(no subject)
Title: Breathing Blessed
Author: shiegra
Fandom: Dragon Knights
Theme: all nineteen
Rating: varies. some might be light R depending on your sensibilites
Pairings: many, many, many
Disclaimer: I don't own DK
Notes: and here's nineteen. They've actually been done for quite a while, but I forgot to post them up.
03. Something that is inaccessible.
Tintlet remembers Rune.
Her fingers remember the curve of his spine, her lips the searing press of his mouth. Her heart remembers, oh so dear to her, the warmth of his soul and magic, the comforting wash of heat that had always been hers.
Tintlet waits for him, keeping faithful, binding Varawoo tightly to his watery prison. She holds her memories and her love for him close to her heart.
When her memories slip away, Tintlet fears everything she is or ever was, is lost forever.
01. A formal event.
“Another ball?”
Cool fingers sliding over her own and a warm smile when she turns to see him. She is happy every time she sees his face, gloriously, foolishly happy. “They’re happy, my love.” She replies, and her voice turns a little sad. “It isn’t that common anymore.”
His fingers tighten over hers and he pulls her closer almost possessively, turning his face into her hair. He smells like wood smoke and wilderness, and she wants to drop the glass in her hand and cling to him, drop kisses on the sleek skin over sleeker muscle.
Instead, she rests her head on his shoulder and stares out over the ballroom. Cesia’s smiles are a little absent, and she has barely tasted the alcohol Ruwalk gave her. Rath smiles but with an undercurrent of watchful tension. The two other Elemental dragon knights are more relaxed but attuned to their comrade’s mood, Rune eating with his customary delicacy, Thatz eating as fast as he can.
The amount of drunks is steadily mounting.
The Dragon Queen curls a little tighter into her King’s arms, smoothing her hands over his forearms. She is content here.
She closes her eyes and makes a wish.
02. Dreams.
Rim Kaana ranges alone for some time, waiting for her prey. She travels through woods and deserts, keeping Tintlet’s copy by her. The fairy’s memories plague her, making her remember things she would rather not. She dreams brief, vague dreams of a cool, considerate lover with golden hair, and she refuses to look at his face.
She awakes to Fedelta’s slanted, mocking eyes, focused in a thoughtful stare. She stares back before lowering her eyes. She is not powerful enough to challenge him, and he could take anything as an offense if he so chose.
“Trouble sleeping?” He says, and she hears the smirk in his voice.
Her spine stiffens and she sits up and jumps to the ground, light on her feet. Young as the girlish body is, young as she is in demon eyes, no demon’s life lends itself kindly to naivety and Rim Kaana knows exactly what the low heat in her belly means and wonders uncomfortably exactly how keen the fire demon’s senses are.
Maybe it is that curiosity that makes her reply, snappishly, “bad dreams.”
She feels his focus sharpen on her like a well honed blade. “Really.” He remarks. (smug bastard) “Is that what you call them?”
That answers her question and her cheeks burn as she begins to stalk away, the high heels she has adopted-maybe for fashion, maybe to make her even a little bit taller-making sharp sounds on the stone. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
And then he’s *there* and she can smell him, all hot smoky scent and she stumbles back a step before regaining her balance and glaring at that goddamn smirk. “I *am* your superior.” He reminds her lazily.
Rim stiffens her shoulders and glares back. She isn’t backing down. “Then don’t you have more-*superior*-things to do?” She suggests, angrily.
His smile widens and curls. “Sweet dreams.” He tells her, and is gone.
That night she dreams of heat and hands that move with almost savage surety over her skin, and she awakens flushed and writhing and nearly falls out of the tree, *really* wishing he was there so she could try to kill him.
By the time she sees him again her anger has faded enough beyond the fear/respect of his power that all she does is flush and glare and want to hate him, wishing she doesn’t remember the dream as clearly as she does.
04. Platonic love.
Pyore cried with Kuon Sheena for her boyfriend, wept and gave her little girl kisses and wrapped her arms around her. “I’m here for you.” She said bravely, sharing in the grief she imagined her sister felt. “I’m here.”
Kuon Sheena rested her head on her hair and closed her eyes, smiling. Demon or no demon, the warmth of the little girl body against hers drove doubts away.
05. Traps.
A slender girl, with pale skin and copious amounts of glossy black hair. Truly lovely, with a sweet smile and gentle eyes, laughing as she carefully counted out money to the vendor, and gathered up her fruit. “Thank you.” She told him, and collided with a solid body as she turned.
“I’m sorry.” A cultured voice said softly, and long fingers curled around her wrist, tugging her up as she gasped and nearly fell. “Clumsy of me.”
Kuon Sheena smiled as she looked up into Death’s eyes.
06. A deadly sin.
Lust, Kitchel muses as she turns away from Thatz’s profile across the room to smile at her target. If she approaches him now, he’ll lose *his* target. She smiles at the man. “Shall we do business?”
Greed, Kitchel thinks as she sees the shiny treasure that Thatz holds, then his too-casual face. She takes it out of her hand and sets it down on the table so she can press her mouth and body to his.
Gluttony, Kitchel considers as she tiptoes past the truly delicious looking feast, her fingers itching to get on the delectable pile of treasure sitting a few rooms away.
Anger, Kitchel hisses in her mind as she darts past the man shouting insults and swinging fists at her to leap for the window, bread tucked under her arm.
Envy, she growls through mental gritted teeth as she hauls the whore off Thatz and meets the challenge in his glittering eyes with a smirk.
Sloth, she wonders about as she pushes herself out of the hammock to saunter past the rich man and lady with their jewels, indulging his shameless stare as she indulges her urge to take his money purse.
Pride she ponders as she swings one long leg over her bed and watches Thatz dress. He’s leaving and she won’t stop him, but neither will she protest when he comes back again. Maybe this is an insult to her pride. He looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow and she grins, openly ogling him.
Maybe it’s just a pleasure.
07. Origins.
Tintlet in his bed, lips soft and warm and body willing, fingers cupped around his bicep and head tossed back, eyes closed as he pressed his mouth to her collarbone and shifted fractionally; hissed. He can’t ever imagine being without her and he tells her so.
She smiles at him as the dream ends, and Rune stares up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. *Wait.* He tells himself. *Just wait. Someday.*
08. Rejection.
Cesia held her breath, heart pounding in her ears as she watched Rath’s too-still body. But the chest didn’t rise, the breathing didn’t begin.
She wakes screaming, and her lover’s kisses comfort her as she runs her fingers through the white streak in his hair, trails them over the seamless place on the neck where, in another body, a sword once went through.
She knows it’s just a dream, and she endeavors to keep from sleeping the rest of the night.
She succeeds, but neither of them mind terribly much.
09. Haunting past.
Raseleane dreams of Nadil sometimes-the honed blade of seemingly lazy cruelty in his eyes, the feel of his skin. The sound of his laugh, so effortlessly enticing.
She wakes sweating and shivering from these dreams, and names them nightmares to Lykouleon’s knowing eyes.
She is almost certain he understands better than she likes.
10. Transparent feelings.
“You know,” He said once, propped on one elbow, sleekly naked and muscled, eyes thoughtful from beneath lowered lashes. “I knew from the beginning.”
He doesn’t need to elaborate.
Kitchel didn’t need knowledge. She didn’t need reassurance. She didn’t even need him to love her in return, or for him to acknowledge that love. She needed the burning pressure of his mouth and the physical aspect of love.
She wanted the sweet memories while she could still have them.
In the beginning it had mainly been fueled from adrenaline and opportunity. They were friends when they weren’t rivals or enemies, when she hadn’t stolen from him for a while, or sometimes when she had. Their relationship was tempestuous and confusing even to themselves.
She gave up a catch she could have made for a night laying beside him on a grassy hill, not speaking or making love, simply staring at the sky, his hand a solid presence on her ribs, above the steady pulse of her heartbeat.
But that was in reckless days when she grasped at the heady sensation of the moment, never sure if she would live another day, and now she works for the side of good, though really it just means stealing for more powerful, more enigmatic people.
Nevertheless, she still dreams of his heat.
11. Emotionally Shattered.
Raseleane, Dragon Queen, loves her King.
She loves him almost desperately-loves his patience and his strength, the glitter of his eyes and the slow curl of his smile, infinitely knowing. The gentle heat of his love and the intensity of his passion.
And they were so, so happy.
Then the Demon King came and shattered everything, gathered her up and laid his curse, his mark on her, and she never hated anyone so much in her life. It is a slow steady burn in her stomach, at times flaring up almost unbearably.
She sees his mark in others-the flare of terror in Cesia’s beautiful eyes, the bitter rage in Rath’s every movement though that is perhaps less Nadil’s fault than a thousand other contrasting factors, the despair that builds in everyone.
And the man she loves is dying, was dying in her arms as she wanted to weep and scream and beat her fists on the marble. Instead, she cradles his head, and closes her eyes. “I love you.” She says, for the thousandth time.
He smiles the smile she’s loved since the first time she ever saw it, and she doesn’t need any words.
As he closes his eyes and she is pulled away, she realizes, maybe for the first time, that this is war.
13. Flavor.
Rim Kaana doesn’t really like being in love with Rune.
It is a pleasant feeling but she can’t be sure that it isn’t *Tintlet’s* pleasant feeling and that very much disturbs her, making the emotion sit uncomfortably in her mind.
Rune is promises and dreams and butterfly wing-fragile hopes; she imagines him rich and slow like honey. Tintlet is bright, candy-sweet, and Kitchel is twists of brown sugar that melt in your mouth.
Thatz is something musky and earthy and disturbingly real, and the glances he and Kitchel exchange thoughtlessly, almost without realizing have the spicy scent of shared passion.
Shydeman and Shyrendora she imagines icy cool, maybe a taste more sharply bitter-sweet, and Nadil….Nadil is simple.
The Demon King is fear, and that taste is unforgettable.
Fedelta. Fedelta is where this thought train began and she really, really wants it to derail before it gets too far. Fedelta smells hot, a smoky dangerous scent like incense…but really more like the memory of blood.
Fedelta’s skin holds heat effortlessly-when he stands close to speak derisively to her, or to threaten her, the high temperature makes her skin prickle. His fingers, briefly and painfully(possessively?) pressed to the skin of her wrist, made her heart jump.
Rune is sweet, cool water and someone else’s. Fedelta is fierce, burning fire and something she will never let be hers.
15. Innocence.
Demons are bloody and violet and savage. Little of the usual romance exists between them-it isn’t, someone once said, in their nature. They are creatures made to kill.
Really. Replied his companion, a little girl with long, white streaked black hair. And where do you think little baby demons come from? Do you need to learn about the birds and the bees? And recorded conversation halted there, giving way to long-suffering silence.
Nonetheless he brings her a flower and makes a cutting remark, flattering if blunt, about how it looks against the strange purple bangs that hang over her Dragon Eyes. She tilts her head to the side, smiles at him and tugs his own white streak wordlessly, and they don’t hold hands but they go for a walk and when they come back, he’s a little rumpled and she looks like the cat that got the canary.
And she made him cake and made derisive noises about how he held the silverware, and she leaned over him to correct his grip and really the sugary kiss was worth the ache in her spine when she managed to step back.
And they held hands, occasionally, and if their grip was a little tight, a little desperate, they didn’t tell, and she would lean her head on his shoulder and they would walk almost in tandem, and in the end sometimes they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.
Because in the end, romance is all you make of it, and they’re used to building their own world.
14. Possession.
Demons like Fedelta, at least, do not lend themselves to traditional romance well.
But he’s branding her right now-*his*-with his mouth pressed to her skin, long coltish-girl’s legs wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his sides, head fallen back and mouth open. She keens in the back of her throat at the preternatural heat of his skin, even through the barrier of clothing. She’s little and defiant and the long, mock-fragile bones are in his hands.
He could break them as easily as he cradles them, grip a little too rough.
But demons like Rim Kaana, even those blooming from awkward adolescence where they were infatuated with fairies and fought against the Demon Lord, don’t take to the traditional romance any better.
She moans and laughs at the same time, and draws blood with her nails as he bites her on the collarbone.
They do just perfect together.
16. Redemption.
Rim Kaana wonder sometimes if what she feels is love. Rune loves Tintlet, and Tintlet loves Rune. Rune is gentle-his hand tracing Tintlet’s cheekbones, his mouth pressed to her cheek. And Rune is passionate-his open frustration as Tintlet insists she come with him. The familiar banter of two people who know each other very, very well. The pure rage in blue, blue eyes as he moves with the intent to kill, to protect his soulmate. Tintlet is sweet-the gentle music of her rare laugh, the brittle look of the smile Rim Kaana manipulated her facial muscles to make, and the pure bliss in the smaller smile she aims at Rune’s sheepish face. Tintlet is passionate-the obstinacy in the set of her mouth as she braces herself, clings to his sleeve.*Let me stay.* The cool determination in her set face as she deflected Rim from Zoma, with a dark undercurrent of ire.
With the memory of Rune’s touch, and the knowledge of Tintlet’s mind, Rim Kaana wants to kiss them both so much she can barely breathe.
17. The Afterlife.
“If I die,” Rath asks, head resting on Cesia’s collarbone, fingers tracing over her ribs. She traces the outline of his mouth as he speaks, and he grimaces at the tickling sensation, but doesn’t stop her. “What would you do?”
She pulls his head up towards hers, and mumbles the answer around the kiss. “I would go to the land of the dead and drag you back out.” She draws back to raise one eyebrow, and smiles. The expression is soft, and she is lovely in only rumpled sheets and the thick black curtain of her hair. “Again.”
18. Racism.
rac•ism
n.
1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.
“I’m a demon that kills demons.” Rath said with a smirk, sword against Saabel’s neck. Nadil was an unpleasant shock but not entirely unexpected and he spoke without conscious thought, feeling Thatz’s uncertain gaze on his back.
“I’m there for you, no matter what you are.” Cesia whispered to him, even knowing he was created from people who died to love him. Her lips were soft even on his forehead and he couldn’t catalogue her scent, but thought it was probably somewhere in the realm of ambrosia.
Kharl the alchemist stared at Rath with a mixture of clinical evaluation and covetousness.
You’re mine. His eyes said. “You were a horror.” His mouth said.
Fuck Nadil, he’s going in there and he’s going to rescue the woman(demon) that he loves, and he’ll slaughter each and every thing that gets in his way.
19. A natural disaster.
“The earthquake made me do it.” Kitchel told him a little later, finger tapping her mouth. At his disbelieving stare, she elaborated. “Adrenaline. Instincts and all that. Really wasn’t my fault at all.”
Thatz snorted. “Yeah. Right.”
“No, seriously.” She protested, widening her eyes and pausing to take a sip of her drink, fanning herself. They were sprawled in her bed, one of her long lean legs thrown over his hips. “I mean, come on. I have *some* pride.”
“I couldn’t tell.” He replied, and laughed as she smacked him, playfully.
“Thatz?” She asked a little sadly after a moment.
He turned his head to her, expression sobering. “Yeah?”
“Do you ever wonder….y’know…why we’re here?”
“To enjoy life.” He said a little too curtly, but his arm slid around her, wordless comfort. Her breath gusted against his skin, and he knew she appreciated it. Kitchel liked the simple things.
Her hair tickled his nose as she laid her head on his shoulder, gazing off into space and slowly rotating her wrist so the ice cubes clinked in her glass. “I like stealing.” She told him collarbone finally. “I enjoy it. I’m good at it. But occasionally it’s just like, is this what life’s about?”
He pressed his lips to her hair and turned on his side, stretching to put his now empty glass on the rickety, scarred little table by the head of her bed and shivering as she ran the backs of her fingers over his side. There was a bookshelf at the bed’s foot. A spare room, one kept for her by a grateful orphanage manager. “For you and me, maybe it is. Do you want something else?”
“Mm-mm.” She nuzzled his chest as he lay back, leaning over to press her forehead to his shoulder. “I’m happy. What I mean is-ah hell. Are you?”
“Right now?” He slid his cold hand down her spine, smiling as she hissed softly and arched, shivering. “Yeah.”
Her lips curved into a smile as she tipped her face up to press them to his.
20. Immortality.
“They say you gain immortality from your children.”
Lykouleon looked away from her, then sighed, turning back to press a kiss to his Queen’s temple. “Raseleane.” Her pale skin was incredibly soft, and she reached over her shoulder to press her fingers to his cheek.
“They do.” She insisted almost absently, ducking her head. Dark, wavy hair slid over her shoulder, and her lashes looked stark against the delicacy of her skin.
“Raseleane.” He said again, gentle as he lifted dark hair from her neck to press a kiss there, worshiping the fragile flutter of her pulse. Her head tilted back, resting on his shoulder.
“A king needs an heir.” She persisted, fingers tightening on the arm wrapped around her waist. “Lykouleon, you can’t deny it forever.”
He made a frustrated sound against her throat, closing his eyes and wrapping other arm around her. “I’m not denying anything I need.” He said gently, giving her one last squeeze before stepping back. “Raseleane, I don’t any heir that doesn’t come from you.”
She spun on him, mouth opening in fervent protest, but the words died in her throat at the look in his eyes.
“I mean it.” He said softly, and took a single long stop forward, boxing her in. There was frustration in his eyes, and his hands cupped her face, thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones, tracing the glittering path of tears. “I don’t need-want-I won’t *have* anyone but you.”
She closed her eyes. “You should-” She began, but the tears stopped.
He gave her a gentle shake. “I *should* nothing.” He responded softly, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t get foolish ideas. I’m not giving you up.” Then, alarm as fresh tears rolled down her skin. “Raseleane?”
“I’m *happy*, you fool.” She sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. “And I really, really shouldn’t be, because-”
His kiss cut her off.
“Because sex on a balcony is incredibly undignified.” She finished breathlessly when he let her go.
He arched one eyebrow. “Shall we remedy our location, then?”
Her laugh was sweet, clear and pure joy.
Author: shiegra
Fandom: Dragon Knights
Theme: all nineteen
Rating: varies. some might be light R depending on your sensibilites
Pairings: many, many, many
Disclaimer: I don't own DK
Notes: and here's nineteen. They've actually been done for quite a while, but I forgot to post them up.
03. Something that is inaccessible.
Tintlet remembers Rune.
Her fingers remember the curve of his spine, her lips the searing press of his mouth. Her heart remembers, oh so dear to her, the warmth of his soul and magic, the comforting wash of heat that had always been hers.
Tintlet waits for him, keeping faithful, binding Varawoo tightly to his watery prison. She holds her memories and her love for him close to her heart.
When her memories slip away, Tintlet fears everything she is or ever was, is lost forever.
01. A formal event.
“Another ball?”
Cool fingers sliding over her own and a warm smile when she turns to see him. She is happy every time she sees his face, gloriously, foolishly happy. “They’re happy, my love.” She replies, and her voice turns a little sad. “It isn’t that common anymore.”
His fingers tighten over hers and he pulls her closer almost possessively, turning his face into her hair. He smells like wood smoke and wilderness, and she wants to drop the glass in her hand and cling to him, drop kisses on the sleek skin over sleeker muscle.
Instead, she rests her head on his shoulder and stares out over the ballroom. Cesia’s smiles are a little absent, and she has barely tasted the alcohol Ruwalk gave her. Rath smiles but with an undercurrent of watchful tension. The two other Elemental dragon knights are more relaxed but attuned to their comrade’s mood, Rune eating with his customary delicacy, Thatz eating as fast as he can.
The amount of drunks is steadily mounting.
The Dragon Queen curls a little tighter into her King’s arms, smoothing her hands over his forearms. She is content here.
She closes her eyes and makes a wish.
02. Dreams.
Rim Kaana ranges alone for some time, waiting for her prey. She travels through woods and deserts, keeping Tintlet’s copy by her. The fairy’s memories plague her, making her remember things she would rather not. She dreams brief, vague dreams of a cool, considerate lover with golden hair, and she refuses to look at his face.
She awakes to Fedelta’s slanted, mocking eyes, focused in a thoughtful stare. She stares back before lowering her eyes. She is not powerful enough to challenge him, and he could take anything as an offense if he so chose.
“Trouble sleeping?” He says, and she hears the smirk in his voice.
Her spine stiffens and she sits up and jumps to the ground, light on her feet. Young as the girlish body is, young as she is in demon eyes, no demon’s life lends itself kindly to naivety and Rim Kaana knows exactly what the low heat in her belly means and wonders uncomfortably exactly how keen the fire demon’s senses are.
Maybe it is that curiosity that makes her reply, snappishly, “bad dreams.”
She feels his focus sharpen on her like a well honed blade. “Really.” He remarks. (smug bastard) “Is that what you call them?”
That answers her question and her cheeks burn as she begins to stalk away, the high heels she has adopted-maybe for fashion, maybe to make her even a little bit taller-making sharp sounds on the stone. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
And then he’s *there* and she can smell him, all hot smoky scent and she stumbles back a step before regaining her balance and glaring at that goddamn smirk. “I *am* your superior.” He reminds her lazily.
Rim stiffens her shoulders and glares back. She isn’t backing down. “Then don’t you have more-*superior*-things to do?” She suggests, angrily.
His smile widens and curls. “Sweet dreams.” He tells her, and is gone.
That night she dreams of heat and hands that move with almost savage surety over her skin, and she awakens flushed and writhing and nearly falls out of the tree, *really* wishing he was there so she could try to kill him.
By the time she sees him again her anger has faded enough beyond the fear/respect of his power that all she does is flush and glare and want to hate him, wishing she doesn’t remember the dream as clearly as she does.
04. Platonic love.
Pyore cried with Kuon Sheena for her boyfriend, wept and gave her little girl kisses and wrapped her arms around her. “I’m here for you.” She said bravely, sharing in the grief she imagined her sister felt. “I’m here.”
Kuon Sheena rested her head on her hair and closed her eyes, smiling. Demon or no demon, the warmth of the little girl body against hers drove doubts away.
05. Traps.
A slender girl, with pale skin and copious amounts of glossy black hair. Truly lovely, with a sweet smile and gentle eyes, laughing as she carefully counted out money to the vendor, and gathered up her fruit. “Thank you.” She told him, and collided with a solid body as she turned.
“I’m sorry.” A cultured voice said softly, and long fingers curled around her wrist, tugging her up as she gasped and nearly fell. “Clumsy of me.”
Kuon Sheena smiled as she looked up into Death’s eyes.
06. A deadly sin.
Lust, Kitchel muses as she turns away from Thatz’s profile across the room to smile at her target. If she approaches him now, he’ll lose *his* target. She smiles at the man. “Shall we do business?”
Greed, Kitchel thinks as she sees the shiny treasure that Thatz holds, then his too-casual face. She takes it out of her hand and sets it down on the table so she can press her mouth and body to his.
Gluttony, Kitchel considers as she tiptoes past the truly delicious looking feast, her fingers itching to get on the delectable pile of treasure sitting a few rooms away.
Anger, Kitchel hisses in her mind as she darts past the man shouting insults and swinging fists at her to leap for the window, bread tucked under her arm.
Envy, she growls through mental gritted teeth as she hauls the whore off Thatz and meets the challenge in his glittering eyes with a smirk.
Sloth, she wonders about as she pushes herself out of the hammock to saunter past the rich man and lady with their jewels, indulging his shameless stare as she indulges her urge to take his money purse.
Pride she ponders as she swings one long leg over her bed and watches Thatz dress. He’s leaving and she won’t stop him, but neither will she protest when he comes back again. Maybe this is an insult to her pride. He looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow and she grins, openly ogling him.
Maybe it’s just a pleasure.
07. Origins.
Tintlet in his bed, lips soft and warm and body willing, fingers cupped around his bicep and head tossed back, eyes closed as he pressed his mouth to her collarbone and shifted fractionally; hissed. He can’t ever imagine being without her and he tells her so.
She smiles at him as the dream ends, and Rune stares up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. *Wait.* He tells himself. *Just wait. Someday.*
08. Rejection.
Cesia held her breath, heart pounding in her ears as she watched Rath’s too-still body. But the chest didn’t rise, the breathing didn’t begin.
She wakes screaming, and her lover’s kisses comfort her as she runs her fingers through the white streak in his hair, trails them over the seamless place on the neck where, in another body, a sword once went through.
She knows it’s just a dream, and she endeavors to keep from sleeping the rest of the night.
She succeeds, but neither of them mind terribly much.
09. Haunting past.
Raseleane dreams of Nadil sometimes-the honed blade of seemingly lazy cruelty in his eyes, the feel of his skin. The sound of his laugh, so effortlessly enticing.
She wakes sweating and shivering from these dreams, and names them nightmares to Lykouleon’s knowing eyes.
She is almost certain he understands better than she likes.
10. Transparent feelings.
“You know,” He said once, propped on one elbow, sleekly naked and muscled, eyes thoughtful from beneath lowered lashes. “I knew from the beginning.”
He doesn’t need to elaborate.
Kitchel didn’t need knowledge. She didn’t need reassurance. She didn’t even need him to love her in return, or for him to acknowledge that love. She needed the burning pressure of his mouth and the physical aspect of love.
She wanted the sweet memories while she could still have them.
In the beginning it had mainly been fueled from adrenaline and opportunity. They were friends when they weren’t rivals or enemies, when she hadn’t stolen from him for a while, or sometimes when she had. Their relationship was tempestuous and confusing even to themselves.
She gave up a catch she could have made for a night laying beside him on a grassy hill, not speaking or making love, simply staring at the sky, his hand a solid presence on her ribs, above the steady pulse of her heartbeat.
But that was in reckless days when she grasped at the heady sensation of the moment, never sure if she would live another day, and now she works for the side of good, though really it just means stealing for more powerful, more enigmatic people.
Nevertheless, she still dreams of his heat.
11. Emotionally Shattered.
Raseleane, Dragon Queen, loves her King.
She loves him almost desperately-loves his patience and his strength, the glitter of his eyes and the slow curl of his smile, infinitely knowing. The gentle heat of his love and the intensity of his passion.
And they were so, so happy.
Then the Demon King came and shattered everything, gathered her up and laid his curse, his mark on her, and she never hated anyone so much in her life. It is a slow steady burn in her stomach, at times flaring up almost unbearably.
She sees his mark in others-the flare of terror in Cesia’s beautiful eyes, the bitter rage in Rath’s every movement though that is perhaps less Nadil’s fault than a thousand other contrasting factors, the despair that builds in everyone.
And the man she loves is dying, was dying in her arms as she wanted to weep and scream and beat her fists on the marble. Instead, she cradles his head, and closes her eyes. “I love you.” She says, for the thousandth time.
He smiles the smile she’s loved since the first time she ever saw it, and she doesn’t need any words.
As he closes his eyes and she is pulled away, she realizes, maybe for the first time, that this is war.
13. Flavor.
Rim Kaana doesn’t really like being in love with Rune.
It is a pleasant feeling but she can’t be sure that it isn’t *Tintlet’s* pleasant feeling and that very much disturbs her, making the emotion sit uncomfortably in her mind.
Rune is promises and dreams and butterfly wing-fragile hopes; she imagines him rich and slow like honey. Tintlet is bright, candy-sweet, and Kitchel is twists of brown sugar that melt in your mouth.
Thatz is something musky and earthy and disturbingly real, and the glances he and Kitchel exchange thoughtlessly, almost without realizing have the spicy scent of shared passion.
Shydeman and Shyrendora she imagines icy cool, maybe a taste more sharply bitter-sweet, and Nadil….Nadil is simple.
The Demon King is fear, and that taste is unforgettable.
Fedelta. Fedelta is where this thought train began and she really, really wants it to derail before it gets too far. Fedelta smells hot, a smoky dangerous scent like incense…but really more like the memory of blood.
Fedelta’s skin holds heat effortlessly-when he stands close to speak derisively to her, or to threaten her, the high temperature makes her skin prickle. His fingers, briefly and painfully(possessively?) pressed to the skin of her wrist, made her heart jump.
Rune is sweet, cool water and someone else’s. Fedelta is fierce, burning fire and something she will never let be hers.
15. Innocence.
Demons are bloody and violet and savage. Little of the usual romance exists between them-it isn’t, someone once said, in their nature. They are creatures made to kill.
Really. Replied his companion, a little girl with long, white streaked black hair. And where do you think little baby demons come from? Do you need to learn about the birds and the bees? And recorded conversation halted there, giving way to long-suffering silence.
Nonetheless he brings her a flower and makes a cutting remark, flattering if blunt, about how it looks against the strange purple bangs that hang over her Dragon Eyes. She tilts her head to the side, smiles at him and tugs his own white streak wordlessly, and they don’t hold hands but they go for a walk and when they come back, he’s a little rumpled and she looks like the cat that got the canary.
And she made him cake and made derisive noises about how he held the silverware, and she leaned over him to correct his grip and really the sugary kiss was worth the ache in her spine when she managed to step back.
And they held hands, occasionally, and if their grip was a little tight, a little desperate, they didn’t tell, and she would lean her head on his shoulder and they would walk almost in tandem, and in the end sometimes they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.
Because in the end, romance is all you make of it, and they’re used to building their own world.
14. Possession.
Demons like Fedelta, at least, do not lend themselves to traditional romance well.
But he’s branding her right now-*his*-with his mouth pressed to her skin, long coltish-girl’s legs wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his sides, head fallen back and mouth open. She keens in the back of her throat at the preternatural heat of his skin, even through the barrier of clothing. She’s little and defiant and the long, mock-fragile bones are in his hands.
He could break them as easily as he cradles them, grip a little too rough.
But demons like Rim Kaana, even those blooming from awkward adolescence where they were infatuated with fairies and fought against the Demon Lord, don’t take to the traditional romance any better.
She moans and laughs at the same time, and draws blood with her nails as he bites her on the collarbone.
They do just perfect together.
16. Redemption.
Rim Kaana wonder sometimes if what she feels is love. Rune loves Tintlet, and Tintlet loves Rune. Rune is gentle-his hand tracing Tintlet’s cheekbones, his mouth pressed to her cheek. And Rune is passionate-his open frustration as Tintlet insists she come with him. The familiar banter of two people who know each other very, very well. The pure rage in blue, blue eyes as he moves with the intent to kill, to protect his soulmate. Tintlet is sweet-the gentle music of her rare laugh, the brittle look of the smile Rim Kaana manipulated her facial muscles to make, and the pure bliss in the smaller smile she aims at Rune’s sheepish face. Tintlet is passionate-the obstinacy in the set of her mouth as she braces herself, clings to his sleeve.*Let me stay.* The cool determination in her set face as she deflected Rim from Zoma, with a dark undercurrent of ire.
With the memory of Rune’s touch, and the knowledge of Tintlet’s mind, Rim Kaana wants to kiss them both so much she can barely breathe.
17. The Afterlife.
“If I die,” Rath asks, head resting on Cesia’s collarbone, fingers tracing over her ribs. She traces the outline of his mouth as he speaks, and he grimaces at the tickling sensation, but doesn’t stop her. “What would you do?”
She pulls his head up towards hers, and mumbles the answer around the kiss. “I would go to the land of the dead and drag you back out.” She draws back to raise one eyebrow, and smiles. The expression is soft, and she is lovely in only rumpled sheets and the thick black curtain of her hair. “Again.”
18. Racism.
rac•ism
n.
1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.
“I’m a demon that kills demons.” Rath said with a smirk, sword against Saabel’s neck. Nadil was an unpleasant shock but not entirely unexpected and he spoke without conscious thought, feeling Thatz’s uncertain gaze on his back.
“I’m there for you, no matter what you are.” Cesia whispered to him, even knowing he was created from people who died to love him. Her lips were soft even on his forehead and he couldn’t catalogue her scent, but thought it was probably somewhere in the realm of ambrosia.
Kharl the alchemist stared at Rath with a mixture of clinical evaluation and covetousness.
You’re mine. His eyes said. “You were a horror.” His mouth said.
Fuck Nadil, he’s going in there and he’s going to rescue the woman(demon) that he loves, and he’ll slaughter each and every thing that gets in his way.
19. A natural disaster.
“The earthquake made me do it.” Kitchel told him a little later, finger tapping her mouth. At his disbelieving stare, she elaborated. “Adrenaline. Instincts and all that. Really wasn’t my fault at all.”
Thatz snorted. “Yeah. Right.”
“No, seriously.” She protested, widening her eyes and pausing to take a sip of her drink, fanning herself. They were sprawled in her bed, one of her long lean legs thrown over his hips. “I mean, come on. I have *some* pride.”
“I couldn’t tell.” He replied, and laughed as she smacked him, playfully.
“Thatz?” She asked a little sadly after a moment.
He turned his head to her, expression sobering. “Yeah?”
“Do you ever wonder….y’know…why we’re here?”
“To enjoy life.” He said a little too curtly, but his arm slid around her, wordless comfort. Her breath gusted against his skin, and he knew she appreciated it. Kitchel liked the simple things.
Her hair tickled his nose as she laid her head on his shoulder, gazing off into space and slowly rotating her wrist so the ice cubes clinked in her glass. “I like stealing.” She told him collarbone finally. “I enjoy it. I’m good at it. But occasionally it’s just like, is this what life’s about?”
He pressed his lips to her hair and turned on his side, stretching to put his now empty glass on the rickety, scarred little table by the head of her bed and shivering as she ran the backs of her fingers over his side. There was a bookshelf at the bed’s foot. A spare room, one kept for her by a grateful orphanage manager. “For you and me, maybe it is. Do you want something else?”
“Mm-mm.” She nuzzled his chest as he lay back, leaning over to press her forehead to his shoulder. “I’m happy. What I mean is-ah hell. Are you?”
“Right now?” He slid his cold hand down her spine, smiling as she hissed softly and arched, shivering. “Yeah.”
Her lips curved into a smile as she tipped her face up to press them to his.
20. Immortality.
“They say you gain immortality from your children.”
Lykouleon looked away from her, then sighed, turning back to press a kiss to his Queen’s temple. “Raseleane.” Her pale skin was incredibly soft, and she reached over her shoulder to press her fingers to his cheek.
“They do.” She insisted almost absently, ducking her head. Dark, wavy hair slid over her shoulder, and her lashes looked stark against the delicacy of her skin.
“Raseleane.” He said again, gentle as he lifted dark hair from her neck to press a kiss there, worshiping the fragile flutter of her pulse. Her head tilted back, resting on his shoulder.
“A king needs an heir.” She persisted, fingers tightening on the arm wrapped around her waist. “Lykouleon, you can’t deny it forever.”
He made a frustrated sound against her throat, closing his eyes and wrapping other arm around her. “I’m not denying anything I need.” He said gently, giving her one last squeeze before stepping back. “Raseleane, I don’t any heir that doesn’t come from you.”
She spun on him, mouth opening in fervent protest, but the words died in her throat at the look in his eyes.
“I mean it.” He said softly, and took a single long stop forward, boxing her in. There was frustration in his eyes, and his hands cupped her face, thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones, tracing the glittering path of tears. “I don’t need-want-I won’t *have* anyone but you.”
She closed her eyes. “You should-” She began, but the tears stopped.
He gave her a gentle shake. “I *should* nothing.” He responded softly, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t get foolish ideas. I’m not giving you up.” Then, alarm as fresh tears rolled down her skin. “Raseleane?”
“I’m *happy*, you fool.” She sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. “And I really, really shouldn’t be, because-”
His kiss cut her off.
“Because sex on a balcony is incredibly undignified.” She finished breathlessly when he let her go.
He arched one eyebrow. “Shall we remedy our location, then?”
Her laugh was sweet, clear and pure joy.