Scritch, scritch. Back and forth, up and down, they rub and knead, a palm caressing your jaw as the affectionate gesture takes up more and more of your attention.

Scritch, scritch. It's been too long since you've been handled like this, shown such care and attention that most simply would not know how to appreciate.

Scritch, scritch. Instinct betrays your muddled thoughts, something like an attempt at a purr or a low rumbled grumble rolls in your throat, and a warm chuckle answers.

"I know, little drake. Doesn't that feel good?"

Scritch, scritch. A tingling heat blooms in your chest as the low, rolling sound moves down your throat, deeper with each gentle stroke.

Scritch, scritch. A finger brushes across a stiff nub, then circles it, and you can't help but lean even further into the warmth and loving contact, even as something - two somethings - press against your skull and then push outward, like branches of heat and solidity; or horns.

Scritch, scritch. Your face shifts, the texture against your skin changes, and you can nuzzle up against the arm of your attendant all the more completely, inch by inch drinking in the sensations of growth and newness. Your eyes have been closed, but tingling heat seeps through them nonetheless as well.

Scritch, scritch. Senses sharpen in languid surges, like tides of information new and yet so easily wrapped around yourself as though this awareness was something you missed, something once denied that was now finally coming back, rather than anything new at all.

Scritch, scritch. You can smell her, and yourself, so immediate and familiar, both brazen notes of gently floral perfume and the hints of something faint and heavy hidden underneath. You can feel her, blunt nails sliding smoothly over soft, fresh scales, like dozens of little disks or diamonds layered into your skin being gently tugged by the motion of her hand. You can hear her, cooing and crooning even as her clothes slide against each other like sheets of softness and her hand rubs the change deeper and deeper into you.

Scritch, scritch. Your eyes twitch open for a moment, and you can see her in all the colors of the universe and then some; the patterns in the skies above and behind her are dreamlike in their wondrous intricacy. A flick of a long, forked tongue brushes against her arm in a lazy, contented reflex, and you can taste her -- and the sheep who gave the wool of her sweater.

Scritch scritch. Heat bleeds into you, seeps through you, settles in your bones and your flesh and your blood and you cannot bring yourself to think of it as anything but a blessing. Even as the scales spread across your every surface. Even as your frame twists and shifts to reflect something found deeper than you dared show the world before. Your tail lashes behind you, first a nub and then a narrow limb and then something long and muscled and sheathed in strength. Your claws flex, hands no longer bare and now capped with blades you reflexively slide against each other, exulting in the sound of their honing.

Scritch, scritch. You fall into your attendant's embrace as the structure of your legs is utterly compromised, tail flexing behind you to keep balance even as the ministrations continue. It's not too hard to stay in contact; your neck is subtly longer than it used to be, your limbs know your balance better than you do. Your body is built to move like this. Your wings flare out before you realize you have them; like arms dressed in soft, pliable scales that twitch at every whispering breeze, itching to catch them and climb. You furl your wings back with a gentle grace, as though you were born to them from the start. They could never be anything other than yours.

Scritch, scritch. You could never be anything other than yourself in this moment. You loose a heavy, heated breath. And relax.

Scritch, scritch.

Oh, no, my non-involvement with Black art is because I'm not Black. Black people have gone long enough dealing with appropriation and people like me (non-Black) have taken up enough Black spaces enough. So really, I'm actually doing a good thing by non listening to Black music, watching Black movies, reading books by Black authors.

No, you see, trans people are so chronically fetishized and belittled that it's normal for me to feel suspicious and wary to see trans people in sexual contexts, intimate contexts, nudes, artwork, etc. It would be best in fact if I did not engage in erotic or romantic works involving trans people at all.