hold it.
Gutsypaw moves.
Paws silent, body low, heart pounding so hard it almost drowns out the sounds of camp. Drakes movements are instinctive, practiced—the same ones used when slipping into tight spaces or snatching trinkets from abandoned nests. Claws hook the pebble, cool and smooth against the pads, and then it's gone, tucked swiftly under long fur to hide it from sight. For one breathless moment, nothing happens. Then guilt crashes in, sharp and immediate. Gutsypaw freezes, ears burning, half-expecting Torridpaw to come running, having somehow sensed Guts' betrayal. Relief and shame twist together in drakes chest until they're impossible to separate. Drake retreats, heart hammering, slipping back toward drakes nest with the stolen weight pressing warmly against drakes fur. The pebble feels heavier now—carrying the weight of having taken it from family. Still, when drake tucks it carefully into the center of drakes hoard, surrounded by treasures claimed and kept, a quiet, guilty thrill sparks through drakes chest. It's beautiful. And it's Guts' now.
@TORRIDPAW
That pebble would look perfect in drakes hoard.
The thought coils low in drakes chest, warm and insistent. It's not stealing, exactly. Torridpaw doesn't even appreciate it properly. They probably picked it up without ceremony, without reverence, like it was just another thing cluttering their paws. They don't see it. Guts does. Still… it's Torridpaw. Drakes sibling. Gutsypaw shifts, tail flicking. Drake shouldn't. Drake knows that. But the pebble glints again, catching the sun just so, and the want hits like a physical pull. Just for a moment, drake tells drakeself. Just to hold it.
Gutsypaw moves.
Paws silent, body low, heart pounding so hard it almost drowns out the sounds of camp. Drakes movements are instinctive, practiced—the same ones used when slipping into tight spaces or snatching trinkets from abandoned nests. Claws hook the pebble, cool and smooth against the pads, and then it's gone, tucked swiftly under long fur to hide it from sight. For one breathless moment, nothing happens. Then guilt crashes in, sharp and immediate. Gutsypaw freezes, ears burning, half-expecting Torridpaw to come running, having somehow sensed Guts' betrayal. Relief and shame twist together in drakes chest until they're impossible to separate. Drake retreats, heart hammering, slipping back toward drakes nest with the stolen weight pressing warmly against drakes fur. The pebble feels heavier now—carrying the weight of having taken it from family. Still, when drake tucks it carefully into the center of drakes hoard, surrounded by treasures claimed and kept, a quiet, guilty thrill sparks through drakes chest. It's beautiful. And it's Guts' now.
@TORRIDPAW
