open ☀️ he said don't put all your eggs in one basket

[peasant]

CHARACTERS: alina & you
LOCATION: various places on the station
DATE: throughout october & until the start of the next mission
CONTENT: post-mission catchall
WARNINGS: none aside from mentions of injuries, but will update if any others pop up!

I. INFIRMARY

[ it takes her one entire night to find herself in the infirmary, waiting for a quiet silence to fall over the ship before stepping inside. a deliberate move, on alina's part; if nothing else, keramzin had given her a valuable life lesson in hiding her weaknesses, locking her vulnerabilities away to guard them from sight. save your pain for later, before someone comes along to make it worse. coupled with the first army's education in basic first aid —

she slips toward the cabinets with the confidence of someone who has found herself in this situation too often: licking her wounds clean in private, thieving from supplies to bandage her hidden wounds and scrapes without ana kuya becoming wise to alina's mishaps. caring for herself when she had been that sickly, straw-thin girl. not much has changed, since then — even the looming height of the cabinets, too tall for alina to reach on her own.

this routine is familiar, too: scaling up onto the countertop on her knees to swing the cupboard of medical supplies open, just to be able to reach the top shelf. as her luck would have it, though, there's nothing silent about her scavenging, much as she tries to keep the station from waking. a few pill bottles fall out in her search for a curative to soothe her aches and pains, rattling as they collide onto the counter.

alina winces, flashing an accusatory look at the jumbled bottles crashing to the floor. for the moment, she chooses to ignore the chaotic mess she's leaving behind, as her good arm reaches for the gauze at the very top of the shelf — the movement revealing a starburst pattern of fading bruises stretching along her ribcage, those wine-red blemishes disappearing beneath the hem of her pajamas. ]

II. SUNLIGHT ROOM.

[ the sunlight room's sprawling meadows have nearly become a second home. more often than not, alina can be found among the fields of wildflowers — escaping to what feels familiar, despite the empty space next to her that mal had once occupied. a permanent reminder of their separation, of the grief burrowing into her chest to nest there — not unlike how alina herself has nested here, claiming this spot for herself, with a circle of art supplies around her.

her sketchbook lays abandoned to the side, a half-formed outline of a boy open on the page. in front of her, there are often splashes of paints in varying colors and a canvas of watercolors dripping down into its white, blank space. on some days, her paintings are views of the flowerbushes in front of her, of the simulation room's streaming lakes; on others, there are portraits of unknown faces and some that might be more familiar, painting other orbers from memory — or from where they might be sitting ahead of her, oblivious to her study of them.

what remains a constant is that she's always messy and disheveled, her fingers and strands of her hair coated in drying paints. if someone sneaks up on her, her sweaters find themselves condemned to the same fate, trying to hide her work from view by (not so) subtly hugging it to her chest. especially if she's been painting you, looking extremely sheepish to be caught in the act.

other times, she can be found sitting cross-legged in the grass, practicing with her abilities. a single snap of her fingers seems to draw the light to her, the air around her flickering as sunlight gathers in her palms. that fiery orb hovers, slowly drifting down a path in front of her, dodging past anyone in its way.

after some particularly drawn-out training sessions, she eventually dozes off, so hidden in the grass that stepping on some part of her is ... well, inevitable.

with a huff from below, ] Ow.

III. WILDCARD

[ feel free to bump into alina on any other place on the station! other than the places above, she can be found lingering in her room or stuffing her face like a gremlin in the kitchens. ♥ cool with any ideas, if you want to fling a different starter at me in the comments or plot via nereids. ]

Comments

Sunlight Room

[cruelyethuman]

[The Darkling prides himself of being an honest man, as much as he can be. The position he holds and the plans he put in to place made honesty... difficult. But above all, he was honest with himself, even the unwanted and miserable ones. He knows that he sees the future that could be, and not the endless misery of today. That his plans are far-reaching and all-encompassing, and that not everyone will appreciate the careful planning and foresight it takes to ensure the success of a plan centuries in the making.

The truth that he no longer has a reason to seek out Alina, but does so anyway.

Once the orbs have been collected and his regret undone, he will no longer need a Sun Summoner to move the Fold. She is nothing, except another Grisha. A not-particularly well practiced one or even that powerful without the amplifiers. Not yet. The promise is there, hiding inside of her, wanting to burst out and yet, Alina never stepped up as the promised Sankta of Ravka or even his fated equal. Content to be ordinary, running away from the splendor and safety of the Little Palace and right in to the arms of her Tracker.

And yet, the Darkling finds himself in the sunlight room, watching Alina Summon from under the shadows of the false trees. Eyes riveted to the ball of sunlight in her hands, the careful bounce it makes and the way it paints Alina's face with golden swaths of color.

There is no reason for this. Not for hiding and not for watching, and for all his own beliefs in himself, he cannot be honest about this- this pull that sinks its hooks in to his chest, buried deep inside his heart at the look of her. At the smile on her face and the futile hope that springs up just from the smile on her lips when she thinks no one is watching.

He takes a step out of the shadows.]

Alina.

[peasant]

[ as though he had startled the light itself, that fiery globe flits toward the sky and fizzles in a popping firework of gold and white colors, in a fitting reminder of the control that has been stolen from her so often. once she's recovered from her own surprise — a little bounce in her shoulders at the sudden sound of his voice, irreparably shattering her peace for the day — she swivels her eyes toward him, squinting warily.

his presence feels like an invasion, aleksander's shadow a blight in this green haven of grass. like the simulated sun shines down upon her a little less brightly, like the scent of wildflowers becomes a little sour in her lungs, like he's trampling all over her meadow from home. her lips purse, swallowing down the name she wants to bite out, and lets her gaze skip back ahead of her. aleksander. even the sound of it in her head rings too dangerously personal for the deliberate distance she wants to create between them.

if braccia has taught her any well-earned lesson, it's that she is right to stay far away from his influence. and yet she can't quite help but to watch him from the corner of her eyes, a dot of swathed black in her peripherals. ]

Still skulking around in the shadows, I see. [ a flat acknowledgement. some things truly never change. she's careful with the new sphere her fingers gather, to contain her power; no need for him to witness more of her burgeoning strength, the harness of control she's gradually gaining over herself with practice and perseverance. and the pain in the ass she's found guidance in, more than that. she casts his shoes a sideways look. ] Take off your boots. You're trampling my flowers into the dirt.

[cruelyethuman]

It is rather hard to skulk around in the sunlight.

[He shoots back, voice low and warm. An edge of humour that wasn't there before, that hasn't been in his voice for months even before they were whisked away to the station.

The fear that gripped him when he looked at Marie at the Winter fete and every disastrous thing that followed that fateful night. The hunt across Ravka, the chase for something more and to elevate Alina beyond the boundaries of ordinary and in to the realm of saints.

The skiff and the betrayal.]

As you wish.

[Crouching down, the Darkling undoes his shoelaces slowly, watching Alina out of the corner of his eyes.

She looks different. The sharp lines of her shoulders and the almost prideful tilt to her head as she looks at everything that isn't him. The ball of light that vanished as soon as he stepped in to her meadow.]

Undercover work seems to agree with you.

[peasant]

[ saints, she hates how starved she had been for his approval. once. hates, even more, how that hunger still hasn't fully abated. she stamps down the part of her that wants to perk up at the promise of praise, snuffs out the little flutter of satisfaction between her ribcage, and casts it aside.

an'alya's corpse would vehemently disagree with aleksander, anyway. the image of her broken body, bent and broken to unnatural angles, flashes through alina's haunted conscience. cheri's doing. alina's doing, for weaponizing ti'shaaz's forces.

you're wrong, she wants to protest, banishing those visions with a blink of her eyes — but it isn't worth aleksander's version of consoling her. reassuring her that hefty sum, paid with spilled blood, is a necessary trade for the orb's promise of power. absolving her of that responsibility, that shame. sickeningly, she finds some pitiful shard of her longs for that comfort, all the same.

she loosens a breath, unable to help that ensuing prickle of curiosity, needling at her. her head tilts in his direction, to more openly scrutinize him. the dark strands gathered into a ponytail at the back of her head swing with the motion, held together by the silk of a buttery-gold ribbon. ]

How do you figure?

[ undercover work seems to agree with you is — an unexpected comment for him to make. truthfully, it's the warm hearth flickering through his voice that disarms her above all else. an old remnant of their time together, as though it had never turned cold at all. it forces her to warily redirect her attention to him, peering at him like she's facing an impossible puzzle. ]

[cruelyethuman]

[His feet are bare inside his boots and he flexes them against the soft grass. It is almost too lifelike, tickling gently as he stands and takes another slow step forward. Everything here is almost too real, the sun shining down from the false sky, the heat of it and how it warms him all the way through.

The light. It's always the light, the bringer of life and hope. Only this one is as fake as the grass under his feet and the trees around them.

Alina is the only real thing here, her face turning towards him like the sun rising on the first day of spring, and his heart flips before he can push the emotion down deep.]

You look - [Happier. Radiant. Less like a starved orphan and more like a woman who wants, even if that want isn't directed at him. Yet.

The duality of knowing that ultimately, this will not matter. He will find the orbs and he will undo his regret and none of this will matter in a decade. Alina will cease to exist for centuries and she will be born to a different Ravka. One without war, a Ravka forged in his image where all Grisha are free.

She is still the only thing in the world that makes him weak with wanting. The tendrils of hair that have escaped her ponytail, tempting him to reach out and stroke them back behind her ear.] good. I was worried about you, after the fall.

[peasant]

[ that small order may have granted her an illusion of control, but it vanishes like smoke carried away on a breeze, nothing but an insubstantial flicker lost to the wind. there's an unnerving humanity to studying kirigan as he sheds a piece of his armor, even one as minor as his boots. softer skin, hidden away in the imposing cloak darkness casts over him. toeing into the grass as though the black heretic isn't nature's opposite, corrupting life's very essence with a touch of merzost.

she has to dart her gaze away from him, struck by her own discomfort at the sight, distracting herself by brushing fake dirt from clinging to the sleeve of her sweater. he looks too — vulnerable. too normal. not the beast who might have crushed every petal in his path, every beautiful gift of life, to encroach on her. his footfalls feel more delicate, approaching her as one might advance on a skittish animal, but she isn't any less wary for it. more wary, maybe, as a result of this sudden shift.

her shoulders tense, ever-watchful and vigilant from the corner of her eye. ]

Not dying is usually an advisable first step to looking good.

[ she scoffs, droll and witty, and brushes away an errant lock of hair that billows into her eyes. ]

You shouldn't have worried. [ worried. it's not a lie that convinces her, no matter how sweetly fed to her. not from a man who had kissed her like it was a war he had to wage. not from a man who couldn't bring himself to admit, beneath all of her prodding, that he did not want her gone. perhaps she should be thankful he had never obliged her with any answer at all; it would have only been another honeyed deception she was coaxed into swallowing. ] I had a good healer nurse me back to health.

[cruelyethuman]

[There is something so very doe-like about Alina like this, standing in a circle of her own making, eyes wide yet not looking directly at him as he stepped up closer. The tightness of her shoulders as they rise, and forget to fall with her next breath. The watchfulness of her stance and the stiff fingers brushing at her sweater.

The hem reaches past her fingers for a moment and the Darkling is struck with a sudden desire to kiss her fingers, just to feel her Light against his face.

Preferably without it searing off his skin, but-

He stops well away from her, hands down and palms out, toes digging in to the warm grass. It is almost like a dream, this place. The Sunlight Room, and he wants to redo the sign. Why not Sunlit room, since that is why they're here. Why everyone finds their way here eventually. To feel it, false or not, against their skin.

He didn't follow Alina in here, but he could never be sorry that he found her. He looks away, eyes on the treeline and the wall he knows has to be just past them.]

I can't help being worried. [No more than he can help being drawn to her beyond all reason.] Who was it, in case I need a healer myself some time in the future.

[It might be Sabriel, the only one with magic. Spells and all, and her own heavy burden to bear.]

[peasant]

[ her limbs lock with the same uncertain fear that paralyzes forest creatures, trapped by fight-or-flight instincts. there's no need to choose either fight or flight, as it turns out; kirigan settles into the grass as though he's welcome to it, far from the edge of territory she's claimed in her little spot. alina's shoulders slouch, some of her stiffness streaming out of her with her next exhale, but — that itch doesn't fade. to retreat back into the den she's made of her room, away from the reach of those sharp eyes.

like her body still recognizes a hungry predator in her presence. even wolves curled in meadows, showing only the softness of their fur, are still capable of tearing a bared, vulnerable throat out. she surveys him a minute too long before she shakes her gaze away, eyes scampering back to where her fingertips restlessly fiddle with her sweater's sleeves.

quietly, she clears her throat, face tipping skyward. ]

You could help it if you tried. [ with dry sarcasm, she continues, ] There's this fascinating process called "stopping." You should try reading up on it.

[ another slow exhale, counting down the beats of her heart to find some center of peace. maybe it's a little terrible, to find that peace in the thought that rhysand would only use his healing to mend aleksander's fingers just to snap the bone over and over again. okay, maybe more than a little terrible. she shelves that thought, envisioning the strands of light that float from her fingertips instead.

they gather in her palms again, gold rays twining together to form a new orb, flickering up to the sky with a twist of her wrist. so you can compile a list of my allies, aleksander? she thinks to herself, eyebrows creasing together. ]

It's not my place to out someone's gift. [ some of her protectiveness bleeds out of her and into her voice, unable to suppress it. ] There are plenty of people advertising on our shared network. Go get your own healer.

[ like they're children who can draw a dividing line in the sand and abide by those easy, uncomplicated rules. this is my healer, and my side of the ship. you can't cross over that boundary or touch my things. ]

[cruelyethuman]

Do you think it is that easy.

[It tastes bitter on his tongue, this weakness. That for as much as he might want to, he cannot will this away. There is no stopping this gaping chasm of yearning that she has opened in him, and it will be the death of him one day.

She is the sun, and he could never look away, despite her insubordination and her betrayal. Every word that fall from her lips is agony, since they're not softly whispered or tinged with wanting same as his. The Darkling wants and that wanting is what makes him tilt his head, lips curling up in an answering smile. Edged with sadness and longing.]

If that's what you want, keep your secrets, Alina.

[She is the shifting sands beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him up and the Darkling is helpless to stay away. He should stop, walk away and keep his distance until he has the orbs and the promise the voice made him. Until there's nothing left but the end of her existence and the break of a new day, without the uncontrollable Fold casting a blemishing shadow across the world.

He will make it right this time, with a weapon he can use and there will be no mercy for those who dares to stand against his vision of peace.

Leaving her alone would make it easier, and yet he stays. Eyes searching Alina's face for any trace of reciprocity. The warmth of her attention burning underneath his skin like a furnace, fuelled that much more by the light of her Small Science flaunted so brazenly in front of him.

A small gasp escapes him.]

Your control is better.

[And he does not think about why, or how. Shying away from those thoughts as easily as he leaned in to the call of her, and he twists his fingers, sending a small tendril of shadow out to curl around the ball of light.]

infirmary C:

[groupiedrifter]

[Alina, you're doing great sweetie. It'd just be a shame if — ]

Who's in here?!

[And so appears a head of unkempt bed hair around the corner of the entrance to the infirmary as he calls out (mostly just trying to surprise whoever it is, to be a little shit). Newton had been coming in here for his own pilfering of particular medication, and as he catches sight of who is doing the stealing, his expression immediately goes both sunny and unconcerned. He adjusts his glasses and says:]

Oh! Hey, Alina. Whatcha' doing? Making a mess?

[He's just gonna stroll further into the room. No biggie.]

[peasant]

[ the risk she took was calculated but boy is she bad at math. which is all to say —

this is familiar, too: wearing her guilt in wide-eyed surprise, prepared for the same long lecture ana kuya would give. when newton rounds the corner, she looks a little like a feral raccoon that's been caught scavenging valuable scraps, debating whether to scurry away or continue.

the verdict, apparently, is to continue — at least when she sees who it is. it takes a moment to shake off her chastened expression, and any moment to huff out a breath. ]

Oh, it's you. I was expecting a vengeful schoolteacher.

[ she grimaces at the thought, peeping down at the bottle still locked in her hand. ]

Just ... browsing. [ one of the many bottles scattered across the counter takes the moment to tumble onto the tiles below. traitor. alina gives it a churlish look, but — maybe that's for the best, rather than acting as though she has any clue what she's doing. better to ask, when the other outcome is potentially ingesting poison. she holds out the bottle in her grip, giving it a little rattle. ] Do you know what these do?

[groupiedrifter]

[... Huh. Questionable, Alina, very questionable. He's been caught like a deer in the headlights too many times in his life to miss that look. After a skeptical glance, he moves to grab the bottle, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses for a moment before-]

Wow, I didn't know you needed stool softener. You having constipation issues?

[But then he grins up like the little imp-man he is, offering the bottle back again.]

It's Bactrim. Treats a lot of different types of bacterial infections.

Why exactly are you browsing through medication you're not totally sure about?

Is there an actual medical issue going on here?

[peasant]

[ her nose scrunches for a flash of a second, before — ]

No. My life is full of enough shit, thank you. Let's not add more.

[ — that quip comes lightning-quick, volleyed back. it's only another skill of hers acquired in the first army: basic medical training, and the easiness of banter to keep the mind from latching onto the terror of never-ending warfare. less fortunately: that basic, outdated medical training never prepared her for this.

there's no flicker of recognition that sparks in her eyes at bactrim and bacterial, the absent look of someone hearing a foreign term for the first time. infection, however — she doesn't need a book to explain that for her in any great detail. ]

Remember when I said I was going to the top levels? Well, Cheri sent me through the floor. My arm was caught in the fall. [ alina wobbles her arm in front of her to emphasize, biting back a hiss at the twinging pain that shoots into her elbow. ] It's still healing. Normally we would mash herbs together to numb the pain at home, but ...

[ pointedly, she rattles the bottle. ]

You can see how that's working out.

[groupiedrifter]

[With a hardy sigh, he adjusts his glasses at her.]

Yanno, it's totally legit to just ask for a little help, right? Lemme see what it looks like, and I'll get you just what you need, no alarms sounded; I might not be a medical doctor, but I know a lot about medicine. A hell of a lot of my research focused on it, back in the day.

[He holds up a hand to help her down from the top of the counter.]

C'mon, get down from there before you mess up the other arm falling off.

[peasant]

Should I go around knocking on everyone's door until I get an answer? The entire station is asleep.

[ as though she hadn't waited for all of its nooks and crannies to go silent, before she had crept into the room like a thief stowing away in the night. it's said with all of the awareness of someone who has experience in behaving as frustratingly as possible. alina starkov, the embodiment of irreverence come to life.

her fingers curl around the countertop, testing her balance first, before she grips his hand to help herself down. ]

I'm beginning to believe you know a lot about everything. [ in ways that are vaguely reminiscent of david, scarce as her memories of him are. only — newt seems equally as studious, but not nearly anywhere as reticent and aloof. ] I had a little bit of help from magic, but ... it's a slow process.

[ cautiously, she pulls back the sleeve of her baggy cardigan and stretches out her arm, limited as it is in its movement. mottled, too, by its fair share of fading bruises. ]

What's your ruling?

[groupiedrifter]

Do I look very asleep to you, ma'am?

[He says it dryly, but there's nothing but good humor in the jab. But he carefully looks over Alina's arm, well aware he's not in his usual field of study. Really though, you don't need to be an advanced doctor from outer space for a simple field test.

Carefully, he works his fingers up the arm, feeling for anything out of place — especially any strange deformities or sites of swelling or heat. Also, gotta look for any signs of cuts. Cuts are no bueno. That's antibiotic territory, right there, if we're getting all armchair-diagnosis tonight.]

You don't feel, like, anything grinding when you move it, right?

Weird numbness or anything?

A spot in your arm where you feel something's seriously screwed up?

[peasant]

[ her existence is enough of an irritant that she doesn't often have to actively make an effort to grate on the wrong nerves. still, newt offers her an irresistible opening — and alina, as vulnerable to temptation as a child left in the presence of an unattended cookie jar — takes it.

her eyes narrow in scrutiny, tipping forward before declaring, with all of her natural talent at insolence: ] Very asleep.

[ perhaps it's only a righteous punishment, then, that his prodding of her arm brings a throb of discomfort. her brows furrow with the urge to stamp it down before it can grow, uncontrolled and far from subtle, but hurt is etched into the rigid string her spine becomes, plucked upward. ]

No, no grinding — [ as though stubbornly attempting to prove to herself that the pain will fade, accelerated by healing magic slowly stitching the bone together, she pointedly rotates her arm — and then promptly cringes at the jolt that streaks through it. ] Alright, maybe a little grinding.

halloween is the perfect time 2 lose your virginity // cw: nsfw

[business]

( throughout the night, he can't stop tugging on alina's wings.

he likes them, he finds. a replicant of what he knows the real ones to look like, how they glitter when he flicks them, how alina pouts when he gives them an especially rough yank. he knows he's asking for it tenfold back on his own wings when they get to their room for the night, which are far more sensitive than hers on account of being actually connected to his flesh, but that thought doesn't exactly dissuade him from doing it. if anything, he's encouraged — thinking and thinking, alina might call it quits and turn in early, to take him back to their room where tugging can commence. he seems lucky enough once she huffs somewhat exasperatedly at rhys' bides for her attention, every ounce the pet-hungry kitten he's dressed up as.

cat ears and a tail, plus a smudge of black on his nose he had alina detail — though, not trusting her enough to manage the whiskers. straight lines? when his hands are under her skirts? it seemed a mistake in the making.

not that the integrity of his whiskers matter much now as he slyly kisses at alina's neck, making it difficult for her to open the door to their rooms. eventually, one of them manages it, and inside —

an image of utter decadence is painted before them, a trail of curvy rose petals detailing the way towards their bed, like they might get lost in the journey. the other beds are put up and out of mind against the wall, leaving the sensation of utter isolation in their wake — less communal bunking and more. ours. lit candles outline the bed, half melted from wait, dripping wax into lumpy puddles on the floor.

rhys keeps kissing her neck regardless, sucking glitter off with the salt of her skin. after a moment he grins against her, big arms winding around her waist to give her a boyish squeeze that lifts her into the air. )

Like it, my vila?

😇😇😇

[peasant]

[ there's a certain allure, alina finds, to the fantasy she's embodied tonight. that enchanted dream she might have had once (more than once), where she had been made from the same magic that courses in rhys' fae blood. maybe it's expected that a woman who has always been other would long to live among the otherworldly, in a realm that would think of her as beautiful and belonging, welcomed by a kingdom where she might find her perfect mirror in rhys' shadows.

tonight, she's content to live in that daydream, fleeting and gone by morning, with wings to match his. paired with the slanted, unnatural tip of her ears, she feels giddy in her glittering skin — shining and golden trails that streak her skin like sun trails, in counterpoint to the purple-black iridescence of rhysand's beauty. his lips are coated with that magic dust that lives on her skin when she goes stumbling into the room, dazzling and distracting her into wanting to lick it off, transfer it between them until they're lost in pixie dust and each other. so intense is that craving that she nearly overlooks —

the real magic at hand. those flickering flames draw her eye like moth wings hovering over candlelight — awed, unable to resist. alina shifts forward to take in the sight, this shrine that feels dedicated to them. a thought that feels more and more true, for how often they offer themselves to one another in these sheets, sacrificial and honest. still, she doesn't have the opportunity to wander closer just yet — not with rhys' constricting arms, snaking her back into him before she can wriggle away.

she squeals out a laugh, unable to bother with the same put-upon exasperation she's given him all night, as her toes dangle above the floor. ]

Like it? [ what a ridiculous question. alina gapes, twisting within his arms to face him. ] No one has ever done something so beautiful for me.

[ truthfully, no one has cared enough to. perhaps she's a little too eager to show her appreciation, once her feet are back on solid ground, but she has her doubts he'll mind. her lips sear into his own with the intensity of a blazing summer day, unrelenting in its heat, until she has him cornered against the wall. pressed flush against him, where her soaring heart dips and whirls in girlish spirals, beating a tattoo against her chest and into his.

almost predictably, her taste is laced with vanilla sweetness, trickles of overly sugary frosting. what she has doesn't come even mildly close to his gesture of romance, but — ]

I have a present for you, too, [ she gasps out against his mouth, some of her mischief lost in its softness. isn't she only living up to the spirit of the holiday and fae tricks when she slaps a hand over his eyes, digging into her bodice's cleavage to produce — a pilfered halloween decoration. the tiny paper bat flaps its wings in her palm, when she finally tears his five-finger blindfold away and holds it up to his face to announce, with a wide grin, ] See the family resemblance?

[business]

( alina's weight, though comparable enough to feathers and cloud fluff, makes a purr roll out of rhysand's throat as she pins him — he goes gratefully, pressing his hands to her waist and sliding up her back. a well documented glassy look overtakes his features once alina pulls away, a brief ) Mm. ( of not-quite understanding leaving his mouth as he arches in for more kisses, instead of whatever her present is. that can wait — kisses simply cannot.

or they can, as rhys barks out a bright bubble of laughter while alina covers his eyes, resigning himself to stroking his thumbs on the rougher material of her fae dress while in wait. once permitted his eyesight back, rhys stares at the little bauble in her hand for all of a moment, before he laughs even harder, eyes alight with the stars of his amusement. swiftly, he steals away the bat with careful fingertips smiling as he squints at the little painted on face. )

Oh, yes, I do. He's quite handsome.

( just like rhys, see?

keeping the tiny man safe within his hold, rhys leans in, dotting a small kiss of gratitude on alina's nose and then her mouth, leaning away so he can further examine the bat. rhys would deny being sentimental down to his last breath — it's very unbecoming of an illyrian to have materialistic day dreams, after all — but he already knows he's going to have to keep this paper bat somewhere safe, to look at always. a trinket as a memory, for the weight of the night. should alina accept his offering, of course. )

You must give me a Ravkan word, to name him. How do you say "brother"? ( he tilts his head, considering. ) Or maybe "small"? Which is cuter?

[peasant]

[ saints. if she could bottle that melody, she would. stash his laughter inside a music box, cracking open its lid to soothe herself with its song. but rhys isn't in the habit of caging things, and neither is alina; so she lets its warmth soak into her chest, and frees the butterflies that flutter behind her ribcage, their wings brushing his jaw with the airy kisses she presses there. light and scattered, landing across whatever slip of skin she can reach, balanced on the tips of her toes. ]

Nearly as handsome as you.

[ she won't hear the end of it, now that she's agreed. still, it's in the spirit of the holiday — trick or treat. she knows how amenable to treats her spoiled kitten is, always purring for her attention. tonight, she indulges him like he's indulged her, petting down his chest to feel if it vibrates beneath her palm. with nimble, slippery fingers — those used to pilfering pastries, and used to pilfering buttons to get the true delights she craves — she slowly pops a button free. and then the next, going down the row of his shirt.

it's fair game, when he's been so intent upon distracting her tonight, pressing himself in the center of her light to ensure it shines on him. brat. she nibbles at his collarbone, feigning a thoughtful hum against his skin, as though her hands are only innocently occupied with untucking his shirt from the hem of his trousers. so — maybe it's both a little treat and a trick, in the end. his just desserts, for teasing her into frustration throughout the night. ]

Bratishka. Little brother. He's an honorary Bat Boy now. Though — [ she tilts her head up, propping her cheek against his chest with a breathless smile. something nymphish glimmers at its edges, flitting her fingers down his spine to trace its curve, searching for a hidden treasure he's magicked away. ] I don't see the full family resemblance. You're missing something, flying mouse.

[ and she's been missing it, the dark spread of those sensitive wings, as though no part of her soul can stand for him to hide any part of himself from her. expectant, she casts a deliberately doe-eyed gaze up at him, making herself into a portrait of virtuous want as she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, when they both know her intentions are far from sinless. ]

[business]

( oho?, his expression seemed to say, a delighted bit of surprise at being on the receiving end of alina's compliments. he's far more used to a sassy retort which says essentially the same thing, except they both wind up laughing at their own goofiness. instead — a little peek at alina's honest, blunt truth. nearly as handsome as you. perhaps he should not be so tickled by her, when she's just saying he's prettier than a little paper bat — yet nonetheless, he feels his cheeks go just a slight shade of pink at the flattery, a smug smile curving up his lips.

he does a slightly awkward lean to the side as alina attacks his shirt, making to find a ledge he can safely set their little bratishka on, away from the flames of candles. once tucked away safely, rhys resettles his hands on alina's exposed shoulder blades, digging under the straps of her wings to touch her tanned skin. watching her keenly, as she sets to the now familiar work of pulling his shirt from its tuck, like peeling back the wrapping on a present, to find the toy inside. not that it's much a surprise anymore — his same, sunkissed skin, the same whirls of ink outlining the muscles of his chest, on his arms. thankfully, alina doesn't seem to have gotten used to it yet. what a blessing it is, to see open desire swarm the pretty heights of her face. )

You know, I have this theory you're actually Fae.

( blinking down at her mockery of innocence, rhys pushes off the wall, bullying alina a few steps backward. far enough for him to toss his shirt the rest of the way off and onto the floor, hardly a moment spared before two obsidian wings peel from their hiding place near his shoulder blades, resting in a hover around alina's arms. his dwarf her wings by three or four times — but it's a nice vibrancy against his dark veneer. alina, bubble gum and bright. )

Because you're so good at distraction. ( stepping back into her, he reaches down, picking alina easily back up into his arms, her legs around his waist. ) And the wings look so beautiful on you. I think you were made to wear them.

( but — he draws her attention back to the bed with a nod, taking them a few lazy steps forward, until they're at the foot of it, outside the protective circle of candles. gently, rhys noses at her temple, biting soft nips of kisses down her jaw, to her ear. )

Aren't you curious about all this?

[peasant]

[ nothing escapes an artist's eye. not alina's, especially, in its sharp new clarity, keen to see new splashes of color in the world after hers has been so dark and dull. rhys' blush is a shade she's yet to discover, cheeks dipped in strawberry paint, ripe and sweet. and mouthwatering, most of all, leaving her hungry to see all of the ways she affects him. perhaps she is fae, with her wicked schemes to bewitch him into another flush, just to see this powerful and preening thing melt beneath her attention. just to taste his flattery beneath her lips until he's so flustered that his smugness takes flight, forgotten by the wayside.

it's a twist of fortune, then, that he lifts her in her arms. props her higher, thighs flexing around his waist, clinging to him with confident strength reserved for mounting tame beasts. knowing he's hers, feral in the wilds — and yet soft and safe here, under the willowy curves of her body. all of her tiny twiggy limbs, cradled by the muscled trunk of his chest. alina's mouth descends on the pink of his cheek, its sweet heat basking against her mouth — before its hues seep into her, like a popped berry staining her skin with its juice, scarlet vining from cheeks to collarbone.

for rhys, it could be as insignificant as an off-handed comment. for alina — her big heart swells impossibly larger, as though it's floating in dizzying circles, to have him believe she could fit among his kind. as though she's worthy of living amongst beauty and splendor. as if she fits in that wondrous, magical sky he calls home. embarrassingly, her breath snares, tripping out of her throat as she blinks up at him with liquid-warm eyes, amber and burning like whiskey. ]

I think I was made to wear you.

[ she can't help the hopeless romanticism in that sentiment, sincere and devoted and dreamy, even as she tries to lessen its weight by teetering upward in his hold, nipping the tip of his nose. along the way, the purple silk of her skirt rucks up higher, a peek of peony pink lace and its embroidered little petals grazing his bare skin. her fingertips feather up the nape of his neck, sliding up through the spill of his hair. ]

Mm. [ a thoughtful sound, lost in the pleased hum twittering in her throat like a happy birdsong. the tiara tangled into her hair tips alongside the tilt of her head, a dark waterfall of hair cascading down her back, as she bares her neck to him — forcing her fluttering eyelids to reopen, sneaking another glimpse at his makeshift altar. ] Either you've gotten into a nasty fight with a rosebush, or ... [ she squints, curious. ] Are we celebrating something?

[business]

( how happy he is, to be made alina's favorite sweater — if that was all he was ever meant to be, a warm refuge away from the cold bite of wind, he'd be content enough to keep her safe, wound around her body. wear him until the seams loosen and the hem breaks. until he's more string than cloth, knotted around all her tiniest fingers to keep her knuckles warm, to follow the tip of her finger where it points out landscapes, or smudges charcoal on parchment.

yes, he likes if she was made to wear him — because it means he was made to be worn, to be loved to the seams, swallowed to the crumbs, drank down to the last dregs of his existence.

it means alina was made to have every ounce of him, and he was made to give it. )

Hm.

( he hums again, that same sound of not-quite understanding that an especially boyish male might release when he isn't entirely listening. frankly, he doesn't think he can be blamed — a warm palm cups under alina's thigh, fingertips grazing that tease of pinky lace hidden just under the surface. focus is just a five letter word he couldn't begin to guess the definition of — not while his fingers try uselessly to push her dress up the curve of her ass, cursing the tight material as much as he praised it earlier in the evening. alina's always a vision from behind, rhysand has long since learned, but in this dress — )

— What? Oh. ( chuckling darkly at his own expense, rhys doesn't spare the bed another glance — standing and holding alina in his arms, ducking his head down to mouth fairy clever kisses against the soft parts of her neck. ) Celebrating ... hmm. Can you celebrate something that hasn't happened yet?

( playfully, he gives her a pinch on the ass, expertly stepping around candles as he makes their way to the bed, dropping to a sit, with alina on his lap. )

If you still want to, of course. ( kittenly, he noses her cheek. ) I wanted it to be special.

[peasant]

[ if you still want to. alina recovers from a squeaking fit brought on by his tweaking fingertips, ending her wriggling to drop back down into his lap and gawk. it isn't the flattering kind of gaping, where her mouth goes dry at the miracle of powerful muscle prowling under his skin, more panther than kitten in his build; she eyes him as she would read a language foreign to her, brows knitting at its complexity. his beautiful mouth has shaped such stupid words, and yet —

her mind skips, incapable of comprehending it. ]

Of course I still want to, [ she exhales, winded by her own incredulity. was there ever any other answer? this — this is a moment made to be remembered, treasured for the length of an immortal life. rhysand is — that bright spot on the horizon of eternity, when the path ahead of her looks bleak and lonely. he already dwells in her heart, carved his name onto her ribcage with the others she holds so close to her chest; it's only fate that he makes his mark on her body, too. an inevitability she's been waiting for, unashamed by her eagerness — by the dew collecting on the pink petals of her unplucked pussy, a rainfall of wet beginning to trickle into pale lace at just the promise of his touch.

and of what's to come, after being denied that closeness for so long. like the sun longing for the moon, only catching a glimpse of it before it's gone. her head dips to the side, snaring his mouth in a plunge — fiery, consuming, until there's no room left for uncertainty. none of those ridiculous, doubting words to fly free from him. ]

It was always going to be special. [ whispered smoke against his lips, weaving her fingers through his hair to gently encourage his head to tip back, opening the landscape of his face to her purview. she smooths back a messy curl swooping near his temple, cradling his cheek to take in the full map of his features, losing herself in the constellations of those starbright eyes. ] It was always going to be special because it's with you.

[ a tug on his wings is the only fitting, proper punishment. with a playful tweak, she awards that to him — but merciless torment can be delivered by soft touches, too. gently, she strums over its leathery expanse, tracing a mirrored outline of his illyrian whorls into his most sensitive parts. ]

I want you to have me.