[closed] the haze in the sunrise

[anbu]

Who: Itachi & various.
When: Month of Iuneril.
Where: Around the city, in the Wilde.
What: Catch-all.
Warnings: Minor violence and detailed descriptions of blood, will update as necessary.



[OOC: Closed starters below, feel free to contact me if you want to do something specific. CR/plotting comment here.]

Comments

@sasuke

[anbu]

[A gathering of volunteers has congregated on one of the farms outlying the city's boundary. Itachi arrives in the early dusk, alone, with a light traveling cloak around his shoulders; he's carrying a single bag, its contents made up of various supplies that include another layer of thermal clothes if needed. He stands apart from the crowd of unfamiliar faces as maps and other tools are passed around and exchanged. While he hadn't intended to make this trip with others, he won't refuse the additional security of a small group. One glance determines a mixture of Witches and Monsters alike. A closer look, ever-observant (and just on the verge of creepy), Itachi realizes the vast majority are Bonded pairs. Their behavior and familiarity with one another doesn't suggest many other conclusions.

It makes sense, of course. Bonds are recommended for traveling within the Wilde, even if it isn't a rule he's strictly obeyed in the past. He knows from firsthand experience now that it does make the process easier — advantageous.

Some Witches have brought temporary bonding potions from the Coven. When offered one, Itachi lifts a hand, declining politely. It isn't an experience he's eager to repeat, nor a decision he's willing to make on the spot with someone he has never met before this point.

Then his brother arrives.

Itachi notices immediately that head of dark hair, that posture, everything about him as familiar as his own reflection. He doesn't approach. Through a throng of unimportant strangers, he waits for Sasuke to make the first move, as usual.]

[eyeforaneye]

[ It isn't the first time he's ventured past the Bright Wall. Hell, it isn't the very first time he's headed out to the exact destination they're planning to visit now, a fact that on its own serves to motivate him to sign up in the first place. He could use a distraction from his vampiric changes, a chance to feel beneficial, and a break from the monotony of an otherwise largely uninterrupted schedule. This place, for all its flaws, is far less turbulent than the shinobi world has always been.

He isn't late but he isn't early, and he's already shrugging off the temporary Bond potions that he was forced to take along last time. For this journey he can still feel the stabilizing power of his Bond with Jonas, and for that reason he doesn't feel the need for extra precautions.

That is... until he sees his brother.

The woman he'd refused only scoffs when he wordlessly lifts one of those Bonding potions off of her, pocketing it almost subconsciously as he approaches. No need to rely on Itachi to take charge; he's halfway to his side within a second of seeing him. ]

I didn't realize you were also going.

[anbu]

[If he sees and comprehends that subtle exchange, it goes decidedly ignored at his brother's approach. Itachi remains standing apart from the vast majority of those who are gathered awaiting to embark into the forest. He's turned down a few direct attempts at company, or at least conversation, but Sasuke isn't likely to get the same treatment.

And this is proven true in the way Itachi immediately turns to face him, arms loose at his sides.]

It wasn't something I thought needed to be shared. [Most of his trips into the Wilde have been solo occasions; this was originally planned that way as well.] Will Jonas be meeting you here?

[Even now, their relationship precariously decent, he can't help but feel a daunting unease at the prospect of being alone with Sasuke for a trip of this length.]

[eyeforaneye]

[ His cloak is heavier than the one his brother would've seen him wearing last, stretching fully to the ground, and with his hood most notably up. His features are clear even if his face is shadowed, a glance cast upward at the retreating sun to mark its trajectory and map how long it's likely to take before he's free from its irritating presence altogether. ]

I see. [ The gaps in their conversation are full of his real meanings, understandable only to someone like Itachi: "that makes sense then", "it isn't a problem", "I should've checked in". A positive "I see". ]

No, I'll be traveling alone. Since I assume it's the same for you, we can work together.

@sephiroth

[anbu]

[Have the natives considered the timing of this event? Standing at one end of the maze—its mouth open to a deserted street, impossibly black in the lack of light from the moons—Itachi can only presume not.

Calling out a bright note, his crow familiar drops out of the dark sky and lands heavily on one narrow shoulder. Pale fingers lift to stroke through the downy, ebony feathers on its chest; then he taps the same spot in a subtle gesture. The bird shakes itself out in a sudden jolt, as if it has been struck by a static shock.]

Go, [he tells the animal.] You aren't enough for me tonight. [And its large, dark wings expand, allowing it to wheel back up into the night.

Itachi faces the entrance to the maze. The local who led him here has already left, perhaps to greet him at the exit. That thought is little more than a wisp in the back of his awareness—he is instead concerned with the low ache in himself, some tangle of agitated heat. The flow of magic is stemmed only through sheer force of will, threatening to crackle in visible sparks off his fingertips; even as he tamps down on it, he cannot help the way his skin burns in response, a feverish temperature made more unbearable by the night's summer humidity. And whatever it was they had given him to drink prior to his acceptance of this challenge. He drags his tongue across the roof of his mouth, tasting some vestige of spicy tea. It doesn't matter now; he's too distracted.

One hand reaches and unclasps the cloak around his shoulders, stripping it off, letting the fabric pool at his feet abandoned. Then his shoes, then his socks—each toed out of with neat and precise movements. Even his shirt goes, silkily unbuttoned and shed with the pile of garments. It leaves Itachi's chest bare, lean and lithely defined, a pale sheen of sweat across skin. It bares the necklace sitting around his throat.

Finally, Itachi walks forward, entering the maze at a slow and steady pace, heels of feet leaving charred black footprints behind. There is a Monster on the other end of this: he can feel them, somewhere, that burning pull at the well of his magic. Perhaps they expect the Monster to hunt the Witch... but that will not be happening tonight.]

@alex

[anbu]

[By dusk, the street is painted in pale hues of pink and gold, summer's sun fading to a dim and quiet night. Itachi is not walking with any direction in mind. He feels driven by restless energy, one that cannot be satisfied by sitting still in the library as he's spent the better part of the day—but even that usual concentration has been worn to fine threads. He knows the reason, however he dislikes being affected by some outside and uncontrollable nature; he has no choice but to feel the anxious magic in him stirred awake like a hive of wasps.

The Litha festival is in mid-swing, a floral scent heavy in the air as he passes the crowd-packed Shopping District to go deeper into the heart of the city, into the Entertainment District, the area least traveled by him since arrival. So much stark color and life: he passes bars and restaurants, doors open to mini-concerts in celebration of the event. None of this seems to hook his interest—Itachi wanders aimlessly further, toward the silver line of the River Temese.

Then comes that voice.

He stops in the middle of the street, still and unmoving, head at a slight angle to catch the next lilting peal. Is it something he's heard before? No, never. Yet a warm and weighted nostalgia pulls at his bones, unbidden, until he's turned to the open doors of a nearby establishment. Something coaxes him in and through.

At first Itachi isn't aware of the threshold he's crossed, and the nature of the place he's arrived. All he sees is the woman on the stage—the performance.]

@eren

[anbu]

[The makeshift arena sits in the center of one of the festival's mazes, its hedge walls zig-zagging to no pattern or reason through the shipyard, lanterns illuminating a cloistered interior made even darker by wan moonlight above. Itachi has wandered through it with a dogged persistence to reach its heart. Magic simmers hot and restless under skin shed bare of cloak, shirt, and shoes. His concentration is addled, a listless tilt of thoughts that would normally be firmer, concrete, and more cautious. He cuts random paths through tall walls of greenery with razing bursts of spell-crafted flame; the charred scent of leaves and blackened branches is high in the air. Too many in a row: a bleed tickles beneath his nose. He wipes it away with his wrist, then licks lips, tasting rust and metal under earlier's spiced tea.

And then Itachi finds the arena, and its opponent—the dragon.

It doesn't surprise him. Possessed of haughty aggression, he welcomes what is obviously a challenge, thinking there is no better match for him right now than one of the rarest and strongest of all monsters.

So he climbs onto the square platform and confronts Eren. The seven-foot dragon is an intimidating sight, icy blue horns curved—a second, newer set that catches his attention since last he saw this form, small nubs below their sharp counterparts. Yet Itachi feels no fear. In its place is an exhilarating surge of adrenaline, like a tongue of fire up the base of his spine. There's a jagged, dangerous edge to the witch, the way black eyes fasten onto Eren and scrutinize every inch of gleaming scale and spine and talon.

Without a single word spoken, Itachi lunges into the distance that separates them, given to trained speed as he crashes into the dragon—both hands out, scrabbling for a grasp on those shoulders—to fling him to the ground. He'll follow with his own weight, unless he's stopped, in an effort to pin Eren.]

@stiles

[anbu]

[Plagued by exhaustion at the end of an enduring night on the cusp of dawn, Itachi approaches the riverbank, prepared to cross one of the bridges further down on his return to the Haven. Unfortunate luck sees him intercepted by the Faun attending the boat rides. With reluctance, he's steered over and pushed into the hull of the vessel—just large enough to comfortably hold two people.

When Itachi collapses onto the bench, he notices he is not alone.

Of course. So many of the festival's events have primed themselves toward partnership and compatibility between individuals, this seeming no different. The Itachi that Stiles is faced with, however, bears the evidence of a grueling time: he's shirtless, skin marred in places with what appears bruising and ringed teeth marks and a black, curling tattoo on his left bicep that Stiles will not have seen before; his feet are bare, heels blackened with soot more than dirt (although the difference may not be discernible at a glance); his hair is uncharacteristically loose and hanging around narrow shoulders; and there's a flower crown perched on his head, drooping pathetically to one side.

All of this on the flat, affectless, genocidal shinobi.

He only spares Stiles a brief glance before he leans into the side panelling of the boat, covers part of his face with one hand, and sighs.]

I'd prefer not speaking right now.

[anbu]

[He does notice, following Sasuke's upward look and guessing its intention. There is some comfort that comes out of reading his brother's body language and behavior in general. Not that he enjoys knowing the reason why Sasuke is concerned with the sun.]

We can travel together. [Work implies... a closer cooperation, one he suspects he knows what will involve: temporary bonding. So perhaps he did see Sasuke's pit stop on the way over.] We should leave now, then, if we don't want to be burdened with a crowd.

[The better to avoid attracting unwanted attention in the woords. Itachi turns, lifts his bag onto his shoulder, and begins in the direction of the dark treeline ahead.]

one tag in and it’s already so horny

[supersoldier]

[A Witch is here, a realization at the almost-cellular level murmurs to him. Sephiroth is certain of it, in the way only a Monster can be, two opposite energies flung together and expected to collide in the narrow twists and turns of the hedge maze. Under the guise of a hunt, or a game, or something not quite either, it hardly mattered — the other’s magic is a bright spot in the back of his mind, creeping through his senses, and their meeting is an eventuality. This individual’s presence is like a star boring a hole into the sky; how could he avoid it, even if he sought to?

But that isn’t his intent. A Monster is supposed to be the presence looming over the Witch, the one doing the hunting. An activity Sephiroth’s chosen to humor himself with — his inhibitions jostled out of place with a prior sampling of something spiced and warm and unexpectedly affecting — and his pride disallows the roles to be reversed on a whim. Sephiroth is never the man who is hunted, never the one who flees. Never the one who is cowed. Yet he can already sense the other winding through the maze in a way that does not imply fleeing, but seeking, uncaring of established expectations.

Interesting.

His wings flare at his back; great, long-feathered masses that catch the light against each dark plume. They trail behind him as he moves fleet-footed through the maze, a turn here, a loop there — as though guiding via an invisible wire, find him, a lure for the other, trailing towards the maze’s center. He can play the part if it means twisting advantage in his favor, turning it around at the very end, establishing just who’s supposed to be the hunted one across this probing dynamic.

A flash of silver, a hint of feathers quivering with forward momentum. Itachi might catch glimpses of such a sight if he comes close, if he catches up to him just enough to watch Sephiroth disappear around a turn.]

@julian

[anbu]

[The street is poorly lit compared to the tavern ahead, a golden beacon of festive activity amid the dark night, new moons no more than slivers in the sky. When Itachi finds himself here, he's still well under the thrall of outside influence; earlier's spiced drink is fire in his veins alongside the slur of this particular evening's potent magic, noxious and overwhelming in combination. Together they make a strange and sober inebriation. He has no interest in the beer offered to him in spell-chilled mugs past the tavern's entrance, satisfied instead to take a post at one of the stools near the wall and observe the environment around him.

Unsurprisingly, it is loud and boisterous. He's approached once or twice by men and women alike, all civilians—no Witches that he can tell, which is a notable detail likely due to the time of month, magic too in flux and powerful in proximity. Monsters are even rarer, most in company of their own Bonded and both therefore mellowed, safe, balanced. It isn't a luxury he is afforded. Agitated and overly warm, Itachi has shed down to a single layer of thin, form-fitted black, and his feet are bare—a fact that may pass as strange but would not have him turned away in such a location. The tavern is hardly high-end, close to the harbor and surrounded by warehouses and shipyards; alcohol is as pungent in the air as fish guts and salt.

That Itachi is here at all is wildly uncharacteristic, but it's a location he's come across before, and his curiosity is dangerously boundless tonight. No one bothers him after the first handful of refusals (for those who were not outright ignored), which is what he prefers. Better to watch. Secondary participation is his specialty.

A flash of red catches his attention, then, reeling him into a conflict moments before it unravels. Someone's fist flies across the room to raised voices, cracks against another person's chin—and he recognizes Julian go stumbling back from the connected blow. A bar fight?]

[eyeforaneye]

[ The pause between Itachi's declaration and his heel-face turn to leave is minute at best but uncontested. Why bother? If they're going to leave then they should do it; there's no need to waste time debating the issue. And so he falls in line, making it a point to stay as even with his brother as possible rather than linger behind him.

That would feel... almost a little too nostalgic. ]

I've made this journey before and am familiar with the route and destination. We don't need to rely on the rest of the group at all if you don't wish to camp with them. [ Sure, there's safety in numbers, but his confidence in his own and his brother's fighting skills far outweighs any doubts. ]

I packed extra food as well if you need any. [ Food that he himself doesn't need. A precaution not for himself, but for other individuals on the road. ]

[usurpers]

[ blood and magic were identifying imprints that eren could scent as far as the maze spanning from the fight ring in this one’s middle. the lush distinction waters his maw and makes him restless for it to come forward faster. pacing once or twice flattens his patience and nearly causes the dragon to leave and hunt down the magic himself, until he arrived in time. just in time. the owner of such potent, charred tasting aura comes lasting on his tongue, blue-hued, forked and hungry. eren lacked the use of shoes to begin with, only sporting pants of the sweat variety (just sweatpants) hugging around the knees. nothing else would feel comfortable with the line of his dorsal spines erect and rippling down to the tip of a rattling tail.

the absence of fear was an all-worthy approval of the challenge, established with an intensified stare off, black to icy blue where pin-slit pupils expand with thrill (and the remaining dryness of witch blood wherever itachi has rubbed his nose on). out of habit, eren’s arms raise loosely, fastened close to his head on one side while his other holds out in front of him and his circling steps opposite of his challenger. all ripe with an instinctual need to display, the summer months bring eren to a prideful swagger in his movement and colors to his scales— many bright reds and iridescent oranges oscillate over few blacks that look more violet and cast magenta under the new moons. hostile and territorial but unfulfilled. he wouldn’t mind— and finds himself needing— to show himself worthy of the contest itachi saught and would hope to seek.

the dragon calls him with a short cry and he comes, harder than he’s felt any witch. a sharp mind would realize the pressure to the middle of one of his shoulders jolts a falter into his steps, an odd and seemingly misplaced flinch, where itachi’s weight thrusts him back successfully and eren’s jaws clench to retaliate from being tempered. the dragon’s tail lashes like a whip and a far more animalistic snarl beckons his feeling of personal offense, like being— for lack of better wording, kicked in the crotch.

he can’t run from the fall he’s cornered himself in, but at least he can adapt, quickly. it’s a risky position all on its own that could end up giving a skilled opponent an upper hand for free, but eren had always been a man of risks. taking the chance, his arm wing hooks underneath itachi’s, the other hand around his bare torso, grasps for a handful of his back and attempts to clinch chest to chest, stick at least a leg between their’s to facilitate accepting the force being exerted to pin him— as eren falls, he barks to defy full acceptance, his hip twists, and he attempts a sacrifice lateral throw that could send their struggle to be on top directly to the floor. ]

welcome to hell, itachi

[mensrea]

[ The boat rocks as someone else finally joins him; Stiles had been trying to convince the ride attendants to let him go alone, only to be met with baffled, insistent refusal. Something about missing the point of the celebration, yadda yadda yadda. (He’d tuned them out almost immediately.) So, he’s eager to get the show on the road – until he turns and sees who has dropped boneless onto the bench beside him. It actually requires a double take for him to even properly identify Itachi, this being the first time he’s seen the shinobi with his hair down. Mouth parted on some startled exclamation that never makes it past his throat, he stares openly at the man. ]

Dude… You look like roadkill.

[ On that note, the attendants push them off from the dock, merrily wishing them an enlightening ride. ]

What happened to you? I mean, I can see your nipples. Which is way weird, not because you have them, but because you’re showing them to the world. You. The guy who probably would excuse himself before letting someone watch him tie a shoelace.

help us

[anbu]

[It's such a consuming, devouring sensation. It leaves no space for anything else within him. It feels as though he knows who this is, who he hunts—but he cannot allow himself the certainty until sees for himself what lies in wait at the end of this zig-zagging maze. Yet still certainty rattles up his spine: Itachi has faced this Monster before. He knows that dark vibration at the end of the magical tether, luring him along and playing to this game.

There's no true sense to it, because Itachi is unbonded and so should not feel drawn or tethered to anyone, but perhaps it is some magnetic attraction beyond his understanding, enhanced by familiarity. Whatever it is, he's compelled through instinct to chase it down.

Close, close, closer. Like one wild animal after another, he takes each turn sharply, quick and impatient, frustration hot in his blood and in his belly. Itachi sees the first silver glimmer of wings and almost believes it is an illusion, until it happens again. Again. And then he knows.

Heart a rush in his ears, he whips around the next dark corner, finding the path terminated by another hedge. Agitation blisters to the surface—he lifts one hand, creates a symbol, and throws a bright, burning, gold-red wall of fire out. It blazes straight through the dead end, punch a hole through the path. Smoke curls pale grey and bitterly acrid in the air.

Itachi lunges through this gap, the pursuit continuing. His intent is to clip Sephiroth off in the center of the maze, wherever it may lie, and when he finds him (because he will find him), Itachi doesn't pause to speak or acknowledge their reunion.

He simply barrels forward, swift-footed, intent to shove Sephiroth physically back against the prickly hedge wall with one arm across his throat.]

[supersoldier]

[Sephiroth can hear him, feel him drawing closer with each pounding step. His heart throbs against his ribs and his pulse taps in his wrist — not from exertion, but from the mesmeric sense of this Witch closing the gap between them, cloying the air thickly with magic barely kept contained.

Exhilarating in its own right. To know that if he stopped, if only for a moment, this buzzing presence would be upon him, and then what? Sephiroth does not possess the inherent fear of proper prey, regardless of whether or not this was treated as a game; only intrigue and hot amusement dances through his nerves, more so knowing that he might flip the situation on its head via his whim alone. Who might bring the other to heel, then?

A consideration quickly interrupted by acrid heat bursting a hole through a neighboring wall just down the way, leaves and vines and greenery shriveling against the fire. It’s in this moment, time briefly stilled, that he knows who will be there to meet him through the blaze. Perhaps he had known from the start, a primal sort of familiarity that tugged them both along this whole time.

Just like before, Itachi seems to punch through the heat without giving Sephiroth the chance to maneuver away — caught off-guard, paused by recognition, or having allowed the fierce contact, it’s hard to say. A facsimile of all three may not be too far from the truth.

His back is suddenly against the wall, and small, tear-shaped leaves protest around his form. His wings, too, spread flat against the hedge, dark feathers splayed in an elegant pattern that doesn’t quite match the compromising position he’s found himself in. The man’s forearm is like a rod of fire pressed against his skin. His whole body — exposed in a way he’s certainly never seen before — might as well be alight for the temperature radiating off of him.

Sephiroth doesn’t move just yet, only looks at him with bright eyes and the slip of a crescent grin tugging at his mouth.]

Come to break my bones again?

[sing_for_me]

[ Alex is at her final song, the lights dimmed to suit the mood and ambience of the song. Her demeanor is somewhat different on stage, a comfortability she doesn't usually display. Though that may be thanks to the drink she had before she began her set, or maybe the particular season lent to the delivery. Singing felt a lot like being in water for her, freeing, relaxing, a moment to let loose. Just as if she were floating along the river, her movements were languid and fluid.

She's aware of the crowd, and at the same time completely oblivious to them at the moment. Even as a familiar face enters, she'd gone on stage without her glasses, so everything was quite literally a blur. One of the servers approaches Itachi, offering one of the drinks on his tray for him to enjoy.

When the song ends, she takes a bow, encouraging the patrons to enjoy the rest of the performances, the drinks, and the other activities offered by the brothel. Which included more of the brothel's workers coming out in brand new lingerie.

Now off stage, Alex makes her way to the bar for a glass of water. Still putting on her glasses, she almost walks right into someone just she looks up. ]

Oh god--Sorry, I didn't see--

[ She pauses, taking a second to realize who it was. ]

I-Itachi! I--wow, I didn't--I mean, it's nice to bump into you. I just didn't expect...here.

[ The stutter returns to her voice, mostly thrown off since she hasn't seen him since, well. ]

[anbu]

[That animalistic roar lingers in his head, in his bones, threading down through his entire body as he collides with a solid wall of muscle. There's a physicality to this far removed from most combat situations he's accustomed, known to keep his opponents out his own personal space, known to avoid direct (and true) hits through the guise of genjutsu. Yet distant illusion is not how he longs to fight now; he wants to put his hands on something real and tangible and warm, alive, to test whether it will bend and yield beneath his strength.

Those arms loop around him, frictious drag of scales across bare skin slick with a sheen of sweat. It almost chafes when Eren attempts to swing him bodily to the ground, momentum off-set by such a powerful change in direction—Itachi doesn't resist it. His own hold slackens as he's flipped—yet in the moment he is meant to crash down, Itachi's silhouette melts from underneath Eren's blue-clawed hands, imperceptibly gone, dissolving like so much black sand in the wind.

The jump of magical teleportation puts him on the dragon's other, open side. He's on him in an instant. A hand seizes one of those icy, curved horns in a tight fist as one knee drives into Eren's scaled back—avoiding spines—a grapple that intends to put him stomach-down, half straddling the dragon's lower back on his knees without seating his weight. The other hand attempts to snatch that lashing tail before it can think to counter. He doesn't care if he bloodies his palms on scales or spines to achieve this. His nose is already leaking again, unstemmed from earlier, but he ignores the ticklish trickle down his lips and chin.

Black eyes bore into the side of Eren's head as if to ask, How will you get yourself out of this?]

[anbu]

[He notices the pacing, and he honestly prefers it, because it's far easier to turn his gaze sidelong to look at his brother this way. The glance is still subtle, but it's there. It lingers a little on Sasuke's words.]

That's fine with me. I've explored some of the Wilde on my own, but not in this direction. I will follow your lead. [Words perhaps bearing more gravity between the two of them than they would with others.] As for the food, I shouldn't, unless we are delayed on return.

[Itachi now looks ahead as they continue to walk, crossing into the dark boundary of trees.]

I thought a vampire's appetite was altered. [What a perfect opportunity to ask—] How are your symptoms?

:repress:

[anbu]

[Of everyone to find himself trapped inside a small boat with, he questions why it has to be Stiles. He feels the slight rock of movement as they leave the riverbank and clenches his jaw; there's no turning back now, unless he intends to make a dive into the river, joining all the merry Merrow below.

Please stop bringing attention to his nipples.]

I said I didn't want to talk.

[Itachi glares down into his lap, where his other hand rests in a loose fist. He notices the dark, glossy paint on his nails has chipped. His pinky finger is entirely bare.]

Why are you here alone, and where is this boat taking us?

[anbu]

[Dark eyes glance briefly aside to rove over the spread of wings—a new feature that wasn't present on Sephiroth the last time they'd met. For all the beastly characteristics across Geardagas, claws to jagged teeth to scaly flesh, this one carries an unusual elegance and regality in the splay of silver feathers. It does not seem to contain monstrosity in its image, however they might belong to a Harpy.

Itachi's gaze snaps back when he's addressed, returned to the immediate awareness of their proximity—to his own ragged panting through exertion and exhilaration. Their faces hang near enough he can study those cat-like eyes without difficulty of distance; and those, too, gleam as if polished out of vivid stone.]

You wouldn't allow that, would you? [His own mouth curves into a smirk, an expression sharp on his face for its rarity, almost dangerous. The arm across Sephiroth's throat drags higher to force that proud chin in a tilt up.] Not a second time.

[Whatever the reason for this tolerance, he is further emboldened by the temptation of caught prey, and presses himself in closer to the broad silhouette pinned to the hedge wall. Heat radiates off his bare skin, fueling a more foreign desire for physical intimacy. Itachi is not timid in the approach—he aligns the front of their bodies, a tight crush of lean muscle, free hand finding a place across Sephiroth's breastbone exactly where he'd struck with that black blade when they fought. The palm applies pressure to the spot.]

Has it healed?

:jiii:

[mensrea]

And yet you’re talking anyway. Weird.

[ Don’t mind Stiles – he’s just pulling out two empty ice cream cones from somewhere behind him. (Look, don’t question it.) When he cautiously licks the rim of one, ice cream magically blooms into existence in the cone. It’s strawberry. Delighted, he begins to attack it in earnest while holding out the second cone for Itachi to take. ]

Here. A street vendor was giving them away to couples. [ No, he does not explain how he ended up with two despite not being in a relationship (yet). ] Anyway, I wanted to check the ride out and see what it was like. No idea where it’s going though. Why not have Russell fly ahead and map the route?

[supersoldier]

[Sephiroth isn’t donned in the usual heavy leathers of his SOLDIER’s uniform tonight. His wings, still sprawled against the hedge wall, are the reasons for it — his old attire left no room for the protrusion of them, and something more suitable was desperately required. Newly obtained, his current shirt is plain in comparison, black and long-sleeved and simply buttoned-up, looser around the collar. It allows Itachi’s hand to easily slip beneath the fabric and press hotly against his skin, against that ridge of bones that create the curve of his clavicle. The man’s other arm tilts his chin upwards, silver hair trailing mercury curvatures down that same limb exposing the line of his neck.

Pressure where his injury once existed. There is no wince, or creaking of hollow bones, not even a bruise splashed in dark purples across his skin. Only the sensation of Sephiroth’s blood pulsing just beneath the surface, perhaps a remnant of the same tempo existing so closely in his neck. He had told the truth, after all — the fracture would heal in days’ time; the knifing pain would fade away in tandem.

And yet his nerves are hyperaware of that palm and half-splayed fingers. Something alien in his cells sing in amused exhilaration — maybe it’s only imagined, but Sephiroth thinks that they may as well, for how strange it is to see Itachi wear that expression. He has never known the man to smile like that, a predator looking upon prey, a face more easily examined when his body presses closer.

Electrifying, this kind of quiet challenge, lashing up and down his spine. A part of him wants to abandon the idea of retaliation to see what Itachi might do next. The rest wants to grasp that arm beneath his chin and twist it around his back, see if the Witch’s confidence holds in a Harpy’s clinging grip. The two ideas war with each other as he replies.]

Yes. I told you that it would heal quickly — that it was, in the end, nothing.

[His head cants slightly, and a hand reaches up slowly to wrap his fingers around Itachi’s wrist. They coil loosely there and remain.]

You didn’t win then. You still haven’t won now. Remove yourself, [he says, still smiling, voice low across their proximity] while you still can.

[usurpers]

[ the witch slips from his talons like water and eren yowls for his presence to uphold, as if it hadn’t been close to enough friction, the alkaline taste of sweat at the roof of his mouth expanding for a scent he could latch onto (so his arms smack against the stone floors and twists to his knees). whatever itachi grabs— flesh, horn, appendage— it all runs excruciatingly hot for a living body and nothing like the miniature creature snug in his lap for any amount of warmth. he slams back down, chest first, and gnarls to see the witch on top of him.

it wasn't so much the slender compression on his hips and lumbar that makes the dragon react. until then, ardency for corporeal collision was leveled by a (mostly) rational mind capable of the earlier strategies. feverish, but clear. it’s the blood, the second when dropped fresh, that launches eren into a lapse of thoughtless frenzy. the tip of his tail quivers and creates the sound not unlike a threatened desert serpent, the entire muscle held from belting (though he does try). the dragon bucks and drags jewel claws against floors enough to carve it with scraping whistles to bend his pinned body to the left and prop his thorny wings into a prepared position to crawl. his head swings under the cinch around his horn that is both tempting and abhorrent, and he snaps, a first time at the air that becomes fruitless from the restrain.

second after second itachi confronted him when no one ever truly has in aefenglom, and it is not frightening; it is fueling and magnetic. one could even mistaken eren to being unbonded from the way he shrieks more like a beast than a man, the way a drop of potent witch blood invited him so easily to snatch at it as if completely famished. the single source of steady magic was insubstantial for his growing monstrous apetite, that could only come fastened to one of the most magic-demanding monsters of talam.

with the cracks of scale and skin drawing his throat kindling from the flame between his ribs, eren’s lips spew embers, intense and short lived with numerous curved fangs exposed. he lunges sideways and uses his wing to hurl his torso laterally, pursuing to sink his teeth into the other’s thigh, his arm, clothes, wherever the reptile lands— and yank. if not to get him off completely, then to at very least destabilize him to allow the dragon freedom to better move his legs. he’d try that again and again, until thoughts began to seep back in— and continues, regardless, smacking them away from the focus on his prize. ]

[anbu]

[Clearly he meant he doesn't want to talk about his current appearance (and the events which caused it), why can't Stiles intuit that from his lack of explanation and flat-lined expressions alone? This is why they aren't soulmates.

Itachi stares blankly at the offered ice cream cone. He'd like to see his day get less bizarre, not more so, but that wish is ill-met here and now on this tiny, romantic boat.]

I'm not certain where she is right now. I... made her leave earlier. [He finally takes the cone between paint-chipped fingertips like he's picking up a dead rat from the side of the road.] It's possible I could call her to me, but...

[Exhausted enough to drop that sentence right there, he closes his eyes and leans back on the bench, cone limp in his hand and yet unlicked.]

Also, I never gave you permission to name my familiar.