send a “ϟ” for my muse’s reaction to your’s running their fingers along a scar on my muse’s body.
the mage’s fingers trail over the scar that bites into his skin near his neck and down the curve of his back, watching the way the moonlight catches it. his voice is full of sad fascination as he recognizes the way the wound must have curved -- a katana -- and he thinks of course his wounds would be from fighting hoshidans.
lars leans forward to rest his head on the soft slope of laslow’s back, careful not to rest his cheek on the dancer’s sharp shoulder blade, and lays his palm flat against the scar. his hand hides it from view, and perhaps he can pretend it isn’t there.
perhaps he can pretend that he hasn’t been out there smiting down nohrian cavaliers while laslow ducks and dodges and defends against samurai and ninjas. perhaps he can pretend that there aren’t a dozen and a half new scars decorating his fair dancer’s back and arms from swords and spells.
he feels laslow’s shoulder shake with his laughter and he turns his face up to see laslow turning to brush his hand up lars’s fine cheek. his thumb, rough from swordplay, brushes the pale scar that curves with his cheekbone.
( somewhere in the back of his mind, lars remembers their midnight meetings back in ylisse. remembers letters with fine feroxi print set within his tent, beckoning him to meet a dancing beauty beneath the stars. the memories seem so far away now -- are they even real? )
“ so is this one. you should be more careful. ”