open ❄️ and a song someone sings

[peasant]

CHARACTERS: alina & you!
LOCATION: various places on the station
DATE: throughout december
CONTENT: december catch-all. christmas antics, mistletoe madness, possible stupidity.
WARNINGS: will update if anything comes up!

I. COMMON AREA

[ bedrest hadn't suited her. freshly released from the infirmary, alina finds herself restless for a change of scenery — for a splash of color that isn't sterile white walls and beeping machinery. it doesn't take long for her to grow tired of seeing that same starkness reflected in the station's walls, spaces that hardly look lived in despite the time they've spent aboard.

maybe it's the inherent desire to create a home, to leave her little mark somewhere. maybe it's her drive to add color, unwilling to live in a dull and gray world. maybe it doesn't matter, in the end, when the result is the same — alina taking the skill she had spent time practicing and polishing in braccia, grateful for the peace that painting brings her.

she begins her work in the common area, first — ignoring the unnerved fluttering in her stomach at the thought of sharing a piece of herself so openly, so vividly, when she's gone unseen throughout most of her life. still, she won't allow self-consciousness to hold her back; with a paintbrush in hand, alina dapples it along the wall, rich colors in shades of hazy reds and neon blues that map out a mural.

— it's a messy affair, too. covering the floor in tarp has spared it from the same streaks of paint that have found themselves across alina: flecks across her knuckles, dried in strands of hair messy spilling out of the bun at the back of her head, smears on her shoulder from where an oversized (stained, now, with a dapple of green paint) dress shirt hangs loosely.

she doesn't seem at all bothered by it. in fact, she's so engrossed that she startles, the moment anyone makes noise in the room, nearly jumping out of her skin. once she recovers, she turns an apologetic grin toward them, biting it back with a nip to her bottom lip as she holds the paintbrush a little protectively to her chest. ]

Am I in your way?

II. CHRISTMAS CHEER.

[ keramzin's orphanage had never looked so festive. alina can only remember the gloom that had followed the feast of sankt nikolai — another holiday to remind them all of what they had lost, the lives they might have had if fate had been kinder to them. another day alina and mal had spent searching for peace in their meadow, finding the only family they needed in one another.

it had almost been enough to ease the ache in her chest. almost. it isn't quite enough to soothe it, now; it feels traitorous, somehow, to share in the celebrations without mal at her side. decorating the halls is a pleasant distraction, at least — another outlet for an artist, making the most of what she had never had the opportunity to indulge in.

alina lingers in the hallways, stringing along tinsel into spaces that have been left bare, sprinkling mistletoe and wreaths from doorways. what she hadn't accounted for, however: her own height, hopping and failing to reach closer to the ceiling, with a puffing huff of frustration. when she catches sight of another orber in her peripherals, she turns to them, decoration in hand — opening her mouth, hesitating with the words, before they come. ]

You're tall. [ it doesn't matter if they're tall or not. most of the ship seems to tower over her, regardless. her hands jut out, offering up whatever happens to be in her hands. ] Hang this for me?

[ if it happens to be mistletoe dangling from her fingertips, she breathes out an embarrassed laugh, reassuring them with, ] I'm not trying to trap you. Promise.

III. SUNLIGHT ROOM.

[ the flurry of snow that greets her in the sunlight room would put ravka to shame. much as alina knows it's an illusion, she's grateful to viveca for bringing her that slice of home, feeling the wintry air nip her cheeks into a frostbitten pink as she soaks in the sight, tipping her face toward the sky to invite a dusting of snowflakes to collect in her eyelashes.

it's with a carefree spirit, feeling lighter than she has since returning, that alina loses herself in packing together an arsenal of snowballs. waiting for the opportunity of an ambush, she lurks until she catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye — and sends a snowball soaring through the air, striking them on the cheek, before ducking behind the nearest trunk of a fuzzy pine tree.

or, for those she knows well — they'll find the surprise of icy fingers at the back of their neck — and snow that follows suit, shoved down the back of their shirt. sneaky is hardly a weapon she can wield well, however — alina's girlish laughter rings out as she makes an attempt at an escape, chiming in the air as she moves to dart away, rabbit-hearted and breathless.

maybe you've found yourself on the lake with her, frozen over and slippery. it's new — the ice skates on her feet, leaving her as graceless as a newborn fawn on jittery, shaking legs as she stands. it's inevitable, really, that she would come tumbling down — knees buckling from momentum as she reaches out to steady herself, tangling her fingers in the fabric of another's sleeve.

— only to inadvertently tug them down with her in a tangle of limbs and a surprised yelp, the breath crashing out of her with a small, ] Oof. [ as she's sprawled out, blinking up at the sky with a dizzied grimace on her face. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass both of us.

IV. WILDCARD OPTION.

[ all of the above prompts are open to anyone and everyone, including mistletoe shenanigans, bc i have no shame. but feel free to shoot a PM my way or find me at nereids if you want to hash out a closed starter! or just throw a prompt my way and i'll gladly go along with it. c: any variations you want to do on these prompts are open game, too!

planned closed starters will be found below in the comments. ♥ ]

Comments

[business]

( it's a sparkle he's well familiar with, mischief as akin to him as blood and bones — she glimmers, and before rhysand can even comprehend that he's been had, he's laid out on his back, staring up at her. something bewildered tickles his gaze. did she really just knock me down? seems to be the only thought circling his brain, impressed and honestly proud by the advancement — but before he can express his delight in the bell clear ring of his laugh, he's being just —

brutally, brutally assaulted.

he turns his head immediately to the side, coughing up snow bits, slapping a hand down on her straddling thigh as he spits up the melted crystals too, pulling a gross face once his mouth is clear. he eyes alina from the corner of his eye, a tense moment of knife weighing, to see which edge of emotions he'll come out on — as if it was a choice. loudly, he rumbles laughter from beneath her, some snow in the far distance shaking off trees by the rattle of fae laughter in the room. )

Get off me you brute!

( but — he doesn't seem to really want her anywhere else, given that he puts no effort into lifting her, only settling his cold hands on her thighs and keeping her grounded. after a moment he sits up, alina balanced in his lap, so he can press his freshly chilled face and mouth to her cheek, nuzzling down to wear she's warmest in the curve of her neck, not unlike an explorative kitten, looking for the nicest patch of heat in a house to cozy up to. )

Someone's a sore loser.

[peasant]

[ ah.

poor strategist that she is, a moving piece on the board driven forward by impulsive recklessness and good intentions alone, she hadn't calculated this outcome. hadn't considered that it might end in rhys' wounded, tantruming male pride. in the time between his tense silence and the heartfelt laughter that eventually shatters said silence, alina holds her breath — wintry air burning, crisp and fresh, in her lungs. expecting that she may have gravely misstepped — that he may childishly freeze her out, left in the cold for her antics.

some men, she has learned, do not take kindly to being dethroned by wily sun summoners. in the end, it's a needless worry; rhys' chuckle is the thing of earthquakes, powerful and booming, threatening to uproot the sturdiest of forests. an exhale puffs out of alina in a misty cloud, pulled away on frosty wind currents. her eyes laugh first — a shine like sunlight beaming off of white snowbanks, a twinkle to match the breathless fit of giggling that follows.

— and stutters in her throat as he pops up, nudging his icicle-bitten nose into the warm bed of her neck. with a surprised mmph, she wriggles against the shiver that shudders through her tiny bones, a shoulder raising to dislodge him.

airily: ] Yes, you are.

[ a sore loser. rhys might have defeated her fairly, but she's gotten the win by ambushing him and putting an end to it, hasn't she? for good measure, her fingers dip back into the snow, sprinkling it down onto his head in a flurrying shower of white crystals that cling to his mussed hair. (still, alina notices, annoyingly impeccable.) ]

I'll take my win now. [ how does one address the high lord of the night court? night triumphant, death incarnate, and — ] Your infernal majesty.

[business]

( chased out by the squish of her shoulder, rhys settles back, supporting himself with one hand while his other winds around her waist. of course, he has mere moments to appreciate alina against the backdrop of a snowy landscape, like a jackalope's seeming innocence just before a trick — a learned habit from her, he scrunches up his nose poutily, as she makes it snow on him. ah, well. letting it settle for all of a moment, rhys takes not a second longer to shake out his hair like a wet dog, sending melted droplets flying all across alina's exposed skin. turnabout is fair play.

infernal majesty. he snorts and, very dramatically, hangs his head. another year and another loss, then — but he has enough fun just playing, not needing to be crowned king of the mountain so to speak. )

Ah, yes. Of course. And what would the victor like, as a prize? ( similarly, mischief winds it's way between the stars of his irises, decorated like a cunning fox. ) Your radiant goddess.

( without effort, his hand tightens on her coat, tossing alina swiftly to her back in the area of uncrunched snow just beside them. rhys follows after, slotting himself between her legs. playful wrestling, that's all — though one of his hands pins one of her wrists to the forest floor, rhys giddy and boyish as he leans in to press a cold kiss against alina's mouth, lapping up the chilly pinpricks of snowflakes hidden on her cupid's bow. )

[peasant]

[ in hindsight, she should have accounted for the tricky traps of vila, luring humans like insects stuck to strips of drizzled honey. it doesn't sweeten the loss of a victory, a greater insult for how he had allowed it to grace her hands before plucking it away; alina lands on her back with an inelegant oof, the breath punched out of her lungs, dark strands scattering out of her flimsy ribbon. its tied bow flops in the snow, the sunshine yellow a stark contrast against a pure-white background, nearly as deflated as alina herself. ]

That's — [ the cheeky slant of his mouth muffles her protests into something garbled, a pout that refuses to be kissed away. ] — cheating.

[ says the glorified cheater herself, employing cheap tactics to get a one-up victory on him, just to pop his ballooning ego. her bony wrist twists in his grasp, no better than a rabbit trying to squirm its way out of a roped snare, before the wolf above her takes a bite. a retaliatory and pre-emptive strike, her teeth nip into his lip, free hand clawing into the snow to ice her fingers for —

the sneaky slide of them up the hem of his jacket, racing past the bottom of his shirt, confronting him with the five-point snowflakes her fingers have morphed into. they fan out against the front of his abdomen, tickling against warm musculature. ]

Who's the brute now?

[ — still her, most likely. ]

[business]

Ah — cold, cold!

( muscles immediately contract upon the cold, and the effortless beauty and grace of one high lord of the night court seems all but moot all of a sudden as he squirms away from her, undignified. it all ends in him losing balance on his knees, flopping onto his back in a puff ball of lifted snow, which piles back on top of him — only slightly burying him beneath the cloud. and rhys

stares up at the fake sky, grinning. losing isn't so bad. he's lost the game and his hat, but there's snow between his fingers, and somewhere beneath his feet he's sure alina is preparing another onslaught of wintery trickery. maybe a gentleman would let her win? except rhys is having too much fun, and so he knocks his boot into the ground, goofily kicking streaks of snow blindly onto alina's person. all the while he laughs, all the while making no attempts at getting up. really — he's tired, every muscle in his body sore and achey beneath the numb of winter's bite. they must've been going at it for some time. whoops. )

En garde, you.

( he says it with another lazy kick, breathing heavily. it's not over until it's over. )

[peasant]

[ saints, she should really be prepared for an ambush at this rate — from an illyrian warrior, for that matter, persevering and persistent even when the skies darken into ominous storms. rhys is his own force against nature, an element in his own right, forcing mountains to bend to his rule, and alina is —

deeply regretting the childish poking of her tongue in his direction, nearly begging for him to retaliate against her taunting attacks, as he turns powdery snow into his vengeful soldiers. she sputters into a cough as crystalline flakes splash against her tongue, sprinkling into her eyes, where they refuse to part from the trellis of her eyelashes even as she blinks furiously. a hand lifts to her face, swiping hurriedly, as her entire expression creases and pinches in an indignant scowl.

her only saving grace is the shield she raises against his next air strike, palms lashing out to deflect them with a searing slope of heat. it shimmers in the air, golden and bright, as snow drizzles down its side in a white slush — and disappears at her command, seconds before she begins scooping a pile of snow into her arms. as much as her tiny limbs can contain. ]

Nu vse, tebe pizda.

[ if he's going to tease her with unrecognizable words, it's fair to do the same. never mind that it isn't intentional, that lapse into her native language as it rolls off her tongue as a blatant threat. she slides over, face filling up his view — right before she lets it fall in a heavy blanket, burying his chest in a layer of snow. it's almost bewilderingly satisfying, to watch it begin to drift beneath the collar of his jacket, finding the crooks and crevices that lead to his bare skin. ]

Any last words?

[business]

( why does snow suddenly feel like stone, crushing his chest? rhys wheezes, half from laughing and half from the steady cold seeping into the fabric of his clothes, that perfect amount of melty from alina's arms to be just the peak amount of annoying and uncomfortable. rhys groans, immediately battering off the weight of snow from his chest, shivering as cold tendrils of water sink into his collar, down to where he's warmest. )

Just one. ( his eyes flash, one last time, panting hot breaths before he surges all at once, reaching out to swipe alina at the legs. ) Sorry!

( ten minutes ago he would've felt bad for it — but he tosses alina quickly onto her front, flat in the snow, and leaps to straddle her thighs, hands rucking up her coat enough that the goods are on display. flirtatiously rough, he spanks her with a loud crack, momentarily debating how much trouble he'll be in if he stuffs a fistful of snow down her pants.

well ... it's tempting. for now he just cups her hips, craning down to kiss her shoulder, poking his frozen nose against her cheek. )

I'm prepared to negotiate the terms of your surrender.

[peasant]

[ so much for not being caught in a compromising position, alina thinks, casting a fawn-eyed glance at their surroundings — startled and flustered, expecting an intruding face to pop out from beneath the underbrush, after he's spanked a loud squeak right out of her. even the shielding cover of a copse of trees that surround them, sparkling with a diamond-dusting of white snow, do little to abate the stinging flush that promptly ignites her skin. ]

That's not — [ she chokes out, twisting away to shove her overheated cheek into the snow, a cool balm against the raging fire there. fair? none of this has followed any rules, beyond all is fair in love and war, but alina still sullenly bites out, ] — This isn't fair. You can't just do that.

[ but he can, and he has, despite all of her whining protests — a tactician, using her exploitable weaknesses against her. uselessly, her legs kick up, feet flailing to kick him in the back with all the grace of a fish flopping on land. when that does nothing but wind her, wheezing out an exhausted breath, she scowls — clawing into the snow, to gather a handful. ]

Good luck. [ stubbornly and imperiously defiant, until the very end. ] I'm not surrendering anything.

[ with that, she tosses that collected snow into the air, letting it whip like a fine mist back into his face. never let it be said that alina starkov yields easily. ]

cw: nsfw im sorry 😔

[business]

Hm.

( proportionally, alina has a pretty big ass as compared to the rest of her. it does a hypnotizing wave as he claps down on it, even through a few thick layers — with a certain level of immediacy, he spanks down on the other cheek, watching the motions all over again. he's entranced enough by her body, he really doesn't notices her flopping about — only snapping out of it once he's brained by more snow, huffing immediately at the icy bits that managed to get up his nose. )

Can't I? Who's going to stop me?

( alina? well, she certainly could, though he doubts she wants to. especially not as his hands palm over her ass, thumbs digging into the meat, sliding down until he can rub the seam of her pants. she's scorchingly hot here, and he has half a mind to warm his hands on her cunt, dip each finger into her like licking the flames of a fireplace.

but, you see, he's merciful and kind and resists that much, just shamelessly fondling her in a fairly open, public field. nothing he thinks twice about, really. anyone watching should enjoy the show. )

You know, if you surrendered, we'd already be in a nice, hot shower. ( he grins, moving his hands, so he can press the length of his erection up against her, grinding back and forth. ) And I'd be rubbing your back, kissing your spine. ( he barks a laugh ) Instead, you want to be a brat.

cw: shari isn't sorry

[peasant]

[ fabric might soften the blow, but alina's backside absorbs every bit of impact — a satisfying sting to her skin that has her seething out a hiss between her teeth, denying him the satisfaction of another stunned squeal. that injured pride, alina decides, is a worse ache than being spanked sore until her ass blossoms rose-red with the five-petals of his fingertips — if only due to the sheer smugness that radiates from him as brightly as the heat he kindles, his hand acting as the strike of a match against her senses.

she won't give him the satisfaction, she tells herself. her one last act of defiance in a battle she is destined to lose, muting the airy gasp that wants to leap from her throat, by sinking sharp teeth into her lower lip. a willing prisoner of war and soon to be a literal sore loser — but never one to throw a challenge. bratty, he could call it — but alina is well-aware of his fondness for it as it prods her, the length of him sliding against her tellingly. the satisfaction in her gaze tells a different story, one where she feels strangely worshiped by his body's quick reaction to her even while swathed in several layers, despite the look she casts over her shoulder — a disobedient roll of her eyes. ]

You don't want an easy surrender, [ she volleys back, letting self-satisfaction wrap itself in her words, as she parries him with her own teasing. ] Or you wouldn't be rutting against me like some kind of beast.

[ like they truly are creatures that belong to this forest, like he can pin her into submission. his terms of surrender make for a promising end to their day, pampered until she's pliant, but — it's nothing but a trick. an army promising a feast, after it's tried to starve her out from behind its castle walls, making her soft so she'll surrender.

her hips roll back, using what she can in her arsenal, drawing grinding circles into his front. as much as she can, anyway, when her movement is limited by his weight astride the backs of her thighs. ]

If you surrendered, we could be finding ways to get warm from more than just a hot shower. [ feigning indifference, she shrugs a shoulder, as if to say oh well. ] Instead, you want to be a smug bastard. Your loss, I suppose.

😠hdu

[business]

Well.

( breathless, he huffs a laugh, fogging a cloud in front of his red, chilly mouth. he's used to the cold, the night court being a northern state constantly coated in cold winds if not snow on the ground — raised there, he can tolerate below freezing temperatures for a significant amount of time. with his pants down? that's another question altogether.

yet, that's where he feels this going, his fingertips already unconsciously drifting to the waist of her pants, wanting to yank them down just to see the red handprints she must have blooming on her skin. on the one hand, getting fucked in the snow is exactly what a brat like alina deserves — on the other hand, when she inevitably gets a cold from her tits being pressed in the ice, every sneeze from her little nose is going to feel like a dagger made out of guilt stabbed into his chest. not an option. sighing as if greatly put out, rhys drags circles his hips against her ass with a lazy twist, bending to nuzzle against the back of her shoulder. )

Ugh. I hate losing. Now I'm set to be in a cross mood for the rest of the night. ( or not — kisses, like balm, soothe the better hurts of sore losers. ) Name your terms.

i am innocent unlike u

[peasant]

[ alina's head droops, much like the sagging branches around them, bent beneath lumps of snow. only — alina's dips toward the earth, the silken twine of ribbon flopping at the base of her ponytail, until it joins her in her secrecy. shrouds her in a veil of black, like a night sky swallowing a smile that's starshine bright in its triumph. a hunter who knows she's captured a prize, feeling a tug on the bait at the end of her string.

he's an easy man to lure, her rhysand. but her victory is born less from competitive needs, and more from the solid evidence that he wants her more than he wants a win in his pocket, more than he desires battles, more than conquests and clashes. white-sharp teeth nip her giddy smile back, held at bay, while her head tips to the side in consideration.

what terms could be drawn up, when he's freely given her any trophy? her hunger is as indecisive as her appetite, when presented with a spread of desserts, uncertain which to savor first, with such an unending buffet laid out for her pleasure. her eyes spark as dangerously as the ice-coated earth beneath them once they whirl to him, heart set on its target, knowing his struggles will be caramel-sweet when she proposes, ]

You don't get to come until morning. [ cruel woman. she can hear it, long before any groaning frustration rumbles the trees. if he's going to complain of sour moods, she's going to ensure he's as sore a loser as he can possibly embody. a pause, as her greed surveys all of her options, ever-predictable when she slyly adds, ] And you have to give me back the chocolates I know you stole. Do you think you can handle that?

doubt

[business]

Ugh.

( his complaint echoes, though it's a novel protestation at best. what alina has actually issued, more than a command, is a challenge — rhys has already lost once today, so he won't be forfeiting the next game so easily. not coming for a day is not actually a hard bet.

not coming when alina begs to be stuffed, filled, and otherwise creamed on, is another story.

but, he'll tough it out. he'll make it miserable for his greedy little donut saint, make her regret this particular denial by way of her own greed. grinning, he eases off his pin on her, knees tucking between her legs so she has more wiggle room. he sits back on his feet, hands fixing her coat back into place. )

Didn't anyone ever teach you any manners? Done. ( fluidly, he rolls her onto her back, reaching his hand briefly up to flick her nose. ) I'll even give extra chocolates, since you're cute.

( he stands and, extending an olive branch, offers alina his hand to help her up. if it seems suspiciously gentlemanly in the wake of their snow fight, that's maybe only because once alina is on her feet he bends down at the waist, head tucked into her hip, hand sliding between her legs and cupping under her ass. it's all so he can easily lift her up into a fireman carry, her small weight balanced evenly across his shoulders . )

Victory lap!

( he very excitably announces this, before setting off into a laughable jog, around the sunlight room. )

rude!!!

[peasant]

No.

[ an undisguised lie. alina refuses to reflect on what secrets it speaks, if she were to reveal her so-called manners had been corrected at the end of ana kuya's switch. nothing savory, she is certain — nothing that rhysand would not torment her for, reciting the same teasing until her flush has scorched her into ash and dust. claiming the reigning throne over a game he is more well-practiced at, as king of alina starkov's burning blushes, radiating heat that sparks wildfires across kingdoms. ]

Maybe I would learn, if I was taught some discipline ... Oh well.

[ she trails off, the cocking quirk of her eyebrow a clear challenge. through narrowed eyes, slits as cautious as the glint of a knife being unsheathed, she studies his hand — and reluctantly, stupidly, steps right into his snare by accepting it. he's resigned himself to his fate with only minimal complaint, after all — which would be cause for concern, if she were not so naively willing to believe the olive branches extended to her, mistaking his generosity as a means to wriggle some mercy out of her.

there will be no bleeding sympathy out of the relentless stone she's now determined to become, no matter how sweetly he begs for relief, once she discovers his trick. alina lets out a protesting, shrill squeak as she's tossed over his shoulders with all of the care given to sacks of potatoes, as the sky goes topsy-turvy around her.

and leaves her view, once she's forced to glower ahead of them, vibrating with every jogging step he takes. she kicks uselessly, a weak thump against his shoulder blade, to show her (alleged, possibly pretend) displeasure. ]

Victory laps are meant for victors! [ she huffs, sounding less grumpy about it than she should, latching onto his hair to yank. knowing rhys, she hardly expects it to be a deterrent — and she isn't so certain she wants it to be, when his laughter chimes like joyous bells. she won't be the one to pop that bubble of mirth. with a shake of her head, her lips curve, finding it horribly infectious. ] I'm going to make you regret this. Remember what you've done when you're begging me later.

😇 only honest

[business]

( if discipline is what she seeks, there may be no better teacher than the inexplicably shadowed fae lord before her. the hewn city is held on a tight leash, a dog in its own right — one he had to train with an iron fist, to bow when he commanded, to silence when he walked in a room. discipline and domination are the founding blocks of the night court, the exchange rate of pliancy and punishment a conversion he's had memorized since he was a child. alina wants a firm hand and high lord? she might regret such a desire, when she sees the ugliness he's capable of.

it feels far away now from the illyrian male who runs a course around in the snow, laughing heartily at alina's protestations — a knee to the chin, a tug of his hair, none of it rough enough to spoil all his fun. this is the man who should educate her? the one who, like a fox, seemingly can't look at a pile of snow without wanting to hop and jump and crunch through it? in hindsight, it's very funny. )

Actually, you're right. You should be carrying me.

( was that the outcome you were looking for, alina? manhandling her like an overgrown cat, rhys sets her back onto her feet, holding his arms out spread eagle so she can clamp around his tree trunk of a chest, and give it her best shot. long ears twitch in the artificial breezes of cold, rhys' hand long since abandoned in the snow. )

What will I beg you for, my starlight? Let's hear a premonition

i'm gonna cry do you want to make me CRY

[peasant]

[ of all the challenges she's encountered, all of the obstacles barricading her path — she's certain carrying rhys is as impossible as moving mountains and commanding raging rivers, bending nature to the whims of a small insignificant speck of a woman. keramzin may have taught her to to raise her feets for schoolyard scraps, to not topple when pushed, but — ravka had imparted its own lessons. pick and choose your battles. what point is there engaging in a war you can't possibly win, in trying to change minds that are as set as sturdy boots digging into the earth, refusing to be pushed?

she eyes him for a moment longer, mouth wrapped around a ridiculous smile, as though she's genuinely considering how to overcome life's newest trial, how to uproot the tall tree that is rhys — another aspect of mother earth that cannot be bowed or broken, unless it chooses to be. but if she can't raise him to the skies, then —

lowering him to her level is the next best thing. he has only a moment to spy danger, the knife-quick flash of a weapon gleaming in her eyes, before she stretches to the tips of her toes. raises herself higher, so she can bring him low by latching onto the tips of his twitching ears — and tugging like he's led by a rope, leaving him no choice but to bend toward her. ]

Mercy, [ she says simply, dripping with indolent smugness. a droplet of a kiss punctuates that promise, brushing his nose with the light swish of fluttering snowflakes. ] No saint is going to spare you from your fate tonight. Don't expect me to take it easy on you after all of your misbehaving.

If I told you the rest of your prophecy, you would have time to prepare. [ an omen glints in her smile, going giddily lopsided. ] Let's leave it a surprise.

no do you want ME to cry??

[business]

Youch.

( it doesn't actually hurt, namely because his ears are so numb from the cold that he feels the pressure of alina'a heat like some distant whisper in the back of his skull — mostly it's just a weird sensation, his pointed ears being used as reigns, flickering uncontrollably in her palms like the batting of a cat's. he bows, not wanting to fight her grip, and especially not wanting to deny himself the kiss she grants him.

neither the kiss he steals himself, tilting his chin to rob her entirely blind — a quick smack of a kiss, her lips still summer warm despite the snow. )

Oh, so no different from usual then.

( in his experience thus far, saints are plenty merciful after you beg them. alina has never been mean enough to tell him no when he asks for something politely. )

Or the difference is, this time, you won't immediately give in to my charms? I warn you, I'm very convincing. ( mischief is alight by twinkling stars in his eyes, a usual expression for one as tricky as rhys — his hands reach forward and cup her hips, giving her a sharp tug inward to his bent over body. ) Let's go have a burning hot shower and soothe our aches. It's traditional. Well — usually it's a bath and it's full of naked, exhausted Illyrian males, but I can only provide one of those for you, for now. Sorry.

yes ofc who do u think i am

[peasant]

[ no different from usual. it oozes with an arrogance that narrows her eyes to arrowpoints, now firmly set on their target. their conflict in the snow might have ended, but his cockiness has ensured that the battle has spilled over into full-blown warfare, her mind feverishly trying to tally every weak point in his defenses. every helpful piece in her arsenal, waiting to be fired to send him toppling and off-guard.

he's right, of course, that she is predictable in her pattern. but she lacks the drive to see shadows haunt his eyes, if she were going to admit the challenge she faces in straddling the line of his comfort, a balancing act in her uncertainty. how much is too much? how far is too far? will he mistake her for amarantha above him, if she were to use him as she pleases, taking what is owed to her? it's made her hesitant to deny him his requests, softened by the pleading plight in his voice, but —

maybe this is an act of trust on her part, too. having faith that he will warn her if she presses on any sore wounds, that he would not agree if he were sickened by the idea of becoming alina starkov's personal toy for the night, ridden with ruthless determination to chase what she needs from him. ]

You're underestimating me, kotyonok. I am notoriously immune to charm. Who said your mouth wouldn't be occupied, anyway?

[ she is not so unaffected by rhysand's brand of charming, bubbly and bright, but for the night? for the night, she can find an antidote for it. it shouldn't be difficult, she tells herself; he won't be capable of charming her if he can't speak. for now, she lets herself by swept away by his convincing hands, stepping into the lines of his body. mercifully, her fingers release his pinched-pink ears, smoothing over his shoulders. ]

Not too sore and exhausted already, I hope. [ a playfully pointed promise of what's to come when she slinks out of his hold, slippery, to brush past him. only to have a sudden change of heart, turning to him with a demanding raise of her arms. ] As champion, I'm owed the rest of my victory lap. Take us to our shower.