“ a lil i scratch y’er back, you scratch mine . . . ” and a whoooole lotta somethin’ else to go with it. a lotta grit teeth and pushing back down on instincts that’d tore through the surface with the same white - hot, seering sort of vigor he’d gotten well acquainted with. could tense a fist against. why it was that bit harder to swallow bitterness that, even now, questioned his own logic. warned that his back was open and that sweet spot between his shoulders hadn’t gone anywhere. still bore the evidence of the last time he’d allowed seth anywhere near it. a spine made for a knife. unconquered, perhaps, but . . . necessity. painted up and dolled into something he could better humor. why looking at him, now, smile spread wide and beady eyes shined over with an excitement he chose not to place weight upon ——— dean knew better. smacked gum because he knew better. stood TALLER, broader, because he knew better. this would only ever end one way. “ i ain’t holdin’ y’er hand through it though. started chargin’ extra for that. ”
❛ Don’t let fear keep you quiet. You have a voice so use it. ❜ ( Fenris & Marzia )
F E A R wasn’t the word she’d have used, pinned by the threat of a broadsword, stretched the berth between them, steadied and true in its line towards her throat. fear sounded too … docile. too much like the quiet, shivering babe caught in the dark by a boogeyman. too much like a pleading dame with trembling pearls in hands that offered them as payment for a life wallowing in riches she squandered. fear was for the innocent. it was for the weak. for her smile spread wider, gloved hands mimicking submission as they rose, marzia wasn’t so proud she’d forgotten the act. weakness had its benefits, not the least of which leant itself to threads of mercy.
“ please, serah … ” antivan rich off her tongue, heels dragged the cobbles of the ground to better tuck legs up b ’ neath her. where stability had the best chance to catch them when the time was right. when appealing to the delicate nature of a mark had run its course. as it would. this one was too quick. a handsome fee for a contract she oughtn’t have taken, but——— “ i had no choice, they would have tortured me. ” nevermind that she knew their methods well enough to’ve numbed to them. more technicalities this one needn’t know. this wayward slave, thinking to wield his own leash. a pretty sentiment, but the world hadn’t known for pretty. some things weren’t fair. some leashes were just leashes.
reined tears a ’ shine in eyes had grown enough to smoke before marzia’d blinked them away, expression stilling while arms dropped. “ strange … i’d have thought you more eager to ask questions. ” something to do besides test the constitution of a lower lip rolled between teeth. something to humor freedom neither of them had, though his searing flesh and gravel through his voice suggested he’d have had arguments for the claims. “ you could kill me … ” end the charade before the dagger at the small of her back could be freed. dripping poison that didn’t call for precision. death’s promise. “ or you could ask me where the magister who thinks to swing your lead is waiting. ” for his head. for the skin he’d paid her to flay. “ perhaps … you’ll make it quick, LETO ? ”
“you can’t keep an eye on me twenty four seven.” AJ/Clint c:
“ yeah, i usually lose you around lunch time. ” when his stomach growled the loudest and the smell of street gyros were impossible to ignore. pierogies on forty - fifth … chili dogs downtown if you got there early enough. always hard to trail someone when you had your hands full. why, he’d guessed, natasha stayed so thin. perfected the art of ignoring base instincts. ones kind of like his smile spread wider and awareness haplessly absent the motivation behind aj’s apparent discomfort. why she’d stamped a converse - clad foot and stalled out in the hallway in her huff.
it dawned. eventually. a slow crest that dropped amusement from off his features and let fall his head forward enough he’d not needed to reach far to occupy himself with idle scritches from nails. short hair the victim of a choppy assault. distraction. something to still feet that wanted to kick the earth, “ oh … ” OH. it was easy to forget. not everyone liked second shadows. not everyone knew what to do with theirs when they got them, either. “ so i should probably tell the guys in the van out there to go back to headquarters, huh ? ”
😢Touch my muse’s shoulder while they are crying in secret
Noct doesn’t actually cry much, in all honesty.
He’s never been one to cry much. He’s prone to numbness, to big empty periods where he can’t feel, can’t think, just wants to sleep, lay on the ground and stare up at nothing until his body grows moss. Even when news was passed down about Insomia, Noctis can’t remember really properly shedding tears. They were there- fogging his head and his eyes, clouding him up until he was sure his whole skull sloshed with them- but they never seemed to fall.
It’s been a hell of a day. When the hotel is out of doubles, Noct agrees to split into two singles, taking one with Prompto while Gladio and Ignis get some (he suspects) much-longed-for time alone together.
They’re sticky, dusty, worn down from battling beasts and drudging through the Lucian scrubland. Gil is low and gas lower, so to afford the night they’ve been taking on hunts and fetching things for spare funds. They went hunting for dog tags for Dave today, finally found them wrapped in a torn and bloodied bandana tucked under a rock.
Something about it was so desolate and lonely that it stuck with Noctis for hours afterwards. He wonders what it’s like, knowing you’re going to die alone in the wilderness, that no one may ever find your body. Trying to preserve the last little reminder of your life, knowing so long as it survives someone will be able to pass your memento to your loved ones.
He wonders what his dad did when he died. If he had time to think about mementos.
It strikes him that he’ll never even be able to put his body to rest. Who knows how long it will be until he can get back to Insomnia. Will there be anything left of his father? Did the Empire bury him? Lucian mythology focuses a lot on the restlessness of unburied bodies.
What if he can’t be at rest? What if his body is still there, rotting? Is he in the Citadel, or did they kill him in the streets?
He’s caught off-guard enough by the tears to have to abruptly roll onto his side away from Prompto, making his breaths as steady and even as he can. Just exhaustion, he tells himself, strangely numb despite the heat seeping out of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. Let myself get too tired and all this is coming back up. Can’t let it catch up to me.
Prompto’s hand on his shoulder makes him start enough to let one hiccuping breath out, but he catches it and takes another, deeper, more even, right after. “Sorry. I’m- I’m good. Just tired.”
✉ - push my muse back down when they try to get out of bed (perhaps involving illness, injury, or sleep deprivation)
“Oh, dear, it seems I’ve been afflicted.” Ignis can’t act to save his life, and honestly he’s been waiting around long enough while Prompto did something in the bathroom that his curiosity peaked and faded ages ago. “Who on Eos could possibly help me with this..” His brows screw up as he takes a deep breath through his nose, the line bouncing around his mind physically painful. “Colossaeus erectus disease?”
Finally, after what could only be ages, the door to the en suite opens and Prompto steps out in some white vinyl number. There are little red crosses over his nipples. Fishnets and stiletto heels are involved.
Ignis quirks a brow as Prompto wobbles a little on his ankle before finding his balance. “Sounds like the doctor came just in time. And so will you.”
They stare at each other for a minute, Prompto leaning provocatively (?) against the doorframe, Ignis seated on the edge of the bed with his chin in his hand. Eventually Prompto catches on, his shoulders drooping.
“Nothin’ for you, huh?”
“You look ridiculous.”
Prompto scoffs and slouches down in disappointment, the little white nurse’s hat flopping off his head and onto the floor. “Man! You know I was looking at myself in the mirror thinking yeah, this ain’t it but I was like you’ve already made him wait so long.. Ugh, stupid!”
“Don’t misunderstand, I do appreciate the effort. But the entire scenario is a bit outside of my playhouse.”
“I mean, yeah, I get it.” He lifts one foot to undue the strap around his ankle, and his shoe clomps heavily to the floor. “I guess it’s one of those things that’s, like. Hot in porn but kind of dumb in real life? Like ahegao and bukkake and ovi and hypno stuff.”
Ignis only knows what half of those mean, but he nods along with an understanding hm anyway and watches as Prompto struggles with his remaining shoe. Eventually he gives up, hop-hobbles over to the bed to plop down next to Ignis, and gives it another go.
“Perhaps I should start the kettle for some tea? We could settle in for a movie instead.”
Ignis isn’t expecting much more, so it comes as a surprise when Prompto bars an arm across his chest and half-forces him to the mattress.
“Wait wait wait! I, um.. So, it was like… super hard and dumb getting into this outfit. And, maybe, I might need a little help.. getting it off? Again?” With his lip pinned between his teeth and the hopeful crease between his brows… Well, that does make Prompto irresistible. Something must show on Ignis’ face because it’s not a moment later he’s pumping one fist in the air. “Booyah! Evening saved!”
