#still trying to capture the whole rugged feeling one day ill get there

[urlynscorner]

Saw some Drow fanart and wanted to join in on the fun. Thank you @meanbossart for sharing your character and takes with us!

[serararku]

Aria: Trial by Fire

S’era stood at the iron gates in awkward silence, staring up at the two story mansion stretched out before her. The harsh dusty winds of Thanalan did little to hide the lush garden encircling the estate, and the blinding sun overhead reflected off the stained glass windows. The building itself was white- whiter than anything she had ever seen, with the walls covered in hanging vines and black rose bushes. The pathway was paved with polished black cobblestones, with red paper lanterns guiding visitors straight to the door; whoever lived here was clearly rich.

“Are you sure this is the place?” She was reluctant to ask, unsure if someone this wealthy would even entertain some backwood savage like her. “This seems too… too…”

“Upper class?” K’thalen finished, sneering at her. “Very few swordmasters survived the sacking of Doma- even less live here in Eorzea.”

“Fewer.” S’era mumbled under her breath.

“Anyroad... this is the only one that hasn’t changed his name or gone completely into hiding. It’s either him, or you try your luck tryin’ to get a pirate or bounty hunter to teach you.” He gently nudged her forward. “OR, you can forget this whole thing and get a real job to help pay these-”

“Alright, alright… just give me a moment…” S’era brushed his hand away and took a few tentative steps forward; the gate was completely unlocked and left wide open- shouldn’t he be worried about thieves or assassins sent here to finish him off? Why is his mansion seemingly unguarded? She sucked in a sharp exhale, swallowed her nerves, then stormed off toward the door. 

“I’ll be out here, lass.” K’thalen called out, standing next to her chocobo Kwehzimoto. “Oh by the way- his name’s Hadriel Isenhart. Try not to mispronounce it, aye? Domans hate that shit.”

“Doesn’t sound very Doman to me…” She bit her lip before knocking on the door. Almost immediately the door was unlocked from the other side and swung wide open, causing her to nearly leap right out of her skin.

“Can I help you?” The Hyur man asked as he slowly eyed her over. He was sharply dressed in a jet black tux, with a polished cane in his right hand; judging by the wrinkles on his face she assumed this man had to be old for a hyur- but most importantly, he was unarmed. 

S’era ran her bristled tail through her hands to calm herself down before reluctantly asking, “Um… a-are you Hadriel Isenhart?”

“No.” His response was surprisingly curt. “Do you have an appointment with Lord Isenhart? Or…?”

“No appointment. I was hoping I could speak with him…”

“Hmn.” It was the most unimpressed huff S’era had ever heard. He leaned a little to inspect K’thalen- he didn’t seem to pass the test either. “Well, come on in. I’ll take you to him.” The man paused to stare at her muddy boots. “Ah… leave those here by the door. We just had the floors cleaned.”

Inside the estate was unlike anything she had ever seen. White marble floors shined with a polished mirror finish, and everything else in here looked like it cost a fortune. “Wow…” S’era couldn’t help herself. “How many tribes did he conquer to get… all of… aahhh…”

“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” The man opened a door and gestured down the hallway. “Follow the path down the stairs, and you’ll end up at his bar. Treat him with the utmost respect and choose your words carefully, stranger. He doesn’t have much of a temper these days, but he annoys easily.”

“Aren’t you going to check me for weapons…?” S’era asked once she remembered her weathered daggers were still strapped to her waist beneath her coat. The man simply scoffed at her before returning to his seat beside the main entrance.

“Well? Go on… He already knows you’re here.”

Walking alone through the hallway helped put her mind at ease, but the sudden change of scenery didn’t help her feel any safer; instead of the white marbled floors and the beautiful paintings adorning the walls, S’era found herself walking through what looked like an industrial construction zone, complete with brown pipes covering the walls and ceiling that hummed and vibrated softly. Steam rose from the iron grating beneath her feet that smelled faintly of potable water, tickling her toes as she followed the harsh iron lights lining the hall; if she was expected to climb into a garbage chute or step through a rusting door, she would sooner give up and turn around to avoid being captured for some perverse psychopath. 

Suddenly her ears perked up and faced forward once she heard the faint sound of a piano. As she rounded the corner she stepped into what had to be the basement; black marble tiles were the first to catch her gaze, before the soft light from the lanterns lining the walls cast an orange glow on the tables and chairs adorning the room. Servants as sharply dressed as the door greeter glanced in her direction the moment she appeared, giving her a welcoming smile before motioning her to approach. Halfway down the stairs she noticed a Miqo’te patron sitting at the bar with messy black and orange hair dressed in a long black coat. His pale blue eyes drifted over to her the moment she looked at him, and he gave her a reassuring nod before returning his attention to his drink. The source of the music came from the woman at the piano, who was perhaps the most gorgeous Miqo’te she had ever seen; cream blonde hair as clean as a summer shower draped over her slender shoulders, her bright green eyes flashing up at S’era for a split second before she went back to playing her song. Never before had she felt so underdressed in her dusty cloak and patchy armor.

Yet sitting on the couch had to be the one she was looking for. A tall Hyur man in a suit swirled a glass of whiskey in his hand, with a patch covering his left eye. His raven hair was cut short, barely reaching the nape of his neck. Burns disfigured his hands and forearms, vanishing up into the cuffs of his jacket, and thin scars ran criss-cross over his lips and cheeks. Out of everyone in this room, he was the only one who didn’t bother pausing to look up at her.

“Come in.” He commanded, startling S’era. “I trust you took your shoes off before soiling my floor?”

“Y-yes, sir…” Was all she could manage while she took meager steps deeper into the basement lounge. “I was hoping I could ask you to-”

Hadriel raised his hand to stop her from speaking, but his attention never left the crackling fireplace beside the two couches. “Get yourself something to drink if you’re thirsty, then come join me by the fire.” It was hard to argue against getting a free drink, and alcohol would certainly help calm herself; without question she stepped to the bar beside the patron, and the barkeep gave her a gentle smile.

“What’ll it be, honey? First glass of anything you see behind me is on the house.” S’era gave all the bottles a once over, but none of the symbols on the labels were recognizable; now wasn’t a good time to mention she couldn’t read.

“Try the Summerset.” The patron suggested, grabbing her attention. “You seem like you would love a classic wine.” 

The barkeep didn’t waste any time the moment S’era smiled at them both. She spun on her heel and plucked the crimson bottle off the shelf, popped the cork out with just the flick of her thumb, and finished by pouring a modest amount into an unusually large crystal glass. “Drink it slowly. I have a feeling you might be here a while.” She smiled, handing it over to S’era.

“Thank you.” S’era graciously accepted the drink before turning to smile at the patron. He was the only one out of everyone in the room that didn’t make her feel so small; he didn’t seem to mind the mud clinging to her armor, the dust and dirt clumped in her hair, or the smears across her face. Just by his calm and welcoming demeanor S’era felt like this man regarded her as his fellow kin- perhaps even his equal. After all the peculiar and curious stares she’s received since leaving her tribe, it was a welcome breath of fresh air. “Thank you both!”

Clink!

Hadriel set his glass down on the table before gesturing toward S’era. “Sit down and tell me your name.”

“S’era Rarku, sir.” She reluctantly answered, plopping down on the couch adjacent to the fireplace. “I’ve traveled a long way to finally meet you.”

“There’s only two reasons why a stranger would come all this way to seek me out.” Hadriel ran a finger along a particularly prevalent scar along his cheek. “You’re ill suited to cut me down with those daggers, and I’m not in the mood to stain my new rug. So tell me… why exactly are you here?”

The wine burned down her throat and into her stomach, but the warmth helped soothe her nerves. “I’ve searched high and low for a man who was banished from my tribe. His name is S’tage Tia, a man robbed of his destiny. But you see… he is in terrible danger, and I need the help of a wise swordsman such as yourself to-”

“Give me the condensed version.” Hadriel sighed, reaching for his glass again.

“R-right… sorry.” S’era took another sip before continuing. “I need you to teach me how to use a sword so I can rescue him and bring him home.”

“I won’t.” Hadriel’s response struck S’era in the gut. “You seek a teacher to help rescue your… friend? Brother? Any mercenary can help you with that. My lessons would be overkill in that regard.”

She furrowed her brow before leaning forward in her seat. “A common sellsword can’t help me where he’s being held captive. And… he’s not my friend, or my brother. He’s my… was my Nunh.”

Hadriel paused mid sip of his drink to turn his head toward the woman at the piano. “A noon? I’m not familiar with what that is.”

The woman never broke her rhythm with her song as she answered. “A husband with many wives. It’s a Miqo’te tribal thing.”

“I was supposed to carry his children, but he was defeated before I was old enough to be recognized as a grown woman in my tribe.” S’era further explained.

“That means that victor is your new… nuhn?” Hadriel asked, genuinely curious.

Another sip of her wine gave her the courage she needed to continue. “My tribe’s new Nunh cheated. Poisoned his meal before the duel… I don’t recognize him as a legitimate successor. That’s why I left my tribe to search for S’tage.”

“And this lover of yours…” Hadriel paused to wave his glass in the air for the barkeep to fill again. “You mentioned he is being held captive. Where?”

"He is in a Garlean prison, in Mor Dhona. They have been using him for hard labour for… who knows how long, and-"

"Where?" Hadriel repeated, his tone revealing his dwindling patience.

S'era suddenly felt reluctant to answer, but she couldn't risk lying to him if she wanted his help. With bated breath and another burning sip of her glass, she hesitantly answered with, "Castrum Aeternium, sir…"

He finally looked at her for the first time since her arrival. His deep brown eye seemed to stare through her, cutting through clothes, flesh, and soul. But to what end? What could he be looking at? What was he searching for? “Do you have the slightest idea what you would ask of me? Of that which Aeternium is capable of doing? Return to your tribe, girl. What you seek is suicide; I will not help you kill yourself.”

“Please…! I must rescue him and bring him home!” S’era pleaded, setting her empty glass down on the table. “The strength of my tribe depends on his return!”

“Aeternium is the primary source of all magitek heavy machina in Eorzea- the backbone of Garlemald’s military presence here. If your Nunh is in a labor camp inside that castrum, then he is already dead.” He leaned forward while staring at her. “Even with my lessons, it would be folly. You would need years to master the Way of the Blade, and that’s time you simply don’t have. And even if you did, you would still be throwing yourself to your death. One woman cannot assault Castrum Aeternium alone and survive, not even the Warrior of Light, and especially not you. It’s hopeless.”

Anger boiled in the pit in her throat. Blinking away the tears swelling in her eyes, S’era clenched her teeth and took a few sharp breaths to steady herself. “I will save him from that castrum…! W-with or… without your help!”

“Are you not listening? You would need a decade of training, and an army of the world’s bravest heroes to even consider storming Aeternium. And for what? Some boy that makes your heart throb? Some nobody?” Hadriel’s features hardened into a scowl. “You have no friends, no gil, no influence, and no time to gain any. It is a hopeless, worthless endeavor, that will only get you killed. Are you so eager to throw your life away for him? What of your family? All you will gain is a painful death, a reckless waste of life. There’s no shortage of fools willing to give their lives for a cause, and too few that can do so and actually make a difference. You are the former.”

“You’re wrong!” S’era shouted, leaping to her feet; she was loud enough to draw the gazes of everyone else in the room, and the woman behind the piano finally stopped playing her song to listen in. “I will save him from that terrible place! I will leap feet first into the hells and wake him from whatever nightmare that ails him! I will fight and kill anyone who tries to stop me! And I will come back here and prove you wrong once and for all!”

“She has fire, milord.” The barkeep sighed, leaning on the counter. “That’s not something you see very often.”

“It is not enough.” Hadriel pinched the bridge of his nose before settling back against the couch. “Determination alone won’t save him, girl, or you.”

Her gauntlets strained and whined when she tightened her fists- it looked like she was about to leap across the table and punch him in the face, before she asked, “Is there no way to change your mind? What do I have to do to prove my plight isn’t folly?!”

Hadriel’s gaze met hers again. “You think doing chores will help your cause? Or do you seek some sort of test?” He paused only to take a few deep gulps from his glass. “You are a stubborn girl, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m willing to do anything to learn from you…! Anything!”

His scowl remained steadfast, for a time. But eventually his visage softened, revealing how exhausted he was from… all of this. “Stick your hand into the fireplace.” He commanded, catching S’era off guard. “Do this, and I’ll consider it.”

“What…?” Her gaze slowly drifted to the crackling fireplace. The bright orange flames cast a soft glow on her face, sending the shadows cast to dance and flicker behind everything the light touched. “My hand…? In the fire? You’ll train me for that?”

“I said I’d consider it.” His gaze stayed fixated on her face. “I need to see how far this determination of yours will carry you. Considering you haven’t a snowball’s chance in the hells of paying for my lessons even if I were taking commissions, I’d say this exchange is still severely in your favor.”

“For how long?” S’era asked, fidgeting nervously. “U-until you say so?”

Hadriel slowly blinked, before setting his glass down. “Talking won’t convince me otherwise. No more questions, no more stalling. Do as I command or get out. These are your options.”

All she could think about was S’tage. His vibrant silver hair flowing in the Thanalan summer heat, his deep orange eyes burning brighter than the sun. The way he danced with that golden blade, the way it sang through the air, all of it- just reimagining that fateful day caused her heart to pound against her chest, and she needed to see him again, now more than ever. Slowly she removed the gauntlet from her right hand, stirring her audience to gawk at her in shock. All but Hadriel, whose gaze returned to his drink. An awkward silence came over the room as people watched with bated breath.

“S’tage… I will save you. I swear it on Azeyma’s name!” S’era’s eyes flashed with fury before she took her position kneeling beside the fireplace. She placed her gauntlet into her mouth, glanced down at her tingling hand one final time, sharply inhaled a few breaths to psych herself up, then thrusted her arm into the flames.

“Shhhnnnghh! Hhnnnghuuuhhhh! Grrrnnnnnnngh!!!” The fire licked at her flesh to sample a taste before digging in! Agony ripped the Miqo’te woman into pieces with a growing intensity too great to bear! She had to fight against her most primal instincts that screamed for her hand to be removed, but she dared not look away; partially blinded by tears her face twisted and contorted while she watched her flesh melting before her very eyes! Her other hand gripped her forearm near the elbow to keep her arm steady, but everything else trembled against this insanity. “NNNGH! HAAANNNNGH!” Her glove fell out of her mouth once she could no longer resist screaming. “AAAAAGH! AAAAAAGH!”

“Enough.” Hadriel barked. S’era didn’t understand what he said under her delirious agony, but simply hearing his voice was all she needed. She stumbled backward, crashing against the corner of the glass table to send it collapsing into countless pieces. Still clutching her arm, she stared at the grisly remains of her right hand; the flesh was almost completely stripped from her fingers, cooked black and crisp in just a short amount of time she had spent doing something so foolish. Yet every second she endured felt like it lasted an hour, and her sense of time was currently in shambles. Gasping for breath she finally settled down enough to speak, snot dripping from her nose as spit ran down her chin.

“E-eehh…!” She stuttered, her gaze finally ripping away from her wound to peer longingly at Hadriel. “I-is… d-d-did I pass…?!” He glanced down at the shattered mess that once was his table, before he met her gaze. After what felt like an eternity of him internally debating with his own thoughts, he slowly opened his mouth and spoke his answer.

“No.” He slowly brought the brim of his glass to his lips before adding, “You’re too reckless. Blindly following whatever I tell you… what were you thinking? S’mira, tend to her wounds before she leaves.”

The woman at the piano slowly rose from her seat before stepping to Hadriel’s side; she leaned in to whisper something, but S’era was too much in shock to hear it. “My hand…” She weakly thought, helpless to stop the tears now streaming down her cheeks. “What am I going to do now…?!” Hadriel huffed incredulously before closing his eyes. 

“There’s nothing I can do to help this girl.” He argued, swirling the glass in his hand again. “She’ll die, with or without my lessons. A naive fool and nothing more.” He glanced up at S’mira and caught the sharp glare in her eyes, but she remained silent. Hadriel’s scowl returned, his free hand waving her off as he shifted in his seat. “You really think she’s worth training? She can’t even properly hold a katana now- not with those burns.”

S’mira cleared her throat- loudly- while she made her way around the pile of shattered glass to sit beside the wounded stranger. “Give me your hand.” She calmly ordered, pulling S’era out of her disoriented stupor. Reluctantly she offered the woman her forearm, unable to look at her new burns, nor could she meet anyone’s gaze; she was ashamed and humiliated, and worse- these wounds could easily cripple her hand for life. She couldn’t return to her tribe like this. She couldn’t bear the thought of arriving back in her mother’s embrace, empty-handed and crippled.

Hadriel caught the daggers S’mira glared in his direction, caught a whiff of the burnt flesh of S’era’s potentially useless hand, and eventually sighed. “Fine…” He paused, lifting his cup to take another drink, only to find it empty again. “... I’ll train you. BUT. Under certain conditions.” The sudden wave of relief washing over her was almost enough to cause her to faint. “You will follow my regimen. You will not complain. You must keep up with your studies. And you will never blindly follow my orders without question again. I am not training some mindless drone. I aim to turn you into a capable swordswoman.”

Focusing on S’mira pouring soothing magica over her burns was just about all she could do to prevent herself from fainting from the pain. “Come on, let’s take you to the clinic.” S’mira gave S’era a warm smile, but she barely noticed. All she could think about was her hand, and what it would look like after it had fully healed.

Mentions: @smira-asah-xiv​ @rzevi-tia-ffxiv​ @hadriel-ffxiv​

“Let this be your first lesson.” Hadriel indignantly called after them as he crossed his arms. “Actions have consequences. Your new scars should remind you of that.”

---

[katsukikitten]

Hate you

Six fucking tries to realize it's the emojis the text post dont fucking like. Well without further bullshit here is a fic based off the angsty as fuck song I really wish I hated you by blink 182. Plz enjoy

Bakugou struggles to leave his bed as the sun rushes in through cheap drawn curtains, smooth glass pressed to his palm with some sloshing amber liquid swirling at the bottom.

He rights himself, absently reaching for his phone as he tips the bottle to his lips, emptying the contents. Scarlet eyes reread over messages from a year ago before he extends his arm above his head just to bring it down in a swift motion letting the bottle go half way through. Glass litters the dirty laundry that acts as a rug over the old floor. His phone meets the dry wall, smashing another hole into the grand gaping art that is behind his door. He runs his deadly hands through his hair uncaring how sparks fly from agitated fingers.

Scarlet eyes flicker to a photo of himself with his arm wrapped around you, a candid shot of you two laughing at some stupid shit Kirishima said at a party long forgotten.

He growls to himself as he swipes at the frame causing it to soar off of the nightstand.

An action that has become a daily ritual, he sighs, standing on the shards of glass with uncaring feet before he lifts up the frame, sans glass, as he learned the first time in his fit of rage to leave it out. He sets the photo back up neatly, eyes burning.

His phone begs for his attention, alerting him to some stupid notification. He cannot be bothered as he know it will never be something from you. Yet he makes motion for it anyway, lazily reading a text.

Kirishima: Come on bro, meet us for drinks tonight.

Katsuki's fingers fly across the cracked glass to reply with two words, 'I work.'

An excuse he uses often knowing full well no one will question it, when really he just wants to drink alone and stay drunk. Even if it means drinking before during or after shifts.

He pulls his matching black shirt over his muscled torso looking at his all black hero suit that he's come to hate.

He made it all black per *your* suggestion. As he stares at himself in his mirror he sees an image of you. You drape your arm around his shoulders, mischief dancing in your eyes and in your smile as you trail under his shirt. Fingers slowly going up his chiseled abs.

After all this time he can still feel the ghost of your lips to his ear, can even hear your whisper.

*"It looks great on you....but it would look even better on the floor."*

A loud ping pulls him from the memory as he stares at his phone.

Another meaningless text.

Kiri: *I'm buying. So I'll see you tonight.*

He pockets his phone without another word into the pants of last night's hero suit making a mental note to stop by the liquor store for more booze for his going on now five day binge.

The sun shines too bright for Katsuki, too cheerfully, as it kisses sunshine onto all of your favorite blooming flowers. He snarls at each flower head, half meaning to kill them as he walks past.

His scarlet eyes rover over people out of habit as he walks, couples especially, a thing more noticeable to him now than ever before.

All his seething glares safely hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

A gift from you for his birthday last year. He ducks into the liquor store, numb over the fact that the paparazzi linger around the entrance eagerly waiting to snap photos of a top pro hero boozing on his shift. The only thing they get is melted a lens or over exposed film.

Katsuki has been numb to a lot of things since you abandoned him, left him for dead emotionally.

Not a single feeling except for rage, waiting to see you again so he can tell you how much he hates you

Or so he tells himself as he stands outside your old apartment, staring up and thinking of the future you two could have shared. He tries to drink the possibilities away as he swallows burning liquid. Deft fingers idly fly to the golden band with a single diamond in his pocket. A reminder he has kept on his person since you.

A reminder that truly there is no such thing as love.

Because if you loved someone how could you bring them so high, make them forget what anger, sadness or pain really was just to leave them with nothing but.

To pack up their happiness along with your books and clothes as if it meant nothing to you at all. Your eyes brimmed with selfish tears as you unpack y'alls favorite photo.

Leaving it on the bedside table to haunt him. All he can see is your misting eyes slowly giving up on him.

He forces himself back towards his normal path to work.

His shift comes and goes with each swallow of burning liquid before the ash blonde finds himself in front of the exclusive club. He pushes open the double doors to spy Kirishima waving at the bar.

"Drink up Ground Zero!" He teases with a sharp toothed smile. Katsuki takes the offer to heart and orders a whole bottle.

Swigging it as the night blurs together, as ever song that he sings is about you.

Sad heartbreak songs disguised with happy beats, the whole club filled to the brim with melancholy over a shit emotion.

"I'm not lying this is what she said!" Denki laughs as he shows intimite texts on his phone. Denki goes onto continue as Kirishima reads but whatever retort he has dies in his throat as his face pales. Kirishima gives a puzzled look as the hot head begins to get to the better half of his bottle. Golden eyes beg with Rubies to be seen as he silently screams, *"WE SHOULD GO."*

But instead it catches the ash blonde's attention.

"Oi." He growls, "It looks like you've seen a ghost."

Little does Bakugou know that he has. A ghost of the top pro hero's past waltzing into the door with an arm draped around the shoulder.

He follows the golden eyed gaze to spy that it is you.

You are the ghost that haunts the bar, nuzzled up and fucking *laughing* beneath the arm of an emerald haired cuck. Katsuki cannot help himself as the bottle explodes in his hands, the flammable liquor encouraging his sparks catching your eye.

Your cheeks burn and your eyes narrow as you steer that God damn useless Deku onto the dance floor.

Scarlet eyes watch as you dance, laugh and smile.

Genuinely smile up at Deku, the kind of smile where it makes your cheeks scrunch up, reaching your intense eyes.

He couldn't remember the last time you looked up at him like that.

He hates the way that you're better off.

He decides he's going to tell you how much he fucking hates it and so he waits. Eyes never leaving your thick frame although the two men beside him say that they can leave, that there are tons of bars in the city.

But Katsuki sits right there, like a lion in the tall grass knowing when to pounce.

The opportunity presents itself as you excuse yourself from your "boyfriend" or so the media says. He sees you slip into the bathroom and he stands.

Sending deadly glares to keep people from lingering around the doors.

You emerge from the bathroom and immediately wish you hadnt.

Your heart sinks to your stomach as you stare up at an all too familiar scowl.

"Hello Bakugou." You say tightly, fighting the emotion tearing through your body. This...this is what you both wanted.

To be distant friends, strangers even but it still bothers you when he recoils from the sound of his last name. You try to steel yourself yet your heart still weighs heavy with him reeking of booze and with that one rare look in his stunning eyes. He rages a war within himself, the venom soaked words no longer sitting on the tip of his tongue.

When he says nothing you sigh, going to slip around him but instead one of his toned arms slams against the wall beside your head. Pressing himself agaisnt you and you against the wall.

Trapping you in a darkened corner much to your surprise, his fingers silently gripping onto the band in his pocket to no avail. The gold circlet threatens to snap beneath his touch and yet he cannot remind himself in the presence of you that love isn't real.

Because it is and it flows from you in soothing breath taking waves that crash over his starved form. Making him forget why he is sad, angry, fucking hurting with his beating heart curled in your delicate fingers. Depsite not wanting it you still treat it with tender care, sure to smile his way, to be polite.

To never speak ill of him behind his back. To even go as far to point out his few, so very fucking few, redeeming qualities when the media tries to shit on him.

He reminds himself that at one point you loved him, you loved him, you fucking loved him. You could love him again right? Because he needed you. He so desperately needed you to grow as a plant does sunlight.

He really didn't like himself without you.

He cannot stop himself as leans closer, eyes searching yours for answers he cannot find. Scarlet eyes dip down to your plump lips, a shiver runs down his spine as he relives a memory of hushed words. Of whispered I love yous late into the night.

His free hand cups your face, letting the pad of his thumb slide over your feather soft cheeks before it pulls at your bottom lip.

He can no longer hold himself back as he captures your lips to his, unfucking caring over your boyfriend standing feet away. Unfucking caring at the fans that gasp with flashes of cellphone cameras as he bites your lip demanding entrance. Tongue flickering over yours earning the softest of moans from you.

He wants you wrapped around him but he doesn't trust himself.

He cannot trust himself to leave you untainted as you help save him from himself.

So he pulls away, pressing something small and cool into your palm. Whispering words with that damn husky voice that will echo in your head for months to come.

"I really wish I hated you."

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART III ⥽

— Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

Virginia, 1857

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. They aren’t far enough.

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and finally blissfully alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture, he thinks — and pities them, that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them.

He’ll never know what blind faith feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low—have been for some time though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And oh, how many years there have been. How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? How is he so lucky?

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

What a ridiculous question. “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

Ah. He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I hate about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, what do you hate about this continent, Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight, “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when now is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

Hesitation. Doubt?

“It… is found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets them build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He will have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it is usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be equally so, never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is never the same. It is always better.”

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

Though, he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come.

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound responsible.”

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the fun Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still is his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. As they all are doing their parts in this war.

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville. Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. More losses than he cares to think about — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. And with which to draft them for battle, he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

Charlottesville. The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply know.

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a chance to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then look it, perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the weak.” He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… idolizing me in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

Ah, he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

The Order is winning.

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” Why are they with you, the question unasked. That he still has to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

Always.

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

How very… human. The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up. The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs.

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, “better than a mine shaft” but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity.

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide.

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word.

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like “They’ll break the cot that way,” but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and damnable hells he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking Order took a fucking continent for their own.”

And there it is. Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of understanding in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget—will never forget—is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the other side of the world where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

In Valdemaras’ name… what is that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity? Psychic though he may not be he knows her. She’s angry at him. Why the fuck is she angry at him?

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all ‘nonsensical.’ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must mean it, too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they both know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that matters to you.”

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

“Again.” The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

“I swear on your lives.”

“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”

“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”

“Help me lift this —”

“— HEAVE!”

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

Perhaps I am already dead, Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why should he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

Begone, tempter. Please.

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil truly lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate.

Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent “I love you, goodbye.”

Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves.

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

It has to. For them.

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in this… this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

Daylight.

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood, “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was planned.”

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — been it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

And if he is as weak as he is…

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

“CYNBEL!”

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without him.

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. “Ambrose!”

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

“Ambrose, quickly!” calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, “The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What house?!”

But they already know, don’t they? They already know.

[all-sortsofthings]

10, 44, 62, 96

“Mary? You didn’t say you were -“

"Hi, Matthew!” Her voice came out as a slur. There was aghost of a smile on her lips as she stumbled across the threshold of hisdoorway, leaving her keys forgotten in the lock, tripping a little on his rugand then bumping shoulder-first into the wall before he gripped her armsquickly to steady her.

She carried a strong smell of alcohol, and he blinked dumblybefore retrieving her keys and closing the door behind her. His nose tingledslightly at the distinctive smell and he looked her up and down a few times asshe found her way into his living room. Her step remained unsteady until sheflopped backward onto his sofa, giving a hiccup and closing her eyes.

He came over slowly, dropping her keys down on the table. Maryhadn’t seemed quite right in the last few days. Matthew could see it. Hersmiles seemed less genuine, her eyes possessing less of their usual lustre whenshe teased him. She was far more distant. Far less apt to answer the phone.  He knew something was wrong – really wrong – he’dreceived some tip-offs from Robert over the phone and as he knelt in front ofher, watching her giggle to herself at something he could only guess at, heknew it was time he had to say something. 

He took her feet into his hands, one by one, and carefully pulledoff each of her shoes. He gently kissed one of her ankles before he placed themback to the floor, letting her toes wriggle in the warm carpet.

She laughed, leaning forward and poking his nose. “Undressing agirl the moment she walks in!” She slurred with a dopey grin. “Mr Crawley, youdevil!”

Matthew chuckled a little, but it was half-hearted.

Mary hummed, hands fumbling forward and tugging up at the hem ofhis football shirt.

Matthew stopped her, taking her wrists gently in his hands andpulling them off before she could remove his shirt. He kissed the inside of oneand placed them back into her lap.

“You’re drunk,” he told her softly. His eyes looked at her kindlyand his lips felt wondrously soft when he leaned up to kiss her cheek beforeturning to grab his phone. He wrote out a text Tom, telling him he wouldn’t beable to make it to the pub to watch the match, and he found he didn’t mind much– United weren’t winning anyway and Mary needed him more.

Mary unscrewed the lid of her half-empty bottle of vodka andMatthew tried to protest but ultimately failed and winced as she took anotherlong drink.

“You, Matthew Crawley, should be aware that it isungentlemanly to tell Ladies they are drunk.”

“Well, Mary Crawley,” he shot back, teasing, “you should be awarethat Ladies do not show up at gentlemen’s apartments, drunk.”

“I am not drunk,” she declared, “I’m just slow-ber.”

She laughed at her own joke, blowing away the hair that had fallenin front of her eyes with a puff of breath.

“Ok,” she admitted, “I might have had a few shots.”

Her eyes struggled to focus on him as he came back toward her, soshe stood up, letting the lid to her bottle drop on the floor. Her smile wastight, and he raised one of his thumbs to smooth the creases between hereyebrows as she neared him, coming so close she could feel his body heat.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head on hisshoulder. Matthew ran his fingers in circles over her back, gently running theridges of his knuckles down her spine. He kissed the top of her head and restedhis cheek there until he felt the liquid from her bottle running down his neck.

He winced, shifting. “Mary…” he began, lifting a hand to pry thebottle from her tight grasp. She resisted, but then relented as she caught hiseye, allowing him to take it and put it down on the table.

She smiled again but knew he could tell there was no heart behindit. She watched him and she could see it – how her pain was reflected in him –and found it hard to keep looking. She closed her eyes, leaning to tuck herhead under his chin.

She felt his fingers sifting through her hair and trieddesperately to breathe him in. Their feet shuffled in a strange semblance of adance.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, “you know that?”

She meant it. He was beautiful. Matthew wasn’t perfect by anymeans – he had his moments of being unable to see past the end of his nose –but although he could be just as stubborn as her, he was never unloving. Hisintentions could be misguided, but they were always good. Whatever he did, hedid because he thought it was right and there, even whilst thoroughlyinebriated with a jarring headache, she was acutely aware of just how much heloved her. That was Matthew – always loving, even when she was doing her bestto shut him out or, like then, when she was a complete mess, failing at pullingherself together. To her that made him beautiful.

He felt her shiver a little and he wrapped her more tightly in hisembrace. She tipped her head, so her forehead pressed to his shoulder and shelooked down over his chest and legs to stare at the floor beneath his feet. Shefelt her throat tighten like it was swelling, heat burning behind her eyes. Shestruggled to hold herself together, taking deep, quiet breaths and praying hewouldn’t notice the wetness where her tears soaked through his shirt.

She hated crying. She hated any show of weakness. What she hatedmore, was that on the rare occasion she did succumb to tears it was often inhis presence. She often wondered how he managed to exercise so much patiencewhen it came to her moods, because she seldom told him why she felt a certainway and it often took a lot of tolerance and persistence on his part for her toeventually stop pushing him out.

He felt her shaking but said nothing; he knew by now it was betterif he let her speak, set the pace of the conversation when she was ready. Heheld her a little tighter, though. He lifted one of his palms and stroked overthe back of her head, fingers sifting a little through her hair.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she managed. Her throat ached. Shetried to blink back her tears, but it only caused more to fall.

“It’s ok to cry,” he murmured in return. He pressed his lips tothe top of her head and then leant his cheek there.

“I’m trying to…” she didn’t finish the sentence. “Mama…” But shecouldn’t speak anymore.

“She’s still ill?” He kept his voice gentle, trying not to soundas shocked as he was.

She nodded against him and then drew back, looking at him inquestioning.

“Your dad phoned me. He was worried about you.”

Her head swam, throbbing more acutely as she rolled her eyes athow typical that was of her father. He worried about her too much. So didMatthew, it seemed.

“They moved her to hospital a couple of days ago.”

“Oh… darling.” He rubbed the small of her back in tender circles.

“I’ve tried to get the time off work… but…”

She found it difficult to speak but he nodded anyway.

She breathed deeply but at the smell of all the alcohol in her ownbreath, she cringed. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, and she shifted as herwhole body felt as though it was contorting. She pushed him away quickly, buther legs wobbled without him there to balance her. The drink seemed to floodher body all of a sudden and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to delay theheadrush.

“Matthew…” her throat tightened. “Oh god…”

He understood what was about to happen before she did. He liftedher up, carrying her quickly from the living room and into the bathroom. Hemanaged to put her down just in time; he gathered her hair in one hand andsoothed her back with the other as she gagged and retched in perfect misery.

“It’s alright. You’re alright.”

She was dizzy and sweaty and delirious, but his voice helped herconcentrate.

She groaned, feeling her whole chest cramp up. It hurt, and shecouldn’t breathe, and the feeling became overwhelming when she vomited again.

“This has got to be what death feels like…” she croaked,regretting it immediately as the nausea increased once again. She felt faint,desperately trying to capture her breath. “I’m going to die,” she wheezed.

Somewhere, at the back of her deoxygenated, alcohol filled brainshe registered his hand rubbing the base of her neck and a realisation dawnedon her that she was quite safe. The notion that Matthew would let her dieseemed ridiculous.

“Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “You’re not going to die. You’regoing to be alright in a little while.”

“Ughh,” she dropped her forehead against her arm and took as deepa breath as she could manage.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

The next thing she registered was his hands on her arms,encouraging her to sit back on her haunches. He handed her the glass and rubbedher lower back as she took small sips at a time. She felt wretched and the painin her head grew more and more insistent until she wasn’t sure if her lack ofvision was due to the thick film of tears gathered in her eyes or a full-blownmigraine.

Once her stomach had settled, Matthew gathered her up and broughther through to his bedroom. She leant against him with her eyes closed, but heknew better than to wonder if she was asleep. He knew that once she’d calmeddown, and the alcohol had gone from her system, she’d feel embarrassed by herdisplay of emotion. She loved him, he knew that, but he also knew that shedidn’t like him to see her when she was upset. It made her feel weak somehow,as if any kind of expression of how she felt had tampered somewhat with how shesaw herself. It seemed to waver her usually so steadfast confidence.

He was careful to walk slowly and evenly so as not to make hereven more uncomfortable that she already was. He helped her to lie down on hisbed, finding her a hairband and a wipe for her make-up in amongst her bathroomthings.

“You haven’t left any of your pyjamas here.” He was rooting aroundfor something comfortable that she could wear in his wardrobe and drawing ablank. Usually, there seemed to be more of her clothes than his, but nothingsuitable for sleep, it seemed.

“Just chuck me a t-shirt and a pair of boxers,” she mumbled,giving as much of a smile as she could manage through the rather colossal headache.

He came to sit beside her at the edge of the bed, the cleanclothes in hand, gently tucking stray hair behind her ear.

“I’ll put them on in a minute,” Mary managed, “I can’t move justyet – my head hurts too much.”

“That’s what happens when you drink your weight in vodka,” hecommented dryly.

“Please don’t lecture me, Matthew. I’m paying for it now.”

He softened as she groaned with the pain. “I know. I know.” Hebent down and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, leaning heavilyagainst the head of the bed. She cringed in concentration as she undid thebuttons on her blouse. Her fingers fumbled.

“Here,” he put his hands over hers, soothing the backs of themwith his thumbs. “Let me.”

She closed her eyes, humming. “Now you really are trying to get myclothes off.”

He chuckled gently. “Well, it’s one of my talents.”

She helped him by pulling her arms from her sleeves, allowing himto move the cuffs over her hands and tug the fabric away from her skin. Heunclipped her bra and pulled the straps over her shoulders and off her arms.“Arms up,” he murmured, helping her on with his t-shirt, mindful of her hurtinghead as he did so. He wondered how much of this she would remember when morningcame. Whether she’d remember leaning forward and headbutting his shoulder as hecarefully shimmied her jeans down her legs. Whether she’d remember the way helaughed when she randomly licked his nose or if she’d recall grasping hissleeve to wipe her eyes. Perhaps she’d recollect how many sexual jokes she madeas he helped her pull his boxers over her hips or the way she curled her bodyclose to his outstretched legs, lying her head down in his lap, allowing him tostroke her hair back in rhythmic motions with the palm of his hand. The tearsthat were not brushed aside by the pads of his thumbs seeped into his jeanswhere she nuzzled against his thighs. He listened as her breathing evened. Itdidn’t take long for her to fall asleep, as exhausted as she was, and heextricated himself carefully from under her because of it. Not wanting to riskwaking her by the movement of dragging the covers out from underneath her, hetook some blankets from his cupboard and laid them over her, shifting her headso she lay more evenly on his pillows.

He smiled at the little noises she made. She hummed and breathedin deeply. She wriggled her nose and shifted gently. Matthew sighed. He’dfinish his work and watch the match tomorrow. He removed his shoes, socks andjeans, fishing another t-shirt from his drawer and putting it on beforesettling into bed behind her.

Perhaps he’d call Robert in the morning to sort something out.Perhaps he’d just call in sick and drive her up to Yorkshire himself. It didn’tseem to matter. They’d work it out. Once she had sobered up and had somebreakfast – she’d need a good one, with plenty of fluids after the night she’dhad – he’d discuss it with her, but just then all he could do was kiss hershoulder and drape a bare arm over her waist.

[hoshidanroyal-moved-blog]

happy (late) birthday to nina!

(i.) I promised the lovely Nessa that that my Takumi was going to give the best gift in the universe to her Nina ( @aim--and--reload ), which was Takumi smooching some fine dudes. I was originally only going to have him kiss his ship-mates in threads or asks, but I wanted to take on the challenge and write her a bunch of drabbles of Takumi kissing almost every male in Fates. (ii.) To anyone who plays these characters, please do not take this is as me being interested in a ship with you or somehow forcing one. I really couldn’t care less. Like I said, it’s just a challenge/gift for a friend because I knew it would make her and her character happy, and I wanted to write at least something while on my brief hiatus. (iii.) There’s a good mixture of angst and fluff below (and also a whole lot of cheese). Some of these are a bit risque, but not heavily so. Characters that are NOT here are: Ryouma, underage characters, second gens, capturable characters, and non-playable characters (excluding two). I did, however, include the Amiibo friends (Ike, Marth, Robin), Allie’s wonderful OC named Veles ( @nesufuratu ) makes an appearance, and I’m going to be safe and include a trigger tag since Corrin is in here. (iv.) Please DON’T reblog unless you’re Nessa ( @royal-botanist / @aim--and--reload ).

▌ 💠 • • • ► VELES ▌

The stress of war aggrandized the closer to the end it became. But the end of whom would it dictate? One move made in err could bring the collapse of everyone they’d come to know; come to consider a friend. Whenever emotions swelled within Takumi, he’d always come crashing into the one who provided strength and guidance; something solid to lean against. Completing his transfiguration into a monstrous beast, Veles swooped the prince up and flew far, far away where little to no people knew of. Just for the night, it could all be forgotten, curled up close on a vacant hilltop beneath the luminous full moon. ❝ Thank you... ❞ ❝ Anything for you, my little prince. ❞ A fair hand cupped the younger’s cheek, frigid lips shocking warm ones tenderly. Every thing would be alright.

▌ 💠 • • • ► CORRIN ▌

They had won. The waves of victory washed over every last soldier in the army, the tension between Nohrian and Hoshidan alike suddenly uplifted like a heavy curse broken. Yet the hex seemed to still weigh over one, clouding their judgement, befuddling their mind... ❝ It’s not easy... ❞ The Hoshidan prince uttered breathlessly, stunned that Corrin would question so soon if trust had been earned. It was Takumi’s volition alone that could make or break them. ❝ Years can’t be brushed aside in moments. You know that. ❞ A grimace settled onto Corrin’s visage as he apologized for what must have been the millionth time since they’d met again, feeling as if the air had been beat from his lungs, easing back and wanting to give the younger space—but he was met with resistance. Slowly, bit by bit, he was pulled back into the warmth of open arms. ❝ That doesn’t mean I don’t want to try for you. ❞ Hesitantly, Takumi leaned up, placing a light kiss to the elder’s lips. A flush rose as he quickly jerked away, his words caught in his throat before a flustered exhale set them free. ❝ I promise, for you. I won’t give up on that. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► JOKER ▌

(inspired by this image) The usually pristine image had worn down, suddenly unkempt—the perfectly straight posture now hunched, hair loosening from its tie, shirt open and sleeves rolled up like a worker of the land instead of a contemptuous butler. Focus was solely on the blades before him, sharpening and cleaning meticulously. And Takumi found it utterly bewitching. As soon as the prince approached he was met with violet fire, eyes narrowed in vexation; the typical severity that only one such as Joker could ever produce. ❝ If you’re here to deliver another one of your unnecessary quips, by the Gods, I’ll— ❞ ❝ Calm down,❞ the younger chortled, brushing off the potential threat while sauntering behind the chair. ❝ I’m just checking on you.❞ Skilled hands squeezed at the butler’s shoulders to ease the built-up tension, a gentle peck planting itself at the top of his silver locks. With a weary sigh, Joker relaxed, leaning back into the touch and tilting his head back, all the while pulling the other down for a quick kiss—then another, and another, and another. ❝ You do look like a mess, though...❞ Takumi murmured, a mischievous grin rising. ❝ Why, you little— ❞ Before the elder could land a solid smack, the prince had already rushed away, his laughter infectious.

▌ 💠 • • • ► SILAS ▌

❝ You’re Corrin’s brother. I’ll always protect you. It’s my duty as a knight and friend to serve you. ❞ In the beginning, Takumi utterly despised Silas, just like the rest of the Nohrian army that he had been so suddenly forced to call allies. The commitment pledged felt false; something told to calm any animosity; possibly coerced to do so by Corrin himself. The knight never learned to keep his distance, always pushing his company onto the little prince; always checking on his well-being at any given opportunity. Despite the internal protest, the younger’s walls began to crumble, and suddenly he relished the warm presence. ❝ I’ll always protect you, ❞ Silas repeated as he’d done so often before, ❝ as my husband; my life. Mine. ❞ ❝ And I’ll always protect you, in this life and the next. ❞ Timid smiles graced their cheeks, noses nudging delicately before lips met, melding perfectly with one another; made for one another. And, wrapped up tight within each other’s arms, they both felt safe.

▌ 💠 • • • ► KAZE ▌

(inspired by the Birthrights Drama CD where Kaze was a lowkey turd)   ❝ My prince... I must wholeheartedly confess that I still feel guilty... ❞ ❝ For what? ❞ There wasn’t any need to ask, knowing full well what Kaze’s self-reproach referred to. Hearing it out in the open, though, would hopefully and finally bring some semblance of closure for them once and for all. Corrin’s first appearance in Hoshido had rankled the younger prince, enmity roiling off him in toxic waves. And the ninja had remained wholly unaware of the matter, of those heated emotions, continuing to ignorantly rub it in Takumi’s face that he was suddenly third in rank; that the true second prince had returned in all his glory. While it was truly a build up of many different things that had affected him and caused his run-away attempt, Kaze’s words had been the dominant catalyst. Even after rescuing the younger that very same night from a rogue Faceless, he still hadn’t seemed to understand what it was that had hurt the royal so deeply until it was much too late to formally apologize face-to-face. Surprise enveloped the ninja as Takumi ushered forth for a squeezing embrace, his own arms immediately wrapping tight around the prince. That alone seemed to free his mind from any worries, but the words that followed placated him fully. ❝ It was a simple mistake. You don’t have to be sorry about any of it. What happened is on me, not you. ❞  Unable to find a response, Kaze only pulled the prince closer and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. Promptly the younger leaned up, returning the affection properly. ❝ No more thinking about it. Let’s move on, huh? ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► SHURA ▌

❝ You don’t want to be with me, kid. ❞ Words betrayed actions. Regardless of what had been said, Shura tugged the other closer by the fabric of his yukata, so tired of constantly pushing away. Opening up can’t be hard anymore, not with a band of people to call allies (and suddenly even more than). ❝ I’m here, though, aren’t I? ❞ The prince comforted the elder with a smile, hands reaching to cup a rugged jaw and place a gentle kiss to his cheek. No matter the other’s apprehension, he still met Takumi’s criterion in every way. One day Shura would come to comprehend that he was wanted, needed—but the prince would settle for silence in the warmth of his arms until the day came he could prove it.

▌ 💠 • • • ► SAIZO ▌

(inspired by Saizo’s stupid MyRoom line about being ticklish)   ❝ There’s something I wanted to tell you. My one and only weakness. ❞ Saizo muttered, only to receive no answer. The younger had curled up at his side, almost drifting to sleep as the ninja’s fingers leisurely stroked his waist. ❝ I’m ticklish. ❞ Suddenly Takumi perked, muscles stiff and breath still. Tension rose, settling thick. ❝ Don’t. You. Dare.❞ Faster than the eye could catch, the prince’s hands flew as he sat up to straddle the elder’s waist, lithe fingers digging into every sensitive spot with ease and precision. Trying to snatch Takumi’s wrists proved futile, always met with surprisingly muscled resistance and a swift flick granting freedom. Breathy laughter merged, the younger’s growing louder as he advanced on what felt like victory. Enough was enough. Feeling as if his lungs would burst, Saizo wildly flipped them over, pinning the other’s wrists to the bed in a bruising grip. Laughter dwindled to light chuckling to the mere sound of heavily collecting breath. Still riled, Takumi couldn’t help but lean up, stealing a heated kiss as his thighs shifted and tightened around the ninja’s waist to draw him closer.

▌ 💠 • • • ► AZAMA ▌

❝ Lord Takumi, must you really ruin my mood with that sour look on your face? ❞ An ill-placed joke. In public, the prince could only cast vehement glances and strut past. Uttered beneath his breath, only he and Azama could hear his brusque retort, ❝ Must Hinoka continue sparing your life? ❞ — ❝ My prince, must you ruin the mood by— ❞ In private, the prince could do as he pleased. Lips bruised as they heatedly crushed together, each kiss fervent, angry, needy. Teeth clashed and tore skin, producing mixed groans of protest and urgency. If there was anything that could get the priest to shut up, it was certainly this.

▌ 💠 • • • ► HINATA ▌

A night filled with drinking shochu only brought on inebriated stumbling, rambunctious laughter ringing through the empty corridor leading to Takumi’s room. One misstep brought the pair careening into the nearest wall, the prince grumbling in dull pain while he held onto Hinata tightly for support. The retainer only grinned and nuzzled against the younger’s shoulder, his voice muffled and slurred, ❝ I like to watch your ponytail bounce... ❞ At the bizarre outburst, Takumi’s body wracked violently with silent laughter. Before his mind could settle on a sarcastic counter, everything stopped—breath, suddenly hot and heavy in his ear, and then a husky addition— ❝ I like to watch your body bounce... ❞ A shiver encapsulated the prince’s core; hips instinctively shifted forward to meet warmth. Instantly his lips were stolen, reluctant to part even as Takumi gripped onto the other’s arms to swiftly tug him away to his private quarters.

▌ 💠 • • • ► SUBAKI ▌

Repeated pecks landed on the sky-knight’s perfect grin, a scowl etching onto the prince’s features in return. The more the elder spoke, the more irritated Takumi became. Some similar form of ❝ Not quite perfect. Try again. ❞ was issued after every single kiss. Obviously Subaki was having a tremendous laugh at the other’s expense, but after an innumerable amount of teases, he’d managed to cross the line. Irritably, the younger tried to walk away, shoving past with his shoulder. With a chuckle, Subaki quickly reached for the prince’s wrist to drag him back into his embrace.  ❝ I’m joking... ❞ Another—gentle—kiss was shared, lingering for just a moment longer for Takumi to settle. ❝ You’re perfect. We’re perfect, together. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► KADEN ▌

(totally inspired by Kaden calling Takumi beautiful in Festival of Bonds) ❝ Well, aren’t you adorable! ❞ Takumi instantly bristled at the compliment, cheeks furiously blazing red as his jaw clenched. Circling the prince, Kaden laughed with glee while snaking his tail loosely around the other’s frame. ❝ Stop calling me that. ❞ The younger hissed through his teeth, eyes narrowed malignly. Never had someone paid such close attention to his appearance, and the kitsune’s roguish gaze only served to heighten his insecurities. ❝ Only if you give me something... ❞ Almost stealthily Kaden leaned in, and despite the protests from before, the little prince felt a growing urge to let it happen—a kiss, delicate yet playful all the same, leaving a desire for more when it was done. ❝ I win! ❞ The elder’s voice rang out and instantly shattered the atmosphere. Without warning, he ran off, continuing to yell about the ❛ beautiful boy brigade ❜ and leaving Takumi to groan in irritation.

▌ 💠 • • • ► XANDER ▌

While the royals of both countries were expected to show reverence to one another, it was still considerably astonishing that the Crown Prince of Nohr would develop a flourishing friendship with the second prince of Hoshido, despite it always feeling like something more roiling beneath the surface.  Neither were the type to physically reach out to make their hidden affections known, but glances stolen and smiles shared were more than enough. Even if physicality had come easy to them, neither would risk it. The war was confusing enough, two enemies now joined as allies. Mixing royalty with affairs of the heart during harsh times would be a mistake. Despite it all, they both feigned ignorance, continuing to seek each other’s company when camp had been set. While different at first glance, both princes were more alike than anyone else cared to notice. Even if their first encounters were tumultuous, walls came down, laughter and grins rising to take their place; a rarity for the both of them. False rules be damned. Feeling the other so close, Takumi couldn’t contain himself. Bronze gaze drifted to perfectly formed lips before he leaned in, the kiss a gentle interruption to a story Xander had been sharing, meeting no resistance. His fingers curled behind the elder’s neck, golden curls wrapped loosely around. Warmth flooded his mind, a fire growing and burning away all thought—until the movement of lips tightened his focus tenfold, causing him to flinch in shock at what he’d done. The kiss had been eagerly returned, the Nohrian prince reaching for the other’s waist and causing what could only be described as a thousand frigid jolts rushing toward his core. Immediately Takumi pulled away, only to give a hard shove to Xander’s chest in turn. Fright filled his voice, strikingly loud in the placid mood built. ❝ I'm sorry—! ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► LEO ▌

Royal banquets and feasts; something that had always been entirely odious and irritating to Takumi. Each one only served to heighten his anxiety, making him wish he had the power to turn invisible so no one would strike up conversation or ask for a dance. Usually he’d hide away with Sakura somewhere after they’d stacked a few plates high with food, but she seemed to be having an unusually grand time with both of the Nohrian princesses. Lucky her. Pressure suddenly weighed heavier than before, ribs crushing lungs. Lightheaded, the Hoshidan prince slunk away to an empty balcony to catch his breath. Almost immediately a presence sauntered from behind, giving a small ❛ hmph ❜ of amusement. ❝ And here I thought you could make it for just one night. ❞ Leo facetiously stated, the ice behind his tone lacking its usual sharpened edged. His arms circled around the younger to hold him close, and Takumi immediately welcomed the comfort, eyes closing and leaning into the warmth. ❝ Need I find a more suitable dance partner? ❞ ❝ Shut up... ❞ The younger gave a derisive snort; exhaustion had made it difficult to bite back. ❝ Come here... ❞ Deft fingers found themselves curled beneath the Hoshidan’s chin to lift his head up with care, a supple kiss placed upon his lips soon after. Delicately, Leo’s thumb grazed along the other’s jaw as he murmured, ❝ We’ll stay here until you’re ready to go back. But you owe me many more kisses than that. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► LASLOW ▌

❝ Why don’t you have tea with me, little prince? ❞ Laslow questioned, his dalliant smile beginning to irk the other. ❝ You can’t always be in a bad mood, and tea certainly cheers me right up, especially with the right company. ❞ ❝ Just this once... ❞ Takumi irritably sighed, trying his hardest not to roll his eyes at the retainer’s persistence. ❝ And then you’ll leave me alone, right? ❞ ❛ Just this once ❜ turned into a routine—once a week, then twice, then thrice.  Without realizing, the prince was able to take comfort in the other’s presence, responding with a smile at nearly every approach instead of his usual snark. And, with Laslow’s constant need to stroke his own ego, it didn’t go unnoticed. ❝ You seem to be enjoying yourself. ❞ ❝ Hard to believe it myself, but I am. And I have you to thank for that. ❞ ❝ Then what say we make this official? ❞ Suddenly Takumi choked on the pastry he’d been savoring, little flakes spattering the table. Frantically he looked about, eyes wide as he took in everyone else, couples seated at nearly every table. Had it always been like this? Trying to accept what had been asked of him, he swallowed hard, the little turnover suddenly tasteless. The other’s brows furrowed, betraying his usual confident demeanor.  ❝ I wouldn’t force— ❞ ❝ YES! ❞ Laslow was suddenly back in high spirits. With a cheeky grin, he nearly threw himself at the younger to pepper smacking kisses all over his cheeks, finally landing a solid one to his lips. Red furiously climbed from neck to face, leaving Takumi speechless and the elder laughing as he climbed off. ❝ That’s adorable! ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► ODIN ▌

❝ Oh, my beloved prince! Spending time with you is a joy greater than the sweet warmth of Heaven! ❞ Pink suddenly bloomed over Takumi’s cheeks at the other’s over-embellished  and honeyed words, but not due to returning the sentiment or feeling complimented (though that played a small part). No, it mostly stemmed from second-hand embarrassment, rapidly glancing around to make sure no one else was in hearing range to make any wisecracks. ❝ Seriously, we’re alone. ❞ The younger sighed, shoulders drooping.  ❝ Why do you have to talk to me that way? ❞ ❝ Oh, is my little lover shy? There is no need, for I, Odin Da— ❞ A roaring groan of discomfort emanated from Takumi, dispelling all the mage had to say. As if that wasn’t enough, the elder had been harshly pulled down, their lips crashing in a rushed kiss, producing a wonderful silence and leaving him utterly stunned. All bravado and theatrics had died away. All Odin could manage to fumblingly articulate was,  ❝ That—that was nice... ❞ Mirth replaced irritability as the little prince only laughed, stealing pecks from the now rosey-cheeked elder.

▌ 💠 • • • ► ARTHUR ▌

Justice. It was a well-known fact throughout camp that Arthur lacked good fortune in all aspects of life, but what others didn’t know was that his poor luck had the ability to extend to anyone who could possibly be deemed as a lover. Takumi had come to learn that the hard way. The war combined with their occupations and allegiances left them little time to be together, only catching each other briefly throughout the day, tired eyes mirroring one another. ❝ We will have our justice, Prince Takumi! ❞ The Nohrian spouted off during a rare meeting, their hands clasped tight as they leaned against one another in their momentary respite. ❝ Come Hell or high water, we will have our justice! ❞ Victory—a war over, Garon and Anankos defeated, Nohr and Hoshido fully aligned. As soon as the news made its way down through the soldiers, the little prince scrambled to find Arthur, all but slamming into him with the tightest bone-crushing hug imaginable. Scattered jocular cheers came from the surrounding soldiers as the pair gave each other repeated kisses and pecks, ignoring their surroundings. Chuckling through the loving onslaught, Takumi had to add, ❝ Looks like justice has been served. ❞ Justice.

▌ 💠 • • • ► BENNY ▌

❝ You don’t talk much, do you? ❞ ❝ No... ❞ A gentle hum in response; Takumi could respect that, knowing how similar he could be when approached. Both men sat beside each other in the deepest chill of night, breath fogged over and watching the moon. A hellish nightmare had awoken the prince yet again; the same as always—his family brutally slaughtered before he could reach to provide help. Benny only stayed awake due to having the night shift, but finding solace in the other’s company stemmed from what felt like impervious solitude. Every night was exactly the same; find each other in the dark, sit in silence, and enjoy the presence the other provided. Even when the nightmares gradually dissipated, the younger always appeared in the same spot, at the same time, every night. ❝ I feel at ease with you. ❞ ❝ It’s the same for me. ❞ ❝ And I don’t feel as lonely as before. ❞ ❝ Yep... ❞ Even in the dark, the gentle dusting of red could be seen spreading across Benny’s cheeks. His silence stretched for several moments before he added, ❝ Same for me. ❞ Inching closer, Takumi carefully leaned in to place a tender kiss to the elder’s blush, all of his thanks and budding affection placed into one simple action. A breathy laugh of surprise found its escape as the gentle giant wrapped him up in a tight, protective embrace.

▌ 💠 • • • ► KEATON ▌

❝ AWOO! ❞ Takumi immediately edged away from the impertinent wolfskin, his nostrils infiltrated by the pungent smell of week-old sweat and dirt. What had he done to deserve this curse? If he couldn’t escape, soon enough the odor would begin to settle into his own armor. Disgusting. ❝ You helped me out there when you didn’t even have to. I should replay you, shouldn’t I? For helping me? ❞ Keaton’s ears impishly perked up before launching himself on the prince, opting not to wait for an answer. Lips crushed together, the elder’s clawed grasp tight on the other’s head to keep him in place, despite all the squirming. A rumbling growl emanated from the wolfskin’s chest before he bared jagged fangs, suddenly piercing Takumi’s bottom lip, drawing blood and a frightened howl of pain. Through laughter, Keaton playfully teased, ❝ I had to take a little something too. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► GUNTER ▌

War sometimes had funny effects on people. After the loss of his late wife, Gunter had never expected to find someone again, but to deny that Prince Corrin’s youngest brother was a rough delight would be an outright lie. Ambivalence rose about the age difference, the clashing of cultures—but once the shell had been cracked, Takumi proved to be more matured than he’d realized. A quick shake of his head brought him out of his thoughts, realizing the younger had come near to ask if anything was the matter. Another shake of the head, a denial; it was truly the opposite, finally feeling a semblance of joy. A kiss dispelled all worries, both enjoying the quiet closeness that only the other could bring.

▌ 💠 • • • ► YUKIMURA ▌

Meeting in the corridor, Takumi shifted uncomfortably. It couldn’t last forever. Nothing could, despite desperately wanting it to. Their stations and expectations placed upon them were so vastly different, keeping them apart. Yukimura could always read him like a book; always knew, good or bad, what was coming. ❝ It’s not fair... ❞ the prince uttered, breaking the silence. All the elder could do was pull him close, finding no warmth in their final kiss.

▌ 💠 • • • ► IZANA ▌

A post-war party had been held in Izumo for all Hoshidan soliders to rejoice in the defeat of Nohr. Foreign delicacies and bubbling champagne lined the tables, overflowing. While everyone else reveled in the display, Takumi just found it aggravating. Like a petulant child, he stayed back from the celebration, but once his gaze landed on Izana, stunning as ever, he was at a sudden loss as to what had annoyed him in the first place. ❝ Enjoy yourself! Don’t be such a party pooper standing over here by your lonesome! ❞ A quick peck fluttered over the prince’s lips, leaving him paralyzed. Mind running faster than could be kept up with, he watched Izana sashay away, the desire to follow taking root and beginning to grow. Boldly he pursued, craving the company and hoping it came with more than just a kiss.

▌ 💠 • • • ► FUGA ▌

Silence enveloped the pair as they laid beside each other, evening settling around them. They’d spent so much time talking—about the past, who they were, the future, any little thing of interest—that their voices had gone hoarse. There was never a lull in conversation; only comfort in being able to open up and be wrapped in each other’s presence. Nearly half asleep, Takumi’s head rested on the elder’s chest, tightly curled at his side. Fuga could have sworn he felt his heart flutter, a sensation he thought he would never be able to experience again in this lifetime. A kiss settled onto silken locks, only causing the boy to stir and look up through heavy lids. Before the elder could apologize for waking him, the prince leaned up to close the distance between their lips, humming contently at suddenly being pulled closer.

▌ 💠 • • • ► IKE ▌

Mercenaries were never reliable. One day they worked for you, then the next against; a reason why Takumi was so hesitant to befriend one, more than any Nohrian he’d encountered within camp. But it was hard to hate someone who proved time and time again to be so honorable and trustworthy, even more so when their hands are gripping your waist and their lips are on yours. ❝ When the war’s through, you’re leaving. ❞ Not a question, a statement.  The mood suddenly weighed down around them, the silence heavy. ❝ Is that what you want me to do? ❞ ❝ Of course not... ❞ ❝ Then why bring it up at all? ❞ A shaking breath, and Takumi’s fingers trembled as they found purchase on the elder.  Hesitantly, he asked, ❝ What can I do to make you stay? ❞ ❝ I was always going to stay. ❞ A kiss landed on the prince’s forehead, the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips—again, again, and again—until he understood. ❝ I’m not going to leave you alone. ❞ ❝ Good, because I would have chased you down and brought you back anyway. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► ROBIN ▌

Examine  → Robin. A tactician who says he’s from another world; Ylisse, to be exact. Despite an odd entrance, he was immediately welcomed, even by the irritable Hoshidan prince. His curiosity and eagerness to learn of the new world he’d fallen into made him incredibly easy for Takumi to get along with, as they had come to share information of each other’s cultures, exchange various novels and scrolls, taught their language to each other. Absorbed in a book he’d snagged from the archer, Robin hadn’t heard him near. Gingerly Takumi pushed the tome away, climbing into the other’s lap and chuckling at the way he’d jumped in surprise. Needily he stole affection, claiming kisses and sensitive skin, tugging at robes—just another thing they’d learned to share with one another.

▌ 💠 • • • ► MARTH ▌

Trying to stay away from one another failed, despite knowing full well that the elder would one day leave. Princes of different worlds... it would have never worked, with each having their own expectations placed upon them and loyalties tied to their own lands. That didn’t make their parting any less painful. All Takumi had been left with as a kiss and a note that read, ❝ In another life, in another world, we’ll find one another. ❞ How little they knew that their wishes would come true, even if it meant bending to the will of a wicked queen from a distant world.

▌ 💠 • • • ►IAGO ▌

Glowing heat engulfed the prince’s broken body, mending and snapping and shoving everything into place. Moans of discomfort echoed in Iago’s ears, only to be met with a grandiloquent laugh. So easy it was to physically toy with another; to bend and break or to build and shape. Taking pride in his new possession, he gently caressed the younger’s cheek and leaned down to faintly press their lips together in a chaste kiss... only to feel the warmth surge from within the undead body, the soul still hidden there, reacting to whatever affection it could find as Takumi’s lips willingly responded. With another nefarious chuckle, Iago pulled away, cracking bones within the younger to teach him of what would happen if he did anything outside of what was commanded of him. ❝ Pathetic. ❞

▌ 💠 • • • ► ANANKOS ▌

A volcanic increase in volume shattered everything within the prince’s head, unable to hold the pieces together and slipping into darkness. ❝ You belong to me... And only me. ❞ The voice slithered from the ether, settling into the crevices of Takumi’s mind. From behind, a hand settled over his eyes. Searing white heat encompassed every inch of his frame, skin burning, images of destruction implanting themselves in his brain. Regardless of how much he tried to hold it in, he wasn’t strong enough. Tears leaked between clawed fingers and stained his cheeks, a scream tearing itself free from his throat. Anankos only bent the prince back so he could silence him with their lips pressed tightly together, swallowing every sound. His. Only his...

▌ 💠 • • • ► ZERO ▌

(inspired by Nessa asking me NOT to write Zero/Takumi) The archery field was left abandoned, opting to duck into the dark wood nearby for more rigorous practice. Pinned to a tree, the Hoshidan archer writhed in a mixture of discomfort and delight as Zero’s lips attacked his own, his jaw, his neck; teeth marring pale skin with splotches of purple and red. Before his knees could buckle, Takumi was hurriedly flipped, chest against the trunk as the elder’s hip rocked forward. As breath hitched tight in the prince’s throat, the other teased heavily in his ear, words procuring a shiver, ❝ If you want the arrow to hit the mark, you can’t shoot from so far away. ❞

[shotbyafool]

hey anna when will you bless me with some nikki rostov + any man content? thax

nikolai rostov, just like his sister, falls in love too easily– he only realizes that he is just as wistful and romantic and foolish as natasha when it is already too late. he always saw himself as the older brother, the wiser, but perhaps not. 

boris is first; boris is quiet in a sort of beautiful way, something that nikolai had always appreciated. nikolai was always the opposite, bursting at the seams with life and passion and hope. his childhood is blurry around the edges, but he recalls the play-fights nikolai would always begin and boris would always end, the sensation of boris coming up beside him when facing anyone or anything as the firm presence nikki had always needed, the warm thought of the two of their lives running parallel, on different tracks but side by side. that always comforted him. 

perhaps the tracks were less parallel than he thought, and perhaps nikolai was too young and optimistic and charmed by his own affection. still. boris did not intend to sweep nikolai off his feet, but he did anyways, and sometimes nikolai imagines boris’ hand coming up around his shoulder in an embrace that still leaves phantom pressure down his back. 

boris was too beautiful and quiet and composed for nikolai. he could never be anything more than an ache, and nikolai only learned that the hard way. 

as he enters society and dances with pretty girls and interested ladies, he finds that he cannot stop himself from watching the men in the corners, those whom he almost brushes up against during the waltzes. his eyes follow the lines of their torsos beneath their coats, the tantalizing curves of their fingers against a glass of wine, the way their mouths will rise in a perfect, wicked sort of smile. 

nikolai treads carefully, but maybe not carefully enough, he will watch too closely as a fellow gentleman takes a lady’s hand and spins her around the room. he smiles to himself, drops his gaze to the floor, feels the hint of a blush spreading on his cheeks. he does not say a word. 

the prestige of society jolts into the desperation of war, of men dying left and right, of illness and infection and the looming sense that not every battle is a victory. nikolai feels all too powerless. nikolai hates it. 

denisov is better than him. denisov is everything he always wanted to be. 

nikolai knows better than to let the respect of his superiors dip into a more desperate kind of affection. or perhaps he does not, and perhaps he jumps at every opportunity he gets to press himself against vaska.

(nikolai was always taught the men of war were ugly and unkind but beautiful in their heroic way. vaska cheats the system. vaska is beautiful in every way.)

nikolai smacks himself each time he imagines vaska too long, each time vaska’s arm comes up around nikolai in a brotherly embrace and his cheeks turn bright pink and his smile splits his face as though it means more than what it is. it doesn’t. it can’t. 

sometimes he will have his doubts, a lingering glance across a fire, a lingering hand in passing the bottle of drink, never enough to quite push nikolai over but enough to string him along, just toeing the line. vaska doesn’t mean to hurt him, never would, never could. 

the thought of that makes nikolai love him all the more. 

andrei is different. andrei is hard and cold and sharp in all the wrong places, touching him pricks fingers and draws blood, andrei is everything vaska was not and nikolai hates him for it.

nikolai, then, does not know how he finds himself pressing himself to the incorrect angles of andrei’s body, capturing his mouth in his, whining and bucking up against the pressure of andrei that is all wrong, wrong, wrong. they are both trying to escape something, but nikolai does not quite know what. andrei is disgusted by him and nikolai feels the same; nikolai scowls at him, pouts at him, handles himself in the same arrogant fashion he did at their meeting before boris (boris, oh the fallen angel, a relic, somehow more boyish in nikki’s eyes than he used to be but still captivating in his darkened eyes). andrei grinds his teeth and fucks him, knowing that he wishes it were someone else. 

nikolai does not ask who he imagines. he leaves before andrei can recover from his climax. it is for both of their sakes.

the tsar engulfs him a separate kind of love, but a kind of love all the same. andrei was too close and the tsar is too far and the disconnect sometimes makes nikolai’s chest tighten in just thinking of it. 

the tsar alexander is handsome, and charming, and beautiful. sometimes nikolai imagines himself as a young suitor at a ball and a young alexander catches his eye, and there is a conversation over wine in the corner of a room. it is foolish and childish in itself but the rostovs were always dreamers, he grasps at every chance to speak to the tsar that he can get, or to even be in his presence.

he bows too low and smiles too wide and wishes desperately to show off to him. alexander is perfection, invention, the breed of man that nikolai always longed to be.

(he hides his affection in envy for as long as he can, but his look of awe as he takes his seat on his horse is not something he can mask. nikolai wears his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts leap to his tongue faster than to his brain. nikolai always worked too fast, too foolishly. he cannot help himself.)

fedya is a whole different breed. fedya is also a man of the military, a fighter at his heart, fire in his eyes and darkness in his smile. nikolai knows that he will never truly understand him, but he does his best to try. 

falling in love with vaska was slower, a warm sinking in his stomach, but fedya is overwhelming, ripping out the rug from beneath his feet. fedya is far too brutal and ruinous to be fallen in love with slowly and carefully; he yanks nikolai by the shoulders and drags him along.

fedya could tear nikolai’s beating heart from his chest and nikolai would not be surprised.

nikolai cannot help but associate him with the cruelty of the battlefield. his fingers pressing to the softest parts of dolokhov’s face with his head resting in nikolai’s lap, the blood pouring from the side of his mouth. fedya’s heartbeat beneath his hand, the removal of a glove to press skin against skin. the shallow breathing of a fainting man pressed to him, a blank expression, a sort of hollowness. nikolai realizes, riding back in the carriage with fedya against him, that he loves him far too much. 

scenes flash in quick succession, a sword longing to press against his skin but never quite nicking it, a leg flush against another in the soft light of the rostov house at night, a finger curling around the edge of a card and pressing the thin edge against the table just to hear the slide of it. 

it is ironic that such a simple game as poker is the one that causes nikolai’s downfall; sometimes, when he blinks, he sees that wolfish smile on fedya’s face, that understanding, forty-three-thousand exactly, those wicked lips curve around the words, delicious, extending each syllable in a growl, when will i get it?

even still, nikolai does not think he hates fedya. perhaps he is not capable of it. 

worse is that nikolai still loves and loves and loves, never changes, never stops himself. he feels too much and knows too little and it is a constant cycle of yearning and not learning and one day he will be able to quiet his tongue until he draws blood but today is not that day.