AN: So I don't write a lot but I was thinking of Pitch and Kozmotis and somehow this happened. *shrugs* Clearly my brain is broken, but hey enjoy your wingfic not-quite-drabbles. Also dumb title is dumb, help me think of better? :)
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Sandy's wings are small and curved. They tuck neatly against the curve of his body, with rounded feathers that look almost like scales. They gleam like polished gold and are just as expressive as his many strands of sand. Flaring out with surprise, fluffing into shimmering puffs with joy, bristling and sharp with anger or worry. They had tensed and flared out as he died, but when he returned, they were calm and still. It wasn't until Pitch was properly gone that they fluffed up and he twirled joyous loops and whorls around the renewed dreams of the wide world.
Toothiana hasn't stopped using her wings for nearly a thousand years by the time she is forced to. They look nearly the same and it feels wrong, that something so similar can be so different. They have no feathers to lose, though she has lost a few. They have no color to dim, though she knows she is duller than she was. There is something different about them though and she cannot tell what it is. But when they beat again and they trace a shimmering rainbow in the air and it is another bright and precious thing restored.
North couldn't use his small and glowingly white wings to fly and usually kept them tucked away under his heavy coat. He had them out on test flights sometimes and really; to catch the wind in them and feel it ruffle his feathers was the reason he'd built the first flying sleigh, but the children of the world had Views about what Santa looked like and wings were not in the picture. Seeing the slowly dimming white feathers drift down behind him was another tiny crack in Jack's heart, and seeing them grow back forged the crack shut even stronger.
Jack's wings were insubstantial, only outlined in wind and flurries of tiny snowflakes. He knew they meant no-one could see him or touch him, passing through him like they passed through the cold breeze of his wings. He glared and left quickly when Bunny grumbled about leaving the snow outside for once, and dumped a load of wet snow on the Easter Kangaroo for good measure. But Bunny was the first to see when Jack's real wings grew in, white and silver and icy blues, shimmering like a snowstorm under a full moon, like the tears of joy and happiness on Jack's face.
Bunny always claimed he didn't have wings and didn't need them. Pookas were meant for grassy hills and the earth beneath them, not the yawning, gaping, emptiness of the sky. There was a reason he didn't like North's sleigh after all. But really he'd shapeshifted them away a long time ago. He couldn't stand having something that reminded him of how different he was now from when he'd been just Aster. Besides, enormous green butterfly wings would not be a good idea in the tunnels of the Warren. He was still glad to see the wings of his companions restored.
Kozmotis once had brightly shining wings the same black as his hair. They had been tipped and dappled in golds and rainbow-white and he'd flown alongside the bright ship he commanded fighting everything and anything he needed to, to keep her and everyone else safe. They were one of the many things ripped from him when the fearlings swarm into his soul.
Pitch had no wings. Just two long scars that won't ever stop hurting and the well-worn nightmares of long millennia alone and terrified. He'd tried to make a set from the nightmare sand once, but they hurt and prickled and refused to remain solid enough to be seen. He settles for a cloud swirling around him, and thinks it best. Only Guardians have wings.
