[ You always find yourself in great danger, she thinks to herself. It's a trait true of all of them, as expected as the sun rising to shine another day. Peace is a fleeting, fleeing thing — just like the security of surviving to another day, or the foolish hope that they may win this war yet. It only makes her want to seize it, only makes her want to live, free from the regret of walking away from this and leaving herself to wonder what if?
If any of them are going to become martyrs, they may as well throw caution to the wind. Alina's soft eyes spark, shining with an amused tease. ]
Wasn't that the deal we made last night?
[ Though it's a harmless joke, she doesn't want to dwell on bargains and deals, on considerations and proposals. Not now, not enclosed in this private bubble, not yet pierced by politics or war. She tilts her head like an animal leaning into touch, welcoming the graze of his fingers as they tickle across her skin, and letting her eyes flutter closed. Despite the hammering beat of her heart, pounding against her chest like a caged bird, the careful stroke of his hands is a soothing balm against her nerves. ]
You can, if you're feeling brave. [ The corner of her mouth twitches upward. ] Just don't knock me onto the floor at all, or you'll absolutely be in grave danger.
I don't know if brave is the word. [ mused mostly to himself, because he's certainly not feeling all that brave right now. when he leaves his quarters it's with the smile firmly in place, ready to dole out endless optimism and model the fearlessness he wishes they all could have. but here in his bed, it's often just him. it's here that he can turn over all his doubts without worrying if it's going to affect morale or plant the seed of uncertainty that ravka can't afford. there is far less bravery that goes on in this room than he would like everyone to believe, and far more sleepless nights than he cares to recount.
alina will discover these truths on her own, nikolai thinks, if he's lucky. if she's unlucky. for now it's nothing she needs to know. he's content to draw closer, his hand still grazing her cheek. ]
I won't knock you to the floor. [ he smiles before their lips press together, slow and sweet, a hint of jam still on her tongue. kissing alina is a bit like tasting the sun — near-painful brightness bathed in warmth, and nikolai can't help but wish once more that he could spend the entire day in this perfect patch of her sunlight.
this time they're not on a hard floor and he's not pleasantly buzzed on brandy. it makes it easier to gently guide her back onto the pillows, his hand curling in her hair. with his other he finds her hand, lacing their fingers together as they sink into the soft mattress. he traces her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, a feather-like pressure like he's asking permission to come inside from a long rain.
her mouth makes him forget his restless night and even his thoughts from just moments ago, instead feeling some of the ever-present tension drain away as if chased off by the simple action of kissing her. his hand travels from her hair to the slope of her jaw, trailing down the delicate line of her throat before his fingers settle above her heartbeat. ]
How is it that you look this lovely so early in the morning? [ he kisses her mouth again, then her chin, his lips grazing down her jaw. letting go of her hand, he instead draws his palm down the side of her gown, stopping to rest at her hip. ] Are you and Mal holding onto some Keramzin secrets?
i'm gonna throttle dreamwidth for not giving me this notif >:( betrayal
[ Lovely. It sounds like an impossible thing, but no less impossible than the one word that comes to mind when she peers at him above her, framed by the soft spill of the morning light: tired. As if the glow of the sunrise has illuminated the blue blooms of circles beneath his eyes, the weary lines that want to etch themselves into his skin, the unkempt spill of his hair. Everything that is human about Nikolai Lantsov. Everything that doesn't belong in a pretty portrait hanging above a throne.
Maybe that's what he is. A delicate portrait — beautiful from afar, his colors bleeding apart as she comes closer. One wrong brushstroke and the entire piece unravels. Her thumb sweeps beneath his eye, as though it might erase the existence of his exhaustion. Perhaps it's only fair that she should know the shape of it beneath her fingers, the feel of it in her hands, when he holds the secret of her heartbeat beating against his palm — wild and erratic, despite the softness of his sheets at her back.
Her fingers splay over the sharp angle of his cheek before winding into his hair, twisting it around her fingers like shining, golden thread. There is something so vulnerable about him like this that she can't help but to want to hold onto it, torn between mussing him further and welcoming him to find his peace with her, if only for a little while.
(That's all that people like them can have before the world demands more: a little while.) ]
I have many secrets.
[ A joke too close to the truth. Her heartbeat spikes in response, but it can easily be blamed by the fingers tickling down her sides, the soft petaling of his mouth against her chin, her jaw, as she tips her throat with a pleased little hum in response. ]
Trying to interrogate me like this is an abuse of power, Nikolai.
[ It's his only warning before she coils her legs around the bend of his hips and shoves at his shoulders, with every intent to try to reverse their positions. Mostly, she can fnally admit to herself, because she's overcome by the sudden urge to kiss him again, and again, and perhaps again until they have to be forced apart by duties she has, in this very moment, forgotten to care about. ]
[ something so simple as alina's gaze makes him absurdly nervous. he's used to crowds of eyes on him, enjoys the attention, even, but this is nothing like what he's used to. this level of scrutiny, this close, this intimate — it sets him on edge in a way he's never felt before. perhaps because he's never felt this before, the way he feels about alina. even with dominik it was different. he was a familiar presence at his side for so much of his life that when they finally named what it was between them, it felt natural.
he was used to dominik seeing the rough-hewn parts of him. but with alina, it's new. she's seen sturmhond and she's seen the prince. she hasn't seen nikolai running on too little sleep, or nikolai when he's backed into a corner, or nikolai when he feels like nothing but a bastard and a fraud. nikolai the charming prince always knows what to say, but perhaps she doesn't know that the cost of that is running through dozens of scenarios at once, thinking of every possible outcome, analyzing all the ways any given situation can go wrong. his brain never turns off, and it's overwhelming at times, though he's taught himself to simply smile through it.
he fixates on what alina might be seeing, what she might be thinking, and — as if he needs even more thoughts in his head — he wishes he was a mind-reader. he grins at her words, immediately recognizing the truth in them and wondering if it's even possible for people like them to come together and reach a point where no secrets remain between them.
he doesn't know. it's hardly happened before, and even when it did, the price dominik paid was far too high.
still. there is a certain thrill in being pushed onto his back with a handful of alina on top of him. he reaches up and brushes back the veil of her hair, tucking it behind one ear so he can see her face, and it once again strikes him just how pretty she is. he tilts his mouth up to kiss her gently, his hand settling at the curve of her back. ]
Is it? I suppose you'll have to punish me then. [ he smiles, his own duties not forgotten but very much ignored as he intentionally pushes them out of mind. ] I admit that you'll probably have to do quite a lot of that as we get closer. I find rules difficult to follow.
Or have you made so many rules that it's difficult to remember to follow them?
[ An eyebrow raises, challenging. Weakness is a guise. The less you say the more words your weight carries. Meet insults with laughter. All of his spouted wisdom has created a series of complex rules that she has discovered are nearly impossible to navigate, a structure that leaves no room for fumbling without its whole foundation crumbling apart around her. Some time ago, she might have assumed princes — with all of their influence and power and prestige — would have the freedom to establish their own rules, but she hadn't known Nikolai then. Had barely come into her own power, and what the title thrust upon her might mean for the future of Ravka.
He is as trapped as any of them, she thinks. It only happens that his cage is more gilded, its extravagance giving the illusion of freedom. Perhaps that's worse, but she doesn't want to think of the traps they've set for themselves. Even if the lingering hint of alcohol on his breath is a reminder, traces of fine liquor from his attempts to charm nobles into coughing up coin the night prior, offsetting the sharp sweetness of jam. She chases after the taste with a low hum in her throat, swiping over his bottom lip, sweeping her tongue into his mouth with a greed that, in quieter and isolated hours, often frightens her.
A warm flush paints itself across her cheek when she pulls back, lips shining as she presses them to the corner of his own — as if she isn't in need of catching her breath, as if her heart isn't threatening to plunge through her chest, as if each kiss doesn't radiate through her until she is molten, as if she has more restraint than to kiss him until her lungs die out.
She hardly does. It's an overestimation of her self-control, and the unnatural golden glow to her eyes, when she leans back to look at him, proves it. It sparks and fizzles out, much like the dying light of a setting sun, but she is too preoccupied with outlining his mouth with idle strokes of her fingertips to realize any of it. Her lips curve, the only warning of her deliberately annoying cheekiness before it spills out of her. ]
The more you offer it, the more I start to think Nikolai Lantsov has a secret taste for punishment.
We'll add one more to the list. [ because, yes, he has in fact created an absurdly convoluted set of contradictory nikolai-isms that only manage to work due to an excess of confidence and utter lack of shame. ] Rules are meant to be broken by kings, queens, scoundrels, and the sun.
[ he has more to add, but his thoughts ebb away when the sweetness of alina's mouth takes over, her kiss far more demanding than expected, though he hardly minds. her tongue is welcomed wholeheartedly, his lips parting to allow her to deepen the kiss while his hand travels up her spine to grip the base of her skull, fingers tangling in her hair. it's a moment that he can lose himself in, a moment that temporarily quiets the discord in his mind, and for that, he's grateful — grateful that she somehow holds the power to make that happen at all.
he hums into her mouth, sighing audibly when she pulls away and catching a glimpse of the spark in her eyes. they glow with a nearly otherworldly aura, as captivating as it is brief. considering he has one of the most powerful grisha that has ever lived currently in his bed, perhaps her comment on his taste for punishment isn't entirely off the mark. ]
I can tell when people say yes to me just because of who I am and not because they see the reason behind my actions. [ he runs his thumb along the color blooming in her cheeks, her skin warm, and smiles gently at the feel of her fingertips at his mouth, stealing a quick kiss to the pad of her ring finger. ] I love hearing the word yes. But I despise it when it comes like that. I'd rather have a long, difficult argument than for someone to feel they were coerced by me.
[ beneath the sheets, his knee rises slowly to push between her legs, feeling the silk of her gown hike up with the movement. he brushes her hair back again, this time over her shoulder so he can tilt up and press a kiss to her collarbone, his lips moving higher along the column of her throat and finally settling just beneath her earlobe. he tongues at the soft skin before sucking sharply, delicately placing what will eventually blossom into a bruise, easily hidden by her hair. ]
Sometimes I think I do rather enjoy my own misery. [ he kisses her jaw before settling back, a hazy desire in his eyes but feeling content to simply stew in it. ] It's far better than fighting it.
[ She doesn't need to ask if she's played a hand in that misery. On some days, his proposal looms like an axe above their heads, waiting to drop and sever that tenuous, precarious connection she feels they've formed. On others, she can sense the strain her silence has created, incapable of easily granting him the answer he must want to hear.
Still, she understands it. That clawing, desperate need to prove one's self beyond titles and recognition and power. That pounding ache of a heart, wishing it was wanted for every scar and wound and virtue. Misery loves company, she had jested, but maybe there's an ugly scrap of truth in it she hadn't realized. In the end, she is just as miserable, just as keen to fight for her right to be wanted as she is: Sun Summoner and Alina Starkov and everything in-between. ]
We're at war because I'm very difficult to coerce.
[ But she doesn't want to consider their common enemy, doesn't want to invite her mind to remind her he had once brushed his lips against the same hidden, delicate skin of her throat. That his hands have once roamed where Nikolai's have. His fingers brush that unwelcome ghost away, driving away the poisonous reminder of what he had planned for her. Alina sighs into it, the bright red mark already beginning to flower along pale skin.
An entirely different brand, without the same possessiveness of Morozova's collar shining at her throat, reflecting the morning sunlight haloing around them. Her head tilts, spilling her hair over her shoulder like a stream, as she considers him through a half-lidded gaze that gives far too much of her wanting away.
She leans forward, her breath a whisper against the shell of his ear. ]
Be a little less miserable with me.
[ If only for awhile. If only for now. She nuzzles into the column of his throat, tracing her lips down its column, letting her exhales heat the wet trail she leaves behind as if it's her own argument to convince him. It's there she buries the sudden sting of her self-consciousness when she grinds down against the bend of his knee, breath hitching against the crook of his neck, the silk of her nightgown hitching higher to tangle around her thighs. The friction is hardly enough, could never be enough, but it's her own proposal left in his hands.
Even as she waits, a little agonized, and blindly reaches across the sheets to grapple for his hand. As if convinced that without that anchor, no matter how often he has thrown himself into the fire, he might very well flee from her. ]
Edited (tmw you realize your embarrassing mistake of not editing the subject line.......... phone tagging betrayed me) 2020-11-10 07:32 (UTC)
[ he wouldn't attribute his misery to her, per se, but to the idea that she and everyone else seems to buy into — that he is never anyone's first choice. not for the throne, not to wed, not for the things that matter to him. and he can't fault her or his family or anyone else, and perhaps that's why the truth remains painfully wedged between his ribs, because it has nowhere else to go. it simply is, and despite the countless nights it's kept him awake, it doesn't deter him from striving to be the best at everything he does anyway.
her request earns her a smile even while he can see the pain schooled away behind her expression. he's only heard about the hell that she and mal have been through at the darkling's hands, but all the impressions of it are plain to see for anyone who cares enough to look. his mouth presses to the tumble of her hair when she leans in, exhaling sharply when he feels her grind down against his leg. ]
I, for one, love a difficult woman. [ she finds his hand, and he squeezes back tightly in a warm, reassuring grip. ] Your conviction. Your strong will. Your inability to be led where you don't want to go. All of those things are what makes you so appealing.
[ he wants her to hear it, even if it goes unspoken. all the things the darkling didn't want about you are exactly why i asked you to be my queen.
even now, right in this moment, she's practically thrown the gauntlet at his feet. he pulls their twined hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles before letting go and reversing their positions yet again, grinning down at her when she ends up back against the pillows. he kisses down her throat while his hand disappears beneath the sheets, running down the line of her body, down her waist and past her hips, down to the bunched end of her gown to grasp the fabric and pull it higher. ]
I would be a little less of anything for you. [ his mouth finds hers again, humming softly as he kisses her, his hand moving at the same moment to draw his fingers between her legs, only a thin bit of fabric separating them. he presses down to feel her warmth. ] Just don't ask me to be less handsome. It's a difficult and uncomfortable request.
[ within the span of one heaving breath and the next, she finds herself believing him. it should be a balm to an old ache, wounds that have marked her with festering scars, but it's as precarious as splitting the skin back open again. because he has seen her, cracked her open and looked inside, and as much as she has come to him craving that —
it's as terrifying as plunging into the sea. it's as exhilarating as the wind whipping in her hair. it's as dangerous as hope, with a faith that is twice as deadly, when she thinks of every pretty, sweet word that nikolai has carefully constructed to get his way. it's just another skill in a long list of talents — that silver tongue, capable of telling anyone what they wish to hear. for a moment, she wonders if the truth of her heart has been that open, that obvious.
but even in knowing that — saints, she believes him, even when he tells her i would be a little less of anything for you. he has offered her so much, and perhaps for the first time, she can allow herself to be selfish and take this from him. she blinks back up at him, a little dazedly doe-eyed from how struck she is by everything that he is, just before his fingers descend.
the groan that tears out of her throat, hoarse and rasping, is not entirely from pleasure. leave it to nikolai to be an incorrigible bastard, even in this. what is worse is how utterly right he is; the soft glow of morning light spilling along his skin makes him look ethereal, a mythical creature hovering above her — what should be untouchable, to someone like her. annoyingly handsome, and just as annoyingly capable of speech, when just the light pressure of his fingers has her arcing into that touch.
alina's retribution is the sharp nip of her teeth, sinking into the plushness of his lower lip. she isn't doing this right, if he is still in possession of a vocabulary, if he can still think a thought when she's overcome with her own urge to loosen the threads that hold him together. just for awhile. just until there is nothing but the rawness of his honest reaction. just until he stitches himself back together again and remembers what he is.
just until they're even, to lessen the embarrassment of that thin scrap between them, soaked through and clinging to her skin. her fingers clench around his shoulders, gripping and clasping and digging in, before she drags her nails weakly down his spine. ]
You could stand to be a little less of a smug idiot.
[ the usual, snarky bite to it is suspiciously absent, courtesy of her breathlessness. still: alina starkov, queen of sweet nothings. ]
Edited (did i seriously forget to pick an icon smh) 2020-11-13 04:08 (UTC)
[ her bite comes with a spark of pain that only makes him grin, a contented growl rumbling deep in his throat. for all of his posturing, there's still a small part of him that can't quite believe this is happening. that alina is in his bed at all. there have been so many times he wished to approach her to talk about absolutely nothing, so many moments held in the privacy of his own head but always thwarted by this or that or the other. so many times he's looked at her from across a room and caught her gaze gravitating toward mal instead.
but now she's here, and she seems to want to be here, and she doesn't pull away from his touch. he doesn't mind the scratch marks at his shoulders and back. he doesn't even mind being a smug idiot right now. he just wants to savor this moment, to commit it to memory, to admire the sunlight against her skin. it's the loveliest sight he's seen in days. ]
I believe charming is the correct word.
[ he hooks a finger around the fabric of her underwear, slowly easing it down while his lips find hers again, kissing her softly, his eyes fluttering open to watch her face. there's a question in his gaze, an is this okay that floats to meet her eyes. despite the brandy he was buzzed on, he remembers it when she told him that she hadn't done this before.
his fingers slide gently along the now bare wetness between her legs, caressing her carefully. their noses brush, his unkempt hair falling to brush his forehead. ] Honestly, I have a bit of experience with this and that, but not as much as I tend to lead people to believe. It's difficult, at times. Lantsov men tend to take what they want, but maybe it's because my blood's been spoiled already that I crave a little more than a meaningless encounter.
[ he rises, not putting into words that this could very well be meaningless because he still feels uncertain about where exactly he stands in all this. he lifts one of her legs, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her thigh. ]
May I? [ he pulls her panties off the rest of the way, dropping it over the side of the bed and planting another line of kisses down the inside of her thigh. ] If you absolutely hate it, feel free to kick me. I'll get the message.
[ spoiled. that single word knots around her heart like scar tissue, seeps into the wounds that already exist — old injuries from an orphaned childhood, from the acute pain of never quite belonging in any one place. it's the outsider in her soul that recognizes the same in his, even if he treats it so cavalierly as he does now. even if he wears it as his armor, so that the next remark of his bastard status might simply slide off of the metal without causing any damage.
it's enviable, in a way, to capture that confidence. it's miserable, in another, to know its creation came from every dirty look and ill word. she doesn't want to think of how long it has taken him to guard himself against those barbs, or how long it may take her to do the same. she doesn't want to think of the way she often feels as though she is slipping and slipping, in over her head, and wondering if the world around her has truly witnessed how unworthy she is — some orphaned girl turned grisha, made into the living legend of a saint. she doesn't want to think of legacy, or the loneliness their lives demand.
her eyes settle on the gold of his hair burnished by the sunlight, instead, and the soft stroke of her fingers as she brushes it from his eyes. as tempting as it is to seal her eyes shut as though it might spare her the nervous ratcheting of her heart, she watches him through the spellbound fog of dark, half-hooded eyes. just in case. just in case he needs to know she is imagining no one else dipping low between her thighs, dragging a kiss-swollen mouth over the twitching muscles in her thighs. just in case she needs to convince herself this isn't a figment of a dream. it should be one, having a prince asking for a taste of her, but —
he feels more real, like this. more tangible, like something she could dare to have, if only she reached for it. her fingers cascade down his cheek, fluttering back upward to card through his hair and down the nape of his neck, a touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. there is too much of him for her hands to decide where to linger, where to touch. ]
I happen to like your spoiled blood.
[ more than i should. her tongue comes out to wet her lips, teeth toying with her bottom lip, as she swallows her insecurities. the splay of her legs is slow, opening to him in the invitation. even if she can feel herself dripping onto her thigh, onto his pristine sheets. there will be no question that the rumors have some truth, now, after this.
for now, she hooks a leg over his shoulder, her voice as tremulous as her gentle smile when she murmurs, ] How could I hate anything that shuts you up, Nikolai?
[ it's the old barb that always seems to be stuck in his side, the barb that he pushes deeper into himself so that no one else can catch him off guard and do it for him. he wouldn't dare make light of his tenuous birthright with anyone he didn't trust, but alina falls into that small circle now, and while he expects for his comment to be glossed over, she surprises him yet again by knowing exactly the words to say that he didn't know he needed to hear. there's no protest or objection, nothing so condescending as denying what he knows in his heart to be true. what she offers him is even more valuable. acceptance. and coming from her, it carries even more weight, because he knows she's intimately acquainted with what it's like to not quite fit in.
alina makes him feel seen for the first time in what feels like ages. not as the prince or the privateer or the soldier or the bastard son. just as nikolai. just as the parts of himself that he's hidden for so long that he almost began to forget them.
he might never find another who accepts his shortcomings like this. certainly no queen bred to be on a throne would see the humor in it. most days, nikolai can barely find it himself.
for the millionth time, he's reminded of how much is at stake here. of how much he wishes for this. of how he'll accept a rejection with a smile but how badly it will hurt to hear it. ]
Just one of my many good qualities. [ he nuzzles her soft skin with a faint smile, sucking another bruise to her inner thigh. ] Don't worry. I'll make up for the silence later.
[ then he dips down between her legs, settling comfortably as he kisses the warm wetness there. the sheets will be dirty and there will be rumors. right now he can't find it in him to care so much about that. he presses his tongue against the rosebud of her clit, sucking gently as he teases her, savoring her heat and taste. saints, mal is a fool if he never did this, but nikolai is grateful to him all the same for the late start. it means that maybe this is something that she'll remember him for. maybe only him, if he's lucky.
his tongue moves faster while he gently sinks one finger inside of her, allowing her several moments to get used to the feeling before he moves again, in and out slowly, all the while working her with his mouth. he glances up to catch a glimpse of her face, hoping for a favorable outcome while he hums softly, releasing a warm breath over. ]
It's exquisite down here. [ he grins cheekily before kissing her clit again, his tongue moving swiftly. in all honesty he means it, as ridiculous as it might sound. it is exquisite, and so satisfying to finally have a taste. ]
[ oh. she nearly breathes it, just that singular surprised breath. oh, like she can't fully fathom the first shock of electricity that urges her spine to lift from the plush sheets beneath her. oh, like she can't understand how wrong she had been in assuming she would be taking anything from him when he has prostrated between her thighs, reveled in the taste of her like a dying man's first taste of water.
oh, because he has embedded himself into her like this, made his mark with the first warm swipe of his tongue and the blooming bruises painted into her skin.
only a fool would think that nikolai lantsov does anything without deliberation. it can hardly be a mistake, alina thinks — but there is solace to be had in knowing she is not alone in that. he's practically wearing her, lips glistening with the slickness of her arousal when his mouth lifts and curves into something decidedly more familiar — that teasing, devastating grin she has come to know, on a mouth more ruinous than she had anticipated.
maybe she is a fool, after all. fool or not, she burns from the sight of it, molten heat swimming through her veins, her skin bright with the vividity of her flush. for a moment, she has to squeeze her eyes closed against the vision he creates, more so when she digs her fingers into his hair until it's a ragged, disheveled mess beneath hands desperate to find anything to anchor her to this moment.
for another moment, she considers strangling him for speaking. or perhaps it's simply the fact that he moves from her long enough for the ghost of his heated breath to wash over her, to make her body jolt and a whine tear its way up her throat. ]
Don't — [ but the sweep of his tongue is there again, warm and wet and perfect, as it flicks across her clit in quick swirls of his tongue, and alina's breath wrenches into a building moan. the slide of her legs over his shoulders is immediate, digging into his spine to bring him closer, and closer still, as she rocks up to meet the stretch of his finger. she clenches around it, impossibly greedy, muscles fluttering to drag him deeper — and tries to ignore the self-consciousness that pricks at the edge of her mind as she tries to fall into his rhythm, rising and falling to collide with every plunge of his finger. ] — be embarrassing.
[ there's hardly room for embarrassment when she's riding his hand with stuttering movements, when the force of her grip is nearly pressing him into her too eagerly, but that compliment — it still stains her face a splotchy red. ]
[ he has that feeling again that he's in too deep. that he's invested too much of himself into this when the odds may not be stacked in his favor. to him this has been a nearly perfect morning despite the restless night, sparking a hope anew that perfect mornings can indeed exist in a life where his own needs come secondary to ravka's. in this moment he doesn't care if alina ever loves him. he just hopes that she'll stay.
her skin is flushed a lovely shade of raspberry-red, the same red that he suspects might be dusting his own cheeks from his own arousal. he pulls his hand back, wet fingers gripping her thigh as he slides his tongue inside of her instead, a soft groan in his throat as she pulls at his hair. it's a wonder they ever got here at all, but he thanks the saints and all their suffering that the sun, the moon, and the stars have aligned to grant him this moment.
he draws back to catch his breath, carefully slipping two fingers inside of her this time, curling them gently. ]
Am I embarrassing you? [ a breathless chuckle, and then he's pressing his tongue to her clit once more. maybe he is. maybe he's embarrassing himself. it hardly matters in this moment, because he still wouldn't change a thing about it. her heel digs into his spine, urging him closer, and he complies without protest, his fingers moving quickly and his tongue following suit.
he can't get used to doing this, because he'll miss it if this is the one and only time. he'll miss the way her skin warms and her breath grows tight, how her fingers grip his hair with urgency, how she responds to his touch like pressing keys on a piano. saints, what a foolish notion to miss something while he's right in the middle of doing it, but he's grown so used to the impermanence of the things around him, of his family, of his friends, of the places he's called home. it all inevitably comes to an end, and usually a bitter one. he wants to hold on to the hope that this might be different, but there's always that small prickle of doubt that he spends his entire day pushing back against — and even now, he has to shove it from his mind to refocus his attentions on pushing alina closer and closer to the edge. ]
because there is something about being laid bare that sets her nerves on edge and fills her with new fear. because there is a life story etched into the scars she wears, the little marks that scatter across her skin — old scars and never-healing wounds, freckles and birthmarks and bones that had once been fragile and sickly — that can too easily be read. because it invites him inside of her, more than physically. because it opens her not just to the pumping curl of his fingers, but to the possibility of being seen.
and, with it, the potential to fall short of whatever idealized version of herself ravka has created. the idealized version of herself that everyone is guilty of creating, from the darkling to mal to nikolai to baghra and the apparat. to be measured by the sum of her parts is —
terrifying. and if he rightly knew her, he would know to be terrified of her, too. it's a funny thing, she thinks, to so desperately crave these moments — where she is vulnerable and raw, sincere and unguarded, nothing but alina starkov without the expectations of a kingdom hanging over her head — and to fear it in the same breath. it makes her heart dance to a wilder rhythm in her chest as she pulls at his hair — too tight, too mindless, too lost in the heavy drag of his fingers spreading her open and the quick flicks of his tongue — and pressing his face into her like it's a lifeline, her hips moving frantically against his mouth.
it feels like finding a short burst of freedom from everything that has weighed them down, where war and death are too far for her mind to latch onto them. it feels like coming apart at the seams. it feels divine enough that she thinks, if only for now, she doesn't mind the title of santka alina. her thighs tremble around him, the corded muscle twitching and quaking right as she falls apart in pulsing waves. the wail that wrenches out of her throat sounds incoherent and inhuman to her own ears, unlike her —
but then again, she supposes she didn't fully know what was like her while tangled in these sheets with nikolai. her chest heaves and curls her fingers in those same sheets to keep from ripping out strands of gold from his head. but once it's after, once she's still gasping for breath and melting into the mattress, she still reaches for him — gripping at his biceps, to try to get him to rise back to her mouth. ]
[ alina starkov coming undone is a sight to behold, even if he feels it more than he sees it. his hand slides from her thigh to the cut of her hip, fingers spread over her soft skin as he gently braces against the way she bucks against him. it's beautiful and it's overwhelming, a laugh nearly bubbling in his throat at the sound she makes, because he knows the servants have to be listening by now. nikolai is an early riser, preferring to begin his days with the sun, and the fact that alina has come in and he hasn't come out will certainly stoke the flames of gossip.
he stays between her legs until he feels her muscles relax, listening to the sound of her breath while he trails kisses higher up her body until her gown will allow him to go no further. he's hard himself but not quite sure if he wants anything done about it — it's been quite some time since he's been with anyone, and somehow breaking that wall with alina feels premature.
or perhaps now his brain is finally kicking in and he's well on his way to overthinking it.
he slips back up, wiping his fingers carelessly on the sheets before finding her mouth again, his eyes sliding shut with a contented sigh as he kisses her, still tasting her on his tongue. swiping his thumb across her flushed cheek, he smiles gently against her lips, murmuring softly. ]
Now you've really given them something to talk about. [ funny to him. perhaps not to her. he pulls the sheets back up, settling beside her with his elbow propped beside a pillow. his fingers idly trace her brow, then gently tousle her hair. saints, she's ridiculously pretty always, but even more so like this, flushed and practically glowing. ] It is with my deepest regrets that I inform you that I really must be up soon. It's almost as if I'm so important that the day can't truly begin without me.
[ oh. that. that little issue of hers. it comes flooding back — and the embarrassment with it, deepening that flush to a blooming rose. if the servants will gossip, it's only time before the world will. but alina, for all that she loathes the simple idea of the entire world knowing her intimate business, finds her mind wandering to their friends.
no, that isn't fair to claim. the sudden descent of her stomach, threatening to drop out from beneath her, is too leaden with guilt for it to be as simple as wondering what their friends and allies will say. briefly, she wonders if she's broken nikolai's request by thinking of mal, of thinking of how he will inevitably hear of it long before she wants to disclose it, even in the aftermath of moaning out for nikolai in his bed. in the aftermath of knowing how she tastes on his tongue, her lips shining from the both of them when he pulls away.
she shoots him a scowl, but it's a half-hearted attempt at best. her limbs, liquified and drained as they are now, are useless in reprimanding him with a harmless kick to the shin. silently, she reasons with herself that he has likely earned a reprieve from her threats of bodily harm. ]
Well, at least they'll be speaking truths now.
[ until those, too, are inevitably exaggerated. she purses her lips in some grim attempt at a smile — a reassurance she wants to give, but can't quite bring herself to provide him — as the rest of what he says finally sinks in. it's understandable, she thinks, why so many of the soldiers had tumbled peasant girls they would never have to speak to again. they would hardly have to form the same excuses as nikolai crafts.
that afterglow, that feeling of free-falling without a care — it ends abruptly. nothing on his face speaks to her of regrets, but then nikolai has always been well-versed in displaying only what he wants the world to see. she props herself up on an elbow, adjusting the slipping strap on her shoulder. ]
You're already up. [ dry jokes that fall flat aside: ] You don't have to make excuses, you know. It's less insulting if you tell me that you want me to leave.
[ and just like that, he's broken the moment without entirely meaning to. nikolai lantsov, abject pillow talk failure is what goes through his mind when he feels the shift in the air. unbelievable, really, the speed with which he's managed to mangle this. at least that part can be considered impressive. ]
I don't want you to leave. [ he turns his back to her, sitting up as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his trousers. ] That's half the problem, I think. I never want you to leave.
[ because if every morning could be like this one, then the world would be all too perfect. some other disaster would have to overtake his life, because there's no way the saints would afford him such happiness without a cost. they love misery far too much for that.
his belt clinks as he buckles it, then he moves to the window, drawing it open to let the sunlight in in earnest, the rays filling his room. the thought that alina could say no passes through his head at least a hundred times a day, though now he's wondering if he'll ever be able to look at the sun again without thinking of her. he turns around, casually leaning against the rim of the window, his smile back in place like armor — even if it's somewhat softened by the genuine fondness he isn't completely successful in masking. ]
Would you do this again?
[ an honest question. an attempt to gauge the situation, to measure it against some unseen standard. there is nothing to even compare it to — nikolai the soldier was first too smitten with dominik and then too catastrophically plagued by his loss to engage in the usual pursuits of a man his age, and sturmhond had a roguish reputation to maintain that didn't lend itself to lasting encounters. alina is the first in a long while that he's been able to admire like this, watching the sunlight bathe her in its glow. ]
Perhaps even at night? [ he crosses one arm over his bare chest, resting his elbow on the back of his hand as he hovers his knuckles over his mouth, his eyes never leaving her. ] Although I should warn you: I am a notoriously poor sleeper.
[ and there it is — the sun's beams, burning away all traces of the moment. in the light of day, as if it has illuminated secrets shrouded in the dark, his sleeplessness is more pronounced — a sight that is strangely more intimate than the rays glittering over his bare skin. valiantly, she resists gawking at either with only partial success, though there is something to be said for the bullheaded boldness in her eyes when they lift from his chest to his.
merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]
[ he grins at that despite the tiny spear of trepidation that sinks squarely into his chest. he thinks — not for the first time — that alina sees things all too well. she has an uncanny gift to cut straight to the heart of the matter, perhaps because there's so much of herself that she's hidden away just as he has. she knows too many of his tricks.
it's a comfort, in a way. but it also leaves him slightly off balance, because it makes it that much harder to control the situation. it makes his charm somewhat ineffective, at the very least, and he's come to rely on it quite a lot these days. ]
Perhaps that will change with you in my bed. [ but he notices the same things in her, the quiet weariness she carries, the way she seems worn down when she thinks he's not looking. a certain darkness haunts her gaze, as if she spends her time seeing ghosts. ] Perhaps it will benefit us both.
[ a fervent wish and perhaps a foolish hope, but a theory he would nonetheless like to test. he runs one hand through his rumpled hair before he returns to the bed, reaching over to grasp both of her hands and pull her to the edge. he plants a warm kiss to her forehead, drawing his fingers gently through her long hair. ]
Then we shall. Do this again. [ he flashes a grin, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger and letting it fall as he brushes her chin. ] Whenever you want, Alina.
[ then he turns to the tray of forgotten food, scooping out a glop of jam for his toast. he takes a comically large bite, moaning out a noise of appreciation as he moves to his closet, picking out a teal coat emblazoned with the double eagle crest. he brings it over, brushing the crumbs from his hand before he drops it over her shoulders. ]
You'll have an audience. Might as well make a statement.
[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]
[ there's a moment where he holds his breath and wonders if she'll actually take the coat or politely set it aside in favor of reason and peacekeeping — both of which have their merits but neither of which he's currently interested in. but after a few long seconds of consideration slip by, she slips her arms into the coat, and nikolai makes sure the relief that floods him doesn't show on his face. ]
Marking my territory isn't my style. I prefer my territory to come to me willingly, lured in by my matchless wit and unlimited reservoir of charm. And my good looks.
[ he gets dressed while he talks, slowly becoming less boyish and more kingly despite the fact that he's still eating the jam with his fingers, and inspects himself in the mirror, frowning a little as he examines the shadows beneath his eyes. ]
It looks almost as good on you as it does on me.
[ he turns, his frown disappearing and replaced with a bright smile. for all its gaudiness he loves the color — it reminds him of the vastness of the sky and the ocean, and how both can be traversed endlessly and still offer a new sight each time. ]
Bright colors rather suit you, I think. Blue and gold in particular. Do you think I should get a brooch fashioned with my face on it? Would you wear it? Would it be a good gift? Perhaps I should wear it instead as a statement of sorts.
[ she knows what she would say if she were nikolai, brimming with an overconfidence that is as infuriating as it is enviable: everything suits me. as it stands, she seems to shrink further into the fabric at the attention, before scolding herself. if she cannot endure nikolai's focus and flattery, there is very little chance of her withstanding a gossiping, scandalized servant.
then again, she is struck by how little their views on her matter, in comparison. perhaps it's simply the embarrassment of hoping his compliments are more than empty, hollow shells he is used to presenting to courtly companions. she covers her uncertainty with a scoff as she straightens her spine, as if she had never looked unsur of herself at all, and delicately rolls up the sleeves until she can cuff them at the elbow.
it would be a shame if she were to dirty what likely has more value than everything she has ever owned combined, even if it serves to remind her how different their worlds had once been. different, and somehow too painfully similar all at once. ]
You're only going to lure someone in with one of those.
[ the sarcasm drips from her as she saunters toward him, ignoring the twist in her gut at the concept of someone. someone else, drawn in by him. someone else, warming his bed. someone else, who would replace the space she had once occupied, if she were to leave. ]
I think I see enough of your face as it is. [ then, dryly: ] But sure. Wear it yourself. You can consider it your gift to the world every time you force them to look upon it.
[ the corner of her mouth twitches. it's barely-there, a suggestion that she likes this teasing banter a bit too much, at times. ]
They might think you're terribly starved for attention, though.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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If any of them are going to become martyrs, they may as well throw caution to the wind. Alina's soft eyes spark, shining with an amused tease. ]
Wasn't that the deal we made last night?
[ Though it's a harmless joke, she doesn't want to dwell on bargains and deals, on considerations and proposals. Not now, not enclosed in this private bubble, not yet pierced by politics or war. She tilts her head like an animal leaning into touch, welcoming the graze of his fingers as they tickle across her skin, and letting her eyes flutter closed. Despite the hammering beat of her heart, pounding against her chest like a caged bird, the careful stroke of his hands is a soothing balm against her nerves. ]
You can, if you're feeling brave. [ The corner of her mouth twitches upward. ] Just don't knock me onto the floor at all, or you'll absolutely be in grave danger.
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alina will discover these truths on her own, nikolai thinks, if he's lucky. if she's unlucky. for now it's nothing she needs to know. he's content to draw closer, his hand still grazing her cheek. ]
I won't knock you to the floor. [ he smiles before their lips press together, slow and sweet, a hint of jam still on her tongue. kissing alina is a bit like tasting the sun — near-painful brightness bathed in warmth, and nikolai can't help but wish once more that he could spend the entire day in this perfect patch of her sunlight.
this time they're not on a hard floor and he's not pleasantly buzzed on brandy. it makes it easier to gently guide her back onto the pillows, his hand curling in her hair. with his other he finds her hand, lacing their fingers together as they sink into the soft mattress. he traces her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, a feather-like pressure like he's asking permission to come inside from a long rain.
her mouth makes him forget his restless night and even his thoughts from just moments ago, instead feeling some of the ever-present tension drain away as if chased off by the simple action of kissing her. his hand travels from her hair to the slope of her jaw, trailing down the delicate line of her throat before his fingers settle above her heartbeat. ]
How is it that you look this lovely so early in the morning? [ he kisses her mouth again, then her chin, his lips grazing down her jaw. letting go of her hand, he instead draws his palm down the side of her gown, stopping to rest at her hip. ] Are you and Mal holding onto some Keramzin secrets?
i'm gonna throttle dreamwidth for not giving me this notif >:( betrayal
Maybe that's what he is. A delicate portrait — beautiful from afar, his colors bleeding apart as she comes closer. One wrong brushstroke and the entire piece unravels. Her thumb sweeps beneath his eye, as though it might erase the existence of his exhaustion. Perhaps it's only fair that she should know the shape of it beneath her fingers, the feel of it in her hands, when he holds the secret of her heartbeat beating against his palm — wild and erratic, despite the softness of his sheets at her back.
Her fingers splay over the sharp angle of his cheek before winding into his hair, twisting it around her fingers like shining, golden thread. There is something so vulnerable about him like this that she can't help but to want to hold onto it, torn between mussing him further and welcoming him to find his peace with her, if only for a little while.
(That's all that people like them can have before the world demands more: a little while.) ]
I have many secrets.
[ A joke too close to the truth. Her heartbeat spikes in response, but it can easily be blamed by the fingers tickling down her sides, the soft petaling of his mouth against her chin, her jaw, as she tips her throat with a pleased little hum in response. ]
Trying to interrogate me like this is an abuse of power, Nikolai.
[ It's his only warning before she coils her legs around the bend of his hips and shoves at his shoulders, with every intent to try to reverse their positions. Mostly, she can fnally admit to herself, because she's overcome by the sudden urge to kiss him again, and again, and perhaps again until they have to be forced apart by duties she has, in this very moment, forgotten to care about. ]
dw against our shipping agenda, how rude
he was used to dominik seeing the rough-hewn parts of him. but with alina, it's new. she's seen sturmhond and she's seen the prince. she hasn't seen nikolai running on too little sleep, or nikolai when he's backed into a corner, or nikolai when he feels like nothing but a bastard and a fraud. nikolai the charming prince always knows what to say, but perhaps she doesn't know that the cost of that is running through dozens of scenarios at once, thinking of every possible outcome, analyzing all the ways any given situation can go wrong. his brain never turns off, and it's overwhelming at times, though he's taught himself to simply smile through it.
he fixates on what alina might be seeing, what she might be thinking, and — as if he needs even more thoughts in his head — he wishes he was a mind-reader. he grins at her words, immediately recognizing the truth in them and wondering if it's even possible for people like them to come together and reach a point where no secrets remain between them.
he doesn't know. it's hardly happened before, and even when it did, the price dominik paid was far too high.
still. there is a certain thrill in being pushed onto his back with a handful of alina on top of him. he reaches up and brushes back the veil of her hair, tucking it behind one ear so he can see her face, and it once again strikes him just how pretty she is. he tilts his mouth up to kiss her gently, his hand settling at the curve of her back. ]
Is it? I suppose you'll have to punish me then. [ he smiles, his own duties not forgotten but very much ignored as he intentionally pushes them out of mind. ] I admit that you'll probably have to do quite a lot of that as we get closer. I find rules difficult to follow.
dw is a salty thot, much like me
[ An eyebrow raises, challenging. Weakness is a guise. The less you say the more words your weight carries. Meet insults with laughter. All of his spouted wisdom has created a series of complex rules that she has discovered are nearly impossible to navigate, a structure that leaves no room for fumbling without its whole foundation crumbling apart around her. Some time ago, she might have assumed princes — with all of their influence and power and prestige — would have the freedom to establish their own rules, but she hadn't known Nikolai then. Had barely come into her own power, and what the title thrust upon her might mean for the future of Ravka.
He is as trapped as any of them, she thinks. It only happens that his cage is more gilded, its extravagance giving the illusion of freedom. Perhaps that's worse, but she doesn't want to think of the traps they've set for themselves. Even if the lingering hint of alcohol on his breath is a reminder, traces of fine liquor from his attempts to charm nobles into coughing up coin the night prior, offsetting the sharp sweetness of jam. She chases after the taste with a low hum in her throat, swiping over his bottom lip, sweeping her tongue into his mouth with a greed that, in quieter and isolated hours, often frightens her.
A warm flush paints itself across her cheek when she pulls back, lips shining as she presses them to the corner of his own — as if she isn't in need of catching her breath, as if her heart isn't threatening to plunge through her chest, as if each kiss doesn't radiate through her until she is molten, as if she has more restraint than to kiss him until her lungs die out.
She hardly does. It's an overestimation of her self-control, and the unnatural golden glow to her eyes, when she leans back to look at him, proves it. It sparks and fizzles out, much like the dying light of a setting sun, but she is too preoccupied with outlining his mouth with idle strokes of her fingertips to realize any of it. Her lips curve, the only warning of her deliberately annoying cheekiness before it spills out of her. ]
The more you offer it, the more I start to think Nikolai Lantsov has a secret taste for punishment.
same feel
[ he has more to add, but his thoughts ebb away when the sweetness of alina's mouth takes over, her kiss far more demanding than expected, though he hardly minds. her tongue is welcomed wholeheartedly, his lips parting to allow her to deepen the kiss while his hand travels up her spine to grip the base of her skull, fingers tangling in her hair. it's a moment that he can lose himself in, a moment that temporarily quiets the discord in his mind, and for that, he's grateful — grateful that she somehow holds the power to make that happen at all.
he hums into her mouth, sighing audibly when she pulls away and catching a glimpse of the spark in her eyes. they glow with a nearly otherworldly aura, as captivating as it is brief. considering he has one of the most powerful grisha that has ever lived currently in his bed, perhaps her comment on his taste for punishment isn't entirely off the mark. ]
I can tell when people say yes to me just because of who I am and not because they see the reason behind my actions. [ he runs his thumb along the color blooming in her cheeks, her skin warm, and smiles gently at the feel of her fingertips at his mouth, stealing a quick kiss to the pad of her ring finger. ] I love hearing the word yes. But I despise it when it comes like that. I'd rather have a long, difficult argument than for someone to feel they were coerced by me.
[ beneath the sheets, his knee rises slowly to push between her legs, feeling the silk of her gown hike up with the movement. he brushes her hair back again, this time over her shoulder so he can tilt up and press a kiss to her collarbone, his lips moving higher along the column of her throat and finally settling just beneath her earlobe. he tongues at the soft skin before sucking sharply, delicately placing what will eventually blossom into a bruise, easily hidden by her hair. ]
Sometimes I think I do rather enjoy my own misery. [ he kisses her jaw before settling back, a hazy desire in his eyes but feeling content to simply stew in it. ] It's far better than fighting it.
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Still, she understands it. That clawing, desperate need to prove one's self beyond titles and recognition and power. That pounding ache of a heart, wishing it was wanted for every scar and wound and virtue. Misery loves company, she had jested, but maybe there's an ugly scrap of truth in it she hadn't realized. In the end, she is just as miserable, just as keen to fight for her right to be wanted as she is: Sun Summoner and Alina Starkov and everything in-between. ]
We're at war because I'm very difficult to coerce.
[ But she doesn't want to consider their common enemy, doesn't want to invite her mind to remind her he had once brushed his lips against the same hidden, delicate skin of her throat. That his hands have once roamed where Nikolai's have. His fingers brush that unwelcome ghost away, driving away the poisonous reminder of what he had planned for her. Alina sighs into it, the bright red mark already beginning to flower along pale skin.
An entirely different brand, without the same possessiveness of Morozova's collar shining at her throat, reflecting the morning sunlight haloing around them. Her head tilts, spilling her hair over her shoulder like a stream, as she considers him through a half-lidded gaze that gives far too much of her wanting away.
She leans forward, her breath a whisper against the shell of his ear. ]
Be a little less miserable with me.
[ If only for awhile. If only for now. She nuzzles into the column of his throat, tracing her lips down its column, letting her exhales heat the wet trail she leaves behind as if it's her own argument to convince him. It's there she buries the sudden sting of her self-consciousness when she grinds down against the bend of his knee, breath hitching against the crook of his neck, the silk of her nightgown hitching higher to tangle around her thighs. The friction is hardly enough, could never be enough, but it's her own proposal left in his hands.
Even as she waits, a little agonized, and blindly reaches across the sheets to grapple for his hand. As if convinced that without that anchor, no matter how often he has thrown himself into the fire, he might very well flee from her. ]
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her request earns her a smile even while he can see the pain schooled away behind her expression. he's only heard about the hell that she and mal have been through at the darkling's hands, but all the impressions of it are plain to see for anyone who cares enough to look. his mouth presses to the tumble of her hair when she leans in, exhaling sharply when he feels her grind down against his leg. ]
I, for one, love a difficult woman. [ she finds his hand, and he squeezes back tightly in a warm, reassuring grip. ] Your conviction. Your strong will. Your inability to be led where you don't want to go. All of those things are what makes you so appealing.
[ he wants her to hear it, even if it goes unspoken. all the things the darkling didn't want about you are exactly why i asked you to be my queen.
even now, right in this moment, she's practically thrown the gauntlet at his feet. he pulls their twined hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles before letting go and reversing their positions yet again, grinning down at her when she ends up back against the pillows. he kisses down her throat while his hand disappears beneath the sheets, running down the line of her body, down her waist and past her hips, down to the bunched end of her gown to grasp the fabric and pull it higher. ]
I would be a little less of anything for you. [ his mouth finds hers again, humming softly as he kisses her, his hand moving at the same moment to draw his fingers between her legs, only a thin bit of fabric separating them. he presses down to feel her warmth. ] Just don't ask me to be less handsome. It's a difficult and uncomfortable request.
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it's as terrifying as plunging into the sea. it's as exhilarating as the wind whipping in her hair. it's as dangerous as hope, with a faith that is twice as deadly, when she thinks of every pretty, sweet word that nikolai has carefully constructed to get his way. it's just another skill in a long list of talents — that silver tongue, capable of telling anyone what they wish to hear. for a moment, she wonders if the truth of her heart has been that open, that obvious.
but even in knowing that — saints, she believes him, even when he tells her i would be a little less of anything for you. he has offered her so much, and perhaps for the first time, she can allow herself to be selfish and take this from him. she blinks back up at him, a little dazedly doe-eyed from how struck she is by everything that he is, just before his fingers descend.
the groan that tears out of her throat, hoarse and rasping, is not entirely from pleasure. leave it to nikolai to be an incorrigible bastard, even in this. what is worse is how utterly right he is; the soft glow of morning light spilling along his skin makes him look ethereal, a mythical creature hovering above her — what should be untouchable, to someone like her. annoyingly handsome, and just as annoyingly capable of speech, when just the light pressure of his fingers has her arcing into that touch.
alina's retribution is the sharp nip of her teeth, sinking into the plushness of his lower lip. she isn't doing this right, if he is still in possession of a vocabulary, if he can still think a thought when she's overcome with her own urge to loosen the threads that hold him together. just for awhile. just until there is nothing but the rawness of his honest reaction. just until he stitches himself back together again and remembers what he is.
just until they're even, to lessen the embarrassment of that thin scrap between them, soaked through and clinging to her skin. her fingers clench around his shoulders, gripping and clasping and digging in, before she drags her nails weakly down his spine. ]
You could stand to be a little less of a smug idiot.
[ the usual, snarky bite to it is suspiciously absent, courtesy of her breathlessness. still: alina starkov, queen of sweet nothings. ]
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but now she's here, and she seems to want to be here, and she doesn't pull away from his touch. he doesn't mind the scratch marks at his shoulders and back. he doesn't even mind being a smug idiot right now. he just wants to savor this moment, to commit it to memory, to admire the sunlight against her skin. it's the loveliest sight he's seen in days. ]
I believe charming is the correct word.
[ he hooks a finger around the fabric of her underwear, slowly easing it down while his lips find hers again, kissing her softly, his eyes fluttering open to watch her face. there's a question in his gaze, an is this okay that floats to meet her eyes. despite the brandy he was buzzed on, he remembers it when she told him that she hadn't done this before.
his fingers slide gently along the now bare wetness between her legs, caressing her carefully. their noses brush, his unkempt hair falling to brush his forehead. ] Honestly, I have a bit of experience with this and that, but not as much as I tend to lead people to believe. It's difficult, at times. Lantsov men tend to take what they want, but maybe it's because my blood's been spoiled already that I crave a little more than a meaningless encounter.
[ he rises, not putting into words that this could very well be meaningless because he still feels uncertain about where exactly he stands in all this. he lifts one of her legs, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her thigh. ]
May I? [ he pulls her panties off the rest of the way, dropping it over the side of the bed and planting another line of kisses down the inside of her thigh. ] If you absolutely hate it, feel free to kick me. I'll get the message.
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it's enviable, in a way, to capture that confidence. it's miserable, in another, to know its creation came from every dirty look and ill word. she doesn't want to think of how long it has taken him to guard himself against those barbs, or how long it may take her to do the same. she doesn't want to think of the way she often feels as though she is slipping and slipping, in over her head, and wondering if the world around her has truly witnessed how unworthy she is — some orphaned girl turned grisha, made into the living legend of a saint. she doesn't want to think of legacy, or the loneliness their lives demand.
her eyes settle on the gold of his hair burnished by the sunlight, instead, and the soft stroke of her fingers as she brushes it from his eyes. as tempting as it is to seal her eyes shut as though it might spare her the nervous ratcheting of her heart, she watches him through the spellbound fog of dark, half-hooded eyes. just in case. just in case he needs to know she is imagining no one else dipping low between her thighs, dragging a kiss-swollen mouth over the twitching muscles in her thighs. just in case she needs to convince herself this isn't a figment of a dream. it should be one, having a prince asking for a taste of her, but —
he feels more real, like this. more tangible, like something she could dare to have, if only she reached for it. her fingers cascade down his cheek, fluttering back upward to card through his hair and down the nape of his neck, a touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. there is too much of him for her hands to decide where to linger, where to touch. ]
I happen to like your spoiled blood.
[ more than i should. her tongue comes out to wet her lips, teeth toying with her bottom lip, as she swallows her insecurities. the splay of her legs is slow, opening to him in the invitation. even if she can feel herself dripping onto her thigh, onto his pristine sheets. there will be no question that the rumors have some truth, now, after this.
for now, she hooks a leg over his shoulder, her voice as tremulous as her gentle smile when she murmurs, ] How could I hate anything that shuts you up, Nikolai?
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alina makes him feel seen for the first time in what feels like ages. not as the prince or the privateer or the soldier or the bastard son. just as nikolai. just as the parts of himself that he's hidden for so long that he almost began to forget them.
he might never find another who accepts his shortcomings like this. certainly no queen bred to be on a throne would see the humor in it. most days, nikolai can barely find it himself.
for the millionth time, he's reminded of how much is at stake here. of how much he wishes for this. of how he'll accept a rejection with a smile but how badly it will hurt to hear it. ]
Just one of my many good qualities. [ he nuzzles her soft skin with a faint smile, sucking another bruise to her inner thigh. ] Don't worry. I'll make up for the silence later.
[ then he dips down between her legs, settling comfortably as he kisses the warm wetness there. the sheets will be dirty and there will be rumors. right now he can't find it in him to care so much about that. he presses his tongue against the rosebud of her clit, sucking gently as he teases her, savoring her heat and taste. saints, mal is a fool if he never did this, but nikolai is grateful to him all the same for the late start. it means that maybe this is something that she'll remember him for. maybe only him, if he's lucky.
his tongue moves faster while he gently sinks one finger inside of her, allowing her several moments to get used to the feeling before he moves again, in and out slowly, all the while working her with his mouth. he glances up to catch a glimpse of her face, hoping for a favorable outcome while he hums softly, releasing a warm breath over. ]
It's exquisite down here. [ he grins cheekily before kissing her clit again, his tongue moving swiftly. in all honesty he means it, as ridiculous as it might sound. it is exquisite, and so satisfying to finally have a taste. ]
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oh, because he has embedded himself into her like this, made his mark with the first warm swipe of his tongue and the blooming bruises painted into her skin.
only a fool would think that nikolai lantsov does anything without deliberation. it can hardly be a mistake, alina thinks — but there is solace to be had in knowing she is not alone in that. he's practically wearing her, lips glistening with the slickness of her arousal when his mouth lifts and curves into something decidedly more familiar — that teasing, devastating grin she has come to know, on a mouth more ruinous than she had anticipated.
maybe she is a fool, after all. fool or not, she burns from the sight of it, molten heat swimming through her veins, her skin bright with the vividity of her flush. for a moment, she has to squeeze her eyes closed against the vision he creates, more so when she digs her fingers into his hair until it's a ragged, disheveled mess beneath hands desperate to find anything to anchor her to this moment.
for another moment, she considers strangling him for speaking. or perhaps it's simply the fact that he moves from her long enough for the ghost of his heated breath to wash over her, to make her body jolt and a whine tear its way up her throat. ]
Don't — [ but the sweep of his tongue is there again, warm and wet and perfect, as it flicks across her clit in quick swirls of his tongue, and alina's breath wrenches into a building moan. the slide of her legs over his shoulders is immediate, digging into his spine to bring him closer, and closer still, as she rocks up to meet the stretch of his finger. she clenches around it, impossibly greedy, muscles fluttering to drag him deeper — and tries to ignore the self-consciousness that pricks at the edge of her mind as she tries to fall into his rhythm, rising and falling to collide with every plunge of his finger. ] — be embarrassing.
[ there's hardly room for embarrassment when she's riding his hand with stuttering movements, when the force of her grip is nearly pressing him into her too eagerly, but that compliment — it still stains her face a splotchy red. ]
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her skin is flushed a lovely shade of raspberry-red, the same red that he suspects might be dusting his own cheeks from his own arousal. he pulls his hand back, wet fingers gripping her thigh as he slides his tongue inside of her instead, a soft groan in his throat as she pulls at his hair. it's a wonder they ever got here at all, but he thanks the saints and all their suffering that the sun, the moon, and the stars have aligned to grant him this moment.
he draws back to catch his breath, carefully slipping two fingers inside of her this time, curling them gently. ]
Am I embarrassing you? [ a breathless chuckle, and then he's pressing his tongue to her clit once more. maybe he is. maybe he's embarrassing himself. it hardly matters in this moment, because he still wouldn't change a thing about it. her heel digs into his spine, urging him closer, and he complies without protest, his fingers moving quickly and his tongue following suit.
he can't get used to doing this, because he'll miss it if this is the one and only time. he'll miss the way her skin warms and her breath grows tight, how her fingers grip his hair with urgency, how she responds to his touch like pressing keys on a piano. saints, what a foolish notion to miss something while he's right in the middle of doing it, but he's grown so used to the impermanence of the things around him, of his family, of his friends, of the places he's called home. it all inevitably comes to an end, and usually a bitter one. he wants to hold on to the hope that this might be different, but there's always that small prickle of doubt that he spends his entire day pushing back against — and even now, he has to shove it from his mind to refocus his attentions on pushing alina closer and closer to the edge. ]
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because there is something about being laid bare that sets her nerves on edge and fills her with new fear. because there is a life story etched into the scars she wears, the little marks that scatter across her skin — old scars and never-healing wounds, freckles and birthmarks and bones that had once been fragile and sickly — that can too easily be read. because it invites him inside of her, more than physically. because it opens her not just to the pumping curl of his fingers, but to the possibility of being seen.
and, with it, the potential to fall short of whatever idealized version of herself ravka has created. the idealized version of herself that everyone is guilty of creating, from the darkling to mal to nikolai to baghra and the apparat. to be measured by the sum of her parts is —
terrifying. and if he rightly knew her, he would know to be terrified of her, too. it's a funny thing, she thinks, to so desperately crave these moments — where she is vulnerable and raw, sincere and unguarded, nothing but alina starkov without the expectations of a kingdom hanging over her head — and to fear it in the same breath. it makes her heart dance to a wilder rhythm in her chest as she pulls at his hair — too tight, too mindless, too lost in the heavy drag of his fingers spreading her open and the quick flicks of his tongue — and pressing his face into her like it's a lifeline, her hips moving frantically against his mouth.
it feels like finding a short burst of freedom from everything that has weighed them down, where war and death are too far for her mind to latch onto them. it feels like coming apart at the seams. it feels divine enough that she thinks, if only for now, she doesn't mind the title of santka alina. her thighs tremble around him, the corded muscle twitching and quaking right as she falls apart in pulsing waves. the wail that wrenches out of her throat sounds incoherent and inhuman to her own ears, unlike her —
but then again, she supposes she didn't fully know what was like her while tangled in these sheets with nikolai. her chest heaves and curls her fingers in those same sheets to keep from ripping out strands of gold from his head. but once it's after, once she's still gasping for breath and melting into the mattress, she still reaches for him — gripping at his biceps, to try to get him to rise back to her mouth. ]
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he stays between her legs until he feels her muscles relax, listening to the sound of her breath while he trails kisses higher up her body until her gown will allow him to go no further. he's hard himself but not quite sure if he wants anything done about it — it's been quite some time since he's been with anyone, and somehow breaking that wall with alina feels premature.
or perhaps now his brain is finally kicking in and he's well on his way to overthinking it.
he slips back up, wiping his fingers carelessly on the sheets before finding her mouth again, his eyes sliding shut with a contented sigh as he kisses her, still tasting her on his tongue. swiping his thumb across her flushed cheek, he smiles gently against her lips, murmuring softly. ]
Now you've really given them something to talk about. [ funny to him. perhaps not to her. he pulls the sheets back up, settling beside her with his elbow propped beside a pillow. his fingers idly trace her brow, then gently tousle her hair. saints, she's ridiculously pretty always, but even more so like this, flushed and practically glowing. ] It is with my deepest regrets that I inform you that I really must be up soon. It's almost as if I'm so important that the day can't truly begin without me.
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no, that isn't fair to claim. the sudden descent of her stomach, threatening to drop out from beneath her, is too leaden with guilt for it to be as simple as wondering what their friends and allies will say. briefly, she wonders if she's broken nikolai's request by thinking of mal, of thinking of how he will inevitably hear of it long before she wants to disclose it, even in the aftermath of moaning out for nikolai in his bed. in the aftermath of knowing how she tastes on his tongue, her lips shining from the both of them when he pulls away.
she shoots him a scowl, but it's a half-hearted attempt at best. her limbs, liquified and drained as they are now, are useless in reprimanding him with a harmless kick to the shin. silently, she reasons with herself that he has likely earned a reprieve from her threats of bodily harm. ]
Well, at least they'll be speaking truths now.
[ until those, too, are inevitably exaggerated. she purses her lips in some grim attempt at a smile — a reassurance she wants to give, but can't quite bring herself to provide him — as the rest of what he says finally sinks in. it's understandable, she thinks, why so many of the soldiers had tumbled peasant girls they would never have to speak to again. they would hardly have to form the same excuses as nikolai crafts.
that afterglow, that feeling of free-falling without a care — it ends abruptly. nothing on his face speaks to her of regrets, but then nikolai has always been well-versed in displaying only what he wants the world to see. she props herself up on an elbow, adjusting the slipping strap on her shoulder. ]
You're already up. [ dry jokes that fall flat aside: ] You don't have to make excuses, you know. It's less insulting if you tell me that you want me to leave.
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I don't want you to leave. [ he turns his back to her, sitting up as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his trousers. ] That's half the problem, I think. I never want you to leave.
[ because if every morning could be like this one, then the world would be all too perfect. some other disaster would have to overtake his life, because there's no way the saints would afford him such happiness without a cost. they love misery far too much for that.
his belt clinks as he buckles it, then he moves to the window, drawing it open to let the sunlight in in earnest, the rays filling his room. the thought that alina could say no passes through his head at least a hundred times a day, though now he's wondering if he'll ever be able to look at the sun again without thinking of her. he turns around, casually leaning against the rim of the window, his smile back in place like armor — even if it's somewhat softened by the genuine fondness he isn't completely successful in masking. ]
Would you do this again?
[ an honest question. an attempt to gauge the situation, to measure it against some unseen standard. there is nothing to even compare it to — nikolai the soldier was first too smitten with dominik and then too catastrophically plagued by his loss to engage in the usual pursuits of a man his age, and sturmhond had a roguish reputation to maintain that didn't lend itself to lasting encounters. alina is the first in a long while that he's been able to admire like this, watching the sunlight bathe her in its glow. ]
Perhaps even at night? [ he crosses one arm over his bare chest, resting his elbow on the back of his hand as he hovers his knuckles over his mouth, his eyes never leaving her. ] Although I should warn you: I am a notoriously poor sleeper.
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merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]
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it's a comfort, in a way. but it also leaves him slightly off balance, because it makes it that much harder to control the situation. it makes his charm somewhat ineffective, at the very least, and he's come to rely on it quite a lot these days. ]
Perhaps that will change with you in my bed. [ but he notices the same things in her, the quiet weariness she carries, the way she seems worn down when she thinks he's not looking. a certain darkness haunts her gaze, as if she spends her time seeing ghosts. ] Perhaps it will benefit us both.
[ a fervent wish and perhaps a foolish hope, but a theory he would nonetheless like to test. he runs one hand through his rumpled hair before he returns to the bed, reaching over to grasp both of her hands and pull her to the edge. he plants a warm kiss to her forehead, drawing his fingers gently through her long hair. ]
Then we shall. Do this again. [ he flashes a grin, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger and letting it fall as he brushes her chin. ] Whenever you want, Alina.
[ then he turns to the tray of forgotten food, scooping out a glop of jam for his toast. he takes a comically large bite, moaning out a noise of appreciation as he moves to his closet, picking out a teal coat emblazoned with the double eagle crest. he brings it over, brushing the crumbs from his hand before he drops it over her shoulders. ]
You'll have an audience. Might as well make a statement.
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[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]
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Marking my territory isn't my style. I prefer my territory to come to me willingly, lured in by my matchless wit and unlimited reservoir of charm. And my good looks.
[ he gets dressed while he talks, slowly becoming less boyish and more kingly despite the fact that he's still eating the jam with his fingers, and inspects himself in the mirror, frowning a little as he examines the shadows beneath his eyes. ]
It looks almost as good on you as it does on me.
[ he turns, his frown disappearing and replaced with a bright smile. for all its gaudiness he loves the color — it reminds him of the vastness of the sky and the ocean, and how both can be traversed endlessly and still offer a new sight each time. ]
Bright colors rather suit you, I think. Blue and gold in particular. Do you think I should get a brooch fashioned with my face on it? Would you wear it? Would it be a good gift? Perhaps I should wear it instead as a statement of sorts.
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then again, she is struck by how little their views on her matter, in comparison. perhaps it's simply the embarrassment of hoping his compliments are more than empty, hollow shells he is used to presenting to courtly companions. she covers her uncertainty with a scoff as she straightens her spine, as if she had never looked unsur of herself at all, and delicately rolls up the sleeves until she can cuff them at the elbow.
it would be a shame if she were to dirty what likely has more value than everything she has ever owned combined, even if it serves to remind her how different their worlds had once been. different, and somehow too painfully similar all at once. ]
You're only going to lure someone in with one of those.
[ the sarcasm drips from her as she saunters toward him, ignoring the twist in her gut at the concept of someone. someone else, drawn in by him. someone else, warming his bed. someone else, who would replace the space she had once occupied, if she were to leave. ]
I think I see enough of your face as it is. [ then, dryly: ] But sure. Wear it yourself. You can consider it your gift to the world every time you force them to look upon it.
[ the corner of her mouth twitches. it's barely-there, a suggestion that she likes this teasing banter a bit too much, at times. ]
They might think you're terribly starved for attention, though.