#this is rly mild but it was getting too long and poetic so !!

[viaetor]

❛ i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know. ❜

ㅤㅤㅤ @hitokageiseiㅤㅤ/ㅤㅤDIALOGUE PROMPTSㅤㅤ/ㅤㅤaccepting!

ㅤㅤ“and since when do you wear any underwear with me?”

ㅤㅤno amount of kisses could wipe that stupid smug smile off the harbinger’s face, it seemed. no matter if they had decorated each other’s skins with purple marks of scratches, power playing and fighting with blood-starved blades. rather, the balladeer seemed to quite enjoy whenever aether would bite him down in place. curses and threats transformed into not-so-silent invitations over time, hoarse voices turning into earful purrs. aren’t you lonely? / aren’t you tired? / is that despise in your eyes, pity or desire? / why does it matter? / we’re not so different. / yes, we are. come, let me show you. annoying. infuriating. vexing. there were so many synonyms to properly describe the headache that scaramouche was in the traveller’s life—and yet black gloved tips tickled the inside of his shorts and loosened shirt still, admiring the sculpted soft surface in constrained famish. what was he looking for? did he have what it took to satiate the thirst in his throat? perhaps that’s what truly irritated him. to look for warmth with an enemy, to have your claws and fangs itching for something most humans cannot comprehend nor offer. to not need to be gentle, to vent in violence mixed with just a sum of mutual understanding. they enjoyed punishing each other with ‘what-could’ve-beens’. mercy/revenge, heroism/wickedness, prayer/god-hater.

ㅤㅤ“it’s almost as if you’re always expecting this.” and both of them did, didn’t they? it was inscribed in their whole beings; chaos (thunder) and order (stardust), makers of entropy. divine creatures with mortal whims. hunger, dissatisfaction, rage. the continuous search for something that resembled love in a wrathful embrace; and that’s why he grabbed the fatuus fiercely by the hips, bringing him closer so his fangs would drill into porcelain-like texture, uncaring of the groans he received as a response. it was aether’s turn to smile smugly, licking his fangs off. “who’s the one eating who now, huh?” icarus was what scaramouche had called him. but didn’t he know he was the own sun itself? maybe it was about time he learned it, the hard way.