Manehatten, Equestria | Feathered Skies Apartments, Unit 636

Tender, careful claws slowly work over his back, though the words Tender and Careful don't quite translate between the boundaries of their species.

"Ugh." Mick protests to the amount of force being used, wriggling in place.

"..."
No response, as she continues to trail a single talon along his skin ever-so-slowly, checking his skin.

"Ow." Mick tries a little more vocally, pouting.

"..."
No words, but she makes a quiet 'tsk' noise, lifting her claw. It doesn't last long before another rag is roughly pushed into his back, directly on one of the wounds.

"Oowwwwww." Mick loudly groans, playing it up a fair amount for attention. It finally breaks her stern silence.

"You are free to stop moving at any point, Mick. Might make your experience a little better." The crimson-feathered Griffon sneers, poking at his bare side with a talon, watching him flinch with muted amusement.

"You're not exactly being gentle, Gaul." Milk whines, burying his face in the mattress.
"Be nicer. I'm squishy and fragile, like a boiled egg."

Evening light accompanies Mick's tactical complaining, as the pair occupy the bedroom they just finished defiling a few moments prior. Faces still flush and bodies still sweaty, Mick is laid on his stomach on the edge of the bed, while Gaul slowly works over his exposed back with the first aid kit from the bathroom. This is probably the third time it's had to be refilled, considering that Gaul isn't exactly gentle with her talons when she's on the receiving end of particular activities, and tends to claw whatever is in reach. Sometimes pillows, sometimes blankets, sometime Mick's back. Usually Mick's back. Almost always Mick, honestly. Most couples like to cuddle as aftercare. Mick and Gaul need to deal with Mick's injuries do he doesn't bleed all over the place.

Such are the consequences of dating a Griffon.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. You know I don't exactly have soft hands like you do." She tsks, dabbing at some of the blood as she firmly presses down another bandaid, eliciting a long groan from Mick. He swears she finds this shit funny.

Until she pushes a little too hard, Mick slipping off the edge of the bed and landing on the floor with a loud thud. Gaul winces, taking a moment for peeking out of one eye and looking over the edge of the mattress.

Mick is laid flat out on the floor, moaning from the impact.

She sighs, staring down at him from above, closing up the first aid box. He'll be fine. Probably.
"Sometimes I think you need wings more than I do. I didn't even push you that hard."

"Probably..." He grunts, not budging.

"You all right down there?"

"Yeah. Just gonna... lay here for a minute."

There's a much lighter thump, caused by a far more graceful landing, as Gaul gops off the side of the bed to join him, curling up against his side. As she settles, her feathers fluff out, and a wing slowly reaches overtop of him.

...

"Hey, Gaul?" Mick calls out, working his arm through the sleeve of his jacket. Leaning down in front of the fridge, Mick squints at the shopping list tacked to the front of it, the hum of the cold-charged crystal jammed somewhere behind the entire thing audible from this close.

The hair dryer clicks off, the sounds of talons clacking on tile floor.
"Yup?" She peeks out of the bathroom doorway, halfthrough getting ready to go. Her feathers are all fluffed up and ready to be styled, making her look all puffed out and nearly twice the size, even with how short she kept her feathers. It takes some effort not to laugh, even though he's seen her look like that so many times before.

"Why is meat on the list three different times?"

"Uhm..." Mick can hear her talon clacking the floor in thought, fidgeting.
"That's for... dinner tonight, that jerky kit you bought me, I'll need some strips to start on that... and I can't remember the third one. I might have just written the first one twice."

"Gotcha." Mick hides a wince, his jacket touching the still freshly bandaged injuries on his back. Gaul has already ducked back into the bathroom, the loud sound of processed air whooshing from it's open door.

"Hm." He hums, reading the rest of the list.

... No eggs.

"Gaul?"

...

"Gaul?!"

A loud click, and a huffy, half-brushed Griffon head sticks through the doorway again, beak snapping.
"YES?"

"Eggs." Mick helpfully reminds.

Gaul rolls her eyes, disappearing back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. He writes them down on the list just in case she forgets.

...

A yawning, groggy Mick who pulled one far too late shift the day prior stumbles out of the bedroom, barely dressed in anything that isn't underwear and numerous bandages that could probably use a changing. Drawn from his slumber by the promising, wafting smells and sounds of a kitchen being used, the familiar sight of a crimson-feathered Griffon stood on her back legs, apron drawn over her front, works a pan as she cooks...

Eggs.

"Are those...?" Mick dry heaves, leaning on the doorway.

"Not again." Gaul rolls her eyes, claw to hip as she waits for him to be done with his theatrics.
"No, they're not my eggs, asshole. We covered this already. Not happening."
Her tail swishes about in irritation, talons roughly clawing a spatula that gets waved around for emphasis.
"Or, you know what? Maybe they are. Not like we can fertilize the damn things anyway. Probably a better use for them than what we do with them now."

They both glance to the shelf that stands as a decorational centerpiece in the middle of their dining room, where various eggs sit in small displays, all hand-painted like some elaborate easter shrine. It's a little comical, the way it so harshly clashes with her otherwise gruff and tough demeanor and attitude. A cute little corner for her eggs, complete with some crochet padding she whipped up herself.

"Not that." Mick waves his hand, trying to breathe.

"...Oh." Gaul rolls her eyes, turning back to the stove.
"No, they're not scrambled. I still don't get why that bothers you so much. They're how you like them." She comments, scraping the pan with the spatula, flipping one of the eggs.

"Phew." Mick sighs in relief, taking a rough seat at the table.

"Back still hurts?"

"Kinda. Just dull pain now."

"Good. I'll change them after breakfast. You work at nine, right?"

"Mmhm." Mick slumps against the table, cradling his head and stifling a yawn, listening to the sounds of an inevitable and imminent breakfast.

The only thing that stirs him from nearly falling asleep again is the plate that chatters down in front of him, holding the bounty of a morning meal. Gaul sits roughly across from him, setting down her own plate. No claws, no ripping right into it with her beak.

What a woman.

Before Mick starts eating, however, a question plagues his mind.

"Hey, Gaul?"

"Mm?!" She pauses mid-bite, foodstuffs dangling from her beak.

"You said we can't have kids, right? The whole interspecies thing."

She swallows, wiping her face with a napkin. It took a while to teach her not to just use her arm.
"Yeah. Why?"

"...Did you want kids?" He tries asking, not quite sure of her stance on the subject. They've had a conversation or two about the topic, but nothing ever concrete has come of it.

The question doesn't catch her as off guard as Mick was expecting, Gaul squinting at looking over to the cabinet of decorated eggs.

"...Not right now. We've got time to figure something out." She shrugs, and simply goes back to eating.

"So, you do?" Mick tries to guess, not quite catching her meaning.

"Mick, you're not getting away without giving me Hatchlings, but you're not going to survive the process with how easily you bruise now. Let's focus on toughening you up a little bit before that, huh?" She pokes a pointy talon-claw at him, and goes right back to eating.

Mick swallows hard, trying to focus on his own plate.

Author's Note

Short one, just had an idea I thought was cute but nothing more complex this time