‘Tis but a dance, one laced in brutality as teeth were bared in both partners. Swords ringing so high, their screams of steel reverberating out in a manner to jar the teeth of any normal Hume. One breath could burn, flames so potent on his crown and in his blade that that would boil flesh straight from the bone, cracking the strong supports and letting the rich marrow butter spill forth in a manner of precious oil. Yet, the counterpart was no less fierce. Her breath came as a frost, nipping his nose as they held a stalemate for a mere moments, the ice crystals stealing the water vapor from the air and leaving a litter of a mockery of snow.

A dance of opposing, not meant to be won by either. For in each other, a crux could be found, and each blow would never fall full; reservation was held in the fact of this meeting. The long sword in clawed grasp was minute to the mane that shone brighter than a Blue Moon, gleaming over a hide too dark as a parry and then deceptive feint was given before the clear arc of a downward slash was delivered; her beauty too feminine and lacking enough androgyny in those defined features for mako brights to forget.

Those eyes, one full of the sky and of the earth, the Bard taking the blow with expertise; steel glinting true in the warrior grit in those divine jewels. A shift of his stance, wider shoulders angling her pressure downwards to the left, freeing his spelled blade, and coming back in an upward slash. Those eyes held so much within, underneath the pride she could all but taste as he clipped her side before a blast of Telekinesis from her palm directed him away. She could see everything, and it made her ache, even as she barely stooped to catch a harrowing breath. She could not forget.

Now the intensity was picking up, ruins gleaming bright down the crimson length of her opponent’s extension, the fiery hue burning as bright as sanguine depths were frozen. Veena hued hide pimpling in goose flesh as an arched spine reared, claws digging into the earth below as ice flooded through her blood and those shackles upon the poor Ice Esper now bared proof on strong wrists of her own. This time, when blades met, both in a rushed attack; the sky cried out. His flames burned like a terrible nightmare about them, and a shadow of the clearest oppression towered over them. A scepter made of a trident lifted high in his imaging, and flames died at the hands of eternal ice; leaving only they together. Their grip upon each other finite, burning and freezing in tandem as both sword left their grips. They could not forget.

They could only pretend.

balthier-bunansa:

Twas a good thing indeed his stomach had hardened sure to the easy turning it once had held so fragile when it came to the liquor his tongue favored true. Be that so due to the fact that no longer would he hurl if placed face down on the bed after being either hefted in or supported. Tonight was a night for hefting, the Pirate held tight in supple arms and letting her heels dangle sure from the crook of his finger tips. Her toes spread wide underneath her to stabilize a form tipsy as well, though much more assertive in sobriety than he in this moment. Not the first time she had brought him back to his bed, nor only she moved her Partner as such. He had carried her aloft before once ago, for a pipe proved to be too strong for even her.

When put down, he curled onto his side, barely resisting the tug on his hands. It seemed he was content, if the smile that passed easier over rum ruddy features can be marked. So compliant, if not childish, as he tugged on her when she attempted to bring him bare for easy rest. It was near exasperating, had it not been for those coy lips peppering on her hands and shoulder when he reared up. Shoulder propped underneath him as languid attention was brought soft across her clavicle and up. A charmer he was true, drawing her near when stillness was offered in return.

“Ffamran.”

Enjoyment suddenly vanished, as her young Hume drew back to flop aside, prone on his back like a presenting feline. “Fr-an.” The childish near whine caused a mere blink to be wrought, ears twitching some as she drew up to continue on the removal of his clothes. “No — I’m not a child.” The huff delivered in tandem with an impotent swat of tanned hands, banishing her from his aura as he fiddled rather useless with his buttons and buckles. “I wish you would treat me as — such.” His tiny pauses, masking little hiccups she could hear regardless set off his normally fine lilt, a minute distress to the Viera.

“Aye now?” The mild admonishment was uttered clean as she stood, working on armour as he simply fought with his own vest. She would help him, if it where not clear he would offer protest again. Still, she watched, keen vermillion gauging him true as she waited for the frustrated flick of his wrists and sudden lax animation in his limbs. “Yes, ‘aye’. I’m not the same star eyed child you saved my Love.” Carmine closed at such words, back turned as her day teddy was shimmied off, dangled from claws in a whimsy unknown.

Of course he was not, just as he was, both blended into one demure Hume form. The Pirate was Her’s, possessive used freely when it came to addressing him. She laid claim pure on him, marked it into his skin and his heart, etching her wisdom into his mind as well. So important he was to her, she did this all in selfless selfishness, teaching him to be wary and wise so that none could folly him into defeat. She wanted, needed him safe, and scars she bore proved that so true. Yet, he was not just a possession in her eyes. Much more, an equal had his ears be vertical and digits tipped with claws. Her past would not allow her to see past the fact of what he truly was, but love had taught her even more. He was Balthier, and yet he was still her little Ffamran, and always shall be such.

So when he lifted his torso up, slipping vest and shirt from his form, he only squeezed at the sudden pressure behind him. Claws skimmed up his stomach as incisors a touch too sharp nibble benign on the shell of his ear, snagging the piercings light and melting him into her touch. His head turned, and when lips where presented, the softest of contact was made. His face palmed as she kissed him, lazy kisses that tasted like rum and whiskey spared freely between each other. Her heat lulling him deep into contentment, reclining full against her naked form. Hazel optics so keen though, behind that drunken haze, wondering yet knowing what was to come.

“Ye be mine, no matter what name you take nor form you bare. Your shoulders not hold weight singular, but in tandem with I, forget it not. I am…older than ye, we know it well, and rather set in my ways. I clutch because it be what a Pirate does, is it not?” There was a pause, so he could focus to shimmy leathers off his hips and tapered calves. He was turning now, nudging with an open mouth for her to recline in his place, mane so bright fanning out, trapped beneath her form. “I ne’er say otherwise, Love, but you must not grip so tight. A Hume was suffocate under your hand, and I dare say asphyxiation be not a largely appreciated fetish of mine.” Soft humor was pressed against her cheek, tongue drawn light over the scars wrought from yet another who had spurned them both. It be as if he would wash such pain away with his touch, to soothe her as she did with him, her palms ghosting soft down his back.

“I wish not to choke, but to retain. You grow as wild as a thorn bush, and I dare not lose sight of the blooms within.” Such made him pause, lifting up to prop himself on his palms as he regarded her with an arched brow. Moments passed, such thoughts clear as they flicked behind protein haze on his cornea, before lips formed a gentle ‘O’. “You are—” He paused as fingers gently captured the dangle of an earring, breath hitching before he continued on. “You worry of the lady I take an I to, Celes?” He received no answer, which both knew would never come, and merely bowed his head against the swell of her breast. “Fran… I could naught leave your side unless you wished it upon me.” A tremble there, in smooth utterance, not from drink in the least. Carmine closes, and she draws him up once more. For where liquor touches, they do as well, pressing his heating form tight between the vice of thighs and arms.

“I shant abandon you, my Darling.” A whisper, murmured hot against his ear as hands silenced the habitual thrust of hips. He leaned into it, hands kneading softer flesh on her front as lips relaxed for his own intake of breath. “I love you.” His words now, marking the room brighter than any light, from a filament or candle. It soothed her, warmed her, bringing his body to a full stop before lines drawn clear not be crossed. Lips where claimed, and plundered within, claws tickling his neck soft with the stroke of her fingers. “And I you.” Te murmur be last words shared in that eve, letting darkness swallow them whole as tanned arms cirlced behind her, and cocoa limbs draped protective over him. His heat and want allayed into softness, rest found between her thighs of a different nature. He slept, lips parted and breath tickling across her breasts he used to rest his head upon, while she remained alert. Stroking his hair, his skin, reminding herself of all the beauty to be withheld in his flaws.

“Eu te amo.”

{Okay, remember when Fran was crying the other day due to our rp on your personal? Shes afraid of losing him, seeing him be with others in a sexual manner which she associates as a mark of possession and the like. She loves him, first and foremost, and even chose him over Basch when it came to the pact with Vayne so she is taking this rather hard. So here we are, semi sorta explaining whats going on in her head lately, so I can write her proper again.}

chalkia:

Soft as the whisper of wind, Darkness feathers about, like the fallen plumage of a crow startled all too purposefully; perhaps that’s why its missed, or more accurately, turned with a deaf ear to it. He could see the line in the blonds’ back, the way he almost leaned back against a presence that had yet to make itself known. It was unconscious, the Assassin could tell, for blue eyes where turned away. If Roxas had known he was here, he would have looked, reached out for him; like he always does. That suited the Nobody just fine however, fingers encased in leather gently tipped a fair chin upwards and smirking as the cigarette formerly pursed there fell with an extinguishing tumble.

Roxas was always so receptive.

It’s not long before the few scarce doors that had been between them and this room have been thrown open and clicked shut. This room, a girl’s bedroom if the décor and scent were anything to go off by, was soft in its Darkness. Just barely smothering as a small and younger body is covered with one so akin and yet so different than it. The blond tastes good, feel delightful, as he squirms and grasps at locks so begrudgingly used to such abuse while lips and tongue devoured a pale neck. The comforter bunches underneath those wriggling hips, which are forcefully stilled with a weight pressed hard against them, trapped heat there for one’s delight and the other’s displeasure. Those sheets, white with pink and orange floral prints in such pattern and hue it made the Assassin want to burn them, were thin. It could be seen by how it takes just a single jerk of a bony hand, the blond still writhing, for the fabric to tear.

His lips taste better however, as does his mouth. It is soft and silky within its depths, offering new exploration that had previously been denied to him. His saliva is so thin and light compared to the pinkette’s own, laced heavy with the aphrodisiacs needed to get the boy into an even higher fever of pitch. As it was, he was flushed and panting; perspiration barely starting to bead along a brow so softly kissed by the sun. His fingers are surprisingly strong as he grips pale cheeks, as if he is either trying to rip off his skin or attach their lips together forever. It’s amusing, however dull the flicker is, and he is denied. His pouting lips are slick with shared spit, forming into a soft ring in shape as sea deep hues met glittering sapphires. Like a deer suddenly flicking its head about to see the light of impending automobile doom, he seems stunned. As if he had never seen Marluxia before in his life, or perhaps, never thought him truly real.

There is just the softest of whimpers as lips descend down and a nose nuzzles into a crown of golden spikes. The Assassin taking his sweet time to scent the human boy beneath him, his free hand flared out on the dip of a soft and firming waist, the other securing those thin wrists once more. His heat is increasing, both in his face and between their hard pressed hips. Its scares him, he can taste it as he licks and nibbles on a pale ear, and it makes him smile. The tension he feels coiling beneath him is eased as hips grind down, and while he attacks the hollow beneath the chin before him, the silence is shattered with a single gasp that escapes all too breathlessly from adored lips.

”Mar-luxia!”

His limbs seem to feel heavy to him, because as he is yanked up and his shirt is torn from his torso, he can barely struggle. The fear is back though, breath just noisy pants that had no hope of dragging in the air he needed, those all too attractive eyes thrown wide; letting the Assassin devour every emotion flickering within. He can see his own reflection in those clear optics, see how pink feathers kisses over his face as lips draw back into a snarling grin. He is feral, frightful in his Mania as calm hands strip off his coat. It’s the first time Roxas has truly seen his scars, seen where the Gryphon used its mighty claws on his chest and ripped him in two. The ribbing of scar tissue over his left pectoral is really the only blemish he possesses, and even that hold a charm within itself. The charm of the fact, that no matter how perfect he was, Marluxia used to be human too. It’s that reality that can conjure hysterical terror from the victim he has pinned, Roxas unable to close his eyes as vines pierce outwards from his chest.

He is keening, begging almost as he thrashes, attempting to wrench the superior being off of him. Still, he can’t get away, nor close his eyes; blind terror filling such transparent gaze as he watches his ‘illusions’ chest rip open from the inside out. Marluxia’s blood is sluggish coming out, but when droplets begin to drip onto a pale stomach, Roxas screams. It’s such a lovely sound, and it is paired with laughter of a smooth baritone edging dangerously higher than a tenor. Its spasming in Marluxia’s torn chest, his lungs fighting against the sudden drop of pressure, his vines wrapping around the tender organs to help compensate. Those slender, thorned vines, cutting the pristine flesh before him as he laughs, eyes thrown wider than the boy’s, drinking everything in.

He is sobbing now as hips grind down, and heat that had almost waned is brought back to full fury. He makes such lovely noises as he chokes on the mercifully smooth vines shoving themselves into his mouth. Forcing him to taste Nobody blood, to taste Darkness itself. A pink tongue washes away sharp sodium tears as a loud full body purr reverberates through the Assassin. Thorne’s lips barely touching his ear before his whisper made itself known.

”Do you want to be like me?”

There is no sound as blue optics roll back into their skull and heat floods between their pressed hips. The younger goes still, passed out, smelling of blood and undeniable sex. That only makes him more endearing, a pink tongue washing black blood off pallid features as vines withdraw. His skin knits itself cleanly with a little ushering of magick, and with efficiency, he has the blond completely stripped and tucked into the sheets. He only leaves after his coat is pulled up and he presses a kiss to a feverish temple, the human obviously having taken ill after the episode. “Be a good boy Roxas, lest they will take it from you.”

{Pretend I’m on the right account.}

On my waist, through my hair. Think about it when you touch me there.

Like the wind, he bites her through, and suffocates the keens. No escape can be found, bound so sure, so true, trapped within something she never knew.
Kiss and nip, explore the planes. Entrap the body as the mind burns in flames.
So he keeps her, so strong and wrong. His ice creeping through her a harrowing song.
So she is, his and his alone. Trapped, wrought like stone.

Close my eyes, here you are. All alone dancing in the dark.

Everyone has secrets.

She is no different, and neither is he. It is respect that keeps them both from nosing about in the small chests or bags that are notably private. They trust each other to do so, to allow sanctum for their pasts, to not force one upon the other. Each doing it for the love they share, whether it is verbally communicated as such or not, at least blatantly. Its love that protects their secrets, a blessing indeed. It is also this love that lets wounds fester, for not everything they clutch to is benign.

Such as this small chain, one meant to travel from a pierced nipple and coil like a sly serpent around one’s throat. Its far too short for her, the Viera holding it, and would be ineffective as such. Its links where smooth, polished finely and lacquered a brilliant blue. Truly, it would have been beautiful against the one it had been meant for, a pale little Gria that would have worn such adornment proudly. A smile so sweet, and a voice so light, it be heart shattering.

There was no room for mourning however, the lithe Dancer now but ashes to the realm of living. The grave where she had been placed was often frequented by this lone Viera, baring some small bauble she would bury along next to the horn she had uncovered with her bare claws. Those same claws, which had once been blunted for her safety, nearly dropped the chain. It was moved, with reverence, into red silk. The silk of He, the First One, long dead as well. It was these secrets she folded up in a seal skin, tying it off with snake leather, and tucking back in the small chest she dared call her own.

The past never fades, the secrets never ease.

The night was calm, for the most part. It was silent now, after the few cries of the wild wolves that had dared near too close to the seemingly easy prey of a tall and slender Viera. As such, the only padding feet on shifting and rapidly cooling sand was her own. The Guardian taking a moment to rub her toes and heels through the sand, cleaning blood and lingering gore off of them. Her sword would need to be cleaned with a rag, and checked carefully. Decapitating one wolf has proved to be troublesome, and the Viera wished her blade to be in the best of condition.

It was these thoughts that distracted her long enough to be snuck up upon. Only two moments before the soft impact did she hear fluttering wings. She tensed, of course, expecting bruising force and a scuffle. Instead strong yet fragile arms wound their way about the Viera’s shoulders, a soft and warm body pressed against her. The Scent of the female hit Fran then, and all tension faded. A claw tapping one pale appendage as she turned. Setting her sword into the sand as her hands moved to collect and hold the Gria close against her front.

“Fran, you were gone so long, I worried.” Her chipper and light lilt of voice made the Viera smile softly. Her palms carefully rubbing along the slope of the Dancer’s back and posterior, careful to not let her claws graze over that medium length tail that erupted from soft flesh. “Yew, ye worry oft much.” The chiding was soft, without merit, for both of the females where now nose to nose. A nuzzling was shared for a moment, before a light kiss, Yew’s wings fluttering happily behind her. Such was the soft embraces that had become plain in the caravan’s eyes.

They walked back together, sword still ready at the Guardian’s side, even if her free hand was laced softly with smaller fingers. Yew bouncing up every so often into the air as they walked, fluttering over rocks that might have pricked her bare and tattooed feet. The belly chain along with the other assortment of decorative chains on the Gria’s body made an almost ringing noise in the night, soothing to attentive ears. When the Dancer fluttered forward a little too far, a calm hand snagged a dainty horn, keeping her near the possessive beast of Viera. Their small tussle only ending in the privacy of their shared wagon.

“…Fran?”

A long limb that had been draped lazily over the Guardian’s brow lifted as Fran herself tilted her head up. Clear carmine optics blinked as she regarded the nude Gria, watching her fiddle with one of the permanent chains on her right horn. The younger moved from the foot of the bed, crawling over long and bare legs of the Viera, settling on her thighs. She was nervous on her, tense. Lithe body drawn up tight and wings rigid at her sides, her tail curling tight behind her. The Guardian regarded her in silence, gently bringing up her knuckles to massage the areola around her Dancer’s sensitive pierced nipple. It worked, the female relaxing, her wings sagging slightly.

“What be it Yew?” The soft minstrations did not stop, only to keep the smaller calm. Those dainty hands worked their way up her stomach, grazing over small rolls of breasts, before folding neatly on her sternum. The Dancer leaning over her, biting her lip in nervousness. “Would…would you buy me…Fran?”

still-victorious murmured, ‘Hello’.

Twas all in ruin.

The heavy rumble of the bike that she, like she was akin to, had stolen was clicked off suddenly, the Viera rearing back in her seat. This place, whatever and wherever it may be, was just ruins. It reeked of blood and…something. This ‘something’ being a thing she could not understand as it assaulted her nose, the lingering scent of mako still tainting the smoggy air. Whatever it was, it stung her. Striking through her senses like the blade of a knife through her thigh. It was wholly unpleasant and wholly undesired. She did not belong here, nay, twas as obvious as her ears. The Pirate let her carmine gaze slowly trickle upwards, looking into the rich sea of the sky.

That be where she belonged.

She had no times for such simple and endearing thoughts however, something garnering her attention. The Viera’s ear twitched, and her gaze flicked down, ebony lashes fanning out as she focused. Her superb eyesight easily let her see to the end of the long and dilapidated stretch of road, and the Hume who now stood at the end of it. He was shouldering a gun, one not like she was used to using herself, but she would know such a weapon anywhere. She watched with ease as his stance moved, legs spreading just a touch more. Only when his hand went for the trigger did movement suddenly become her once more.

Aye, she knew the mind of a Sniper, she was a fairly adept one herself. Rarely, oh so rarely, did the target move towards you.

With a roar and a violent kick to the ground, the Viera popped the bike back onto its back tire, forcing the rubber to grind on gravel as it spun. As soon as the front tire hit the ground, the machine fish tailed at the acceleration she forced into it. It worked however, the black contraption shooting forward, towards the red head. The distraction worked, for when the Viera started speeding towards the scope, the Turk stumbled back just two steps. He was quick though, a good shot, but she was a Pirate; it was her job to be better.

Metal ground and rang along asphalt as she leaned hard to avoid one good shot, the rear of the bike spinning around in a wobbly circle she was not all pleased about. The metal claws of her heels paired with her natural ones dug deep into a softer patch of asphalt, helping hual the bike around again. Her sterling curls a mess about her, a blizzard over her solid form. She was the ice, and he was the fire, and neither could win.

With another firm roar of an engine near tapped, she was advancing on him. Body stooped low and back arched to all but meld to the machine. Air drag reduced significantly as the duo of sentient and else came hurtling in like a bullet. Wisely the Hume moved, jumping aside with a none too pretty curse falling off his lips. She turned her head as she passed him, their eyes meeting.

They were sure to meet again.

It was pleasantly warm that eve, with fresh pelts draped over two pairs of shoulders. Their hide was splattered with blood, as was their silk, but it was no matter. Red became red, and the crimson ink would only add to the appeal to the pair of Vieras. Such is why high spirits were strung between the pair as they made their way back to their small camp in the wood, their common ground in the meager months allowed for such endeavors. The endeavors being courting.

“Your shot is magnificent.” His deep rumbling voice was smooth and soft, the familiarity of their birth language shared kindly between the pair. In truth it was harsh, more of a snarl than speech, but it was pleasant to her ears. Such is why she let her head tilt towards him, sterling curls cascading all about the bloody fur and hide, a soft smile touching her lips. “Your claws are sure.”

To an outsider, such compliments would seem hollow, useless; perhaps they were. Kinship was to be shared, in either ability or emotion, but little else. He was allowed here with purpose, and nothing more. The segregation of the genders was absolute, as it always had been. This is why when his claws gently trailed up her ear and plucked off those pelts, she did not fuss. His body was warm against hers, strong and smooth, but patient. His patience is why she only allowed his courtship, only hunted with him in these rare months of summer. His lips were pleasent, his taste soothing, his body a promise to her when she deemed herself ready.

A shame he was slayed.

“Fran.” Her body was being shaken, a soft hand gripping her shoulder and tossing it again. The elder finally opened a crimson eye, directing it upwards were a pale Hume face looked down upon her with worry. Ffamran next to her side in her bed, now rubbing down her bare arm in a soothing way. “You were crying.” The tenderness in his words, how his blunt nailed digits brushed over streaked cheeks, it made that eye close.

A shame, a shame.

Its not that simple.

Shes heavy when hes trying to pick her up, far too heavy to be carried easily. Maybe it was because she was taller than him, or maybe the bullet lodged somewhere too close to his kidney to be anything pleasant, not that he would admit either. Maybe it was because she wasn’t like him though, her body all claws and wild like, so strikingly savage and horribly beautiful. You gotta respect something like that though, and he did, somewhat. Right now though, he just needed to get her up and the fuck out of here.

I wish I could tell you why.

“Would ya, y’know, fuckin’ wake up.” He shouldn’t sound angry as he finally has her on his back, his EMR dangling from the wrist of the hand that had her hands clasped together. Her claws had sliced his palm by accident, and as to be expected, he was bleeding just about everywhere. From his side, his hand, from the cut in his lip.

Ain’t easy, caring.
Then why do you stay here?

His luck was just perfect, he knew it. Now lets make sure that the dry sarcasm in that statement could easily put a practiced alcoholic in the hell hole of most hospitals. Don’t matter though, they were out of the red. For now. That’s why hes got his jacket tucked around her, keepin’ her warm, because fuck if hes ever felt her so cold. Even when shes breathing ice or some shit like that — shes never been cold. Well, to him at least.

Can’t say —
‘Classified’, I assume.

Its when he binding his side, cause he can’t get at that bullet right now, does he really get a surprise. Shes against him, why didn’t he hear her? Shes cold, like snow, buts shes moving. And — would’ya look at that? She’s healin’ him instead of herself. He clips her chin with the heel of his palm, forcing her to lay down again. The low slur of curses that are falling off his lips are making her, couldn’t be, smilin’.

I know.

“Foolish Hume.”

— A Dance

…Just one?

Foot steps that should have been loud and billowing in the grand halls were merely soft thuds of settling weight and forward movement. Draped velvet and soft conversation the mingled within the poor excuse of a room, so open to the courtyard aside, soothing the foot falls. This is why the Prince could move about in near silence, though he was still noted. Obligation forced him to nod and softly greet those who turned to him, those who smiled at him. Sadly, there was very little more. A single purpose for this evening was what drove the Heir from his roost, the ebony hued hawk now skimming over too many faces with keen midnight eyes.

“Sir.” Yet, despite his efforts, he was distracted once more. A sigh that was inaudible passed through his nose, the mere exhale noting how his eyes turned from the crowd, upon the subordinate that had tracked him down. The Prince shifted faintly on his feet, fresh leather of dress shoes he was not all that fond of wearing creaked, simply ignored. His pale digits tucking themselves neatly against one another, the noirette listening to hushed words of simple mundane things associated with this ball.

Why though, the other man had come to him, mystified the Prince. This was, surprisingly, his Father’s affair. Though as the crowd seemed to still and quiet behind him, a twang of the horse hair bow just skimming over metal wires of a violin, he could guess. He pressed forward, beside the other, and out of the crowd who surged forward to the trickling beginnings of music. Soft laughter piercing the mostly calm air, relieving a tension Noctis was sure only he felt.

Eyes that were deeper than the sky that hung so tangible over the open courtyard, now filled with slowly swaying bodies, kept watch. Vigilance was something he was known for, one of the few ways to insure his safety, and the safety of his Kingdom. It did not benefit him this eve however, another sharp exhale making its way up and past his larynx, enticing the softest of audible rumbles. Phalanges who were too comfortable in gloves and restless without picked at the cufflinks of his suit jacket’s sleeves, drawing his attention down for just a mere moment.

The stroke of a piano key changed his night.

What had started off as something soft and gentle, by the time his head had lifted from his meager inspection of his cuff, it had intensified. The waltz’s flowing nature flooding over smooth stone flagstones and the toes of many a dancer. Perhaps it was that slight energy conveyed through the music, the lilt dragging men and woman in a comfortable charade of swirling spring storms of great abundance. Or, perhaps more likely, it was the fact of the one woman who was just on the edge of the crowd. Her ears noted her easily, the only one of her kind at this ball; the only one he himself had invited.

She lifts her hands up to the sky, she moves with the music.

The ease of her movements, though she was alone and more or less still, kept him bound there. Up against a pillar across the yard, just a faint jog to her side, and yet he remained. The way her elegant hands, wrapped gently in shimmering silk and nails adorned with a beautiful red gloss, shifted and twirled lightly in a dance of their own; captivating a small crowd to her. Lashes that seemed like they were endowed with heavy flakes of snow due to the white mascara having been applied to those coal fans fluttered ever so gently over her eternally crimson eyes. Rubies, their setting being a masterpiece in of itself, the Viera an eternal treasure. It was then that those precious gems lifted themselves, and with accuracy of the sniper he knew her to be, settled upon him.

This romance is, from afar calling me silently.

Read More

— Obscure Thornes; oui?

“Marluxia.”

The low tone that had broken the silence of the pitiful excuse of a garden caused a silent pause to be noted in the Nobody’s inspection of one of the rose bushes that bore his mark. Finally, only after a few moments of peaceful silence, did azure orbs turn upwards and around, settling upon the noirette that was approaching him. Softly, and ever so faint, his pale lips pulled gently over pearly white teeth; the Nobody offering the other a hollow and yet agonizingly beautiful smile.

“Noctis.”
The soft exhale of deep baritone was carried upon the almost nonexistent breeze as the older of the pair drew away from clinging thorns and vines. Black leather only made a soft noise of brushing contact as the Nobody fell into step with the Prince, a silent understanding being shared between them as they made their way back to the Heir’s personal quarters.

“And you? Your heart?” Softness oddly touched words that held not only confusion, but natural wariness. It had made a pink brow nearly arch as leather clad digits brushed back petal pink locks of hair from his face. The Nobody had looked upon the other, such a viable and real asset with the closest thing to warmth he could muster in his cold and void being.
“I am Nothing.”

It was only when that the Nobody was comfortably within his given seat in the small sitting area near the bedroom that problems arose. While his visits were never timed (to the Prince’s knowing) and never announced, this was not the problem. The issue now lay in the fact of the topic of conversation, one that had been tapped upon to unwillingly.

“You can’t do that — I can’t let you do that.” Strong fingers which were bound in nightmare black flexed in their comfortable thread that supported the Assassin’s chin. Cobalt optics fluttered underneath nearly snow hued eyelashes, the Nobody having to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the human before him. “Why not?” The chair he was perched within creaked as he leaned forward, the shift suddenly changing the air in the room. His natural scent of roses suddenly giving to the sweet sickliness of lilies; a dangerous sign.

“Think Noctis, the ability of Nobodies. Their power beside you, in your forces, your problems would be taken care of.” Heartless, Nobodies, the monsters of the Darkness. Such a force to be released on a World not connected with an ever lasting Light, with no great force to stop it possibly; a harrowing concept for a mere human to grasp. It was so simple though, blindingly so, and that is why without warning the Assassin’s Darkness was shifting; coiling violently in the pit of his stomach as midnight blue hues slowly began to turn crimson.

The gloved hand that had been aimed for his throat was parried with ease, his own stronger digits clamping down securely on the opposing man’s column of flesh and tantalizing blood and bone. It was then that poison laced lips were mere centimeters from drier lips, the Prince having a habit of worrying those soft folds of flesh when he was nervous. Vines that called his body their home were ensnaring the other, keeping him still for the mere moment it took for Darkness to coil into his palm, ready to be pressed into the awaiting chest cavity of the other.

“You will understand soon Prince.”

Prompt: Fran/Kohana

The air is bitter, so wretched to allow to rest on her pale tongue. She has no choice however, split and cut lips parted so that some semblance of normal breathing may commence. It was not so much that her nostrils were blocked, nor broken, technically. It was simply the blood that was rolling from such a sensitive cavity, one that she desperately needed to ease in pain so she could heal it, that was causing the issues. Oxidized hemoglobin painted her skin a violent red as the Pirate took in another hesitant breath, trying to insure not to inhale the small rivers of life blood.

“Should have listened~”

Truly, she should shy away, disgust plainly written in crimson optics as thin and pale digits grasp her chin, forcing her head back and redirecting the flow of blood. A low choke is stifled as the blood trickles through her nasal cavities and threatens to descend down her trachea, thankfully only oozing in an uncomfortable manner down through her pharynx. The Pirate remains still however, shutting away the precious jewels she lovingly noted as her eyes away from the female before her.

Hume tongue were strange, at best. Softer than her own, almost slimy in their feel. Couple such fact with the reality that Kohana was licking the blood off her face would have made a lesser woman wretch. Its nearly pleasant however, dismissing the fact that the violet haired woman’s fist had been the one that had brought this damage. The Weapon’s Master could not begrudge her however, taking some humor from this all in truth.

The woman could hold herself well in a bar fight.

— Ruby Marks

Truly, it was just so strange, these odd markings. Not exactly symmetrical, no, but close enough to give such an illusion of such. Their deep and bright pigment something that must have stung frightfully when inked into such pale skin, the flesh underneath so very thin as well, too close to the bone to have been a comfortable task indeed. They were exotic, like a rare phoenix, its tail feathers possibly having attacked and embedded in this Hume’s cheeks. That would have left some sort of raised impression on the Hume however, something that was lacking. She could feel it as her knuckled ever so gently brushed over these marks, well, only one. Her carmine optics focusing lazily upon half of his visage, her other hand idle at her hip.

She was aware though, so very aware, not even the strong whiskey she had been treated to dulling the situation before her. She just wasn’t offering her apparent attention, only letting her peripheral inform her of what was going on that the red head was so focused upon. A card game, poker if she was counting the card correctly. It was of littler interest to her, merely a pass time for the Hume she was nearly draped over. One long and barely clad leg stretched gently across his lap, over the dress slacks that was part of his messy excuse of a Turk uniform. He had one hand on her knee, for the most part, just a hand’s length away from the Sigma 9 that he had strapped onto her not two hours ago.

‘Insurance, yo.’

It didn’t bother her either way. What was one more gun? Her pistol currently leaning against her other thigh, the tip of the barrel catching the ever shifting light that flicked erratically from the poor light above the card table. For a moment her gaze flickered to the table, glancing at the Turks poor hand, then all around. Fat faces of grungy looking Humes who obviously had taken one too many fists to the face. As was customary for such games as these, from what she assumed, weapons were placed on the table for all to see. As such the EMR was resting right next to the growing pile of gil the Turk had collected thus far, his gun tucked in a harness under the arm of his top jacket.

As always with these games however, a fight broke out. She wasn’t sure which one of them saw that hand flick for the Glock they both were in action in seconds. A pale hand swept up gil and the EMR just moments before her long legs and violent claws pressed the table up and flipped it over on top of the other players. Cards and gil scattered, the Glock skidding away. When a hand went to reach for it the Viera was sure to allow the spikes of her heel break right through the fragile bones.

After the small scuffle inside the bar it was refreshing to be outside. Sirius was at her side, still cocked and held with a hand known to be heavy on the trigger. A sidelong glance was given as a flash emanated close to the red head, a cigarette all ready lit and pursed between those soft folds of pink Hume lips. Blue eyes fell on her, and somehow, he flashed her a lopsided grin. Her only response was to steal his cigarette for herself.

This spawns purely from a mass muse discussion in my inbox between remnantyazoo and I —

Lips painted a violent red were pursed, smoke escaping in cascading rolls that tumbled through the air. Aforementioned air was thick and heavy, weighed down with the burden of many pipes spewing free fumes of many exotic ‘delights’. It did not bother her though, the air a violent red in hue as her own pipe eased her mind. The Viera rolled her head to the side just a touch, sterling cascades of hair creating a suitable cushion for her cheek to rest upon her shoulder. Her ruby gaze, just a shade deeper than her lips, was focused on the Hume on the couch across from her.

He was talking to the woman who stood at the arm of the couch, his head tilted back and his breathing languid and slow as his pipe dulled him. He looked longer than he should have been, in her minutely warped perception in that moment. She could hear him speak, note it by the movements of his lips, but could not quite make it out. The room had a low buzz to it of voices, dulling her typically sharp senses.

It was no matter.

This was an evening to relax, to be pampered. They had done a good run after all. Gil was plentiful for them in the moment of this evening, and being the pirates they were, they planned on spending it. That is why when a delicate sway of violet satin brushed through the Viera’s gaze, she merely closed her eyes. Her head rolling back a bit as she heard her Partner’s voice elevate, suddenly very clear to her long ears.

“Ah — Kuja dear.”

Ah yes, the Genome. Ebony lashes fluttered over unseeing eyes as the elder of the relaxing pair lifted her pipe back to her lips. The sharp breath she drew in through her noise drawing in the silent intoxication, nestling it deep down inside her lungs only to be released when words were turned to her; obviously the Viera now too drugged to be keeping up with complete conversations. “…And I see you found a pet too — Are you going to sell him?” His question was innocent enough, those royal purple painted nails twirling a strand of quicksilver as he perched comfortably on the lap of her Partner. The skin of his thighs covered in tan fingers that, for the moment, were modest.

Ah, such questions however, that meant she needed to focus. Her pipe was set down on her bare thigh, her long black dress having slits up to almost her hips, as her other fingers flexed and curled around a secure length of leather. The leather was tugged once, only gaining the pirate a low growl from the vicinity of behind the arm of the couch she was lounging in, making her eyes narrow in annoyance. The next pull had much more force behind it, quite literally dragging the silver maned Hume out of his hiding place.

A low whistle was emitted from the Genome as the Viera’s new ‘pet’ lifted his head. Long chrome locks of hair fell gracefully over his features, feathering out over his cheeks and obscuring his eyes, catching faintly on the steel muzzles strapped securely over his face. Those venomous eyes narrowed at the weapon’s dealer, the Remnant glaring him down even as he was hunched up on the floor. His former attire of full body black leather now reduced onto to the trousers he wore.
That and the heavy steel collar about his neck.

Another loud growl broke the low murmur of the room as the other male approached. This of course, was not tolerated, claws surely securing in silver locks and yanking the Remnant’s head back. His glare was now focused on her, those reptilian pupils thinned so extremely it was any wonder that the boy could even see. She was impervious to it however, holding him still as other claws trickling over his face and his neck.

“He looks good in a muzzle.”

The rain was soft as it began to sputter down on the upturned face of the Pirate. Her silence punctuated the softness of the moisture ridden air as the storm roiled far above her form. She could feel it, each pull of the two offended pressures in the sky, heat and chill mating into the gift of precious rain on a land that could be noted as dry in these stale months of Summer’s tiding. The Viera let out a content sigh as droplets turned to full tears falling from the sky, slowly drenching her through.
Only when rain slicked lips met hers did her reverie break, a falter she did not mind at all.