#ilyaymeric

[fooltofancy]

saw a gawain gif idk we're all stuck here now

[fooltofancy]

vierapril day one | sunrise | concessions pt.1(pt.2/pt.3)

the bed is empty when aymeric wakes. not an unusual situation, to be sure - he's not in the habit of regularly sharing his bed, in the first place, but he's also never shared a bed with someone as eager to leave it as ilya. in defiance of all expectations, however, he's there, silhouette cast in shadow against the glare of the open window. still - unreal - as a painting, and aymeric is unsure if he's awake or asleep, curled with his arms wrapped around his knees in the windowsill, sunlight silvering the fine hairs of his forearms, glinting in the emptiness of his right eye. awake, then. real. all that light and warmth stretching out its fingers to brush his hair out of his face and he's still as a shadow in it, edges diffuse in the sun and aymeric's sleep-blurred vision in spite of him, gazing unfocused out at the morning.

part one of three, as planned. giving myself a little space to pose (and write) more extensive things without taking up a metric shit tonne of space right out the gate, lmao, but we'll see how it goes!

[fooltofancy]

vierapril day eleven | close | concessions pt.2 (pt.1/pt.3)

the bed creaks (a betrayal) as aymeric shifts in it and and he can't help but wince as ilya turns to face him, ever so slightly. he'd be more disappointed, gentle voyeurship interrupted, but then the sun trips in its own perusal and catches on all of his edges, softening - jagged fissure of the scars which mar the skin of his jaw, the dip of his collarbone, the tip of his tongue as he wets his bottom lip and holds aymeric's eye. which is, frankly, a little too much this early in the morning. it catches in his throat, all the light and edges and realness, and by the fury that man may not say much but he certainly doesn't need to, looks like that - so instead of swallowing (aymeric finds he can't, all of a sudden) he clears his throat and swings his legs over the edge of the bed to a renewed chorus of wooden creaks. moments come, rarely, when he wishes ilya were less conscientious, ever so slightly less observant, but true to form his lips quirk crookedly as he watches aymeric struggle, head tilted, eyes on his throat as he unfolds from the windowsill and saunters the few steps to the bed to deposit himself without ceremony between his legs. his eyes only shift up, meeting aymeric's through thick lashes, when he settles, elbow propped on his thigh and cheek resting in his hand. "mornin', lord commander." "first lieutenant." he wrinkles his nose at that, as expected, so aymeric stifles the laugh that threatens to escape his throat and leans down to kiss the crease between his eyebrows. appeased, ilya tilts his head up to meet him half-way, and despite the chill in the air his lips are warm.

[fooltofancy]

i'm sure the deadbolt's turned, but baby if it weren't i'd come quiet up the staircase, slip into your arms like i was never gone

[fooltofancy]

hearts ablaze day 3 | "trust me"

silver lights ilya's eyelashes where they brush aymeric's fingertips, butterfly-light touches which nevertheless send arcs of heat down the length of his arm and would drive him altogether mad alone were he not already consumed by the heat of the mouth pressed to the inside of his wrist, the gentle scrape of teeth and the insistent press of ilya's tongue driving every other thought shrieking from his mind.

despite the chill in the air, in his blood, aymeric can feel the heat of his heart beating in the space between them. finds himself jealous a little, even, of his own blood, mingling in all of that warmth. does it chill what it touches? he wonders briefly, tracing his free hand through the loose strands of hair falling across ilya's throat, enthralled by the rush of heat against his fingers each time he swallows.

his own throat convulses, watching as ilya languorously traces a stray trickle of blood with his tongue up the inside of his arm, nerves on fire with each brush of lips against his skin.

ilya doesn't fight him as he cups the side of his face, thumb hooked under his jaw, and turns his head, lost as he is in the muzzy euphoria of aymeric's blood coursing through his body. his eyes drift closed as he tilts his head back to rest it in aymeric's palm, running his fingers gently up and down the inside of his arm where the wounds he's left are already closing. when he opens them again his gaze is clear and warm.

wordlessly ilya tilts his head back to expose the full length of his throat in clear invitation.

it's easy for a moment, ignoring the hunger. tracing his fingers between the freckles along ilya's cheek, to card through his hair. soft, careful. false. unconsciously he tightens them in the strands, drawing him into his lap with the other. while ilya's expression remains relaxed and he never breaks eye contact, his thighs flex around aymeric's as he pulls him closer, not yet (never) near enough and altogether too near at once, the beat of his heart thundering in aymeric's ears and against the palm of his hand where he splays it across ilya's chest. against all instinct – take, bite, claim – he reaches for space, for a moment only, to breathe.

"you know, little hunter," he says into the air between them, voice rough with need, "you make easy prey. "

ilya shifts in his lap – a slow, maddening grind – low laugh a hum against aymeric's lips where he finds them pressed against his throat.

"you'd prefer the hunt? i can run, if you'd like."

he wouldn't.

it costs him nothing to admit to himself that despite the hunger clawing its way up his throat, here – limbs entangled with his own, all intoxicatingly pliant warmth and wandering hands – is exactly where aymeric wants him.

there's nothing neat about it when he finally gives in – ilya makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan as the flesh of his throat tears under aymeric's teeth, fingers tightening in clothes and hair to draw himself closer even as he shudders with what aymeric knows must be something like agony, but maybe something like ecstasy, as well.

[fooltofancy]

ilya is eozea's highest risk foster fail. sorry, aymeric.

[fooltofancy]

okay, thanks insomnia.

[fooltofancy]

strap the wing to me / deathtrap clad happily - ilya/aymeric webweaving